Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (32 page)

“Ah,” said Yasmyn, sighting Jeleny waiting by a wall with an attending man, “your assistant has arrived.” She spoke Lenay, and Elora frowned at her.

“Oh yes,” Sofy sighed in Torovan. “Dear Elora, please excuse me, I should attend to this before lunch. A new assistant.”

“Another? Whatever for?”

“I am informed that I must have a male assistant due to the necessity to liaise with the priesthood in preparation for the wedding.” Not to mention the need to liaise with certain arrogant Bacosh lords and knights who would not listen to a woman, not even one with a darak.

Elora’s eyes strayed to the man waiting with Jeleny. “He wears a sword. Have you no servants to attend to such matters?”

“The Army of Lenayin is an army of warriors,” Sofy explained.

“Real men feed and clothe themselves,” Yasmyn added unhelpfully. Her Torovan was improving, Sofy thought drily.

“Attend to it as you need,” said Elora dismissively and slid away to greet others at the table.

“Really, Yasmyn,” Sofy reproved her as they walked to Jeleny.

“This assistant looks very nice,” Yasmyn observed, having forgotten Princess Elora already. The Isfayen considered themselves nearly a separate nation, and Yasmyn was the second daughter of that nation’s king. She thought herself twice the princess that Elora would ever be, and found her utterly uninteresting. “Jeleny has chosen well.”

Sofy looked, and found that Jeleny’s man was indeed nicely proportioned in broad-shouldered Lenay leather, with midlength brown hair and several rings in one ear. He stood considering the rows of hanging shields on the wall, now turning to greet her with an insolently cheerful grin. Sofy stopped, utterly paralysed. It was Jaryd Nyvar.

“Your Highness,” said Jaryd in Lenay, and bowed with a flourish. Yasmyn frowned at Sofy’s response, and put a wary hand to her darak. “It is my great honour to serve you once more.”

Sofy remained frozen, mouth partly open in shock. Jaryd only seemed to find that more amusing. “Highness?” Yasmyn asked. “Should I kill him?”

“You can try, lovely bloodwife,” said Jaryd. “It would be a pleasure to dance with the daughter of Lord Isfayen.”

“Not a pleasure,” said Yasmyn, with a dangerous smile. “An honour.”

“Aye, that also. Say, that is a lovely darak. Can you use it?”

“If the men it has killed could tell you, they would sing a grand chorus.”

“Damon,” Sofy breathed as it occurred to her. She stared accusingly at Jeleny. “Was it Damon’s idea?” Damon being rather more in charge of the less martial aspects of the army. Aspects like food, shelter, politics…and weddings. Koenyg was too busy planning a war. Jeleny nodded mutely. “Oh what a
fool!
” Sofy exclaimed beneath her breath. She knew Damon occasionally petulant in his tempers, but the sheer stupidity of this took her breath away. “I shall have a word with Damon. Take him away.”

“Take…” Jaryd looked to Sofy and back to Jeleny, confused. “Take me away?” Jeleny gestured for him to walk. Jaryd looked back at Sofy, temper rising. “Take me away?”

“Her Prin-cess,” Yasmyn said slowly, in the manner of one speaking to the exceptionally stupid. “You com-mon man. Go away.”

Jaryd stared daggers at her. And as Sofy turned to go, “Sofy…Sofy! You can’t refuse your brother, he outranks you!”

“Can’t?” Sofy rounded on him. “Can’t? Jaryd, seriously, I cannot quite decide who is the bigger idiot, you or him. This is impossible, I must have another assistant.
Anyone
but you.”

“Anyone?” Yasmyn interjected, with dawning fascination. “You are Jaryd Nyvar!”

“Ve-ry cle-ver,” Jaryd pronounced to her. “What a smart little girl.”

Yasmyn grinned. “Oh Highness, this is a perfect thing. You must allow him to stay.”

“Perfect?” Sofy asked. Today she was surrounded by morons. “What in the name of all the…?”

“But so romantic!” Yasmyn insisted. “The man who lusts for you but cannot have you, he comes to protect you! Oh this is like the ballad of Hershyl the Bride….”

Sofy glared at her, with a glance back toward the table. There was only a servant or two within earshot, and both Jaryd and Yasmyn spoke Lenay with broad Tyree and Isfayen accents respectively, but it was not impossible that a servant might be fluent enough in Lenay to catch a condemning word or two.

“What’s wrong with you two?” Sofy said harshly, her voice low. “Jaryd, I’m getting married!”

“And Prince Damon fears for your safety,” Jaryd retorted. “He wishes you to have an assistant who is not of the lordly classes yet understands them, and mistrusts them, and can speak for both Goeren-yai and Verenthane custom in the wedding. Someone who cannot be intimidated, who knows your stubbornness and flightiness, and will not take any of your girly bossiness.” Sofy bit her lip, fuming. “And, someone who would die in an instant to protect you.”

“Oh very good!” Yasmyn exclaimed in admiration. “Your Highness, Prince Damon has chosen very well.”

At the lunch table, people were looking her way. Sofy unclenched her fists, and took a deep breath. “Fine. Just…no more talking about it. Not even in Lenay, not even in Kytan or Telochi.” (Those being the native tongues of Tyree and Isfayen.) “You never know who might understand.”

“No more gossiping with, say, one’s handmaidens, for instance?” Jaryd inquired, glancing at Yasmyn. Sofy rolled her eyes.

“She tells me everything,” Yasmyn said with a smile. Her eyes trailed down Jaryd’s body, to rest at his groin.

“I hope she told it well,” Jaryd replied.

“Oh rest it, you two!” Sofy fumed. “Now if you’ll just…” But Jaryd’s eyes registered someone approaching, and Sofy turned to find that a man in rich, princely clothes was walking from the table. She regained her composure, forcing a pleased smile to her lips. The man was tall and dark, square jawed and wavy haired. His tunic was black silk with silver thread, white lace frilled at the cuffs, tight pants, tall boots and a silver pommelled sword swinging low on one hip. As he came near, Sofy gave a curtsey, and Jaryd a bow. Even Yasmyn curtseyed.

“My sweet,” the Prince Balthaar Arosh greeted her with a smile, in Torovan. “Is there some issue?”

“Oh, my Prince,” Sofy laughed, a hand to her chest, “you must forgive me. My brother has gone and done something stupid again, we Lenays are forever becoming animated in our little family quarrels. It is nothing, a personal item he has managed to misplace, my assistant tells me so.”

“Ah,” said Prince Balthaar, with a glance at Jaryd. “Please tell me, what nature of item? My lovely princess shall be showered with wedding gifts in just a few days time. If there is any item in particular that she would like to request, I shall see that she has hundreds of them.”

“Oh no, my Prince, it is but a small personal item, a gift from my mother. Emotional value, nothing more.” She had once been a poor liar. Lies had brought her guilt. Recently the guilt had gone, and she suspected her lying had improved accordingly.

Jeleny took Jaryd away, to Sofy’s relief, as Balthaar escorted her to the table. At the table’s end was a grand chair, like a wooden throne. Beside it, inviting her to sit, was the Regent Tamar Arosh, lord of all the free Bacosh. He was a tall man, with wisping hair at the front, but long and grey streaked at the back. His eyes were intelligent, yet his hands and manner seemed to Sofy somehow…soft. Not a martial man, was the word amongst the Lenay lords. Not a warrior. And she wondered at the changes in herself that while a year ago she might have considered such a thing a sign of sophistication in a king, today she felt an unmistakable…distaste.

She sat upon the regent’s right hand, opposite her betrothed, with Yasmyn to her own right. Further down the table, others settled. Balthaar’s sister Elora, and his younger brother Dafed. Aramande, the Lord of Algrasse, perhaps Larosa’s closest ally. And Father Turen, the Archbishop of Sherdaine, and the holiest man in Larosa. The small table and isolated setting, here in the regent’s private quarters, made Sofy nervous. The lady regent was absent, as were Balthaar’s other sisters, and most of the grand provincial lords save Lord Aramande. In these great days of alliance building, a missed chance to dine with new allies and former enemies was an opportunity lost. Yet the regent chose to lunch with this select group.

“An issue with the new assistant, Princess Sofy?” asked the regent. He spoke with a curious detachment, and when he met a person’s eyes, it was only fleeting. He was a man of elegance and refinement, who sometimes seemed to find the company of people…uninteresting. Sofy thought him one of the most puzzling men she’d met.

“No issue, Your Grace.” It was the required form of address, she’d been informed, to the man who would be known as king if not for the ancient declaration
of Elrude’s Oath that no Bacosh man could name himself king until all the Bacosh had been reclaimed, and the throne of Leyvaan restored. “Rather an issue with my brother.”

“Which one?” asked the regent, considering the soup that servants laid before them.

“Prince Damon. He is my dear friend, but sometimes forgetful.”

“And unmarried,” added Elora.

“Does the prospect interest you, sister?” Balthaar asked, teasingly.

“One merely observes,” said Elora. They spoke Torovan, for Sofy’s benefit. Her Larosan was approaching conversational standard, but not quite there yet. “Whom shall he marry, do you think, Sofy?”

“Oh dear,” said Sofy. “With Damon, one is never certain. He is rather picky.”

“I hear of considerable interest in Tournea,” said Lord Aramande of Algrasse. He was a very handsome man, of no more than thirty summers, but short. Standing, Sofy reckoned he might not be too much taller than her. “Lady Sicilia is known to be asking questions on the prince’s inclinations. He does prefer girls, does he not, Princess Sofy?”

Sofy did not resent the question, but rather the way it was asked. “Of the Lenay variety, assuredly,” she said coolly. Balthaar chuckled. Sofy smiled at him. Lord Aramande made an unconvincing smile and blew on a spoonful of soup.

“What precisely is wrong with ladies of the Bacosh?” the Archbishop wanted to know.

“They wear wigs,” Yasmyn replied. “Hair falls out. All bald beneath, like priest.” The Archbishop whitened.

Balthaar laughed. “Lady Yasmyn, I swear, do all noble ladies of Isfayen have such sharp tongues as you?”

Yasmyn smiled. “And sharper knives.”

“A pity there are not more of you on this ride. I should like to wed one of you to Dafed.”

Elora giggled.

“Be nice,” said Dafed. Balthaar’s younger brother was broad, built like a young bull. Sofy thought he was the strongest warrior she’d met, amongst Bacosh nobility.

“No doubt an Isfayen marriage to the second son of the regent would alarm King Torvaal,” said Lord Aramande. “The Isfayen being such a warlike people, he might consider it a play for power.” Sofy thought the man determined to cause trouble. Many, she knew, did not like this marriage at all.

“No,” said Yasmyn. “The gods chose Family Lenayin. There is honour to follow the king. The Isfayen are honourable.”

“I have no doubt,” Balthaar said easily. “Honourable and beautiful.” Yasmyn smiled. “Yet not quite as beautiful as some,” he added, with a smile at Sofy.

Sofy sighed. When she had first learned that she would be married to the son of the Larosan regent, she had been revolted. Then, when the consequences of resisting her father and Koenyg’s plans had become clear, she had gritted her teeth, and resolved that if a man’s service to his kingdom could involve dying on the battlefield, then a woman’s fate of marriage and childbirth would not be such a bad thing, even were the man unlovable.

Balthaar Arosh was intelligent and gracious. He had a sense of humour, and a natural ease of command. Sofy knew that most women would think her irretrievably spoiled could she not be grateful for such a gift as this marriage had granted her.

After lunch, she took a brief walk with her future husband in the courtly gardens. Trimmed hedges made fascinating shapes, and about it all, the narrow windows of Sherdaine Palace looked down. Other couples strolled the maze, some knights in chain and surcoats. Many of the ladies wore long, silver wigs with curls and ornaments that glittered.

Yasmyn walked behind, with a black-clad woman of the Merciful Sisters, who had appeared from nowhere to keep an eye on the couple. No more than hand holding would be tolerated, Sofy had been told.

“I have invited your brothers to participate in the wedding tournament,” Balthaar told her. “It has been too soon for a reply, however.”

“Oh, Balthaar,
jousting
.” Sofy made a face. “It does seem unnecessarily dangerous, with a war coming.”

“Tournament lances, my dear,” Balthaar assured her. “They are narrow things, and break easily upon contact with a shield or armour. Do you think they shall accept the invitation?”

“Oh, I’m certain you could not keep Koenyg away if you tried,” Sofy said tiredly. “Myklas too. Lenay warriors have little use for lances or knightly armour, but I’m sure they’ll prove fast learners.”

“Not your brother Damon?” Balthaar asked. “I should warn you that there are rumours regarding Damon. They say that he is not a real Lenay man like your brother Koenyg.”

“He was man enough for Lord Elen of Liside Vale.”

Balthaar looked down at her with a little concern, and squeezed her hand. “I did not mean to cause offence.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just…I recall what Lord Elen did, and it angers me. I never thought I could be proud of my brothers for killing a man in a duel, but I’m very proud of Damon for that.”

“Dear Sofy,” said Balthaar, and stopped. He turned her toward him, and took her other hand in his. “You have not yet inferred upon me a term of endearment. I am merely Balthaar.”

“There shall be plenty of time for that once we are married, don’t you think?”

Balthaar looked a little sad. “Of course. I merely hope that I shall not be plain and simple Balthaar forever.”

“Dear Prince, I doubt that you have ever been ‘plain and simple’ anything.” Balthaar smiled and kissed her hand. Sofy was relieved. Behind them, the Merciful Sister cleared her throat, loudly.