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.
PIRO 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.
‘Are you all right?’
‘A touch of indigestion. Normally the lord’s heir would go in his place, but Dunstany would never send Duncaer. In fact, he would keep this information from him.’
‘Surely Duncaer will hear about the council of lords anyway?’
‘Yes, but he’ll expect Dunstany to attend.’
‘Unless he hears that Dunstany is sick.’
‘He’s never dared attend such a thing in the past, but he has grown impatient these last two years. I think his gambling debts are catching up with him.’
Piro nodded. ‘The nobles fear and respect Dunstany, but they know he cannot live forever. Neiron might seek an alliance with Duncaer to undermine Dunstany. Isolt must delay the council until Byren arrives. I’ll write urging her to delay.’
‘And if she can’t?’
‘We’ll have to pray for storms on the Landlocked Sea... Isolt can ask the lords she trusts to delay their arrival for as long as possible.’
‘She’ll have to balance this against the possibility that Neiron and his supporters will hold their own council without her.’
‘But that would be treason.’
Old Gwalt nodded grimly.
Chapter Fifty
ORRADE
JOINED BYREN as they waited outside the partially completed gates of the king’s city. Built on a rise that backed onto a sheer cliff, the city had outgrown its original walls. New fortifications were under construction, enclosing the surrounding high ground.
‘Eh, I’ll say this for Jorgoskev,’ Byren said. ‘He knows how to design defences.’
‘Jorgofaje...’ Orrade said slowly. ‘He renamed the city after himself. What does that tell us about the man?’
Byren shrugged. ‘Rolencia was named after my ancestor.’
Hristo and Nilsoden had gone to speak with one of the stonemasons working on the new gate tower. A moment later, a boy mounted a shaggy pony and took off at a gallop, up the road towards the old gate.
‘Just look at the number of workers.’ Orrade gestured. ‘All these men are not tilling fields, caring for animals or working their normal crafts. The city must be wealthy indeed. No wonder, when it lies at the centre of the long north-south valley, and at the point where the eastern valley leads east to Merofynia. All trade must pass through here. We were so busy watching Palatyne and Merofynia we did not notice this growing threat, Byren.’
‘The six city states of the Snow Bridge have never been united before.’
‘Exactly.’
Byren smiled grimly. He felt weary, having spent the last four nights by the ambassador’s side, ostensibly so that Hristo could sleep, but really so that he and Orrade could keep the man alive. Orrade had been eating like a horse, yet he was still losing weight. But not as much as Florin, who had not been able to keep a meal down since they set foot on the ship.
She left the wagon, stumbled to the side of the road, leaned against a tree and threw up.
Byren frowned. ‘She should be over the sky-sickness by now. Everyone else is.’
‘Florin told me of a ballad about a Snow Bridge merchant who fell in love with a flat-land girl, married her and brought her home to live where earth meets sky. She could not adjust to the thin air. Rather than leave the man she loved and her little boy, she killed herself. Very sad.’
‘Very silly,’ Byren said. ‘If he really loved her, he would have moved to the flat-lands.’
‘True.’ Orrade grinned. ‘But Florin might not adjust. Some people don’t.’
‘Then it is lucky we’re not staying. As soon as I’ve seen the king, I’m taking the pass to Dunstany’s estate.’
‘What if Vlatajor dies and Jorgoskev has us arrested and thrown in his dungeon?’
Byren shifted his weight and his hand went to the sword at his hip. He had fifty good men. By the look of it, the Snow Bridge king had thousands who could down tools and take up arms at a moment’s notice. ‘I want you to keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘I will, but Florin is the only one who understands their language.’
She stumbled back to the wagon. Her skin had lost its healthy glow, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Byren wanted to send her to stay with Dunstany, but he couldn’t, not when he needed her.
He did not like the man he was becoming.
He called to Florin, ‘Hopefully, the king’s healers will have something for your sky-sickness.’
She nodded and climbed back into the wagon, where the ambassador lay barely clinging to life.
‘Do you think Hristo and Nilsoden suspect we’ve been keeping Vlatajor alive?’ Byren asked.
‘If they do, they should be grateful,’ Orrade said.
‘If Jorgoskev fears the power of the Affinity-touched, we don’t want him knowing what we can do.’
‘Either he is like your father and is not rational about Affinity, or he is a cunning man who wants to control those with power. If it is the first, he may turn on us. If it is the second, you’re worth more to him as king of Rolencia... Oh, look, how thoughtful. They’re sending us an escort.’
Byren smiled at Orrade’s tone.
Two lines of men jogged out of the old main gate. They wore Snow Bridge armour, made of many tiny plates like fish scales, which gleamed in the sun. They kept pouring out of the gate at a steady pace until Byren estimated there had to be about three hundred men. ‘We should be honoured.’
By mid-afternoon they had been escorted into the city and up the long straight road to the palace, which was built on the high ground. To get there, they’d had to pass through a series of gates, each representing a growth-ring of the city.
Byren stood in the wagon, gripping the back of the seat behind the ursodon handler, who held the reins. Aware that his life and those of the men who followed him could rest on some small detail, Byren studied everything. When they reached the palace, it was a hive of activity, with old sections being demolished to make way for new, more gracious apartments. Instead of the common white-grey stone, the new sections were built of a glossy white marble with large ground floor windows and doors.
‘The king feels confident his enemies will never get this far,’ Byren said.
The wagons were directed to one side and around the rear of the palace. As they passed the ursodon stables, they could hear the beasts calling to each other and a strong, musky scent briefly enveloped them.
At last they reached a courtyard full of partially completed corbels. Two dozen workmen stood near a stack of stone blocks, as if they’d been told to put down their tools and get out of the way.
Byren leapt down from the wagon, then turned to help Florin. Orrade jumped down behind her.
About two dozen richly-dressed men strode out of the palace and lined up on a terrace overlooking the courtyard. They wore stiff brocade robes that came to their calves, and wide jewelled belts. None of them spoke or moved.
Florin looked up at the people on the terrace. ‘Which one is the king?’
Four men wearing elaborate costumes came, bearing two long horns between them. The horns were so big that the first pair of men wore straps over their shoulders, which supported the ends of the horns at the level of their knees. The second pair walked a body-length behind and wore straps across their chests supporting the mouth-pieces of the horns before their faces.
‘Urso-horns,’ Florin said. ‘They’re made from the very largest ursodon males.’
‘Those beasts must have been huge,’ Orrade whispered.
‘Yes, but Bozhimir said they’d only ever found their bones. Cover your—’ Florin’s warning was drowned by a long, resonating blast from the horns. Like thunder, the sound rolled across to the far side of the valley, hit the mountain wall and reverberated back.
Several of the ursodons reared in their traces, roaring in fright as their handlers fought to control them. It was lucky the ambassador had already been unloaded.
The echo faded and Byren’s ears rang with its absence. A grey-haired man walked out and stood between the two horns.
‘I think that’s the king,’ Orrade whispered.
Byren looked down to hide a grin.
By the time he had command of his features, two young men had joined the king. Both bore a strong resemblance to him in manner and looks. Vlatajor had said the king had two sons.
Hristo mounted the steps. Pausing a body-length from the king, he bowed and remained bent over.
Jorgoskev beckoned to a skinny old man and whispered to him. The old man went down to Hristo, who gestured to Byren and his companions. As Hristo stepped aside, the old man came down the stairs, leaning heavily on a staff.
‘When you greet the king, stay at least three steps lower than him,’ Orrade advised softly.
The old man crossed the courtyard and ducked his head in a short bow. It was probably all his old back would allow. He was so hunched he had trouble tilting his head far enough to see Byren’s face.
‘Earth-meets-sky. King Jorgoskev meets King Byren and bids him welcome to Jorgofaje, greatest of all cities, jewel in the crown of the Snow Bridge.’ He spoke formal Rolencian with a slight hesitation, as if he had not had to use the language in a long time. He gestured to himself. ‘Scholar Yosiv meets King Byren. Come this way.’
Byren signalled Chandler to stay with his men before gesturing for Florin and Orrade to follow him. When they reached the steps, Byren noticed how Yosiv struggled. It would have been quicker to pick him up and carry him, but Byren resisted the temptation and instead offered his arm. Yosiv seemed surprised by the courtesy.
Orrade’s guess had been good. Even on the third step below the king, Byren’s eyes were above Jorgoskev’s.
Giving a bow that would have pleased Byren’s mother, Orrade addressed the king. ‘The people of the flat-lands speak of the beauty of the Snow Bridge. They speak of the great warrior king, Jorgoskev, and the city state that bears his name. But nothing prepared us for the reality.’ He paused while the old scholar translated.
The king nodded as if this was his due.
Orrade continued. ‘Earth-meets-sky. Byren Kingsheir, son of King Rolen the Implacable, Saviour of Rolencia, Byren Kingsheir the One True King, meets King Jorgoskev, Uniter of the Snow Bridge.’
If Orrade was going to be the courtier, Byren would play the stern warrior. He bowed with his hand across his chest. When he lifted his head Jorgoskev seemed to be weighing him up. Byren held the king’s eyes.
‘Lord Dovecote, advisor to Byren Kingsheir, meets King Jorgoskev.’ Orrade bowed then gestured to Florin. ‘Florin of Narrowneck, shield-maiden to Byren Kingsheir, meets King Jorgoskev.’
Jorgoskev looked Florin up and down, then said something to his sons. They exchanged short, contemptuous glances that irritated Byren, but Orrade had already moved on.
‘Byren Kingsheir has sat by your brother’s side, night after night, since Lord Vlatajor was injured. It is with great relief that we deliver him into your care and trust your healers will soon have him restored to good health.’
Byren hid a smile. This placed the responsibility for Vlatajor’s survival neatly on the king. Jorgoskev seemed to consider for a moment, then he nodded. If he felt anything for his brother, he did not show it. Instead, he gestured and the injured ambassador was carried away.
Jorgoskev said something.
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