Under lavender scented blankets she found a narrow chest. ‘This?’
He nodded. ‘Bring it here.’
She turned up the bedside lamp before sitting next to him.
‘It is a terrible thing to see your children die before you. When Lord Dunstany’s youngest son was killed, his lordship was devastated, especially as he suspected Duncaer had contributed to his son’s death. He started preparing documents then to legitimise Siordun.’ Old Gwalt unrolled one document. ‘This is the forged marriage certificate for his son and Siorra. No one knew she was Dunstany’s natural daughter. Here is Siordun’s forged birth certificate.’
She studied it. ‘It says his name is Dunsior.’
‘That’s what he would have been called if he’d been legitimate. My lord was going to tell everyone his son had married in secrecy because he feared his father’s reaction to him marrying a housemaid. Dunstany was going to say she’d brought the documents to him when she gathered the courage, on Siordun’s fifth birthday. But Mage Tsulamyth tested the lad and—’
‘Took him away.’ Piro studied the aged documents. They certainly looked authentic. ‘What do you want me to do with them? It’s not like Siordun can claim the title now. He has to...’ She’d almost said he had to play the mage. She replaced the documents. ‘He has too much Affinity to live a normal life.’
‘I know. But one day he may marry and have a son, and that son will be the true heir to Dunistir Estate. I want you to keep these documents safe for him.’
Piro looked at the chest. ‘Why don’t you just give them to Siordun yourself?’
‘The mage made me promise I wouldn’t.’ Old Gwalt saw her expression. ‘No one in their right mind crosses Tsulamyth. When he decided to claim Siordun, even Dunstany had to back down. It was heartbreaking. The boy was only five. He pleaded with Dunstany not to send him away. He called for his mother...’ Old Gwalt’s chin trembled, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘We... we told him his mother had sold him to the mage. If we hadn’t, he would never have left. It broke his heart and it killed something in him. But it was a lie. Siorra didn’t want to part with him. The mage told her she was being selfish to keep him. He told her Siordun had too much natural Affinity and would not be safe from corrupt Power-workers. They kidnap children with Affinity to keep as slaves.’ Old Gwalt shook his head. ‘At any rate, the mage convinced Siorra she was doing the right thing to give up her boy, but she took sick and died not long after.’ His chin worked as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Piro’s heart went out to him, and to little Siordun and his mother. ‘I’m sorry.’ She wrapped Old Gwalt in a hug, weeping for all the things she could not change.
‘There, there.’ Old Gwalt stroked her hair. After moment, he cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes there are no easy answers. Sometimes, we do our best and people still get hurt. I want to set things to rights before I die. That’s why I’m giving you the documents. I’m glad Siordun has you.’
She wiped her cheeks, proud that Old Gwalt had chosen her for this, and that Siordun trusted her to keep his secret. ‘I won’t let him down.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
FYN STOOD ON the top terrace looking down towards the Landlocked Sea. It was dusk, and servants waited with lanterns on poles as Queen Isolt greeted the last of the nobles.
Lord Yorale was on hand, ready to advise the young queen. Sefarra and the mother of the young lord of Geraltir had sent their captains with twenty men-at-arms. The bay lord was still at sea, hunting Utland raiders, but Camoric spoke for him. The ranks of the new queen’s guard were thin and Fyn was grateful for the ex-slaves, who spent their nights camped by the shore and their days preparing for war in Byren’s service.
Dunstany remained on his estate, too ill to travel. It was unfortunate that the mage still needed Siordun. Fyn hoped Lady Death would not give him too much trouble. Here, Fyn had enough troubles of his own. Neiron, and the other lords with a vested interest in stripping him of his role as lord protector, dominated the council.
Lord Istyn had answered Isolt’s summons, deliberately delaying as long as he could to give Byren time to arrive, without success.
‘Uncle.’ Isolt’s voice carried to Fyn on the terrace above. Istyn was her mother’s older brother, but he looked more like her grandfather, his health shattered by grief. Two burly manservants had delivered him in an Ostronite carry-chair.
‘Istyn won’t do your cause any good,’ Abbot Murheg said softly. ‘The lords respect strength and power. Istyn has neither. His body has failed him, and with the death of his son there is no male heir. All he has is five daughters, poor man. He will have to get the queen’s permission for his eldest daughter to inherit the title, and her husband will have to change his name.’
‘Isolt can do that?’
‘She can, but the lords won’t like it. You’ve seen how everyone is related to everyone. Several of them could make a case for inheriting the estate. Younger sons are always on the lookout for ways to rise in the world.’
Isolt and the abbess turned to walk slowly beside the carry-chair as it came up from the terrace.
‘I found this. I believe it belongs to your family.’ Murheg gave Fyn a small velvet draw-string bag.
‘I don’t...’ Fyn opened the bag and pulled out a lincurium pendant. He checked. Sure enough, the bag also contained the rings. ‘Byren had these made as gifts for our parents. The pendant was meant for his twin’s betrothed.’
‘Palatyne had it amongst his things,’ Murheg said softly. ‘I must warn you, Fyn. Neiron will cook up a reason to remove you as lord protector, and if Isolt objects, he’ll shut her in the queen’s apartments just as King Merofyn did to her mother. She’ll be a prisoner in her own palace.’
Fyn’s hands tightened on the bag.
‘There is only one way you can protect the queen. You do want to protect Isolt, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then marry her.’
Fyn stared at him.
‘That’s why I gave you the rings. You are King Merofyn’s grandson, with more right to the throne than Isolt or any of these lords who whisper behind your back. If you married Isolt, you would have every right to defend her with force, and strip Neiron of his land and title.’
Fyn glanced down to Isolt, who waited patiently as Istyn’s manservants negotiated the steps.
‘Marry her,’ Murheg urged. ‘You’ve already fought to protect the kingdom, which is more than Byren has done. It is time for a bold move. Claim what should be yours.’
Claim what he truly wanted. A rushing noise filled Fyn’s head.
Isolt reached the top step. ‘And this is Fyn, Uncle, or more correctly, Lord Protector Merofyn.’
Istyn looked pale and tired, but he reached out to Fyn, who slipped the draw-string bag into his pocket and took the old man’s hand.
‘Isolt speaks highly of you,’ Istyn said. ‘I’m glad she has an honourable man as her lord protector.’
And that was why Fyn could not claim Isolt, no matter how much he wanted her.
BYREN WAS GLAD to be home again, if you could call Merofynia home. After coming through the pass, he’d hired horses and had made good time on the journey across Dunistir Estate. Now they rode through the orchard, approaching the barns and outbuildings behind the great house. It was late, and Byren was hungry and tired.
‘What’s troubling you?’ Orrade asked, riding at his side.
‘I’m tired of being polite to powerful men.’ Byren gestured to the great house, visible beyond the smaller buildings. ‘Dunstany is a friend of the mage and they’ve both helped me before, but powerful men always demand a price. That’s how they get to be so powerful.’
As they left the orchard, a boy came out of the piggery carrying two buckets. He took one look at Byren and Orrade, yelped, dropped the buckets and ran screaming, ‘Spar warriors!’
‘Wait!’ Byren yelled in Merofynian, but the lad wasn’t taking any chances.
Neither was a
nyone else. By the time they rounded the stables and entered the courtyard at the back of the great house, a dozen servants stood there with pitchforks, scythes and blades.
The kitchen door was flung wide open as Piro appeared on the back step. ‘Byren!’ She darted across the courtyard and pushed through the servants. ‘It’s Byren. I told you he was coming.’
‘Yer didn’t say he looked like a barbarian warlord,’ one of the stable hands muttered.
With a laugh, Byren dismounted and opened his arms.
Smiling with tears on her cheeks, Piro caught him in a hug. Orrade received the same welcome. ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’
‘Obviously.’ Orrade grinned.
Piro drew them towards the house. ‘It’s been awful. Dunstany’s heir turned up and... made him so angry he nearly had a heart spasm. Where’s Florin?’
‘Still sick. The Snow Bridge air was too thin for her.’
‘Oh, poor thing.’ Piro frowned, then brightened. ‘She can stay here with me until she’s better.’
Byren rubbed his mouth to hide a smile. Florin would hate the enforced rest, but... ‘She needs to regain her strength. Then she can catch up with us.’
They entered the kitchen, where Piro shot off orders in quick succession, arranging food and refreshment for his men. It felt strange, seeing her in charge.
‘I’m taking you to his lordship. I’ll just make sure he’s well enough to see you.’ She drew Byren and Orrade into the hall, up the grand staircase and down a passage. Swinging a door open, she gestured to the chamber beyond. ‘Wait here.’
As she darted through the music room, Byren strode over to the empty hearth, where two chairs sat. A blanket was draped across one. On the low table between the two chairs was a Duelling Kingdoms board with a game in progress.
On her return, Piro closed the connecting door. ‘Lord Dunstany apologises. He isn’t well enough for visitors tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.’
Byren’s stomach rumbled loudly.
Piro laughed. ‘Food’s on its way. They’ll bring it in here so we can talk. It’s so good to see you two.’ She treated them both to another hug and held on just a fraction too long.
Byren pulled back. ‘Eh, what’s wrong, Piro?’
‘I’ve missed you, that’s all.’
Byren searched her face. Behind the happiness, he saw sorrow and loss, and he wished he could protect her from the world; but here she was, running Dunstany’s great house for him. ‘Mother would be proud of you.’
She flushed and turned away, going over to the fireplace. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and gestured to the chairs. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I’d rather not sit. I’ve been riding all day.’
She nodded. ‘Fyn needs you. I’ve had Dunstany’s pleasure yacht ready to sail for the last two days. You are to set out for the palace tonight. The Merofynian nobles are trying to seize control of the kingdom.’
Byren cursed.
Piro nodded. ‘Fyn’s had nothing but trouble since you left. There’s been an Utland attack in Mero Bay. The spar warlords have made several bids to take various estates. Fyn puts down this raid and kills that warlord, only to find another has risen in his place. The second time Benetir Estate was attacked, he had to free the seven-year slaves to turn back the warlord.
‘It made the nobles furious. Now they fear slave uprisings on their own estates. The captain of the queen’s guards grabbed me and tried to...’ A shadow passed over her face and she hurried on. ‘Fyn killed him in a duel. Now the nobles have divided into two camps, one led by Lord Neiron who wants to replace Fyn, and the other led by Dunstany, except...’ She gestured to the closed door. ‘The old lord is finally failing and I don’t know if the men who’ve supported him over the years will support Fyn, and even if they do, I don’t know if they’ll be strong enough to stand against Neiron and his supporters.’
Byren met Orrade’s eyes. It was worse than he’d anticipated. ‘I don’t like the idea of sailing into a nest of deceiving nobles, with just fifty men-at-arms.’
Piro went to speak, but someone knocked on the door and entered without waiting. Byren saw the fear cross his sister’s face before she mastered her expression.
‘Soterro, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Is it Fyn?’
The servant shook his head. ‘We’ve just had word from the men who were patrolling the northern border. The Amfina Spar warlord has come over the pass and marches on Yoraltir great house. We can expect hundreds of Yorale’s people to arrive in the next couple of days. Captain Tomos wants to know if he should let them onto Dunistir Estate.’
‘Of course he should,’ Piro said.
‘Better check with his lordship,’ Soterro said.
Piro flushed and darted into the adjacent chamber.
After a moment she returned. ‘Dunstany says to give shelter to everyone who needs it and to double the border patrols. He thinks the spar warlord must have had someone watching Yorale’s estate.’ She added, for Byren’s benefit, ‘The warlord struck after Yorale sailed for the palace. Yorale’s defences have been overstretched since he claimed Wythrontir Estate for his youngest son.’
Soterro bowed and withdrew.
As the door closed on him, Piro leaned forward and adjusted a Duelling Kingdoms piece before gesturing to the board. ‘Once the warlord takes Yorale’s lands, he’ll either march on us or march on Wythrontir.’ She traced her finger around the circle representing the landlocked Sea. ‘If he marches towards us, he is only two estates away from taking the queen.’
Byren cursed. ‘Lord Neiron will keep. I haven’t come this far and given up...’ He censored himself. ‘I’m not going to lose Merofynia. I’m sailing for Yorale’s estate.’
‘With fifty men?’ Orrade asked.
‘We’ll free Yorale’s seven-year slaves.’
‘Hit the warlord when he’s not expecting it.’ Orrade nodded. ‘I like it. You’ll be in a much better position when you confront Neiron, if you’ve defeated Amfina and you have an army of ex-slaves at your back.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking.’ Byren grinned and headed for the door. ‘We’ll need someone with local knowledge.’
‘What about dinner?’ Piro called after him.
‘We can eat on the ship. I’m going to tell the lads. We’re off to free Rolencians from Merofynian slavery!’
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE WEATHER THE day of the lords’ council suited Fyn’s mood. The air was hot and steamy, and the sky was heavy and brooding, with the promise of a storm. Knowing Neiron would try to cut his legs out from under him, he’d been on edge all day. It had not started well, with a visit from Gwalt, carrying a message from Piro. Byren had arrived, but had sailed to save Yorale’s estate from Amfina Spar, leaving Fyn to maintain control of the lords’ council.
Of course, the first thing Fyn had done was to summon Lord Yorale and tell him the news.
‘I know your instinct is to set sail for your estate,’ Fyn had said. ‘But Byren will do everything in his power to turn back the Amfina Spar warlord and we need your support at the lords’ council.’
‘I would not miss this council for the world,’ Yorale said, to Fyn’s relief.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Camoric said, adjusting his belt so his sword was within easy reach. He was dressed in fighting garb, his only concession to his new rank the rakish tilt of his feathered hat. ‘I have twenty trusted men in the corridor outside the war-table chamber, and another twenty within shouting distance.’
‘Good.’ Fyn wore simple clothes that could pass for Rolencian. Today he was King Rolen’s son, and the lords would do well to remember it. ‘I told the captain of the ex-slaves to watch for a signal from the war chamber windows. He’s ready to storm the palace at a moment’s notice.’ And the way Fyn was feeling, he wanted Neiron to give him reason to act.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’ Fyn expected it to be Mitrovan with news from Travany, but it was Captain Aeran
of the city-watch. ‘Captain?’
‘Lord Protector Merofyn, Captain Camoric.’ Aeran gave them a formal bow. ‘If the worst happens, the city-watch will support you.’
‘Why?’ Fyn tensed. ‘What have you heard?’
‘The port is abuzz with news of the lords’ council. The nobles have moved men-at-arms into their townhouses and there’s been brawling in the taverns.’
‘What of the merchant margraves? Who will they support?’
The grizzled captain offered him an apologetic look. ‘They don’t care who the lord protector is, as long as he lives up to his name and they can trade in peace.’
Fyn nodded. ‘Come to the lords’ council.’
‘I’m not a noble,’ Aeran answered stiffly.
‘You’re captain of the city-watch, and I want you at my back. It means if I do go down, you’ll fall with me. You decide.’
Aeran met Fyn’s eyes. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Come on, then.’ Fyn grinned grimly as they left his chamber and strode down the corridor. Byren had left him here to hold Merofynia, with no support and a pack of ambitious lords ready to stab him in the back. Now that he had the ex-slaves, Camoric and the queen’s guards and the city-watch behind him, he felt ready to confront the nobles.
As they turned the corner and approached the door of Isolt’s chamber, she stepped into the corridor. Like them, she was soberly dressed. But it did not matter, whatever she did she was still a girl of fifteen and the Merofynian noblemen had made it clear her job was to produce an heir.
As Fyn offered his arm, he realised if he’d taken the abbot’s advice they would be walking into the council as king and queen. He wanted Isolt more than anything, and their marriage would have justified using force, but he could not betray his brother’s trust.
‘You’re looking very grim,’ Isolt said. ‘Hopefully, it won’t come to bloodshed.’
‘Spilling blood is simple. It’s politics that can cut a man’s legs out from under him!’ He swept her around the last corner, where they expected to see the lords waiting outside the war-table chamber. But...
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