Riding alongside, Damon rapped the carriage door with an armoured fist. “Get your head back in. It won’t do for the bride to ride into Sherdaine like a dog on a farmcart.”
Sofy ignored him, wishing she could have ridden at her father’s side in the vanguard. Koenyg had not even bothered to reply when she’d wistfully suggested it, he merely shook his head in disbelief and continued his conversation with someone else. Damon was now banished from the vanguard’s head, appointed by Koenyg to be his sister’s protector, since, Koenyg said acidly, he seemed so determined to kill any who offended her honour. Algrassian, and lately Larosan nobility, had shown a degree of respectful caution in their nightly feasts previously unseen, particularly toward Damon. Sofy thought their behaviour vastly improved since Lord Elen’s slaying, and Yasmyn agreed. And Damon, truth be told, did not appear to resent his new duty as Koenyg might have hoped.
Sofy could now see a huge entourage awaiting across the road ahead. Knights, armoured head to toe, rowed lances pointing skyward and flying the coloured profusion of feudal heraldry. They parted as the vanguard arrived, and joined in the column’s progress, flanking the road in great lines.
Damon kicked the carriage door. “Sofy, I mean it!”
She scowled at him and flung herself back on her seat. “They can’t see sideways out of those helmets,” she said, “I don’t know what he’s worried about.”
On the seat opposite, Jeleny and Rhyana, two of Sofy’s prettiest handmaidens, sat in their finest, hair done up in ringlets laced with gold cord. Both looked apprehensively at Yasmyn, who continued to hone the edge of her darak.
“Oh Yasmyn,” said Jeleny at last, “must you?”
“In Isfayen,” said Yasmyn, “a bridesmaid must never be without two things-a sharp blade and clean undergarments.”
“It does look very sharp already, Yasmyn,” Sofy observed. “Though I cannot speak for your undergarments.”
Yasmyn grinned, and sheathed the darak on the belt she wore beneath her blue waist sash. “We ride with many lobsters today,” she said, peering out the window at the knights. “I wonder do they cook, when the sun is hot?”
Sofy found herself thinking of Jaryd. She’d been trying not to, for most of the ride. Occasionally, it was true, she’d ridden past the midportion of Valhanan’s part in the column, hoping to catch a glimpse, while at the same time pretending that it was merely coincidence that she should happen to be riding there.
It had been a mistake. If she were a truly devout Verenthane, surely she would fear for her soul…yet that was just the talk of priests, whose words of late she’d trusted less and less. Serrin did not believe such things, nor did Nasi-Keth…nor, in fact, most of the Lenay countryside, where few lads or ladies indeed were virgins on their wedding days, and the villagers loved nothing more than a gossip of the latest lascivious tales. Only Verenthane princesses were held to such standards, and oh how she’d grown to distrust the reasons for that. It was not about religion, she was quite sure. Sasha had always told her as much-the priests and the lords, she’d said, would use such beliefs to serve the ends of power. The righteousness of the faith itself was always a secondary consideration in such matters.
Perhaps her brother Wylfred was right, Sofy thought. Perhaps she had been corrupted by Sasha’s influence over the years. Sofy knew there had been such hopes for her, the darling youngest princess, the apple of her father’s eye. But now her father was marrying her off to a strange man for the cause of a foreign war she had no interest in fighting. What she’d done with Jaryd, that half year before on the return road from Algery, had felt good. And it had been her mistake, if mistake it had been. Something of her very own, that no one could now take from her. Soon, there would be few enough of those.
But it bothered her, now, that she had not made more of an effort to see him. It would have been impossible, of course, with so many eyes upon them, but that did not stop her from fretting. Did he think of her? It was foolish to hope so, the number of women bedded by Jaryd Nyvar was more worthy of a serrin than a Verenthane noble. And he was most certainly not of a type with her, with a head full of swords and horses, and rarely a care for the passions of Sofy’s life-the arts, music, tongues and civil conversation. No, she thought-she was not bound for the hells, but it had been a mistake all the same. He was not for her, and was a landless no-name now, an impossible match for a princess. If the Larosans insisted on examining her virginity before marriage, well, she rode horses regularly and knew well enough (with more thanks to Sasha) that the activity rendered such examinations unreliable. A half year had passed, she was not with child, and none of it was any concern to her now-she was merely moping before her impending wedding, and wondering what might have been, at another time, in another life.
Yet still she thought of him, and remembered his smile.
Beyond the clustered horsemen of the vanguard, Sofy could see grand armies assembling to either side of the road. More feudal banners, rows and rows of horsemen, all the way to the gates of Sherdaine. Sofy could not tear her eyes away, a tightness growing in her throat. So many men. Such a powerful army. And all for her. The tightness in her throat was her old life dying. That carefree girl lay somewhere behind, in the distant hills of Lenayin. Sofy wished for her return, with all her heart, but that girl had no place here. That girl would be scared of this place. The Princess Sofy Lenayin could not afford to be scared with so much at stake.
Before her, the city gates opened wide, yawning black, beneath the portcullis’s rows of metal teeth. Sofy felt her heart accelerate and her breath grew short. Yasmyn clasped her hand.
“Be not afraid,” she murmured, “for all things shall end. Fear not the end, your friend and mine.”
Tullamayne, she quoted. Sofy recalled the other places she’d heard Tullamayne recited, most recently upon battlefields, at great funerals for the many fallen, upon the lips of warriors gasping their final breath. She exhaled a deep breath and felt all fear leave her, as like the spirit leaving a dying man. She was Lenay, and this fate was not hers alone, but borne upon the shoulders of countless martyred generations. She squeezed Yasmyn’s hand, as the carriage rattled on, and allowed the darkness to swallow her.
There was silver mist across the grassy fields as tens of thousands of men stirred in the morning. Jaryd finished his exercises, a mug of tea in his hand, steaming from the campfire. Baerlyn contingent, plus men of several neighbouring Valhanan villages, had claimed for a camp the land about a small farmhouse, including a track, some recently ploughed fields, and a small stream.
Lenay men greeted Jaryd as he walked to the paddock fence to see to the commotion there. He joined the men leaning on the fence and considered the cause of their amusement. Within the paddock, men were chasing an extremely large, ill-tempered bull. Or rather, the bull was chasing them. A warrior rolled aside as it charged, while two more jumped the fence, to catcalls and roars of laughter from the onlookers. The bull circled back on the man who had rolled-a magnificent animal, Jaryd thought, with huge, rippling shoulders and deadly horns, now lowered.
Jaryd’s laughter was cut short at a sudden commotion to his side, and he spun to find that Gareth, a Baerlyn man, had grabbed another man from behind and had a knife to his throat.
“I don’t recognise this one!” Gareth said suspiciously, peering at his captive’s face. “He was approaching you to the rear, Jaryd, and I don’t see him for no Valhanan man!”
The man held his hands clear. “I come with summons from Prince Damon,” he said. “He requests the company of Jaryd Nyvar.”