King Breaker (42 page)

This time of year, the ospriet probably had a mate waiting on its nest, keeping the eggs warm. That, or it might be trying to win a mate with this offering.

Garzik resumed his scan of the surrounding sea. After Port Mero, the ship had made good time, thanks to a distant storm that had brought strong winds.

‘Over the starboard prow,’ Olbin said, joining him. ‘The Skirling Stones.’

Garzik spotted tall spires of rock surrounded by a mantle of foaming sea. Some of the spires were topped with stunted bushes. The stones reflected the setting sun, as if they were made of black glass. ‘I’ve heard they sing.’

‘When the wind is in the right quarter.’

He frowned. ‘Are those birds circling them?’

‘Winged serpents. We don’t venture near the Skirling Stones. Between the rocks and the Affinity beasts, it’s too dangerous.’

‘You finished with Wynn?’ Rusan asked Olbin, joining them. ‘We can squeeze in a reading lesson before the night watch.’

Olbin retrieved the farseer. ‘Do any of your fancy books mention the Skirling Stones, Wynn?’

Rusan glanced to Garzik.

‘No, but there would probably be something on them in the abbey libraries. The abbeys hoard knowledge like treasure.’

Olbin snorted. ‘I bet those hot-land books have nothing good to say of us Utlanders.’

Since this was true, Garzik could not deny it. He swore then that when he went home, he would write the truth about the Utlanders.

A
S THE SETTING
sun illuminated the Landlocked Sea, Fyn stood in the crow’s nest searching the foothills of the Dividing Mountains. There was no sign of a messenger on the shore.

His belly churned with frustration. The Merofynian lords had agreed to send news by fast rider, so he’d spent all day searching for a signal. Neiron should have caught up with Wythrod yesterday, or even the day before, and Yorale would have been in position. So why was there no word?

Fyn cursed softly. Too much could go wrong in the heat of battle. If this attack failed, it would make him look incompetent; but he had no control over the Merofynian lords. He had to trust to the abbot’s cool head to guide Wythrod.

The wind carried Isolt’s voice to him and he spotted her on the prow, throwing treats out over the water for the Affinity beasts. Both the foenix and the wyvern vied for the sea-fruit, getting in each other’s way, and the treat dropped into the sea. Loyalty dived, skimmed the waves, then returned to Isolt’s side and shook herself, spraying the queen.

Isolt laughed, spotted Fyn and waved to him.

As he joined her, she asked, ‘Have they sent a messenger?’

‘No, we just have to hope...’ Distracted by the way her damp gown clung to her body, he looked past her towards Wythrontir Estate. What he saw made him frown and shade his eyes. ‘Does that look like smoke to you?’

Isolt studied the horizon. ‘It could just be a forest fire.’

‘All the fires we’ve seen recently have been associated with spar attacks,’ Fyn said. ‘I should have stayed with the army. Even if we turn back now, we won’t reach Wythrontir Estate until tomorrow.’ Too late to help them.

T
IRED, HUNGRY AND
footsore, Byren crept to the treeline to study the water-wheel. Florin joined him. In the branches above them, birds bickered over roosts.

As dusk closed in, a light rain had begun to fall, chilling them both. Despite this, Byren took his time. The old mill-house sat at the top of a small pond fed by a narrow stream.

The mill-house appeared to be deserted, but if the roof hadn’t fallen in since last summer, it would be dry.

‘There’s no one around,’ Florin whispered. The night birds gave their hunting cries. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘I’m not walking into a trap.’

‘The birds are not disturbed. It’s safe.’

Even so, Byren waited a little longer before he waved them on.

They crept through the thigh-high ferns through the doorless opening of the mill-house. Inside, the churning of the water-wheel kept up a soft, steady rush of noise. Someone dropped through the hatch from the grain loft, landing lightly. It was gloomy inside the mill-house, but Byren recognised Orrade by the way he moved.

‘Orrie!’ Taking two steps, Byren embraced him.

‘I knew you’d escape.’ Orrade’s voice was a trifle rough. ‘Knew you’d come here.’

Byren grinned and nodded to the floor above. ‘Are the others—’

‘No. We split up. That milliner is a canny one. She disguised Varuska by packing rags in her cheek then tied a bandage around her face, as if she had a tooth ache. They should be in Rolenton already.’

‘If the girl looks so much like Piro, she can’t stay—’

‘Salvatrix is going to send her to the mage.’ Orrade turned away and busied himself with something on a low shelf.

‘And Chandler?’ Byren heard flint strike, a spark flared bright in the dimness.

‘I sent him up to Foenix Pass.’ Orrade turned, shielding the flame of a candle stub. ‘He should get through before Cobalt can close the pass...’

Orrade ran down as he took in Florin and Byren’s state—Byren shirtless, Florin in a torn tabard and blanket instead of breeches. Byren felt his face grow hot. It was obvious what had happened. Only it hadn’t, and he had the blue-balls to prove it.

Florin flushed and looked away.

‘I...’ Orrade’s voice faltered, then recovered. ‘I see you lost your clothes in the fire. Thank Halcyon you survived. There’s a blanket upstairs. I’ll go get some horses and supplies.’

He passed the candle to Byren and went to leave.

Byren caught his arm. ‘You can’t go to the great house. It’s—’

‘It’s necessary. We have nothing, no food, no...’ He paused as Byren’s stomach rumbled loudly, as if to prove his point. ‘They’re my people, Byren. Cobalt might have given Dovecote to his Merofynian lackeys to buy the captain’s loyalty, but he can’t buy the loyalty of Dovecote’s people.’

‘What if his men see you?’

‘I know my way around. No one will see me.’

Byren nodded and let Orrade go.

After a moment, Florin shifted slightly behind him.

‘Come here,’ Byren said. ‘I’ll give you a boost up to the attic.’

‘I don’t need your help.’ Striding past him, she peered up at the hatch, sprang onto the stone block, then jumped up to catch her weight on her arms.

Florin’s long legs hung right in front of him. She swung one leg, lifting her knee through the hatch. Who would have thought she was so flexible?

Byren’s mouth went dry and he had to adjust himself.

‘Pass me the light.’ She peered down through the opening.

He handed her the candle, then stood on the block and lifted himself up in one easy movement.

She held the candle high, examining the loft. The roof was low and sharply angled, but Byren was pleased to see none of the shingles were missing.

Florin pointed. ‘There’s Orrie’s blanket. You sleep first. I’ll keep watch.’

‘I’m too hungry to sleep. I’ll watch. Better put out the candle.’ The flame was guttering in the wax.

She blew out the candle.

Darkness... And her within arm’s reach. His heart raced as his body hardened. He knew what would happen if he stayed here alone with her. ‘I think it’s better if I keep watch outside.’

She didn’t argue.

Dropping through the hatch, he went out into the cold, wet night. Clouds obscured the stars. It was a good night for the hunted. He climbed a tree and stretched out on a branch. From here he could observe the path up to the great house.

Half the night had gone before Orrade returned with travelling packs.

Byren lowered himself from the tree. ‘Nothing happened with Florin.’

Orrade had been reaching for his knife. Now he put it away. ‘That’s a good way to get yourself killed.’

‘Nothing happened between Florin and me.’

‘None of my business.’ Orrade tossed a pack to Byren.

They walked on for a bit.

‘It was after we escaped. I nearly—’

‘I don’t want to know.’

Byren glanced to Orrade, but the night was dark and he could barely make out his silhouette on the path. ‘Fair enough.’

They walked on.

‘I couldn’t get any horses. The Merofynian replaced my stable-master.’ They were approaching the old mill-house, and Orrade’s step slowed. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Make sure Florin reaches the secret pass to Foenix Spar, and then...’ And then he would be able to think straight.

‘Your mountain girl can make her own way back to Feid’s stronghold.’

‘Cobalt’s men are not the only ones on the hunt in the foothills.’ The mundane predators were dangerous enough, but there were also Affinity beasts and both would be eager to feed their young.

‘Florin will see the sense in that,’ Orrade agreed.

And she did. Florin thanked Byren, even though it cost her. He had to bite his tongue to hide a smile.

They dressed warmly, ate a cold breakfast and were on their way before dawn.

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘W
HAT DO YOU
see?’ Fyn asked, fearing that Wythrontir’s great house would be a blackened ruin.

‘There’s no sign of fire,’ Dunstany said. They leaned against the rail of the
Dunsior
.

Silently, he passed Fyn the farseer. To Fyn’s relief, the house on the distant rise stood undamaged in the morning sunshine.

Fyn passed the farseer to Isolt.

‘No sign of spar warriors?’ Captain Elrhodoc asked. When Isolt didn’t deny it, he nodded. ‘So there was no need to rush back.’

He’d been saying the same thing since yesterday evening, and Fyn was heartily sick of him.

Isolt lowered the farseer slowly. Abbess Celunyd watched for the queen’s reaction. Fyn was heartily sick of her too, but at least she held her tongue.

Not Elrhodoc. ‘We should have waited to hear from Lord Yorale, my queen.’

Isolt glanced to Fyn. They’d sailed through the night, because she trusted him, and now it seemed he’d panicked.

Loyalty nudged Isolt as if to reassure her.

‘I’m going to the crow’s nest for a better look.’ Fyn took the farseer and made for the main mast. As he left the high rear deck, Elrhodoc said something and several of the queen’s guards laughed.

Anger burned inside Fyn, and he felt his face grow hot. When he reached the crow’s nest, he found Rhalwyn in the lookout.

‘Can I?’ The lad gestured to the farseer.

‘Sure.’ Fyn handed it over. Maybe they should let the boy return to the sea. After all, Cortomir had proven such an excellent Affinity beast handler, he’d been disappointed when they’d left him back in Port Mero.

‘That’s odd...’ Rhalwyn said softly.

‘What?’

‘I don’t remember the lake coming right up to the great house.’

Fyn checked. The boy was right. Wythrontir’s great house sat on a terraced island. ‘There must have been a breach in the sea-wall.’ But when he checked, the wall was undamaged.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rhalwyn said. ‘If the sea-wall is intact, why did the estate flood?’

As soon as he reached the deck, Fyn asked Dunstany the same question.

‘Lady Isfynia must have opened the shipyard floodgates.’

‘But that hasn’t happened since...’ Isolt ran down, looking shocked.

‘Since Wythrontir was attacked by Lincis Spar warriors over two hundred years ago,’ Dunstany finished for her. ‘Back then, it was their last defence. With Wythrod and all the able-bodied men gone, Lady Isfynia would have had no other way to defend her people.’

Frustration churned in Fyn’s gut. Wythrontir Estate shouldn’t have been attacked. Abbot Murheg would know what had gone wrong, if he still lived. It surprised Fyn to discover he would miss the historian-turned-abbot.

They studied the estate as the ship drew closer. The water was very still, reflecting the great house like a mirror.

‘It’s very beautiful, but strange,’ Isolt said, then turned to Fyn. ‘If the spar warlords were headed west, why did Lady Isfynia have to open the flood gates?’

‘There was always a chance they would turn south,’ Elrhodoc said.

‘But, if that was the case, Wythrod and his men would have been between them and the estate.’ Isolt turned to Dunstany. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

The noble scholar shrugged. ‘In the confusion of battle, the best laid plans can go awry.’

They fell silent, as the yacht neared the wharf. This time there was no one to greet them. While the sailors made the ropes fast and lowered the gangplank, Fyn lifted the farseer to study the great house again. Two flags flew from the tower. One was the Wythrontir trident and trumpet, symbolising maritime dominion and readiness for war. The other... ‘Whose crest is the hammer and hawk?’

‘The hammer and hawk symbolise metal forged and determination,’ Isolt answered automatically. And Fyn just knew her father had made her memorise all the crests of the noble families. ‘That’s the Yoraltir symbol. What does this mean?’

‘It appears Yorale claims the glory of turning back the spar invasion,’ Dunstany said and offered Isolt his arm. ‘You must thank your lord general for his service, my queen.’

They made their way from the wharf to the sea-wall and down onto what had been the dyke road. Now it was a causeway, surrounded by water.

Fyn frowned as he surveyed the flood waters. Had the Rolencian war captives drowned in their cells? ‘Do they chain the seven-year slaves at night?’

Isolt looked horrified.

‘No need,’ Dunstany said and Fyn realised that the captives could not escape unless they could speak Merofynian and pass themselves off as locals.

The abbess made a soft noise in her throat and hurried on. Fyn spotted several spar warriors floating face down in the water. To distract Isolt, he pointed to the great house. ‘It’s lucky the refugees made their camp on the terraces.’

The wyvern gave a cry above them and swooped down to skim across the surface of the water, rising later with a fish in her jaws.

‘Did you see that?’ Isolt was delighted. ‘Here, girl...’ She clicked her tongue and the wyvern landed on the causeway in the front of them. With a toss of her head, Loyalty swallowed the fish in one gulp.