King Breaker (18 page)

When they reached the door, Fyn gestured for Isolt to go first. She swept into the chamber, with him one step behind.

‘My people.’ Isolt waited for them to fall silent. ‘Warlord Cortigern is less than a day’s sail from us, and the city has no defensive walls. There’s nothing to stop him striking into the heart of Port Mero.’

‘All the more reason to keep the city-watch close,’ a merchant insisted, voice rising in panic.

‘All the more reason to strike swiftly,’ Fyn said. ‘We don’t want fighting in the streets. Townhouses will burn and shops will be looted.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘I promised Lady Gennalla I’d save Benetir Estate. If we set sail by dusk, we’ll be there by midnight. If Cortigern’s warriors are anything like the spar warriors in Rolencia, they’ll be drinking, boasting and bedding...’ Thinking of poor Sefarra’s fate he hurried on. ‘They’ll be so drunk they won’t know what’s hit them!’

That lit a fire under them.

To Fyn’s relief, no one asked him why the port was in imminent danger if Cortigern’s warriors were rolling drunk.

Eager to protect their investments, the merchants offered their support. The captain of the city-watch had no choice but to volunteer his men, and the queen’s guards were in the same position. All that remained was for Wytharon and Travany to gather what men they could from their household staff and honour guards.

Everyone trooped out, leaving Fyn and Isolt with Lord Yorale.

‘It is unfortunate this uprising has happened so early in your reign,’ Yorale told Isolt. ‘But you’ve acted decisively to quell it. I promised your father, if anything happened to him, I would watch over you. I wish I could offer more practical support, but one of my best captains is still in Rolencia and my two surviving sons are inexperienced lads of seventeen and ten.’ He put his hand on Isolt’s shoulder. ‘If you’ll forgive an old family friend, your father would be proud of you, my queen.’

Isolt’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. ‘Thank you.’

‘And you...’ Yorale turned to Fyn. ‘You handled yourself well. It can’t be easy, being King Rolen’s son and serving your brother’s interests in Merofynia.’ He studied Fyn. ‘You remind me of your Uncle Sefon.’

Fyn had never met his mother’s brother. ‘What was he like?’

‘A thinker, a scholar. But I suspect you have more backbone than him. Well done, lad.’

Fyn flushed. ‘I do my best. Now I must oversee the preparations.’

Much later, as Fyn headed to his chamber to grab his weapons, he realised there was someone following him. Heart hammering, he stepped into a dim alcove and waited. Furtive footsteps approached.

Timing his attack, Fyn sprang out, caught the person and slammed them up against the alcove wall with his knife at their throat. It was the tall, skinny servant who had woken him, but Fyn did not lower the knife. ‘Who sent you?’

The servant swallowed audibly, Adam’s apple bobbing against the knife. ‘He never admitted it, but I think he was Lord Dovecote’s youngest son. I’m supposed to collect information to help Byren’s cause.’

Fyn licked his lips. Crazy, impossible hope filled him. If Garzik still lived... ‘Did he have a small gap between his two front teeth?’

‘Yes.’

The world swung; Fyn had to lean forward until his vision cleared. He must let Byren and Orrade know. Steadying himself against the wall, Fyn lifted his head. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Mitrovan. I scribe for Lord Travany, who serves Lord Yorale’s interests. If I learn anything useful, I’m supposed to send a message back to Byren. Wynn...’ Mitrovan shrugged. ‘That’s the name he went by, and that’s how I think of him. He was going to take news to Byren, but we were separated, and...’ His chin trembled.

‘And?’ Fyn’s mouth went dry.

‘He was sent on another voyage. Lord Travany’s ship did not return, and Travany lost his youngest son. He was heartbroken.’

For the second time in as many moments, Fyn bent double. He fought nausea. To have such hope, then to have it dashed away... His throat felt tight with grief.

‘I’m sorry I don’t have better news,’ the scribe said. ‘I promised Wynn I’d spy for Byren.’

Fyn nodded, unable to speak. It was good to know Garzik’s legacy lived on in Mitrovan.

‘To prove myself, I told you about the war-table meeting,’ Mitrovan explained. ‘The nobles wanted to hold the council without you.’

‘Thank you for warning me.’

‘Lord Protector Merofyn, what would you have me do?’

‘Call me Fyn. And if you hear anything that might help Byren, let me know.’

Chapter Fourteen

B
YREN WOKE TO
low voices. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He was ravenously hungry, but had the feeling something terrible had happened.

‘Why does it smell so bad in here?’ the cabin boy whispered.

‘It’s the ulfr furs,’ the captain replied. ‘In the heat, it stinks like an Affinity beast’s den.’

‘Should I open a window?’

‘No. They need to keep warm.’

And it all came back to Byren... Orrade cold and still, as good as dead, him crawling under the furs to keep his friend warm.

‘Will Lord Dovecote be all right?’ the boy whispered.

The old sailor’s silence was answer enough.

Byren was aware of someone coming closer.

The boy inspected Orrade. ‘He’s breathing now.’

‘If he wasn’t breathing before, he’d be dead now.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, lad.’ The captain sounded grim. ‘I’ve seen men start to warm up, but their hands and feet will still be cold, so we’ll try to warm them. Then, for no reason, their hearts just give out. Come along, now.’

There was a sound of shuffling feet and the door closed.

Byren opened his eyes. A finger of golden, late-afternoon light came through the window. He’d slept the better part of the day away.

He sat up to check on Orrade. The fine ulfr fur near Orrie’s mouth stirred with each breath. Byren slid his hand under the covers, felt Orrade’s shoulder and back. Warm, but his extremities were still icy cold.

Byren’s first instinct was to chafe Orrade’s hands and feet to get the blood circulating but, if this was what the sailors had done for their companions, it hadn’t helped. In fact, it might have contributed to their deaths. Imagine all that chilled blood flowing back into Orrade’s chest, shocking his heart...

Byren might yet lose him.

Resisting the impulse to hasten the warming, he freshened up, ate something.

If he’d still believed in Goddess Halcyon, he would have prayed to her; but so much had happened since the Merofynian invasion that he no longer had faith in the bringer of summer. As for Sylion, the cold-hearted god of winter, he felt sure the cruelty in the world could all be laid at the feet of bad luck and heartless men, rather than dark gods.

Affinity was real enough. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. He was reminded of something Orrade had once said, something to the effect that the gods were man’s explanation for Affinity.

All their lives, Orrade had been one step ahead of him. He didn’t know what he would do without Orrie. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but Byren refused to give in.

Orrade was going to live.

He glanced to his friend, who slept on oblivious. At least he hoped it was sleep. It would be too cruel if Orrade lost his wits. That would be worse than death. Orrie would not want to live a halfwit. Byren would have to kill him. It was the least he could do for his friend.

Tears stung Byren’s eyes.

He lay down and pulled Orrade against his chest. This time he deliberately sought the ulfr breathing pattern. The deep rumble in his chest sounded like the purring of a great cat. Byren smiled. If only the captain could hear him now.

P
IRO TRIED TO
be patient.

She sat on a brocade window seat in House Cinnamome’s palace. A balmy breeze brought the exotic scents of Ostron Isle—citrus flowers from the courtyard below and, underneath that, the sweet tang of honey-cinnamon tea. The rise and fall of voices continued behind her, their words disguised by a servant plucking a dolcimela’s strings. Siordun was deep in conversation with the old comtissa of House Cinnamome.

Piro had nearly asked after the middle-aged comtissa, but the last time she’d been on Ostron Isle she’d been disguised as Isolt’s servant. Back then she’d been excluded from conversations, and this time was no better.

Waiting drove Piro to distraction.

A spike of impatience made her stomach knot—no excess Affinity. She needed to channel it, but she couldn’t focus power on the stone Siordun had given her.

Frustrated, she looked over the courtyard. Beyond the red-tiled roofs, she could see Mage Isle with its famous white tower, the tallest tower in the world.

Why couldn’t they have gone straight there?

She glanced to Siordun and the old woman. What could be so important here? The fighting over the role of elector had ceased, and Ostron Isle had a new elector in Comtissa Cera of House Cerastus. Unless she died in office, there would be peace for another five years.

The mournful cry of a wyvern carried on the breeze. Piro sat up and glanced quickly to Siordun and the comtissa. They kept talking.

The cry had come from beyond the three-storey building on the other side of the courtyard. Piro’s skin prickled as she detected a hint of Affinity. Of course... this was why she’d been feeling impatient. She’d sensed the wyvern’s power and hers had responded.

Piro had grown accustomed to being around Isolt’s pet wyvern. She missed Loyalty and her own pet foenix terribly. If she was honest, she resented having to leave Resolute behind.

The strange wyvern gave voice again.

Piro stood and stretched.

Siordun and the comtissa turned to her. She’d thought they’d been intent on their discussion.

Assuming her most innocent face, she asked, ‘Is it all right if I go for a walk? I’ve been cooped up on the ship so long.’

‘Of course, dear,’ the old comtissa said.

Siordun gave her a sharp look, but the comtissa distracted him before he could question her.

Piro slipped out of the chamber, down the stairs and into the courtyard. She continued straight across the white flagstones, past a fountain and between two rows of topiary citrus trees, heading for the building on the far side.

It was shaded by a deep verandah, and beyond that was a dark ground floor chamber, filled with heavy furniture, rugs and urns. She hardly noticed, as she made for the far doors, the next courtyard and the wyvern.

As soon as she stepped into the courtyard, her heart lifted and her Affinity stirred. The wyvern was nearby and, by the sound of it, the beast was growing impatient.

Rows of vegetables stretched out before her. From the buildings that bounded the courtyard on three sides she heard laughter and singing. She smelled baking bread and boiling starch, reminding her of laundry days back home. Beyond the vegetable garden was a lower terrace, where lines of washing hung in the afternoon sun, stirring in the light breeze. The minstrels sang of how it was always summer in Ostron Isle. This afternoon, she almost believed them.

An aviary stood against the courtyard wall on her left, and this was where she found the wyvern. Caged.

Back at Rolenhold, one courtyard had housed her grandfather’s menagerie. Most of the beasts had died of old age by the time she was born, but she’d made friends with the unistag and her brothers had brought back the foenix egg that she’d cared for and hatched. Back then, she hadn’t realised how cruel it was to keep Affinity beasts caged. Now she knew better, and she bristled on the wyvern’s behalf.

Her steps slowed as she approached the cage. The wyvern’s intelligent eyes tracked Piro. A tingle of excitement ran through her as she felt her Affinity surge. The wyvern was much larger than Isolt’s pet; the beast’s wings brushed the top of the cage.

A surge of anger warmed Piro. ‘Why, there’s not enough room for you to stretch your wings. You poor boy.’

The wyvern was male, very definitely.

She checked to see if she could open the cage, but it was padlocked.

The build-up of her Affinity reached a peak. She felt it concentrate in her hand until the skin throbbed and itched.

‘Handsome boy,’ she crooned, extending her hand through the bars of the cage. The wyvern nuzzled her fingers.

‘Here, what’re you doing, girlie?’ Rough hands pulled her away from the cage.

The wyvern hissed, barred his teeth and roared. Piro covered her ears, staggering back.

‘Are you all right?’ the old man asked, his voice softening. ‘You mustn’t go near the beastie, girl, it—’

‘I was fine until you came along. You startled the poor thing.’

‘That poor thing near killed the young master.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

She studied the wyvern. The force of his rage and anger could not be contained by the cage. Already she could see the bolts holding the cage to the wall were working loose.

‘The beast failed to bond with the young master. Now...’ The old retainer eyed the caged wyvern.

‘He’ll be turned loose?’ Piro asked. It shamed her to realise she’d never thought to ask what happened to Affinity pets that didn’t bond.

The old retainer sent her a guarded look.

‘They’ll turn the wyvern loose, won’t they?’ Piro insisted.

‘The beastie doesn’t know how to hunt, or how to live with its own kind. Be cruel to turn it out to die.’

‘So they’ll kill him?’ Piro could not hide her horror. ‘Is that what happens to all the pets that don’t bond with their owners?’

‘Pet wyverns are no longer fashionable. Too many injuries.’

‘You mean none of them bonded?’ She had to warn Isolt.

He would not meet her eyes.

She studied the wyvern. ‘I think you should set him free. And I’m going to tell the comtissa!’

‘Piro?’ Siordun sounded annoyed. He was beckoning from the far end of the courtyard.

She hurried over to him, full of righteous indignation. ‘Have you heard about the pet wyverns?’

‘No.’ He walked off and she had to hurry to keep up with him as he led her through the building, towards the formal courtyard. ‘I’ve been busy trying to avert a war, if you hadn’t noticed.’