‘They’re already inside,’ Isolt whispered. ‘At least the abbot and abbess are waiting to enter with us.’
Murheg and Celunyd bowed, then stepped to each side of Fyn and Isolt. The war-table stretched before them, bathed in light from the tall windows overlooking the Landlocked Sea. Down the far end, the Merofynian throne had been placed on a dais. From there, Isolt would command the council.
Events had polarised the Merofynian nobility. Neiron and his supporters stood on the left of the table, facing the windows. Dunstany’s supporters stood on the right. Today Istyn sat in a normal chair with his two manservants ready to come his aid. The captains from Benetir and Geraltir Estates were not well known to Fyn, but seemed ready to do their part.
Elder statesman that he was, Lord Yorale waited next to the queen’s chair.
As Fyn escorted Isolt along the table, he did a mental headcount. With Camoric holding his grandfather’s vote, and Dunstany...
‘Duncaer,’ Isolt said, pausing opposite an over-dressed middle-aged man with a suspiciously red nose. ‘Why are you here?’
‘You called a lords’ council, my queen, so I must represent Dunistir Estate. My uncle’s heart is failing. I come from his deathbed.’
Muttering greeted this news, and Isolt glanced to Fyn. There was no Lord Dunstany dying in bed on Dunistir Estate, but they could hardly reveal that.
Isolt stepped onto the dais and took her seat.
She arranged her gown, making them wait, then finally looked along the length of the chamber. ‘A ruler needs sound advice from their nobles. As I have newly come to the throne and am only fifteen, I expect you to put aside all rivalry and work for the good of Merofynia. I now declare this lords’ council in session. And I introduce the new captain of the queen’s guards, Lord Cadmor’s grandson, Camoric.’
Neiron and his lords gave barely civil nods.
Fyn waited for them to object to Captain Aeran’s presence, but they didn’t.
‘My queen.’ Lord Elcwyff stepped forward. ‘I cannot attend a lords’ council when my brother’s murderer has a place at the table.’
‘It was a duel,’ Fyn protested. ‘Elrhodoc tried to force himself on my sister. When I intervened, he challenged me. He chose the place and weapons, he had two seconds, I had none, and he slashed my face before the duel truly began!’
Elcwyff bristled. ‘My brother would never—’
‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ Yorale said, his voice calm and reasonable. ‘Elrhodoc was a champion swordsman. He didn’t need to cheat to win.’
‘He didn’t cheat. And I have witnesses to prove it,’ Elcwyff insisted, gesturing for two men to come forward. ‘Here are my brother’s seconds, ready to give his side of it.’
One was the seedy guard who had been on the terrace that day, but the other...
‘Hold on.’ Fyn pointed to the second man. ‘He wasn’t there.’
‘Yes, he was,’ the seedy guard said. ‘It was me and Grufyd. I can vouch for it.’
‘Fyn’s right,’ Isolt said. ‘Grufyd wasn’t there. It was a young guard by the name of...’ she frowned, then her expression cleared, ‘...Seelon. I can vouch for Fyn. He’s speaking the truth.’
‘My queen, you cannot vouch for anyone,’ Yorale told her gently. ‘When you sit in that chair at a lords’ council, you must be impartial. In fact, you may not speak until everyone has said their piece.’
Isolt glanced to the abbess and abbot.
They nodded.
‘Tell them, Hywel,’ Elcwyff urged.
‘We heard shouting and saw the lord-monk’—the seedy guard gestured to Fyn—‘having a go at our captain. Of course, we ran over. Before we could do anything, he punched our captain in the gut.’
‘He resorted to street brawling?’ Neiron sounded shocked, and there was muttering from those around the table.
‘Elrhodoc insulted Piro,’ Fyn insisted. ‘Hywel and Seelon saw him do it, yet they did nothing. I can send for Piro to confirm this.’
Yorale shook his head. ‘My queen—’
‘You can’t call on her,’ Neiron sneered. ‘She’s not a married woman, so she has no husband to vouch for her good sense. And besides, a female cannot give evidence in a man’s murder case.’
‘So it’s murder now?’ Fyn asked. Neiron was giving him exactly the motivation he needed to call in Camoric’s men.
Neiron hesitated, surprised by his tone.
Elcwyff was too focused to notice. He gestured to the guard. ‘Tell them what happed, Hywel.’
‘Our captain defended himself. That was how the lord-monk got his face cut up. When he fell to one knee, our captain stepped back to let him get up, but he lunged in like a street fighter and stabbed him in the groin. Bled out like a pig, he did, poor Elrhodoc.’
Elcwyff flinched. He shook with anger as he turned to the other lords. ‘See the kind of man you’re dealing with?’
‘To lose a brother is a terrible thing.’ Fyn could tell Elcwyff’s grief was genuine. ‘But that’s not how it happened.’
‘The Mulcibar healer who laid out Elrhodoc’s body is here,’ Neiron said. ‘He can confirm the nature of the wound.’
A middle-aged priest stepped from behind the ranks.
Murheg clutched Fyn’s arm. ‘That’s Neiron’s second cousin. That’s the man I defeated to become abbot.’
‘Tell them,’ Neiron urged his relation.
‘What the guard said is true...’
‘I don’t deny the nature of the wound,’ Fyn had to raise his voice to be heard, as the priest kept talking. ‘Elrhodoc had ripped my cheek open to the bone. I was seeing stars. He came in for the killing strike. I had no choice but to strike him down.’
‘...strike him down like a common knifeman in a street brawl!’ the healer finished.
The sudden silence drummed on Fyn’s ears. In a moment of perfect clarity, he saw that Neiron had left him no option. He took a breath to call in the guards.
A young man burst into the chamber, trying to shake off two of the queen’s guards. ‘Out of the way, I have to see my father!’
Camoric signalled his men. ‘Let him in.’
The queen’s guards stepped back and the young man stood at the end of the table, battle-worn but defiant.
‘Travrhon?’ Lord Travany frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ulfr Spar attacked. They over-ran our defences, we—’
‘You abandoned our estate? How could you bring shame on the house of Travantir?’
Travrhon flushed. ‘I had women and children to think of, Father. We only just made it to the boats. What’s more’—his gaze shifted to the queen—‘I saw smoke from Benetir Estate. They’re under siege.’
The chamber erupted.
Camoric grabbed Fyn’s arm. ‘We must go to Sefarra’s aid.’
The Benetir captain tried to talk tactics, and at the same time, Isolt left her throne and pleaded with Fyn to save her cousin. It seemed all he had done since becoming lord protector was fight to keep the kingdom intact.
With the aid of his servants, Istyn struggled over to join them. He was concerned for his wife and daughters. The only one who wasn’t directly threatened was the captain of Geraltir Estate, whose lands backed onto the Snow Bridge. He was sixty if he was a day, and he watched with sympathy as Fyn tried to reassure them all.
Fyn’s mind raced. Three out of five spars had come over the Divide within a few days. Did this mean the spar warlords had put aside their rivalry and mounted a concerted attack on Merofynia?
‘You said we’d be safe when you executed the warlord’s son!’ Travany shouted across the table. ‘But you brought this on us!’
‘Not only is he a murderer, but he’s led us into war with the spars!’ Neiron gestured to Fyn. ‘Call yourself lord protector? I call you—’
‘Now is not the time for posturing and politicking.’ Fyn cut him off. ‘This could be the spar invasion Palatyne planned. All of you must look to your own estates!’ He ca
ught Isolt around the waist and lifted her down from the dais. ‘There’s no time to lose.’
And he swept out with his supporters. At the door to the war-table chamber he confronted Travrhon. ‘Do you want to save your estate?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you free your seven-year slaves to do it?’
His mouth dropped. ‘I forgot... I hope they’re safe. Yes, I’ll free them. I heard about the bargain Lady Sefarra struck. It seems fair.’
‘Good, come with me.’
Fyn strode down the corridor issuing orders. He sent Lord Istyn back to his estate to see if he could evacuate his non-combatants. Camoric volunteered to find enough boats to transport their men across to Benetir Estate. Hearing this, Travrhon offered the boats he’d used to save his people and the two of them went off together.
Fyn turned to the captain of the city-watch. ‘By rights, Camoric should stay here with the queen, but Sefarra’s in danger. Can I entrust Isolt’s safety to—’
‘No Fyn, I’m coming with you,’ Isolt protested.
He took her by the shoulders. ‘Three out of five spar warlords have attacked. This in an invasion. Stay here.’
‘The palace is not defensible,’ Captain Aeran objected.
Fyn beckoned Murheg. ‘If the worst happens, take shelter in Mulcibar Abbey.’
‘I won’t be there,’ Murheg said. ‘I’ll be with you. And Neiron’s second cousin is the next-highest-ranking—’
‘The queen can come with me, back to Cyena Abbey,’ the abbess said.
Satisfied Isolt would be safe, Fyn left before she could argue.
FLORIN HAD KNOWN Piro only briefly during the manticore attack on Narrowneck, but they’d faced danger together and that revealed a person’s true worth. She liked Piro. Even so, she wasn’t happy about remaining behind while Byren sailed off to confront a spar warlord... It made her stomach churn with fear for him.
‘Feeling better?’ Piro asked.
‘Yes,’ Florin lied.
They walked along the terrace, in front of the great house, looking east across the Landlocked Sea. The setting sun illuminated a mountain of dark menacing clouds out over the water. Lightning flickered in their depths.
‘The storm will stir up the sea. I’m glad Byren sailed last night,’ Piro said. ‘He’s lucky he doesn’t get sea-sick. The last time I was caught in the storm, I threw up for days—’
Florin stumbled to a flower pot and emptied her stomach.
‘Sorry.’ Piro rubbed her back. ‘My mother was always telling me to mind my tongue.’
Florin wiped her mouth, disgusted with herself. ‘I should be better by now.’
‘Maybe it takes a couple of days to adjust to the air at sea level.’
‘I never adjusted to the air on the Snow Bridge.’
Piro shrugged. ‘You might have caught something while you were there.’
‘That must be it.’ Florin felt relieved. ‘The food was strange. Quite a few of Byren’s men developed stomach problems.’
‘You’ll feel better with some rest,’ Piro told her kindly, but Florin noticed how her eyes went to the windows of Lord Dunstany’s chambers, and she knew Piro was thinking of the old lord who would not get better.
‘You’re very fond of Lord Dunstany.’
‘Y...yes.’
Florin sympathised. She’d lost her father, but Piro had lost father, brother and mother. Florin slid her arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders and turned her to face the Landlocked Sea. ‘Where’s your foenix?’
‘I had to leave Resolute with Isolt’s wyvern for company. I miss him terribly.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Florin frowned. The light was fading fast, and it was hard to tell, but she thought she’d spotted a sail heading towards them. It couldn’t be Byren, returning so soon. ‘Who’s that?’
Piro frowned. She ran back to the front door to speak with a servant, then returned to Florin. She stared out to sea. ‘If only I had a farseer.’
A dozen servants arrived with makeshift weapons. Florin watched with growing consternation.
‘You should go inside, kingsdaughter,’ the house-steward urged.
‘It’s only one boat,’ Piro said. ‘What if it’s a message from Fyn or Byren?’
She went down the steps. Everyone followed, and more armed servants joined them. They crossed the lawns, heading towards the jetty. By the time they reached it, the boat was almost within hailing distance.
‘The deck’s so crowded. They could be fleeing an attack,’ Florin guessed.
‘They fly the Istyntir symbol.’ Piro cupped her hands. ‘What happened?’
A dozen voices answered.
‘Istyntir taken and the great house burned...’
‘Wythrontir surrounded...’
‘Smoke coming from Nevantir...’
‘Captain Orwen of the Sweeping Ospriet,’ the captain identified himself. ‘Yours is the first estate we’ve seen not under attack.’
‘What of Yoraltir?’ Piro yelled.
‘There was smoke. I have my lord’s wife and five daughters on board. We claim sanctuary in the name of Cyena.’
‘Of course.’ Piro turned to the steward, speaking softly. ‘Fyn and Byren need to know. Send a message. Tell the house-keep to find suitable chambers for the Istyntir women and their people.’
Soon the jetty was crowded as the old, the injured and women and children disembarked. Lord Istyn’s wife seemed lost, as if she had taken a blow to the head. The eldest daughter took charge.
The youngest of the five girls appeared to be about ten and the eldest might have been twenty. They were as alike as peas in a pod.
As Florin helped the injured and the frail into a cart, she felt no surge of triumph. Once she had hated the Merofynians for what they had done to her home. Now she hated war. It was such a waste. No one really won.
FYN STUDIED THE brooding sky. They’d set sail at dusk, hoping to make the crossing before the storm struck. Flashes of lightning lit the clouds from within, reminding him of his mother’s tales of boats lost on the Landlocked Sea.
He glanced over his shoulder. The flotilla had spread out. He turned to Camoric. ‘Will the storm hold off long enough for us to reach Benetir Estate?’
‘We’ll be cutting it fine.’ Camoric smiled slowly. ‘You mean to attack under the cover of the storm!’
Fyn felt an answering smile tug at his lips. Now that he was taking action, a weight had lifted from him. ‘The sentries will be huddled in their seal-skins and the drumming rain will cover our approach, but if the storm strikes before we get there the fleet will be scattered.’
‘You’re taking a gamble.’
‘Life is a gamble.’ Fyn shrugged. ‘We’ll shelter in the same bay as last time and go over the hills to Benetir estate. The spar warriors laying siege to the fortified great house will be trapped in the open between us and the house.’
‘What if the warlords have made a coordinated attack and they’ve taken all the other great houses and fortified them?’
‘Then we’ll lay siege to all the great houses, around the Landlocked Sea.’ He wished he had a pair of pica birds so that he could stay in touch with Byren.
A laugh reached them from the men huddled on the deck. Fyn’s ex-slaves and Camoric’s men talked softly, or prayed, or slept—or tried to.
Fyn left the rail. ‘I’m going to study the map.’
But below deck, he sensed Affinity and went to the forward cabin. Taking a lantern, he opened the door to find Isolt curled up with Loyalty on one side and Resolute on the other. Both Affinity beasts stirred and lifted their heads, eyeing him. Isolt slept on oblivious, making him smile.
Not for one moment did Fyn consider turning back. In fact, he was pleased she had defied him.
He closed the door and let the queen sleep.
Chapter Fifty-Five
GARZIK WAS TIRED. They’d been sailing for two days straight, taking turns at the tiller. Now, as th
ey approached the settlement headlands, a stiff breeze filled the canvas above him. He adjusted the single sail while Luvrenc turned the rudder, watching the sea. The skiff picked up speed like a horse nearing the stables at the end of a long ride.
‘I bet we’re the first ones back!’ Luvrenc crowed.
Five skiffs had set off to circumnavigate the island. The race was a regular event which gave the young lads and beardless a chance to polish their skills while competing for the accolades.
Garzik glanced to Ilonja, who sat in the prow. ‘Can you see any of the other skiffs?’
She shaded her eyes. ‘Nothing yet.’
‘The best three skiff teams will race to Dalfino Island and back,’ Luvrenc told Garzik.
‘You can reach another island in these boats?’ The skiffs were small, barely bigger than rowboats. ‘What about Affinity predators, storms? Vultar’s renegades?’
‘We don’t set sail if a storm is coming. We take bows and arrows to fend off Affinity predators. And the Isle of the Dead is in the opposite direction from Dalfino, we’d have to be unlucky to run across renegades.’ Luvrenc considered. ‘Now that you mention it, the elders mightn’t let us go this year. I hope...’
They were through the headlands now, and the long narrow bay opened before them.
‘I can’t see any other skiffs, but a ship has returned!’ Ilonja announced. ‘It’s Captain Cvetko’s.’
Luvrenc grinned. ‘He’ll be spitting mad when he hears how Rusan sailed into Port Mero!’
But that wasn’t why Cvetko was spitting mad. This was the first he’d heard of Vultar’s attack, and he was all for sailing to the Isle of the Dead to confront the renegade. Garzik could hear the shouting from the jetty as they anchored the skiff and waded ashore.
‘Just our luck,’ Luvrenc muttered. ‘We’re the first skiff back and no one notices because of Cvetko.’
Garzik slipped through the gathering, with Ilonja and Luvrenc on his heels.
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