And in that moment, Florin understood the power of Cobalt’s ploy. After the delivery of Fyn Rolen Kingson’s body, the people wanted to believe that Piro had survived. They wanted the legitimacy that betrothal to King Rolen’s daughter brought to Cobalt’s claim.
More prosaically, they wanted life to settle down, so they could plant their crops, bake their bread and sit around the dinner table with their families without fear of war.
‘Up here.’
‘What?’ Florin turned to Amil.
He gestured to the back of the carriage. ‘We ride up here, behind Lord Cobalt and the kingsdaughter.’
When they rolled out of the castle and onto the steep switchback road, Florin looked out across the kingdom. It was a crystal clear day. In the distance she could just discern Mount Halcyon. Between the mountain and the castle were patches of farmland and forest, interspersed with lakes reflecting the perfect spring sky.
Directly below, Lake Sapphire lived up to its name, gleaming like a jewel. The township of Rolenton nestled on the lake’s banks and the wharfs were full of ships. Even from up here, Florin could see the town square was packed.
‘Is that music?’ Varuska asked, tilting her head. Now that she mentioned it, Florin could just pick out the faint thread of music on the air.
‘Castle musicians are entertaining the crowd until our arrival,’ Cobalt explained. ‘This will be every bit as grand as last night, cousin Piro.’
He was right.
As they trundled under the town’s defensive gates, word of their arrival spread and a hush fell over the street leading to the square. People watched from first floor balconies, shop fronts and even roof tops.
‘Smile and wave, Piro,’ Cobalt ordered softly, smiling benignly. Florin caught his expression when he turned to wave, and it made her shiver.
Varuska lifted her hand and the crowd cried Piro’s name. The cheering rolled ahead of them, so that by the time they arrived in the square the music had been drowned out. People ran alongside the carriage, some threw early blooming flowers. Many waved scarves and shawls in every shade of red and burgundy.
The roar of the crowd made Florin’s head ache. The carriage completed a circuit of the square, before pulling up in front of the merchants’ guildhall. The castle musicians had set up on the top steps. Above them, the tower stretched into the clear blue sky.
Cobalt stood and drew Varuska to her feet. The people hushed.
‘I give you my betrothed, Pirola Rolen Kingsdaughter.’
Maybe he had intended to give a speech as well, but the crowd’s roar was so loud, he could not go on. He smiled and bent to kiss Varuska’s cheek. Meanwhile, the musicians resumed playing, battling valiantly to be heard.
Florin gripped the back seat of the carriage. In the crowd she saw apprentices hugging and laughing, fathers with small children on their shoulders, old women wiping tears from their cheeks and couples dancing.
One face, however, wasn’t smiling. Anatoley glared up at her sister. Florin glanced sideways to Varuska, but she hadn’t noticed Anatoley in the crush.
An overdressed, middle-aged man came down to the carriage and tugged on Amil’s arm. The Ostronite assassin crouched to hear what he had to say.
Cobalt glanced over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’
‘The merchants have organised a grand feast in the hall,’ Amil reported. ‘They wish to wine and dine the betrothed couple.’
‘Excellent.’
Florin searched the crowd, but Anatoley had disappeared. She hoped the girl had the sense to leave Rolencia.
‘Come, cousin Piro.’ Cobalt climbed down and offered his hand. The overdressed merchant waited on the steps, eager to welcome them.
Florin followed Cobalt and Varuska up the steps into the merchant guildhall, where a dozen self-important merchants waited, eager to celebrate the usurper’s betrothal to King Rolen’s only surviving heir.
Cobalt took pride of place at the guildhall table with the false Piro at his side. Everything was going according to his plan.
But it wouldn’t be for long. Tears of fury burned Florin’s eyes. Cobalt sat in Byren’s chair, and soon he would regret it.
GARZIK SMILED AS he imagined Byren and Orrade’s surprise when he returned. All his life, he’d been the little brother running after them, trying to earn a place at their sides. Soon he’d return having led a raid against the enemy, bearing useful information on the Merofynians.
‘Wynn?’ Olbin’s hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump. ‘Dreamer...’
The big Utlander drew him towards the captain’s cabin. They passed Vesnibor, who watched Garzik with narrowed eyes. Then they passed Trafyn, who lay in the passage lost in his fever. Had the squire babbled something about their plans?
Garzik’s stomach clenched with fear, but he told himself the Utlanders would have confronted him with Trafyn present.
In the captain’s cabin, Garzik found Rusan waiting with seven of his strongest and most respected crew. Hard men, dangerous men. Garzik caught Jost’s calculating look. Had the one-eared Utlander sabotaged his plans somehow?
‘I’ve been going through the Merofynian captain’s charts, but I can’t find one for Mero Bay. Only this.’ Rusan pointed to a map spread out on the floor. It showed Merofynia and the spars.
A wave of relief swept Garzik. ‘The Merofynian captain wouldn’t need a detailed map of his home port.’
‘You know Port Mero,’ Rusan said. ‘What can you tell us?’
Garzik had only been to Port Mero once. Now he racked his brains to recall every snippet of information. He dropped to his knees and pretended to study the map, to buy time.
Merofynia’s fertile shores overlooked one large sea, linked to Mero Bay by a canal. The bay was roughly the same size as the Landlocked Sea and was dotted with small fishing villages. Back when he’d sailed into port on Lord Travany’s ship, he could remember avoiding sandbars, but...
Rusan crouched next to him. ‘I can take my ship just about anywhere by feeling my way, but I can’t do that in Port Mero. It would destroy our ruse.’
Garzik pointed to one of the headlands protecting the entrance to Mero Bay and infused his voice with confidence. ‘That’s Mulcibar’s Gate. At its tip is a slow-moving river of lava that makes the sea boil and steam. Once we’re beyond that we make north for the port, where we’ll drop anchor as if we’re waiting for a berth.’
Rusan and Garzik rose and everyone moved to stand each side of the map, revealing their loyalties. Jost was joined by his two half-brothers and another two supporters, leaving Rusan with Olbin, Garzik and the identical twins who had fathered the oracles. They were so alike that when Garzik had first come aboard, he hadn’t realised there were two of them. Even now, he could only tell them apart by their scars.
‘We’ll we need someone who speaks Merofynian like a native,’ Crisdun said, and his twin nodded.
‘That’s where Wynn comes in.’ Rusan gestured to Garzik. ‘He’ll do the talking.’
‘Why should we trust him?’ Jost looked Garzik up and down. ‘He’s a slave.’
‘Former slave.’ Olbin bristled. ‘He earned his freedom.’
‘Once a slave always a slave, and you’re a fool if you think otherwise,’ Jost said. ‘Why should he betray his own people? For all we know, he’s leading us into a trap.’
The twins edged away from Garzik, eyeing him with suspicion. One wrong word now and there would be no trip to Port Mero. Jost would be captain and Garzik’s life would be short and horrible.
‘I could be leading you into a trap,’ he admitted, heart racing. ‘But these aren’t my people. They’re Merofynians.’ Garzik thought of his father, hanging from their great hall’s front doors with a spear through his chest, and his voice grew thick with fury and loss. ‘They invaded Rolencia, murdered my father, burned my home and enslaved me. For all I know my sister and brother are dead. I hate them. Death to hot-landers!’
‘Death to hot-landers!’ Rusan shouted.
>
All of them echoed him and Olbin opened a crate of wine. Uncorking several bottles, he passed them around, giving one to Garzik, who accepted it, dizzy with relief.
Rusan lifted his bottle. ‘We sail into the hot-landers’ jaws. Our children’s children will sing of this!’
The others cheered and drank.
Olbin slung an arm around Garzik’s shoulders and held Jost’s eyes in blatant challenge. ‘To Wynn!’
The raiders repeated the toast.
Garzik drained his wine, his cheeks hot with shame. He was digging himself deeper and deeper, and taking Rusan and Olbin with him.
The day after tomorrow they’d be in Port Mero. He’d stay on the ship long enough to set up the attack, then escape. Hopefully, the success of the raid would shore up Rusan’s leadership.
Why was he worrying? These Utlanders had enslaved and abused him. His duty was to Byren.
Olbin caught Garzik’s eye, winked and lifted his bottle in a silent toast.
Chapter Thirteen
FYN WOKE TO the soft snick of the door latch as someone entered his chamber. Heart racing, he remained perfectly still. After last night’s attack, he had not been able to rest easy in his bed; he’d crept into a dark corner and curled up in the shadows.
Now only a glimmer of morning light entered through the thick curtains, and Fyn could just distinguish the intruder’s outline. It couldn’t be his manservant. Kyral was short and stocky, and this person was tall and thin.
Had his attackers sent someone to finish the job?
The intruder crept towards his bed. It was a grand oak four-poster embossed with the Merofynian coat of arms. Fyn had pulled the bed-curtains closed to disguise his absence. He drew his knife and rose into a crouch.
The person pulled back the bed curtain, whispering urgently, ‘Lord Protector Merofyn, you need to get up.’
Feeling shaky with relief, Fyn came out of hiding. ‘Why do I need to get up, and who are you?’
The servant gave a gasp but recovered quickly. ‘Queen Isolt is at the war-table with the captain of the city-watch, and every merchant and noble—’
Fyn cursed, put his knife aside and thrust back the curtains. The light made him wince. It was mid-morning and his head felt stale from lack of sleep.
‘How long have they been there?’ Fyn asked as he pulled on his breeches then laced his boots.
No answer.
He looked up. The chamber was empty. With a shrug, he finished dressing and left his bedchamber.
The hubbub from the war room echoed down the corridor. The chamber was filled with angry, indignant men, the majority of them nobles and merchants he did not know. Fyn had intended to use the royal tour to meet the lords and take their measure but the only thing he’d learned was how Merofynians really felt about King Rolen’s sons.
The long chamber stretched before him. On his right, three tall windows faced north across the Landlocked Sea.
Fyn’s first instinct was to find Isolt, but he needed to understand the forces at work here. While he had never joined his father’s war-table discussions, he had experienced first-hand the power machinations of Halcyon Abbey. For now, the wisest course was to remain in the shadows and observe, find out who was driving the discussion and, if possible, learn their agenda. He slipped into the chamber unnoticed and stood in the shadows.
Just like back home, the war-table itself was a model of the known world. At the eastern end, closest to where he stood, was Ostron Isle, surrounded by the Ring Isle with its narrow entrance. Down the other end were the twin isles, sitting together like discarded horseshoes.
Merofynia’s harbour opened to the south. The kingdom was hemmed in by the Dividing Mountains on three sides. From the Divide stretched the spars, like the spokes of a broken wheel.
West of Merofynia lay Rolencia, its mirror image. The two kingdoms were linked by the Snow Bridge, a broad plateau of ridges and deep valleys.
Nobles and merchants crowded around the war-table. Fyn identified the lords and their companions by their flamboyant dress. Forbidden to wear ermine, sable and silk by sumptuary laws, the merchant margraves were clothed more austerely.
Captain Neiron and Elrhodoc strutted about like peacocks in their fashionable uniforms. By contrast, the captain of the city-watch wore plain fabric, sensibly cut. Nobles did not serve on the city-watch; grey-haired Captain Aeran must have earned his position through merit.
Fyn gathered Isolt had ordered Aeran to take his men and set sail for Benetir Estate. But the merchants protested that this would leave their warehouses and storefronts unprotected, citing the civil unrest and looting that had taken place after King Merofyn died.
‘If the city-watch went to the aid of Benetir Estate, my queen, how could we protect the city?’ Captain Aeran chose his words with care. Fyn could only catch a glimpse of Isolt between the men, who towered over her.
‘Then the nobles must sail for Benetir Estate. They’ve sworn to aid each other.’
‘And so we would, my queen,’ Lord Yorale agreed readily. His lands rivalled Lord Dunstany’s in size and, like Dunstany, he had been one of the old king’s advisors. In his mid-fifties, he wore his grey hair elegantly styled. His accent was refined, yet he still reminded Fyn of King Rolen’s trusted master-at-arms. ‘We would happily aid a fellow lord, but we lost many men-at-arms in the Rolencian invasion. We can’t leave our estates vulnerable.’
Yorale gestured to Benetir Estate. ‘If Warlord Cortigern has the gall to lead an attack over the Divide, what’s to stop Lincis Spar breaking the accord and laying waste to my estate?’
The other nobles echoed him.
‘What of the bay lord?’ Isolt asked. ‘His lands don’t back onto a spar.’
‘Cadmor?’ Neiron’s mouth twitched. ‘That inbred sea-hound. Why, he’s little better than a spar warlord himself.’
‘He did not go to war with Rolencia,’ Isolt said. ‘He must have fresh men-at-arms.’
‘He did not ride to war with us because he was not invited,’ Neiron said.
‘I must avenge my daughter.’ Skin grey with grief, an old lord shook his head. ‘Who would have thought marrying her to Benvenute’s son would lead to her death?’
‘At least she’s safely dead, Wytharon,’ Lord Yorale told him. ‘Not like the poor Benetir girl.’
The bereaved man turned to a middle-aged lord with heavy jowls. ‘Travany, your estate lies alongside Ben—’
‘I’ll do my part, as much as I can without leaving my people unguarded. The Rolencian invasion cost me dearly, my...’ Travany’s voice faltered. ‘My youngest son, Trafyn, was on the same ship as Istyn’s heir and Neiron’s brother.’
Several nobles offered their condolences; others complained that the invasion had cost more than it was worth.
Fyn had no sympathy.
‘Abbot Murheg, what say you?’ Lord Yorale asked. ‘Will you declare Lord Neirn dead, so that young Neiron can inherit? Nevantir Estate needs to be defended.’
The abbot adjusted the fall of his velvet robe. ‘The paperwork—’
‘Yes, prepare the paperwork, abbot,’ Isolt said. ‘It is the royal prerogative to formalise inheritance. Come here, Captain Neiron.’
Fyn had to change position and even then all he could see was the back of Neiron’s head as he knelt before Isolt.
‘You have served me well, captain of the queen’s guard. I name you Lord Neiron of Nevantir Estate. But there is one last task before you resign your commission. You must name your successor as captain of my guard.’
It came as no surprise when Neiron named his best friend, Elrhodoc, captain of the queen’s guards.
While Elrhodoc gave his oath, Fyn watched those who stood near the centre of power. Yorale was on the queen’s right. Abbot Murheg stood on her left with the abbess.
Everyone drank to the health of the new lord and captain.
‘The invasion of Rolencia has cost us dearly,’ Travany complained. ‘And what have we gained?’
&n
bsp; ‘Shiploads of red wine,’ one wit replied.
There was some laughter.
‘Our granaries are full, we’ve more silver plate and seven-year slaves than we know what to do with,’ Travany conceded. ‘But do we have Rolencia?’
‘No,’ they grumbled.
‘And what’s more, the market is glutted,’ a merchant protested. ‘There’s no profit to be made on my wool.’
‘Travany’s right.’ Yorale was not going to let the men of commerce divert the conversation. ‘We don’t have Rolencia. Yet we left five companies of our finest men to help Cobalt hold the kingdom. We need to recall them.’ He shook his head. ‘The spar warlord’s attack on Benetir Estate is an outrage, but until we recall our men—’
‘What of the seven-year slaves?’ the wool merchant asked.
‘Those churls?’ Travany sneered. ‘They’d cut your throat first chance they got, you know Rolencians.’
The gathering laughed and Fyn’s face flamed. It did not surprise him that the only two lords willing to bestir themselves to help Benetir Estate were the two with a vested interest—Wytharon and Travany.
‘We can’t wait for our men from Rolencia. We need to act now. What of the queen’s guards?’ Lord Wytharon asked.
They all turned to Neiron, who gestured to the new captain of the queen’s guard.
‘Naturally we despise the spar barbarians, but we swore to protect the queen,’ Elrhodoc said. ‘Our place is with her.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Isolt said, ‘because I’m going to save Lady Sefarra.’
This caused an outcry. They were quick to advise her against it, and the discussion soon deteriorated, voices escalating as tempers rose.
Old King Merofyn should never have invaded Rolencia; no, the invasion was Palatyne’s idea; King Merofyn should never have acknowledged Palatyne as overlord of the spars; Merofyn should have crushed the upstart warlord.
Sefarra’s fate was the last thing on their minds.
Anger ignited Fyn and he was just about to call for quiet when he spotted Isolt making her way around behind the arguing men. She nodded to the door.
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