'Well.' Byren stood. Still no answers, and time was running out. He offered Master Catillum his hand, helping him to his feet. 'I thank you for trying.'
Catillum swayed but stayed upright.
'We can't stay here much longer,' Orrade said. 'What will you do?'
Byren didn't answer, because he didn't know.
'Come on.' He offered Catillum his arm. Florin collected the lamp and they headed back to the outer cavern, where they left Catillum with the monks.
Florin walked Orrade and Byren outside to see them off, back to their cave.
But before they could go, Leif came scampering to find them. 'Someone's come from Waterford. Lord Cobalt will be there by tomorrow evening.'
'Cobalt?' Byren stiffened. This close?
'Byren...' Orrade muttered. 'Don't fall for it. He's trying to draw you out.'
'I know, but it's too good an opportunity to miss.'
'If you go after him, I'm coming,' Florin insisted. 'I know Waterford and I know the foothills.'
'Too risky.'
'And living in the loyalist camp isn't?' Florin countered. 'You're too important to the loyalist cause, Byren. If you suspect a trap, you shouldn't risk yourself. Send Orrie.'
'Yes, send me.'
Byren shook his head. He'd already sent Garzik to his death and held Elina while she died. He wasn't losing Orrade. Besides...
'You don't understand, Florin. I'm a king without a country. If I want the people of Rolencia to follow me, I must inspire them. Sitting safe up here in the caves while someone else risks their life to kill Cobalt will not win me their trust!'
Chapter Eight
Fyn sat on the window seat of the captain's cabin, trying hard to contain his resentment and frustration. Here he was, a prisoner, as far east of his homeland as he could be.
Their ship had just entered the Ring Sea. Ostron Isle was actually two islands, a larger circle of steep peaks called Ostron Ring, with one break that led through towering headlands. On the inside the peaks sloped away more gently, down to the Ring Sea and Ostron Isle itself.
As the
Wyvern's Whelp
sailed the Ring Sea, famous for its perfect blue-green shade, the water reflected the terraced slopes of the outer island, Ostron Ring.
Ostron Isle was completely cultivated, dotted with pleasant villas and terraced fields. The Ostronites believed their inner island and city, with its boulevards and parks, was the most beautiful place in the known world. Watching these glide past, Fyn could almost agree.
'How many days before we head out again, cap'n?' Jakulos asked. 'We're missing those fat Merofynian merchant ships full of Rolencian booty.'
Fyn turned away from the windows.
Jakulos had lathered Nefysto's face and now sharpened the razor on the strop. The captain's finest clothes were laid out on the bunk. Runt sat cross-legged on the floor polishing the captain's knee-high boots. Fyn suspected Nefysto was going to report to the elector's spymaster.
Across the cabin, by the door, Bantam cleaned his nails with his dagger, saying nothing, watching everything.
Nefysto caught Jakulos's hand as he went to scrape off the bristles. 'We're returning with a full hold and our lives, thanks to the little monk. Your share will be more than you would have earned in a lifetime serving the Merofynian navy. Why the urge to make more?'
'There's a pretty lass I mean to marry, but not before I set myself up like an Ostronite noble.'
'Is it the seamstress, the lace-maker or the hat-shop girl?' Bantam asked.
Jakulos smiled and shook his head.
Nefysto gave a shout of laughter. 'Well, Jaku? He has you there.'
'I'm not about to bandy about the name of the lass I mean to marry.'
'Then it's none of them,' Bantam said.
Fyn felt a smile tug at his lips. He liked these men. He didn't want to have to kill them to escape.
'So you're motivated by true love, Jaku?' Nefysto teased. He sent Fyn a sly glance. 'The little monk here is motivated by revenge.'
Bantam returned his knife to his belt. 'And what's wrong with that?'
Fyn watched the interplay, torn between curiosity and resentment.
'What can one man, even an abbey trained warrior such as Fyn, achieve?' Nefysto said. 'Palatyne has gone back to Merofynia. Our monk could assassinate Cobalt but the Merofynians would just send another puppet ruler.'
Nefysto was right, but Fyn did not intend to kill Cobalt. He'd promised to help his cousin find Byren so they could retake Rolencia.
Byren did need allies. Even if Fyn could slip back into Rolencia and reach Cobalt without the Merofynians capturing him, his cousin was little better than a prisoner and his brother hid in the hills like a common brigand. Byren needed powerful allies.
'There's the warlords of Rolencia,' Nefysto said, as though following Fyn's line of thought. 'The monk could call on them for help. But, knowing them, they'll sit back and see which way the wind blows. To really strike at Merofynia he needs a powerful ally.'
'Like the elector?' Runt said, proving he was listening and learning.
Nefysto's eyes smiled as Jakulos scraped his bristles off under his nose. Fyn waited.
As Jakulos turned away to wipe lather off the blade, Nefysto answered. 'Normally, you'd be right, Runt. But the elector's health is failing and, until a new elector is chosen, Ostron Isle will make no new alliances. I was thinking of Mage Tsulamyth.'
'A mage?' Bantam's tone echoed Fyn's feelings of distaste.
'A desperate man must take allies where he can,' Nefysto said.
Even living the life of a secluded acolyte, Fyn had heard rumours of the mage of Ostron Isle. He was said to be all-powerful and over two hundred years old. Obviously, stories put about to scare off other Power-workers. Even so...
'According to the abbey mystics master, Tsulamyth is the most powerful living Affinity renegade,' Fyn said, choosing his words carefully. 'That makes him a very dangerous man.'
'To his enemies, yes.' Nefysto smiled. 'The same is said of me. Besides,' he shrugged, 'whatever you may have heard, Tsulamyth is an honourable man. As the most powerful living mage he could rule the known world, but he sits on his island, collecting and breeding harmless abeilles.'
The mage collected harmless butterflies? Well, not entirely harmless, no Affinity beast was. But the abeille was close to harmless. The Ostronites had adopted it as their symbol because they were both beautiful and industrious. An Affinity cousin to the bee, with the double wings of the butterfly, abeilles farmed the cinnamome trees for which Ostron Isle was famous, harvesting the pods and turning them into the fine powder. This cinnamon was prized across the known world for its restorative powers.
'Done.' Jakulos stepped back with the razor and reached for a hand mirror.
Nefysto wiped his chin, inspecting the big man's handiwork. 'A close shave. Now I'm fit to be seen by Ostronite society.'
By mid-afternoon, the
Wyvern's Whelp
had docked and been unloaded before being moved to a dry dock, with the efficiency of a people dedicated to making money. The crew had dispersed, all but for Bantam and Jakulos, who escorted Fyn up the hill to a cinnamon-tea house where he would be their prisoner.
It was the most beautiful city Fyn had seen. Because land was limited, the people built up. Seven storeys was not uncommon. It might have felt cramped but for the wide boulevards and palazzos. Every Ostronite took pride in their little piece of the island. Minuscule balconies were strung with washing and housed tubs filled with vegetables and flowers. Even the weather on Ostron Isle seemed kinder. There was a saying,
Spring comes early to Ostron Isle.
He could well believe. If his reckoning was right it was twelve days until spring cusp, but already the air was warm. People crowded the streets. Stalls set up under awnings did a brisk trade. Children chased each other, or herded geese and goats to market.
The buildings were more open than those in Rolencia. He heard laughter and music coming from behind delicately patterned lattice-shielded windows and verandas. It felt strange until Fyn realised the place had not been built for defence. Since the high peaks of Ostron Ring defended the Ring Sea, and its only entrance was guarded by two towers and a chain that could be drawn up to close off the passage, the people of Ostron Isle considered themselves safe from invasion.
He could see many terraces on the inner slope of Ostron Ring, already tinged with green growth of spring planting. Why was Sylion's hand so much lighter here than in Rolencia?
Fyn no longer looked like the acolyte of Halcyon who had fled for his life. His acolyte's plait had been cut and his head was now covered in a crop of fine, dark hair, which obscured his tattoos. He wore a sea-hound's calf-length trews, a knitted vest and a light coat. As a concession to the hard cobbles they all wore boots. Even after so short a time at sea, Fyn found the shoes restrictive.
They reached a palazzo with a clear view down a long sloping road to the Ring Sea. At the end of the road, Fyn could see a tall tower, which was built on an island in the Ring Sea itself, connected by a narrow causeway to Ostron Isle. The tower was so tall, the royal ingeniator would have been envious. The man had spent his time building canals across Rolencia, but he'd shown Fyn drawings of wondrous things including towers. Did he still live? Fyn had no idea.
'That's the mage's tower,' Bantam said, noticing his interest.
Around the high tower's base, four and five-storey buildings clustered. Which meant Mage Tower was taller than Eagle Tower at Rolenhold.
'How high is it?'
'Highest in the known world!' Bantam said with a touch of pride. He came to a stop in front of a white stone building, from which came singing and laughter and the scent of rich cinnamon-tea brewing. 'Here we are.'
Fyn's prison. He looked up. Seven storeys. Knowing his luck, they would be on the top floor.
They were.
From the window tucked into the roof of the tavern, Byren studied Waterford's twilight-shrouded square. The village consisted of six houses, a tavern and a building that doubled as Sylion's oratory in winter and Halcyon's chantry in summer, probably to the disgust of the visiting nuns and monks. The place was too small to have permanent abbey representatives.
And it was too small to attract Cobalt, unless he'd heard rumours that Byren's camp was nearby and was using himself as bait to draw him out.
So be it.
Byren had chosen twenty men, mostly experienced warriors, among them Orrade and the honour guard. He'd hidden them around the outskirts of the village, choosing to hide in the tavern's best room himself, in the belief that Cobalt would claim it. When he did, Byren would be waiting.
'What if he rides in here with fifty men?' Orrade asked, keeping his voice low.
'Reports said he had thirty. Besides, it won't matter how many men he has if we kill Cobalt and get out quickly over the roof. The villagers will run to the hills on our signal. When the Merofynians discover Cobalt dead in bed, they'll go back to the castle. Without a leader, they'll be vulnerable. I can nip over the pass into the spar, convince Feid to support me and be back before they can get word to Merofynia. We'll attack while they're disorganised. If I can retake the castle, we'll -'
'You know what they say about plans?' Orrade interrupted. 'They're only good if the enemy follows them.'
Byren grinned. 'It was mostly your plan.'
Orrade grinned back. 'It was mostly to convince Florin we knew what we were doing. Convince her to stay behind.'
Byren rubbed his top lip, hiding a grin.
Orrade stiffened. 'They're coming.'
Byren joined Orrade on his side of the window. Waterford's tavern faced the stream from which the town took its name. Dark horses and riders flowed across the shallow ford in pairs, riding up into the town square in front of the tavern. Byren counted sixteen pairs. Cobalt was not in the lead pair, or the second pair. After that the space in front of the tavern became too congested to get a clear view as they arrived.
The keeper came out with a lantern. There was much shouting as the men dismounted and the horses were led around back to the stable, which would not be large enough to cope.
Byren searched the milling men for Cobalt's profile. Last time he'd seen him, his cousin had affected the Ostronite style of clothing, with padded shoulders, a nipped-in waist, and his hair loose, curling down his back. Cobalt probably wore Rolencian clothes now - or, more likely, Merofynian.
The men parted, shoving two youths forwards to confront a tall, dark-haired man, who stood with his back to Byren.
Since everyone was black-haired Byren could only go by the man's height and bearing. It could be Cobalt. The right sleeve swung loose.
'Prisoners,' Orrade whispered, disgustedly. 'This is going to get ugly.'
Byren agreed, as a sick feeling of dread settled in his stomach. 'Boys of no more than sixteen by the look of them.' He frowned. 'The one on the right is familiar.'
'Probably served you wine or held your horse in Rolenton,' Orrade said.
As they were shoved to their knees, the tall skinny youth's fur cap fell off, revealing a head with no more than a finger joint's length of dark hair. Unless he'd been shorn because of fever, he was a monk.
Byren shifted uncomfortably. This could be Fyn's fate if he tried to reach the camp.
With a gesture, the man who could be Cobalt indicated the second youth's cap was to be removed. His hair was also cropped short. One of the men parted his hair, looking for abbey tattoos.
'They're monks, alright,' the man reported, his voice carrying easily to Byren.
'Perhaps they know where the other kingsheir is,' the leader said. 'Bring them inside.' As he turned to walk into the tavern, his features were clearly revealed for the first time. But Byren already knew by his voice that he wasn't Cobalt, just a Merofynian masquerading as his cousin.
Orrade swore. 'It's a set-up to trap you, and they're going to torture the boys.'
Byren swallowed. He should leave now, but he could not abandon the youths. 'Besides,' he said. 'It's clear the boys were headed this way to join me. They must know the camp's whereabouts. We have to -'
'Kill them or rescue them,' Orrade finished for him.
Byren met his eyes. 'I'm not killing them.'
'I know. So how do you propose we rescue them?'
'A diversion.'
'The horses?' Orrade's eyes gleamed. 'There's too many for the stable. They'll be in the holding yard. We could turn them loose and set fire to the stable.'
'The tavern keeper won't be pleased.'