Sasha (35 page)

They ate a lunch of bread and dried meat by a small stream that rushed and gurgled from the recent rain. The birds were different here, Daryd noted. Little blue and black bobtails flittered and chirped around the streamside bushes. Yellow flower birds snapped at insects above the rushing water. Some small, plain brown birds with long beaks pecked at things on the water surface near the streamside, where the flow was not as fast. The only birds Daryd recognised were the black and green wood ducks that swam further downstream, where a big, rotting log had formed a still pool behind a dam.

The scout saw him watching the birds and tried to name them for him. Daryd managed some of the names, but others he couldn't pronounce. The scout had perhaps thirty summers, Daryd reckoned—not as old as Jurellyn had been. He was quite clean for a scout or woodsman, too, with short hair and well-mended clothes. He washed every morning and after meals, and even put some funny-smelling paste on his teeth after dinner. The more Daryd thought about it, the more he thought the scout was probably a Verenthane. He'd heard that Verenthanes liked to keep clean, and this man had no rings, braids or tattoos whatsoever.

At midafternoon, the scout took them off the narrow trail and into the forest. They stopped behind some undergrowth where the scout gestured for the children to stay with the horses and be quiet. He then disappeared down a shallow hill. Daryd stood guard while Rysha supervised the horses as they grazed on some wild grass. It felt different, to put a hand on his knife hilt and pretend to be a real warrior. He'd seen real warriors fight now, and he'd seen them die. He'd always been frustrated by childhood, but now he found himself longing for that childish innocence. Back then, he could be a real warrior any time he liked, just by imagining. Now, no matter how hard he pretended, he remained just a little boy far from home, cold, lonely and frightened.

It was not long before the scout came quickly back up the hill, but now he had some men with him. These certainly
were
Goeren-yai men, all five of them, with long hair, earrings and the left side of their faces covered by the spiritmask. They stared at Daryd and Rysha as they approached, like men creeping up on some rare and magical animal. They spoke amongst each other, with wonder in their voices, and Daryd heard the word “Udalyn,” over and over. The strange men made him anxious, but the scout seemed to trust them.

“Friend,” the scout said in Edu—the one Edu word he'd been quick to learn. Pointing to the five Goeren-yai men. “Friend.”

Daryd nodded, warily. There must have been a village nearby, he realised. Just out of sight beyond the trees. The villagers had the look of men who worked hard, with worn clothes and hardened hands. Two of them were very big and the others, although middle size, all looked strong, even the older ones. All wore swords at their hips and knives in their belts.

“
Eyastan
,” said one man, extending a hand to Daryd, a friendly smile parting his bushy beard. “
Eyastan
, Yuan Udalyn.”

A greeting, Daryd reckoned. “
Eyastan
,” he replied and clasped the other man's forearm. The man's smile grew to a grin. Each of the men said hello in that way. One of them seemed to ask for the Edu word for hello and repeated it over and over delightedly when Daryd told him. With Rysha they did not exchange the warrior clasp, of course, but rather shook her hand gently and patted her on the head. Rysha stood close to Daryd's side, anxious and shy.

The villagers gave them good, fresh fruit and some delicious fresh bread. The children ate and the adults began jabbering in their strange, foreign tongue, with many gestures toward the children. After a while, one went running back to the village.

“Daryd, what are they doing?”

“I don't know,” said Daryd, watching the men's expressions and gestures intently. Every now and then he heard a word that sounded familiar, but he didn't know if that was because it was the same word, or just a coincidence. “These are Goeren-yai men, they'll be friendly.”

He realised that he didn't even know what province they were in. Valhanan? Or was it Tyree? One of the two, he decided. Lenay was spoken here, but these men probably spoke a native tongue as well. He wished again that he could speak another language. Everyone else in Lenayin seemed to be able to.

Soon the man who had run off came back with five women. The women greeted them with as much wonder as the men and considerably more fuss. They all had long hair, a mixture of braids, loose locks and some beads and ribbons. Their dresses were coarse weave, sewn together with some light, tanned skins—without the decorative embroidery and beading he was accustomed to seeing on his mother and aunts.

The women made a particular fuss over Rysha, which Rysha seemed to find much less intimidating than she'd found the men. One woman produced a pair of child's pants and Rysha was ushered away to the privacy of some bushes to pull them on.

An older woman remained behind to look at Daryd with a beady eye, and talk with the men. Her hair was long and grey, with an important-looking topknot, and she walked with a decorated staff. The men were very polite with her. Daryd reckoned she might be a spirit talker, as the staff decorations held elements of all the spirit levels—feathers of birds from the sky, rocks from the earth, smooth pebbles shaped by water, and beads of polished wood or nuts from trees. When she hobbled close to peer at him, Daryd bowed low. And when he straightened, everyone looked pleased, so he knew it had been the right thing to do.

When Rysha returned, wearing her new pants under her dress, a new argument ensued. Some of the women seemed quite adamant about something. The men seemed more doubtful. The spirit talker just watched and listened.

Finally, one of the women turned to Rysha and smiled in that way adults did when trying to explain something to children. Daryd felt immediately suspicious. “
Endrynet chyl
,” she said sweetly. And pointed back down the slope, to where the village was surely located. “
Karamyt tervyst'al. Selysh.
”

The woman mimed putting her head down on some pillows, palms pressed together, hands to one cheek.

“Daryd, what's she saying?” Rysha sounded nervous.

“Maybe she thinks we should have a rest,” Daryd said dubiously. But the woman was only looking at Rysha, not Daryd. “We must ride,” Daryd said loudly, and pointed on in the direction they'd been travelling. “Baen-Tar. We must ride to Baen-Tar. King Torvaal.”

They seemed to understand that, at least, for worried looks were exchanged. The woman tried again with a longer sentence, yet no more comprehensible. Her entreaty was all the more gentle and heartfelt, and again, directed only at Rysha.

“I think she thinks we should rest,” Rysha said uncertainly. “I am very sleepy.”

“We've no time, Rysha.” Daryd's frustration mounted. “All the Udalyn will have gone behind the wall, but the wall won't last forever if the Hadryn attack properly! I heard Papa say so. We have to get the king to send help!”

The woman seemed to take Rysha's uncertainty for a good sign and took her by the hand. “
Endrynet chyl. Amath ul lysh to wayalesh tai.
” She pulled Rysha gently forward, away from Daryd.

“No,” said Daryd, his alarm rising. And then he realised what she was suggesting. “No!” he shouted, a hand on the hilt of his knife. “No, you let her go! You let her go right now!”

The woman said something in alarm, a plea for the others to reason with him, while pulling Rysha onward. Rysha pulled back, frozen with fear. Daryd pulled out his knife and pointed it at the woman, his hand shaking.

“She's my sister!” he shouted. “She belongs with me! You can't have her. Let her go!”

There followed a lot of shouting, with the woman protesting, backed by several other women. Finally the bushy-bearded man intervened, impatiently removing the woman's hand from Rysha's. Rysha ran back to Daryd and clutched his arm instead. The woman looked upset, both hands to her mouth. The bushy-bearded man was saying something forcefully to the woman, in which the word “Udalyn” featured prominently. Goeren-yai men seemed to have a high opinion of the Udalyn. The threat apparently over, Daryd sheathed his knife before anyone could notice how much his hand was shaking.

“Daryd, what's going on?” Rysha asked shakily, still clutching his arm.

“Don't be scared, Rysha. I think she just thought it would be safer for you to stay here in the village with her. She was trying to protect you, I think. Mothers are like that.”

“She's not my mother!” Rysha protested, upset. “I've
got
a mother!”

“I know, Rysha.”

“I want to stay with you! Daryd, don't let them take me away!”

“I won't, Rysha. Shush, everything's all right.” But everything was not all right, because the quaver in Rysha's voice when she said the word “mother” caused his own throat to tighten and his lip to tremble. He swallowed it, violently.

The villagers brought yet more food and some fodder to give the horses a break from wild grass. Extra fodder was packed into saddlebags and the spirit talker made an appeal to the local spirits…presumably to watch over them, Daryd thought. The woman who had tried to take Rysha still looked upset. Daryd suddenly found himself wondering what his own mother would be feeling. Her son and her little girl would be missing. Perhaps she'd fear they were dead, killed by the Hadryn. Suddenly, he thought he understood.

He walked to the woman and reached for her hand. She took it. “My sister,” he said helplessly, pointing to Rysha as she stood by Essey, waiting to mount. “I can't leave my sister. She's all I have.” He pointed to his heart. The woman's eyes filled with tears and she bent, and kissed him on both cheeks. That was when he knew for sure that the Udalyn were not the only people who loved their family. He could only hope that King Torvaal felt the same.

D
AMON MADE HIS WAY
toward the lagand field. Downslope, the great tent city spread across the paddocks like a forest of pointy white mushrooms on a green hillside. Flags flew above each provincial contingent, colourful banners against a summer blue sky. The air was warm, the breeze welcome, and the hills beneath the walls of Baen-Tar were alive with colour and life. It was a wide rectangle of hillside, by no means an even surface, but the slope was overall quite gentle. Talleryn posts marked the goals, one pair at each end, with horses thundering across the intervening space, weaving and crossing in pursuit of the ball. The scaffolding caught Damon's eye—an amazing work of woodcraft, erected in just six days by Goeren-yai craftsmen. He guessed it might hold as many as six hundred people on its rowed benches.

Colours draped across different sections marked out the seats where each province's nobles would sit. The royal box was central, draped in green and purple, and flanked by several Royal Guardsmen. Serving maids made their way up and down the steps with platters of wine and food, and more crowds gathered about the firepits erected behind the scaffold, where kitchen staff served snacks and drinks, and prepared whole legs of lamb and beef for roasted lunch to come.

A pair of red flags marked the entry point for competitors, where the surrounding spectators kept clear. Damon recognised Jaryd amongst the gathered horsemen and cantered that way. Tyree men greeted him—perhaps half the Tyree team were from the Falcon Guard, including Sergeant Garys, a stout Goeren-yai man whom he knew and respected. The other half of the fourteen-men side were Tyree nobility.

“Wonderful morning for a contest,” Jaryd remarked as Damon dismounted alongside. Damon had contested with the Tyree team for four days now and, somewhere along the line, “Your Highness” had vanished from Jaryd's vocabulary. Damon cared not at all. “We have Banneryd this morning, half of them are heavy cavalry. We'll have some bruises this evening.”

A handler tended Damon's horse while another handed him his bundle of equipment. Damon strapped on the metal forearm guards, gazing across the field at the game in progress. “Fyden plays Taneryn,” he observed, recognising the colours. “What score?” There was a scoring platform up on the scaffold, but he could not see it from this angle.

“Taneryn by eight to four, I believe. It's a long match.” Disparagingly. “Perhaps they should play hourglass rules or else we'll be here till lunchtime.” Under royal rules the game did not stop until one team scored ten goals.

Jaryd seemed grimmer this morning. He tightened his forearm strap now, his helm under one arm. Not quite as tall as Damon in his riding boots, but more broadly and powerfully built. Sofy had told Damon of some of the rumours circulating, that Jaryd was on the outs with his father, and there had been threats and insults traded. Jaryd Nyvar's once shiny reputation had been tarnished. Apparently, when questioned on the death of Lieutenant Reynan, he'd not been saying what some others had been wanting to hear. Damon looked across at one man in particular—Pyter Pelyn, amidst a cluster of young noble friends. Pyter had been Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn's cousin. The last four days of contest, he and Jaryd had barely spoken a word to each other.