Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (68 page)

The archbishop took a deep breath. “What do you propose?”

“That all future dealings in these matters be left to me, and to me alone, in consultation with my loyal friends. You have gambled and lost, Your Holiness, and you have weakened the authority of the priesthood. Now, the question shall finally be solved. My way.”

At first, Jaryd heard a muffled thump. He sat on a small chair by a window overlooking the square, hands behind his back, chained about the chair legs and in turn to his ankles. Rhyst had made sure he had a good view of the square and the wedding of his sister. The last loose end of Family Nyvar, Rhyst had said, with a nasty smile. Or the second-last, rather. That would come later.

About him were boxes and barrels, and a lot of dust. The room was narrow, barely more than an afterthought between apartments. He'd never been here before, but he knew exactly what it was and had no doubt benefited from the fine stash now stacked around him.

Jaryd heard another muffled thump. Someone was moving up the stairs, perhaps. He stared out at the sunlit square, at the crowds of townsfolk and the cordon of guards holding them back from the temple entrance. Galyndry would probably be an Iryani by now. He wondered if she went willingly. He wondered if she even believed the tales of who'd killed their little brother Tarryn. Galyndry was not a brave soul. In fact, she'd been a girlish fool for most of Jaryd's memory, but he knew himself well enough now to doubt his own judgments, particularly about people he'd thought he'd known well. Possibly he was wrong. But if he was not, why was the wedding progressing? Surely she could have protested? Fled? Schemed…he didn't know,
something
? Women, in Jaryd's experience, would scheme as hardened warriors fought—tenaciously and without mercy. And yet here were the crowds, and the flags, and the carnival fools and cavorters. Delya was down there somewhere too, already wed to Family Arastyn, Tarryn's murderers. And Wyndal, whose life he'd thought in danger. Fancy coming all this way, to suffer this fate, for the ungrateful likes of Wyndal.

Another thump and a muffled crash. The lordling on guard was Gyl Ramnastyr…Rhyst had wanted to guard Jaryd himself but the others hadn't let him. No one trusted Rhyst Angyvar alone in a room with the man who had sliced open his face. They hadn't beaten him badly, nor even hurt him much. Perhaps Great Lord Arastyn had other plans in mind. But Gyl was now on his feet, listening at the door.

Crash, thud, and the unmistakable ring of steel. A yell of pain. Then another thud, and a rumble that might have been a body falling down stairs. Jaryd struggled to shout out against the cloth that gagged his mouth, but made little sound. A thump of footsteps up the stairs, then a clank of keys at the door.

“Who's there?” shouted Gyl, sword drawn, eyes wide.

“Friends!” came the reply.

“On your honour, man, name yourself!”

There was a muttering from the other side. “Damn you and your blasted honour, how dare you talk honour with me?” A key rattled in the keyhole. Gyl stuck the point of his sword between door planks and thrust hard. The sword went partway through, then stuck. The door clanked open, then was smashed inward by a heavy kick, Gyl's sword still in the door. Gyl stumbled backward, whipping a knife from his belt, but it was Teriyan coming through the door, tall and swaggering, his wild red hair only making him seem larger and more fierce.

And he was wielding a sword. “What are you going to do, lad?” he asked Gyl. “Beg for a fair fight? You'd not win that one either.” Gyl stood for a moment, paralysed. Then he put the knife on the floor and backed off against one wall.

“Jaryd,” Gyl said quickly, his voice trembling as Teriyan tried the keys in the lock for Jaryd's chains. “Jaryd, you know I've never treated you poorly, I never said those things behind your back that Rhyst and the others did, honestly, I swear it…”

“Sweet spirits,” said Byorn, emerging in the doorway, sword in hand, “don't they start begging real quick in Algery?”

Teriyan found the right key and the lock fell open. He opened the manacles and began applying keys to the ankle lock as Jaryd removed the gag, gasping.

“What happened?” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “Is he…?” Sofy squeezed into the room behind Byorn.

“You let her come?” he asked Teriyan.

“Not much choice in the matter,” Teriyan retorted, “given that there's horses waiting and we leave immediately.”

Gyl was staring. “Princess Sofy? What are you…? I mean, Your Highness, what brings you…I mean…”

Byorn stepped over to him. “Kid,” he said firmly, “that's not Princess Sofy. You're delusional.” He punched Gyl in the head and the lordling thudded limply to the floor. “A blow to the head will do that to a man.”

“Great,” said Teriyan as the last lock came off. “Finally one person who recognises the princess.”

“I think he's been to Baen-Tar,” said Sofy, blinking at the unconscious Gyl. She did not, Jaryd observed, seem particularly surprised or alarmed at Byorn's actions.

“Are you hurt?” Teriyan asked Jaryd as he stood.

“No.” He walked to Gyl's fallen body and undid his sword belt and scabbard. Byorn yanked the sword from the door and Jaryd sheathed it. “Let's go!” He ushered Sofy and Byorn ahead of him, descending the steep, narrow
stairs whilst buckling the belt where his own had been, before his captors had taken it. The steps were partially blocked by several unconscious guards, one of whom groaned and writhed. Jaryd found Ryssin guarding the doorway, and gave the long-haired woodsman a slap on the shoulder in passing.

Ryssin gave him a toothy grin. “Where've you been, lazy boy?” It wasn't especially funny or clever, but Jaryd laughed all the same. These were some of the most irreverent men he'd ever met and their manner was growing on him.

They ran across the narrow street and into a narrower alley. Then a new street, and here were five horses, saddled and waiting, held by a nervous stableboy. Jaryd ran to the lad, the others close behind.

“These for us?”

“A…Aye, M'Lord Jaryd,” the boy stammered, and gave a little bow. Jaryd looked at the boy for a moment. Not everyone in Algery had forgotten, it seemed.

Sofy took the horse nearest his, and Jaryd quickly moved to help her mount, but she was swinging herself up before he could do so. He swallowed his surprise and leapt quickly astride. His bruised face hurt, and his ankles and wrists ached where the metal had pressed, but there was a surge of fire through his veins now. So close. He'd been staring down at the town square since the morning, studying the guards, noting which of them might be friendly, guessing at the placement of men within the temple…and wishing he had a horse and a sword.

“This way,” said Teriyan, pointing down the street away from the square, “there's a perimeter road along the river to the bridge, the bridge has Falcon Guard on it, they'll let us past and then—”

“You go,” said Jaryd. “I'll catch up.”

“And where the Verenthane hells do you think you're going?” Teriyan demanded.

Jaryd's horse seemed to smell his rider's mood, for she stamped and skittered, tossing her head. “I came here with business to attend to,” Jaryd said grimly. He was so close. “And I'll attend it.”

“Listen, you little snot,” Teriyan snarled, “I didn't just risk my neck getting you rescued so you could go and get yourself killed!”

Jaryd wheeled his mare, but it was Sofy, to his astonishment, who caught his bridle. “What are you doing?” she asked, brown eyes wide with horror. “You can't do this to me!”

“To you?” Jaryd shook his head. “What the hells does this have to do with—”

“I came all the way from Baen-Tar to save you!” Sofy cried. “Me, a princess! Have you any idea what I risked for you?” The desperation in her
voice surprised him. He'd shouted like that himself. At Tarryn, in his dreams. “Come back!” he'd cried. “Don't leave me!”

But the temple…the wedding…and the sword at his hip. He wrenched his mare's head away from Sofy's hand. “I said I'll catch up!” he insisted, with a final glare, this time at Teriyan. “Don't you follow, you've a princess to look after, and she's far more important than me!” He turned and pressed his heels to the mare's flanks. The streets were mostly empty and he moved at a trot, not daring a gallop on slippery cobbles. He knew the way well enough, ahead was the square, and revenge. He could smell it.

The square opened up before him as he burst between food stalls, scattering alarmed townsfolk. The temple loomed to his right, its spires awash in golden sunlight. Guards’ helms gleamed about the main steps, the clustered townsfolk nearest the temple all in their Ranasday best. It was, of course, impossible. But when Jaryd Nyvar had a horse and a sword, nothing was impossible. In his life, it seemed now perfectly clear, a horse and a sword were the only things he'd ever truly had. The only things to be relied upon. He kicked the mare hard and accelerated.

Jaryd drew his sword and held it high so that it caught the fall of sunlight and gleamed. The crowd split, screaming and shoving. Then he was amongst them, slowing so as not to ride them down, pushing through as though the mare were fording a river. He heard yelled orders and warning shouts from the guards, and one rider coming at him…he swung the mare, her shoes slipping on the cobbles, nearly falling…switched hands to lash at that man's approach. He met a firm parry and urged the mare fast toward the temple steps, only to be cut off by another rider. Jaryd ducked low as lagand had long ago taught him, twisted the mare about once more, judging where her hindquarters would find the steps, and used that height to come down on the new attacker with a hard slash. The man parried and replied, but Jaryd tapped heels at just the right moment, allowing him the angle to parry sideways and swing straight into a hard cut that took the other man clean from his saddle.

The first man was back, and Jaryd simply charged the mare into his path…the other horse reared, shying away. The rider lost balance momentarily, and Jaryd did not. He slashed, and that man went straight down with a scream and smashed into the pavings.

Two more were careening across the base of the broad temple steps toward him…only the nobles, Jaryd realised with a jolt. The soldiers just watched. They were Falcon Guard and he had once fought at the head of their column.

“Ha!” he yelled, urging the mare toward the attackers. From several guardsmen, he could have sworn he heard a yell of encouragement. Jaryd
charged between the two horses, pure suicide, then he feinted left, pulling up as if in fear…the man on the right swung out a little to round his rear, and take his blindside while the other hit him from the front…only Jaryd dug in his heels once more, and charged straight at him. The man on the left tried to close the gap, but it was suddenly too big, and his horse's hooves slipped. Too fast, Jaryd was inside the right-man's swing before it had even begun, striking him to the face with the sword hilt.

He rounded on the other man, slashing once and twice. The defender parried with skill, urging his horse to leap forward, gaining space while twisting in the saddle to guard his rear. Jaryd jostled the other horse's hindquarters, pushing, not allowing it to steady…a sudden skid and the other horse went down, its rider crashing to the pavings as his seat disappeared from under him. A yell from the guardsmen, clear now above the screams and confusion of the crowd,

Jaryd dug in his heels and the mare sprang forward up the steps, skipping unevenly to find her footing on the broad flagstones. The two noble guards at the temple doors took one look at him and scrambled to safety. He reared the mare before the doors, her hooves lashing…and the doors crashed open.

Within, all eyes turned to look. Algery Temple was huge. Sunlight spilled through stained glass high above, scenes of the suffering of Saint Ambellion, of the mercy and justice of the many Verenthane gods. All pews had been cleared away for the wedding. The crowd of lords, ladies and their children stood along the centre aisle, stretching their necks to see what happened before the altar. Now they shrank aside, staring in disbelief as the ex-heir of Tyree, a blood-stained blade in hand, rode a frothing warhorse down the temple aisle.

Jaryd rode erect. Let them see his fury. Let them see his contempt. He wanted them all to know how little he cared for their ways, and their respect. The mare began to prance. He'd had no idea she could do that, but it seemed his legs and hands had unconsciously demanded it, and the horse had responded. Good girl. All around him, he saw more than disbelief and incredulity. He saw fear.

Ahead, before the altar, all of Tyree's most wealthy lords and ladies were gathered, garbed head to toe like preening birds. They, too, turned to gawk. Musicians stood to the altar's sides, instruments stilled. All mouths were open in silence. The mare's steel-shod hooves rang clear through the temple, echoing off the high ceiling like the march of vengeance herself.

A slow, mesmerised fading began, women pulling children back to the safety of the columns that lined the temple's sides. Before the altar, men
pulled swords and blocked his way. Beneath the altar itself, Jaryd saw now his sister Galyndry, surrounded by a clutch of of women.