'I saw the Utlander capture my mother's essence in the stone on the tip of his staff. Is she in there? Does she know -'
'I don't know. I hope not.' He shuddered. 'Upon her death, her Affinity would have returned to the world. The Utlander stole it. And it was just this kind of stolen Affinity that he and his twin had gathered in preparation for the day they ambushed Lord Dunstany. They never realised they had Tsulamyth cornered. I believe he would've fought them off, if not for his heart. It gave out. He was lucky to escape alive. They thought he'd crept off to die. But they never had the chance to gloat.' Tyro's lips parted in a fierce grimace that was not a smile. 'For I assumed Lord Dunstany's disguise and met the Utlanders at court the very next day, hale and hearty, but for a slight head cold. They nearly passed out. After that they were most careful of Lord Dunstany. And now that one of them is dead, the remaining Utlander is doubly careful, for all that he hates me.'
'Fyn was right. You must have nerves of steel.'
Tyro's dark eyes fixed on her. He looked tired and worn, but determined. 'I have been bluffing since my master died two summers ago. Without him I must train myself from the books the previous Mage Tsulamyths collected during their lifetimes. I miss my master's advice, but most of all I miss him.' He glanced across to Piro, defiantly apologetic. 'I was his natural grandson.'
'Oh, Tyro. I'm so sorry,' Piro whispered. She caught herself reaching out to him, hesitated, then tucked her hands in her lap. 'But I thought you said you were born on Dunstany's estate, that your mother sold you to the mage when you were five.'
'She did. Dunstany was my other grandfather, her natural father. She was a serving girl, born the wrong side of the blanket. She fell in love with my father, who should have been the next Tsulamyth, but he was too keen on wenching and acquiring wealth. It's a tawdry tale. He seduced her, left her pregnant and got himself killed before I was born. So I'm a bastard twice over, with too much Affinity to live a normal life.'
No wonder he was angry at the world.
Piro licked her lips. She wanted to reassure him, but was pretty certain he would bridle at the sympathy. So she changed the topic. 'If this charade is so dangerous, why continue?'
'This is not a game, Piro. I continue the original Mage Tsulamyth's great dream. Peace through a balance of power. Why... the first Tsulamyth invented the game of Duelling Kingdoms to teach the warring nobles the value of diplomacy.'
She didn't tell him that the way her father played it involved resolving disputes with strategic battles.
Tyro continued. 'Each mage since has continued his work. My master is the reason you exist. Without his interference, Myrella Kingsdaughter would never have married your father.'
Piro found it hard to imagine. 'So I owe my existence to a meddling mage?'
'To Tsulamyth's dream of peace,' Tyro corrected, and this time he didn't sound pompous.
Piro picked at the hem on her sleeve which had begun to unravel. 'There is one thing... I don't see how the different Tsulamyths could carry out this deception. How did they hide the fact that it was a different man each time the mage died? I mean -'
'Two things worked in our favour, Affinity is hereditary and our line is long-lived. The mage always selected one of his descendants to train as his apprentice, so there was a family likeness. And his descendants never knew about him, unless he came for them. He would test the males of each generation and -'
'So he tested you when you were five and chose you for his apprentice?'
'Just as he had chosen my father. But strength of Affinity does not correlate to strength of character.' Tyro shook his head. 'If I had failed the mage's tests, I would have worked on Dunstany's estate, unaware of my relationship to him.' He sounded as though this might not have been such a bad thing. Piro knew how he felt.
'Even so, how did the different mages hide the switch-over?'
'The mage did not select an apprentice until he was over fifty. He had few close friends. Dunstany was one. The people he dealt with grew old, they saw him perhaps once a year, then not for several years. Basically, they forgot.' He shrugged. 'Besides, people see what they expect to see.'
Piro nodded. She accepted it could be done. 'And I suppose you all trained in the art of illusion.'
'The skill runs strong in my family. My master should have lived another twenty years. When he died in my arms, I vowed to carry on. But things have gone from bad to worse. It all started with Palatyne conquering the other spar warlords. His next step was to ingratiate himself with King Merofyn, by invading Rolencia. I tried to stop him. I told him invading Rolencia would be his death.' Tyro looked bleak. 'But instead of preventing Rolencia's invasion, he set off to kill King Rolen's kin.'
Piro blinked. Tyro was responsible for Palatyne's vendetta against her family? 'But -'
'He would have executed your brothers anyway. He only let Cobalt live because he's a bastard and useful to him. It's all gone from bad to worse.' Tyro sank his head into his hands.
Piro felt sorry for him. He'd tried to curtail Palatyne's ambition and failed. But at least he tried. She was about to slip off the chest and go to him, when he lifted his head.
'Palatyne's next goal is to conquer Ostron Isle. With Rolencia and Merofynia behind him, he has the resources. I can't let this happen. Palatyne hesitates only because the mighty Tsulamyth lives here. That's why you must not tell anyone about me, not even Fyn and Isolt.'
'But we can help you. We can -' She broke off as Tyro reached under his vest to pull out the amber pendant.
'I don't need your word, Piro, not when I have this. If I break the stone, your essence escapes and, unless you are within touching distance, you'll die.'
Anger rushed through Piro, driving her to her feet. To think, she'd wanted to console him. 'You don't trust me!'
'Should I, kingsdaughter?' His eyes glittered strangely. 'Isn't your loyalty to your brothers, your kingdom and even your friend Isolt, before me?'
She didn't know what to say. He was right. Wasn't he?
'Besides, the things I've seen in the courts of Ostron Isle and Merofynia have not given me reason to trust anyone.'
'Then I pity you, for loyalty coerced is not loyalty at all!' Piro blinked away tears of fury. If she stayed here another moment she would disgrace herself. 'I'm going down to the grotto... that is, if I have your permission?'
Tyro said nothing.
She marched out, leaving him alone in the tower room.
Piro had found Mage Tsulamyth and she wished she hadn't.
Chapter Twenty-One
Byren arrived at Narrowneck to find Orrade had already reinforced the palisade, which was built across the narrowest part of the isthmus that stretched out into the lake. The men, who were building a new gate, paused to give a cheer as he rode past, then went back to work.
In the last few days the ice had melted and the lake was no longer frozen. There was only one place where anyone could approach Narrowneck over water, and this small beach was defensible with steep cliffs. Byren grinned, remembering Florin's challenge to him. She claimed she'd tried to climb those cliffs and failed and if she couldn't, no man could. He had vowed to come back next summer and prove her wrong.
Then the smile disappeared, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He should be happy now that Orrade had claimed Florin. It made sense, since his friend was Lord Dovecote, he had to marry and produce an heir. Maybe a mountain girl was not the kind of wife his father would have chosen but in these troubled times, she was just the kind of wife a man needed. Someone who would stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Riding up the winding path, Byren noted where trees had been felled. Soon, every clearing on Narrowneck would be crowded with camp circles. Give him a day or two to send out scouts and find out where the Merofynians were nesting, then he'd lead his men out to clean up the valley. He intended to make Cobalt so furious, his cousin would leave the safety of Rolenhold to engage him on open ground.
'Byren!' Orrade appeared around the bend, heading down the path from Narrowneck tradepost, with Florin at his side.
Byren swung his leg over the mount, jumping to the ground. He should be happy for them. He couldn't speak, his throat was so tight, but he hugged Orrade, slapping him on the back, then tugged on Florin's braid. She brushed his hand away, grumbling without heat.
By Sylion, he should have been a player.
They fell into step with him, one to each side as he led his horse around the back to the stable.
'I've prepared the chambers for your warlords. And I've checked the larder,' Florin said. 'We had to slaughter the hens and drive the cows to a nearby farm when we fled. They've returned the cows and sent more laying hens. I can feed two dozen men for ten days on what's left in the larder. After that...' She shrugged.
'I've rebuilt the palisade and the new gate will be finished soon,' Orrade said. 'Now that everyone's here, I'll finish the ditch across the narrows and plant it with stakes.'
'You've both done a fine job,' Byren said, handing his mount over to Leif. The boy grinned and led the horse off.
Old Man Narrows welcomed Byren at the tap-room door. A fire burned in the grate, fresh bread and cheese were laid on the long table and he could smell a roast cooking in the kitchen. So different from last time he had been here. Then, they'd huddled in the kitchen and planned how to survive the manticore pride. 'Whatever happened to Leif's dogs?'
Even as he said this, the two wolfhounds bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Byren laughed as they reared up, putting their paws on his chest. Now this was the kind of greeting a man should come home to. How he envied Orrade.
Behind him, the warlords and their captains poured into the tap-room. As Catillum arrived with several of his monks, Byren lost track of Florin. Men took their seats at the long table and Florin reappeared with Leif and her father. They moved about, serving tankards of ale.
When Fyn passed by Byren grabbed his arm.
'Join me.' He indicated the bench beside him. Orrade made room. 'In a day or two, when my scouts come back, I'll be leading raids. I intend to wipe out all Merofynians not living in the castle and the abbey. While I'm away, I'm putting you in charge of Narrowneck.'
'Me?' Fyn almost squeaked. 'What about Orrie -'
'He'll be with me.'
'Or Feid, or Corvel or -'
'They'll be leading attacks. We'll strike in several places at once, strike fast, before the Merofynians realise what's happening and can gather their forces.' Byren grinned at Fyn's expression, then he sobered. 'You're seventeen now. You're my brother and kingsheir. By appointing you captain of Narrowneck, I make it clear to my followers that I trust you. If anything happens to me, you'll be -'
'No.' Fyn would have pulled back, but Orrade didn't let him. 'I don't want -'
'D'you think I want this? How do you think I feel, turning the valley into a battlefield?'
Fyn blinked. 'The valley first, then the abbey, then Rolenhold?'
Byren nodded and laughed as he ruffled Fyn's newly grown hair. 'You'll do, lad.'
Fyn woke, his heart racing. Even as he sat up his dream faded, leaving him with a sense of being lost in the caverns below the abbey, trying to keep the young boys safe from wyverns.
It was almost dawn.
Byren had made him responsible for Narrowneck. Equal parts pride and trepidation filled him. But Byren was right, he was a man now. He'd turned seventeen without noticing, because the sea-hounds hadn't celebrated spring cusp. Time to take on a man's responsibilities.
He stretched out on his bedroll, listening to the snores of Byren's honour guard. Tonight he'd have the chamber to himself, as Byren headed out today. Each of the warlords had an objective. Strike fast, strike before Cobalt could prepare and anticipate.
His stomach churned. He couldn't sleep.
From today, he would be responsible for protecting Byren's bolt hole and the lives of everyone in it. Might as well start now.
He rolled to his feet, grabbed his boots and crept between the sleeping bodies.
Bantam lifted his head.
Fyn signalled for him not to get up. No point in the sea-hounds also going without sleep.
He padded lightly down the stairs and through the tap-room, where more men slept. On the porch he found the man on duty sleeping, huddled in the doorway. Fyn slipped on his boots, and still the man did not wake.
So he kicked him, just hard enough to hurt.
The warrior woke with a start and sprang to his feet, reaching for his knife.
'You're lucky I'm not a Merofynian, planning to slit your throat and assassinate King Byren,' Fyn told him.
He left the chagrined man trying to gather his wits and wandered down to the lookout over the lake where the winch was built to haul loads up from the small beach. Here the three sentries were awake, at least. They were talking softly, their bodies clearly silhouetted against the stars.
Fyn paused, selected a rock and threw it straight into someone's back. The man gave a grunt of surprise and spun around.
Fyn stepped out from the shadows. 'If I had a bow and arrows, all three of you would be dead before you could raise the alarm. Tomorrow night, I want stuffed decoys on guard where you are and the real guards back in the trees, or stretched out on the cliff edge, where they present no silhouette.'
'But the ladder is up and no one could climb the cliff from the beach. That only leaves the winch and we're protecting it,' one of them said.
'You wouldn't be, if you were dead.'
Fyn moved off, thinking some people must walk around half-asleep. Skirting the tradepost, he headed down the winding path towards the Narrows and the palisade.
The scent of incense told him he was downwind of the monks' fire circle. Catillum must have been performing a protective ritual, before venturing out tomorrow. Fyn had no intention of waking Joff and Feldspar, but his old friends weren't there. The monks were missing. Where...
Fyn's steps slowed and then he realised the mystics master must have volunteered his monks to take the dawn watch.
He headed for the palisade. The monks wouldn't be as careless as the other sentries. At least he hoped not.
Four monks manned the single gate, which could be lowered to form a bridge over the ditch. Fyn could see their silhouettes by the starlight but not their features.
'All well?' Fyn asked.
'Yes, kingsheir.'
Fyn moved on. There were two platforms, one each side of the gate. They were built in the tree tops, halfway along the palisade. From these vantage points, lookouts could watch the approach to the Narrows and Fyn headed towards one of these now, curious to discover how far they could see from up there.
'Who is it?' a voice called down.
'Fyn Kingsheir.' He was glad the monks were alert. It would have felt odd, reprimanding men who had ranked above him in the abbey.
Fyn climbed the ladder and joined the three men, who knelt on the dappled, starlit platform. Only when he identified Joff and Feldspar, and felt a spurt of relief, did he realise his true motivation. He wanted to be reconciled with his friends.
Selfish fool. He must not lay his burdens on them. They'd be horrified to learn he'd allied himself with Mage Tsulamyth. This hurt. To distract himself, he crept to the edge of the platform. 'How far can you see? How much warning would we have?'
Only one monk joined Fyn at the edge of the platform. Whetstone had given his vow three years earlier, when he had joined Master Sunseed's gardeners, but they had all been trained as abbey warriors and he'd marched out with the abbey into the Merofynian ambush so few survived.
'In daylight we can see Rolenhold, off to the south-west. At night...' Whetstone hesitated.
Fyn frowned. A shadow moved under the trees on the shore.
'That's no shadow. That's an attacking force!' Fyn gasped.
'Hundreds of them,' Whetstone said.
'Where?' Joff and Feldspar joined them.
Fyn pointed.
Feldspar sat back on his heels abruptly. 'I don't believe it. Cobalt is making a sneak attack on our watch.'
'What luck!' Joff crowed.
'Luck? Stupid boy. You've no idea...' Whetstone shuddered and went still.
Fyn gulped. Whetstone's fear seemed to leap into Fyn's body like flames leaping onto dry leaves. Was this going to be another massacre?
'Fyn, what do we do?' Feldspar asked.
That snapped him out of it. 'Joff, run up to the tradepost, give the alarm. I'll run to the gate. Warn them.'
Fyn scrambled for the ladder.
'What about me?' Feldspar asked.
Fyn glanced, over his shoulder. 'You've bows and arrows.'
'Yes. A dozen arrows.'
'Make every one count.'
Feldspar's terrified expression remained impressed on Fyn's mind as he scurried down the ladder. Joff jumped the last three rungs. They separated without a word.
Fan ran towards the gate. Was that the creak of the winch? Surely not.
He sprinted, hoping he wouldn't break his ankle on the uneven ground, only slowing when he neared the gate.
Two of the monks bent to wind the winch that lowered the drawbridge, the other two stood back, while a fifth person, the mystics master, watched.
This wasn't right. In his vision Catillum didn't aid the Merofynians, he fought them to the death.
'M-master?' Fyn struggled to catch his breath.
When Catillum turned, his features were the same but his expression was alien. Fyn knew instinctively, this wasn't Catillum. And he understood his Affinity vision, the mystics master had fought... and lost.
Fyn's mouth went dry with fear, as a great backwash of Affinity rolled off the being who had inhabited the mystics master's body.
'What are you doing?' Fyn demanded.
'Lowering the gate,' one of the monks explained, as if this was completely reasonable. 'Master Catillum wants to check the outer palisade.'
In the dark? Didn't they realise this wasn't Catillum? The renegade Power-worker had to be using the monks' own Affinity against them, making them blind to the subtle differences in Master Catillum's behaviour.
'Raise the drawbridge.' Fyn's voice scraped his throat raw and his heart raced. The monks ignored him. 'Raise the drawbridge. Byren has appointed me captain of Narrowneck. I outrank Catillum. Raise it. We're under at...'
His voice went completely, in fact his throat began to close, narrowing with each breath. Desperate, he ran past the renegade Power-worker, heading for the winch. But every step he took became more of an effort, until he could hardly move his limbs, could hardly drag a breath into his chest.
Time stretched. His breath came in horrible rasping gasps. He fell to his knees.
One of the four monks blinked and looked troubled. 'Kingsheir, are you...' His voice cracked and he fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
The pressure on Fyn's chest lessened, as though the Power-worker was over-extending himself. Fyn lurched forwards, trying to reach the winch. Grey moths fluttered in his vision.
One of the monks at the winch straightened up. 'What's wrong with...' His voice cut out as he clutched his chest.
Fyn dragged in another breath.
There was a roaring in his ears. No, it was men shouting. The attackers charged the gate. He spared them one glance. Not Merofynians, spar warriors. Enemies all the same. He was too late. He'd failed Byren. Despair flooded him.
Hands grabbed him. The last two monks lifted him, swung him around and thrust him against the palisade beside the gate.