“But there'll be doubt!” Sofy insisted. “They'll have to ride back to Baen- Tar-four days-with an incomplete report, and Koenyg hates those, he likes to know everything before he acts. And he'll have no clues, no idea of why I came riding out here, if I did at all…you men, with all respect, you simply don't know Koenyg like I do! I can guess what he's thinking, but he knows me that well too. If his riders bring me back with them, he'll guess all kinds of things. I'm a good liar but not with him, and he knows it. He'll send riders to Tyree, Tyree's closer than Valhanan…he's even got birds now! Pigeons, they carry messages and-”
“Pigeons?” Ryssin looked baffled. “What are pigeons?”
“Lowlands birds,” said Teriyan, looking glum. “They can carry messages. They don't last long up here because our hawks and eagles are so hungry, but if you sent two to a target, I'd guess one might get through. Lenayin will seem like a smaller country if everyone starts using pigeons. Imagine, one day for a message to Baen-Tar. Two from here to Isfayen.”
“Lowlands nonsense,” Cranyk muttered. “I'm glad I'll not live long enough to see my land completely spoiled by their inventions.”
“I'll not want to take the future wife of the heir to the Bacosh throne on a hunting expedition,” Jaegar interrupted. “This village is in trouble enough with Prince Koenyg as it is.”
“I am your royal princess, you know,” Sofy replied, chin raised. “I could just command you.”
“I'm village headman of Baerlyn with my boots on Baerlyn soil,” Jaegar replied. “I could just ignore you.”
“Or,” Sofy continued as though she hadn't heard him, “I could just ride there on my own. I rode here on my own.”
“You don't know where Algery is,” Jaegar retorted.
“I'll find out,” said Sofy. “If I travel on my own, three or four strides behind you.” Jaegar pressed his lips thin, and looked to be repressing a mutter of something rude. Sofy smirked.
“No,” said Jaryd, when the building frustration and anger became impossible to control. All turned to look at him.
“No what?” said Teriyan.
“You're not going. Any of you.” Silence about the table. Jaryd unclenched his fist, it had been steadily tightening as the discussion had progressed. “This is my affair. I swore to resolve it myself, and I shall. I shall accept no assistance.”
“Even if it kills Wyndal?” Jaegar said flatly.
Jaryd jumped to his feet, his chair toppling with a clatter. “I never asked for all your assistance!” he shouted. “This is my honour, not yours! I won't let you ruin it!”
“Ruin it?” Jaegar raised his eyebrows. “We make it happen. You declared yourself Goeren-yai, Master Jaryd. That is the only reason your head has not been removed from your shoulders by the king's law. You come to live here among us, you make use of our isolation, of our hospitality, and now you think to refuse our assistance in return?”
Jaryd stared at him, unable to speak. This was turning out all wrong. All his life, others had tried to dictate his future. Always they got it wrong, always they expected from him that which he could not give, or snatched his most precious goals and turned them to their own ends. He needed to do this for himself, for his own sake, for Tarryn's, for Wyndal's, before these meddling fools made a mess of everything once more…
“Tell me,” Jaegar continued, “when you gave yourself to the old ways, did you have it in your heart to actually learn something of them? Or are the ways of the Goeren-yai simply a convenience, to be followed when it suits your purposes and ignored when they do not? To be of the village means to abide by the decisions of its elders. We make these decisions in the best interests of Baerlyn and its people. You have brought these troubles amongst us with your presence, and now we shall deal with them as we see fit. And if you are truly Goeren-yai, you shall abide by that and be grateful.”
Jaryd stared at the tabletop, quietly fuming. He wanted to sit, or to turn and stride out, but he could not decide which. Neither seemed appropriate. He was trapped.
“To be Goeren-yai is not to wear a ring and mark your face with lines,” said old Cranyk, grimly. “Myself, I could not care if the boy knows a passing spirit from a horse's fart. He has mad courage, he is a warrior and he knows revenge. These, and these alone, are the soul of the ancient ways. All that he has done, Yuan Jaegar, has been in pursuit of his revenge. If you did not wish the troubles that come with his presence, you should have refused him hospitality. I say it is a sad day for this village when the concerns of selfish custom, and the fear of others’ opinions, even that of the king, should rule our honour.”
Jaryd blinked at Cranyk in mild surprise. The old man's continued support astonished him in its ferocity. He could not recall the last time any elder from his past life had supported his headstrong urges to any degree. Only…only Cranyk did not do it for the love of Jaryd Nyvar. Cranyk did it, it seemed, because Cranyk saw something in Jaryd Nyvar that reminded him of that which he valued most in the Goeren-yai. Jaryd could not deny that his decision to cast off the ways of Verenthanes had been driven entirely by selfish rage and the opportunism of revenge. But now, could it be that one of the Goeren-yai's most respected would look at him and find approval for his decision?
Jaegar looked at Cranyk for a long moment, lips pursed in consideration. Then he nodded. “So,” he said, not contesting Cranyk's words. “The matter is laid out. Now we all must decide.”
Sasha was sitting at the end of the pier near Family Velo's boats, gutting fish. It had been five days since the meeting at The Fish Head. The day was perhaps the hottest she'd ever experienced, and the air was thick enough to drink. She fairly dripped with sweat, in long sleeves to keep the sun off her arms.
Footsteps approached up the pier planks, a middle-aged man with a white beard was coming toward her. Not a docksman-he did not look work-worn, nor did he swagger with a working man's gait-his tunic and pants were plain yet good. He wore his hat low on his brow, his eyes hidden in shade.
He stopped nearby and gazed out to the horizon where thick stormclouds were building, a dark shadow on the sea. Now, a flash of lightning. “It's coming this way,” said the man. “We could use some rain, the reservoirs run low.”
“Aye,” said Sasha, scaling a fish from the tail to the head, as Mari had shown her. “I wouldn't like to be out on one of those ships when the lightning comes. Not beneath those masts.”
“It's said that lightning strikes the highest point because the gods discourage the immodesty of height,” said the man.
“Is that right?” Sasha glanced up at the Porsada Temple, high atop its far promontory, its spires reaching for the sky.
The man followed the direction of her gaze and smiled. “The temple has never been struck. The gods are selective.”
“And here was I thinking they were impartial and fair.” She remembered priests boasting the same thing once about the Saint Ambellion Temple in Baen-Tar. Until one stormy night a bolt had blasted the iron star right off the left spire. Then the priests pretended they'd never made the claim in the first place. She would have had so much more respect for Verenthanes in general, she thought, if they didn't make such silly claims.
“No,” said the man, turning back to the distant storm. “No Verenthane ever claimed the gods impartial.”
“Pity,” said Sasha. She laid the fish flat and chopped its head off, then its tail. “Bias is no blessing.”
The man looked at her oddly as she scooped the head and tail into a basket, and the meat into another. “You're very handy with that knife,” he observed as she took up a new fish. “You must be Sashandra Lenayin.”
Sasha smiled. “And I'm sure you only just figured that out now.”
The man shrugged. “There are only so many sworld-wielding women on the dockfront who can dissect a fish in the blink of an eye. And you have that lovely accent.”