The Usurper

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Not that she would thank him.

  He should be upstairs, enjoying a hot bath with the offer of a willing serving girl, before dressing for the feast. Instead, he was searching for the ungrateful mountain girl.

  He found Old Man Narrows in the stable, sorting out a fight between a couple of lads who should have known better. A quick clip over the ear and both were sent about their business.

  'At the feast tonight, I want you at the warlord's table,' Byren said, 'where you can listen in to what we're planning and give your opinion.'

  Old Man Narrows rubbed his thick fingers. 'Eh, I'm flattered, lad, but wouldn't you rather I'm down with the men, where I can keep an eye on the hotheads and listen in to what's being said? You've got Orrie at the table, not much gets past the young Dove.'

  Byren grinned. He wondered if Orrade was aware that he had inherited his father's nickname. And Old Man Narrows had a point.

  The former tradepost keeper beckoned Leif and rested his hands on his young son's shoulders. 'From the stables and the kitchen I'll hear things you wouldn't hear otherwise.'

  'You're right.' Now to what was really worrying him. 'Where will you be bunking down?'

  Old Man Narrows nodded to the stable loft. 'Here, where I can keep an eye on the lads.'

  'Fair enough.' But what about Florin? If she wandered the stronghold with the freedom she was used to back at camp, Feid's warriors would consider her fair game. He didn't want her having to box some lout's ears, or worse, to convince him to leave her alone. 'Where's Florin?'

  'Over back.' Narrows gestured.

  'No, Da,' Leif said. 'She went up the loft to make up our beds.'

  So Byren climbed up to find her in the sweet-smelling hay, making up beds in the dimness. He did his best not to think about the last lass he'd tumbled in Rolenhold's hayloft. 'Eh, Mountain-girl.'

  Florin turned. 'Yes, my king.'

  He didn't think she was still angry with him. It had become a nickname now, like his use of Mountain-girl. Both of them had to duck their heads to avoid the beams. He rested his forearm on one. 'You're not sleeping here.'

  'Here's fine by me.'

  It was too dim to judge her expression, but her tone said she'd enjoy an argument, especially with him. Why couldn't she be more like his mother, and bend before the wind? He needed a reason for her to cooperate, after all he was only trying to look out for her. And it came to him.

  'I didn't come here to argue. The warlord has a pretty new bride. Someone has to get close to her, to find out what he's telling her.'

  Florin looked uneasy. 'I know nothing about courts and courtiers.'

  'Neither does she. They say he found her in the kitchen of a merchant house last trip he made to Ostron Isle.' Orrade had reported this choice gossip to Byren. Along with the news that the warlord's new lady was lonely, since she wasn't used to spar customs. Why Feid had married outside of his spar, Byren didn't know, although going by the way the warlord's eyes lit up when he said her name, it was a love match. 'She's as much out of her depth as you. She's only been here since late last summer.' And already swelling with child. Life was short on the spars, and they bred fast. 'Will you befriend her for me, share the secrets women share?'

  'I don't know.' Florin brushed her hands down her thighs. 'I've never had a female friend, but I can try.'

  So he explained the gist of what he needed to her father and took her up to the warlord's private chambers.

  After rapping on the door, he turned to Florin, noticed a piece of straw in her hair and reached to pluck it out. Her hand lifted to fend him off. He caught it. 'Eh, lass. I'd never do wrong by you. You had straw in your hair.'

  She blinked, then flicked free of his touch and ran her hands through her hair, plucking the straw free. Byren wanted to say something about Winterfall but just then the warlord himself opened the door.

  There was laughter in his voice and a smile on his face. 'Byren?' He glanced curiously to Florin.

  'Feid, this is...' Now that he came to it, how was he going to introduce her? He could not say, this is the lass I want, but I can't have her, so I don't want anyone else to have her. 'This is Florin. She saved my life and, when I'm king, I mean to see her set up for life.' As he said it, he realised this much was true. He hadn't been able to save Elina or his mother, but he would make sure that Florin was safe.

  'Cinna, come here,' Feid called.

  A pretty lass, with her hair all atumble, peered around the door. Feid dragged her against his body with a possessive air. Byren held his breath as Feid's lady looked Florin up and down, taking in her men's clothes and her dirty face. A kitchen maid, elevated to the status of a lady, might just turn her nose up at Florin. Many would.

  'You poor thing,' Cinna exclaimed in Ostronite. As she drew Florin into the chamber, she switched to heavily accented Rolencian, talking about a bath and clothing altered to fit.

  Florin cast a desperate look over her shoulder, but allowed Cinna to lead her off, and all Byren could hear was the lady's happy chatter.

  Feid stepped out of the chamber, closing the door after him. 'She's got a kind heart, Cinna. She'll find a husband for your lass, if you want.'

  'No.' Byren spoke too quickly. 'At least, not just yet. I'm going to clean up for the feast. You know, I won't forget this, Feid.'

  He grinned. 'That's what I'm counting on.'

  Much later that night, Byren stood on the stronghold's tallest tower, watching the stars.

  He grinned to himself.

  Florin had come down to the feast in a borrowed gown, one made for someone a head shorter - it revealed her calves rather than her ankles, but it clung elsewhere, being laced around the waist. When he'd asked her to dance she'd refused, saying she didn't know any dances fit for court. Byren would hardly call Feid's great hall a fancy court, but he'd told the musicians to play a country dance. To which she'd insisted she never danced. He'd told her she did now because it was the only chance she'd have to report what she'd learnt so far.

  He smiled, remembering how quickly she'd picked up the steps and how earnestly she'd related her observations of Lady Cinna. All of which had been quite innocent, if revealing of Florin's discomfort with her current situation.

  But the smile soon left his face. Though he was exhausted, Byren could not sleep. He paced the tower. Tomorrow Warlord Feid would send four swift boats to the other spars, calling on the warlords to support the rightful king of Rolencia.

  All Byren could do now was wait, and he hated not being in control. Give him a fort to take, a beast to kill or a border to hold and he would, but this waiting stole a man's spirit.

  Someone pushed the trap door open behind him.

  'Orrie,' Byren greeted him with relief. 'What brings you up here?'

  He was followed by one of the young monks.

  'Feldspar has something to tell you,' Orrade said and stepped aside. 'Go on, lad.'

  The youth hesitated.

  A cold wind cut through Byren's jacket. 'Spit it out.'

  'It's the mystics master, kingsheir. Even though he drugs himself each night with dreamless-sleep he moans in his sleep.'

  'A man can't be responsible for his nightmares,' Byren said.

  'If they are only nightmares,' Feldspar whispered.

  'What are you saying?'

  'By creating the illusion in the foenix cavern Master Catillum laid himself open to untamed Affinity. I know. I felt him fight it.' Feldspar let out his breath with a shudder. 'I fear he fights it still.'

  Byren noticed Orrade touch his sword hilt, and shook his head swiftly. 'We each fight our battles in our own way. The mystics master has proved his loyalty to me, Feldspar. I want you to watch him. If it looks like he's failing to win his private battle, let me know.'

  'You can't ask this of me,' Feldspar blurted, backing up a step. 'I'm not trained.'

  'Who else can I ask?'

  Feldspar gaped.

  'Bring word to me, not to Byren,' Orrade said. He caught Byren's eye. 'Catillum mi
ght grow suspicious if one of his monks seeks you out.'

  Byren nodded, then took pity on the youth. 'Go down to bed, lad.'

  When he slipped away, Byren paced and Orrade walked with him.

  'I swear it's colder out here on the spar than in Rolencia.' Orrade pulled his cloak more closely around his shoulders. 'Sylion knows, I feel for the mystics master but it'd be safer to kill Catillum now.'

  'Safer, but would it be right? A man should have the chance to prove himself. Besides, I'd lose the support of his monks.'

  'His death could be made to look like an accident.'

  Byren stopped. 'Since when were you so quick to deal in death?'

  'Since I became your spymaster.' Orrade faced him. 'I will always tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not. If Catillum's Affinity is compromised and we wait too long, it may be too late to contain him. He's powerful, Byren.'

  'You're right. But I won't be that kind of ruler, Orrie.' Byren hid his disquiet. 'Catillum's loyal for now. Let's not borrow trouble. We have enough of our own.'

  'You stayed your hand the night Dovecote fell. You let Palatyne rape my sister, so the others had time to escape. I thought you hard then -'

  'And you think me weak now?' Byren asked, his voice growing tense. The memory of that night still tortured him. It would as long as he lived.

  'No...' Orrade admitted. 'I think you've made another hard decision, for the right reason. You see clearly, Byren. Further than me.'

  He shook his head. 'Your mind's sharper than mine.'

  'Maybe, but perhaps not as...' he shrugged, 'honourable.'

  Byren snorted.

  'I would kill for you, Byren. Willingly kill to protect you.'

  It came to Byren then that Orrade made the best kind of spymaster, ruthless and utterly devoted. 'I'm lucky to have you. Orrade shrugged and resumed pacing. 'We should hear back from Leogryf and Unistag Spars soon. But it will take Feid's messengers longer to reach Manticore and Cockatrice Spars.'

  'And who knows if Cockatrice has settled on a warlord, since you killed Rejulas?'

  The night Dovecote fell, Orrade had killed the Cockatrice warlord. He'd had no choice for, in the mistaken belief that he was helping Lence seize the crown, Warlord Rejulas had opened his pass to Palatyne, giving him access to Rolencia's soft underbelly.

  'The new Cockatrice warlord should be eager to prove his spar's loyalty,' Orrade muttered. 'How long will you wait for the last two warlords' responses? The longer we delay, the more defences will be added to the new fort over Foenix Pass.'

  He was right. More decisions. 'Ask me tomorrow.' Byren faked a yawn, which turned into a real one. 'I'm for bed.'

  But, even in his bed, he could not sleep. For once, Orrade did not stretch out beside him and Byren missed his presence. His friend was stretched out on the floor, along with the rest of Byren's honour guard. Beyond the bed's rich drapes their snores filled the darkness.

  Byren lay on his back, staring up at the canopy, which was all but lost in the darkness, as he wrestled with the decisions he'd made and had yet to make. He wished he had as much faith in himself as Orrade had.

  These moral dilemmas were why he had not craved the kingship. How did he know what was the right decision? The crazy old seer had known what she was talking about.

  Pity she was long dead.

  Dusk, two days later, Byren met with Warlord Unace's representative. The uprising had decimated her forces, so she'd sent one of her few surviving kinsmen, an old man with white hair and a tendency to shout due to his deafness. Consequently the meeting was short.

  As Master Catillum and Feid escorted Unace's kinsman out of the war table chamber, Byren caught Orrade's arm and they fell behind.

  The mystics master glanced over his shoulder, noticed and sent Byren a look of query. Bearing in mind Feldspar's warning, Byren gave a slight shake of his head. The door closed on the others and Byren wandered over to the window where Orrade joined him. Byren barely noticed the activity in the courtyard three floors below them.

  'Unace will send four hundred warriors, mostly untried youths.' Byren rubbed the bridge of his nose. He did not want to send boys to their deaths.

  'And no word from Leogryf Spar,' Orrade said.

  'Not surprising. He has farther to sail.' Feid's stronghold was on the east coast of Foenix Spar and, on a clear day, they could see the peaks of Unistag Spar. Leogryf Spar was further away, to the west. 'I don't expect to hear from him for a day or two.'

  Orrade leant closer to the window, to look down into the courtyard. 'I knew it wouldn't last.' There was a smile in his voice.

  Byren followed the direction of his gaze. His people filled the courtyard, sharpening weapons, repairing tack, laughing and talking. Florin moved through, heading for the stables to see her father and brother, no doubt. Byren should have known he couldn't keep her out of harm's way, but still it made his body tense.

  'Florin's back in her trews.' Orrade grinned. 'I knew the dress wouldn't last. Mind you, it did look good. I'd no idea she hid a woman's curves under her men's clothing. Maybe I'll ask her to dance tonight.'

  'Go right ahead,' Byren said, surprised by the pang it caused him.

  But it would be the perfect solution to his problem. With Orrade in Florin's bed, no one would suspect his friend's preference for men, for Byren specifically. The thought of Orrade and Florin together left a bitter taste in Byren's mouth. Since he had no intention of attaching himself to a mountain girl without useful connections, he could not satisfy his itch and besides, Florin deserved more than a tumble in the hay.

  With that realisation, Byren wanted to warn Orrade off, unless his intentions were honourable, but his friend was far too perceptive. So he kept his silence.

  And he tried not to recall the feel of Florin's waist in his hands as they danced.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Disguised as a Merofynian merchant ship, flying the azure and black flag, the Wyvern's Whelp lay at anchor in a secluded cove not far from Cyena Abbey. Fyn perched on the window seat of the captain's cabin, fingering his dagger hilt. It felt strange having the captain answer to him.

  Nefysto had confirmation that Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter was making her last camp before reaching Cyena Abbey. Fyn had to act tonight, to save this girl from Palatyne.

  If only he'd been in time to save Piro. Despite his best efforts not to, he imagined Piro's last terrifying moments and his stomach churned.

  At least he could save this young woman whether she wanted it or not.

  Perhaps Isolt thought marriage to Palatyne would make her empress of the known world one day.

  She should have been married to Byren.

  Fyn sat up.

  His mind raced as he made the connections. Isolt had been betrothed to Lence, so his death meant she was betrothed to Byren. His brother needed allies to win back Rolencia. If Fyn subdued Isolt and whisked her back to Mage Isle, then took her to Rolencia to find Byren, his brother could marry her.

  Surely, if Byren and Isolt were married, King Merofyn would negotiate peace with his own son-in-law? But that didn't take into account Palatyne.

  'Ready, Agent Monk?' Nefysto asked.

  Fyn heard mockery every time the captain used this new title, but it was affectionate teasing.

  'Ready as I'll ever be.' He came to his feet. Tonight he'd abduct Isolt. Tomorrow, he'd worry about Palatyne.

  Dressed in a sailor's rough leggings and jerkin, Fyn stepped onto Merofynia's shore. Bantam and Jakulos pulled the row boat up onto the shingled beach under an overhang, where the stars cast a deep shadow.

  'Sure you don't want us to come?' Bantam asked.

  Fyn shook his head. Alone, he could slip into the camp, knock Isolt out and get away. He hoped. But with two sea-hounds in tow, the chance of discovery grew and the any ensuing altercation would make success less likely.

  After a whispered word of luck from Jakulos, Fyn climbed the slope. He found Isolt's servants had already made camp. Oblivious to th
reat in their own kingdom, her attendants were relaxed as they wandered through gaily coloured tents and chatted around the cooking fires.

  When the camp had settled for the night, Fyn crept stealthily towards the largest tent. The smells of Merofynian cooking still lingered on the night air, reminding him of his mother. Reminding him painfully that he'd lost her.

  Dagger ready, Fyn hesitated at the rear of the tent. A knot of tension formed in his belly and fear made his mouth go dry. One outcry and he was dead. Fyn swallowed and tightened his hold on the knife. He would slit the canvas and go in, hold the girl's throat until she passed out, throw her over his shoulder and slip out the same way he'd come in.

  His plan clear, Fyn lifted his dagger and slit the tent canvas. It sounded horribly loud in the still night air, but there was no outcry as he slipped inside. The interior was illuminated by the red glow of a brazier. Someone slept on a richly draped, low bunk. Creeping across the carpets, Fyn knelt and looked down on Isolt Kingsdaughter, schemer, betrayer.

  In his vision he had seen her speaking, in the portrait he had seen her composed, now he saw her sleeping and his heart contracted. Why, she was smaller than Piro and, without her eyebrows, seemed even younger. Her black hair spread across the pillow, fine as silk, framing a face vulnerable in sleep. Her pale skin was so translucent he could see the tracery of veins on her eyelids. She gave a little moan, as if her dreams were troubled.

  How could this innocent-looking young woman be the conniving daughter of King Merofyn, partially responsible for the fall of Rolencia and the death of most of Fyn's family?

  Without warning, a small woman tackled Fyn and they fell forwards over the sleeping Isolt. She gave a muffled cry as the travelling bunk collapsed. Desperate not to alert the sentries, he struggled to subdue his attacker, while Isolt writhed to free herself from under him and the tangled bedclothes.

  Sharp teeth sank into his forearm. Cursing, Fyn came to his feet. Manoeuvring his attacker so that her back was pressed to his chest, he held his dagger to her throat. His forearm stung with the imprint of her teeth. Silky dark hair tickled his nose and he could feel his captive's heart hammering, but he concentrated on Isolt, who stood on the far side of the splintered bunk.