The carriage swayed when it turned a corner. They could hear the noises of the city stirring. Piro felt Isolt stiffen.
'This is not the way to my father's palace.'
'No. It is the way to your betrothed's townhouse. You told me your dearest wish was to see him upon landing,' the Utlander informed her.
Isolt said nothing, her lips compressed. Piro wondered if there was some way she could get a message to Dunstany's servants.
The carriage rolled through arched gates into a private courtyard. As the carriage door opened, Piro climbed out and looked up to see a four-storey building, all faux columns and windows. Servants scurried to let Palatyne know they were there.
The Utlander marched straight in, his half-dozen warriors escorting them. Glorious artifacts littered Palatyne's mansion. Paintings, carpets, statues and golden plates were stacked on tables and floors as if the owner had collected trophies and never had time to sort them.
Isolt and Piro exchanged uneasy looks. Ahead of them, the Utlander scurried down a corridor. A servant threw open a tall door to reveal a long room, patches of early morning sunlight glistening on the marble floor. Palatyne was seated at a table breaking his fast with honeyed mead and hot beef. Despite the silk dressing gown and aristocratic setting, there was no mistaking his spar origins, as he tore into the meat with strong white teeth, grease dripping onto the mahogany table. Without a word to the girls, the Utlander took a seat at the massive table. No one offered them a seat, or food.
Piro hovered a step behind Isolt, who squared her shoulders as though determined not to be brow-beaten.
'I see you have returned with my little bird,' Palatyne greeted the Utlander, clearly pleased. 'We will have to make sure the cage doors are secured this time.'
'Rescuing the bird was easier than I thought. On his own isle the mage thought himself invincible,' the Power-worker boasted. 'A mistake I would never make.'
Palatyne downed his tankard and called one of the warriors over, paying him off with a bag of gold. As soon as the man and his companions left, the duke called an unsavoury-looking man from the room beyond and whispered something to him. He nodded, following the other warrior out.
Piro and Isolt exchanged another uneasy glance. They both suspected the warriors would not live to tell how they had kidnapped Palatyne's reluctant bride. The duke did not want to be the laughing stock of Merofynia.
'To my bride and her trophy maid.' Palatyne came to his feet, lifting a fresh tankard. 'Welcome home, my pretties.'
Isolt gave him a distant, queenly bow. 'I thank you, Duke Palatyne. Without your help I might never have escaped the mage. My father will be most grateful.'
'I heard Mage Tsulamyth presented you to the elector as his companion, not captive,' the duke countered. To Piro he appeared amused by Isolt's tone, but if he were truly secure in his power, he would not feel the need to assert his authority.
'The mage is a great Power-worker. I did not dare to make a move while I was in his clutches,' Isolt replied swiftly. 'I wish to see my father. I have been most concerned for his health.'
Piro bit her bottom lip to hide a smile, for it was the prim kingsdaughter talking now, not the Isolt she knew.
'Understandably, kingsdaughter.' Palatyne shared a look with the Utlander. 'But I must warn you, you will find your father changed. The healers fear his mind is going. He dreams of wyverns stalking him and screams so much in his sleep that he can hardly talk the next day. It has become so bad, he refuses to fall asleep. The healers have been giving him dreamless-sleep to ease his mind.'
'Then I must go the palace, immediately,' Isolt insisted, growing just a little agitated. Even though King Merofyn was a cunning, ruthless man, Isolt loved him. Piro supposed it was evidence of her good heart. She didn't think she could have been so forgiving.
'He will be better for seeing me,' Isolt said.
'Let us hope so.' Palatyne bowed, eyes gleaming maliciously. 'If you will excuse me, I will finish my meal. Do you care to join me?'
Isolt shook her head. Piro swallowed and ignored the rumbling of her stomach.
He sat down, sawing off a hunk of meat. Recalling his insistence on using a food taster in Rolencia, Piro realised Palatyne must trust his own cook. Could she use that against him in some way?
Then she noticed the unistag horn lying next to his plate as though it was nothing more than another knife, and not a rare and valuable Affinity tool. So that was where Byren's unistag horn had ended up. He'd given it to Lence, to present to King Merofyn, who went in dread of poison. Well, it explained Palatyne's lack of a food taster, for the pure white horn would discolour if the food it touched was corrupted.
'Take a seat.' The duke waved a hand to the other chairs. 'When I'm ready, I will escort you myself.'
Isolt gave a gracious bow. 'You are too kind, Duke Palatyne. But I will not break my fast until I have seen Father.'
She nodded to Piro and they retreated to the window seats, where Isolt gave her a tight smile. Piro squeezed her hand. She dared not speak in front of Palatyne and the Utlander, but the king's suffering sounded very much like what Fyn had suffered from. She suspected the dreamless-sleep was making King Merofyn susceptible to hallucinations planted by the Utlander, hallucinations designed to rob him of his reason and the support of the nobles.
It was cruel but clever. A kingdom needed a king who was in his right mind.
By the time Palatyne and the Utlander were finished destroying King Merofyn's credibility, the people would be eager for the duke to take over.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fyn stood on the deck of the
Wyvern's Whelp
as the boat was made fast to Port Mero wharf. She flew a Merofynian merchant ship's flag.
Once ashore, Tyro headed for Lord Dunstany's grand town house, striding off up the street, followed by a servant carrying the foenix in a covered cage. The wyvern would follow in a closed crate, later. Lastly came Fyn. His head had been shaved to reveal the abbey tattoos.
Servants opened the gate to the courtyard, greeting Tyro by name, and explaining that Lord Dunstany was not presently at home. He arranged for 'Monk Sunseed,' as he introduced Fyn, to be housed in the mage's regular chambers, then left, with the news that Lord Dunstany would be arriving presently.
Not twenty minutes later, Lord Dunstany arrived with his travelling bags and, after going to his chambers, sent for Fyn to welcome him. Fyn was there in the background as one of Lord Dunstany's spies reported that Isolt and her maid had been seen disembarking that morning. They had been escorted to Duke Palatyne's mansion and, as yet, had not come out. Meanwhile, the captured Rolencian king had been hanging in the square outside the palace for several days now, and the spy had arranged for food to reach him once a day.
'But they doubled the guards, after someone was caught talking to him during the night.' The plump middle-aged man, who looked like a friendly baker, sniffed in disapproval. 'That person made it much harder for us to reach him.'
'Who was it?'
'Had to be one of King Byren's supporters. The local people hate him. Palatyne has them convinced he hid while his family were killed, then tried to take the crown for himself.'
Fyn stiffened, but said nothing.
Lord Dunstany thanked the spy, then dismissed him and stared out the window at the Landlocked Sea, which sparkled under the midday sun.
Even though Fyn knew Lord Dunstany was Tyro, a youth not much older than Byren, the greying hair and dignified bearing made Fyn instinctively treat Dunstany with the respect due a grandfather. And he caught himself waiting for Lord Dunstany to speak.
Reminding himself, yet again, that it was only Tyro, Fyn paced. Byren was safe for the moment. It was Isolt he worried about. 'If only I could get inside Palatyne's mansion.'
Dunstany pulled a bag out from under his desk and tossed it to Fyn. 'With the contents of this bag you can go anywhere.'
Fyn caught it eagerly, opened the drawstring and sniffed. 'Grease paint?'
'Player's make-up, but we can disguise the smell. From candle maker to tanner, every trade has a smell.'
'Then I can get into Palatyne's mansion, but how will I get Isolt and Piro out again?'
'He will bring them out and deliver them to us. I have spies in the palace. This morning I want you to reach your brother.'
'Right. I'll free him and -'
'No. Give him food and water. We'll free him when the moment is ripe.'
'Why not now?'
Tyro studied him. Fyn tried to see the mage's agent, behind Lord Dunstany's disguise, but failed. 'Do you trust me, Fyn?'
That was a difficult question. It was not in Fyn's nature to lie. 'To a certain extent.'
Tyro smiled grimly. 'Then trust me on this. It is not enough to free your brother. Palatyne has convinced the people that Byren is a coward. To defeat Palatyne, we must restore Byren's reputation and win over the people of Merofynia.'
Byren's stomach rumbled. Since Orrade came two nights ago, the guard had been doubled and only one food parcel had reached him. He longed for a wash, a shave and a change of clothes. Above him bees hummed, busy in the flowers of the linden tree. The blossoms' scent made the air fragrant and reminded him that summer's cusp was drawing close.
Over near the fountain, the guards chattered and laughed, their voices a fraction too loud. From the market beyond the wall, Byren registered a subtle change of tone, a suppressed excitement mingled with bravado. He pressed against the bars of his cage, trying to make out individual words from the marketplace. Could Orrade be making his move?
'Ready for your bath?' Three guards approached with buckets of ice-cold water. 'After all, we don't want you stinking up the palace courtyard.'
As they tossed the first bucket of water over him, Byren opened his mouth to get a gulp of fresh water. It was so cold he gasped.
'Not with the kingsdaughter due back today,' the next guard said, as a second bucket hit Byren full in the face. 'Can't have your stench offending her pretty nose.'
Byren flicked water from his hair and eyes.
'Rescued her, Palatyne did, all the way from Ostron Isle. Bet those merchants didn't know what hit them!' The third bucket sluiced over him and the guards marched off, their duty done.
Byren shivered, creeping to the far corner of the cage where a patch of sunlight filtered through the tree's canopy. The dappled spring sun hardly warmed him. But now he understood why the market bubbled with repressed excitement, and why the guards were so edgy.
Soon he would see the young woman Lence had been betrothed to, the young woman who, despite anything Palatyne might say, was legally betrothed to him. She would ride by in a gilt carriage, while he hung in a cage. If he was lucky, she probably wouldn't even look at him.
Dressed as a beggar, wearing a moth-eaten wig, Fyn limped through the crowd, leaning heavily on a staff. People jostled him, eager to see Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter pass by. They spoke of how she had been rescued by Duke Palatyne, who swore revenge on the wicked mage and arrogant elector for this insult to Merofynia.
If Palatyne was planning to invade Ostron Isle, as Tyro had suggested, he had primed the people well.
Mingling with the crowd, Fyn worked his way into the courtyard, where Byren's cage was suspended from the branches of a huge linden tree. A long avenue of these trees led across the courtyard to the palace steps.
Bored with waiting, people had gathered around the cage, throwing rubbish through the bars. Guards looked on, enjoying the sport. Byren huddled in the far corner, shielding his face. His clothes were tattered, his hair in tangles, his face half-hidden by a beard. He seemed utterly beaten and dejected.
But he was alive, and Fyn's heart leapt with fierce joy. While the Merofynians taunted Byren, he kept his eyes down, waiting for the right moment.
'She comes!' someone cried. 'The kingsdaughter comes!'
The crowd rushed to see, including Byren's tormentors. For a few moments the guards were also distracted. Fyn drew out food and a water-skin from under his rags. Before he could approach, another beggar pulled a knife from his rags and rushed towards the cage. Fyn intercepted him, grabbing the knife, twisting his wrist, and only just preventing himself from breaking the assassin's wrist as he recognised Orrade.
'Orrie?'
'Orrie?' Byren echoed, having come to the very edge of the cage. 'And Fyn?'
All the while, people cheered and called out to the Merofynian kingsdaughter. Fyn released Orrade and helped him to his feet. 'I thought -'
'I came to free Byren.'
'We can't -'
'Fyn, I thought you dead.' Byren's eyes gleamed with unshed tears and he reached through the cage to catch Fyn's arm, pulling him into a hug.
Fyn thrust the food in through the bars. 'Take this.'
Byren accepted the food. Meanwhile, Orrade put his knife to the cage lock, trying to pry it open.
Fyn glanced over his shoulder. Any moment now, the guard could look this way. 'Put the knife away, Orrie.'
'Not on your life. I'm setting Byren free. I may not have another chance.'
'We can't free him yet. It must be done right.' Fyn saw Orrade did not understand. 'If we free Byren now, the people of Merofynia will always believe him a coward.'
Orrade stiffened. 'I've heard what they're saying. It's not true.'
'I know. But it is what they believe. There's a better way,' Fyn said, hoping Tyro would prove him right. He was very aware of Byren's gaze on his face, weighing what he'd said. 'Trust me.'
'What better way?' Orrade asked.
Fyn hesitated.
'I'm ready,' Byren said. 'I'm stronger than I've made out. Someone's been slipping me food -'
'I know,' Fyn said. 'That's Lord Dunstany's doing. I'm working with him to free you. But not just yet. It must be done in such a way that it clears your name.'
'How?' Orrade persisted.
'Yes, how?' Byren muttered. 'I must admit it eats at me to be called a traitor.'
Fyn reached through the bars to squeeze Byren's hand. 'We'll get you out and save your name. Don't give up hope.'
Byren grinned. 'Not with you two come back from the dead.'
Fyn noticed the cheering had lessened. 'We must go.'
Orrade hesitated.
'Go with Fyn.' Byren jerked his head.
'Here, what's going on?' a guard demanded.
Fyn stepped back, rattling his staff on the cage, yelling abuse at the prisoner. Orrade followed his lead, while Byren hastily hid the food and water under his clothing.
Fyn blended into the crowd, Orrade one step behind him.
'I hope you know what you're doing, Fyn. Who is this Lord Dunstany and why is he helping Byren?' Orrade asked.
'You'll see.' Fyn kept walking, weaving his way across the square towards the palace. He had to get a glimpse of Isolt. All about him, people spoke of her innocence and beauty.
'With the old king fading we'll need a new king,' a sensible matron told her companion.
'So true. We can't have war in Rolencia and the merchants of Ostron Isle encouraging sea-hounds to rob our ships. We need a strong king to look after our rights,' her companion agreed. 'Palatyne can marry Isolt and claim the throne with my blessing!'
The matron nodded.
'Stay near me, Orrie.' Fyn worked his way to the palace steps, to where he could see Isolt and the royal party. It was relatively easy. No one wanted to get too close to a couple of smelly beggars.
'Is that Piro?' Orrade whispered. 'What's she doing with the Merofynian kingsdaughter?'
'I'll explain later.' Fyn's heart turned over as Isolt walked up the broad steps to the entrance, where King Merofyn waited. Fyn could only think of him as the usurper, Uncle Sefon's murderer. He could still hear his mother's voice,
Poor little Sefon
. He'd been a boy of two when she was sent to Rolencia, and he had always remained that little boy in her mind.
King Merofyn sat on a litter, with a blanket over his knees. Isolt gave a cry and ran up the last few steps to him, throwing her arms around the king's shoulders.
The people cheered. Fyn's throat felt tight. He knew that Isolt had good reason not to love her father, yet she did. It did not mean she was weak, only good-hearted.
Palatyne drew Isolt's arm through his and turned her around to wave to the crowd. Then he led her inside. Piro followed behind the king.
At least Piro and Isolt were safe for now. Tyro, as Lord Dunstany, was waiting for them inside the palace.
Satisfied that there was nothing more he could do for them or Byren, Fyn turned to make his way back towards Dunstany's mansion. 'So how did you get here, Orrie?'
'A farmer took me in and sewed up my leg. I heard they had Byren and tried to reach Port Marchand in time to save him, but I was too late, so I took passage on a ship and followed. What of you? Last I heard, you tried to hold the gate. We thought you dead.'
'I looked dead. That's what saved me. My sea-hounds realised I was Affinity-wounded and stole my body. They took me back to their ship. Where are you staying? We'll get your things.'
'I don't have any things. I've been sleeping in the streets.' A grin creased Orrade's thin face. 'This isn't a costume.'
Fyn laughed. 'I bet you'd love a hot meal and a hot bath.'
An hour later, after being let inside Dunstany's mansion by his spy, Fyn watched while a much cleaner Orrade enjoyed a hot dinner.
'You look like you haven't eaten properly in days.'
'I haven't.' Orrade took a mouthful of ale and fixed sharp eyes on him. 'What's going on, Fyn?'
'You heard them out in the street. They hate Byren. They're ready to accept Palatyne if he marries Isolt. And it wouldn't take much to convince them to attack Ostron Isle.'
'I don't much care what happens to Merofynia or Ostron Isle. I just want to make sure Byren's safe,' Orrade said.
'No one, not Byren or Piro or Isolt, will be safe until Palatyne's dead, and if we assassinated him, we wouldn't get out of here alive.'
'You're right,' Orrade conceded. 'So, what are we going to do?'
Fyn sank into the window seat overlooking the Landlocked Sea. 'I've no idea. Yet.'