The King's Bastard (25 page)

Piro picked up the piece she was to play. The carving of the Elector of Ostron was as tall as her shortest finger and engraved with lifelike detail. Tiny jewels were set in his turbaned crown. Judging from Lord Cobalt, this style of clothing was well out of date. The wild cards were stacked on Ostron Isle which lay to the east of Merofynia.

'Turn over the first Unknowable, Piro,' her father said.

When the game began, each king was evenly matched with the same number of trained warriors, plus five warlords and their warriors. The object of the game was to invade the other kingdom.

There were three ways to attack. One was over the Snow Bridge which linked the two kingdoms. Snow closed the passes from autumn to spring. The thin air and exertion could wipe out half the army, or the inhabitants of the Snow Bridge could open the gates of their city states and turn on the men, to loot the army.

The next way to invade was to sail around the warlords' spars and navigate the outlying islands where the ships were prey to storms, Utland Raiders and wyverns. All these obstacles had to be overcome to reach the two kingdoms' vulnerable crescent valleys.

The last and least used way, because it entailed bribing a warlord to betray his king, was to march across the spar nearest to the invading king's harbour. In Merofynia's case, Cockatrice Spar.

That made Piro wonder. If her brother was betrothed to the Merofynian kingsdaughter they did not need to ensure this warlord's loyalty, did they?

It struck Piro that the game assumed the two kings would always seek to conquer one another. What if they were both content to rule their own lands? He father certainly was.

'Ready, Piro?' her father prodded.

She stacked the cards neatly. As the Elector of Ostron Isle, she held the Unknowables, factors beyond the kings' control, storms that sunk ships, Utland Raiders that destroyed fleets, treacherous warlords who betrayed their king, or the elector himself might support one king against the other.

Piro picked up the top card and read aloud. 'The city states of the Snow Bridge refuse to open the passes to the king's army.'

It was a setback for the warlord. Her father smiled and his eyes gleamed. 'Your move, Rejulas.'

The warlord rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Piro, we will have our wine,' her father said.

She pulled the trolley closer and poured two elegant silver goblets of the gleaming, rich wine. Its celebrated colour appeared on the royal emblem. She loved the fruity smell, associating it with winter nights, festivals and story telling.

King Rolen accepted his wine and Rejulas did likewise.

'To Rolencia, may her borders always be free from threat,' her father gave the traditional toast.

'To Rolencia and Cockatrice Spar, brothers-at-arms,' Rejulas replied. At the same time he moved half of King Merofyn's army into the waiting fleet and embarked on the sea journey to Rolencia's vulnerable inner crescent.

King Rolen would have to counter. He savoured a mouthful of wine and studied the board.

'You don't drink, Piro Kingsdaughter?' Rejulas's smile was quizzical. He had an easy charm, as if he was used to getting his own way.

'I don't know yet if I have reason to celebrate,' she replied, watching for his reaction.

His eyes widened. Good.

'Piro, the sweetbreads,' her father suggested swiftly. He sent five ships to meet the Merofynian fleet. 'Your move, Rejulas. You will find I am most experienced at keeping what is mine!'

Piro cut a small loaf into thin slices. Its surface was crusted with honey-glazed almond slivers.

She could feel Rejulas watching her. She desperately wanted to know what manner of man he was. She felt an itch crawling across her skin, heralding the build-up of Affinity in her body. With every sense strained to interpret his actions, she held out the plate of sweetbread.

He took it from her. Dropping a dollop of cream on a slice, he offered it to her. It was neatly done, not something you would expect from a barbarian, and the smile that accompanied it was rueful, as if he was apologising for having misjudged her.

Piro accepted the bread with a cautious smile of her own. She took a bite, anticipating the sweetness of almonds and honey as the sweet bread melted on her tongue. Instead her mouth was filled with a vile taste. Burning fumes rushed up the back of her nose, threatening to choke her. She could not possibly swallow.

Piro grabbed a napkin as she sprang up from the table, sending the game of Duelling Kingdoms to the floor. Turning away she spat the food into the napkin but still the fumes lingered. A fit of coughing shook her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She could not get the taste from her tongue. Fearing she might throw up, she stumbled a few steps further. Both men stood. Rejulas reached out to steady her. She sprang away from him, clutching her father's arm, and held on as she fought to catch her breath.

'Something go down the wrong way? Here, sup this.' King Rolen held his wine for her and she gulped to drown the taste. The wine was everything it should have been, smooth and redolent of plums.

'Th-thank you,' Piro managed. Feeling a little better, she wiped her eyes and glanced into the mirror over the fire place. She must look a fright. Her cheeks were hot and glistening with tears. Her cap was crooked. Her head and ears buzzed with excess Affinity. Even her vision wavered as the Unseen world tried to usurp the seen world.

'Your pardon, Father, Warlord Rejulas,' she said smoothly, if a trifle huskily. The queen would have approved of her control, Piro thought as she stepped closer to the mirror to straighten her head-dress.

'Next time don't rush your food,' King Rolen told her. 'Girls, eh, Rejulas? We will have to start the game again. Pick up the pieces, Piro.'

As she replaced the last pin and looked into the mirror to smooth her hair, the wyvern came to life. It went to tear off her father's head.

Spinning around, she drew breath to scream a warning. But her father was safely in his chair by the table and warlord Rejulas was about to resume his seat.

The implications made her head spin.

'Pick up the pieces, kingsdaughter,' her father ordered, growing impatient.

When Piro turned back to the mirror it reflected nothing more alarming than a table, two men and the stuffed wyvern.

What was going on? In her mind's eye she kept seeing her father struck down by the wyvern.

'Piro?' The king frowned at her.

She stared at him, horrified. He was going to die and he would never believe her if she tried to warn him!

She backed out of the room.

'Piro, come back here!' King Rolen roared.

She ran out the door.

In the corridor she hesitated, unsure where to go with so many people in the castle.

The door swung open behind her. Rejulas stepped out, obviously sent by her father to bring her back. When his hand closed over her arm she felt a wave of nausea.

'Let go!' As she twisted free, her fingers brushed the wyvern-skin vest. 'Barbarian!'

His breath drew in on a sharp hiss and caught her hand, twisting her wrist cruelly. 'The only difference between you and me, is that three hundred years ago your family clawed their way over the Divide and conquered the valley people, kingsdaughter!'

Piro fled.

Byren threw the door open to their shared chamber to find Lence waiting for him. Seated on his mahogany desk, his brother swung one booted foot.

'So you went to find our little brother,' Lence said.

He had been searching for Piro but their old nurse had found her first. No need to tell Lence that.

'Just as well I did. Some monks were about to beat him. I asked him back here for a drink. He should be along soon.' Byren went to the desk and poured himself a honeyed mead. It was still steaming, the servant must have just left.

As he went to take a mouthful Lence caught his arm. 'You shouldn't have told Fyn so much after the assassination attempt. He hasn't been invited to take a chair at the war table, Byren.'

'He's our brother.'

The door swung open and Fyn walked in. Lence dropped Byren's arm.

'Ah, Fyn. Share a drink with us,' Byren greeted him, pouring another tankard. He lifted his own. 'To Lence's betrothed, may her teeth be straight and her smile pretty!'

Lence smiled grimly. 'Doesn't matter what she looks like. As long as she does her duty, I'll do mine. I'll let her know who's in charge right away.' He tilted back his head and gulped some mead.

Byren felt a stab of pity for Isolt.

Fyn sipped his mead, looking from Byren to Lence. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Lence took out his dagger and began to clean his nails with the tip.

Byren put his tankard down. For the first time in his life he felt uncomfortable with Lence. Things left unsaid hung between them, threatening to erupt, but not with Fyn present. Byren didn't know which was worse, waiting for Lence to confront him, or waiting for Fyn to leave so Lence could.

Byren stretched and went over to the weapons display to select a knife, weighing it, feeling the balance. 'Lost my ceremonial dagger in the attack. Sylion take them. Reckon they'll be picking the jewels out of it right now, counting themselves lucky. This knife feels well balanced. What do you think, Lence?'

His brother shrugged, casting Fyn a swift glance. 'The proof of the knife or the man is in their actions. Throw it and see.'

Byren stiffened, hearing a criticism of Orrade. Was his defence of Orrade the reason why Lence was withdrawing from him? Fyn also stiffened, responding to the undertones in Lence's voice, so Byren wasn't imagining it. He strode over to the target, stepping onto a line, scraped in the floor boards by years of eager youths.

'If you think one of the warlords sent the assassins, which one was it?' Fyn asked.

Byren threw his knife. It hit the target just above centre.

'Not bad.' Lence continued to swing one boot, while cleaning his nails with his dagger.

'Let's see you do better.' Byren walked over to retrieve his knife. The soft wood-panelled wall to one side of the fireplace showed many small pit marks where daggers had missed, reminding Byren of their boyhood. He longed for those happy days before betrothals and honour guards. 'Give us a look at your betrothed, Lence. Does she have buck teeth?'

'She's pretty enough, if the artist can be trusted.' Lence pulled the locket over his head and tossed it to Byren, the chain trailing behind like a bird's long tail.

Byren caught it. 'Mother and Father made a political match and they're happy.'

'True. But that's rare.' Lence drained his honeyed mead, wiping his mouth. He stood, turning the knife in his hand to throw. The way he moved held menace. 'My go.'

Placing the tip of his boot on the starting line, he tossed his knife expertly. It quivered in the target, just to the right of Byren's mark.

Lence retrieved his knife.

Byren flicked the locket open. The artist had painted Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter from a three-quarters view. She looked stiff and a little frightened. Black hair, milky skin, luminous black eyes. No eyebrows, hair pulled back under a sapphire-encrusted coronet, high lace at her throat. Byren didn't think much of the Merofynian fashions. Too mannered.

'Why would the warlords want to destabilise the balance of power?' Fyn asked. 'Surely they don't want Rolencia to be at war with Merofynia?'

Lence said nothing, sending Byren a loaded look.

Fyn shifted, trying to contain his frustration, as neither of them answered. Much as Byren wanted to trust Fyn, Lence was right, they did not have their parents' permission to discuss war table matters with him.

'Come here, Fyn, and take a look at Lence's betrothed.' Byren said.

Fyn joined him, glanced at the miniature and gasped.

'What?' Byren prodded.

'She's... she's got no eyebrows!' Fyn stammered.

Lence caught Byren's eye with a cryptic look. Fyn had sounded like he'd been about to say something else.

'So what?' Lence snapped. 'Ambassador Benvenute assures me that's the fashion in the Merofynian court.'

Byren frowned at the face in the locket. 'She might be pretty but she doesn't look happy.'

Lence shrugged. 'Who would be happy with King Merofyn for a father? I hear he's gone through four food tasters since his unistag horn was stolen. Maybe I'll win his gratitude by sending him another one, a pure white one, perfect for detecting poison. I know! The warlord of Unistag Spar hasn't renewed his vow of loyalty. He can prove it by trapping a unistag and sending me the horn!'

'If he's failed to renew his vow, it's father's forgiveness he must win,' Fyn pointed out. Lence grimaced.

'Yes, Rolencia must do something about that warlord,' Byren said quickly, to divert Lence's anger from Fyn.

Their younger brother turned the miniature over, studying the Merofynian kingsdaughter. 'That's not a good likeness of Isolt.'

Lence snorted. 'And how would you know?'

Fyn looked startled, then guilty. 'I... I looked into Halcyon's Fate by mistake and she was in my vision. She was at a feast but her eyes were sad.'