Fyn yawned and scratched his tummy as he sprawled across the window seat. To anyone observing him, he was idly watching the comings and goings on the long road down to Mage Isle. In fact, he was waiting for Jakulos to slip off to the privy at the end of the hall.
The big sea-hound went every morning around this time. Sure enough, he stood, stretched and headed off.
Fyn's heart rate picked up a notch, but he continued to casually swing his bare foot. Bantam sat at the table, practising card tricks. His nimble fingers flew as he made the cards dance. Then he reached for another sticky date bun.
'Hey, leave one for me,' Fyn protested. He stood and came towards the table, passing behind Bantam to reach for a bun.
But his hands went for the man's neck instead. One arm slipped around Bantam's throat, the other applied pressure directly to the artery on the side of his neck and, at the same time, Fyn pulled him backwards off the chair, so that he was unbalanced, his legs scrambling for purchase.
He'd seen the weapons master knock out an acolyte in a matter of heartbeats like this. The youth had woken soon after with a thumping headache, nothing more.
Bantam's fingers went for Fyn's arm, trying to pry him off. This was the mistake of the untrained. The weapons master had shown the acolytes how to break this hold. You had to turn your throat into the crook of the elbow, giving yourself a little more room and time, then go for your captor's fingers, bending them back and breaking them.
Fyn applied even more pressure to the big vein that ran up Bantam's throat. Soon the little sea-hound's struggles slowed.
Fyn held on, counting to twenty. When he was sure Bantam was out cold, he released him, carried him to the bunk, and left him safe.
Quickly, Fyn grabbed his boots, not yet slipping them on. Then he went to the door. No sign of Jakulos, he'd be a while yet.
Pausing, he glanced once more around the room, then darted through the door, closing it softly after him. He headed down the stairs, all seven flights, bare feet flying almost soundlessly.
At ground level he slipped on the boots and walked casually out through the cinnamon-tea room, as though he hadn't been a captive here for the last three days.
Out on the street, he blended with the busy Ostronite people, making his way down the road towards Mage Isle. Just another sailor on shore leave. No one gave him a second glance.
Twenty minutes later, as Fyn crossed the causeway to the island, he noted the solid gate tower. These were the first strong defences he had seen on Ostron Isle. Tsulamyth's miniature island kingdom would not be taken easily.
At the gate, he knocked and waited. A slot opened and someone peered out.
'I wish to speak with the mage,' Fyn said. Would Tsulamyth deign to see him? Back in the room it had seemed so simple.
'And who are you?'
'I can tell only the mage.' Without his royal emblem how could he prove his claim to the throne? Fyn expelled his breath in annoyance. He'd been so intent on getting away from the sea-hounds, he really hadn't thought this through. Maybe he should give up and go barter his way onto a merchant ship headed for Rolencia.
'Why should I let you in?' the gate-keeper asked.
Was he angling for a bribe? Fyn wondered. The abbey hadn't prepared him for this.
Of course…
Wordlessly, he tugged at the Fate's chain, pulling it free. As it swung in front of the gate-keeper's gaze, Fyn focused his Affinity and the opal began to glow.
The slot closed abruptly and, after some clanking, the small postern gate swung open. Fyn tucked the Fate away and entered a dark tunnel that gave out onto a leafy courtyard. With the Fate, he'd have no trouble convincing the mage he was from Halcyon Abbey. But how was he going to convince him he was Fyn Rolen Kingson?
As the gate-keeper trotted ahead of Fyn, leading him out into the sunlight, Fyn's step faltered. What if he did convince Tsulamyth of his identity, and the mage betrayed him to the Merofynians?
Too late to back out now. He would just have to keep his wits about him.
In the centre of the courtyard was an ancient peppercorn tree. Willow-like, its long, fine branches trailed almost to the paving. The smell of horses came from an open double door and light came through from another courtyard beyond this. Washing, strung from one corner of the courtyard to the other, flapped in the light breeze. A flute's rippling tune flowed from an open window somewhere above. Buildings of between two and four storeys surrounded them but did not crowd the courtyard. Permeating all was the sweet smell of baking bread. It hung on the air, making Fyn's stomach rumble.
A boy of about eleven threw a rag-ball for a puppy, while a smaller lad cheered them on.
The gate-keeper turned to Fyn. 'Wait here. I'll see if one of the mage's agents will meet you.' He went over to the boys and sent the older one off with a message, before going back to his post.
Fyn leant against a mounting block, crossing his legs at the ankles. Here he was, about to walk into the spider's web. The mystics master would be horrified.
Piro nudged Isolt. 'See that man? I think he's one of Palatyne's spies.'
They sat on travelling chests, waiting while the servants set up Isolt's tent. Other servants had already started the cooking fires. Because the kingsdaughter was on a pilgrimage, she could not stay with any of the nobles. She had to walk and sleep on the ground. This was interpreted to mean servants carried her things and set up a tent with carpets and every luxury she could ask for. Piro found the Merofynian interpretation amusing.
Estates and farms they passed along the way had only been too happy to give them fresh bread, eggs and a chicken or two.
'The man who's missing most of his left ear?' Isolt whispered.
Piro nodded. 'I think I remember his ugly face from the ship.'
'Well, it won't do him any good. The abbess allows no men past the abbey's outer courtyard.' Isolt squeezed Piro's hand. 'Only another six days. And once I take the acolyte's vows, we'll be safe. No one, not even Father can touch us.'
Piro smiled, but she was not so sure. Palatyne struck her as a man who would not be thwarted.
Byren surveyed the hasty camp, set in the Foenix Spar foothills. Thanks to the elderly and the mothers with small children it had taken the better part of three days to make it over the pass. Byren had left Catillum and his monks to defend the rear, while forging ahead to catch up with Florin and the others.
First he caught up with Old Man Narrows, who said they'd been sighted as soon as they came down out of the pass, which meant word would have reached the warlord.
Good. He did not want his people having to spend another night in the open. This was not an invasion, so they did not attempt to hide their camp, but he felt vulnerable, with makeshift shelters spread out over the only patch of relatively flat land they could find.
Now he went in search of Florin.
Leaving the path, he climbed across boulders to reach the lookout where she watched for signs of Foenix warriors or messengers. It wasn't because he wanted to stretch out on a rock in the sun with her… well, only partly. No, he wanted to thank her for bringing his people safely over the Divide and share details of how they had tricked the Merofynian advance party. She'd enjoy hearing about that.
Old Man Narrows had said to follow this path and just around the bend he'd find…
'Come on,' a male cajoled.
Byren froze. He'd thought Florin was alone. He knew that voice, Winterfall. Since when did he fancy Florin? And Byren thought he'd made it clear she wasn't to be treated like a camp follower, but one of his warriors.
'Just one kiss.' Impatience drove the voice.
'Get your hands off me,' Florin muttered, annoyed rather than frightened.
Scuffling.
'Come on.' Rough now. 'Why are you playing hard to get?'
Byren didn't like the growing anger in Winterfall's voice. He started forwards. They'd be in sight once he rounded this bend.
'Ah, I see,' Winterfall mocked. 'You're saving yourself for him. He'll never bed you. If he'd wanted a quick tumble, he'd have had you by now.'
Byren hesitated. Florin had her eye on one of his men? Why should he feel betrayed?
'I don't want him,' she protested. 'I don't want any man. I've sworn my service to Sylion.'
Winterfall laughed. 'Don't lie. I've seen the way you look at him, when he's not watching. You're sick with love for — '
'You two up there,' a voice shouted from far below. 'Let your master know Warlord Feid approaches.'
Byren backed off, turned and ran lightly down the slope, then pretended to be making his way up to the lookout.
Winterfall and Florin nearly barrelled into him as he rounded a large, rocky overhang.
'Feid's coming,' Winterfall gasped.
'Good. You lead him up to meet me. I'll go back to the edge of camp. Come on, Florin.'
She fell into step with him as Winterfall veered off. Byren didn't know what to say. He could hardly admit to overhearing.
'Will Feid support you? Can we trust him?' Florin asked. No hesitation, no awareness of him as anything other than her king.
'Apart from the occasional hot-head, the warlords of Foenix Spar have always supported Rolencia's kings. But the people of the spars respect strength, and…' Byren wondered if news of Palatyne's elevation to duke of Merofynia had reached the warlords yet. If one of their Merofynian counterparts could conquer Rolencia and rise so high, why should the warlords honour an oath of fealty?
'And you come to him, laden with more families than warriors,' Florin finished for him.
Byren nodded. They'd reached the camp. 'Find Orrie and your father. I want them at my back when I meet him.'
She hurried off. What was he going to do with her? How was he going to protect her from the likes of Winterfall?
In a short time, Byren had gathered his honour guard and chosen supporters for when he would meet the warlord. The trail opened up briefly. Amongst the rocks and patches of snow grew bright green grass and spring wild flowers. Most were still buds, but a few had bloomed, their scent piercingly sweet on the cold air.
He watched the sloping path.
Winterfall rounded the bend first, followed by Feid and five of the spar warlord's honour guard astride wiry mountain ponies. For all Byren knew, Warlord Feid might have a hundred warriors waiting around the bend to slaughter his people.
Feid came to a stop while Winterfall stepped past Byren and joined the others.
'Wait here,' Byren told his honour guard as he walked forwards alone, displaying a confidence he did not feel.
Warlord Feid and his five warriors waited at the end of the open ground, making Byren come to them. As he approached, he studied their faces, trying to gauge their mood. Only last midwinter he had drunk at the same table as Feid and arm wrestled him, beating him two times out of three.
Then the warlord had laughed and drunk to his health, but now he watched Byren coldly, one hand on his sword hilt. Feid was in the prime of life, perhaps eight years older than Byren, and he had always kept his own counsel when visiting Rolenhold to give his oath of fealty, unlike some of the other warlords who blustered and crowed like roosters squaring off.
'Warlord Feid,' Byren greeted him. 'I see a man who stood before my father last midwinter and swore fealty.'
'I see a man with a couple of hundred hungry, footsore followers. I see a king without a kingdom,' Feid said.
'I see a warlord who is a prisoner on his own spar,' Byren countered. 'I see a warlord who must pay taxes to our ancestral enemy. Is the warlord of Foenix Spar a servant of Merofynia?'
Feid's honour guard shifted angrily. Responding to this, their ponies whickered and shuffled until the riders brought them under control. Fury tightened the warlord's features. Byren wondered if he'd pushed too far.
'My enemy is your enemy,' Byren said.
The five warriors looked to their leader.
The warlord of Foenix Spar swung a leg over his pony and dropped to the ground, marching forwards to meet Byren, who wasn't sure until the last moment if Feid was going to draw his sword and gut him, or hug him.
Enveloped in a hug, Byren felt a rush of relief. He had his first ally. Tonight his people would eat and sleep in warm beds. One obstacle down. More to come. While he had Foenix and Unistag Spars' support, he still had to convince the other warlords to back him. Even with all the spar warlords behind him, his army would be outnumbered.
Feid stepped back and his warriors relaxed, greeting Byren like a long-lost brother. If Feid had ordered it they would have slaughtered him with as much enthusiasm.
'You came over the old pass,' Feid said, as Byren's honour guard approached. 'Now Rolencia knows all Foenix Spar's secrets!'
He grinned, but Byren realised there was truth to what he said. He put a hand on Feid's shoulder. 'There should be no need for secrets between a king and his warlords.'
'Then let us hope you live long enough to be king,' Feid said softly, before raising his voice. 'Welcome to Foenix Spar, Byren Kingsheir. Tonight we feast!'
Leaning against the mounting block, Fyn fought a growing sense of oppression. His heart picked up speed, beating in time to the tempo of the flute's tune. What if he was walking into a trap? The flute music seemed to swirl down from above, stirring the washing on the line, stirring the air around him, beating against him.
A headache built behind his eyes, beating in time to his racing heart. What if the mage turned him over to the Merofynians?
Someone knocked on the gate — a messenger, going by the gate-keeper's greeting. The gate opened and the man entered the long dark tunnel that led to the courtyard. He exchanged a word or two with the gate-keeper in the Ostronite tongue but that didn't mean he wasn't Merofynian. The sound of his horse's hooves echoed down the passage as he approached. Each clip of the hooves made Fyn's head hurt more.
As Fyn watched the entrance to the courtyard, tension coiled in his belly. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have come here.
Meanwhile, the scruffy little lad picked up the rag ball and, with his equally scruffy puppy trotting at his heels, walked around Fyn, studying him. The lilting flute seemed to follow him, plucking at Fyn's peace of mind, urging him to flee while he still could.
'What happened to your hair?' the boy asked. His Ostronite accent was that of the streets, but Fyn had no trouble understanding him. 'Did it get cut off because you were sick?'
This was as good an explanation as any, so Fyn nodded, while keeping an eye on the courtyard entrance. If only his head would stop hurting, then he'd be able to think clearly. When the flute's tempo rose, his headache went up a notch. The messenger was almost out of the gate tunnel. Fyn could still escape.
The boy scooped up his puppy, thrusting the ungainly creature in Fyn's face. 'Do you like him? I named him Rolen. But now that the king is dead I might name him Merofyn.'
Fyn summoned a smile he did not feel. 'You must have high hopes for that scruffy pup, if you name him after kings.'
'He's going to be a guard dog. He's already a great ratter!'
Amused despite his fears, Fyn gave a soft snort of laughter. 'He's not much bigger than a rat.'
The boy looked offended and turned to go, putting the pup down just as the mess enger rode in. He wore no Merofynian insignia, but then a spy wouldn't.
The flute struck a high note. The horse took offence to something — the flapping washing if not the flute, for it was far too shrill.
The messenger's mount reared. The puppy panicked, running under the horse. The boy cried out and ran after it. Fyn grabbed the lad, dragging him from under the hooves, and they were both knocked off their feet.
As he tried to control the frightened horse, the man cursed roundly in Merofynian, confirming Fyn's fears.
Fyn should leave now, while he still could.
Quite unhurt, the puppy came back to the boy and the music dropped to a teasing background whisper. Fyn sat up, his sailor's breeches muddied, his boots scuffed, his heart still racing. Meanwhile, the man dismounted, trying to soothe his horse as it danced away, hooves clattering on the paving.
Once the horse had calmed, he strode over, clearly furious. Fyn felt exposed, but even if this was a Merofynian spy, the man could not know who Fyn was, so he held his ground.
The messenger loomed over him and the boy. 'Watch it, brat. You're lucky the dog isn't mince meat.'
'He's a good dog,' the boy protested.
Fyn hushed him. The man sent them both a contemptuous look before leading his mount into the stables.
The puppy licked the boy's face and made a swipe at Fyn.
Fyn came to his feet. 'Are you hurt, lad?'
'No.' But when the child tried to stand, he clutched his foot whimpering. Fyn could see a nasty bruise developing.
'I want Ma,' the boy wailed.
Fyn looked around, hoping the boy's mother would hear him, but no one came. There was no sign of the gate-keeper or the older brother, either. If Fyn slipped away now the Merofynian would never know, but he couldn't leave the boy like this.
'Where's your mother?'
The child pointed up, to where the music came from. It appeared his mother was the minstrel, a very accomplished one if the complexity of the tune was anything to go by. Fyn lifted the boy.
'Don't forget my puppy.'
With a sigh, Fyn bent down and the boy scooped up the pup, hugging him to his chest, covering Fyn in shaggy dog hairs. Following the child's directions Fyn carried him across the courtyard to a small door and up a narrow flight of steps, all accompanied by the flute. Only now the lilting music seemed friendly rather than disturbing.
The door opened on a small room with a steep ceiling and a single window. A shaft of sunlight came through the window, hitting the floor and reflecting on the ceiling. The sun illuminated a low foot-stool, where a fancy silver flute sat.
As Fyn stepped into the doorway the last flute note faded softly. No, that couldn't be right. Unless the flute was much more than it seemed.
Fear made Fyn's skin tighten as he opened his senses to Affinity. Power emanated from the person who sat in the only chair beyond the patch of sunlight, face hidden in shadow. The older boy crouched by the chair, eyes glistening, reflecting the sunlight, his gaze curiously blank.
Fyn's chest felt tight and his breath solid. Somehow, he managed to swallow.
As if waking, the older boy focused on his little brother. 'Ovido.'
He sprang to his feet, crossing the patch of sunlight to join Fyn. The puppy barked a greeting.
The boy wriggled in Fyn's arms, indicating he wanted to be put down. He hugged his brother. 'My head was hurting but it's stopped now.'
Head hurting? Fyn winced at his blindness as his own headache still thundered behind his eyes. The classic sign of an Affinity assault. Why hadn't he recognised it for what it was? And he'd thought himself well trained to resist an Affinity renegade's attack.
'Silly Ovido,' the brother said fondly. 'You and your headaches. Come on.'
As they darted out the door, Fyn noted that the little boy no longer limped.
Silence settled in the room. Fyn stared, trying to make sense of the person seated beyond the shaft of sunlight, wrapped in shadows that seemed to resist his gaze.
Fyn's teeth throbbed and his headache eased, as the silhouette resolved itself into a masculine outline. Everything all fell into place. He and the boy had been manipulated. By this man.
He might not have sensed the Affinity attack when it first started, but he had fought it all the same. By resisting it and the urge to run, Fyn had done what he believed to be right, despite the risk to himself. This had been a test, a very subtle test of his mettle.
Fyn might not have a strong Affinity but he could sense the force of it coming from the stranger now. It reminded him of Palatyne's Utland Power-worker, who had radiated ice-cold Affinity like a forge radiated heat. But the Utlander had been bluffing and had dropped the pretext the moment it was no longer needed.
If this stranger was trying to impress Fyn, he had.
The stranger stood, reaching for the flute, which leaped off the foot stool and into his hands. He tucked it under one arm as he stepped into the sunlight, but only far enough to reveal his elegant clothes. His face remained in shadow. 'I am one of Mage Tsulamyth's agents, and you were told to wait.'
'Some things cannot wait,' Fyn said slowly. 'Besides, you were testing me. Did I pass?'
The other stiffened slightly.
Fyn allowed himself a small smile.
'You must forgive me,' the agent said, though it was more of an order than an apology. He stepped closer. 'The mage likes to know what manner of man he deals with.'
Now that Fyn could see the stranger's face, he was startled. Since Tsulamyth was so old and powerful, Fyn had expected his agents to be at least as old as his father, but this man looked about Byren's age, only his eyes were older. 'You're the mage's agent?'
'One of them. You can call me Tyro.'
He was taller than Fyn, but who wasn't? His body held a wiry strength, different from Byren, who was more densely muscled. Fyn guessed the agent would move fast if attacked.
He swallowed. If the mage's agent was this powerful, the mage himself must be truly impressive, which meant Fyn was out-classed. But he had known that when he decided to approach Tsulamyth.
'Come this way.' A section of the plastered ceiling swung down to reveal stairs. Fyn followed the agent up the narrow steps into what had to be the roof cavity. This opened into another building entirely.
They went down corridors and around corners until, finally, double doors parted to reveal a large, circular chamber. At the far end, through a set of doors, inset with glass panels, Fyn could see a balcony that looked out onto the distant inner slope of Ostron Ring.
Sunlight reflected from the Ring Sea below, ripples dancing across the chamber's white ceiling. Combined with the blue-green floor tiles this made Fyn feel as if he was beneath the waves.
In the centre of the room was a war table similar to his father's, only this one was twice the length of a tall man. Down the end nearest to Fyn was Ostron Isle, and about halfway along came Merofynia with its crescent opening to the south, then the Snow Bridge, its mountains taller than anywhere else, and then Rolencia with its north-opening crescent.
On the blue, ripple-glass sea were miniature boats, just as there were miniature buildings on the land masses and quite a few carved people. They were out of proportion, as tall as the model ships' masts. Fyn guessed they were pieces from the game of Duelling Kingdoms, but there were more of them than in a Kingdoms game. Everything else was to scale and cleverly made. Fyn went to pick up the nearest boat, to admire its workmanship.
'Ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Agent Tyro advised then turned to face him. 'You impressed the gate-keeper with an Affinity tool. Show me.'
What if the agent demanded he hand over the Fate?
It wasn't his to give. Nevertheless, Fyn tugged on the chain, bringing it up for the agent to see. Would Tyro recognise it?
'Halcyon's Fate. How did it fall into the hands of a sea-hound?'
'I'm not a sea-hound. I'm…' Fyn hesitated, not sure if he should reveal who he really was. 'I'm from Halcyon Abbey and I'm — '
'Here to see Mage Tsulamyth. Why, if not to ask for his help against Merofynia?'
Fyn nodded, almost wishing it unsaid. What if the mage refused to help him? Worse, what if the mage agreed, but his terms were impossible? Would the agent let Fyn leave? He doubted he could even find his way out.
'Why should the mage help a penniless monk?' Tyro asked. 'Do you offer the Fate?'
'It's not mine to barter with.'
'Good. The mage would have turned you down. He has Affinity tools aplenty.'
The silence stretched. Fyn wondered what came next. Should he plead his case?
'Perhaps the mage knows more than you think,' Tyro said, voice silky. Fyn mistrusted his shrewd black eyes and felt a moment's disorientation as the agent picked up a Kingdoms piece. 'Here's a cunningly wrought piece, King Rolen's third son, masquerading as a lowly monk. Many believe him dead. This means he can go places no one expects.'
Fyn hid his surprise. Had he given himself away or was it a guess? Whatever happened, he had to keep Byren safe.
Tyro studied the carving. When he tilted the Kingdoms piece this way and that, Fyn felt the room sway. No, he was disoriented by the rippling light dancing across the ceiling.
'Now what would King Rolen's youngest son want, I wonder,' Tyro whispered. 'Vengeance?'
'I don't know. I can only speak as a monk.'
The agent's black gaze flew to his face. Then, as if he had come to a decision, Tyro put the piece in his pocket. 'The mage might have a use for one of Halcyon's monks, trained in the martial arts. If this monk proved loyal, the mage would look more kindly upon his request.'
He beckoned Fyn and walked to the far end of the war table.
Tyro pointed to ships making their way through the Rolencian Straits past the warlords' spars, weaving through the Utlands around to Merofynia. 'These are merchant ships returning to King Merofyn with the stolen wealth of Rolencia. Before leaving Rolencia, Palatyne ordered forts built on the passes over the Divide to keep the warlords in line and he has crushed the might of Halcyon Abbey.'
'What of Sylion?' Fyn asked.
'They had warning and sealed their gates. Palatyne is not worried about them as their power wanes with winter's passing. But the valley merchants, the fisher folk and farmers are vulnerable.'
Fyn felt this as if it was his personal failing. His family had a duty to protect the people of Rolencia.
'Palatyne has appointed Cobalt as his puppet king. Cobalt has declared Rolen and Myrella's marriage illegal because, according to him, the Merofynian kingsdaughter had Affinity. This makes his claim to the throne as good as any of King Rolen's kin.'
Fyn blinked. Cobalt had done this? It made no sense, not when he'd asked Fyn to find Byren so they could defeat the Merofynians. But he'd also warned Fyn, he would have to do things that made it appear he was Byren's enemy.
The agent continued. 'Palatyne has been rewarded with a dukedom but this does not satisfy him. He plans to wed — '
'King Merofyn's daughter,' Fyn guessed.
'Exactly.' Tyro strode past the Snow Bridge until he reached Merofynia. 'According to my sources, she is travelling along the coast road to Cyena Abbey. It would interfere greatly with Palatyne's plans if someone prevented this marriage.'
Murder a girl hardly older than Piro? Fyn took an instinctive step back, hands lifting in denial. 'I won't do it.'
The agent was silent for a moment, watching him from eyes that seemed to weigh his soul.
'Why not?' the agent countered. 'Her betrothal to Lence Kingsheir lulled King Rolen into a false sense of security and gave Palatyne his chance to invade. Surely, she is as false-hearted as her father? Agree to serve the mage and he will place a ship at your disposal, as well as trained men.'
Fyn knew that without the mage's help he could not hope to aid Byren. Yet… his brother would not ask him to murder Isolt, who could yet prove to be innocent.
He could not do it. Best to be honest.
'Back in Port Marchand, I had Palatyne defenceless under my knife and I could not kill him. If I could not kill an ambitious murderer to avenge my family, I could never kill a girl who might be innocent.' His mind raced as he tried to come up with an argument to convince the agent.
Tyro's face remained impassive. Fyn wondered if he was communicating directly with the mage. There had been hints of this sort of thing in the abbey scrolls.
'What do we know about Isolt? King Merofyn might have arranged the betrothal without her knowledge.' Fyn met Tyro's eyes and held them. 'I will not become an assassin, not even for the mage's goodwill.'
'Excellent.' Tyro smiled slowly, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling. 'How are you at abduction?'
A weight lifted from Fyn.