This was as good an explanation as any, so Fyn nodded, while keeping an eye on the courtyard entrance. If only his head would stop hurting, then he'd be able to think clearly. When the flute's tempo rose, his headache went up a notch. The messenger was almost out of the gate tunnel. Fyn could still escape.
The boy scooped up his puppy, thrusting the ungainly creature in Fyn's face. 'Do you like him? I named him Rolen. But now that the king is dead I might name him Merofyn.'
Fyn summoned a smile he did not feel. 'You must have high hopes for that scruffy pup, if you name him after kings.'
'He's going to be a guard dog. He's already a great ratter!'
Amused despite his fears, Fyn gave a soft snort of laughter. 'He's not much bigger than a rat.'
The boy looked offended and turned to go, putting the pup down just as the mess enger rode in. He wore no Merofynian insignia, but then a spy wouldn't.
The flute struck a high note. The horse took offence to something — the flapping washing if not the flute, for it was far too shrill.
The messenger's mount reared. The puppy panicked, running under the horse. The boy cried out and ran after it. Fyn grabbed the lad, dragging him from under the hooves, and they were both knocked off their feet.
As he tried to control the frightened horse, the man cursed roundly in Merofynian, confirming Fyn's fears.
Fyn should leave now, while he still could.
Quite unhurt, the puppy came back to the boy and the music dropped to a teasing background whisper. Fyn sat up, his sailor's breeches muddied, his boots scuffed, his heart still racing. Meanwhile, the man dismounted, trying to soothe his horse as it danced away, hooves clattering on the paving.
Once the horse had calmed, he strode over, clearly furious. Fyn felt exposed, but even if this was a Merofynian spy, the man could not know who Fyn was, so he held his ground.
The messenger loomed over him and the boy. 'Watch it, brat. You're lucky the dog isn't mince meat.'
'He's a good dog,' the boy protested.
Fyn hushed him. The man sent them both a contemptuous look before leading his mount into the stables.
The puppy licked the boy's face and made a swipe at Fyn.
Fyn came to his feet. 'Are you hurt, lad?'
'No.' But when the child tried to stand, he clutched his foot whimpering. Fyn could see a nasty bruise developing.
'I want Ma,' the boy wailed.
Fyn looked around, hoping the boy's mother would hear him, but no one came. There was no sign of the gate-keeper or the older brother, either. If Fyn slipped away now the Merofynian would never know, but he couldn't leave the boy like this.
'Where's your mother?'
The child pointed up, to where the music came from. It appeared his mother was the minstrel, a very accomplished one if the complexity of the tune was anything to go by. Fyn lifted the boy.
'Don't forget my puppy.'
With a sigh, Fyn bent down and the boy scooped up the pup, hugging him to his chest, covering Fyn in shaggy dog hairs. Following the child's directions Fyn carried him across the courtyard to a small door and up a narrow flight of steps, all accompanied by the flute. Only now the lilting music seemed friendly rather than disturbing.
The door opened on a small room with a steep ceiling and a single window. A shaft of sunlight came through the window, hitting the floor and reflecting on the ceiling. The sun illuminated a low foot-stool, where a fancy silver flute sat.
As Fyn stepped into the doorway the last flute note faded softly. No, that couldn't be right. Unless the flute was much more than it seemed.
Fear made Fyn's skin tighten as he opened his senses to Affinity. Power emanated from the person who sat in the only chair beyond the patch of sunlight, face hidden in shadow. The older boy crouched by the chair, eyes glistening, reflecting the sunlight, his gaze curiously blank.
Fyn's chest felt tight and his breath solid. Somehow, he managed to swallow.
As if waking, the older boy focused on his little brother. 'Ovido.'
He sprang to his feet, crossing the patch of sunlight to join Fyn. The puppy barked a greeting.
The boy wriggled in Fyn's arms, indicating he wanted to be put down. He hugged his brother. 'My head was hurting but it's stopped now.'
Head hurting? Fyn winced at his blindness as his own headache still thundered behind his eyes. The classic sign of an Affinity assault. Why hadn't he recognised it for what it was? And he'd thought himself well trained to resist an Affinity renegade's attack.
'Silly Ovido,' the brother said fondly. 'You and your headaches. Come on.'
As they darted out the door, Fyn noted that the little boy no longer limped.
Silence settled in the room. Fyn stared, trying to make sense of the person seated beyond the shaft of sunlight, wrapped in shadows that seemed to resist his gaze.
Fyn's teeth throbbed and his headache eased, as the silhouette resolved itself into a masculine outline. Everything all fell into place. He and the boy had been manipulated. By this man.
He might not have sensed the Affinity attack when it first started, but he had fought it all the same. By resisting it and the urge to run, Fyn had done what he believed to be right, despite the risk to himself. This had been a test, a very subtle test of his mettle.
Fyn might not have a strong Affinity but he could sense the force of it coming from the stranger now. It reminded him of Palatyne's Utland Power-worker, who had radiated ice-cold Affinity like a forge radiated heat. But the Utlander had been bluffing and had dropped the pretext the moment it was no longer needed.
If this stranger was trying to impress Fyn, he had.
The stranger stood, reaching for the flute, which leaped off the foot stool and into his hands. He tucked it under one arm as he stepped into the sunlight, but only far enough to reveal his elegant clothes. His face remained in shadow. 'I am one of Mage Tsulamyth's agents, and you were told to wait.'
'Some things cannot wait,' Fyn said slowly. 'Besides, you were testing me. Did I pass?'
The other stiffened slightly.
Fyn allowed himself a small smile.
'You must forgive me,' the agent said, though it was more of an order than an apology. He stepped closer. 'The mage likes to know what manner of man he deals with.'
Now that Fyn could see the stranger's face, he was startled. Since Tsulamyth was so old and powerful, Fyn had expected his agents to be at least as old as his father, but this man looked about Byren's age, only his eyes were older. 'You're the mage's agent?'
'One of them. You can call me Tyro.'
He was taller than Fyn, but who wasn't? His body held a wiry strength, different from Byren, who was more densely muscled. Fyn guessed the agent would move fast if attacked.
He swallowed. If the mage's agent was this powerful, the mage himself must be truly impressive, which meant Fyn was out-classed. But he had known that when he decided to approach Tsulamyth.
'Come this way.' A section of the plastered ceiling swung down to reveal stairs. Fyn followed the agent up the narrow steps into what had to be the roof cavity. This opened into another building entirely.
They went down corridors and around corners until, finally, double doors parted to reveal a large, circular chamber. At the far end, through a set of doors, inset with glass panels, Fyn could see a balcony that looked out onto the distant inner slope of Ostron Ring.
Sunlight reflected from the Ring Sea below, ripples dancing across the chamber's white ceiling. Combined with the blue-green floor tiles this made Fyn feel as if he was beneath the waves.
In the centre of the room was a war table similar to his father's, only this one was twice the length of a tall man. Down the end nearest to Fyn was Ostron Isle, and about halfway along came Merofynia with its crescent opening to the south, then the Snow Bridge, its mountains taller than anywhere else, and then Rolencia with its north-opening crescent.
On the blue, ripple-glass sea were miniature boats, just as there were miniature buildings
on the land masses and quite a few carved people. They were out of proportion, as tall as the model ships' masts. Fyn guessed they were pieces from the game of Duelling Kingdoms, but there were more of them than in a Kingdoms game. Everything else was to scale and cleverly made. Fyn went to pick up the nearest boat, to admire its workmanship.
'Ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Agent Tyro advised then turned to face him. 'You impressed the gate-keeper with an Affinity tool. Show me.'
What if the agent demanded he hand over the Fate?
It wasn't his to give. Nevertheless, Fyn tugged on the chain, bringing it up for the agent to see. Would Tyro recognise it?
'Halcyon's Fate. How did it fall into the hands of a sea-hound?'
'I'm not a sea-hound. I'm…' Fyn hesitated, not sure if he should reveal who he really was. 'I'm from Halcyon Abbey and I'm — '
'Here to see Mage Tsulamyth. Why, if not to ask for his help against Merofynia?'
Fyn nodded, almost wishing it unsaid. What if the mage refused to help him? Worse, what if the mage agreed, but his terms were impossible? Would the agent let Fyn leave? He doubted he could even find his way out.
'Why should the mage help a penniless monk?' Tyro asked. 'Do you offer the Fate?'
'It's not mine to barter with.'
'Good. The mage would have turned you down. He has Affinity tools aplenty.'
The silence stretched. Fyn wondered what came next. Should he plead his case?
'Perhaps the mage knows more than you think,' Tyro said, voice silky. Fyn mistrusted his shrewd black eyes and felt a moment's disorientation as the agent picked up a Kingdoms piece. 'Here's a cunningly wrought piece, King Rolen's third son, masquerading as a lowly monk. Many believe him dead. This means he can go places no one expects.'
Fyn hid his surprise. Had he given himself away or was it a guess? Whatever happened, he had to keep Byren safe.
Tyro studied the carving. When he tilted the Kingdoms piece this way and that, Fyn felt the room sway. No, he was disoriented by the rippling light dancing across the ceiling.
'Now what would King Rolen's youngest son want, I wonder,' Tyro whispered. 'Vengeance?'
'I don't know. I can only speak as a monk.'
The agent's black gaze flew to his face. Then, as if he had come to a decision, Tyro put the piece in his pocket. 'The mage might have a use for one of Halcyon's monks, trained in the martial arts. If this monk proved loyal, the mage would look more kindly upon his request.'
He beckoned Fyn and walked to the far end of the war table.
Tyro pointed to ships making their way through the Rolencian Straits past the warlords' spars, weaving through the Utlands around to Merofynia. 'These are merchant ships returning to King Merofyn with the stolen wealth of Rolencia. Before leaving Rolencia, Palatyne ordered forts built on the passes over the Divide to keep the warlords in line and he has crushed the might of Halcyon Abbey.'
'What of Sylion?' Fyn asked.
'They had warning and sealed their gates. Palatyne is not worried about them as their power wanes with winter's passing. But the valley merchants, the fisher folk and farmers are vulnerable.'
Fyn felt this as if it was his personal failing. His family had a duty to protect the people of Rolencia.
'Palatyne has appointed Cobalt as his puppet king. Cobalt has declared Rolen and Myrella's marriage illegal because, according to him, the Merofynian kingsdaughter had Affinity. This makes his claim to the throne as good as any of King Rolen's kin.'
Fyn blinked. Cobalt had done this? It made no sense, not when he'd asked Fyn to find Byren so they could defeat the Merofynians. But he'd also warned Fyn, he would have to do things that made it appear he was Byren's enemy.
The agent continued. 'Palatyne has been rewarded with a dukedom but this does not satisfy him. He plans to wed — '
'King Merofyn's daughter,' Fyn guessed.
'Exactly.' Tyro strode past the Snow Bridge until he reached Merofynia. 'According to my sources, she is travelling along the coast road to Cyena Abbey. It would interfere greatly with Palatyne's plans if someone prevented this marriage.'
Murder a girl hardly older than Piro? Fyn took an instinctive step back, hands lifting in denial. 'I won't do it.'
The agent was silent for a moment, watching him from eyes that seemed to weigh his soul.
'Why not?' the agent countered. 'Her betrothal to Lence Kingsheir lulled King Rolen into a false sense of security and gave Palatyne his chance to invade. Surely, she is as false-hearted as her father? Agree to serve the mage and he will place a ship at your disposal, as well as trained men.'
Fyn knew that without the mage's help he could not hope to aid Byren. Yet… his brother would not ask him to murder Isolt, who could yet prove to be innocent.
He could not do it. Best to be honest.
'Back in Port Marchand, I had Palatyne defenceless under my knife and I could not kill him. If I could not kill an ambitious murderer to avenge my family, I could never kill a girl who might be innocent.' His mind raced as he tried to come up with an argument to convince the agent.
Tyro's face remained impassive. Fyn wondered if he was communicating directly with the mage. There had been hints of this sort of thing in the abbey scrolls.
'What do we know about Isolt? King Merofyn might have arranged the betrothal without her knowledge.' Fyn met Tyro's eyes and held them. 'I will not become an assassin, not even for the mage's goodwill.'
'Excellent.' Tyro smiled slowly, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling. 'How are you at abduction?'
A weight lifted from Fyn.
Chapter Thirteen
That evening it rained heavily, so the mage's agent sent Fyn in a closed carriage, through the streets of Ostron Isle to the dock where a ship waited.
Fyn glanced through the downpour, spotting three sails, and knew it was a fast-moving sloop like the Wyvern's Whelp, probably a sea-hound. Grabbing his borrowed bag with a change of clothes, he ducked out of the carriage, head down, and ran up the gangplank, across the deck and into the captain's cabin.
Where Nefysto awaited him.
Blinking rain from his eyes, Fyn spun around to find Jakulos and Bantam on either side of the door.
The little quarter-master rubbed his throat. 'I had a thundering headache, thanks to you.'
'You made us both look fools,' Jakulos said.
Fyn stiffened. 'I swore no oath to the sea-hounds, my loyalty lies elsewhere.'
'See, revenge motivates him,' Nefysto said. 'If you know what a man will die for, you know him.'
Fyn spun to face the captain. 'You let me think you reported to the elector, but you report to the mage. Why didn't you tell me?'
Nefysto grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
Ostronites were known to play their cards close to their chests. Fyn felt the ship shift, as the oars pushed them away from the dock, and automatically adjusted his stance.
'Let's see what our orders are.' Nefysto unrolled a message and appeared to read it, but Fyn knew it was all an act.
'It seems I am to offer the mage's new agent all assistance.' Nefysto rolled up the message. 'Runt, take Agent Monk's bag and show him to his cabin.'
Fyn didn't know what to say. The captain threw back his head, laughing. Bantam and Jakulos joined in. It was true, sea-hounds were half-crazy.
With their hilarity echoing in his ears, Fyn followed the cabin boy down below to one of the little cabins tucked under the captain's. It was only as he lay down to sleep that he remembered Nefysto had said his original orders were to keep Fyn captive.
Why would the mage want him locked up?
The same reason he wanted Fyn to abduct King Merofyn's daughter. The more Kingdoms pieces the mage had to play with, the more chance he had of winning. But what prize was Tsulamyth playing for?
Fyn let out his breath. What did it matter, as long as it helped Byren recover Rolencia?
Byren went in search of Florin.
He and his honour guard had be
en given the warlord's best chamber, reserved for visiting royalty. His head rang with voices and noise. From one end of the warlord's stronghold to the other, people packed every available space. Many of Byren's company had been taken into the homes that dotted the slope down to the fjord, and the rest tried to squeeze into Feid's stronghold, crowding the warlord's own honour guard.
The majority of Feid's men were still out on their farmsteads, awaiting the call to arms. By spar custom, his honour guard numbered over ninety, which meant the stronghold was filled to capacity with men. And these men would see any unattached woman as fair game. After Winterfall's none-too-subtle attempt to seduce Florin, Byren wanted her safe.
Not that she would thank him.
He should be upstairs, enjoying a hot bath with the offer of a willing serving girl, before dressing for the feast. Instead, he was searching for the ungrateful mountain girl.
He found Old Man Narrows in the stable, sorting out a fight between a couple of lads who should have known better. A quick clip over the ear and both were sent about their business.
'At the feast tonight, I want you at the warlord's table,' Byren said, 'where you can listen in to what we're planning and give your opinion.'
Old Man Narrows rubbed his thick fingers. 'Eh, I'm flattered, lad, but wouldn't you rather I'm down with the men, where I can keep an eye on the hotheads and listen in to what's being said? You've got Orrie at the table, not much gets past the young Dove.'
Byren grinned. He wondered if Orrade was aware that he had inherited his father's nickname. And Old Man Narrows had a point.
The former tradepost keeper beckoned Leif and rested his hands on his young son's shoulders. 'From the stables and the kitchen I'll hear things you wouldn't hear otherwise.'
'You're right.' Now to what was really worrying him. 'Where will you be bunking down?'
Old Man Narrows nodded to the stable loft. 'Here, where I can keep an eye on the lads.'
'Fair enough.' But what about Florin? If she wandered the stronghold with the freedom she was used to back at camp, Feid's warriors would consider her fair game. He didn't want her having to box some lout's ears, or worse, to convince him to leave her alone. 'Where's Florin?'
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