Piro had grown up on stories of Merofynia's wonders, but seeing Mulcibar's Gate was more astonishing than any of her mother's descriptions. A hush fell over the crowded deck. In the darkness, a stream of hot rock rolled slowly down the slope, gleaming like living fire. A dark outer casing covered it and, through the many small cracks, she could see the bright red, molten rock within. Waves crashed where it met the sea, sending steam high into the air as the two elements clashed.
Piro pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders, unable to look away from the battle between Cyena, goddess of the sea and winter, and Mulcibar, god of fire and war.
The headlands dwarfed their convoy. To her right on the eastern cliff was Cyena Abbey, where the abbess served the Merofynian goddess of the sea, ice and winter, much as Rolencia's abbess served Sylion.
But the eastern side of the bay's entrance belonged to Mulcibar, god of the earth, fire and summer. In many ways Merofynia was the reverse image of Rolencia. Mulcibar was not a warm nurturing deity like goddess Halcyon. Now, seeing Mulcibar's Gate, Piro understood why he was the patron god of war.
A particularly large wave crashed on the molten lava, sending steam high into the air.
'Mulcibar's breath, they call it,' Dunstany said. 'Now are you glad I made you get up early and come up on deck?'
'Is it dangerous?'
'It has been burning on and off like this for as long as the monks have been serving Mulcibar,' he said. 'Where the hot rock meets the sea it cools, forming new land. Mulcibar's monks have been taking measurements. They estimate, if it continues to form at this rate, Mulcibar's Gate will be closed in two hundred years. But I've calculated that it will miss Cyena's Headland, curving back into the bay.'
'What a pity you won't be alive to find out if you are right,' the Utlander remarked.
Piro stiffened. She had not heard him approach.
'Oh, I'm much harder to kill than you imagine,' Dunstany said.
The Utlander's eyes narrowed and he stalked past them, going over to Palatyne who stood at the wheel.
'I don't like that Utlander,' Piro whispered. 'And he doesn't like you.'
'Very observant.'
Piro studied Dunstany but, in the dim predawn light, could not make out if he was laughing at her.
He smiled, and she couldn't help smiling back. She was looking forward to seeing the place where her mother had been born and walking the corridors she had known as a girl.
Grief made her gut clench. Her mother was lost to her, and it had only been in those last few days, before the castle fell, that she had begun to know Queen Myrella. Piro felt cheated of a mother who might have grown to be a friend.
If only she had gone to the queen sooner with her fears. In a way Seela had kept them apart. Not that her old nurse meant to do harm. Seela was loyal to the bone. Piro was glad she'd sent their old nurse to Byren, that last morning in Rolenhold. As for Fyn, she only hoped he was safe. He had to be safer than her at least, after all she was being sent into the enemy's palace as a spy.
'…Seelon?'
'Sorry, Lord Dunstany, I was thinking.'
His black eyes fixed on her suddenly serious. 'Soon you go into a court fraught with intrigue, where few can be trusted. You will be my eyes and ears, report back everything you hear. I may do or say things that seem odd to you. But remember this, if you are ever in danger, you can trust me.'
She wanted to. But…
How could she trust him, when he held her soul captive in the amber pendant?
Somehow Piro avoided looking at the pendant and found a smile.
'Of course I trust you,' she lied, and she must have been getting better at lying, as the noble Power-worker looked satisfied.
Dawn found Fyn crouching behind barriers of stacked bales as arrows whistled through the air, striking any man foolish enough to peer over the makeshift shields. Their own archers clung to the ship's rigging. Agile as monkeys, they picked off targets on the merchant ship's deck, crowing each time they scored a hit.
Last night they had failed to catch the merchant ship. The Merofynian captain had tried evading them by weaving his ship through the islands, but the winds failed him. He'd tried to slip away during the night, but Captain Nefysto had second-guessed him, anticipating the direction he would take so that now, as the sun came up, they were closing in.
'Let her fly!' the captain ordered.
Flaming tar-dipped arrows streaked across the narrowing distance, some falling onto the deck where they were quickly stamped out, others hitting the canvas.
'That'll keep them busy,' Bantam muttered with satisfaction.
A flaming arrow flew over Fyn's barrier. He ducked instinctively and it landed harmlessly in the sea. Another struck the sail above them, spluttered and went out.
'Mage protection,' Bantam explained in answer to Fyn's unasked question.
Mages were the most formidable of Power-workers. According to abbey lore, all Affinity renegades aimed to become mages but ninety-nine out of a hundred fell by the way side. In fact, the only living mage was Tsulamyth, a native of Ostron Isle. An eccentric recluse, he was said to be more than two hundred years old.
Ten years of abbey teaching made Fyn shudder. To think their ship was tainted by the evil of a mage. Halcyon protect him, he had not even sensed it. 'Mage magic in the sails?'
Jakulos laughed and shook his head. 'Don't listen to Bantam. The canvas's been soaked in something that resists flame.'
Fyn wondered what the scholars at Halcyon Abbey would have made of this.
Bantam stole a look over the barrier. 'Not long now.'
Fyn's hand clasped the sword hilt, his palm damp with sweat. Defending himself was one thing, attacking fleeing sailors was another. He had been filled with righteous indignation when he defended himself from the Merofynians in the abbey. Now he was filled with terror. He only hoped he did not disgrace himself.
He glanced around. Some of the sea-hounds were fingering lucky charms and religious icons, others whispered under their breath.
It surprised Fyn to discover they were all frightened, even Bantam. Hard as he seemed, there was a brittleness to the little sea-hound's voice.
Bantam risked another look, then cursed. 'Warriors. Just our luck to pick a ship transporting the army back to Merofynia!'
But Fyn was secretly relieved. He'd rather battle the enemy than sailors going about their living.
'Grapplers!' Captain Nefysto called.
Jakulos stepped from behind the barrier. He planted his feet and spun his grappling hook. Sea-hounds left the protection of their shields and scurried up the rigging, grabbing ropes as they prepared to swing across to the other deck. Fyn waited next to Bantam, a gangplank ready.
He risked a look. They were close enough to see the faces of the defenders. His heart pounded. Now he just wanted to get it over with.
'Steady… steady,' Captain Nefysto warned. 'Let them go!'
Grappling hooks flew across the gap, landing on the deck and in the rigging. There were too many for the defending soldiers to cut all the ropes. The two great ships' timbers groaned as they were drawn together.
Uttering shrill cries that mimicked the shrieks of attacking wyverns, the sea-hounds swung across the gap, landing on the deck, fighting even as they found their footing.
Bantam pressed the tip of his blade into Fyn's ribs. 'Remember, I'll be at your side, little monk. But I'll be watching my back, so don't think to plant your blade -'
'Merofynians murdered my family,' Fyn ground out. 'I owe them no loyalty.'
'Good.' Bantam turned to the others. 'Attack!'
They shoved the gangplank across the gap, which was less than a body length now and, light-footed as his namesake, Bantam ran across with Fyn at his heels.
When Fyn dropped onto the deck, someone collided with him. He spun to see Jakulos down on one knee. Of its own volition, Fyn's sword swung up to block a blow that would have severed the big man's neck. Fyn turned the Merofynian's blade aside, following through with a strike as he had been trained to do. But he used the flat of the blade at the last minute. Even so, the man fell to the deck, out cold.
Jakulos sprang up. 'Stay by me.'
He charged across the deck, expecting Fyn to protect his left side. Bantam was on Jakulos's right, fighting with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, as he battled to keep up. Fyn ran after them.
Block, strike, hack.
A man dropped with each step Fyn took. Merofynian warriors sprang forwards to attack him and his companions, but no one could stop them. Burning canvas fell. Men tumbled off the rigging screaming. The merchant sailors avoided confrontation where they could, letting the warriors do the fighting.
Jakulos made for the merchant captain on the bridge. A Merofynian warrior tried to prevent them climbing the ladder, but Jakulos hauled him off and charged up. Fyn was one step behind him. He could hear nothing but the roaring of men and flames.
Jakulos charged, driving the three warriors back. Fyn followed, hacking through these last defenders until only a middle-aged Merofynian noble confronted him. From the way the noble held his blade, he seemed a skilled swordsman. The Merofynian noble attacked Jakulos so fiercely the big man was hard-put to defend himself.
Fyn glanced around. They'd left Bantam behind. The upper rear deck was almost empty. Two men stood at the wheel. Fyn recognised the captain by his coat of office. Both men were watching Jakulos and the Merofynian noble.
Fyn darted around the flying swords to confront the merchant captain. As the man lifted his blade, Fyn could see he was not skilled. Fyn used Master Oakstand's first disarming technique, catching the blade, turning his wrist and flicking. The merchant captain's sword was torn from his fingers and Fyn's blade pressed to his throat.
'Surrender the ship.'
'Well done, monk!' Captain Nefysto strode past Jakulos, who was cleaning his blade. The Merofynian noble was on his knees, wounded and disarmed. 'Not a wasted movement. Who was your teacher?'
'The abbey weapons master,' Fyn answered.
'Well, captain,' Nefysto confronted the merchant, 'your life or your ship? Either way, I'll have your ship.'
He grimaced. 'Helmsman, sound the surrender.'
Jakulos took the wheel and the helmsman went to the ship's bell. As it rang out the surrender, fighting ceased. Fyn cleaned his sword and sheathed it, noting it had suffered one or two nicks, confirming his suspicion that it was not a high-quality weapon. He felt strangely detached. He had tried to keep his promise, but in that mad rush across the deck he had struck and struck again, without thought to anything but preserving his own life.
'Wise decision, captain,' Nefysto told the merchant and strode to the rail, calling to Bantam. 'See that the flames are put out. Empty the hold.'
Fyn went to the rail, looking down at the mid-deck where two dozen disarmed Merofynian warriors stood in tattered azure and black, looking miserable.
Bantam cocked his head towards them. 'What of these men, cap'n?'
Nefysto joined Fyn at the rail. 'What a sorry lot!'
Fyn sensed movement behind them and spun. The wounded Merofynian noble had leapt to his feet and lunged, dagger aimed for Nefysto's back. Behind the wheel, Jakulos cried a warning.
Fyn's training took over. He stepped into the attack, avoided the blow, caught the hand with the dagger and twisted the wrist so that the blade flew from numbed fingers.
The noble gasped, then dropped to his knees, clutching his broken wrist.
As the man fell at Fyn's feet Captain Nefysto looked down, then up, meeting Fyn's eyes.
'That was very neatly done, little monk.' Nefysto straightened the ruffle of lace at his cuff. 'From that display, I gather you could have disarmed and killed Bantam at any time.'
'Halcyon's monks value life.'
Captain Nefysto studied Fyn, a slow smile spreading across his face. 'As long as it's my life you value!' Then he turned back to Bantam on the lower deck with a laugh. 'Send the warriors down into the hold. They can unload the Rolencian treasures for us.'
Fyn felt a rush of relief. He had been afraid Captain Nefysto would order the surviving warriors thrown overboard. Then he made sense of the last part of Nefysto's comment. This ship carried booty stolen from Rolencia. In that case, Fyn felt no remorse.
Knees suddenly weak, vision blurring, his stomach revolted and, even though Fyn hadn't eaten since last night, he ran to the side and threw up.
Bending double, he wiped tears from his eyes and tried to catch his breath.
'Come, little monk. A shot of Merofynian rum is what you need.' Jakulos dragged Fyn upright. Fyn tried to pull away, embarrassed, but Jakulos wouldn't let him go.
'It's what you do when it counts that matters,' he told Fyn.
Fyn blinked to clear his vision, surprised to hear such wisdom from a man he had thought a bluff, brainless oaf.
Jakulos led him over to the steps, where they sat to share a bottle of Merofynian rum while they watched the transfer of stolen treasures. Wiry little Bantam perched on the steps and Jakulos handed him the bottle without comment.
Bantam took a long gulp then wiped his mouth, eyeing Fyn with calculation that verged on suspicion. 'Cap'n's mighty pleased with you, little monk. He tells me you disarmed a man with your bare hands.'
Fyn shrugged. 'Abbey training.'
Bantam held his eyes for a moment, letting Fyn see that he was not so easily won over, and then nodded to the bundles of all shapes and sizes that were being carried across the gangplanks. 'And he's pleased with this plump cargo. The spoils of war from Rolencia will make us sea-hounds rich. Better in our pockets than King Merofyn's, eh?'
'As long as we fill the hold of the Wyvern's Whelp by the cusp of spring,' Jakulos muttered. 'I promised a girl on Ostron Isle I'd be back by then.'
'There's always a girl waiting for Jaku.' Bantam winked at Fyn, who felt an unexpected fellowship.
The weapons master would have said this was a normal reaction to escaping death. But by Halcyon, it felt good to be alive!
Jakulos nudged him. 'Don't hog the rum.'
Fyn passed it over. He would never have thought last midwinter – when he prepared for the race to win Halcyon's Fate – that he would end up a landless kingson, serving a sea-hound captain.
Now, why hadn't he seen this vision in the Fate? Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter had nothing to do with him.
Jakulos passed Bantam the bottle. He took a gulp.
'If the captain's pleased with me, will he take me back to Port Marchand?' Fyn asked.
Bantam shook his head. 'Our orders are to prevent as much of the spoils of war from reaching King Merofyn as possible.'
Fyn hid his surprise. It appeared either Captain Nefysto, or his mysterious benefactor, or both were Rolencia's allies. Even so, as soon as the Wyvern's Whelp returned to Ostron Isle Fyn would jump ship, and take passage back to Rolencia.
The ache of Piro's loss would never fade, but at least he could avenge her death. And to do this, he must help Cobalt find Byren.
Byren strode into the loyalist camp as though he hadn't been near death only five days ago, hale and hearty. Word of their approach had been passed on ahead by scouts and everyone had downed tools and come out of the caves to watch. So many people.
So many old men and women, and small children.
This was not an army. It was a liability. Who was he kidding? He could not go to the spar warlords with these people in tow. It would make him look weak.
And they all depended on him to protect them and win back their homes. His heart sank.
Hiding his despair, Byren grinned and waved, calling to people he knew from his many visits to Dovecote estate. The cook was there, a little slimmer, but just as competent. Byren blew her a kiss, knowing she would like it.
'Da!' Leif took off at a run, going to his father.
Florin laughed and ran over to hug her father, then stood on the other side of him as Byren approached.
'I left Old Man Narrows in charge,' Orrade whispered, 'rather than the survivors of your honour guard. He was more experienced.'
Old Man Narrows was perhaps forty summers, with iron-grey hair, and stood half a head shorter than his daughter. So she didn't get her height from him.
He greeted Byren cheerfully, 'Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, my king.'
Byren flushed and shook his head. When he replied, his voice ground deep in his throat, tight with emotion. 'Don't call me that. Until I send the last Merofynian home with his tail between his legs, and stand in Rolenhold's great hall where my father stood, I won't be worthy of that title.'
A cheer broke from the men behind Old Man Narrows and Byren recognised four of his original honour guard. He acknowledged them with a smile, praying he would prove worthy of their devotion.
'So be it,' Old Man Narrows said. 'What d'you want us to call you?'
'Byren will do.'
Florin's father nodded and turned to Orrade. 'Well done, lad.'
'I'd never have found him without Florin's help.'
Leif made a sound of protest.
'Or gotten back without Leif's help,' Orrade added, with a grin.
Chandler, Winterfall and the other two honour guard claimed Byren. He welcomed them each with a hug while someone handed around tankards of ale. They'd saved the banner Garzik had designed and now they unrolled it.
It gleamed bright against the snow. A rearing leogryf attacking a foenix on a black background. The loyalists cheered. Reminded of Garzik's loss, Byren blinked tears from his eyes.
For now, everyone was happy, buoyed up by his return. But soon they would realise the immensity of what he had to achieve. Without trained men-at-arms it was impossible to convince the spar warlords to honour their oath of fealty to his father.
When Old Man Narrows drew Orrade aside to consult him about something, Byren was reminded that his friend had established the hidden camp, and kept everyone fed and protected from discovery. He always knew Orrade's keen mind would take him far.
To the execution block, if Byren failed and the Merofynians captured them.
Byren felt a fraud, but he managed to grin and trade friendly insults with his loyal honour guard.
When there was a lull in the conversation, Orrade returned to tap his arm. Byren barely restrained the impulse to shrug him off. The honour guard had chosen not to believe Cobalt's slurs about him and Orrade. But if Orrade revealed his true feeling by so much as a look, they would turn against Byren.
Steeling himself, Byren turned to his old friend.
'Old Man Narrows tells me someone arrived yesterday. They've been asking to see you,' Orrade revealed. 'Come on.'
'Can't it wait? I still have to work out how many able-bodied men we have, and how many mouths we need to feed.' Sylion's luck. How would he feed all these children?
'I can count heads for you. But this person is important.' Laugher lit Orrade's dark eyes.
A smile tugged at Byren's lips. He fell into step with Orrade, climbing up, around the track. Who could it be? All his family were dead. All of Orrade's family were dead. 'Who -'
'Come on,' Orrade insisted, not about to give him a chance to speak.
They'd gone several steps when Byren came to a stop. 'It's Garzik, isn't it? He found his way up here…'
But he broke off, seeing the sudden grief in Orrade's thin face. 'Orrie, I'm sorry. I thought for a moment he was safe.'
Orrade shook his head, unable to speak.
Aware that they were unobserved, Byren pulled his friend into his arms. 'I'm sorry, Orrie, truly I am. I'd give anything to bring him back.'
'I know.' Orrade pulled away, and brushed the tears from his face. 'Come.' He swept Byren uphill and into a cave.
Eyes blinded by the change from light to dark, Byren could barely make out the outline of a shrunken old woman.
He blinked. 'Seela?' Surely not. Their old nurse was a plump little thing, with twinkling eyes.
'Byren!' She beamed.
A thin, care-worn version of his old nurse embraced him. Tears stung Byren's eyes. Seeing Seela, who had so often stood beside his mother, admonishing Piro to behave, made him all the more aware of their loss. He hugged her tighter.
'Enough,' she complained. 'You'll crack a rib.' She pulled back to look up at him. Light bounced up from the snow outside, reflecting on the roof of the cave. 'Let me look at you, my beautiful boy.'
'They're dead, Seela,' Byren whispered. 'I tried to save Lence, but I couldn't. Elina, Garzik, I failed them all…' He could not go on, dropping to his knees.
As if he was still a little boy, she pressed him to her, whispering endearments. 'I know, love. Orrie told me. Elina -'
'I loved her. I was going to ask her to marry me.'
'Byren.' When she said it, his name held a world of sympathy. 'And little Garzik, lost too. Ah, he was a bright spark. But Byren,' She pushed him away from her, so that she could see his face. 'I bring good news. Piro lives!'
'What?'
Seela nodded, eyes brimming with happiness.
'Where?'
Seela's face fell. 'A noble Power-worker took her for his slave. I heard he's since sailed for Merofynia.'
This changed everything. He wasn't alone. Piro still lived. If so, maybe Fyn… 'And Fyn? Have you heard from him?'
Seela shook her head. 'No. But they haven't found his body.'
So there was hope. He had to hold on to that. And Piro was in Merofynia, enslaved.
'And Ma and Pa? I heard…' he couldn't bring himself to say it.
She let her breath out in a long sigh. 'Your father was killed under a flag of truce. Your mother tried to kill Cobalt. Took his arm off at the shoulder.'
Byren was amazed. He could not imagine his elegant, kind mother swinging a sword with lethal intent. But he was glad she had seen through Cobalt in the end. It meant she knew Byren had always been true. Again tears blurred his vision.
'Well.' It was too much. He had to clear his throat. 'Piro lives. And perhaps Fyn.' Although, now that he thought about it, his brother had never seemed the martial type, despite being trained as a warrior monk. Byren suspected he would have been happier as a scholar. He hoped Fyn had the ruthless streak he'd need to evade Palatyne and Cobalt. 'And Cobalt lives, you say?'
'He did when I left. Palatyne had appointed him his puppet ruler.'
'Not for long, if I have my way.' Byren allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he imagined confronting Cobalt. But that would not happen unless… 'If only I had a couple of hundred trained men at my back, I could approach the spar warlords. I can't go to them, looking weak.'
'I can bring you those men.' Seela pulled up a stool and sat opposite him, eager as a young girl. 'I brought five likely lads with me when I arrived. I can travel from one end of Rolencia to the other, whispering word of Byren Kingsheir, living in hiding -'
'I can't let you do that. If they catch you…' He shuddered to think what they would do to his old nurse. Neither her gender nor her age would protect her. 'I can't -'
'Byren,' Orrade cut him off. He'd forgotten his friend was still there. Orrade came over and dropped to his haunches beside Byren. 'Seela's right. She knows our people. The Merofynians won't expect a harmless old woman to be preaching rebellion. She can go into Rolenhold, right under their noses, and lead warriors back to us. Back to the camp, the retreat.'
He glanced from his old nurse to his childhood friend. They were ready to risk their lives for him, for the dream of Rolencia free from the Merofynian yoke.
He could not fail them. 'Very well. But don't call this camp a retreat. That makes it sound like we're on the back foot, running away. Call it something more positive, like…'
'The Leogryf's Lair. Garzik would approve of that,' Orrade said. 'And all our people know you as Byren the leogryf slayer. Rolencians can speak of the Leogryf's Lair without arousing Merofynian suspicion.'
'Excellent!' Seela beamed at Orrade. 'I told Myrella you were the smartest of your generation.'
He blushed and Byren grinned, unworried by the comparison. He'd always known he was cleverer than Lence, but not as clever as Orrade.
His friend sprang to his feet. 'Think I'll go check our numbers, see who has arrived. We've already set up a smithy to mend and make weapons.'
When he had gone Seela patted Byren's arm. 'You're a good boy, Byren. Your mother would be proud.'
Unable to speak, he hugged her and went outside. Everyone had gone back to their tasks. Somewhere, not far away, he could hear the dull clunk of a smithy's hammer. They would have to cloak that noise somehow.
He inhaled deeply, smelling onions and pork cooking. His stomach rumbled. At least with Dovecote's cook they would eat well. If they could find enough food.
Byren knew there were no guarantees in life. He might fall on the battlefield and never avenge his father and mother, but today he felt much closer to winning back Rolencia.
One day he would sit in his father's great hall and send an ambassador to Merofynia, to barter for Piro's life. One day, if Halcyon had protected him, he would find Fyn and they would be together again, the last of King Rolen's kin.