Free His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) by Amanda McCrina Page B

no hesitation. He spoke as if he’d been expecting
Tyren to speak.
    “Early in the day for it.”
    “Regrettably early, my lord. But there’s work to be done
later, and our mountain days go quickly.”
    “How’s the crop this year?”
    “It’ll be a good year.” Muryn seemed amused. His
voice was dry. “You’ve much interest in farming, lord?”
    “I can’t say I’ve much interest in it. No.”
    “Your people aren’t farm folk—the Risti.”
    “No.”
    “It’s unusual to see a nobleman assigned this post,”
Muryn said. “What does a Risto have to do to be sent to a place
like Souvin? Or perhaps the better question: what doesn’t a
Risto have to do?”
    Tyren’s steps slowed. It took him a moment, when the
startlement had passed, to catch up to Muryn again, another moment to
find his tongue.
    “Bold words,” he managed to say.
    “For a simple Cesino farmer speaking to a Risto?”
    “I’ve my doubts you’re a simple farmer.”
    Muryn smiled. “I’ll disappoint you, then. I’m a
farmer, Lord Risto.”
    “Are all farmers in Souvin so free with their tongues?”
    “You think too little of farmers, my lord,” said Muryn.
    Tyren said nothing. He was more stupefied than angered by the rebuke.
There were powerful Vareni who wouldn’t speak so rashly to a
Risto.
    They walked a while without speaking. He was laying things out in his
mind, piece by piece. No—Muryn was no farmer, no matter what he
might say. He spoke too well, too readily, and all of it in that pure
Choiro dialect that made Tyren’s own words sound unpolished,
thick.
    “When were you in Choiro, Muryn?” he said, at length.
    “You think I’ve been to the capital?”
    “Or else you learned to speak Vareno from one of Berion’s
own household.”
    “A long time ago,” Muryn said. “Twelve years,
fifteen. I forget how long exactly. The years start to run together.
You find years aren’t as important here in the mountains, here
among farm folk. I could count by harvests, maybe.”
    “What business had you in Choiro?”
    “My own,” said Muryn.
    “Answer me,” said Tyren.
    Muryn didn’t look at him. He was looking straight ahead, his
eyes narrowed as though he were bringing some distant thing into
focus.
    “I’d business with the Church,” he said, at length.
    “What manner of business with the Church?”
    The dryness had crept back into Muryn’s voice. “The usual
manner,” he said.
    “I was told you native priests had broken with the Church,”
said Tyren.
    There was heavy stillness between them a moment, silence except for
bird songs and the rustle of wind in the pines above the road. Tyren
waited. The nervousness in his stomach had sunk and settled in a
cold, solid lump.
    Muryn looked over to him, finally. He smiled again, more faintly this
time. “So you’ve had word of a priest in Souvin, Lord
Risto,” he said.
    “My adjutant suspected it. He didn’t know—still
doesn’t know. He wouldn’t have known the accent.”
    “But you knew it, of course.”
    “I’ve spent time enough among Choiro nobility.”
    “You didn’t act on it yesterday.”
    “I wanted to be sure, first.”
    “A rare virtue, forbearance,” said Muryn.
    “Rare among my people?”
    “Among any,” said Muryn.
    Tyren wasn’t sure whether Muryn were speaking in mockery. He
lifted his chin.
    “Tell me truthfully about the Church,” he said.
    “What is it you wish to know about the Church, Lord Risto?”
    “Do you answer to it? You native priests?”
    “Some do. They’re well-paid for it. The Church makes
great use of Cesino priests.”
    “And you?”
    Muryn had looked away from him again. “For a time,” he
said.
    “But no longer?”
    Muryn’s voice was quiet. “I had my fill of Choiro, Lord
Risto,” he said.
    “Of answering to Choiro?”
    “Of seeing the Church become just another political weapon in
the hands of the Berioni,” said Muryn.
    There was a sudden heaviness in Tyren’s chest, a dryness in his
mouth.