In the sudden silence the very air of the cavern seemed to throb.
Byren strode around to the crevice to where the mystics master hid. 'Drop the illusion, Catillum.'
Grey-faced, the mystics master stumbled from his hiding place and leant against the wall, lifting his good hand to his face, fingers trembling.
When Byren glanced behind him, the black maw of the hole was revealed.
The surviving Merofynian cursed under his breath.
Byren turned back to Catillum. 'Holding the illusion weakened you?'
He nodded. 'People see what they expect to see. In this case a flat floor. But yes, it weakened me. My presence has awakened the seep and I had to fight the urge to draw on it. Untamed Affinity leads to evil.'
Byren no longer believed this, but he was not about to argue the point.
A shout made him spin. The Merofynian had tried to plunge through the others in a bid to escape. The scuffle ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
Orrade knelt next to the collapsed man. 'Dead, I'm afraid. Broken neck.'
Byren swore. They had been going to leave the man with a false memory of foenixes driving his companions into the pit, but that would not work now. Byren would have to improvise.
'Bring him here.' He indicated a spot under the tallest foenix painting.
Byren took one of the foenix spurs and slashed it across the dead man's throat, leaving it hooked in his flesh.
He stood back as blood flowed across the man's chest. With no heartbeat to pump the blood, it soon stopped. Byren wiped his hands, fastidiously. 'Best I can do. Foenixes can grow a new spur if one snaps off in combat. Unless they look closely it will appear that he was killed by the kick of a foenix.' Byren removed the burning brand from under the foenix paintings. 'Right. Everyone out!'
Two monks hurried around the pit to help Catillum, while the others filed out. All but for Orrade, who stayed back to help Byren complete their illusion.
Knowing the distinctive sign of a foenix's tracks, Byren had no trouble making a few fake prints on the floor. Then he partially scuffed the tracks as if there had been a struggle.
That done, he and Orrade prepared to leave, but hesitated over the deep pit. Far below, a pinpoint, the remains of the Merofynians' makeshift torch, glowed.
'Hope they're all dead,' Orrade said softly, voicing Byren's thoughts.
'Come on.'
In the entrance to the caves they removed all signs of their men leaving, while making sure the signs left by the Merofynians' entrance remained. A boot mark on the soft earth here, a scuff mark there.
When Cobalt's main body of soldiers found this cavern and followed the trail into the far chamber they would find one dead man, no sign of the other bodies and the prints of the foenixes. Since they knew of no pass in this valley, they would turn around and leave, carrying tales of phantom Affinity beasts coming to defend the royal house of Rolencia.
At least, this was what Byren hoped to achieve. It was the best he could do.
He checked the stars. Barely an hour had passed since they had first spotted the Merofynians. If they hurried they could catch up with the tail of the army.
The ravines were covered in new trails, caused by the men coming and going from cave to cave. If Byren's group covered their tracks well, Cobalt's men would never find the beginning of the secret trail. They might even think he had spirited them over the mountains with the Goddess Halcyon's intervention.
Once they got over the Divide and into Foenix Spar, he had a whole new set of problems. Unace would be true to her word, but would Warlord Feid remain loyal to King Rolen's kin? And even if he did, would the three remaining warlords support Byren?
Chapter Twelve
Fyn yawned and scratched his tummy as he sprawled across the window seat. To anyone observing him, he was idly watching the comings and goings on the long road down to Mage Isle. In fact, he was waiting for Jakulos to slip off to the privy at the end of the hall.
The big sea-hound went every morning around this time. Sure enough, he stood, stretched and headed off.
Fyn's heart rate picked up a notch, but he continued to casually swing his bare foot. Bantam sat at the table, practising card tricks. His nimble fingers flew as he made the cards dance. Then he reached for another sticky date bun.
'Hey, leave one for me,' Fyn protested. He stood and came towards the table, passing behind Bantam to reach for a bun.
But his hands went for the man's neck instead. One arm slipped around Bantam's throat, the other applied pressure directly to the artery on the side of his neck and, at the same time, Fyn pulled him backwards off the chair, so that he was unbalanced, his legs scrambling for purchase.
He'd seen the weapons master knock out an acolyte in a matter of heartbeats like this. The youth had woken soon after with a thumping headache, nothing more.
Bantam's fingers went for Fyn's arm, trying to pry him off. This was the mistake of the untrained. The weapons master had shown the acolytes how to break this hold. You had to turn your throat into the crook of the elbow, giving yourself a little more room and time, then go for your captor's fingers, bending them back and breaking them.
Fyn applied even more pressure to the big vein that ran up Bantam's throat. Soon the little sea-hound's struggles slowed.
Fyn held on, counting to twenty. When he was sure Bantam was out cold, he released him, carried him to the bunk, and left him safe.
Quickly, Fyn grabbed his boots, not yet slipping them on. Then he went to the door. No sign of Jakulos, he'd be a while yet.
Pausing, he glanced once more around the room, then darted through the door, closing it softly after him. He headed down the stairs, all seven flights, bare feet flying almost soundlessly.
At ground level he slipped on the boots and walked casually out through the cinnamon-tea room, as though he hadn't been a captive here for the last three days.
Out on the street, he blended with the busy Ostronite people, making his way down the road towards Mage Isle. Just another sailor on shore leave. No one gave him a second glance.
Twenty minutes later, as Fyn crossed the causeway to the island, he noted the solid gate tower. These were the first strong defences he had seen on Ostron Isle. Tsulamyth's miniature island kingdom would not be taken easily.
At the gate, he knocked and waited. A slot opened and someone peered out.
'I wish to speak with the mage,' Fyn said. Would Tsulamyth deign to see him? Back in the room it had seemed so simple.
'And who are you?'
'I can tell only the mage.' Without his royal emblem how could he prove his claim to the throne? Fyn expelled his breath in annoyance. He'd been so intent on getting away from the sea-hounds, he really hadn't thought this through. Maybe he should give up and go barter his way onto a merchant ship headed for Rolencia.
'Why should I let you in?' the gate-keeper asked.
Was he angling for a bribe? Fyn wondered. The abbey hadn't prepared him for this.
Of course…
Wordlessly, he tugged at the Fate's chain, pulling it free. As it swung in front of the gate-keeper's gaze, Fyn focused his Affinity and the opal began to glow.
The slot closed abruptly and, after some clanking, the small postern gate swung open. Fyn tucked the Fate away and entered a dark tunnel that gave out onto a leafy courtyard. With the Fate, he'd have no trouble convincing the mage he was from Halcyon Abbey. But how was he going to convince him he was Fyn Rolen Kingson?
As the gate-keeper trotted ahead of Fyn, leading him out into the sunlight, Fyn's step faltered. What if he did convince Tsulamyth of his identity, and the mage betrayed him to the Merofynians?
Too late to back out now. He would just have to keep his wits about him.
In the centre of the courtyard was an ancient peppercorn tree. Willow-like, its long, fine branches trailed almost to the paving. The smell of horses came from an open double door and light came through from another courtyard beyond this. Washing, strung from one corn
er of the courtyard to the other, flapped in the light breeze. A flute's rippling tune flowed from an open window somewhere above. Buildings of between two and four storeys surrounded them but did not crowd the courtyard. Permeating all was the sweet smell of baking bread. It hung on the air, making Fyn's stomach rumble.
A boy of about eleven threw a rag-ball for a puppy, while a smaller lad cheered them on.
The gate-keeper turned to Fyn. 'Wait here. I'll see if one of the mage's agents will meet you.' He went over to the boys and sent the older one off with a message, before going back to his post.
Fyn leant against a mounting block, crossing his legs at the ankles. Here he was, about to walk into the spider's web. The mystics master would be horrified.
Piro nudged Isolt. 'See that man? I think he's one of Palatyne's spies.'
They sat on travelling chests, waiting while the servants set up Isolt's tent. Other servants had already started the cooking fires. Because the kingsdaughter was on a pilgrimage, she could not stay with any of the nobles. She had to walk and sleep on the ground. This was interpreted to mean servants carried her things and set up a tent with carpets and every luxury she could ask for. Piro found the Merofynian interpretation amusing.
Estates and farms they passed along the way had only been too happy to give them fresh bread, eggs and a chicken or two.
'The man who's missing most of his left ear?' Isolt whispered.
Piro nodded. 'I think I remember his ugly face from the ship.'
'Well, it won't do him any good. The abbess allows no men past the abbey's outer courtyard.' Isolt squeezed Piro's hand. 'Only another six days. And once I take the acolyte's vows, we'll be safe. No one, not even Father can touch us.'
Piro smiled, but she was not so sure. Palatyne struck her as a man who would not be thwarted.
Byren surveyed the hasty camp, set in the Foenix Spar foothills. Thanks to the elderly and the mothers with small children it had taken the better part of three days to make it over the pass. Byren had left Catillum and his monks to defend the rear, while forging ahead to catch up with Florin and the others.
First he caught up with Old Man Narrows, who said they'd been sighted as soon as they came down out of the pass, which meant word would have reached the warlord.
Good. He did not want his people having to spend another night in the open. This was not an invasion, so they did not attempt to hide their camp, but he felt vulnerable, with makeshift shelters spread out over the only patch of relatively flat land they could find.
Now he went in search of Florin.
Leaving the path, he climbed across boulders to reach the lookout where she watched for signs of Foenix warriors or messengers. It wasn't because he wanted to stretch out on a rock in the sun with her… well, only partly. No, he wanted to thank her for bringing his people safely over the Divide and share details of how they had tricked the Merofynian advance party. She'd enjoy hearing about that.
Old Man Narrows had said to follow this path and just around the bend he'd find…
'Come on,' a male cajoled.
Byren froze. He'd thought Florin was alone. He knew that voice, Winterfall. Since when did he fancy Florin? And Byren thought he'd made it clear she wasn't to be treated like a camp follower, but one of his warriors.
'Just one kiss.' Impatience drove the voice.
'Get your hands off me,' Florin muttered, annoyed rather than frightened.
Scuffling.
'Come on.' Rough now. 'Why are you playing hard to get?'
Byren didn't like the growing anger in Winterfall's voice. He started forwards. They'd be in sight once he rounded this bend.
'Ah, I see,' Winterfall mocked. 'You're saving yourself for him. He'll never bed you. If he'd wanted a quick tumble, he'd have had you by now.'
Byren hesitated. Florin had her eye on one of his men? Why should he feel betrayed?
'I don't want him,' she protested. 'I don't want any man. I've sworn my service to Sylion.'
Winterfall laughed. 'Don't lie. I've seen the way you look at him, when he's not watching. You're sick with love for — '
'You two up there,' a voice shouted from far below. 'Let your master know Warlord Feid approaches.'
Byren backed off, turned and ran lightly down the slope, then pretended to be making his way up to the lookout.
Winterfall and Florin nearly barrelled into him as he rounded a large, rocky overhang.
'Feid's coming,' Winterfall gasped.
'Good. You lead him up to meet me. I'll go back to the edge of camp. Come on, Florin.'
She fell into step with him as Winterfall veered off. Byren didn't know what to say. He could hardly admit to overhearing.
'Will Feid support you? Can we trust him?' Florin asked. No hesitation, no awareness of him as anything other than her king.
'Apart from the occasional hot-head, the warlords of Foenix Spar have always supported Rolencia's kings. But the people of the spars respect strength, and…' Byren wondered if news of Palatyne's elevation to duke of Merofynia had reached the warlords yet. If one of their Merofynian counterparts could conquer Rolencia and rise so high, why should the warlords honour an oath of fealty?
'And you come to him, laden with more families than warriors,' Florin finished for him.
Byren nodded. They'd reached the camp. 'Find Orrie and your father. I want them at my back when I meet him.'
She hurried off. What was he going to do with her? How was he going to protect her from the likes of Winterfall?
In a short time, Byren had gathered his honour guard and chosen supporters for when he would meet the warlord. The trail opened up briefly. Amongst the rocks and patches of snow grew bright green grass and spring wild flowers. Most were still buds, but a few had bloomed, their scent piercingly sweet on the cold air.
He watched the sloping path.
Winterfall rounded the bend first, followed by Feid and five of the spar warlord's honour guard astride wiry mountain ponies. For all Byren knew, Warlord Feid might have a hundred warriors waiting around the bend to slaughter his people.
Feid came to a stop while Winterfall stepped past Byren and joined the others.
'Wait here,' Byren told his honour guard as he walked forwards alone, displaying a confidence he did not feel.
Warlord Feid and his five warriors waited at the end of the open ground, making Byren come to them. As he approached, he studied their faces, trying to gauge their mood. Only last midwinter he had drunk at the same table as Feid and arm wrestled him, beating him two times out of three.
Then the warlord had laughed and drunk to his health, but now he watched Byren coldly, one hand on his sword hilt. Feid was in the prime of life, perhaps eight years older than Byren, and he had always kept his own counsel when visiting Rolenhold to give his oath of fealty, unlike some of the other warlords who blustered and crowed like roosters squaring off.
'Warlord Feid,' Byren greeted him. 'I see a man who stood before my father last midwinter and swore fealty.'
'I see a man with a couple of hundred hungry, footsore followers. I see a king without a kingdom,' Feid said.
'I see a warlord who is a prisoner on his own spar,' Byren countered. 'I see a warlord who must pay taxes to our ancestral enemy. Is the warlord of Foenix Spar a servant of Merofynia?'
Feid's honour guard shifted angrily. Responding to this, their ponies whickered and shuffled until the riders brought them under control. Fury tightened the warlord's features. Byren wondered if he'd pushed too far.
'My enemy is your enemy,' Byren said.
The five warriors looked to their leader.
The warlord of Foenix Spar swung a leg over his pony and dropped to the ground, marching forwards to meet Byren, who wasn't sure until the last moment if Feid was going to draw his sword and gut him, or hug him.
Enveloped in a hug, Byren felt a rush of relief. He had his first ally. Tonight his people would eat and sleep in warm beds. One obstacle down. More to come. While he had Foenix and
Unistag Spars' support, he still had to convince the other warlords to back him. Even with all the spar warlords behind him, his army would be outnumbered.
Feid stepped back and his warriors relaxed, greeting Byren like a long-lost brother. If Feid had ordered it they would have slaughtered him with as much enthusiasm.
'You came over the old pass,' Feid said, as Byren's honour guard approached. 'Now Rolencia knows all Foenix Spar's secrets!'
He grinned, but Byren realised there was truth to what he said. He put a hand on Feid's shoulder. 'There should be no need for secrets between a king and his warlords.'
'Then let us hope you live long enough to be king,' Feid said softly, before raising his voice. 'Welcome to Foenix Spar, Byren Kingsheir. Tonight we feast!'
Leaning against the mounting block, Fyn fought a growing sense of oppression. His heart picked up speed, beating in time to the tempo of the flute's tune. What if he was walking into a trap? The flute music seemed to swirl down from above, stirring the washing on the line, stirring the air around him, beating against him.
A headache built behind his eyes, beating in time to his racing heart. What if the mage turned him over to the Merofynians?
Someone knocked on the gate — a messenger, going by the gate-keeper's greeting. The gate opened and the man entered the long dark tunnel that led to the courtyard. He exchanged a word or two with the gate-keeper in the Ostronite tongue but that didn't mean he wasn't Merofynian. The sound of his horse's hooves echoed down the passage as he approached. Each clip of the hooves made Fyn's head hurt more.
As Fyn watched the entrance to the courtyard, tension coiled in his belly. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have come here.
Meanwhile, the scruffy little lad picked up the rag ball and, with his equally scruffy puppy trotting at his heels, walked around Fyn, studying him. The lilting flute seemed to follow him, plucking at Fyn's peace of mind, urging him to flee while he still could.
'What happened to your hair?' the boy asked. His Ostronite accent was that of the streets, but Fyn had no trouble understanding him. 'Did it get cut off because you were sick?'
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