Joel Shepherd - Tracato

The Palace of Sherdaine was in truth a castle that had been rebuilt to a palatial standard once the newest city walls had risen, and saved the castle from its need for defensive intent. The dining hall was truly grand. Tall, narrow windows opened to let in the sun, overlooking palace courtyards and the tightly packed roofs of Sherdaine beyond. The hall’s high walls were a many coloured profusion of coats of arms on shields, the mounted heads of animals and city pennants that Sofy had been told were battle trophies from past wars. There was room enough upon the polished flagstones for many tables and hundreds of nobles, but today there was but one table, set for lunch and aswarm with servants.

“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.