The Uncrowned King (9 page)

How had they taken the abbey, and where was Fyn?

No time to think. He let the frightened horse have its head. The snow banks and steep slope meant his mount could go no faster than a canter. Still, he had to clench his teeth as the rhythm of its hooves made his side throb.

Soon the silence of the evergreen forest closed around him. The snow was thick, mantling the trees and meeting the ground like a trailing cloak. Only patches of the trees' deep blue-green foliage could be seen. It was impossible to tell where the deep snow drifts were. One moment his horse was fetlock-deep, next the snow came up to its belly or higher as it fought its way through. The poor beast would be winded in no time.

Speaking gently, he soothed his mount and it slowed, picking its way through the trees. Soon he was out of the pines and in open, rolling farm country.

Clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain, Byren twisted from the waist and looked back.

What he saw made him curse. The horse had left a clear path in the snow. Worse than that, his blood was a bright marker.

Grey moths fluttered across Byren's vision. He knew the signs and panic tightened his belly. He must not pass out.

He was injured and alone. The only advantage he had was local knowledge. Wasn't there a small stream not far from here that fed into the lake?

Oddly enough, after wrestling with the Merofynians, he still had his skates.

His pursuers were searching for a man on horseback. Byren looked for a suitable spot to dismount and hide his tracks. There, a steep slope of stone stretched off to one side of the path. From the looks of it there was a ravine below. Wind had scoured the rocky slope free of snow. He guided the horse towards it.

Slipping out of the saddle, he almost fell as his legs took his weight. The icy stone was slippery, but he held onto the horse's mane with one hand and hugged his side with the other to stop the bleeding. He led the horse a little way along the scree, then sent it off with a slap on the rump. It clambered up, eager to get off the treacherous rocks, leaving the slope by a different place from where they had entered. Let his pursuers think he had thought better of travelling this way.

Byren gritted his teeth and edged crablike across the steep, exposed stone. Snow had settled in the few crevices but it was mostly iced-over rock and dangerous. If he fell into the ravine he would break his leg and lie there until he froze to death, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky the ulfr pack would find him and make a meal of him. If he was really unlucky the Merofynians would find him.

But he had always been light on his feet. Lence used to resent the way he only had to go through a dance once to get the steps. Lence... grief wound its finger through his gut and twisted sharply. He must not think of his twin.

He had to warn his father. The Merofynians had dishonoured the code of war when they took the abbey. How could they capture it? The abbey contained at least six hundred trained warrior monks. Were the monks all dead? Where was Fyn?

His head spun.

First he must save himself. The steepness of the rocky scree eased and he made better time as he picked his way down the slope into the ravine. At the base, he found he was right. There was an iced-over stream. Perched on a rock, he strapped on his skates and had to rest to catch his breath. He'd bled again. He turned the snow over to hide the signs, smoothing it with his sleeve. It would fool a man but not a tracking dog.

Then he stood. With this injury, he had no hope of reaching Rolenhold in the normal three days' skate. Frustration ate at him, for he had no warrior monks to bring to his father's aid, only bad news. He would be confirming the Merofynian invasion and bringing news of the abbey's capture. But worst of all, he had to tell his parents of Lence's death. And they had only his word for how it had happened. No doubt Cobalt would try to twist all this to his advantage.

Somehow, Byren had to avoid capture by the Merofynians and expose his cousin for the traitor he was.

He headed for Rolenhold, trying not to think of the long haul down Viridian Lake, through the connecting canals and across Sapphire Lake.

Driving his legs, he glided out onto the lake and bent forwards to get up speed. But this tugged on his wound and made him pitch onto his knees, coughing. Sparks swam in his vision. When they cleared he saw a fine spray of pink on the ice below his face. Blood.

He'd seen enough injured men to recognise the signs. The wound had pierced his lungs. He would drown in his own blood. He came to his feet, head reeling. Only one thing mattered.

He had to reach Rolenhold, had to warn his father, had to prove his loyalty before he died.

Piro had no trouble slipping into an empty covered cart in the confusion of the loading and unloading in the castle courtyard. As the cart trundled out of Rolenhold, tears stung her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Furious, she brushed them away.

Leaving the castle was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

But it felt wrong to abandon her mother while she was locked in the tower, a prisoner of her Merofynian blood. Worse, it felt wrong to run away when her father needed her. But she could only hide for so long before someone recognised her.

Her mother was right. Sylion Abbey was the best place for her right now. An ironic smile tugged at her lips. To think how she had railed against being sent to the abbey because of her Affinity.

Now she was going there by choice. She had a small travelling pack tucked under her cloak, some food and a good gown to wear when she met the abbess of Sylion.

She would jump out of the cart before the men started loading up the townsfolk. Her father had dragged himself from his sick bed early this morning, demanding news of Byren and Lence. When he learnt none had come, but that smoke had been seen in the direction of Dovecote, he had ordered the town evacuated so that the inhabitants could not be used as hostages. Piro regretted not saying goodbye to him, but he had been told she was already on her way to Sylion Abbey so she must not look back but forwards.

Once away from the cart, she would make her way to the wharves. There were still merchant sled-ships preparing to dash back to Port Marchand before war was officially declared. She could barter for passage on one of them.

The cart went dark as it trundled through the gate into Rolenton, then rattled over the cobbles as it traversed the two blocks to Rolenton Square where the people waited. A confusion of shouting voices told her the townspeople were only too eager to take shelter in the castle. Time to slip away.

Piro pulled her hood forwards. If anyone saw her, they would think she was a servant running home before war broke out. She had her story prepared and, thanks to her mother's delight in acting out the old sagas, she had the accent right.

Hands tore the cart's rear flap open and small children and old folk were thrust in, stumbling forwards to claim a patch of floor. Piro pushed past them to the opening, where a sea of anxious faces and clamouring arms greeted her. She was surprised there were this many townsfolk still to move. The carts had been ferrying people since dawn and it was now late afternoon.

'You're going the wrong way, girlie,' a man told her, as she jumped down and thrust through the throng.

'I'm trying to get home to Marchand to see me mam,' she said, but he wasn't interested.

The sky seemed so low and oppressive it made her head hurt. It was a grey day, the air thick and still. No wind. At worst the sled-ships would have to be dragged until the wind picked up as it usually did around dusk.

Piro had to battle to cross the square, where the carts were lined up to collect people. Of course, there were the hardy souls who swore they would not leave their homes, but there were also many who thought it prudent to take shelter in the castle with their families and as much of their belongings as they could manage to bring. Piles of bedding, bed frames, chests, tables and chairs were stacked high in the square where people waited. Some families had come prepared with a packed lunch, which they shared with their servants.

'A crust of bread for my little ones,' a woman pleaded, at one of these tables. Her three small children hung on her skirts, frightened and grubby. 'We've been waiting since dawn and they're ever so hungry.'

The wealthy merchant turned his back on her.

'Jorge,' his wife pleaded.

'If we give them some, they'll all want some,' he said, but he looked uncomfortable.

'Here.' Piro reached into her pack and pulled out a loaf baked fresh that morning in the castle's kitchen. 'And I have some cheese.'

'Halcyon bless you,' the woman whispered, hastily sharing the food with her little ones.

Piro watched. If the square continued to fill with townsfolk, the children could be crushed under foot.

'Come this way.' She picked up the smallest, a toddler of two, and the mother grabbed the four-year-old while the six-year-old hung on her skirt, stuffing bread in his mouth.

With a judicious jab and an elbow in the right place, Piro pushed through to the place where Temor stood bellowing orders. Captain of the king's honour guard, he had been her father's most trusted advisor until Lord Cobalt insinuated himself into that position, earning the title of lord protector of the castle. Captain Temor had been given the task of evacuating Rolenton.

Piro slipped behind the grizzled veteran and tugged on his surcoat, which was decorated with the deep red foenix on a black background, its wings and scales picked out in gold thread.

'Eh, what?' he turned, his eyes widening. 'Piro? You're supposed to be safe in Sylion Abbey, or on your way there at least.'

She thrust the grizzling two-year-old into his arms. 'See that this woman and her children get safely to the castle.'

'What?' he protested as the woman began to thank him profusely. Piro melted into the crowd, a little smile tugging at her lips. She was pretty sure Captain Temor didn't believe that she had been passing her mother's traitorous notes to a Merofynian spy, but he had his orders to arrest her.

Luckily the crowd was so dense and the momentum towards the carts was so forceful, only the most determined could make headway.

Piro found herself on the steps of the merchants' guild hall with its great bell tower. It was from the fifth floor of this tower that her father had announced Lence's betrothal to Isolt - King Merofyn's daughter - last midwinter's day. This should have ensured the peace. Piro didn't understand what had gone wrong, but one thing was certain, from atop the bell tower she would be able to see the wharves.

Better to spot a likely sled-ship and make straight for it, than to waste time and energy struggling through the crowd. She entered through the double doors and crossed the landing heading for the tower stairs.

Further into the hall she could hear men and women arguing over strategies to protect their investments. Orders still had to be filled and ships were currently under sail, their captains unaware of the situation at home. To hear the merchants of Rolenton talk, war was an inconvenience unless they could use it to turn a profit.

Smiling to herself, Piro ran up the stairs, only puffing slightly when she reached the fifth floor. Hanging over the balcony, she peered down past the busy square, past the sloping roof tops of the terraces towards the lake and the wharves. Some of the sled-ships were already being hauled across the frozen lake. While they still could, they were heading north-east for the canal that eventually linked up with Port Marchand, or west for the canal to Port Cobalt. Watching the ships was one of her favourite pastimes and she knew many of their captains by name. She could pick the fastest and recognise which great merchant house they belonged to.

There, that three-masted sloop looked like it was making ready to depart. She only hoped she would reach it in time.

Raising her eyes, Piro looked out across Rolencia, past the chimneys of the great houses opposite, past the town to the countryside. The air was still and thick like soup. She could hardly make out the beautiful, rolling snow-covered fields of Rolencia's rich valley. How could she leave her home behind? How could she live in cold, heartless Sylion Abbey?

She blinked. What was that shadow moving on the snow?

She blinked again, her vision crawling oddly. Surely it was mist in a hollow, nothing more. Rubbing her eyes, she wished for a farseer as she strained to make sense of it.

But instead of clearing, her vision grew blurred and she slipped into Affinity-induced Unseen sight.

It was not mist. It was a mass of white cloaked men, moving like a cloud's shadow over the fields, under cover of an illusion generated by renegade Power-workers.

The Merofynian invaders were less than an hour away!

Chapter Six

Piro looked down into the seething square. There was no time for people to wait for carts to carry their belongings. If they did not go now, they would be cut off. She flew down the stairs, boots barely touching the wood.

Instead of running out into the thronging square, she ran into the bell-ringers' little nook, deep inside the tower. Far above her the ropes stretched impossibly high and light filtered down from the great bells.

Piro only hoped she remembered the right bell sequence for the warning. It was meant to be rung by a team of three, so she would just have to do her best. Leaping off her feet, she clutched the first rope and let her weight drag it down. A thunderous stroke echoed above her. Even as the rope rode up, she was reaching for the next one. This bell was pitched higher. Prompted by the old rhyme learnt as a child when her mother used to sing her to sleep, she rang the sequence, leaping from rope to rope. She was playing it too slow, but that could not be helped. People would recognise it and realise why she was ringing the warning.