King Breaker (65 page)

‘Yes.’ Soterro stepped forward. ‘You heard his lordship. He wants you out, so out you go!’ He gestured to the young footmen, who moved forward to obey.

‘Wait,’ Duncaer protested. ‘My uncle needs a healer.’

‘And he’ll have one. But it will be the healer he’s trusted these last forty years,’ the house-keep said. ‘At least we know she won’t upset him and give him palpitations!’

The servants united to bundle the protesting heir and his manservant out of the chamber, but Duncaer had scented Dunstany’s death and he wasn’t giving up so easily.

In desperation, Piro shoved the Power-worker’s bag into his arms. ‘Get out, both of you. My lord must recover. The queen needs him in the palace for the lords’ council, and you’re not helping!’

‘The queen has called a lords’ council?’ Duncaer asked.

Piro nodded, knowing that Duncaer would go straight to the palace, where he would add to Fyn and Isolt’s troubles. But if it got him and his man out of Dunistir House, so be it. ‘Go away, and let us see to Lord Dunstany.’

‘Very well.’ Duncaer lifted his chin. ‘But I will be back with my own servants, and if I learn you lot have failed to provide proper care for my uncle, I’ll turn you and your families out with nothing but the clothes on your backs!’

And he would relish doing it, Piro could tell.

The two young footmen escorted Duncaer and his Power-worker out of the chamber, followed by the steward and house-keep.

The moment they were gone, Piro opened the vial of dreamless-sleep and tipped a teaspoon of it onto Old Gwalt’s tongue, massaging his throat to help him swallow.

He gasped, pale and sweaty with the pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ Piro whispered. ‘It’s not indigestion this time, I fear. All I can do is give you pain relief.’

She sat and held his hand, speaking softly, while she waited for the dreamless-sleep to work. ‘You did well. Mentioning Dunstany’s youngest son was a stroke of genius.’

‘I only repeated the things Dunstany used to say to me,’ he whispered. The whiteness had faded around his mouth, and he no longer clutched her hand with such painful force. ‘I’m feeling a little better.’

‘That’s good.’ But he wasn’t going to get better.

‘I’ve had the chest pains before,’ he admitted. ‘I rest and I feel better. Don’t worry.’ He gave a wry smile that reminded her yet again of Dunstany and Siordun. ‘We fooled him.’

Tears stung Piro’s eyes.

Soterro and the house-keep returned, bickering over who was to blame for letting Duncaer in.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Piro said, springing to her feet and wiping her cheeks. ‘We must be on alert for Duncaer. He brought that Power-worker in here to kill Dunstany, and I can prove it!’ She picked up the first jar she’d spilt and ran her finger around the rim. Experimentally, she touched the tip to her tongue, then wrinkled her nose with distaste. ‘Monkshead. Already my tongue is tingling. A teaspoon full would have been enough to kill Old Gwalt in his state.’

Piro realised what she’d said and looked over to the steward and house-keep. ‘How long have you known Old Gwalt was covering for Dunstany?’

‘They didn’t know,’ Old Gwalt protested.

‘I knew the first time I saw Siordun disguised as Dunstany,’ the house-keep said. ‘Lord Dunstany’s power was mild. The lad had much stronger Affinity. It made my teeth ache.’

‘And you?’ Piro asked the house-steward.

‘My father served the mage back on Ostron Isle. Seven years ago he sent me to serve Lord Dunstany. I put it all together.’ He bristled. ‘But the servants would not trust me.’

Old Gwalt and the house-keep exchanged looks.

‘I’m sorry, lad,’ Old Gwalt said. ‘But—’

‘There was so much at stake.’ The house-keep shrugged. ‘The sad thing is that we didn’t even trust each other.’

‘You were all wonderful,’ Piro said. She felt shaky and reached out to grasp the bed.

‘Sit down, lass.’ The house-keep guided her to the end of the bed. ‘I’ll send up a meal for you and his
lordship
.’ Her eyes twinkled.

Old Gwalt shook his head. ‘You always were a saucy minx, Lynossa.’

Piro smiled.

When the house-keep and steward had gone, Piro leant against the bed base. ‘We’ve bought some time, but how long?’

‘There’s something I want you to have,’ Old Gwalt said. ‘Open the big chest at the end of the bed. Look for a small document chest.’

Under lavender scented blankets she found a narrow chest. ‘This?’

He nodded. ‘Bring it here.’

She turned up the bedside lamp before sitting next to him.

‘It is a terrible thing to see your children die before you. When Lord Dunstany’s youngest son was killed, his lordship was devastated, especially as he suspected Duncaer had contributed to his son’s death. He started preparing documents then to legitimise Siordun.’ Old Gwalt unrolled one document. ‘This is the forged marriage certificate for his son and Siorra. No one knew she was Dunstany’s natural daughter. Here is Siordun’s forged birth certificate.’

She studied it. ‘It says his name is Dunsior.’

‘That’s what he would have been called if he’d been legitimate. My lord was going to tell everyone his son had married in secrecy because he feared his father’s reaction to him marrying a housemaid. Dunstany was going to say she’d brought the documents to him when she gathered the courage, on Siordun’s fifth birthday. But Mage Tsulamyth tested the lad and—’

‘Took him away.’ Piro studied the aged documents. They certainly looked authentic. ‘What do you want me to do with them? It’s not like Siordun can claim the title now. He has to...’ She’d almost said he had to play the mage. She replaced the documents. ‘He has too much Affinity to live a normal life.’

‘I know. But one day he may marry and have a son, and that son will be the true heir to Dunistir Estate. I want you to keep these documents safe for him.’

Piro looked at the chest. ‘Why don’t you just give them to Siordun yourself?’

‘The mage made me promise I wouldn’t.’ Old Gwalt saw her expression. ‘No one in their right mind crosses Tsulamyth. When he decided to claim Siordun, even Dunstany had to back down. It was heartbreaking. The boy was only five. He pleaded with Dunstany not to send him away. He called for his mother...’ Old Gwalt’s chin trembled, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘We... we told him his mother had sold him to the mage. If we hadn’t, he would never have left. It broke his heart and it killed something in him. But it was a lie. Siorra didn’t want to part with him. The mage told her she was being selfish to keep him. He told her Siordun had too much natural Affinity and would not be safe from corrupt Power-workers. They kidnap children with Affinity to keep as slaves.’ Old Gwalt shook his head. ‘At any rate, the mage convinced Siorra she was doing the right thing to give up her boy, but she took sick and died not long after.’ His chin worked as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Piro’s heart went out to him, and to little Siordun and his mother. ‘I’m sorry.’ She wrapped Old Gwalt in a hug, weeping for all the things she could not change.

‘There, there.’ Old Gwalt stroked her hair. After moment, he cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes there are no easy answers. Sometimes, we do our best and people still get hurt. I want to set things to rights before I die. That’s why I’m giving you the documents. I’m glad Siordun has you.’

She wiped her cheeks, proud that Old Gwalt had chosen her for this, and that Siordun trusted her to keep his secret. ‘I won’t let him down.’

Chapter Fifty-Three

F
YN STOOD ON
the top terrace looking down towards the Landlocked Sea. It was dusk, and servants waited with lanterns on poles as Queen Isolt greeted the last of the nobles.

Lord Yorale was on hand, ready to advise the young queen. Sefarra and the mother of the young lord of Geraltir had sent their captains with twenty men-at-arms. The bay lord was still at sea, hunting Utland raiders, but Camoric spoke for him. The ranks of the new queen’s guard were thin and Fyn was grateful for the ex-slaves, who spent their nights camped by the shore and their days preparing for war in Byren’s service.

Dunstany remained on his estate, too ill to travel. It was unfortunate that the mage still needed Siordun. Fyn hoped Lady Death would not give him too much trouble. Here, Fyn had enough troubles of his own. Neiron, and the other lords with a vested interest in stripping him of his role as lord protector, dominated the council.

Lord Istyn had answered Isolt’s summons, deliberately delaying as long as he could to give Byren time to arrive, without success.

‘Uncle.’ Isolt’s voice carried to Fyn on the terrace above. Istyn was her mother’s older brother, but he looked more like her grandfather, his health shattered by grief. Two burly manservants had delivered him in an Ostronite carry-chair.

‘Istyn won’t do your cause any good,’ Abbot Murheg said softly. ‘The lords respect strength and power. Istyn has neither. His body has failed him, and with the death of his son there is no male heir. All he has is five daughters, poor man. He will have to get the queen’s permission for his eldest daughter to inherit the title, and her husband will have to change his name.’

‘Isolt can do that?’

‘She can, but the lords won’t like it. You’ve seen how everyone is related to everyone. Several of them could make a case for inheriting the estate. Younger sons are always on the lookout for ways to rise in the world.’

Isolt and the abbess turned to walk slowly beside the carry-chair as it came up from the terrace.

‘I found this. I believe it belongs to your family.’ Murheg gave Fyn a small velvet draw-string bag.

‘I don’t...’ Fyn opened the bag and pulled out a lincurium pendant. He checked. Sure enough, the bag also contained the rings. ‘Byren had these made as gifts for our parents. The pendant was meant for his twin’s betrothed.’

‘Palatyne had it amongst his things,’ Murheg said softly. ‘I must warn you, Fyn. Neiron will cook up a reason to remove you as lord protector, and if Isolt objects, he’ll shut her in the queen’s apartments just as King Merofyn did to her mother. She’ll be a prisoner in her own palace.’

Fyn’s hands tightened on the bag.

‘There is only one way you can protect the queen. You do want to protect Isolt, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then marry her.’

Fyn stared at him.

‘That’s why I gave you the rings. You are King Merofyn’s grandson, with more right to the throne than Isolt or any of these lords who whisper behind your back. If you married Isolt, you would have every right to defend her with force, and strip Neiron of his land and title.’

Fyn glanced down to Isolt, who waited patiently as Istyn’s manservants negotiated the steps.

‘Marry her,’ Murheg urged. ‘You’ve already fought to protect the kingdom, which is more than Byren has done. It is time for a bold move. Claim what should be yours.’

Claim what he truly wanted. A rushing noise filled Fyn’s head.

Isolt reached the top step. ‘And this is Fyn, Uncle, or more correctly, Lord Protector Merofyn.’

Istyn looked pale and tired, but he reached out to Fyn, who slipped the draw-string bag into his pocket and took the old man’s hand.

‘Isolt speaks highly of you,’ Istyn said. ‘I’m glad she has an honourable man as her lord protector.’

And that was why Fyn could not claim Isolt, no matter how much he wanted her.

B
YREN WAS GLAD
to be home again, if you could call Merofynia home. After coming through the pass, he’d hired horses and had made good time on the journey across Dunistir Estate. Now they rode through the orchard, approaching the barns and outbuildings behind the great house. It was late, and Byren was hungry and tired.

‘What’s troubling you?’ Orrade asked, riding at his side.

‘I’m tired of being polite to powerful men.’ Byren gestured to the great house, visible beyond the smaller buildings. ‘Dunstany is a friend of the mage and they’ve both helped me before, but powerful men always demand a price. That’s how they get to be so powerful.’

As they left the orchard, a boy came out of the piggery carrying two buckets. He took one look at Byren and Orrade, yelped, dropped the buckets and ran screaming, ‘
Spar warriors!
’

‘Wait!’ Byren yelled in Merofynian, but the lad wasn’t taking any chances.

Neither was anyone else. By the time they rounded the stables and entered the courtyard at the back of the great house, a dozen servants stood there with pitchforks, scythes and blades.

The kitchen door was flung wide open as Piro appeared on the back step. ‘Byren!’ She darted across the courtyard and pushed through the servants. ‘It’s Byren. I told you he was coming.’

‘Yer didn’t say he looked like a barbarian warlord,’ one of the stable hands muttered.

With a laugh, Byren dismounted and opened his arms.

Smiling with tears on her cheeks, Piro caught him in a hug. Orrade received the same welcome. ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’

‘Obviously.’ Orrade grinned.

Piro drew them towards the house. ‘It’s been awful. Dunstany’s heir turned up and... made him so angry he nearly had a heart spasm. Where’s Florin?’

‘Still sick. The Snow Bridge air was too thin for her.’

‘Oh, poor thing.’ Piro frowned, then brightened. ‘She can stay here with me until she’s better.’

Byren rubbed his mouth to hide a smile. Florin would hate the enforced rest, but... ‘She needs to regain her strength. Then she can catch up with us.’

They entered the kitchen, where Piro shot off orders in quick succession, arranging food and refreshment for his men. It felt strange, seeing her in charge.

‘I’m taking you to his lordship. I’ll just make sure he’s well enough to see you.’ She drew Byren and Orrade into the hall, up the grand staircase and down a passage. Swinging a door open, she gestured to the chamber beyond. ‘Wait here.’

As she darted through the music room, Byren strode over to the empty hearth, where two chairs sat. A blanket was draped across one. On the low table between the two chairs was a Duelling Kingdoms board with a game in progress.