‘I don’t understand,’ Rhalwyn said. ‘If the sea-wall is intact, why did the estate flood?’
As soon as he reached the deck, Fyn asked Dunstany the same question.
‘Lady Isfynia must have opened the shipyard floodgates.’
‘But that hasn’t happened since...’ Isolt ran down, looking shocked.
‘Since Wythrontir was attacked by Lincis Spar warriors over two hundred years ago,’ Dunstany finished for her. ‘Back then, it was their last defence. With Wythrod and all the able-bodied men gone, Lady Isfynia would have had no other way to defend her people.’
Frustration churned in Fyn’s gut. Wythrontir Estate shouldn’t have been attacked. Abbot Murheg would know what had gone wrong, if he still lived. It surprised Fyn to discover he would miss the historian-turned-abbot.
They studied the estate as the ship drew closer. The water was very still, reflecting the great house like a mirror.
‘It’s very beautiful, but strange,’ Isolt said, then turned to Fyn. ‘If the spar warlords were headed west, why did Lady Isfynia have to open the flood gates?’
‘There was always a chance they would turn south,’ Elrhodoc said.
‘But, if that was the case, Wythrod and his men would have been between them and the estate.’ Isolt turned to Dunstany. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
The noble scholar shrugged. ‘In the confusion of battle, the best laid plans can go awry.’
They fell silent, as the yacht neared the wharf. This time there was no one to greet them. While the sailors made the ropes fast and lowered the gangplank, Fyn lifted the farseer to study the great house again. Two flags flew from the tower. One was the Wythrontir trident and trumpet, symbolising maritime dominion and readiness for war. The other... ‘Whose crest is the hammer and hawk?’
‘The hammer and hawk symbolise metal forged and determination,’ Isolt answered automatically. And Fyn just knew her father had made her memorise all the crests of the noble families. ‘That’s the Yoraltir symbol. What does this mean?’
‘It appears Yorale claims the glory of turning back the spar invasion,’ Dunstany said and offered Isolt his arm. ‘You must thank your lord general for his service, my queen.’
They made their way from the wharf to the sea-wall and down onto what had been the dyke road. Now it was a causeway, surrounded by water.
Fyn frowned as he surveyed the flood waters. Had the Rolencian war captives drowned in their cells? ‘Do they chain the seven-year slaves at night?’
Isolt looked horrified.
‘No need,’ Dunstany said and Fyn realised that the captives could not escape unless they could speak Merofynian and pass themselves off as locals.
The abbess made a soft noise in her throat and hurried on. Fyn spotted several spar warriors floating face down in the water. To distract Isolt, he pointed to the great house. ‘It’s lucky the refugees made their camp on the terraces.’
The wyvern gave a cry above them and swooped down to skim across the surface of the water, rising later with a fish in her jaws.
‘Did you see that?’ Isolt was delighted. ‘Here, girl...’ She clicked her tongue and the wyvern landed on the causeway in the front of them. With a toss of her head, Loyalty swallowed the fish in one gulp.
‘Clever girl.’ Isolt patted the wyvern’s neck and they continued along the causeway.
The foenix landed next to Fyn, the downdraft from his great wings buffeting them.
‘Did you see that, Dunstany?’ Fyn pointed. ‘Resolute is favouring his left leg.’
As Isolt walked on with her escort, Fyn stroked Resolute’s neck and Dunstany knelt to inspect the foenix.
‘Can we trust Yorale?’ Fyn whispered.
‘When Isolt’s father seized the throne, Yorale’s older brother led an uprising. The Yoraltir claim to the throne was just as good, but Yorale supported King Merofyn rather than his brother. There might be rivalry between Yoraltir and Dunistir Estates, but Yorale has always been loyal to the crown.’
At that moment, Isolt and her entourage reached the first terrace. The refugees surged forward, cheering and waving. Startled, Loyalty reared up and gave a cry. The young queen soothed her with a touch and a word.
‘Isolt Wyvern Queen!’ someone cried, and others took up the chant. ‘Isolt Wyvern Queen!’
‘I don’t think we need to worry about Isolt’s hold on the throne,’ Dunstany said.
When the queen’s party reached the highest terrace, they found Yorale and Neiron waiting. Dressed in their parade ground finest, the lords and their captains filled the top terrace, their breastplates glinting in the sunlight. Fyn spotted Abbot Murheg and caught his eye, but there was no chance to speak now.
To the people who watched from the terraces below, it must have been an impressive display as the nobles welcomed their queen.
Yorale went down on one knee. ‘Your humble lord general welcomes you, Queen Isolt. Wythrontir Estate is safe. The warlords of Lincis and Amfina spars are dead.’
‘Thank you for your loyal service. This will not be forgotten,’ Isolt said, before looking around at those gathered. ‘Where is my great-aunt?’
Yorale pushed himself to his feet with an effort. ‘Alas, my queen, the excitement was too much for Lady Isfynia. Her heart gave out.’
Isolt’s face fell.
‘I don’t see Lord Wythrod.’ Fyn had been searching the armed men. ‘Why isn’t he here to greet his queen? Abbot Murheg, you were with him. What happened?’
Neiron glanced to Yorale, and they both stepped to one side as Murheg came forward. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. When we came upon the spar camp, I convinced Wythrod to wait in the valley behind it until Lord Neiron arrived. Unfortunately, that night while we slept, spar warriors attacked. Wythrod was struck down as he called for his armour.’
Fyn turned to Neiron. ‘Where were you?’
‘We arrived the next morning, too late to help.’
‘Meanwhile, I was waiting in position to form the pincer attack,’ Yorale said. ‘By the time I had realised what was going on, the battle was over, Wythrod was dead and his men had been decimated. Trapped between Neiron and my men, the spar warlords fled south. We gave chase.’
‘And we were running ahead of the spar warriors,’ Murheg said. ‘We reached Wythrontir great house in time to warn Lady Isfynia. Alone and surrounded, she could only watch as they set fire to the shipyards. She waited until night, then ordered the flood gates opened. The water rushed upon them like a great wall, extinguishing the enemy’s camp fires and sweeping all before it.’
Yorale nodded. ‘We were half a day behind, cleaning up stragglers.’
‘So you don’t know if the two warlords are dead?’ Fyn asked. As far as he could see, it was Lady Isfynia who had defeated the invasion.
‘My poor aunt...’ Isolt whispered. ‘Wythrod was the last of the Wythrontirs.’
‘Not quite,’ Yorale said. ‘My second wife was Wythrod’s aunt. My youngest son, Yorwyth, is the next in line.’ He gestured to a youth at his side. ‘Yoromer, fetch your brother.’
‘If we are going to consider the maternal line, Yorale’s son is not the only Wythrontir,’ Dunstany said. ‘Lord Benvenute’s heir married Wythrod’s aunt. They were both killed in the Centicore Spar raid, but their son Benowyth lives. His claim is just as strong.’
‘Not quite. His mother was the younger sister,’ Yorale said. ‘Besides, Benowyth is the infant heir of Benetir Estate, which is on the far side of the Landlocked Sea. While Yorwyth is...’
‘You sent for me, Father?’ a youngster asked.
Yorale stepped aside. ‘Put the chair here.’
The servant obeyed, and the older brother steadied Yorwyth as he put his crutches aside and lowered himself into the chair. The ten-year-old’s right leg was strapped to a board.
‘What happened to you, young man?’ Isolt asked with ready sympathy.
‘I fell—’
‘During the Rolencian campaign he s
erved on one of Travany’s ships, broke his leg in two places,’ Yorale explained. ‘But he’ll be on his feet by midsummer. In another five years he’ll be a man. Until then, I’ll leave my most experienced captain to protect the estate.’
‘With Utlanders in Port Mero and spar warlords coming over the divide the kingdom needs strong lords, my queen,’ Neiron said. ‘Lords who are prepared to spill blood in your defence.’
As much as Fyn hated to admit it, he was right.
‘Lord General.’ Isolt gestured for Yorale to kneel.
‘My queen.’
‘As a reward for your loyal service, I grant your second son, Yorwyth, Wythrontir Estate. He will be known henceforth as Lord Wythor.’ She nodded to the abbot and abbess. ‘Draw up a decree to this effect.’
Murheg and Celunyd went off to prepare the papers and Yorale arranged for his youngest son’s chair to be carried to the edge of the terrace.
There Yorale lifted his youngest son’s arm. ‘I give you, Lord Wythor of Wythrontir Estate!’
And the people cheered.
THE VOYAGE HAD taken twice as long as usual and Piro was grateful to be home safe in Port Marchand. The sounds of men shouting as they unloaded and seagulls calling came through the cabin window.
After the storm had eased off, the voyage had been uneventful and they had limped home. Everyone had worked double shifts while she’d nursed the injured under Surgeon Wasilade’s watchful eye.
Piro closed her travelling bag and fastened the leather straps. If Bantam or Jakulos heard she was leaving, they’d send Cormorant to escort her to the Rolencian agent, which was quite unnecessary as she knew her way home.
Somehow, she had to stop Cobalt’s marriage to the imposter. Back on Ostron Isle, this had all seemed so simple. But now that she was here, she’d decided she needed to go to the mage’s agent for advice. Together they would come up with a plan. No more jumping feet first into trouble.
Filled with determination, Piro picked up her bag.
She glanced down the passage to the middeck before heading for the captain’s cabin. After scribbling a quick note to Bantam and signing it Mulcy Girl, she made for the door.
‘This will do,’ an old woman announced, her voice carrying down the passage. ‘My apprentice and I will share.’
‘This one’s taken,’ Cormorant protested.
Curious, Piro peeped around the door. Cormorant’s shoulders hid all but the top of the woman’s neat silver bun. They had stopped in front of Piro’s old cabin.
The woman opened the door. ‘Nonsense, it’s empty.’ As she ushered her apprentice into the cabin, Piro caught a glimpse of a swollen cheek and a bandage.
‘But...’ Cormorant followed them into the cabin. Piro could still hear his muffled voice. ‘But the ship won’t leave until the repairs are completed.’
‘That’s fine. I could do with a rest. Off you go now, and when the captain returns, send him to me.’
Piro waited until the passage was clear, then left the Wyvern’s Whelp.
After so long at sea, walking on dry land made her legs feel shaky; or perhaps it was the sight of three Merofynian men-at-arms at the end of the pier. Hands on their sword hilts, they watched everyone with hooded eyes. She kept her head down as she went past. If anyone asked, she was an apprentice going home to nurse her sick mother.
The wharves were packed with ships from Merofynia and Ostron Isle, loading and unloading. Hearing Rolencian accents made Piro realise how much she’d missed her home.
As she climbed to the higher road that circled the docks the smell of hot food made her stomach rumble and she followed her nose to find a young woman serving pies from a goat cart.
Judging by the number of customers the pies were excellent and the pie-girl greeted everyone with a cheery smile.
Piro purchased one of the pastries and sat on a nearby wall to listen to the chatter of the crowd. Behind her, the lower wharf road was busy with rattling carts, barking dogs and busy merchants.
After one bite of the crisp pastry and savoury chicken filling, Piro knew why the pie-girl did such a good trade. A seagull hovered on the breeze overhead, eyeing Piro’s food. She broke off a bit of crust and threw it to the bird. In no time, a dozen seagulls had joined the first. Their raucous cries were so loud she despaired of overhearing any news. Then, on some unseen signal, they all took to the air and flew off to bother someone else.
Meanwhile, a stout matron had come over to the girl’s cart and struck up a conversation. ‘How’s your mother, Borodana?’
‘Better now we’ve gotten rid of Ozig and his master.’
‘Send them all back to Merofynia, that’s what I say. Why, only the other day...’ The matron felt silent as three Merofynian men-at-arms approached the pie cart.
The customer who’d just been served hurried off and the matron gestured for the Merofynians to go ahead of her. Two of the men-at-arms ordered quickly, the third glanced at Piro and frowned. His companions nudged him and he turned to give his order.
Piro decided it would look suspicious if she slipped away now. She didn’t know the Merofynian. More accurately, she didn’t recognise him, but there had been so many guards when she served as Isolt’s slave. Fighting the urge to run, Piro took another bite of her pie. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow.
The men-at-arms purchased their pies and moved on, leaving the matron the next in line.
‘The usual?’ the pie-girl asked.
‘Aye. Did you hear about the kingsdaughter?’ the matron asked as she accepted her pie. ‘Such a shame, and her so young.’
Piro went very still.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Borodana dropped some coins in the change pocket of her apron and served another customer. ‘I don’t believe Byren Kingsheir would—’
‘They’re saying he did it to stop the wedding.’
‘Cobalt’s wedding?’ Piro asked.
They both turned to her and nodded.
‘But the wedding isn’t until—’
‘When Cobalt heard Byren was coming back he moved the wedding forward,’ Borodana said.
‘Much good that did.’ The matron clearly relished the tragedy. ‘Byren crept into the royal tent and—’
‘I don’t believe he killed his sister,’ the pie girl insisted.
‘If Byren didn’t, who did? Cobalt? A dead kingsdaughter’s no good to him.’ The matron adjusted her shawl as if she’d won the argument. ‘Besides, they say Cobalt’s heartbroken, after saving Piro’s life and hiding her all this time.’
‘They also say Piro Kingsdaughter is staying in Merofynia with Queen Isolt,’ Borodana countered. ‘And there can’t be two Piros.’
‘One’s obviously an imposter.’
‘Aye, but which one?’
‘Who knows?’ The matron shrugged. ‘This, I do know. Byren Kingsheir is in hiding and Cobalt’s turning the kingdom upside down looking for him.’
Mind racing, Piro stared at her scuffed shoes. Byren would never hurt an innocent girl. The false-Piro must have gotten between him and Cobalt while they were fighting. Perhaps the girl fancied herself in love with Cobalt. He could be very persuasive. At any rate, the imposter was dead and Byren was on the run.
‘They’re coming back,’ the matron said. Piro looked up to see the three Merofynian men-at-arms crossing the nearest intersection and the one who’d stared at Piro was looking right at her.
Her mouth went dry with fear. Sylion’s Luck!
A merchant’s fine carriage trundled past, obscuring Piro’s line of sight for a moment.
She grabbed her bag and swung her legs over the wall, dropping to the lower wharf road. Her hands and feet stung with the impact, but she was unhurt.
Heart racing, she looked about. In another moment the Merofynians would reach the pie-cart and the wall. She needed...
Laden carts rattled past her, going in both directions. She ran for the nearest, threw her bag onto the back, and clambered up under the canvas, working her way
into the midst of a rich family’s belongings. There were rolled carpets, chests of all sizes, mirrors, paintings wrapped in calico and blanket shrouded furniture. Piro heard the Merofynians yelling as they searched for her. The cart turned a corner and the wheels rattled over wharf boards.
The men-at-arms ordered all the cart drivers to stop.
Her cart trundled on for a bit, earning abuse from the Merofynians before it came to an abrupt stop.
Meanwhile, Piro scrambled to find a hiding place. Behind a painting, she discovered a blanket-wrapped clavichord. Wriggling through a gap in the blankets, she dragged her bag with her. Underneath the clavichord, she found a shelf filled with clothing.
Heart in her mouth, Piro climbed onto the shelf, adjusted the clothing to cover her and clutched the stone.
‘You there, driver, get down.’ The Merofynian’s voice grew louder as he approached. ‘Why didn’t you stop the first time I told you to?’
‘So much noise on the wharf, I didn’t hear ya.’
Piro heard a thwack.
‘Eh, thas not fair. I’m a bit deaf. Can’t help it.’
‘Search his cart.’
‘We serve Lord Rhoderich, an’ this here’s his property bound for Merofynia,’ the cart driver insisted.
‘Well, we serve King Cobalt, so get out of my man’s way.’
‘What’s he lookin’ for?’
‘Runaway seven-year slave.’
Piro cursed her bad luck.
The cart dipped as someone climbed up then began moving things about. He was being thorough.
Sick fear made Piro’s stomach churn.
Light pierced the gloom under the clavichord as the large painting was moved aside. Piro held her breath and hoped the searcher didn’t pull the clothes out and her along with them.
A sword blade shot through the blanket going over Piro’s head. It withdrew just as quickly.
Before she realised what was happening, the blade shot through the blanket halfway along, plunging into her stomach. She felt like she’d been punched, had to bite her tongue to stifle a cry.
The blade pulled out and plunged in further along, missing her calves.
King Breaker Page 34
