Piro let her breath out slowly and eased her grip on the knife hilt, returning it to its hiding place.
'I quested for Rolen's blood kin!' the Utlander insisted. 'Rolen's children are half-Merofynian. It points to you, Lord Dunstany. You are confusing the power because you are related to the old royal line of Merofynia through their mother's great, great aunt.'
'Enough talking! I want the kingson dead,' Palatyne ground out. 'The way you Power-workers snipe and snap at each other, I swear you are more of a hindrance than a help.'
'Overlord.' Lord Dunstany gave him a smile of apology. 'Let me try.'
The Utlander sneered but watched closely, his eyes shrouded beneath bristling brows as Dunstany pressed his finger tips to his temples and closed his eyes.
This time Piro did not feel a sense of oppression. The back of her neck tingled and she felt as if she was slowly rising through the roof of her skull. She lifted higher until she hung over the table, looking down on the three men and herself.
Then she was arrowing out across Rolencia, searching.
Chapter Fourteen
While rolling over in his sleep, Fyn felt something burn his chest. He sprang up, pulling the Fate from its resting place under his jerkin. The opal glowed with Affinity.
Fascinated and fearful, Fyn opened his mind to greet the mystics master. But it was a stranger, a presence which winged across Rolencia searching for something. It had to be a renegade Power-worker.
Even as he thought this, an image took form in his mind, the castle hunt-master with a bloodhound on leash, sniffing out a trail. Searching... for who or what?
The Fate? It called those with Affinity.
Fyn fought panic. He was no mystic. Without the mystics master to aid him, how could he do battle? He had to hide his presence. He concentrated on cloaking himself, and taking no action that would give him away.
The renegade Power-worker, however, did not seem to notice that Fyn had been swept along with him as he let his bloodhound follow the trail. He swooped over the starlit, snow-mantled land. The chantries and oratories in various villages glowed, but he ignored them until a Sylion oratory drew them down through the thatched roof of its residence, into the only bedroom.
A man lay there, on his side, his face turned away to the wall. With Unseen sight Fyn could see a miasma of grief and guilt radiating from him, but his actual features were blurred. Fyn's instinct was to try to help the grieving man, but he dare not do anything that might attract the Power-worker's attention, so he held back.
Beside the man knelt a veiled healer. She did not glow with power - her Affinity was only mild. She would heal with herbs, stitching and encouragement. Right now, she was bathing the blood from the man's ribs. The wound was revealed, an ugly, puckered knot of flesh.
He felt the nun's surprise. Fresh blood on an old wound. Days old.
Then where did the blood come from?
What did all this mean? Why had he been swept along in the Power-worker's search?
One thing was clear to Fyn, the nun could not heal the injury to the man's soul and, if that wasn't dealt with, he would not have the will to heal his body. Fyn could feel him relinquishing his hold on this mortal plane. It would only take a fever to carry him off. Fyn had to risk helping him.
On the Unseen plane he had no physical body, yet he reached out for the man's wounded essence. Contact stunned him. It was Byren, and his heart was broken, his sense of self destroyed.
It was too much, more than Fyn could stand.
Another presence pierced his awareness. With a heart-juddering start, Fyn realised he had betrayed himself.
For an instant the Power-worker was too startled to react, then he stretched out a questing tendril into Fyn, who wrenched himself away. Nausea coiled in his belly as he fell, spiralling down... down, down into his body.
Re-entering his corporeal form was like a kick in the stomach. It stole his breath and left him gasping. He found himself lying in the snow-cave, the Fate clutched in his hand, frozen tears on his cheeks. Fyn struggled to his knees and dry-retched. Pinpricks of light danced in his vision. It was a good eight heartbeats before his sight cleared.
He felt physically drained, but he had escaped the Power-worker and that amazed him. He studied the Fate. Its dim opal surface gave no hint of the power it contained. To think, he could be captured while he slept and dragged on a journey. Truly this Fate was a tricky tool to use. And there was no chance of training, now that he no longer served the mystics master.
Fingers trembling, he tucked the Fate inside his jerkin, wondering what to do next.
He was both relieved and worried to learn that Byren lay injured in a farmer's cottage, wounded physically and mentally. The impact of his brother's heartbreak still weighed on Fyn. Lence must be dead. Only his twin's death would be so devastating for Byren.
Lence dead... why did he feel only relief?
Unable to sit still, Fyn broke out of his snow-cave and shook himself.
Byren was not dead, but he was close to death and the Merofynian Power-worker knew where he was. That is, if he recognised him. Physical features did not hold shape on the Unseen plane, it was a person's essence that gave him form. How would someone who had never known Byren recognise him?
Fyn could only hope the Power-worker had not recognised either of them.
Wide awake now, he was ready to skate through the night. His father had to be told that an evil Power-worker roamed Rolencia using Affinity paths. If the king sent to Sylion Abbey for the mystics mistress, she would know what to do. She would be able to locate Byren and help him.
Fyn must reach Rolenhold and warn his father. Thank Halcyon Piro was safe in the castle.
Piro pushed helping hands away and sat up, surprised to find herself lying on the floor with the noble scholar kneeling over her. She grabbed her rabbit-skin cap, which had fallen off, and pulled it down low over her ears. The last thing she wanted was to attract the overlord's attention but that was exactly what she had done.
'What's wrong with your slave?' Palatyne demanded as Dunstany helped her to her feet.
'She has not eaten since breakfast.' He gave her a push towards the door. 'Foolish child, go to the kitchen and ask Cook for a meal.'
Grateful for the reprieve, Piro headed for the door.
'What happened, Utlander?' asked Palatyne.
'Dunstany left his body for several heartbeats -'
Piro remembered the floating sensation and realised she had been carried along by the Power-worker's Affinity. She wanted to stay and learn more, but she had to obey Dunstany.
Opening the door, she found Cook, Soterro and Grysha, all listening in the short hall. They made no apology and they each held a mug brimming with Rolencian red wine. The cook shoved her aside as the door swung shut and they craned to hear what was being said in the next room. Piro stood just behind them, listening unashamedly.
'Well, Dunstany, what did you learn?' Palatyne prodded, his deep voice carrying through the closed door.
'It was hard to tell. The Unseen plane is not like ours. Things appear -'
'No excuses. What did you see?' Palatyne demanded.
'One of Sylion's oratories.'
'Who was there?' Palatyne asked. 'Byren Kingson?'
Piro bit back a gasp. Byren? They were looking for Byren, not Lence?
Could the man on the bed have been Byren? Piro tried to recall his features, but he had been turned away and it was Fyn's face that came to her. Thoughtful, kind Fyn. Sorrow carried on a wave of love swamped her. She told herself she must not give in to despair. They had not found Fyn's body. He may yet live.
'No, I did not see the kingson,' Dunstany admitted. 'It was a Sylion healer exercising her craft on an injured man. Her deep Affinity must have drawn me.'
'Another failure!' the Utlander commiserated, and there was the unmistakable edge of triumph to his voice.
'Ahh, you're useless, the pair of you. I'll have Cyena and Mulcibar's mystics try when they get
here!' the overlord growled. The floor creaked as he strode to the far door.
Piro realised Palatyne must have sent the mystics from Merofynia's two great abbeys with the warriors to take Halcyon's abbey. Fight fire with fire.
The overlord spoke again. 'I'm going back to the castle to host the victory feast. You Power-workers needn't bother to attend until you have some real news of Byren Kingson.'
When the door closed after him the Utlander said, 'I'll take King Rolen's finger.'
'Be my guest.'
There was a muffled sound and the Utlander cursed. 'You dropped it!'
'Sorry. Here, let me clean it for you.'
'You keep your hands off it. I don't trust you. You'll wipe out its usefulness with a counter-spell!'
'You wrong me.'
The Utlander made a rude noise and left. There was silence from the room beyond. Soterro and Cook exchanged looks. While they were distracted the kitchen boy's hand cupped Piro's bottom suggestively. She froze in surprise, then drove her elbow into his midriff. He gave a grunt of pain.
'What?' The cook turned around and saw Grysha's pained face and Piro's anger. 'I told you if you stroked that kitten's fur the wrong way she'd scratch.'
Grysha refused to answer and Piro pretended she had not understood his Merofynian speech.
The cook waddled back to the kitchen and poured himself another goblet of wine. 'Master's got his work cut out for him, keeping one step ahead of that jumped-up barbarian overlord and the greedy little Utlander. Thanks be to Mulcibar, the twin is dead. I don't know much about Affinity, but I'm guessing losing one twin more than halves the other twin's power.' He noticed Piro and switched to Rolencian. 'Don't just stand there. Fetch the plates and do the dishes.'
At that moment, Soterro returned, beckoning Piro. 'Lord Dunstany wants you.' He added in Merofynian, 'looks like he's fed one appetite, now he wants to feed another!'
'Didn't know he had it in him.' Cook winked.
Hiding her alarm, Piro went into the apothecary's dining room. Dunstany had poured himself a wine and was swirling it around in the goblet, watching it intently. She waited, shifting from foot to foot, wondering how she was going to escape this. Surely Soterro was mistaken. The noble scholar was so old, he shouldn't want her in that way.
'You rang, sor,' she said, dipping her head in a servant's bow. 'I mean, m'lord.'
His unreadable black eyes met hers. Then he put his goblet aside. 'You make a pretty page boy, Seela.'
Piro decided she would slit his throat if he laid one hand on her, run straight up to the castle and kill Palatyne, then finish off Cobalt.
At least she'd try.
'Are you feeling better now that you've eaten? Here.' Dunstany poured a second goblet of wine and offered it to her.
She was sure slaves were not offered wine by their Merofynian masters, Rolencian servants never were. Perhaps it only happened when their masters wanted to use their bodies. Reluctantly, she approached the table and took a single sip, keeping the chair between herself and Dunstany. She put the goblet down.
'Do you know what happened tonight?' he asked, surprising her.
'No, sor.'
He studied her carefully. 'How long have you had Affinity?'
She drew breath to contradict him.
'Don't waste my time denying it. When I tried to influence you up at the castle you overcame the compulsion to serve my will. Only someone with innate Affinity could break my gaze. Then tonight, when I plunged into the Unseen plane, I unwittingly drew on your Affinity. That's why you passed out, weakened by my journey. Why didn't your family gift you to Sylion Abbey?'
Piro licked her lips. 'Me Da died years ago so I was all me Mam had. I had to support her.
'You served Halcyon's healer. Why didn't she notice your Affinity?'
Yes, why not? Piro drew breath, her mind scrambling. 'I hid it. Pretended the best I could do was stitch and mix herbals.'
'A convincing story,' Dunstany said with a half-smile. And Piro wondered just what he meant by that. 'While I was out of my body, did you sense anything? Be aware that I know when you are lying.'
'No, sor.' She was certain he was bluffing. Well, pretty certain.
'Have you ever had visions?'
Piro debated how much she should reveal. She longed for reassurance and, for a renegade Affinity Power-worker, the noble scholar seemed honourable. 'Before the overlord attacked I had bad dreams, sor. Wyverns running through the castle.' Her throat closed as she recalled her father refusing to heed her warnings. She blinked back tears.
'Most distressing,' he agreed. 'If you have any more visions let me know. They are triggered by nexus points in the possible future paths... I see you don't understand. One day perhaps.'
'They say Affinity leaves you open to evil unless you have an abbey's protection,' Piro whispered.
'Evil cannot touch you while you are with me, Seela. I place protective wards wherever I go.' He slid her goblet towards her. 'Drink up. Did Cook give you something to eat?'
'Yes, thank you.' Piro sipped the wine, looking down into the goblet, watching the dark liquid glint in the candlelight. After everything that had happened today, she just wanted to curl up and sleep.
Piro's heart gave a little double beat of surprise, as she realised Dunstany was trying to trick her again. It was not a frontal attack like up at the castle, but a more subtle strike.
Staring into her goblet, she concentrated on resisting the dreamy sensation. The knife felt heavy in her sleeve. Could Dunstany see the outline? She let her left arm drop from the goblet so that the full over-sleeve fell down covering the inner woollen sleeve. Still the knife weighed on her thoughts.
'Is there something you wish to tell me?' Dunstany asked softly.
An answer almost tripped off her unwary tongue, but she managed to shake her head.
He stood up with a sigh, calling for Soterro. The servant hurried in, standing stiffly to hide the amount of wine he had drunk.
'Lock Seela in her room. I'm making you responsible for her. If she runs away I'll take it out on your hide. Understand?'
Soterro glowered at Piro. 'She hasn't done the washing up, yet.'
'Grysha can do it.' Lord Dunstany frowned at Piro who tried to look innocent. 'You can give it back now.'
She held out the goblet.
'No. The knife.'
Heat raced up her cheeks. Shamed at being caught out, she avoided Dunstany's eyes as she slid the knife from her sleeve and offered it hilt-first to him.
Soterro cursed.
'Just so.' Dunstany smiled as he gave Soterro the knife. 'Return this to Cook and tell him to be more careful. This slave might look as innocent as a newborn lamb, but you mustn't take your eyes off her for a moment.'
Soterro grabbed Piro's arm and dragged her into the kitchen where Cook was tipping the last of the wine into his mug.
'Here.' Soterro tossed the knife. It clattered on the table. 'She had it hidden.'
Grysha's eyes widened. Piro was tempted to hiss at him, but she wasn't supposed to have understood the cook's reference to her as a kitten.
Cook caught Piro's arm, turning her around to face him. Sweat glistened on his upper lip and bald pate, and his jowls shook with anger. 'What were you planning, girlie? Whatever it was it would do no good. Our master places protective spells wherever we go. No chance of you slipping into his bedroom and slitting his throat while he sleeps!'
'No chance of her doing it to us, either. She'll be locked up,' Soterro muttered with satisfaction.
He took a candle to light the stairs to the attic, grumbling all the way. 'Lord Dunstany's a good master, better than most. But he's a sharp one. No chance of pocketing his valuables or selling off his wine!' He unlocked the door. 'In you go.'
'Can I have another blanket? It's cold up here.'
He snorted, closed the door and locked it, leaving Piro in the dark. She dressed in all the clothes she had and climbed into the bunk, pulling the covers up. So much had happened
she was sure she'd never sleep. Soterro was right, Lord Dunstany was too clever. She had to escape him before he guessed who she was. It had been close tonight.
But Byren was alive!
She hugged the knowledge to herself, letting it warm her to the core. If only Fyn was safe. Tomorrow she would escape the noble scholar and go looking for her brothers.
That reminded her. Lence must be dead, that was why they referred to Byren as kingsheir. In fact, now that their father was dead, Byren was the uncrowned king.
Tears stung Piro's eyes, and she gave in to them at last. When the sobs no longer shook her, she sang the chants to Halcyon to lay her mother, father and eldest brother to rest. The goddess would care for them in her Sacred Heart.
But it was Sylion she prayed to next, for the cruel god of winter understood revenge.
Chapter Fifteen
Byren lifted his head, roused by someone turning his clothes on the chair before the fireplace. They left before he could gather his wits. Through the frosted panes of the small window, he heard someone in the yard outside talking gently as they eased the pony into the sled shafts.
The dyer was preparing to run for the mountains. Byren knew they should leave him behind. He'd slow them down, and they'd be executed if they were caught with him. He didn't want to fail these people as well.
He slid his legs out of the bed, careful of his bandaged ribs, and shuffled to the fire. His breeches were almost dry, so he eased them on but didn't attempt the boots. Byren unrolled his shirt. It had been washed and hastily stitched, and was warm from hanging in front of the fire. He pulled it on and lifted his vest. Someone had sponged the blood off but had not attempted to repair the leather.
As he turned for the door a wave of dizziness hit him, greyness eating into his vision. He clutched the shelf above the fireplace, feeling his legs shake and his stomach clench. A light sweat broke out on his skin. Either he was going to pass out, or his head would clear. He ground his teeth.
The dizziness cleared. He crossed the room and took a deep breath which triggered a cough. It hurt but did not tear at him inside, nor did he have that odd panicky feeling as if he could not get enough air. He checked by coughing again. No blood on his hand.
The Uncrowned King Page 17
