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  Piro could not tell if they were the same rooms her mother had used. She had become confused since entering the palace, which didn't tally with her mother's stories. Mind you, Myrella had only been eight when she left with her nurse to go live in Rolencia, as surety of peace. Plus King Merofyn had probably made additions. Piro was so tired she could hardly stand.

  Scented lamps already lit, several servants waited in the sumptuous chamber to help the kingsdaughter disrobe. A row of doors opened onto a long veranda. Piro stood just inside the entrance wondering what to do. Impervious to the many people present, Isolt let them strip her and dress her in a soft silk nightgown and matching slippers. Piro found this odd. She always dressed herself, unless her old nurse insisted on helping.

  Now in her nightgown, Isolt looked over at Piro and asked in Rolencian, 'Are you really a nobleman's daughter?'

  'If you please, kingsdaughter.' Piro decided to stick to her original story. 'I was a maid at Rolenhold until Lord Dunstany took me for his slave. The overlord, I mean Duke Palatyne, claimed me for you.'

  Isolt nodded to herself then dismissed the servants. When they were alone, she drew her silk nightgown around her small shoulders and approached Piro. She was delicate, only as tall as Queen Myrella, so her eyes were level with Piro's nose.

  Now that her face was washed clean of paint she looked young and vulnerable, but her eyes, when they met Piro's, were keen with intelligence. 'I know you're a spy.'

  Piro did not know what to say.

  Isolt shrugged. 'It does not bother me. Palatyne will find no secret lovers under my bed.'

  'You wrong me,' Piro protested. 'I despise Palatyne. Lord Dunstany thinks I am his spy, but I don't care about their politics!'

  A surprised gasp escaped Isolt. She looked at Piro… really looked at her. For a heartbeat Piro thought she saw a flicker of something in Isolt's eyes, a need to believe, then she turned away contemptuously. 'You are either very stupid, or very clever. I can't decide which. You may sleep on the daybed. I care not whose spy you are.'

  Obscurely hurt, Piro undressed and stretched out on a narrow, high-backed daybed in front of the fireplace. She stared into the banked coals. Red winking eyes stared back at her, ever watchful, ever wary.

  Suddenly, it came to her. Isolt was afraid Afraid to eat, afraid to trust — how awful to live in a state of constant fear!

  Fyn frowned, trying to make out the Skirling Stones by the brilliant starlight. Intricate rocky reefs surrounded the stones, and the ship was close enough now for him to see the froth of waves crashing on those reefs. He glanced behind him. The Utlanders had closed in. Now he could just make out their fierce, determined faces.

  Putting his back to them, Fyn placed his faith in Captain Nefysto. What else could he do?

  One by one, the sea-hounds came on deck. Runt, the little cabin boy, edged close to Jaku. Fyn suspected he would have preferred the captain, whom he idolised, but Nefysto had taken over the wheel.

  Now everyone, from the cook to the surgeon, stood on deck. A sea-hound had climbed to the top of each mast, while one waited on the fore-deck with a knotted rope tied to weights, to test the sea's depth.

  Bantam caught a nod from the captain and called, 'Trim the sails to one-third.'

  The sails contracted like concertinas folding, but the ship still made headway, carried by momentum.

  What Fyn had thought was his racing heart drumming in his ears turned out to be the dull boom of the waves crashing on the Skirling Stones. No one spoke.

  They passed the first of the outlying rocks. Waves broke, sending spray as high as the tallest mast. A man near him started a chant to Sylion, Rolencia's harsh god of winter and the sea. Soon everyone was whispering to their gods, pleading for safe passage. Some fingered lucky charms, others repeated the actions to ward ill luck.

  The man at the prow took a depth sounding and called the number.

  Bantam chuckled.

  Fyn glanced to him, startled.

  He gestured over his shoulder, prompting Fyn to turn. Only a bow shot away, they could clearly see the Utlanders' consternation.

  'They're hanging back,' Jaku said.

  The news passed along and there was a half-hearted cheer.

  To each side of the ship the sea boiled as waves churned over the rocks just below the surface, but the Wyvern's Whelp travelled a narrow, dark channel. Fyn wished there was something he could do. He'd rather be up a mast, watching for danger, than helpless here.

  Every few moments, the sea-hound called out the depth.

  This close, Fyn could see the true height of the Skirling Stones. They reared up, tall as three or four-storey buildings. The first stone the ship passed reminded him of a listing tower, topped by a rakishly tilted beret, where a fuzz of bushes grew, bent with the force of the prevailing wind.

  Fyn blinked, his head ached with fear. He was amazed plants could survive out here.

  Without warning, the backwash of a wave breaking against the stone's base sent the ship tipping and sliding towards the jagged teeth at the base of another of the Skirling Stones. Sea-hounds shouted and raised oars, ready to fend off just such an event.

  Fyn gripped the rail, breath tight in his chest.

  And to think, he'd believed wyverns and Utlanders the worst of his worries. His skin prickled. Didn't salt-water wyverns live on islands like this, nesting high in caves, hunting for fish and birds or, failing that, plucking unwary sailors from the decks of passing ships?

  Fyn spun to face Bantam. 'What of wyverns?'

  'Huh?' He had been concentrating on the ship, watching her sails belly and flap as the wind gusted, then fell, blocked by the towering stones. 'Wyverns? We saw none the last time we came through.'

  'Look,' the cabin boy cried. 'The Utlanders are coming after us.'

  Fyn spun. It was true. The first of the Utlander raiders followed them, sails at one-third. Would nothing deter these savage men?

  He shuddered and felt for the Fate, seeking reassurance. It was warm.

  That meant…

  Fyn inhaled deeply, opening his Affinity senses. The tension behind his eyes was not a fear-induced headache, but a foretaste of power. Why, if he didn't know better, he would say they approached an Affinity seep.

  Could there be a seep at sea? He'd only ever heard of them on land. They were places of power, where Affinity from the earth's heart found its way to the surface.

  The Fate felt hot under his hand. Fyn left the rail, edging back to stand beside the captain.

  'Busy here, little monk,' Nefysto muttered. 'Are they still behind us?'

  Fyn looked over his shoulder, in time to see the first Utland ship pass the leaning stone tower. Then the Wyvern's Whelp rounded another pillar, riding the backwash past it, and he lost sight of their pursuers.

  'Still following.' Fyn caught Nefysto's eye. 'Captain, I think there's a seep nearby. I can sense it.'

  Bantam joined them. 'What's this about a seep?'

  Fyn plucked the Fate from inside his vest. The opal, formed from an ancient spiral seashell, glowed. 'The Fate's responding to it.'

  'Some kind of sorbt stone?' Nefysto asked, proving he knew more than the average layman about mystical practices.

  Fyn went to answer in the negative but he could feel the Fate, even now, eager for the untamed Affinity. The captain's guess might be closer to the truth than Fyn knew, so he remained silent.

  The ship had reached the midst of the Skirling Stones, weaving her way through towering black edifices, topped with gnarled trees.

  Here, in the centre of the Skirling Stones, the crash of the sea on the outer rocks faded to a distant boom and an eerie wailing came and went, as the wind whirled between the stones, proving someone must have come here at least once, to give them their name.

  Fyn frowned. Had something moved on that ledge, three-quarters up the Skirling Stone ahead of them? Affinity attracted Affinity beasts. If it was a new seep, it would attract…

  'Cap'n?' A voice called from ab
ove, called as if trying to shout softly. 'There are things on the ledges. Lots of them.'

  Fyn's hand tightened on the Fate. His teeth tingled and he tasted cold air on his tongue, even though his mouth was closed. The air felt sharp, rich with Affinity.

  His mind raced… spring cusp… new seep… Affinity beasts gathering to feast on the power, gathering to mate. Affinity beasts were always dangerous, more so in mating season.

  The sea-hound called the depth, his voice pitched to carry above the wailing of the wind.

  Fyn clutched Bantam's arm. 'Tell him to be quiet. He'll bring them down on us.'

  The captain and Bantam stared at Fyn.

  'The seep's attracted Affinity beasts. We're in the midst of a rookery!' His voice rose, and he brought it under control with an effort. 'Tell everyone to be very quiet.'

  Bantam tapped Jakulos on the shoulder and the two of them darted off, running the length of the vessel, warning the sea-hounds.

  Meanwhile, the cabin boy edged closer, taking Fyn's hand. 'What sort of Affinity beasts, master monk?'

  Master monk? How he wished. He wasn't even a proper monk, just an acolyte.

  'N-Not wyverns?' The boy's voice quavered.

  'I don't know, Runt.' He hoped not. Salt-water wyverns were notoriously aggressive, especially during mating season.

  Quick as a bird, something flashed past Fyn, then darted back to hover before him, where it eyed the glowing Fate on his vest.

  The creature was as tall as little Runt, but it hovered off the deck so that its head was level with Fyn's. Wings moving too fast to see other than as a blur held it aloft.

  Like a bird it tilted its head this way and that, fascinated by the Fate. Its long, sinuous body was marked by scars, possibly from mating fights. While the body was serpent-like, its head was more like a bird's with a long, razor-sharp beak and a crest of brilliant, iridescent feathers behind its neck.

  This close, the Affinity beast gave off a pale luminescence and smelled like last week's eel pie gone bad.

  Behind it, Fyn saw Bantam and Jakulos return to the rear deck. They hesitated on the top step, both making the sign to ward off dangerous Affinity.

  Fyn licked his lips. Runt whimpered.

  Fyn squeezed his hand, speaking low and soothing. 'It is a jakulos, lad. Almost as pretty as our own Jakulos. It won't hurt you.' No, not at the moment. When they attacked, jakulos launched themselves from the sky, flying fast and true as javelins.

  'It's nothing like our Jaku,' Runt whispered.

  Fyn grinned. 'Perhaps he hadn't seen one when he chose his sea-hound name.' Why the big man had named himself after this Affinity beast Fyn couldn't guess. It was elegant, almost dainty as it hovered to inspect them.

  Something moved in the corner of Fyn's vision and he realised another had arrived, and another.

  Behind him, Fyn sensed the captain, turning the wheel. A gap appeared between two tall stones, and they saw open sky, heard the growing boom of the waves on the reefs.

  'We're almost through,' Runt whispered.

  As if this was a signal, the jakulos inspecting Fyn flicked its tail, rose straight up, not at all like a bird, and darted off. Back to its nest, Fyn assumed.

  He felt Runt and the captain breathe a sigh of relief, and a laugh bubbled up inside him. Who would have thought?

  As he glanced over his shoulder to congratulate the captain on getting through the Skirling Stones, Fyn noticed the prow of the closest Utland ship gliding between the last of the stones behind them. A curious jakulos hovered over its carven head, glowing faintly.

  Fyn swore. 'The Utlanders are still coming.' If they got through the reefs, the Wyvern's Whelp would be in the same position as before.

  They needed something to set off the Affinity beasts' territorial instincts.

  His gaze fell on the brazier of hot coals and tar-dipped arrows, readied for the attack. Before he knew it, he'd strung a bow and lit an arrow.

  'What're you doing?' Bantam demanded.

  'Stirring up the Affinity beasts so they'll turn on the Utlanders.' Fyn ran to the bow rail and took aim, hoping to hit the trees on the crown of the nearest Skirling Stone.

  As he let loose, Bantam joined him with another bow.

  Fyn's flaming arrow hit the stone's crown and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then flames danced across the tree canopy, driven by the wind.

  'I'll go one better,' Bantam muttered. And he aimed at the Utlander's ship which was partially visible as it came from behind the pillar. He let his arrow fly. 'A sailor can't ignore fire at sea.'

  His arrow hit the Utlander's sails. Jakulos joined them with a bow. Fyn ran to get another arrow. By the time he'd taken aim, flames were leaping across the Utlanders' deck and the raiders raced about, shouting orders as they sought to save the ship.

  A flashing spear of silver shot down from the Skirling Stone. A man screamed. Then another and another.

  A cacophony of cries followed, quickly drowned out by the crashing waves, now that the Wyvern's Whelp was in the channel between the reefs.

  Its crew's cries cloaked by the sea, the first Utlander ship burned. As Fyn watched a wave caught it, driving the ship against the base of a stone pillar and spinning it around so that it blocked the passage, trapping the second ship. Masts toppled, sending flaming sails onto a deck already seething under the Affinity beasts' attack, dropping sails onto the second as yet undamaged ship. The men stood no chance.

  Fyn swallowed and turned away, not wanting to witness the manner of their deaths.

  Bantam clapped him on the shoulder. 'Quick thinking, little monk.'

  Two shiploads of men, dead. Fyn's stomach heaved. He ran to the side and threw up until his stomach was empty. Tears blurred his vision.

  By the time he lifted his head, the Wyvern's Whelp rode the waves of the open sea. And Runt waited with a mug of watered wine.

  Fyn accepted it gratefully, rinsed his mouth, spat and took a gulp. He turned around to see most of the crew watching, waiting. At Bantam's signal, they cheered.

  Runt smiled up at Fyn.

  And he'd been afraid he would not be accepted.

  Still, if they only knew how he had failed the abbey and his family. He'd failed to realise that the seal on the message, supposedly from his father, was a fraud. By the time he had it was too late and the abbey's fighting monks had left, heading into an ambush. He'd failed to save the abbot, when the abbey was attacked. He'd failed to reach Rolenhold in time to save his family. Little Piro…

  He mustn't think of Piro.

  Feeling a fraud, he shrugged off the sea-hounds' praise, but they broke open a crate of fine Rolencian red wine, stolen from his homeland, and shared it out, insisting he take a drink.

  As Fyn lifted the bottle, he met the captain's eye. Here he was, a captive, forced to rob the Merofynians who had plundered his homeland, forced to drink a toast to the survival of his captors.

  Well aware of the nuances, Nefysto raised his bottle with an ironic grin.

  In defiance, Fyn upended the bottle, gulping its contents. The rich red wine reminded him of evenings in his father's hall. King Rolen calling for stories and songs, his mother's fond smile. Little Piro dancing about, laughing, teasing the storyteller for tales of Queen Pirola the Fierce.

  Argh. He must not think of Piro.

  He upended the bottle again, seeking oblivion.

  Chapter Five

  Byren tensed. The shouting came from his honour guard, who were in the next hollow, teaching the fittest of the loyalists the use of the longsword, and the tone was just a fraction too eager. Normally, Orrade would be with them, but he was out checking the sentries on the approach trails.

  Byren blew his breath out in a snort of resignation. Judging by those shouts, someone was about to be knocked silly for the entertainment of the lads. And it was up to him to sort it out.

  He skirted an outcropping of rock dusted with last night's snowfall, thinking he did not need trouble now.

  After brea
kfast, Orrade had reported on their numbers — the old, the nursing mothers and children, and the able-bodied men. Then, with Dovecote's redoubtable cook, he had inspected their stores, trying to work out how long they could feed everyone before he'd have to make a trip into the rich Rolencian valley to forage for food. How was he going to pay for this? He didn't want to steal food from his own people.

  Normally, the farmers would harvest two crops each summer, but when the Merofynians invaded they'd destroyed the abbey's hothouse-forced seedlings, so the farmers could only hope for one harvest and a lean one at that. Everyone in the valley would have to tighten their belts.

  Unless Byren led a successful attack on Rolenhold, recaptured his father's castle, executed Cobalt and retook Rolencia before autumn, there would be deaths from starvation. He needed access to the castle's granary and the abbey's stores.

  He needed a lot of things.

  Coming around the bend, through the trees, he had a clear view into the hollow below, and paused to take in the tableau.

  'Eh, Florin.' He cursed softly under his breath.

  The tradepost keeper's daughter swung a staff. It was the traditional weapon of the farmers, who could not afford a sword and armour. She faced Winterfall and, from his expression, he meant to show her her place.

  'Now this is why the farmers stay back and let the warriors lead the attack,' Winterfall said, coming in, swinging the sword. He turned the flat for the strike, but even so, Byren knew it would bruise and possibly break a rib.

  A cry sprang to Byren's lips, ready to call a halt to the match, but Old Man Narrows stepped out of the trees and touched him lightly on the arm.

  'Leave her be. If she's bitten off more than she can chew, it's better she discovers it now, rather than on the battlefield.'

  Byren frowned. It seemed a harsh attitude for Florin's father to take, but honest. Female warriors were few and far between. They just didn't have the strength that men had. Queen Pirola had led Rolencia's warriors, but that was different. She'd had to protect her kingdom. Besides, she was safely relegated to history.