The Ursuper cokrk-3

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  'As far as we can trust anyone from the spars.' Orrade slung an arm around Fyn's shoulders. 'Come on. I'll introduce you. Ah, but you're a sight for sore eyes. We heard Piro lived, but no one knew what'd happened to you.'

  'About Piro…' Fyn fell into step with him, then remembered the sea-hound captain. 'First, you must meet Nefysto.'

  They'd agreed to pretend the sea-hound had delivered Fyn for a fee and the chance to trade. It felt wrong to lie to Orrade, but the mage's secrets were not his to share.

  By now the rest of the delegation had reached them, and Orrade made the introductions. Most notable amongst them was the handsome youth, who turned out to be a mountain girl called Florin, and the warlord's new lady, Cinna. When Nefysto greeted Lady Cinna, he acted as though they'd never met, but there was a hint of laughter in his black eyes, which was echoed in hers.

  While the sea-hounds were setting up their goods on the wharf and the inhabitants of Feidton gathered, eager to begin bargaining, Fyn slipped over to speak with Nefysto.

  'So you do know the mage's spy,' he said.

  A smile tugged at Nefysto's lips but he didn't answer.

  'Orrade tells me she was a kitchen maid in some merchant's house when Feid met her, and it's a love match,' Fyn pressed for a reaction. 'Does the mage deal in love potions now or is she such a fine actress she'll bear his children?'

  Nefysto caught Fyn by his vest, swung him behind some tall bales and thrust him up against them. 'That's my cousin you're talking about.'

  Fyn gulped. 'My apologies, captain. I meant no insult.'

  Nefysto let him slide to the ground.

  Fyn adjusted his clothing. The women of the five families were renowned for handling finances, driving hard bargains and marrying to cement alliances. 'If Lady Cinna comes from one of the five families of Ostron Isle, what's she doing spying for the mage?'

  Nefysto looked as if he wouldn't answer, then he let out his breath in a huff of annoyance. 'Cinna was born the wrong side of the blanket, so she can never be acknowledged, but she could have served the family safely. She would never have gone hungry. Cinna, however, always preferred excitement. If she's married this spar warlord it's because she loves him. And he's a lucky man.'

  'Yet, she's still spying for the mage?'

  'Be glad she is, for your brother's sake.' And Nefysto strode off, offering the Lady Cinna his arm to show her the sea-hounds' wares.

  Fyn watched Nefysto and his by-blow cousin. If Feid married her after meeting her in a merchant's kitchen and was unaware of her connections to one of Ostron Isle's wealthiest families, then he'd married her for love. Fyn almost envied him. It was something a kingson would never be sure of.

  A kingson had to be careful where he spread his seed. Not that Byren or Lence had been particularly careful, if the stories were true. You'd think they would have learnt from King Byren's mistake.

  When he was only sixteen, their grandfather had dallied with a passing player and produced a son. Born the wrong side of the blanket, destined never to inherit, Spurnan's very existence had triggered a civil war. Then Cobalt, Spurnan's son, betrayed King Rolen for his chance at the crown. Seventy years on, they were still paying for his grandfather's indiscretion.

  'There you are.' Orrade found him. 'Something wrong?'

  'No.' Fyn mustered a smile.

  'Then come up to the stronghold and tell me what's happened to you since Merofynia invaded.' Orrade had only taken three steps when he came to an abrupt stop. 'Fyn, the abbey mystics master is here with us.'

  'Good, I — ' Fyn registered Orrade's serious expression. 'What?'

  'One of the monks told me he struggles with renegade Affinity. He could betray us.'

  'Catillum? Never!' Fyn pulled away from Orrade. 'Are you sure?'

  'It was your friend Feldspar who warned us.'

  Fyn digested this. He'd misjudged Cobalt, but then he hadn't known his cousin well. He did know Feldspar and Catillum. Could his friend be mistaken? They hadn't begun their monks' training, how could Feldspar judge the mystic master's true state?

  Besides, now that Fyn had met renegade Affinity in the form of the mage's agent, he knew Power-workers could live outside the abbey's teachings and not succumb to evil. Come to think of it, there had been some shining examples of evil within the abbey. If the monks were wrong about Power-workers, what else did they have wrong?

  'Fyn?' Orrade prodded. 'Can I trust the mystic?'

  Then it came to him. This was the meaning of the vision back on the Wyvern's Whelp, when he'd seen Catillum battling a wyvern. 'The mystic master won't betray us. He'd die before he bowed down to Merofynia.'

  'You sound certain.'

  'I had a vision.' Fyn's hand went to his chest, to where the Fate lay hidden under his vest. Even as Fyn did this, he realised that if Catillum discovered he was the mage's agent he would denounce him. Fyn's skin went cold as his mind raced. He'd been so focused on reaching Byren, he hadn't thought this through. He could never go back to the abbey. It would mean living a lie.

  His head spun as he tried to make the mental adjustments. If anyone from the abbey asked how he came to be here on Foenix Spar with the sea-hounds he'd tell them he'd fallen in with one of the elector's agents and leave it at that.

  'The vision told you Catillum is trustworthy?' Orrade pressed.

  'Absolutely.'

  'Good. Because I don't want to battle renegade Affinity without his support. The Merofynians are sure to have brought one of Mulcibar's mystics with them.'

  Fyn nodded. Unlike Halcyon, the Merofynian god of summer was the patron god of war. A bull with a coat as hard as stone, its breath could incinerate. In the last great battle the Merofynians hurled burning balls, known as Mulcibar's dung. Anything they touched burst into flames.

  'So, Fyn,' Orrade said, resuming their walk up to Feid's stronghold. 'Where have you been and how did you come to be sailing with sea-hounds?'

  And Fyn began to lie.

  That evening, after the meal, as he stood on the mezzanine overlooking Feid's great hall, Bantam and Jakulos joined him. When Nefysto had assigned them to accompany him as his honour guard, neither had been particularly impressed to learn who he really was. Fyn was relieved they treated him no differently.

  'Did you make a pretty profit?' Fyn asked.

  Bantam grimaced. 'No profit to be made from spar trading. They're too poor. Cap'n's taking the Wyvern's Whelp around to Port Marchand.'

  Fyn nodded. No doubt Nefysto would be reporting to the mage on the state of affairs in Rolencia. Fyn was glad to have the two sea-hounds watching his back and wanted to tell them, but before he could, Feldspar and Joff sought him out.

  'There you are, Fyn,' Feldspar said, eyeing the two sea-hounds warily. Bantam gave Fyn a nod and he and Jakulos moved off as if they hadn't been told to shadow him. Joff and Feldspar joined Fyn at the rail, overlooking Feid's great hall.

  'Catillum wants to see you,' Feldspar said. 'What happened after you left us? How did you end up with the sea-hounds?'

  Fyn straightened up. This was what he'd dreaded, but for their own good, he must deny his old friends. 'That's between the king and I.' He'd never given Byren this title before. 'Did you say Master Catillum wants to see me?'

  Feldspar stiffened and took a step back. 'Yes, kingsheir.'

  Fyn wanted to tell him to drop the title. But it was better to let Feldspar think he was too ambitious to maintain friendship with a monk, who could do him no favours, rather than have Feldspar tainted by association if Fyn's relationship with the mage was ever revealed.

  So Fyn nodded dismissively. 'I'll be along soon. Where is the mystics master?'

  'In his chamber. It's — '

  'I'll find it. Thank you.' Fyn turned away from them. It was hard, but it had to be done.

  What could the mystics master want with him? He stayed and watched the hall, until enough time had passed for Joff and Feldspar to go back downstairs, then he went in search of Catillum.

  'You sent for me,
mystics master.'

  'Ah, Fyn.' Catillum turned with a tired smile. His eyes were red-rimmed and the skin below them bruised but he was still the man Fyn remembered. As Catillum glanced to Fyn's head of dark hair, Fyn noted the mystics master had shaved his head. Now that he thought about it, so had Feldspar and Joff. 'It is good to see you. Feldspar and Joff expected you to bunk down with us, but I told them you might feel you had to serve your brother, before coming back to the abbey.'

  Fyn nodded. He was grateful for Catillum's tact, but he couldn't dedicate himself to the abbey now. He couldn't live a lie.

  'If you mean to serve your brother until he is restored to the throne, you should return Halcyon's Fate,' Catillum said. 'As mystis master, it is my responsibility.'

  'Of course.' Fyn should have thought of this. Since he no longer meant to go back to the abbey, he had no right to the Fate. His hand went to his chest, where the Fate rested beneath his vest. It was with a surprising reluctance that Fyn undid the clasp and removed the Fate from around his neck.

  'Thank you for keeping it safe.' The mystic's fingers closed around the Fate and he hung it around his own neck, tucking it away safely. 'Any visions I should know about, lad?'

  Fyn looked up. He could hardly admit to seeing Catillum's possible death. He swallowed. 'No.'

  Since the mage had opened his gates, Piro had cared for the sick and wounded, while the battle for the electorship raged across Ostron Isle.

  As she finished her day shift, Isolt arrived looking fresh and determined for the night shift. Following Merofynian royal custom, she was also trained as a healer.

  'I saw Agent Tyro outside. Is there news of your brothers?' Isolt asked.

  'Not that I heard. The agent didn't come in here.' Piro hadn't seen much of Tyro since she insisted he open the gates, and she was reasonably certain he was avoiding her. Perhaps Tyro had borne the brunt of the mage's anger.

  She handed over care of the sick to Isolt and hurried out into the corridor looking for the agent, but he was nowhere in sight.

  She should explain to the mage how she had put Tyro in a position where he could hardly say no but, since the night the elector died, they had seen nothing of Tsulamyth.

  If only the Ostronites would decide on a new elector.

  The solution came to Piro in a flash. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The war table piece would have the new elector's features. Driving her weary legs, she ran up the stairs and down the corridor to the war table room.

  She'd avoided this chamber since she'd been in here to view her faceless piece. Now she darted over to Ostron Isle and peered across the table, careful not to touch anything.

  'The elector's piece has no features yet,' Tyro said, coming out of the shadows. Piro gave a little start of fright, but she hadn't done anything wrong. She squared her shoulders.

  Tyro stepped closer, the nuances of his expression hidden by the twilight. 'The piece's face went blank the night the elector died and has remained blank since. It was the first thing I checked.'

  'Pity…' She tilted her head, trying to make out the agent's expression. 'Why doesn't the mage force the five great families to agree to a new elector?'

  'If a decision was forced upon the five they would resent the mage. The four losing families would unite against Tsulamyth. No, Piro. It is better to let them sort it out.'

  'By killing each other?'

  'Ahh, but then they can resent each other and not the mage.' One corner of Tyro's mouth lifted in the wry smile she had come to know so well. Dunstany's smile.

  She felt an odd tug in her belly. She'd hardly eaten today. 'Was the mage angry with you, Tyro?'

  He looked blank.

  'Because you opened the gate.'

  He turned away. 'No. We came to an understanding.'

  His reply did not ring true. She should find the mage and make it clear that she was to blame. Where to start looking?

  First she had to slip away from Tyro.

  Piro used Isolt's new pet wyvern as an excuse to slip away. 'I'd better feed Loyalty.'

  'I'll come with you,' Tyro said.

  They found the wyvern and foenix playing in a private garden courtyard, complete with its own fountain. Piro upended a bucket of fish scraps from the kitchen. The wyvern leapt on the fish, gulping them down, while the foenix nibbled one at a time.

  'It's lucky for my foenix that Isolt's wyvern is too young to know they should be deadly enemies,' Piro told Tyro. With the fish fast disappearing down the wyvern's throat, the Affinity beast looked decidedly deadly. Piro eyed Loyalty uneasily. 'How long before she grows horns?'

  'Another year or two,' Tyro answered. 'That's when she'll have to be let loose if she hasn't bonded properly with Isolt. She'll be too dangerous.'

  'Agent Tyro?' Ovido came trotting into the garden. He ignored Piro as if she was an interloper. 'The mage has been called to meet the new elector, Comtissa Cera of House Cerastus.'

  'At last!' Piro turned to Tyro. 'Now the mage can — '

  'The new elector will want to clean up Ostron Isle before interfering in other kingdoms' squabbles,' Tyro warned.

  He was right. Piro's heart sank. 'But my brothers — '

  'The world does not revolve around the troubles of House Rolen,' Tyro snapped, then seemed to regret his temper. 'First thing tomorrow, Tsulamyth will try to convince Elector Cera of the importance of this particular squabble.'

  Byren had force-marched his men over the secret pass and across the foothills, through slopes of winter-bare grape vines, to what had been Cedar tradepost. Now it was a well-built fort. He'd kept his followers out of sight and he was glad he had. Originally, he'd intended to wait until he heard Orrade's attack on the far side, before launching his own, but he'd had an idea. Why use force when trickery would do? He took Corvel and Feid aside to explain his plan.

  Both warlords heard him out, then tried to find flaws.

  'So you'd approach the fort late in the day as a trader returning home to the spar with a wagon of goods to sell?' Feid rubbed his jaw. 'That'll get you inside overnight until they open the gate on Foenix Spar-side but, if your identity was discovered, you'd — '

  'No one will recognise me.' Byren didn't mention that he knew the tradepost's keeper, and he expected the man not to reveal him. Besides, he trusted to his mother's training. Piro was not the only one who had enjoyed acting out the myths. All he needed was padding to make him look fat, ash to age his hair, and he could hunch over to make himself seem shorter. The Merofynians were looking for a young, tall kingson. 'I'll need three or four likely lads to come with me.'

  'Take my sons,' Corvel offered. 'They're spar-born. They can pass for a trader's sell-swords.'

  Byren had been meaning to take his honour guard, but Corvel was right. Winterfall and the others were not spar-born, and might unwittingly betray him.

  So, just on dusk, Byren dressed in a trader's serviceable cloak and joined three of Corvel's four sons. The youngest drove a wagon borrowed from the sympathetic vintner. Its wheels moved slowly under the weight of a dozen barrels of fine Rolencian red as they headed for the main road over the pass.

  With the player's assistance Byren had disguised himself, rubbing ash into his face and beard to turn them grey, and affected a limp. Old Man Narrows had loaned his own staff to complete the transformation. Seela was right, warriors in the prime of life tended to dismiss the old and the lame.

  Cedar tradepost came into view, the top floor of the third storey visible over the palisade. Last time he was here, he'd been defending the scholar and his family. He wondered briefly what had happened to them and little Rodien. He could only hope they were safe somewhere.

  Then the tradepost had nestled in the valley, near the narrow defile that led to the only path over the Divide. Now, hastily built but sturdy wooden fortifications had been extended so that a palisade surrounded the tradepost, blocking the defile's entrance. Everyone had to pass through the fort.

  Defended by one gate tower, the gate facing
Rolencia was sturdy, and already closed. Byren led the horses, leaning heavily on a staff. When he rapped on the wood, the gate-keeper opened the slit and accepted Byren's story without reservations.

  'Your goods must be worth protecting to hire three sell-swords,' the gate-keeper said. 'What do you carry?'

  'Rolencian red for the warlord's own cellar.'

  The gate-keeper closed the slit, slid the bolts out and swung the gate to let Byren and the cart in. Corvel's youngest son flicked the reins to get the horses moving, and the other two walked alongside the wagon.

  They'd entered the courtyard and the gate was closed behind them, when the gate-keeper announced, 'There's a new tax for crossing the Divide, one-fifth of your wares.'

  'One-fifth!' Byren spluttered as he knew a trader would. 'That's daylight robbery.'

  The gate-keeper smirked. 'If you want to sell your wine to the warlord, that's what you'll be paying.'

  Grumbling energetically, Byren ordered Corvel's sons to unload the right number of barrels.

  As they were being rolled away, the gate-keeper turned back. 'There's also the charge for housing and feeding your horses, and yourselves.' He named an exorbitant price.

  Byren threw up his hands. 'You'll ruin me.' But he paid, after some haggling.

  In the tradepost proper, he found several other travellers, none of whom were happy with the new charges. But they kept their voices low. From the gossip, he learnt how the keeper of the tradepost had objected when the Merofynians first arrived. Now he and his family worked as servants in the kitchen.

  Byren bristled on the keeper's behalf. The sooner he reclaimed Rolencia, the sooner he could right the wrongs done in King Merofyn's name.

  When the keeper's son served their meal, the lad's gaze fixed on Byren, then glided deliberately past him. In a few moments, the keeper himself came out to supervise. The fort's forty or so Merofynian solders crowded the tables, claiming the best of the food.

  The keeper put a tray of pastries on Byren's table, pausing just behind him.

  'Is there anything else I can do?' he asked softly.