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.
Chapter Thirteen
That evening it rained heavily, so the mage's agent sent Fyn in a closed carriage, through the streets of Ostron Isle to the dock where a ship waited.
Fyn glanced through the downpour, spotting three sails, and knew it was a fast-moving sloop like the
Wyvern's Whelp
, probably a sea-hound. Grabbing his borrowed bag with a change of clothes, he ducked out of the carriage, head down, and ran up the gangplank, across the deck and into the captain's cabin.
Where Nefysto awaited him.
Blinking rain from his eyes, Fyn spun around to find Jakulos and Bantam on either side of the door.
The little quarter-master rubbed his throat. 'I had a thundering headache, thanks to you.'
'You made us both look fools,' Jakulos said.
Fyn stiffened. 'I swore no oath to the sea-hounds, my loyalty lies elsewhere.'
'See, revenge motivates him,' Nefysto said. 'If you know what a man will die for, you know him.'
Fyn spun to face the captain. 'You let me think you reported to the elector, but you report to the mage. Why didn't you tell me?'
Nefysto grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
Ostronites were known to play their cards close to their chests. Fyn felt the ship shift, as the oars pushed them away from the dock, and automatically adjusted his stance.
'Let's see what our orders are.' Nefysto unrolled a message and appeared to read it, but Fyn knew it was all an act.
'It seems I am to offer the mage's new agent all assistance.' Nefysto rolled up the message. 'Runt, take Agent Monk's bag and show him to his cabin.'
Fyn didn't know what to say. The captain threw back his head, laughing. Bantam and Jakulos joined in. It was true, sea-hounds were half-crazy.
With their hilarity echoing in his ears, Fyn followed the cabin boy down below to one of the little cabins tucked under the captain's. It was only as he lay down to sleep that he remembered Nefysto had said his original orders were to keep Fyn captive.
Why would the mage want him locked up?
The same reason he wanted Fyn to abduct King Merofyn's daughter. The more Kingdoms pieces the mage had to play with, the more chance he had of winning. But what prize was Tsulamyth playing for?
Fyn let out his breath. What did it matter, as long as it helped Byren recover Rolencia?
Byren went in search of Florin.
He and his honour guard had been given the warlord's best chamber, reserved for visiting royalty. His head rang with voices and noise. From one end of the warlord's stronghold to the other, people packed every available space. Many of Byren's company had been taken into the homes that dotted the slope down to the fjord, and the rest tried to squeeze into Feid's stronghold, crowding the warlord's own honour guard.
The majority of Feid's men were still out on their farmsteads, awaiting the call to arms. By spar custom, his honour guard numbered over ninety, which meant the stronghold was filled to capacity with men. And these men would see any unattached woman as fair game. After Winterfall's none-too-subtle attempt to seduce Florin, Byren wanted her safe.
Not that she would thank him.
He should be upstairs, enjoying a hot bath with the offer of a willing serving girl, before dressing for the feast. Instead, he was searching for the ungrateful mountain girl.
He found Old Man Narrows in the stable, sorting out a fight between a couple of lads who should have known better. A quick clip over the ear and both were sent about their business.
'At the feast tonight, I want you at the warlord's table,' Byren said, 'where you can listen in to what we're planning and give your opinion.'
Old Man Narrows rubbed his thick fingers. 'Eh, I'm flattered, lad, but wouldn't you rather I'm down with the men, where I can keep an eye on the hotheads and listen in to what's being said? You've got Orrie at the table, not much gets past the young Dove.'
Byren grinned. He wondered if Orrade was aware that he had inherited his father's nickname. And Old Man Narrows had a point.
The former tradepost keeper beckoned Leif and rested his hands on his young son's shoulders. 'From the stables and the kitchen I'll hear things you wouldn't hear otherwise.'
'You're right.' Now to what was really worrying him. 'Where will you be bunking down?'
Old Man Narrows nodded to the stable loft. 'Here, where I can keep an eye on the lads.'
'Fair enough.' But what about Florin? If she wandered the stronghold with the freedom she was used to back at camp, Feid's warriors would consider her fair game. He didn't want her having to box some lout's ears, or worse, to convince him to leave her alone. 'Where's Florin?'
'Over back.' Narrows gestured.
'No, Da,' Leif said. 'She went up the loft to make up our beds.'
So Byren climbed up to find her in the sweet-smelling hay, making up beds in the dimness. He did his best not to think about the last lass he'd tumbled in Rolenhold's hayloft. 'Eh, Mountain-girl.'
Florin turned. 'Yes, my king.'
He didn't think she was still angry with him. It had become a nickname now, like his use of Mountain-girl. Both of them had to duck their heads to avoid the beams. He rested his forearm on one. 'You're not sleeping here.'
'Here's fine by me.'
It was too dim to judge her expression, but her tone said she'd enjoy an argument, especially with him. Why couldn't she be more like his mother, and bend before the wind? He needed a reason for her to cooperate, after all he was only trying to look out for her. And it came to him.
'I didn't come here to argue. The warlord has a pretty new bride. Someone has to get close to her, to find out what he's telling her.'
Florin looked uneasy. 'I know nothing about courts and courtiers.'
'Neither does she. They say he found her in the kitchen of a merchant house last trip he made to Ostron Isle.' Orrade had reported this choice gossip to Byren. Along with the news that the warlord's new lady was lonely, since she wasn't used to spar customs. Why Feid had married outside of his spar, Byren didn't know, although going by the way the warlord's eyes lit up when he said her name, it was a love match. 'She's as much out of her depth as you. She's only been here since late last summer.' And already swelling with child. Life was short on the spars, and they bred fast. 'Will you befriend her for me, share the secrets women share?'
'I don't know.' Florin brushed her hands down her thighs. 'I've never had a female friend, but I can try.'
So he explained the gist of what he needed to her father and took her up to the warlord's private chambers.
After rapping on the door, he turned to Florin, noticed a piece of straw in her hair and reached to pluck it out. Her hand lifted to fend him off. He caught it. 'Eh, lass. I'd never do wrong by you. You had straw in your hair.'
She blinked, then flicked free of his touch and ran her hands through her hair, plucking the straw free. Byren wanted to say something about Winterfall but just then the warlord himself opened the door.
There was laughter in his voice and a smile on his face. 'Byren?' He glanced curiously to Florin.
'Feid, this is...' Now that he came to it, how was he going to introduce her? He could not say, this is the lass I want, but I can't have her, so I don't want anyone else to have her. 'This is Florin. She saved my life and, when I'm king, I mean to see her set up for life.' As he said it, he realised this much was true. He hadn't been able to save Elina or his mother, but he would make sure that Florin was safe.
'Cinna, come here,' Feid called.
A pretty lass, with her hair all atumble, peered around the door. Feid dragged her against his body with a possessive air. Byren held his breath as Feid's lady looked Florin up and down, taking in her men's clothes and her dirty face. A kitchen maid, elevated to the status of a lady, might just turn her nose up at Florin. Many would.
'You poor thing,' Cinna exclaimed in Ostronite. As she drew Florin into the chamber, she switched to heavily accented Rolencian, talking about a bath and clothing altered to fit.
Florin cast a desperate look over her shoulder, but allowed Cinna to lead her off, and all Byren could hear was the lady's happy chatter.
Feid stepped out of the chamber, closing the door after him. 'She's got a kind heart, Cinna. She'll find a husband for your lass, if you want.'
'No.' Byren spoke too quickly. 'At least, not just yet. I'm going to clean up for the feast. You know, I won't forget this, Feid.'
He grinned. 'That's what I'm counting on.'
Much later that night, Byren stood on the stronghold's tallest tower, watching the stars.
He grinned to himself.
Florin had come down to the feast in a borrowed gown, one made for someone a head shorter - it revealed her calves rather than her ankles, but it clung elsewhere, being laced around the waist. When he'd asked her to dance she'd refused, saying she didn't know any dances fit for court. Byren would hardly call Feid's great hall a fancy court, but he'd told the musicians to play a country dance. To which she'd insisted she never danced. He'd told her she did now because it was the only chance she'd have to report what she'd learnt so far.
He smiled, remembering how quickly she'd picked up the steps and how earnestly she'd related her observations of Lady Cinna. All of which had been quite innocent, if revealing of Florin's discomfort with her current situation.
But the smile soon left his face. Though he was exhausted, Byren could not sleep. He paced the tower. Tomorrow Warlord Feid would send four swift boats to the other spars, calling on the warlords to support the rightful king of Rolencia.
All Byren could do now was wait, and he hated not being in control. Give him a fort to take, a beast to kill or a border to hold and he would, but this waiting stole a man's spirit.
Someone pushed the trap door open behind him.
'Orrie,' Byren greeted him with relief. 'What brings you up here?'
He was followed by one of the young monks.
'Feldspar has something to tell you,' Orrade said and stepped aside. 'Go on, lad.'
The youth hesitated.
A cold wind cut through Byren's jacket. 'Spit it out.'
'It's the mystics master, kingsheir. Even though he drugs himself each night with dreamless-sleep he moans in his sleep.'
'A man can't be responsible for his nightmares,' Byren said.
'If they are only nightmares,' Feldspar whispered.
'What are you saying?'
'By creating the illusion in the foenix cavern Master Catillum laid himself open to untamed Affinity. I know. I felt him fight it.' Feldspar let out his breath with a shudder. 'I fear he fights it still.'
Byren noticed Orrade touch his sword hilt, and shook his head swiftly. 'We each fight our battles in our own way. The mystics master has proved his loyalty to me, Feldspar. I want you to watch him. If it looks like he's failing to win his private battle, let me know.'
'You can't ask this of me,' Feldspar blurted, backing up a step. 'I'm not trained.'
'Who else can I ask?'
Feldspar gaped.
'Bring word to me, not to Byren,' Orrade said. He caught Byren's eye. 'Catillum might grow suspicious if one of his monks seeks you out.'
Byren nodded, then took pity on the youth. 'Go down to bed, lad.'
When he slipped away, Byren paced and Orrade walked with him.
'I swear it's colder out here on the spar than in Rolencia.' Orrade pulled his cloak more closely around his shoulders. 'Sylion knows, I feel for the mystics master but it'd be safer to kill Catillum now.'
'Safer, but would it be right? A man should have the chance to prove himself. Besides, I'd lose the support of his monks.'
'His death could be made to look like an accident.'
Byren stopped. 'Since when were you so quick to deal in death?'
'Since I became your spymaster.' Orrade faced him. 'I will always tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not. If Catillum's Affinity is compromised and we wait too long, it may be too late to contain him. He's powerful, Byren.'
'You're right. But I won't be that kind of ruler, Orrie.' Byren hid his disquiet. 'Catillum's loyal for now. Let's not borrow trouble. We have enough of our own.'
'You stayed your hand the night Dovecote fell. You let Palatyne rape my sister, so the others had time to escape. I thought you hard then -'
'And you think me weak now?' Byren asked, his voice growing tense. The memory of that night still tortured him. It would as long as he lived.
'No...' Orrade admitted. 'I think you've made another hard decision, for the right reason. You see clearly, Byren. Further than me.'
He shook his head. 'Your mind's sharper than mine.'
'Maybe, but perhaps not as...' he shrugged, 'honourable.'
Byren snorted.
'I would kill for you, Byren. Willingly kill to protect you.'
It came to Byren then that Orrade made the best kind of spymaster, ruthless and utterly devoted. 'I'm lucky to have you. Orrade shrugged and resumed pacing. 'We should hear back from Leogryf and Unistag Spars soon. But it will take Feid's messengers longer to reach Manticore and Cockatrice Spars.'