Hiding his fears, he paused, exchanging a word here and there as he made his way up to the cave Orrade shared with what remained of Byren's honour guard.
These were the younger sons of lords and wealthy merchants, who had remained true to Byren when Cobalt tried to destroy his reputation by claiming that Byren sought to usurp Lence's claim to the throne. As evidence Cobalt had provided the lincurium rings and pendant, which Byren had found and had made up for his parents and Lence's betrothed. But the really damning evidence was a poem he'd written to Elina, his Dove. Cobalt had twisted the poem's meaning, claiming it was addressed not to Orrade's sister, but to Orrade himself.
Tonight, there was no sign of Orrade in the cave. Winterfall and Chandler greeted him jovially, pulling him over to the fire circle where a thin soup bubbled. Byren felt indebted to his four remaining honour guard, so he sat and chatted about what they'd seen and heard on their way here.
Byren accepted a bowl as they spoke of better times. No one mentioned Cobalt's accusations and, after a while, they fell silent so that only the fire's crackling filled the cave.
'I wish -' young Wafin began, then broke off. He was fifteen, around the same age as Orrade's brother Garzik.
Byren felt a familiar stab of guilt over Garzik's death. It helped him to be patient with the youngster. 'What do you wish, Wafin?'
'I wish I knew if my mother and little brother were all right,' he said.
Chandler made an abortive gesture, too late to cut Wafin off. And everyone winced, glancing to Byren, reminded of his losses.
'I'm sorry -' Chandler began.
Byren silenced him with a wave of his hand as he held Wafin's gaze. 'All you can do is place your trust in the Goddess Halcyon to protect them in this world, or keep them safe in the next.' He said the words, but he didn't believe it. He'd called on Halcyon to help him warn his family, and look what had happened. No, he believed a man made his own luck. Restless, he came to his feet. 'Where's Orrie?'
'Probably up at the Narrows' cave,' Winterfall said. He stood up and walked Byren to the entrance. 'Look, I didn't object when Orrie left Old Man Narrows in charge. He was more experienced than me, but you should do something about that daughter of his. She thinks she's as good as any man.'
Byren hid a smile. 'Up and around the bend, you say?'
Winterfall nodded and went back to the fire circle.
Byren headed off. Florin's unconventional attitude was the least of his worries. With so many people living in close quarters and no proper sanitation, next thing he knew there'd be sickness, claiming the few healthy warriors he had. He could have really used an abbey healer to set up a proper village.
Mind you, with the Merofynians' policy of deliberate cruelty, he didn't know how long he could trust the Rolencian valley people to hide the camp's location. Would the threat of maiming and death succeed, where a bag of gold had failed?
It was all very well to say his people were loyal, but what choice had little Vadik had?
As he approached the cave, he heard Florin's laughter. Pausing in the shadows at the entrance, Byren spotted Orrade and Florin playing a children's game. Red stones and black moved in patterns on a makeshift chequerboard.
Since Dovecote had fallen and Orrade's father, sister and brother had been killed, Byren hadn't seen Orrade let down his guard like this. Although his friend was now Lord Dovecote and Florin was the daughter of a tradepost keeper, events had stripped them of these distinctions, leading them to a cave in a hidden loyalist camp and a game of strategy.
'There!' With a flourish, Florin cleared the board, winning most of his pieces. 'Next time don't underestimate me.'
'Oh, I'd never underestimate you,' Orrade said, a cheeky grin on his narrow face.
Florin pulled back. 'Are you flirting with me, Orrie? Because I'll tell you now, I don't flirt. I don't play silly games. I say what I think.'
'I know,' Orrade said, lowering his voice. Byren edged closer. If his friend had developed an interest in Florin, it would save them both heartache. 'And that's why -'
So fixed was he on the pair by the fire, that Byren didn't notice the bundle of spare fire wood. He brushed against it, toppling the wood and interrupting Orrade.
Florin turned, saw him and sprang to her feet. 'You're back. I saved you some potato and leek soup.'
Orrade put the game away in the shadows of the cave, where Leif, Florin's little brother, slept.
'Soup sounds good,' Byren said, as though he hadn't just devoured a bowl of the same soup back at his honour guard's cave. He accepted it with thanks and they took their places by the fire.
'When I saw young Vadik and the others...' Florin could not go on, her strong hands clenched on her knees, knuckles white with anger. 'It's cruel. It's wrong -'
'It's war,' Orrade said. 'If you want to win, you can't afford to be soft.'
Florin's gaze flew to Byren's face and he felt moved to protest.
'War doesn't have to turn men into animals, Orrie.'
'Who wins?' Orrade countered. 'The lamb or the leogryf?'
'We're men, not animals,' Byren repeated. 'We make choices. Leaders make choices and people follow them because of those choices. Palatyne rules with fear. I won't be that kind of king.' He dunked the flat bread in the soup, tearing off a chunk and swallowing it. Last season's onions made it tasty. 'If I offered a reward for the head of every Merofynian warrior, I'd be no better than Palatyne. I might win, but I'd start my rule under a shadow of cruelty.'
Orrade met his eyes, deliberately not pointing out that his father, King Rolen the Implacable, had been ruthless, executing the Servants of Palos who had tried to put the king's illegitimate half-brother on the throne.
Unaware of this unspoken interchange, Florin took the empty bowl. 'See, Orrie, Byren's right.'
'I stand corrected,' Orrade said. But there was a smile in his eyes as he met Byren's gaze.
And Byren felt an answering smile tug at his lips. It had always been like this between them. Was he selfish to keep Orrade by him, when he knew his friend's true feelings?
Orrade looked away first. Then he stood and stretched, yawning as he scratched his belly. Florin would see it as perfectly natural. Byren saw it for the act it was.
'I'm for bed,' Orrade muttered. 'Coming, Byren?'
He looked down. Since they were lads on their first spar campaign, they slept side by side, sharing the same blanket. If Byren didn't go back to that cave and stretch out next to Orrade, his honour guard would have reason to suspect there was something in Cobalt's vile accusations. But, now that he knew Orrade's true feelings, he didn't want to sleep, spooned against his friend. 'I'll be down soon as I finish another bowl.'
Florin smiled and served him more soup as Orrade nodded and headed off, leaving him virtually alone with her. It didn't worry Byren, for Florin had spoken the truth. Unlike the girls back at Rolenhold, who had flirted with him and Lence and been only too eager to lift their skirts for King Rolen's twins, Florin didn't smile and cast him coy glances.
Instead, she met his eyes squarely as they discussed the camp and the news from Rolencia. She offered him her observations without reservation, as though it never occurred to her that he would not take her seriously.
The firelight sculpted her strong jaw and long nose, but he saw past her unconventional looks to her mind and liked what he found.
In some ways, she reminded him of Piro. Not in looks, for his sister was small and dainty, piquantly pretty. But Piro had always been impatient with court etiquette, much preferring to say what she thought. He only hoped she was keeping low in Merofynia. Surely, a slave could slip into the background and stay safe?
Chapter Four
Piro's feet ached by the time the feast ended and Isolt bid her father and Palatyne good night. The kingsdaughter ignored Piro, who followed her from the hall, up many corridors and stairs until they entered the chambers belonging to the kingsdaughter.
Piro could not tell if they were the same rooms her mother had used. She had become confused since entering the palace, which didn't tally with her mother's stories. Mind you, Myrella had only been eight when she left with her nurse to go live in Rolencia, as surety of peace. Plus King Merofyn had probably made additions. Piro was so tired she could hardly stand.
Scented lamps already lit, several servants waited in the sumptuous chamber to help the kingsdaughter disrobe. A row of doors opened onto a long veranda. Piro stood just inside the entrance wondering what to do. Impervious to the many people present, Isolt let them strip her and dress her in a soft silk nightgown and matching slippers. Piro found this odd. She always dressed herself, unless her old nurse insisted on helping.
Now in her nightgown, Isolt looked over at Piro and asked in Rolencian, 'Are you really a nobleman's daughter?'
'If you please, kingsdaughter.' Piro decided to stick to her original story. 'I was a maid at Rolenhold until Lord Dunstany took me for his slave. The overlord, I mean Duke Palatyne, claimed me for you.'
Isolt nodded to herself then dismissed the servants. When they were alone, she drew her silk nightgown around her small shoulders and approached Piro. She was delicate, only as tall as Queen Myrella, so her eyes were level with Piro's nose.
Now that her face was washed clean of paint she looked young and vulnerable, but her eyes, when they met Piro's, were keen with intelligence. 'I know you're a spy.'
Piro did not know what to say.
Isolt shrugged. 'It does not bother me. Palatyne will find no secret lovers under my bed.'
'You wrong me,' Piro protested. 'I despise Palatyne. Lord Dunstany thinks I am his spy, but I don't care about their politics!'
A surprised gasp escaped Isolt. She looked at Piro... really looked at her. For a heartbeat Piro thought she saw a flicker of something in Isolt's eyes, a need to believe, then she turned away contemptuously. 'You are either very stupid, or very clever. I can't decide which. You may sleep on the daybed. I care not whose spy you are.'
Obscurely hurt, Piro undressed and stretched out on a narrow, high-backed daybed in front of the fireplace. She stared into the banked coals. Red winking eyes stared back at her, ever watchful, ever wary.
Suddenly, it came to her. Isolt was afraid Afraid to eat, afraid to trust - how awful to live in a state of constant fear!
Fyn frowned, trying to make out the Skirling Stones by the brilliant starlight. Intricate rocky reefs surrounded the stones, and the ship was close enough now for him to see the froth of waves crashing on those reefs. He glanced behind him. The Utlanders had closed in. Now he could just make out their fierce, determined faces.
Putting his back to them, Fyn placed his faith in Captain Nefysto. What else could he do?
One by one, the sea-hounds came on deck. Runt, the little cabin boy, edged close to Jaku. Fyn suspected he would have preferred the captain, whom he idolised, but Nefysto had taken over the wheel.
Now everyone, from the cook to the surgeon, stood on deck. A sea-hound had climbed to the top of each mast, while one waited on the fore-deck with a knotted rope tied to weights, to test the sea's depth.
Bantam caught a nod from the captain and called, 'Trim the sails to one-third.'
The sails contracted like concertinas folding, but the ship still made headway, carried by momentum.
What Fyn had thought was his racing heart drumming in his ears turned out to be the dull boom of the waves crashing on the Skirling Stones. No one spoke.
They passed the first of the outlying rocks. Waves broke, sending spray as high as the tallest mast. A man near him started a chant to Sylion, Rolencia's harsh god of winter and the sea. Soon everyone was whispering to their gods, pleading for safe passage. Some fingered lucky charms, others repeated the actions to ward ill luck.
The man at the prow took a depth sounding and called the number.
Bantam chuckled.
Fyn glanced to him, startled.
He gestured over his shoulder, prompting Fyn to turn. Only a bow shot away, they could clearly see the Utlanders' consternation.
'They're hanging back,' Jaku said.
The news passed along and there was a half-hearted cheer.
To each side of the ship the sea boiled as waves churned over the rocks just below the surface, but the
Wyvern's Whelp
travelled a narrow, dark channel. Fyn wished there was something he could do. He'd rather be up a mast, watching for danger, than helpless here.
Every few moments, the sea-hound called out the depth.
This close, Fyn could see the true height of the Skirling Stones. They reared up, tall as three or four-storey buildings. The first stone the ship passed reminded him of a listing tower, topped by a rakishly tilted beret, where a fuzz of bushes grew, bent with the force of the prevailing wind.
Fyn blinked, his head ached with fear. He was amazed plants could survive out here.
Without warning, the backwash of a wave breaking against the stone's base sent the ship tipping and sliding towards the jagged teeth at the base of another of the Skirling Stones. Sea-hounds shouted and raised oars, ready to fend off just such an event.
Fyn gripped the rail, breath tight in his chest.
And to think, he'd believed wyverns and Utlanders the worst of his worries. His skin prickled. Didn't salt-water wyverns live on islands like this, nesting high in caves, hunting for fish and birds or, failing that, plucking unwary sailors from the decks of passing ships?
Fyn spun to face Bantam. 'What of wyverns?'
'Huh?' He had been concentrating on the ship, watching her sails belly and flap as the wind gusted, then fell, blocked by the towering stones. 'Wyverns? We saw none the last time we came through.'
'Look,' the cabin boy cried. 'The Utlanders are coming after us.'
Fyn spun. It was true. The first of the Utlander raiders followed them, sails at one-third. Would nothing deter these savage men?
He shuddered and felt for the Fate, seeking reassurance. It was warm.
That meant...
Fyn inhaled deeply, opening his Affinity senses. The tension behind his eyes was not a fear-induced headache, but a foretaste of power. Why, if he didn't know better, he would say they approached an Affinity seep.
Could there be a seep at sea? He'd only ever heard of them on land. They were places of power, where Affinity from the earth's heart found its way to the surface.
The Fate felt hot under his hand. Fyn left the rail, edging back to stand beside the captain.
'Busy here, little monk,' Nefysto muttered. 'Are they still behind us?'
Fyn looked over his shoulder, in time to see the first Utland ship pass the leaning stone tower. Then the
Wyvern's Whelp
rounded another pillar, riding the backwash past it, and he lost sight of their pursuers.
'Still following.' Fyn caught Nefysto's eye. 'Captain, I think there's a seep nearby. I can sense it.'
Bantam joined them. 'What's this about a seep?'
Fyn plucked the Fate from inside his vest. The opal, formed from an ancient spiral seashell, glowed. 'The Fate's responding to it.'
'Some kind of sorbt stone?' Nefysto asked, proving he knew more than the average layman about mystical practices.
Fyn went to answer in the negative but he could feel the Fate, even now, eager for the untamed Affinity. The captain's guess might be closer to the truth than Fyn knew, so he remained silent.
The ship had reached the midst of the Skirling Stones, weaving her way through towering black edifices, topped with gnarled trees.
Here, in the centre of the Skirling Stones, the crash of the sea on the outer rocks faded to a distant boom and an eerie wailing came and went, as the wind whirled between the stones, proving someone must have come here at least once, to give them their name.
Fyn frowned. Had something moved on that ledge, three-quarters up the Skirling Stone ahead of them? Affinity attracted Affinity beasts. If it was a new seep, it would attract...
'Cap'n?' A voice called from above, called as if trying to shout softly. 'There are things on the ledges. Lots of them.'
Fyn's hand tightened on the Fate. His teeth tingled and he tasted cold air on his tongue, even though his mouth was closed. The air felt sharp, rich with Affinity.
His mind raced... spring cusp... new seep... Affinity beasts gathering to feast on the power, gathering to mate. Affinity beasts were always dangerous, more so in mating season.
The sea-hound called the depth, his voice pitched to carry above the wailing of the wind.
Fyn clutched Bantam's arm. 'Tell him to be quiet. He'll bring them down on us.'
The captain and Bantam stared at Fyn.
'The seep's attracted Affinity beasts. We're in the midst of a rookery!' His voice rose, and he brought it under control with an effort. 'Tell everyone to be very quiet.'
Bantam tapped Jakulos on the shoulder and the two of them darted off, running the length of the vessel, warning the sea-hounds.
Meanwhile, the cabin boy edged closer, taking Fyn's hand. 'What sort of Affinity beasts, master monk?'
Master monk? How he wished. He wasn't even a proper monk, just an acolyte.
'N-Not wyverns?' The boy's voice quavered.
'I don't know, Runt.' He hoped not. Salt-water wyverns were notoriously aggressive, especially during mating season.
Quick as a bird, something flashed past Fyn, then darted back to hover before him, where it eyed the glowing Fate on his vest.
The creature was as tall as little Runt, but it hovered off the deck so that its head was level with Fyn's. Wings moving too fast to see other than as a blur held it aloft.
Like a bird it tilted its head this way and that, fascinated by the Fate. Its long, sinuous body was marked by scars, possibly from mating fights. While the body was serpent-like, its head was more like a bird's with a long, razor-sharp beak and a crest of brilliant, iridescent feathers behind its neck.
This close, the Affinity beast gave off a pale luminescence and smelled like last week's eel pie gone bad.
Behind it, Fyn saw Bantam and Jakulos return to the rear deck. They hesitated on the top step, both making the sign to ward off dangerous Affinity.
Fyn licked his lips. Runt whimpered.
Fyn squeezed his hand, speaking low and soothing. 'It is a jakulos, lad. Almost as pretty as our own Jakulos. It won't hurt you.' No, not at the moment. When they attacked, jakulos launched themselves from the sky, flying fast and true as javelins.
'It's nothing like our Jaku,' Runt whispered.
Fyn grinned. 'Perhaps he hadn't seen one when he chose his sea-hound name.' Why the big man had named himself after this Affinity beast Fyn couldn't guess. It was elegant, almost dainty as it hovered to inspect them.
Something moved in the corner of Fyn's vision and he realised another had arrived, and another.
Behind him, Fyn sensed the captain, turning the wheel. A gap appeared between two tall stones, and they saw open sky, heard the growing boom of the waves on the reefs.
'We're almost through,' Runt whispered.
As if this was a signal, the jakulos inspecting Fyn flicked its tail, rose straight up, not at all like a bird, and darted off. Back to its nest, Fyn assumed.
He felt Runt and the captain breathe a sigh of relief, and a laugh bubbled up inside him. Who would have thought?
As he glanced over his shoulder to congratulate the captain on getting through the Skirling Stones, Fyn noticed the prow of the closest Utland ship gliding between the last of the stones behind them. A curious jakulos hovered over its carven head, glowing faintly.
Fyn swore. 'The Utlanders are still coming.' If they got through the reefs, the
Wyvern's Whelp
would be in the same position as before.
They needed something to set off the Affinity beasts' territorial instincts.
His gaze fell on the brazier of hot coals and tar-dipped arrows, readied for the attack. Before he knew it, he'd strung a bow and lit an arrow.
'What're you doing?' Bantam demanded.
'Stirring up the Affinity beasts so they'll turn on the Utlanders.' Fyn ran to the bow rail and took aim, hoping to hit the trees on the crown of the nearest Skirling Stone.
As he let loose, Bantam joined him with another bow.
Fyn's flaming arrow hit the stone's crown and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then flames danced across the tree canopy, driven by the wind.
'I'll go one better,' Bantam muttered. And he aimed at the Utlander's ship which was partially visible as it came from behind the pillar. He let his arrow fly. 'A sailor can't ignore fire at sea.'