Byren woke with the sense that something was wrong. There was no sign of the others. Last night he'd slept with Orrade on one side of him and Leif on the other, while Florin and her nan slept upstairs in the loft. At least he'd been warm and the bed was free of bugs.
Now, alone in the bed, he could tell it was late afternoon by the light that came in the single, small window.
It irked him to lie abed for so long but his stomach, although healing, was still too tender to move freely. And he knew rest was the best thing for him.
As he'd dozed he'd grown familiar with the sounds of the cottage, the bleating of the long-haired goats, the barking of the dogs and the cackle of the chickens. Speaking of which, he could smell a pot of chicken and onion broth cooking on the hearth. His stomach rumbled and he looked forward to dinner.
The thump of running boots crossed the yard outside, entered the cottage and made straight for where he lay. Byren rolled onto his side and carefully levered himself up to sitting, feet on the floor. He reached for the pants the old woman had put out for him and flinched as his muscles protested.
Orrade charged into the tiny room. 'Good, you're up. Merofynians are coming up the valley, searching the farms. We have to go.'
In the main room he heard Florin and her nan packing food, preparing travelling bundles. Their haste was evident by their clipped, concise comments.
Byren grunted with annoyance. He hated being so weak. 'Need help getting my trews and boots on.'
Orrade guided his legs into the trouser legs. The pants were a bit short and tight around the waist.
'Eh, Florin's granddad must have been a funny shape.'
'Not really.' Orrade snorted softly. 'You're wearing Florin's breeches.' Businesslike, he dragged on thick woollen socks and laced up Byren's own boots. Just as well, with the size of his feet he couldn't have worn anyone else's.
Orrade helped him stand, dragged off the night-shirt and pulled a knitted vest over his shoulders, then a thick, high-country coat of sheep hide, with the woollen side innermost. Lastly, he placed a knitted cap on Byren's head. 'Now at least you'll look the part of a hill-man, if we're caught.'
Moving with great care, Byren shuffled out to the kitchen, where Leif waited, while Nan and Florin tied the travelling bundles closed.
Florin looked up. As she took in his careful stance, her strong face grew sharp with worry and the excitement faded from her dark eyes.
'He can hardly walk. How will we get away?' Leif asked, voicing what they were all thinking.
Florin tossed her bundle to her brother. 'I'll carry him on m'back. Orrie and I can take turns.'
'Halcyon will freeze over before I let a girl carry me!' Byren drove himself to straighten further, despite the deep ache in his belly. Unfortunately, his knees gave way and he would have crumpled if Orrade hadn't caught him, sliding his shoulder under Byren's.
'Don't stand on your dignity, lad,' the old woman told him. 'If you're found here, it'll be the death of all of us.'
She was right. Byren cursed. If only he had his strength. 'I can ride, if you tie me to the saddle.'
'We have nothing but an old mountain pony. Besides, they're watching all the trails out of the valley.' The old woman shook her head. 'We must hide you for now. There are caves up in the ravines. Florin knows the way. She'll guide you. Orrie will carry you if he has to. Leif can manage your things.'
The boy slung his own bundle, as well as theirs, across his shoulders, as if to prove her point. Byren felt inadequate and hated it.
'We don't mind. You led us when we trapped the manticore pride and killed them,' Leif said, his eyes alight with excitement, fixed on Byren's face. 'You killed a leogryf with your bare hands -'
'I had a knife,' Byren corrected. 'And this is not the same.'
'All of Rolencia is talking about how you walked into Halcyon Abbey after the Merofynians took it and dared them to catch you.'
Byren shook his head. 'That wasn't how it happened.'
'No?' The old woman pinned him with her clever gaze. 'But it is how they're telling it. The people of Rolencia need Byren Leogryfslayer. So swallow your pride, lad, and get out the back door before the Merofynians arrive.'
Chastened, Byren hobbled outside, leaning heavily on Orrade. He glanced over his shoulder to see Florin hug her grandmother in the back doorway.
Meanwhile, Leif beamed as though this was a great adventure, but Byren knew better. If they were caught the Merofynians wouldn't let the boy's youth stop their swords.
Byren blinked back tears of frustration and fury. He channelled the anger into empowering his weak body. Florin strode past, her long legs and easy stride propelling her swiftly across the ground. Leif took little skipping steps to keep up with her. Byren sucked in a deep breath, feeling the wound pull.
'Concentrate on escaping and getting better,' the old woman called after him. 'You can only fight one battle at a time.'
She was right. Head down, Byren focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Soon they were beyond the barn and workshed. Under the tall pines night was already closing in. Snow lay thick on the ground. Orrade pulled up sharply and Byren took the chance to catch his breath.
'Wait, Florin, our trail will give us away.'
She called over her shoulder. 'We thought of that. Nan's gone to bring the goats in for the night. They'll cover our tracks.'
She strode on, powerful thighs driving them upwards along the trail. Byren feared, even with Orrade's supporting shoulder under his, he would not be able to keep up with her for long.
'How far are these caves anyway?' he muttered.
'How far to the caves, Florin?' Orrade called.
She did not slow. 'We'll be there by midnight.'
He'd never make it.
'I'll carry you if I must,' Orrade whispered. He was half a head shorter than Byren and slender, but on other journeys his wiry strength had outlasted almost everyone, so Byren did not doubt him.
'What if the Merofynians follow us up to the caves?' Byren asked, between breaths.
Florin glanced over her shoulder. 'You could hide an army in the foothills of the Divide.'
They walked in silence through the deepening twilight, their breath misting with every step.
After a while, a raucous barking echoed from the farmhouse below them. They had already climbed so high that, when they paused to peer back down the hillside, they could only glimpse the snow-covered roofs and smoking chimney pot of the farmhouse between the pines.
'The dogs don't like the Merofynians,' Florin muttered.
'Nan should set the dogs on them!' her brother said. 'I would!'
'Hush, Leif. Do that and you'd get yourself killed,' Florin muttered.
'If Byren wasn't injured he'd send them to meet their gods!'
Byren shook his head. 'Not when there's a dozen of them and only one of me. Better to bide your time and attack when you know you can win.'
Florin gave him a smile. He didn't need her approval.
Driving himself to stand, he faced uphill. 'How much further?'
Orrade looked to Florin.
'Not far now.'
But Byren knew she was lying to encourage him.
They moved on. Byren's legs had seized up during the short rest and now his thigh muscles ached with each step and his injury tugged across his belly with each breath. He gritted his teeth and said nothing.
The night was clear. With the stars so bright and the white snow reflecting their light, they had no need of a lantern. The higher they went, the taller and thinner the pine trees got.
All too soon Byren's head was buzzing and his breath wheezed in his chest. He had to rest.
'We'll stop for a bit,' Florin said.
'I can keep going,' Byren lied.
'Leif needs to rest. He has to take two steps for your one,' she told him.
'I could walk all night if I had to,' Leif insisted, despite the fact that Byren could see his legs trembling. 'I don't have to rest.'
'Well, I do,' Orrade muttered. 'Byren weighs as much as a full-grown leogryf.'
As he slipped out from under Orrade's shoulder and sat on a rock, Byren noticed Florin send his friend a look of thanks.
Leif chose to sit next to Byren, who took the chance to suck in deep breaths.
'We're making good time,' Florin said. 'I only hope Nan's all right. They wouldn't hurt an old woman, would they?'
Orrade caught Byren's eye. They both knew the Merofynians would hurt the old woman, if they thought it served their purpose. He felt Leif tense at his side and lied without a qualm. 'No. Your nan will be fine.'
He only hoped he would not be proven wrong.
Piro watched Overlord Palatyne's food-taster eat a sliver of roast beef and thanked Halcyon she wasn't his food-taster. She would rather starve than risk poisoning to protect him.
This was their second evening in the house of a wealthy Marchand merchant, resting while their ships were being provisioned for the journey. Merofynia wasn't far as the crow flies, but it was a long journey by sea around the warlords' spars, through the scattered Utlands, and past the famous Mulcibar's Gate into Mero Bay.
'The meat is delicious, overlord,' the man said. Piro wondered what the point of a food-taster was, if someone was clever enough to use a slow-acting poison that accumulated in the body.
Palatyne tore off a chunk of meat and sank his teeth into it. His eyes closed in bliss as he chewed.
'You see,' the merchant smiled. 'My cook is the best in Port Marchand. I am a realist, Overlord Palatyne. My wealth comes from trade, I don't bother with the politics of Ostron Isle or Merofynia. A wise merchant can make a fine profit from war.'
Fury made Piro's stomach clench. Only last midsummer this man had sat at her father's high table and praised King Rolen for Rolencia's peace and prosperity. And he probably meant every word, just as he did now.
'Have you tried the sweet potatoes?' the merchant asked the Utland Power-worker. 'Or the sugared plums? They came all the way from Ostron Isle.'
'A Power-worker's body is the tool of his trade. He must not absorb impure food, and Ostronite plums are cured in wine,' the Utlander explained.
'You jest?' The merchant grinned, but then saw he didn't. 'Ah, an Utland custom.'
He caught the noble Power-worker's eyes, sending him a patronising smile which said we are not barbarians. Lord Dunstany did not respond.
Overlord Palatyne bristled, for he was a spar warrior and only one step up from an Utlander. 'Did you see King Rolen's royal emblems? The silver ones belonged to Queen Myrella, the kingsdaughter and Byren Kingsheir.' He stroked the pendants which lay on his chest, bright against the azure velvet. His belligerent gaze seemed to say, you may laugh at me because I wasn't born a noble but you cannot deny I am a slayer of kings. 'The electrum emblem belonged to Lence Kingsheir and this large golden foenix was King Rolen's.'
'Very fine,' the merchant said, looking uncomfortable for the first time.
'All I am missing is the youngest son's emblem and it looks like the religious son was not wearing his, for we searched every acolyte's body in the abbey without luck.'
'I hear you offered a reward for Byren Kingsheir, alive or dead,' an Ostronite noble said. He was young and handsome, dressed in velvet and lace Ostronite-style, yet he had a hardness about him that Piro recognised from watching her father's experienced warriors. She did not doubt he was a sea-hound captain, capable of routing Utland raiders. And he was clearly not afraid of the overlord, for now he baited him. 'Yet you have his emblem? They say he escaped from an abbey full of Merofynians.'
Palatyne glared at the Ostronite, then at his Power-workers. 'Have you any news for me on the missing kingson?'
'Nothing, overlord,' the Utlander admitted. 'He is protected by someone. I swear Halcyon's mystics master must have escaped the ambush, for I cannot pinpoint where the kingson is hiding.'
'The Utlander is right,' Lord Dunstany said, which pleased his rival. 'I have not been able to locate him either.'
'Then I must rely on my own men,' Palatyne said. 'Gold will loosen the farmers' tongues, and if that doesn't, it's hard to work a farm missing your right hand!'
Piro shuddered. The more she knew of the overlord, the more she was convinced he did not deserve to live. Pity would not stay her hand when the time came.
Lord Dunstany signalled Piro to pour him more wine. As she did, her gaze fixed on the amber pendant that hung around his neck. The tiny figure trapped in the stone was a constant reminder of her enslavement.
The merchant glanced briefly at Piro, his gaze passing right through her. He did not recognise this Merofynian page as Piro Rolen Kingsdaughter. People only saw what they expected to see.
Palatyne stood up and belched. 'Ahh, I'm for bed. We sail first thing in the morning.'
Dismay flooded Piro. She did not want to leave Rolencia. Should she steal the amber pendant, sneak into the overlord's bedroom tonight and kill him, and stow away on a sled-boat back to Rolenton?
Lord Dunstany caught her eye as he stood. His gaze held a warning. It seemed he was always one step ahead of her. The pendant never left his neck, even when he slept.
Piro fought a yawn. Freezing Sylion, she was tired. At least she didn't have to listen to Soterro's snores. He and the cook were already in bed in the servants' quarters. During the journey, Lord Dunstany had kept her with him as if she really was his page. He had even told Soterro and the cook to call her Seelon, the male version of her assumed name.
Lord Dunstany was fastidious, to the point of being prim. He wouldn't let her help dress him and had insisted she dress behind a screen. Then he had closed his bed curtains, telling her not to disturb him. In truth he had seemed exhausted. If it hadn't been for the amber pendant, Piro would have taken the chance to escape before this. Instead, she had slept on the floor at the foot of his bed like a dutiful page.
Thankfully, the noble scholar made no attempt to use her as she had first feared. She believed this was because of his weariness and ill health. His joints were swollen with the bone-ache. This morning she had seen him fumble while trying to open the stopper of a glass jar, so she had taken it from him, and rubbed healing oils on his knuckles. Her old nurse would have done as much for someone in pain.
That was the last quiet moment she'd had all day. Overlord Palatyne made everyone uneasy. He was quick to anger and slow to forgive. Accompanying the noble scholar while he served Palatyne was exhausting.
Now Piro looked forward to her warm bed, as she followed the Merofynians up a flight of stairs and along a corridor to the best chambers, which looked out from the hilltop mansion over Port Marchand. She almost trod on Lord Dunstany's long robe when Palatyne drew up suddenly.
'For all his talk of profit before politics, I still mistrust that merchant, not to mention that Ostronite sea-hound captain,' Palatyne muttered and gestured to the Power-workers. 'Take a look in my chamber, see if you can sense a threat.'
The Utlander thrust the door open and strode in, staring about violently. Lord Dunstany followed. Piro peered in. It was a large chamber, with tall windows shrouded by thick curtains to keep out the cold. A fire burned in the grate and Ostronite carpets decorated the floor. The merchant had not stinted himself on the furniture. Rich brocade curtains hung from the bed's polished brass rails and a large wardrobe stood against the far wall, its carved wooden doors gleaming. Several branches of candles burned in welcome.
Curious, Piro watched the Utlander prowl around the room, sniffing like a dog. Unbeknown to Palatyne or the Utlander, Lord Dunstany caught her eye and the corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, raising one side of his long thin moustache. She smiled back before she could stop herself.
'Well?' Palatyne demanded.
'You are right. I can sense a threat, overlord.' the Utlander said. 'But what form it will take -'
'What about you, Dunstany?' Palatyne demanded. Piro had noticed that he never used the scholar's title.
The noble scholar went very still. Piro felt a familiar tingle travel over her skin and her mouth watered. Dunstany had said her Affinity made her aware when he worked his and he was right. She shivered.
'You are surrounded by threats, overlord, perhaps this confuses my learned colleague,' Dunstany said smoothly. 'I sense nothing peculiar about this room. And to put your mind at rest I will take your chamber tonight.'
The Utlander cast him a furious glance. 'Overlord Palatyne, I insist you take my room. I will sleep at the foot of the bed, ready to protect you.'
'Very well. As long as I get to bed!' Palatyne marched off.
Lord Dunstany sent one of the merchant's servants for their bags, then shut the door and slipped his long indigo cloak from his shoulders, handing it to Piro. 'Hang this up.'
'You did sense something, didn't you?' Piro insisted as she unlocked the wardrobe door and reached up to find a hook. Without warning Lord Dunstany pushed her into the wardrobe, slammed the door and locked it.
A cry of protest leapt to Piro's lips.
'I'm sorry, but you were right,' he said through the keyhole. 'I did sense a threat and I want you safe.'
'Let me out!' Piro thumped the door in frustration, but the wardrobe was solidly built. Four grown men would be needed to move it. Dunstany didn't even bother to answer.
Furious, she muttered a few choice words then settled down for the night, pulling clothes off the hooks to make a little nest, grumbling to herself all the while.
She could hear the noble scholar moving around the room. The servant returned with their bags, and the candles were extinguished. No light came through the key hole. Piro drifted off to sleep, wondering why she did not hate Dunstany as much as she should.
She was still hidden in the cupboard when the attacker made his move.
Fyn had arrived in Port Marchand with the setting of the sun and asked around the market, where he learnt Overlord Palatyne was spending his last night here in a turncoat merchant's mansion, overlooking the harbour.
He fell in with a talkative delivery boy bringing fresh fish to the merchant's cook and ended up in the kitchen chatting with the servants, and by the time the meal was over he knew exactly where Overlord Palatyne slept.
The merchant's house was all abustle with extra servants hired to impress the overlord, so no one questioned Fyn when he made himself useful. Once the meal was over, he slipped away and went up the servants' steps to the bedroom wing, determined to kill Palatyne with his first strike.
Creeping along the hall, he counted down the doors. His soft boots made no noise on the polished wood. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he did not need a light to find the door handle. The room was unlocked. It was dim but, with the bed curtains pulled back, he could see Palatyne's outline as he lay facing the wall, swathed in blankets.
Fyn slid the knife out of his boot. Moving soundlessly across the carpets, he stepped up to the high bed. Fyn's stomach churned and he hesitated. Everything Master Wintertide had taught him revolted at the thought of killing a defenceless man.
Now was not the moment to discover that he could not do this!
Surely, if anyone deserved to die it was the overlord, slayer of his mother, father, brother and Piro.
Licking dry lips, Fyn raised the knife. He had to kill this sleeping man, whether it seemed right or not. Before he could strike, someone threw a cloak over his head and tore the weapon from his fingers.
He dropped and twisted, but his attacker knew the same tricks. Disadvantaged by the enveloping cloak, struggling for breath in its heavy folds, Fyn twisted and writhed, thinking only of escape.
They careered away from the bed, onto the floor, colliding with something solid that caught him in the ribs. Fyn grunted in pain. Twisting again, he almost had the cloak off when his attacker pinned him, catching his arm so the slightest pressure would dislocate his shoulder.
Fyn groaned with pain and despair. Why had he hesitated? He should have killed Palatyne when he had the chance. Now he would die for nothing!
His attacker forced him onto one knee and pulled the cloak from his face. Fyn blinked, dragging in great gulps of air.
The banked fire's flames roared to life, illuminating them both. At the same moment Fyn felt Affinity flare and knew he faced a renegade Power-worker, everything the abbey had taught him to fear.
Still, he stared in amazement at his attacker, who was an old, iron-haired noble scholar with piercing black eyes. Despite his age, the Power-worker had fought like a young man. Fyn had been bested by a man older than Master Oakstand. Shame flooded him.
'What have we here? A vengeful monk out to kill the overlord?' his attacker muttered, studying him closely. Fyn's cap had come off in the struggle. It was seven days since the abbey had fallen and his tattoos were still visible beneath the stubble. 'I did not know Halcyon's followers were assassins as well as warriors.'
No one rose from the bed to enquire about the noise and Fyn realised he'd been fooled by the oldest trick in the book, a bundle of bedclothes. Had the servants given him away? No, he could have sworn they suspected nothing.
Affinity itself must have given him away, giving Palatyne time to set this up. Fyn's mouth went dry. This scholar must be one of the Power-workers who advised Palatyne.
'I've been wondering when you would turn up,' the noble scholar whispered, and Fyn recognised him. This was the Affinity worker who had nearly captured him twice through Halcyon's Fate. 'Let me see…' The scholar had the arm-bar firmly fixed, so he used his other hand to reach inside Fyn's jerkin and pull Halcyon's Fate out. The opal flashed, catching the fire's light. 'Just as I thought.'
'Take it and let me go. Please,' Fyn whimpered. First chance he got, he'd knock out the old man down and retrieve the Fate. 'Just let me go.'
'You can't trick me. You forget I have already tested your mettle through this tool!' The Power-worker released the Fate and it swung on the end of its chain. When Fyn said nothing, his captor laughed softly. 'Give me one good reason why I should not kill you.'
'Kill me then and be done with it,' Fyn muttered. 'Everyone I love is dead.' His captor would have to release him to kill him and the moment he did, Fyn knew at least four moves which would disable him.
'Men deal far too freely in death. I prefer to keep my weapons well honed,' the Power-worker muttered and applied his elbow to a pressure point high on Fyn's back, making him duck his head in pain.
Before he could move, the Power-worker's arms slid around his throat, cutting off his air. Fyn retaliated, trying for the first release. He was countered. He tried for the second and failed. Stars swam in his vision. Fyn went for the third, but he was too weak to complete the manoeuvre. As he went under, his chest screaming for air, he thought of Piro.
He'd failed her, failed everyone.
Piro pressed her face to the wardrobe door, trying to peer through the key hole, but there was no one in her line of vision. Frustration made her grind her teeth. She'd heard fighting, then whispering. Now nothing. Had Dunstany been killed? He might look fifty but, according to Soterro, he had to be at least ninety, and she did not see how his frail body could withstand an attacker.
If he was dead she could escape. She had to, or she would become Overlord Palatyne's property. Her stomach revolted at the thought. With a start she discovered she trusted the noble scholar to protect her from Palatyne.
'My lord, are you safe?' she whispered.
She heard a body being dragged. Then Dunstany spoke to her from just the other side of the wardrobe door.
'I am unhurt. Go back to sleep.'
There were more muffled noises, then silence, and Piro sensed the room was empty. She sank to her knees, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Dunstany must have taken his captured assassin to Palatyne to prove himself worthy of the overlord's trust. She pitied the assassin, especially since his fate would be hers if she failed to escape when she killed the overlord.