The Usurper (15 page)

'And who knows if Cockatrice has settled on a warlord, since you killed Rejulas?'

The night Dovecote fell, Orrade had killed the Cockatrice warlord. He'd had no choice for, in the mistaken belief that he was helping Lence seize the crown, Warlord Rejulas had opened his pass to Palatyne, giving him access to Rolencia's soft underbelly.

'The new Cockatrice warlord should be eager to prove his spar's loyalty,' Orrade muttered. 'How long will you wait for the last two warlords' responses? The longer we delay, the more defences will be added to the new fort over Foenix Pass.'

He was right. More decisions. 'Ask me tomorrow.' Byren faked a yawn, which turned into a real one. 'I'm for bed.'

But, even in his bed, he could not sleep. For once, Orrade did not stretch out beside him and Byren missed his presence. His friend was stretched out on the floor, along with the rest of Byren's honour guard. Beyond the bed's rich drapes their snores filled the darkness.

Byren lay on his back, staring up at the canopy, which was all but lost in the darkness, as he wrestled with the decisions he'd made and had yet to make. He wished he had as much faith in himself as Orrade had.

These moral dilemmas were why he had not craved the kingship. How did he know what was the right decision? The crazy old seer had known what she was talking about.

Pity she was long dead.

Dusk, two days later, Byren met with Warlord Unace's representative. The uprising had decimated her forces, so she'd sent one of her few surviving kinsmen, an old man with white hair and a tendency to shout due to his deafness. Consequently the meeting was short.

As Master Catillum and Feid escorted Unace's kinsman out of the war table chamber, Byren caught Orrade's arm and they fell behind.

The mystics master glanced over his shoulder, noticed and sent Byren a look of query. Bearing in mind Feldspar's warning, Byren gave a slight shake of his head. The door closed on the others and Byren wandered over to the window where Orrade joined him. Byren barely noticed the activity in the courtyard three floors below them.

'Unace will send four hundred warriors, mostly untried youths.' Byren rubbed the bridge of his nose. He did not want to send boys to their deaths.

'And no word from Leogryf Spar,' Orrade said.

'Not surprising. He has farther to sail.' Feid's stronghold was on the east coast of Foenix Spar and, on a clear day, they could see the peaks of Unistag Spar. Leogryf Spar was further away, to the west. 'I don't expect to hear from him for a day or two.'

Orrade leant closer to the window, to look down into the courtyard. 'I knew it wouldn't last.' There was a smile in his voice.

Byren followed the direction of his gaze. His people filled the courtyard, sharpening weapons, repairing tack, laughing and talking. Florin moved through, heading for the stables to see her father and brother, no doubt. Byren should have known he couldn't keep her out of harm's way, but still it made his body tense.

'Florin's back in her trews.' Orrade grinned. 'I knew the dress wouldn't last. Mind you, it did look good. I'd no idea she hid a woman's curves under her men's clothing. Maybe I'll ask her to dance tonight.'

'Go right ahead,' Byren said, surprised by the pang it caused him.

But it would be the perfect solution to his problem. With Orrade in Florin's bed, no one would suspect his friend's preference for men, for Byren specifically. The thought of Orrade and Florin together left a bitter taste in Byren's mouth. Since he had no intention of attaching himself to a mountain girl without useful connections, he could not satisfy his itch and besides, Florin deserved more than a tumble in the hay.

With that realisation, Byren wanted to warn Orrade off, unless his intentions were honourable, but his friend was far too perceptive. So he kept his silence.

And he tried not to recall the feel of Florin's waist in his hands as they danced.

Chapter Fourteen

Disguised as a Merofynian merchant ship, flying the azure and black flag, the
Wyvern's Whelp
lay at anchor in a secluded cove not far from Cyena Abbey. Fyn perched on the window seat of the captain's cabin, fingering his dagger hilt. It felt strange having the captain answer to him.

Nefysto had confirmation that Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter was making her last camp before reaching Cyena Abbey. Fyn had to act tonight, to save this girl from Palatyne.

If only he'd been in time to save Piro. Despite his best efforts not to, he imagined Piro's last terrifying moments and his stomach churned.

At least he could save this young woman whether she wanted it or not.

Perhaps Isolt thought marriage to Palatyne would make her empress of the known world one day.

She should have been married to Byren.

Fyn sat up.

His mind raced as he made the connections. Isolt had been betrothed to Lence, so his death meant she was betrothed to Byren. His brother needed allies to win back Rolencia. If Fyn subdued Isolt and whisked her back to Mage Isle, then took her to Rolencia to find Byren, his brother could marry her.

Surely, if Byren and Isolt were married, King Merofyn would negotiate peace with his own son-in-law? But that didn't take into account Palatyne.

'Ready, Agent Monk?' Nefysto asked.

Fyn heard mockery every time the captain used this new title, but it was affectionate teasing.

'Ready as I'll ever be.' He came to his feet. Tonight he'd abduct Isolt. Tomorrow, he'd worry about Palatyne.

Dressed in a sailor's rough leggings and jerkin, Fyn stepped onto Merofynia's shore. Bantam and Jakulos pulled the row boat up onto the shingled beach under an overhang, where the stars cast a deep shadow.

'Sure you don't want us to come?' Bantam asked.

Fyn shook his head. Alone, he could slip into the camp, knock Isolt out and get away. He hoped. But with two sea-hounds in tow, the chance of discovery grew and the any ensuing altercation would make success less likely.

After a whispered word of luck from Jakulos, Fyn climbed the slope. He found Isolt's servants had already made camp. Oblivious to threat in their own kingdom, her attendants were relaxed as they wandered through gaily coloured tents and chatted around the cooking fires.

When the camp had settled for the night, Fyn crept stealthily towards the largest tent. The smells of Merofynian cooking still lingered on the night air, reminding him of his mother. Reminding him painfully that he'd lost her.

Dagger ready, Fyn hesitated at the rear of the tent. A knot of tension formed in his belly and fear made his mouth go dry. One outcry and he was dead. Fyn swallowed and tightened his hold on the knife. He would slit the canvas and go in, hold the girl's throat until she passed out, throw her over his shoulder and slip out the same way he'd come in.

His plan clear, Fyn lifted his dagger and slit the tent canvas. It sounded horribly loud in the still night air, but there was no outcry as he slipped inside. The interior was illuminated by the red glow of a brazier. Someone slept on a richly draped, low bunk. Creeping across the carpets, Fyn knelt and looked down on Isolt Kingsdaughter, schemer, betrayer.

In his vision he had seen her speaking, in the portrait he had seen her composed, now he saw her sleeping and his heart contracted. Why, she was smaller than Piro and, without her eyebrows, seemed even younger. Her black hair spread across the pillow, fine as silk, framing a face vulnerable in sleep. Her pale skin was so translucent he could see the tracery of veins on her eyelids. She gave a little moan, as if her dreams were troubled.

How could this innocent-looking young woman be the conniving daughter of King Merofyn, partially responsible for the fall of Rolencia and the death of most of Fyn's family?

Without warning, a small woman tackled Fyn and they fell forwards over the sleeping Isolt. She gave a muffled cry as the travelling bunk collapsed. Desperate not to alert the sentries, he struggled to subdue his attacker, while Isolt writhed to free herself from under him and the tangled bedclothes.

Sharp teeth sank into his forearm. Cursing, Fyn came to his feet. Manoeuvring his attacker so that her back was pressed to his chest, he held his dagger to her throat. His forearm stung with the imprint of her teeth. Silky dark hair tickled his nose and he could feel his captive's heart hammering, but he concentrated on Isolt, who stood on the far side of the splintered bunk.

Her frightened eyes darted from his face to the entrance beyond, as she calculated the odds of help coming before he killed them both. 'Don't hurt her,' she pleaded.

The serving girl jerked her head back, striking Fyn's nose. Tears of pain filled his eyes but his hold didn't weaken.

'Little wyvern!' Blinking to clear his vision, he spoke thickly through his throbbing nose. 'One word, kingsdaughter, and I
will
slit her throat!'

'It is a brave man who kills sleeping women,' Isolt told him haughtily. 'Strange. I thought Palatyne would wait until after we were married and I had given him an heir before having me murdered.'

Fyn gasped. 'If you believe he plans to kill you, then why are you marrying him?'

She glared at him. 'I will not debate marriage with a treacherous assassin!'

Anger flooded Fyn. 'That's right, you are an expert at treachery. You betrothed yourself to Lence Kingsheir, while sending an army to crush Rolencia!'

'I didn't know anything about that betrothal.'

'You sent your portrait on a pendant.'

'A portrait meant for my father.'

It could be true, but his brother was still dead. The pain of loss tore at Fyn, making his voice ragged. 'Lence gave his betrothal vows in good faith and now he's dead.'

'And I'm sorry for it,' Isolt insisted. 'But truly, I did not know.'

Fyn hesitated. Had Isolt been an innocent piece in a game of Duelling Kingdoms she knew nothing about?

'Fyn? Is it really you?' Isolt's maid craned her head to see his face. 'Don't you know your own sister?'

'Piro?' Disbelievingly, he released her and his sister turned to face him. 'Piro... They told me you were dead.'

She laughed, but pain haunted her eyes. Then she noticed his swollen nose. 'You're bleeding.'

'Find something to clean him up,' Isolt ordered, but Piro had already darted across the room to a pitcher of water.

Delighted and a little stunned, Fyn watched his sister return with a bowl of water and a cloth.

'Sit down,' Isolt said, pushing his chest. He dropped onto a stool. Isolt lit a candle then turned his face to the light. A pucker of concern between her plucked brows, she cleaned the blood from his mouth and chin.

'Did I break his nose?' Piro asked, as she went around behind him, standing with her hands on his shoulders.

'I don't think so,' Isolt said. 'But it must hurt.'

'Only a little,' Fyn lied.

Isolt ignored him and rinsed the cloth. Folding it, she pressed it to his nose. 'Tilt your head back.'

'I am sorry, Fyn.' Piro's eyes twinkled above, as she supported his head. 'At least I didn't forget what you taught me.'

He grinned weakly. 'You're a sight for sore eyes. Why does everyone think you're dead? How did you come to be maidservant to King Merofyn's daughter?'

'I let them think another girl's body was mine and Lord Dunstany, the king's Power-worker, claimed me for his slave. Then Palatyne asked for me and gifted me to Isolt. How did you escape?'

'No time now,' Fyn told her, focused on his mission and Isolt. 'I've come to rescue you. My ship is waiting.' He could not help searching Isolt's face to see if she was impressed.

She removed the cloth. 'Good, the bleeding has stopped.' After dropping the bloodied cloth in the bowl, she turned away without meeting his eyes or commenting.

'This is perfect, Isolt,' Piro said. 'My brother can get us away from Merofynia. I didn't say it before, but I think King Merofyn and Palatyne could force the abbess to hand you over even if you became a nun.'

'We can't go to Rolencia,' Isolt said. 'We'd have to go to -'

'Ostron Isle. The elector always remains neutral so he can profit from our wars,' Fyn said, as he came to his feet. The longer they delayed, the more chance there was of discovery. 'If Palatyne gets his hands on Piro or me, our lives are forfeit. Come with me, Isolt, and I promise you'll be safe from Palatyne.'

'It means placing myself under the elector's protection and becoming a pawn in his power games.' Her black eyes blazed. 'But it's better than becoming Palatyne's trophy queen!'

'Good. Now, all we have to do is get out of here.' Piro turned expectantly to Fyn.

This was better than Fyn had hoped, his sister back from the dead and Isolt Kingsdaughter cooperating in her own abduction. Only now he wasn't kidnapping her, he was rescuing her. 'We'll slip out the back of the tent and down to the... What are you doing?'

Isolt and Piro had begun sorting clothes.

'I can't go dressed only in my night gown,' Isolt pointed out.

It was rose-coloured silk, so fine it was almost transparent. Fyn looked away quickly and cleared his throat. 'You must leave everything. Make it look like you were taken against your will.'

'Good idea. That will confuse Palatyne's spy,' Piro said, tipping over a chest and spilling its contents to make it appear there'd been a struggle. She tipped the water from the bowl and draped the bloodied cloth artistically on an upturned stool. 'This will convince them!'

'Excellent.' Isolt beamed, then turned to Fyn. 'What about shoes? And a cloak to keep out the chill?'

'Take nothing. I have a boat waiting, a ten minute walk from here. On second thoughts, you will need shoes, but nothing else.'

Isolt knelt to lace up delicate jewelled sandals.

Fyn glanced to Piro, who had slipped on shoes and was about to pick up her foenix. How did it get to Merofynia? He stared at the sleepy bird in his ornate cage. That was all they needed, pet birds. 'Piro, I...'

Her chin lifted.

He sighed, recognising defeat when he saw it. 'All right, but keep him quiet.'

'Come, my pretty.' Piro lifted the cage. 'Ready.'

His sister and the kingsdaughter followed Fyn from the enemy camp. A blaze of starlight illuminated the night, bright enough to cast shadows. It was a pity it was not cloudy. Fyn hesitated in the tent's shadow. Now that he had two lives in his care, fear almost paralysed him. How could he protect these trusting girls?

He tapped Piro on the shoulder and pointed to a thicket. He had not come in that way, but it was a quicker path to the boat and escape. She nodded her understanding and ran across the open ground into the shadow under the trees. The foenix did not cry out. No alarm was given.

Fyn caught Isolt's hand and set off. Entering the shadow he smelled horses - no, donkeys. They stirred, reacting to the scent of the foenix. Fyn cursed silently. The bird made an interrogative sound.

'Hush, my pretty,' Piro whispered.

'Come.' Fyn turned to lead them on.

A broad-shouldered outline detached itself from the night, cutting off their escape. They had only a heartbeat before the camp was alerted. A donkey, sensing their fear, gave its strident bray.

The sentry drew his sword. 'Who goes there?'

As the man stepped forwards to strike, Fyn darted in and caught his sword arm. Pulling him off balance, Fyn swung the man around and snapped his neck without making a sound.

The sentry's body collapsed.

Fyn straightened up. Both Piro and Isolt stared at him.

A muffled query came from the next sentry. Another donkey brayed with fright and the others shifted, pulling at their ropes.

'Run for it!' Fyn pushed both of the girls ahead of him.

A shout told them the sentry's body had been found. More shouts followed as the alarm was raised.

Fyn ducked to avoid low branches, praying none of them would fall and twist an ankle on the shadowed, uneven ground.

The reached the dunes. Soft sand slid away under their feet, impeding their progress. The girls floundered. Breath rasping in his throat, Fyn caught both their arms and dragged them up the steep rise to the crest of the next dune. From here they could see the small cove, its pale sand gleaming in the starlight. Piro gasped, struggling with the weight of the foenix in its cage.

'There's the ship.' Fyn pointed to the
Wyvern's Whelp
, a dark shadow on the glittering sea. 'We're nearly safe.'

He glanced behind him. Pursuers lumbered up the sand after them.

He shoved both girls down the steep dune. They skidded through deep sand drifts, sliding to the base, the cage swaying wildly. He followed.

He pulled Piro upright, pointing to where Bantam had dragged the row boat into the shallows. 'Run.'

Then he pulled Isolt to her feet.

She stared at him. 'You killed that sentry quicker than a striking snake. What are you, an assassin?'