The ring’s stone flared to life with a silvery glow.
‘It’s lovely!’ Isolt whispered.
‘Good.’ Dunstany looked relieved. ‘One day you may need to produce something showy to make your enemies back down.’
Fyn suspected he’d used borrowed power. ‘I’m not—’
There was a knock on the door, and he slipped the ring into his pocket before Dunstany opened the door. A sailor entered to report that they were approaching Wythrontir Estate.
By the time Fyn made it out on deck, the setting sun had turned the Landlocked Sea to molten gold. Ahead of them he could see a forest of masts, and Fyn recalled that the estate was famous for its shipyard and vast sea-wall.
‘Why is the wall so high?’ Fyn asked Dunstany.
‘Storms can stir up huge waves.’
Lord Wythrod was waiting for them on the wharf, with his grandmother by his side. As the sailors throw out ropes, which were made fast to the bollards, Wythrod cupped his hands and called, ‘What news?’
‘All good,’ Captain Elrhodoc shouted. ‘Neiron has reclaimed Nevantir.’
There was cheering from the wharf, and then from behind the sea-wall as the news spread. Wythrod went to formally introduce his grandmother to the queen, but the old woman laughed, took Isolt’s hands and kissed her cheeks. ‘I don’t need an introduction to my great-niece. Why, the last time I saw you, you were just a little girl. Now look at you, queen of Merofynia. Welcome to Wythrontir.’
As Lady Isfynia discussed their relatives, the abbess smiled tolerantly and Captain Elrhodoc gave Wythrod the details of the battle for Nevantir.
‘We found the spar barbarians sleeping in the great hall,’ Elrhodoc said, voice thick with contempt. ‘Killed them as they scrambled for their weapons and built a bonfire of their bodies.’
‘And the Lady Nerysa?’ Wythrod asked.
Elrhodoc shook his head.
‘I’m sorry.’ Wythrod gestured to his great house, which stood on top of a terraced hill. The terraces were filled with the tents and campfires. ‘My people have also suffered. Hundreds have come down from the north, fleeing the spar invasion. I’ve armed every man and lad who can hold a weapon. We’re ready to—’
‘We march tomorrow.’ Fyn said. He glanced to Murheg, who had volunteered to accompany the young lord. ‘Don’t engage the enemy until Neiron and his men meet up with you. By then, Yorale should be in position.’ Fyn hesitated. ‘From what you’ve said, the majority of your army is made up of farmers and fishermen.’
Wythrod bristled. ‘They are ready to die to protect their families!’
‘Better if they live and come home to their families. We...’ Fyn was distracted by the sound of raised voices as Isolt tried to convince Lady Isfynia to take shelter on the ship until the spar warriors were defeated.
‘Leave Wythrontir?’ the old woman cried. ‘I’ve lived here since I arrived as a young bride sixty-five years ago, and a pack of uncouth spar warriors is not going to force me out of my home!’
Wythrod laughed. ‘Grandmother ordered a feast when we saw your sails. Come up to the great house.’
As they stepped off the wharf, onto the sea-wall, Fyn told Wythrod, ‘My mother used to tell me stories of your estate, how you reclaimed the land from the sea.’
He nodded proudly and pointed to the hill where the great house stood. ‘Originally it was a headland, surrounded by marshes. First we built dykes to reclaim the marshes, then we reclaimed land from the sea itself.’
They walked down the slope from the sea-wall, onto a raised road with embankments on each side. It ran in a straight line to the lowest terrace of the great house.
‘We’re walking on one of the old dykes. My family’s always been ship builders.’ Wythrod gestured to the shipyards on their right. Workers swarmed over the vessels. ‘Our dry docks are the best in Merofynia. We flood them to launch the ships. Easy, really, since the reclaimed land is below sea level.’
A bell rang and the ship builders downed tools for the day. As Wythrod escorted the royal party along the dyke road to his great house, Fyn noticed that one particular group of workers were nearly naked. Miserable and underfed, they kept their eyes lowered as they passed.
Oblivious to their state, Wythrod waxed enthusiastic describing the new pleasure yacht Neiron had commissioned.
Fyn edged closer to Dunstany and dropped his voice. ‘Why doesn’t Wythrod take better care of his workers?’
‘They’re seven-year slaves. And they don’t have it as bad as those in Yorale’s mines. If they’re not crushed in cave-ins, the dust eventually gets into their lungs and kills them.’
Fyn flushed. How could he have forgotten about the Rolencian prisoners of war? As he watched them go past, he wished Byren had been able to negotiate their freedom; but the Merofynian nobles had driven a hard bargain.
Wythrod led his guests up a succession of broad terraces towards the great house. They were soon surrounded by refugees. Children wailed, cows lowed and chickens cackled.
Isolt frowned. ‘So many people homeless.’
‘I know,’ Wythrod said. ‘But this is the last of them. The spar warriors are past the turn off to my lands now.’ And he continued up the steps discussing the battle plans with Elrhodoc and the abbot.
Meanwhile Isolt paused to survey the old folks, women and children. ‘All the accounts of great battles talked of strategy and bravery. They never mentioned this.’
‘That’s because the histories are written by the victors, not the dispossessed,’ Lady Isfynia said. ‘Powerful men don’t have to worry about providing meals for hungry children, finding somewhere safe for them to sleep and soothing their nightmares.’
Dunstany struggled on the steps using both his staff and cane. Fyn hid a smile and offered Lady Isfynia his arm.
‘Thank you.’ She searched his face as she accepted his help. ‘You’re like your mother. She was a sweet natured child. Always trying to do the right thing.’
Of course, the elderly Merofynian nobles would remember his mother as a small child. He felt her loss all over again.
The old woman paused at the top of the last steps, turning to gesture to the refugees on the terraces below. ‘This is why I can’t leave. What kind of message would it send to our people?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Fyn squeezed her arm. ‘War will not come here.’
Chapter Thirty-One
FLORIN ESCAPED THE bride’s tent. If she didn’t get away from those chattering females, she would go mad. All day she’d helped Varuska and the girls prepare for the ceremony. Every merchant markiz and nobleman’s daughter wanted to be part of the bridal party, and Cobalt had indulged them all.
Now she took the opportunity to look around. Narrowneck had been her home until Byren arrived, fleeing the manticore pride, and turned her world upside down. As far as Florin could tell, the bride’s tent had been erected on the site of her family’s stables and barn. As she stepped around the Rolencian banner, the gold thread of the foenix’s feathers glinted in the sun.
On the other side of what had been the stable yard was the place where her family’s trade house had stood for two hundred years. Naturally, Cobalt had pitched his tent on the best spot on Narrowneck, and when he’d raised the royal foenix banner no one had dared protest.
The once densely wooded isthmus was unrecognisable. Only the biggest trees had survived the fire-storm. Looking down the straight road, she could see the barrier that Cobalt’s men had erected across the narrow entrance that gave this place its name. Tents belonging to the nobility and merchant markizes had been pitched to each side of the road. There had been fierce rivalry over whose tent was pitched closest to the two royal tents.
Between the tents, where feet had not beaten paths, knee-high grass grew from the ashes and waist high saplings sprouted, fertilised by the bodies of those who had died in that terrible fire. So many dead... friend and foe alike, the fire had not differentiated.
Florin shuddered and adjuste
d her cloak. It was mid-afternoon and hot, but she couldn’t discard her cloak, which hid the rope she would need later to escape down the cliff.
A cart rolled up, laden with workers and carpets. An officious-looking servant waved her aside. The servant sent several youths to hang fluttering flags from poles, then oversaw others while they unrolled a large square carpet. They laid this over the former stable yard. Next they unrolled a number of long, narrow carpets, leading straight down to where the ceremony would be held.
Time was running out.
As she passed Cobalt’s tent, she realised that beneath her feet were the cracked flagstones of the larder and there, behind the tent, were the remains of the taproom’s chimney. Many a cold winter’s night they had put a whole log on the fire and gathered to listen to traveller’s tales. Her, Da and little Leif... Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them away. After this was over, she was going across the Divide to Foenix Spar, to see her family.
Florin made her way down the slope towards the cliffs. They’d run this way when it was clear the battle was lost. Not far from here was the spot where they had leapt into the lake to escape the raging fire.
It presented a very different picture now. On her left were the cooking fires, where meat had been roasting all morning. On her right, servants were busy setting up trestle tables where the feast would be served. To shade the feasters, muslin had been draped from poles and blackened trunks. The many lanterns would be lit at dusk, when the feast was due to start.
At last she came to the flat ground right on the tip of Narrowneck, where a dais had been erected so that the populace who had sailed or rowed across Lake Sapphire could watch the wedding. Dozens of boats of various sizes, flying banners in every shade of burgundy and red, bobbed on the sparkling water below. She could see people on board already drinking and feasting.
On Florin’s right, a dozen musicians tuned their instruments. The castle-keep had outdone herself with the organisation of the wedding. Every detail had been anticipated, right down to the privies.
Florin turned left, following the curve of the cliffs. Here the smell of wood smoke and cooking fires was very strong. At last she came to the only place where the cliffs overlooked a small beach. A platform had stood here, with a winch to bring travellers and supplies up to the tradepost. The platform had burned, leaving stone uprights still buried in the earth.
It was here that Byren had killed a manticore, before the pride’s largest male had attacked him, sending them both over the cliff. He’d been lucky. The manticore had hit a rocky projection partway down and cushioned his landing four body-lengths below.
Florin peered down to the beach and then glanced over her shoulder at the rear of the cooks’ tents. No one was looking her way, so she slid the rope from under her cloak and tied it around one of the stone uprights, leaving it in a coil on the ground. Varuska could manage the climb, and Seela claimed she was tougher than she looked. She certainly had nerves of steel. It was Varuska who jumped at the slightest noise.
Florin returned to the bride’s tent to lend her support. Under canvas it was stifling, as the mid-afternoon sun combined with the lamps.
Looking pale and pretty in a gown of deep red silk, Varuska was surrounded by two dozen excited girls. They wore dresses in their family colours and garlands in their hair. The youngest two were already weepy from overexcitement.
Florin caught Seela’s eye and gave the slightest of nods. It was done. Now all they had to do was endure the ceremony and the feast, then kill Cobalt when he retired to his marriage bed.
Seela glanced to the private chamber at the back of the tent, and Florin followed her, weaving through the chattering girls. As Varuska watched them go, she went to call out, then covered her mouth, smudging her painted lips.
Seela parted the muslin curtains to enter the dimly lit private area. There she came to an abrupt stop, and Florin almost bumped into her. Cobalt stood examining the bridal clothes, his back to them.
‘My lord!’ Seela gasped, recovering quickly. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony?’
‘I’m delivering the royal jewels for Piro.’ He gestured to Amil, who carried a small chest, then nodded to the main chamber. ‘Tell the girls there’s time to show their families their pretty dresses before the ceremony starts, and tell Piro I’ll be with her in a moment.’
As Seela slipped out of the private chamber into the main part of the tent, Florin glanced over her shoulder, wondering how Varuska would cope with the news that Cobalt wanted to see her.
A hand closed over Florin’s mouth.
‘Scream and I’ll kill the old woman,’ Cobalt said.
Amil twisted Florin’s arm up behind her back so that it felt like her shoulder would pop from its socket. Between them, they dragged her over to the clothes rail and secured her wrists to each post.
Cobalt stepped in close. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, tradepost girl? Of course I recognised you. I only saw you that once, when you came to warn King Rolen of the invasion, but I remembered you said your father was visiting his sister in the foothills of the divide, and I deduced it had to be you who helped Byren’s army escape over the mountains.’
Florin glanced to Amil. He was taking something out of his pocket. She went with cold with fear.
‘I told Amil to watch you,’ Cobalt said. ‘I knew you were up to something with the old nurse. After this wedding’s over, you’re going to tell me where Byren is—’
‘But I don’t know,’ Florin blurted.
‘I don’t believe you. I think he sent you here for a reason.’ Cobalt nodded to Amil, who gagged her. Cobalt dismissed him with a wave, and the manservant slipped out through the rear of the tent.
As Cobalt looked Florin up and down, a hungry light came into his eyes. She fought panic, edging back into the folds of rich fabrics.
‘I must say the manservant’s uniform makes the most of your long legs, but I wonder if there’s any woman underneath it...’ Taking his ceremonial knife, he slit the front of her thigh-length tabard, revealing the breast band which she wound around her chest each morning. His breath quickened and he cut the material, the tip of his knife perilously close to her flesh.
As the material fell away, he snorted softly. ‘Hardly a handful, but...’ He pressed the flat of the blade to her right breast. Her nipple reacted to the cold metal and he smiled with satisfaction. ‘Responsive all the same.’
She glared at him.
‘Oh, yes, I’ll have fun with you tonight,’ he whispered. Returning the knife to its sheath, his hand continued down to cup her. No man had ever touched her so intimately.
She froze, stunned, and he laughed softly.
Before she could recover from the shock, he removed his hand, his top lip lifting in disgust. ‘I can’t... no, I simply can’t bring myself to fuck you, not when you’re more man than woman.’
Heat rushed up her neck, flooding her face.
A deep shout made him turn and look out through the gauze curtain to the main section of the bridal tent, where Seela and Varuska were waiting for him.
Another shout followed. The clash of metal on metal made Florin jump, but it made Cobalt smile.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he whispered. ‘Even Byren would not be so stupid.’
Cobalt darted out into the main section of the tent. As he passed Seela and Varuska, he told them, ‘Stay here, you’ll be safe. I’ll see what’s going on.’
BYREN WORE A workman’s cap and smock, with a leather harness over his shoulders. He stood as if weary, his back bent between the shafts of a small cart. Neither he nor Orrade carried weapons, which was just as well, since the gate guards had been most thorough. After getting past the guards, they’d made their way up the long straight road on the spine of Narrowneck, delivering hats to the tents of the wealthy.
Now impatience gnawed at him as he waited for Milliner Salvatrix and Orrade to return.
Narrowneck was packed. Servant
s came and went. Carts filled the lanes between the tents, where arguments over right of way broke out as people refused to back up their horses. Everyone moved with purpose except the men-at-arms, who waited outside tents in twos and threes. A few were hard-eyed and serious, but most had already begun to celebrate, surreptitiously passing around wine skins.
As soon as Orrade and the hat maker reached the cart, Byren bent his shoulders into the harness. The milliner’s cart was not heavy, but it was hard to get it moving up the rise. The return journey would be easier, all downhill, with Piro tucked safely in the back under the blanket. To his relief, the gate guards were not checking carts as they left.
They stopped at two more tents before they reached the highest point where the tradepost had once stood. Here the royal tents had been pitched, both flying the Rolencian banner.
Byren backed the cart into the gap between Cobalt’s tent and a noble’s tent. Salvatrix opened her work basket, while Orrade helped Byren undo the harness.
The hat maker removed her largest pair of scissors, unscrewed them, then gave Byren and Orrade what amounted to a dagger each. ‘Here you are. Now, I’ll wait here and—’
‘Freezing Sylion!’ Orrade nudged Byren. ‘That’s Chandler and Old Man Narrows.’
Dressed as Rolencian men-at-arms, carrying stolen weapons, the pair walked bold as brass up to Cobalt’s tent and slipped inside.
Byren swore softly. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘Getting themselves killed,’ Orrade muttered. ‘We must—’
‘Watch out for Cobalt’s manservant,’ the hat-maker warned. ‘I’ve heard he’s a corax.’
Byren planted a kiss of thanks on her cheek. ‘Keep your head down.’
Then he and Orrade made a dash for the corner of Cobalt’s tent. Byren gestured to the bridal tent. ‘You grab Piro. I’ll get Chandler and Old Man Narrows.’
‘But—’
A shout, followed by the clash of metal, put an end to debate. Orrade ran for Piro’s tent.
King Breaker Page 31
