King Breaker (61 page)

‘I think I’m finally over the sky-sickness.’ Orrade fell into step beside Florin. ‘I haven’t thrown up since this morning. How about you?’

‘Lunch time.’

‘You’re feeling better?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, determined it would be true by tomorrow.

Orrade sent her a perceptive look. They were the same height and their strides matched perfectly, which made it hard to avoid his eyes.

‘There’s things the ambassador isn’t telling us.’ Florin changed the subject. ‘I overheard him telling Hristo to organise ursodons for us when we get to the city.’

‘Tame beasts.’

‘According to Bozhimir, ursodons are never truly tamed. The only way to capture them is to trick them into eating a carcass seeded with sorbt stones. If they eat too many stones, they die. If they don’t eat enough, they’re still too wild. But—’

‘—if they eat just the right number, the stones absorb their Affinity,’ Orrade guessed, ‘making them malleable. Clever.’

Florin nodded. ‘Except for one thing. If they vomit up the stones, they revert to their true nature. You never know if they are going to turn on you.’

‘Does this often happen?’

‘More often than you’d think. Thieves will feed the beasts purges to take the stones.’

‘Why would they want the stones?’

‘They’re much sought after. While in the beasts’ stomachs, the stones soak up Affinity and become beautifully polished. Stones from the male bears are particularly prized. Rich men wear them to enhance their virility. The stones from the females are supposed to make women insatiable.’ She blushed.

Orrade laughed. ‘I can’t imagine Bozhimir telling an eight-year-old that detail.’

‘I used to listen at the door when he told my father stories.’ It hadn’t made much sense at the time, but now... She flushed and hurried on. ‘The point is that the beasts can revert to their true nature.’

‘If ursodons were too dangerous, the Snow Bridge people wouldn’t—’

‘I guess the nobles consider the loss of the occasional ursodon handler worth it. After all, the beasts are much bigger and stronger than horses.’

They’d stopped a short distance from the walls of the southern-most city of the Snow Bridge. The walls and buildings of Dezvronofaje were constructed of mottled white-grey stone, with steep-pitched red roofs. Even though the setting sun still painted the distant peaks, the gates were closed and guards watched warily from the towers.

As soon as Byren called a stop, his honour guard sank to sit under the aspen trees by the side of the road, heads bowed.

The silfroneer dismounted and stroked his bird’s neck. He kept an eye on the ambassador, who sent the younger of his two companions to the gate, presumably to arrange lodgings for the night.

Two of the men staggered further into the aspen grove to empty their stomachs. Florin was relieved to see she was not the only one still suffering from the sky-sickness. This time she managed not to throw up, but her legs trembled from exertion. She found a fallen tree trunk just off the road and sat down, leaning forward to catch her breath. Orrade kept her company.

Byren strode through the aspens to join them. ‘Tired, Mountain Girl? Don’t worry, the ambassador tells me he’s going to organise transport for tomorrow.’

Before Florin could tell him to beware of the ursodons, the ambassador joined them with Hristo.

Vlatajor gestured discreetly to the silfroneer. ‘You should bind this arrogant Power-worker to you before we enter the city. If you don’t, he’s likely to run away. They—’ He broke off as the Silfroneer joined them and switched languages. ‘Have you no honour, silver-sucker? This man saved your life and that of your Affinity beast, yet you do not offer service in gratitude?’

‘He saved us, this is true, but he is an ignorant foreigner. I owe him nothing.’

‘Did Nilsoden not tell you? This is King Byren of Rolencia.’

The silfroneer shrugged. ‘What do I care for flat-land kings? From what I hear, there is more than one Rolencian king.’

‘This is the one who will make an alliance with my brother, King Jorgoskev.’

The silfroneer glanced around and Florin followed his gaze, wondering what he was looking for. The men were scattered through the aspen grove. ‘Tell your brother that Power-workers will never bow to him!’ The man gestured and the bird’s leg lashed out, its razor sharp talons slashing Vlatajor’s torso wide open.

Florin stared in horror.

The silfroneer leapt onto his beast’s back and the bird ran off, long legs flashing.

‘My lord?’ Hristo tried to hold Vlatajor’s innards in place as the ambassador crumpled.

Fighting nausea, Florin dropped to her knees and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was a huge wound, from shoulder to hip. Orrade knelt to help her.

‘The king will have our heads for this,’ Hristo muttered, unaware that Florin could understand him.

Byren leaned over her shoulder, took one look at the wound and cursed. ‘We can’t move him. It’ll kill him. We’ll have to camp here.’

Chandler and the Snow Bridge men-at-arms came running, wanting to know what was going on.

Pulling Hristo to his feet, Byren pointed to the city and mimed wrapping bandages. ‘Go fetch a healer.’

Hristo shook his head as if there was no hope, but ran off, calling to Nilsoden. The Snow Bridge men-at-arms stood together muttering, pale with shock.

‘No healer can save the ambassador,’ Florin whispered.

‘We’ll see.’ Byren looked grim. ‘Do what you can for him.’

He strung blankets from branches to give them privacy, and hung a lamp directly above them.

Florin met Orrade’s eyes across the ambassador. They were both wrist deep in blood, and Vlatajor was white as a sheet. Having done all he could for now, Byren knelt beside her.

‘If the king’s brother dies, Hristo fears Jorgoskev will execute them,’ she whispered. ‘But...’ There was no hope.

Orrade met Byren’s eyes. ‘We have to try to save him.’

Byren nodded. ‘Are you up to this?’

‘What choice do we have?’

Byren came to his feet. Florin could hear him at the entrance to the make-shift tent, telling Chandler to keep everyone away and let them know when Hristo returned with the healer.

When Byren returned Florin looked from his grim face, to Orrade’s tight lips. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I have Affinity. Byren can channel my power to heal, but every other time we’ve done this it’s taken all night and the wound has not been so severe.’

Byren grimaced. ‘If we don’t try, he’ll be dead before they return with the healer.’

Orrade unlaced his own shirt, placing Byren’s bloody left hand over his heart.

Byren covered Florin’s bloodstained hands with his free hand. ‘Don’t let Hristo catch us like this, Mountain Girl. If the king hates Power-workers...’

She nodded.

Orrade closed his eyes. ‘I’ve stopped fighting it.’

He fought his Affinity? Florin hadn’t realised. She felt the gathering of power like the approach of a summer thunderstorm.

Byren closed his eyes and began to hum.

No, not a hum. It sounded more like a cat’s purr, deep, rhythmic and soothing, and it came from his broad chest. The deep vibration travelled through his hand, through both of hers and into the injured man.

Florin’s mind raced. How long did they have? Hristo would have to send a messenger into the town, locate the healer and wait while they packed their herbs. If healing normally took all night, they didn’t have enough time, but if Byren was only trying to keep Vlatajor alive...

Normally, Affinity made Florin uncomfortable, but this rhythmic vibration was strangely soothing. She relaxed, letting herself go with it. For the first time in days, she felt no nausea. Exhaustion swamped her and she drifted into a sort of trance.

It seemed like only heartbeats later that Chandler called her name. Florin fought free of her daze and looked up to find him peering through the entrance of the makeshift tent.

She nudged Byren. ‘They’re here.’

He blinked and fell silent. As his hand dropped from Orrade’s chest, Byren swayed but did not fall.

Florin could hear hurried footsteps.

‘This way,’ Hristo said.

He threw the blanket back and Florin caught a glimpse of the worried men-at-arms as a little old woman followed him into the makeshift tent, followed by a girl of twelve, carrying a basket.

The old healer’s white hair was threaded with many silver beads, which chinked as she moved. The moment she stepped into the shelter, her eyes widened and she hesitated.

Impatient with the delay, Hristo urged her forward.

Florin knew the old healer had sensed Affinity, but she said nothing as she came over and knelt beside the king’s brother.

‘I need more light,’ the healer told Hristo.

‘I don’t speak flat-lander.’

‘The healer will need more light,’ Florin said. So far she had not had to reveal that she understood their language, and she hoped to keep it this way. ‘Fetch another lamp, Chandler.’

Hristo wrung his hands. ‘Are we too late? Is he...’

‘The king’s brother still lives,’ the healer said. She gestured for Byren and Florin to remove their hands.

No one spoke as the healer peeled back the blood-soaked cloth to reveal the extent of the wound. It was no longer bleeding freely, and Vlatajor’s organs had settled back into his belly.

The healer swallowed nervously and glanced to Florin.

Chandler returned with another lamp and Nilsoden slipped in with him. The healer beckoned her apprentice.

‘Which cleanser, grandmother?’ the girl asked.

‘The strongest. Then needle and thread.’

The girl passed a jar to the healer. As the small woman cleaned the wound, Florin smelled rosemary and alcohol, and something else.

‘Will he survive?’ Nilsoden asked.

‘I cannot tell,’ the healer answered. ‘He lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding has stopped.’ She cast Florin and Byren a wary look. ‘I will sew up the wound.’

Nilsoden pulled Hristo outside but their worried voices reached Florin. ‘He had better survive, because—’

‘If the king hadn’t alienated the Power-workers, we could go to an Affinity healer instead of—’

‘Are you saying it was the king’s fault now?’

‘Of course not,’ Hristo replied. ‘But if he hadn’t executed that Affinity-touched woman from Karpafaje, the silfroneer wouldn’t have turned on Vlatajor.’

‘You should have stopped him!’ Nilsoden said.

‘It happened too quickly.’

‘I was nowhere near when it happened, and that’s what I’ll tell the king. I’m not going to be punished for something beyond my control.’

‘Do you think Jorgoskev will care? We’re in this toge—’

‘No. It’s your fault!’

‘You...’

There was a scuffle, a thump and shouting from the men-at-arms as they pulled Hristo and Nilsoden apart.

‘Go see what’s going on,’ Byren told Orrade, who slipped out of the makeshift tent.

‘There, all done.’ The healer tied off the last stitch and sat back. Her hands trembled ever so slightly. If Vlatajor died, would the king execute her as well?

‘Will he live?’ the healer’s granddaughter asked.

‘It would be a miracle.’ The old woman’s gaze slid to Byren and Florin. ‘But it’s a miracle he lived long enough for me to sew him up.’

Orrade returned with Hristo, who was trying to staunch his bleeding nose. He asked after Vlatajor in a thick voice.

‘I’ve done what I can. It is in the lap of the gods now.’ The healer sifted through her basket, pulling out several jars. ‘This is to bring down the fever. The wound must be cleaned and the dressing changed twice a day. Wash it with this. And this is for pain.’

Hristo nodded. ‘How much of the pain killer should I give him?’

‘As much as he asks for,’ the old healer said. The granddaughter looked up in surprise.

The healer rose, her beaded hair chinking softly. The granddaughter only had one row of silver beads wound through her temple plait. The pair of them packed up and slipped out discreetly.

Byren’s stomach rumbled. ‘Florin, stay and help Hristo. I’ll send in some food.’

At the mention of food, Florin realised her nausea had returned.

P
IRO MOVED HER
Duelling Kingdoms piece. ‘You’re an excellent player.’

‘I used to play with his lordship.’ Old Gwalt grinned, reminding her of Dunstany. ‘I play with the lad whenever he visits.’

‘Siordun?’

Old Gwalt nodded.

Piro looked down. It was odd. Even though she felt like Dunstany was back, she missed Siordun. They sat at the desk in the music chamber, playing the game by lamplight. As far as the rest of the household knew, Piro was entertaining his lordship.

She studied the board. Siordun once told her the original Mage Tsulamyth had designed this game to teach the nobles of the three isles that diplomacy worked better than warfare. But the way her father played it, the game was all about capturing the other king’s throne.

Piro turned over her next card. ‘Sylion’s Luck! The spar warlord has attacked with two hundred warriors.’

‘Then you won’t be invading Merofynia.’ Old Gwalt turned over his own card, holding it at arm’s length and frowning as he read. ‘A terrible storm has sunk half of my fleet. Looks—’

A knock at the door made them both turn. Old Gwalt slipped through the adjoining rooms to the bathing chamber, while Piro went to answer the door.

Soterro stood there, with a message bearing the royal seal. ‘This has arrived for his lordship.’

Piro held out her hand.

‘I should give it to him in person.’

‘He’s in the privy.’

Soterro flushed and Piro plucked the message from his hand before closing the door on him. Suspecting that Soterro was listening at the door, she took the lamp and went through to the bedchamber saying, ‘A message with the royal seal for your lordship.’

Old Gwalt came out of the bath chamber. ‘Read it, your eyes are better than mine.’

She turned up the lamp. ‘Isolt asks Dunstany to attend a council of lords. She’s been forced to call a lords’ council, and Siordun had sent word that he can’t get back in time.’

‘If Lord Dunstany can’t attend, he should send someone in his place.’ Old Gwalt rubbed his chest absently.