Byren nodded, seeing why he needed Orrade's sharp mind. 'Although ordinary folk are glad enough to call on the abbeys for protection.'
'They used to handle the small things, up to a renegade Power-worker or a seep, by calling on someone from their own community who had Affinity. Ever since Florin's grandmother told us how it used to be, I've been asking other old folk,' Orrade revealed.
They lapsed into silence. Byren saw a shooting star and nudged Orrade. 'My wish.'
His friend grinned. 'What do you wish for, Byren?' His voice dropped, growing serious. 'If you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?'
Byren opened his mouth to say he wanted things back the way they were, Mother and Father alive, Piro and Fyn safe, Lence...
The smile left his lips. 'An end to this war with Merofynia. Me, the kind of king Rolencia needs. You, happy and safe from persecution.'
When Orrade said nothing, he glanced to him, noticing the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.
'Orrie?'
His best friend shook his head and lifted his hands so that they hid his face. When he spoke his voice was the barest scrape of sound. 'Go back to bed, Byren.'
'I've offended you.'
'No.' His hands dropped and he stared away, so that all Byren could see of him was the line of his lean cheek and jaw, lightly dusted with a wispy black beard. 'No, you haven't offended me, quite the opposite. But you don't want what I want. And tonight I can't pretend I feel only friendship for you.'
Byren swallowed. 'You are my best and closest friend. I trust you with my life.'
Orrade nodded, voice thick. 'And I, you.'
'But it's not enough. I'm being selfish keeping you with me.'
Orrade snorted. 'I'm not going anywhere. The people of Dovecote need me.'
'I need you.'
Orrade let his breath out slowly. 'You can trust me, Byren. I'll never betray you.'
'I know.'
'Go now. I'll be down soon.'
Byren felt he should say something more, but... He came to his feet, adjusted the cloak and jumped off the rock. Orrade continued to look away, arms clasped tightly around his bent knees.
Alone.
If he could, Byren would, but he couldn't.
So he turned and walked away.
The next morning Piro watched as Isolt ordered servants about imperiously as they scurried to pack for her annual pilgrimage.
While the servants worked, Piro and Isolt took their breakfast on the veranda - fresh fruit, tiny sweet pastries, rich hot drinking chocolate. It was the kind of breakfast Piro had never known until she came here, the kind her mother had known until she came to Rolencia to live.
Isolt had told the servants her clumsiness broke the window, and an industrious youth was repairing it while they ate.
'Nine days until spring cusp,' Isolt said. They were both aware of their audience. 'I'm looking forward to it. We'll travel slowly so it will take several days to walk to the abbey.'
'Walk? Can't we ride or sail?'
'Walking is part of my penitence. I am allowed servants and several donkeys to carry the tents and provisions, but we all walk. As Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter, I represent the land and her people. I go to plead with the Goddess Cyena to free us from her cruel, wintry grasp, or the farmers won't be able to sow their crops.'
This talk of a wintry goddess confused Piro, who was used to the Goddess Halcyon ruling over summer.
'Don't worry, Seela.' Isolt gave a determined smile. 'We will reach Cyena Abbey safely.' The unspoken - and then we'll both be free, you to go home, me of Palatyne - reverberated between them.
Isolt selected some choice slivers of fruit. 'Now, let's see if the foenix will take the food from my fingers. Come, my pretty boy.'
His cage had been placed on a low table beside theirs. Piro watched as the Affinity beast daintily took the fruit from Isolt's fingers.
At two years of age his beak could slice flesh. One day he would be as tall as a man and his leg spurs would contain deadly poison. If only he were full-grown now and she could turn him on Palatyne!
Chapter Eleven
Fyn collected the cards and shuffled them expertly. He'd grown adept in the last few days. This evening, he and Bantam were alone. Jakulos had gone down to buy another bottle of wine. It would have been the perfect opportunity to escape, but the sea-hound was on his guard.
'Go on.' Bantam indicated Fyn should deal the cards.
At that moment, they heard the heavy tread of Jakulos's return. The big man entered, plonked two bottles of Rolencian red on the table and dropped into his chair with the air of one who is well pleased.
'Look what I've just bought.' He pulled a drawstring bag out of his vest and undid it to reveal a small piece of fabric so fine it was almost see through.
'A caul,' Bantam whispered. 'Bet you paid the midwife a fortune for that.'
Fyn blinked. It was not fabric at all. Sailors believed those born with a caul, a piece of the birth sack over their face, could not drown. Fyn had not known they also believed the caul itself could prevent drowning. Back in Rolencia it was thought to be a sign that the baby would develop Affinity.
'Worth every silver.' Jakulos folded the caul carefully and slipped it into the bag, tucking it safely inside his vest.
Bantam uncorked one of the bottles. 'Don't supposed she had another one?'
Jakulos shook his head. 'Tell you what, if the boat sinks, hold onto me. I'll keep you afloat.'
The big sailor looked so pleased, Fyn didn't have the heart to point out that he had parted with good silver on the strength of an unknown midwife's word.
'Go on, pour the wine.' Jakulos gestured to Bantam. 'Guess what? Palatyne's been made a Duke.'
'You don't say?' Bantam muttered. 'That jumped up spar warlord?'
A roaring filled Fyn's head. To think, the man who had murdered his family had been rewarded with a dukedom.
Jakulos nodded. 'When I left Merofynia six summers ago, there were rumours about the warlord from Amfina, as he was known in those days.' He grimaced. 'Never thought to see Palatyne made a duke.'
There was a knock at the door as the serving boy delivered their evening meal. And a fine meal it was too. If Fyn hadn't been eaten up with outrage and the need to get home he would have been enjoying himself.
He glanced out the window behind Bantam. The last rays of the setting sun picked out the tip of Mage Tower, making the white stone glow salmon-pink. He'd had time to think over what the sea-hounds' captain had said. Nefysto was right. Byren needed allies, strong allies, and the elector was no use to him.
But a renegade Power-worker like the mage?
Since arriving in Ostron Isle the arguments had gone around and around in Fyn's head until he was dizzy. Having Affinity of his own meant he was open to those who used Affinity for evil purposes. But he had been abbey-trained, and knew the wards to protect himself. He was ideally suited to meeting the mage and at least sounding him out.
But it would depend on what the mage wanted - no one offered an alliance without asking for something in return. Fyn could always refuse and walk away. He'd be no worse off than he was now.
And there it was. He'd decided to go against the teachings of Halcyon Abbey and seek out Mage Tsulamyth. Nefysto had been right, a desperate man couldn't afford to be picky. Besides, forewarned was forearmed.
'Another hand of cards before dinner?' Bantam asked.
'Food,' Jakulos said, the same as he'd done every night.
They laughed.
If there was a way to leave without killing at least one of these two, Fyn had yet to find it.
'Byren?' Orrade met his eyes across the fire circle, his mouth grim.
Rather than leap up and worry the others, Byren said, 'Watch this, Orrie. Go on, Vadik.'
The boy beamed and did the dancing-coin trick, running the coin over the fingers of his left hand, as if he'd been born left-handed.
Orrade laughed and clapped.
'My best
student,' the player said. He'd been teaching all the maimed his tricks, to train their minds and coordinate their fingers.
Byren clapped his hand on the lad's shoulder then stood, wandering outside with Orrade. After their talk last night, he had barely seen his friend that day and now it was dark.
When they stood under the stars, out of hearing distance of those in the cave, Orrade turned to face him, voice low and tight. 'Word's come of a large force of Merofynians camped in the burnt-out remains of Waterford. Either the raid gave us away or they've had a tip-off.'
'Bound to happen eventually.'
'You can't wait for Fyn any longer.'
Byren nodded, mind racing. The last of the monks had reached them. Twenty-two of them boys under sixteen. He didn't want to send children into war. Neither did he want to appear before Warlord Feid as a supplicant, but he had no choice. 'With so many elderly and children, we can't travel fast.'
'There's no cloud cover to cloak the starlight. Send them over the Divide tonight with an escort. Keep your best warriors here. Buy time.'
Byren nodded, not happy with sacrificing his best to save non-combatants. But what kind of a leader would he be, if he left the defenceless behind?
'I know,' Orrade began. 'I'll take a dozen, lay a false trail and lure the Merofynians away. Maybe I can take out a few stragglers, make them suspicious of an ambush.' He grinned. 'That should hold them up for a day or two.'
Byren didn't want to put Orrade in danger so he didn't agree to, or refuse, his friend's plan. Instead he played for time, hoping something would come to him. 'Let the camp know. Oh, and Orrie, tell Florin I'm relying on her.'
In no time at all the camp was abuzz with movement. Since most people had carried their belongings on their backs, there was not much to pack. Adults hurried about, efficient and focused, while small children darted round them, excited for now. Soon they would be tired and grumpy.
Byren watched the proceedings. He had to leave the horses behind, turning them loose to fend for themselves. He regretted this, fearing Cobalt's men would recapture the animals and use them against him. There was an alternative, but it went against the grain to order the killing of good animals just to prevent them from falling into the enemy's hands.
Lence and his father might have done it, but not him.
Again the old seer's words came back to Byren. And he'd thought it simple to tell right from wrong.
As the last of Halcyon's monks shouldered their packs and buried the hot coals of their cooking fires, Byren wondered if he had what it took to be a leader in these desperate times. Was he ruthless enough?
Coming around the bend from the cave his honour guard shared, Byren met up with Florin on her way down, her travelling bag slung across her shoulders. There was a smudge of soot on one side of her nose. He wondered if he should tell her.
'Nearly ready to go?' he asked.
'Aye. You know the way as far as the big boulders.' She pulled several pieces of charcoal from her pocket with blackened fingers. That explained her nose. 'After those stones, I'll mark the trail so you can find it. Be sure to obscure the marks as you pass.'
He nodded. He wanted to take her chin in his hand and clean off her nose. But the very fact that he wanted to, meant he couldn't. 'There's a smudge on your nose.'
'Oh.' She hitched the sleeve of her jerkin over the heel of her hand and rubbed at her nose, then tilted her face for his scrutiny. 'Did I get it?'
'Yes.' He was right. She felt nothing for him and it caused him a wry pang, because so many girls in the past had been quick to lift their skirts and profess undying love, and he had accepted it as his due. That was before he realised how much Elina meant to him. Come to think of it, how could he even feel this way about Florin, when Elina was dead? He cleared his throat. 'Take care, Mountain-girl, I'm relying on you.'
'Eh, Da will be bringing up the rear. We'll be fine. It's you that has the dangerous job.'
He shrugged this off, thinking there had to be a way he could circumvent Orrade's plan. His best friend didn't know the secret way over the mountains. He'd be trapped on this side, forced to play cat-and-mouse with Cobalt until Byren returned with the warlords.
'I'm off then.' Florin left him. Not long after that, she led the way out of camp with Leif, the elderly, nursing mothers and children following. They were escorted by the majority of the able-bodied men. The path was narrow and they had to go in single file, so it was late by the time the last of them went. Luckily, it was a clear night. Above them a sky of blazing stars cast shadows on the silvered snow.
That left Byren with Orrade, his four honour guard and the mystics master plus a handful of battle-hardened monks. Byren looked around for the mystic.
'Where's Catillum?' Byren asked one of the monks.
'He and Orrade went to check the approaches.'
Byren nodded and headed down to the lookout, where he found the mystics master lying on his belly alongside Orrade as they both peered out over a cliff. Something about their concentration and stillness warned Byren. He crawled up to them, keeping low so as to present no silhouette.
'What is it?'
'An advance party, too many for scouts. I think some Merofynian captain's eager for glory,' Orrade whispered, pointing to several dark moving patches, seen clearly against the pale snow. Then they blended into shadows under the pines. 'I counted fifteen of them. They'll be up here in twenty minutes at least.'
Byren cursed. The last of the others had only just left. They needed more of a head start than that. 'No time to erase the trail properly. No time to lay a false trail.'
He eased back from the lookout lip, crouching low. The other two joined him.
'We could lead them off, making just enough noise to make it seem like we were fleeing in panic,' Orrade suggested. 'The numbers are about even.'
'My monks have seen battle,' Catillum offered. 'We'll have no trouble handling them.'
Byren knew it was true. But... 'What if we could lead them into a trap somehow? Make it look like the Merofynians had been killed by renegade Affinity. Make them so scared they'll be afraid to follow?'
'Subterfuge is always good.' Catillum's voice held cautious approval.
'How?' Orrade asked.
Byren fingered the foenix spurs he wore around his neck. 'There's that hole in the cavern of the Foenix Faithful.'
'Tip them in?' Orrade smiled. 'I love the way your mind works!'
Byren grinned, then glanced to the mystic to see if his friend had unwittingly revealed himself.
But Catillum was thinking. 'If I could use the foenixes, somehow creating an illusion -'
'You can do that? Then we'll leave one Merofynian alive. He can take the tale of rabid foenixes back to his commander.' Byren came to his feet. 'Come on.'
Twenty minutes later, the Merofynians found Byren's camp. They entered with weapons drawn and caution in every step, but this soon disappeared as it became evident the camp was empty.
One man knelt over the fire circle, stirring it with his sword tip. 'Coals are still hot. They left in a hurry.'
'Find their trail,' the leader ordered, his voice sharp with barely contained impatience. He stood with his back to the cave where Byren hid, one boot resting on a stone of the fire circle.
Byren watched from the darkness, grateful yet again that his mother had tutored him in Merofynian.
After a few moments, the men returned with news. One reported, 'There's another cave, around the bend. From there, a trail leads up into the hills.'
Their leader laughed. 'He's not thinking, he's reacting. There's no pass that way. We hold the only pass to Foenix Spar. We'll have him in a day or two. But I'd rather catch him tonight and split that bag of gold among us. So, who wants to come with me now?'
Judging the moment right, Byren let two stones click together. The leader glanced into the cave. Byren made a soft scuffling noise, leather on stone. It was just the kind of surreptitious sound that someone might make while trying to move quickly
, but quietly.
The Merofynian leader lifted his hand for silence, listening. 'The clever cock. He's split his forces, sacrificed some to lead us off, while hiding in the caves, waiting till we pass.'
Here was the weakness of the plan. A sensible leader would wait for reinforcements, but Byren wanted to lure them in. Would he have to reveal himself or would greed do the trick?
The one who had poked the fire wrapped a piece of cloth around his sword, poured a little something from a vial onto this and dipped it in the coals. Flames sprang from the makeshift torch.
The others edged nearer the entrance.
'Could be the caves join up and lead out somewhere else,' one of the men said. 'Could be they're getting away.'
'Could be,' the leader conceded. 'And we can't have that, can we lads? Come on.'
The man with the torch went first, sending shadows skittering up the walls of the cave and across the ceiling.
Byren sprang to his feet and took off, running towards the passage at the back, past a side passage where Orrade and the others waited.
'A piece of gold to the man who takes him alive,' the leader shouted. The Merofynians gave a roar and charged.
Byren ran, leading them on. He knew the way and, once around the next bend, the glow coming from the foenix cavern reached him.
His pursuers howled like dogs catching the scent.
As soon as he entered the foenix cavern Byren darted to one side. Avoiding the place where the floor appeared to be solid stone, he ran around the hidden central pit, towards the back wall. A single torch lit the paintings. By its flickering light the foenixes shimmered and danced in unison. Even blinking did not dispel the illusion. Byren's teeth hurt and his skin prickled with Affinity.
Of course - Catillum was casting an illusion from his hiding place in the shadows of a crevice.
Byren took up his place in front of the paintings. Apparently trapped.
The Merofynians ran into the cavern and hesitated, looking for hidden threats. He had to lure them on.
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