The Uncrowned King

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  He turned to face Cobalt. 'I'm here to help you escape. We'll go to Byren in the mountains -'

  'Byren's alive and hiding in the mountains?' Cobalt held Fyn's gaze, his dark eyes intense. 'You're sure of this?'

  Fyn pulled the Fate from inside his vest, to show Cobalt the seashell-shaped stone. 'I saw it in the Fate, in a vision. We can find him and -'

  Cobalt shook his head, mouth grim. 'I'm useless, Fyn, too weak to ride or skate. Don't waste your time looking for Byren, who may even now be dead. No. You owe your family blood payment. Palatyne murdered them. By the Rolencian warrior code your father held so dear, you must avenge their deaths.'

  Of course - Fyn's head reeled. He hadn't been thinking straight. He must avenge his murdered kin.

  'You must assassinate Palatyne. But you cannot challenge him,' Cobalt warned. 'He's a hardened warrior of forty summers and you are a boy who's not yet seventeen. A duel would only see you dead and your family left unavenged. No, you must get close to him, just as you got close to me. You must slide a knife between his ribs, or cut his throat. Only then will your mother and sister rest easy.'

  Fyn nodded. Assassinate Palatyne. 'And then come for you?'

  Cobalt's eyes widened.

  Fyn hastened to reassure him. 'Don't worry. I can wait for you to get better before we go to Byren.'

  'Can you find Byren using that stone?'

  'The Fate?' Fyn lifted it, staring into its opalised depths. Could he find Byren with it? Probably, but dare he risk it? 'I'll find him. I must.'

  'Good.' Cobalt sat up straighter, his whole body radiating determination.

  He was a different man from the one who had lain on the bed when Fyn entered the room. Fyn had given his kinsman a reason to live. 'I won't let you down, cousin.'

  'I'm sure you won't. But do not throw your life away when you kill Palatyne. You must come back safely to me or I will never find Byren. You understand?'

  Fyn nodded.

  Cobalt caught Fyn's arm with his good hand. 'Swear it will be so.'

  It seemed unnecessary but... Fyn placed his free hand over his heart. 'I swear it will be so. If I live, I will come back to you and help you find Byren.'

  His cousin nodded, satisfied, and let him go. 'Palatyne trusts no one. It will be hard to get near him.'

  'Where does he sleep?'

  'In the king's chamber, of course.' Cobalt snorted softly.

  'Then I know how to get to him.'

  'A secret passage?'

  Fyn laughed. 'No, that's an Ostronite custom.'

  Cobalt shrugged. 'Another thing. Whatever you hear, remember that I am with you. They hold me prisoner here so I may be forced to do things that make it appear as if I support the Merofynians, but I swear on my dead father's honour, my true loyalties do not lie with them.'

  Fyn flushed. 'I will hold true to you. You're my blood kin, all I have left, other than Byren.'

  'Halcyon bless you, Fyn!' Cobalt held out his remaining arm and, as they embraced, Fyn was careful not to bump his wound.

  They parted.

  'Pass me the tray,' Cobalt said. 'I must eat if I am to regain my strength.'

  Fyn brought the tray to him, knowing that he had restored his cousin's will. And Cobalt had given him direction. Now that he had a goal, he felt he could achieve anything.

  A grin parted his lips. He would fulfil Lord Dunstany's prophecy by assassinating the overlord.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Byren walked, driving himself on, senses alert for danger. Just because the ulfr pack hadn't attacked, didn't mean he and the boy were safe. There were other predators in the foothills of the Divide, especially at this time of year, when the beasts woke hungry from their winter sleep, while the ones that didn't hibernate were desperate, thanks to winter's lean pickings.

  It was after dusk and the froth of stars lit the snow with a silvery-blue glow. The dyer's boy slept, draped across the pony's back. They hadn't stopped to eat.

  For a while now Byren had been looking for a spot to stay the night. While he knew Rolencia's rich valley, and he had led punitive raids over the Divide, he did not know every nook and cranny of every foothill and ravine.

  The pony stumbled, going down on both front knees. Rodien rolled off, waking with a startled cry. Tears of weariness made his eyes glisten.

  Byren finally admitted it was time to make camp.

  Scooping the boy up, he let the pony find its feet and trudged on. His wound tugged with every step, but he was no longer a dead man walking. That healer must have been skilled indeed for he had been growing steadily stronger each day. Now, though, he had to admit he needed rest.

  No sign of a village or even a fortified farmhouse. Too bad. He could go no further. A huge evergreen, completely shrouded in snow, loomed ahead of them. Byren forged through its mantled lower branches to find an area near the great trunk that was sheltered from the outside. It was as large as a small cottage, with the trunk forming one central support. He put Rodien down and went back for the pony, leading it through the branches. The pony was happy to stop at last.

  Byren turned back to the little lad. 'Eh, Rodien, are you a good climber?'

  The boy stirred. 'The best.'

  'Then clamber up this tree and make yourself comfy.'

  'What about you?'

  'I'll be right up.'

  He boosted the boy to the lowest broad branch and then freed the pony from its sled traces and rubbed it down, slipping its nose bag over its head. Then he unhooked a blanket from their belongings and clambered up after the boy, helping him higher.

  Rodien patted the huge trunk. 'It's like the pole of a big tent.'

  'Eh, the snow protects the tree and us.' Byren rested his back against the trunk. 'We'll be safe up here.'

  Rodien glanced down to the dim outline of the pony below, dark against the softly glowing snow. 'What if I roll over in my sleep?'

  Byren opened his arms. 'I won't let anything happen to you.'

  The boy snuggled up against his chest and Byren arranged the blanket over them both.

  'You won't leave me, will you?' Rodien whispered.

  Byren's heart turned over and he had to swallow before he could speak. 'Not until your brother returns.' He felt the little body relax in his arms, then stiffen.

  'What if the ulfr pack gets Miron, too?'

  There was danger and little Rodien was no fool, so Byren chose his words carefully. 'Miron's a clever boy. And he's big and strong. He should have reached Rolenton and be on his way back by now. He'll find other travellers and stay with them. He'll be safe.'

  Byren felt Rodien nod and snuggle closer. In no time at all the little boy's body went limp with sleep. Byren knew he should sleep too, but his mind wandered. Until now, he had ignored how the leader of the ulfr pack sniffed his hand and moved on.

  Now he tried to make sense of the meeting with the ulfr. Although his clothes had been washed, there must have been enough residual Affinity on his skin to make him seem like part of the pack to the beast.

  Satisfied with his reasoning, Byren rested his head against the trunk. He was just drifting off when he heard the pony shift uneasily. Surreptitiously, Byren eased his right arm free and felt for his knife.

  Rodien stirred. Byren placed a finger on his lips.

  The pony reared, pulling against the rope that tethered it to the trunk.

  Something large crashed through the drooping branches, scattering snow. The pony screamed. There was an ominous crunch, then silence, then the sound of dragging.

  Rodien whimpered, clinging to Byren.

  He covered the boy's mouth and they remained absolutely still, listening. Nasty noises ensured as two beasts snarled over the pony's carcass.

  'A lincis pair,' Byren breathed. 'Usually solitary hunters. Possibly a mother and her cub.'

  'C-can they climb?' Rodien asked.

  They could but... 'One pony is enough for the pair of them. We're safe.'

  'Poor Blossom,' the boy muttered and dissolv
ed into silent, wracking sobs. He hadn't cried over his father, and now he cried unrestrainedly. Byren held him until his sobs slowed and he fell asleep. The occasional dry sob still shook his little frame, making Byren realise just how young and vulnerable the lad was.

  They'd have to leave the sled, carry what they could on their backs and hope to meet up with other travellers. The lincis pair would be satisfied for a day or two, maybe three.

  Last time he'd met up with a lincis, Orrade had been with him, and only the old seer's arrival had saved his friend's life. To think, he'd risked his best friend's life for a few priceless lincurium stones just so he could outdo Lence's gift for his parents' Jubilee.

  Now his parents were dead, as was Lence, and he would give anything to go back and warn himself. The Byren of midwinter seemed so young and thoughtless compared to the Byren who now hid up a tree, protector of a small boy.

  And he had no idea where the three lincurium stones were. He'd had two set on matching rings for his parents and the largest set as a pendant for Lence to give his betrothed, but Cobalt had used them, along with a poem he'd written for Elina, to convince his father he was Orrade's lover.

  Every word he'd said in his own defence had been true, but Cobalt had twisted the truth to paint him a usurper, out to steal his twin's throne.

  Since then his whole life had fallen apart. Who was he to save Rolencia? He would be lucky if he could save Rodien and himself.

  As Fyn stretched out along the massive oak beam, he silently thanked his father for insisting the royal family stay with tradition and live in the old wing. Below him lay his parents' chambers, only now they housed Overlord Palatyne.

  The narrow, empty chamber had once been a nursery-maid's room or healer's room depending on the need, but Palatyne would have no one near him while he slept. Beyond it lay the royal bedchamber where Palatyne would sleep tonight.

  Right now the overlord was down in the great hall, bestowing the title of duke on Illien of Cobalt. In return, Fyn's cousin would rule Rolencia on King Merofyn's behalf. But that didn't matter since, by dawn, Palatyne would be dead. Most of his warriors were barracked down in the town. This left those remaining in the castle vulnerable if the castle's servants rose up against them, and Fyn was sure they would, once they knew Palatyne was dead. They could retake the castle and hold off the warriors quartered in town.

  Byren would hear of it and come down from the mountains with his warriors. Inspired, the townspeople would turn on the Merofynians in Rolenhold and, together with Byren's men, wipe them out. So Fyn wouldn't have to use the Fate to find him.

  A snuffling whine came from just beyond the door and it swung open, bringing a shaft of lamp light. Fyn held his breath. Because of his dread of assassination, Palatyne's chambers were searched every night before he went to bed. That was why Fyn had come with the grappling hook, swung it over the beam, hauled himself up and hidden the rope and hook.

  Fyn did not dare look. Instead he lay perfectly still, hardly breathing. Below, he heard the hounds snuffling as they sniffed the floor.

  'Hurry up, boys,' the servant muttered. 'We're missing the feast.'

  The dogs whined.

  'What?' the man demanded of his hounds. 'There's nothing here. The room's empty.'

  The dogs whined again, one barked. The short, sharp sound made Fyn's heart race.

  'Rats,' another voice muttered from the door. 'Cook was complaining of them in the kitchen.'

  'Rats? Is that it, boys?' the first voice asked. 'I've got something much tastier for you. Come on.'

  He dragged them out, their nails sliding on the polished wood. Fyn relaxed gradually. The weapons master had been right. When they were indoors, people rarely looked up for threat. Outside, it was a different story, with leogryfs and cockatrices on the prowl.

  Now all he had to do was wait until the overlord returned and fell asleep, then cut his throat and take the news to Cobalt. A yawn snuck up on him. He was tired. He'd hardly slept in the last four days.

  Byren woke, shoulders cold and stiff, but he was warm from the centre out, because in his arms was a sleeping bundle of small boy. For several heartbeats he just sat there. He'd led men and youths, who were eager to be warriors. He'd taught them to hunt and kill in the defence of Rolencia, but he'd never been solely responsible for a small child before today.

  Seeing Rodien's trusting face, the fan of his dark lashes on smooth cheeks, Byren was overcome with the immensity of this responsibility.

  Rodien stirred and focused on him. Byren saw emotions race across his face, confusion, sorrow and fear, finally he smiled. 'I'm hungry.'

  Byren laughed softly. 'You and me both. Come on.'

  He climbed down, lifting Rodien to the ground. Here, a trail of blood and disturbed snow were evidence of where the pony had been dragged out from under the tree. A small gap in the branches let a ray of dawn light filter through.

  'Poor Blossom,' Rodien whispered.

  He seemed close to tears, so Byren began unpacking the sled. 'We'll have to leave this and take only the food we can carry.'

  Rodien nodded and looked up to Byren, waiting for instructions. Everything rested on him. The fate of one small boy and the fate of a kingdom.

  'Hail, fellow travellers,' a voice called.

  Byren froze. The voice was male and the accent revealed he was poorly educated, possibly only one generation out from the spars.

  'We offer traveller's ease,' the stranger said, giving the traditional greeting.

  This didn't reassure Byren. In the mountain passes spar warriors eager for wealth preyed on travellers. End of winter, early spring was when they would come out of hiding, desperate for goods to trade for food. And, with the valley under attack, they'd know they were safe from King Rolen's justice. Many a time Lence and Byren had led punitive raids against such men.

  In one swift movement Byren picked Rodien up and dropped him behind the sled. 'Stay down. Stay quiet.'

  Silent, pleading eyes looked up at Byren but the boy nodded his understanding.

  Byren turned to face the gap in the branches where a clump of snow fell as the man thrust his head through and peered inside.

  'Sveyto, servant to Scholar Veniamyn of Rolenton.' He glanced to the sled. 'You travel alone?'

  'Byren, blacksmith of Rolenton.' Letting his tongue roll the Rs, Byren adopted the speech of the peasants. The borrowed cloak hid his good quality leather vest and he had five days' growth on his chin. 'Is your master headed over the pass?'

  Sveyto, if that was his name, nodded. 'Hoping to get his family through before the spring melt makes travelling dangerous and the Merofynians close the pass.'

  Byren's heart sank. So it was true. Rolenton had fallen.

  'Who is it? Bring them out here where I can see them,' another man called, his voice heavy with the weight of command, but Byren could detect a hint of fear, and if he could, then so could the guide.

  'Step out in the open, friend.' Sveyto gestured for Byren to pass him.

  Byren instinctively distrusted anyone who used 'friend' in that way.

  Without looking down at Rodien, who he hoped would remain quiet, Byren stepped out from under the cover of the snow-shrouded pine into a crisp early morning. Fingers of pale sunlight streamed horizontally through the evergreens, illuminating the travellers. A well-dressed scholar stood near a serviceable horse, laden with travelling bags, and a pretty girl of about ten. On the second horse two slightly older, but equally pretty, girls rode amidst more baggage. The last horse dragged a sled covered in belongings. There were no other sell-swords.

  Sveyto had called himself a servant, but Byren knew a sell-sword when he met one. The sell-sword was the kind of man a merchant hired to provide protection for his goods. Scholar Veniamyn must have hired him to guide them through the foothills and over the pass, believing his family would be safer in Foenix Spar than in the captured city.

  Byren's gaze returned to the scholar. The last time they had met was at the midwinter feast
in his father's castle.

  Byren ducked his head in a peasant's bow. 'Byren, blacksmith of Rolenton at your service, sor.'

  Veniamyn's eyes widened only slightly as recognition hit him, but he did not reveal this, keeping up Byren's pretence. 'You look like a strong young man, blacksmith. Ride with us and share the journey's dangers. We heard a Lincis's hunting cry last night. I see your horse has been taken.'

  'Pony,' Byren corrected. 'But I'm only going as far as Cedar tradepost.'

  'That suits us.' The scholar cast his servant an acerbic glance. 'We seem to have lost our way and have been wandering in these woods for two days now.'

  Byren understood his meaning. Veniamyn had paid Sveyto to guide them, only to have him lead them astray. The sell-sword was probably leading them towards his brigand friends. Those three pretty daughters would fetch a high price on the Utlands, higher still on Ostron Isle where slavery sustained the economy.

  'Cedar tradepost is about one day's travel across the ridge.' Byren pointed. 'Be glad to show you the way. But there's something you must know. I'm not travelling alone.'

  He ignored Sveyto as he returned to where Rodien was hiding. 'Come on, lad. We've found some fellow travellers.'

  'Then we'll be safe from the Affinity beasts?' Rodien asked.

  'Aye.' Though Byren suspected they would not be safe from human predators. He finished removing the food packs and retied the sled. 'We'll have to leave it. Miron might be able to come back for it sometime.'

  Rodien shouldered his bag, obviously unworried about their belongings. 'When can we eat?'

  'Soon.' As Byren turned to the gap in the branches, he felt a small hand slide into his and they stepped into the open.

  No one spoke for a moment. The sell-sword frowned at him and Byren guessed Scholar Veniamyn was confused, for he knew Byren had no children.

  'That boy's too small, Master Veniamyn,' Sveyto protested. 'The blacksmith's son will -'

  'He's not my son. I fell in with him and his da. Ulfr pack took his da yesterday.'

  'Oh, the poor boy!' the eldest of Veniamyn's daughters cried. She was about Piro's age, but more rounded and traditionally pretty. 'We can't leave him behind, Father.'