The Usurper Read online

  The mage collected harmless butterflies? Well, not entirely harmless, no Affinity beast was. But the abeille was close to harmless. The Ostronites had adopted it as their symbol because they were both beautiful and industrious. An Affinity cousin to the bee, with the double wings of the butterfly, abeilles farmed the cinnamome trees for which Ostron Isle was famous, harvesting the pods and turning them into the fine powder. This cinnamon was prized across the known world for its restorative powers.

  'Done.' Jakulos stepped back with the razor and reached for a hand mirror.

  Nefysto wiped his chin, inspecting the big man's handiwork. 'A close shave. Now I'm fit to be seen by Ostronite society.'

  By mid-afternoon, the Wyvern's Whelp had docked and been unloaded before being moved to a dry dock, with the efficiency of a people dedicated to making money. The crew had dispersed, all but for Bantam and Jakulos, who escorted Fyn up the hill to a cinnamon-tea house where he would be their prisoner.

  It was the most beautiful city Fyn had seen. Because land was limited, the people built up. Seven storeys was not uncommon. It might have felt cramped but for the wide boulevards and palazzos. Every Ostronite took pride in their little piece of the island. Minuscule balconies were strung with washing and housed tubs filled with vegetables and flowers. Even the weather on Ostron Isle seemed kinder. There was a saying, Spring comes early to Ostron Isle.

  He could well believe. If his reckoning was right it was twelve days until spring cusp, but already the air was warm. People crowded the streets. Stalls set up under awnings did a brisk trade. Children chased each other, or herded geese and goats to market.

  The buildings were more open than those in Rolencia. He heard laughter and music coming from behind delicately patterned lattice-shielded windows and verandas. It felt strange until Fyn realised the place had not been built for defence. Since the high peaks of Ostron Ring defended the Ring Sea, and its only entrance was guarded by two towers and a chain that could be drawn up to close off the passage, the people of Ostron Isle considered themselves safe from invasion.

  He could see many terraces on the inner slope of Ostron Ring, already tinged with green growth of spring planting. Why was Sylion's hand so much lighter here than in Rolencia?

  Fyn no longer looked like the acolyte of Halcyon who had fled for his life. His acolyte's plait had been cut and his head was now covered in a crop of fine, dark hair, which obscured his tattoos. He wore a sea-hound's calf-length trews, a knitted vest and a light coat. As a concession to the hard cobbles they all wore boots. Even after so short a time at sea, Fyn found the shoes restrictive.

  They reached a palazzo with a clear view down a long sloping road to the Ring Sea. At the end of the road, Fyn could see a tall tower, which was built on an island in the Ring Sea itself, connected by a narrow causeway to Ostron Isle. The tower was so tall, the royal ingeniator would have been envious. The man had spent his time building canals across Rolencia, but he'd shown Fyn drawings of wondrous things including towers. Did he still live? Fyn had no idea.

  'That's the mage's tower,' Bantam said, noticing his interest.

  Around the high tower's base, four and five-storey buildings clustered. Which meant Mage Tower was taller than Eagle Tower at Rolenhold.

  'How high is it?'

  'Highest in the known world!' Bantam said with a touch of pride. He came to a stop in front of a white stone building, from which came singing and laughter and the scent of rich cinnamon-tea brewing. 'Here we are.'

  Fyn's prison. He looked up. Seven storeys. Knowing his luck, they would be on the top floor.

  They were.

  From the window tucked into the roof of the tavern, Byren studied Waterford's twilight-shrouded square. The village consisted of six houses, a tavern and a building that doubled as Sylion's oratory in winter and Halcyon's chantry in summer, probably to the disgust of the visiting nuns and monks. The place was too small to have permanent abbey representatives.

  And it was too small to attract Cobalt, unless he'd heard rumours that Byren's camp was nearby and was using himself as bait to draw him out.

  So be it.

  Byren had chosen twenty men, mostly experienced warriors, among them Orrade and the honour guard. He'd hidden them around the outskirts of the village, choosing to hide in the tavern's best room himself, in the belief that Cobalt would claim it. When he did, Byren would be waiting.

  'What if he rides in here with fifty men?' Orrade asked, keeping his voice low.

  'Reports said he had thirty. Besides, it won't matter how many men he has if we kill Cobalt and get out quickly over the roof. The villagers will run to the hills on our signal. When the Merofynians discover Cobalt dead in bed, they'll go back to the castle. Without a leader, they'll be vulnerable. I can nip over the pass into the spar, convince Feid to support me and be back before they can get word to Merofynia. We'll attack while they're disorganised. If I can retake the castle, we'll -'

  'You know what they say about plans?' Orrade interrupted. 'They're only good if the enemy follows them.'

  Byren grinned. 'It was mostly your plan.'

  Orrade grinned back. 'It was mostly to convince Florin we knew what we were doing. Convince her to stay behind.'

  Byren rubbed his top lip, hiding a grin.

  Orrade stiffened. 'They're coming.'

  Byren joined Orrade on his side of the window. Waterford's tavern faced the stream from which the town took its name. Dark horses and riders flowed across the shallow ford in pairs, riding up into the town square in front of the tavern. Byren counted sixteen pairs. Cobalt was not in the lead pair, or the second pair. After that the space in front of the tavern became too congested to get a clear view as they arrived.

  The keeper came out with a lantern. There was much shouting as the men dismounted and the horses were led around back to the stable, which would not be large enough to cope.

  Byren searched the milling men for Cobalt's profile. Last time he'd seen him, his cousin had affected the Ostronite style of clothing, with padded shoulders, a nipped-in waist, and his hair loose, curling down his back. Cobalt probably wore Rolencian clothes now - or, more likely, Merofynian.

  The men parted, shoving two youths forwards to confront a tall, dark-haired man, who stood with his back to Byren.

  Since everyone was black-haired Byren could only go by the man's height and bearing. It could be Cobalt. The right sleeve swung loose.

  'Prisoners,' Orrade whispered, disgustedly. 'This is going to get ugly.'

  Byren agreed, as a sick feeling of dread settled in his stomach. 'Boys of no more than sixteen by the look of them.' He frowned. 'The one on the right is familiar.'

  'Probably served you wine or held your horse in Rolenton,' Orrade said.

  As they were shoved to their knees, the tall skinny youth's fur cap fell off, revealing a head with no more than a finger joint's length of dark hair. Unless he'd been shorn because of fever, he was a monk.

  Byren shifted uncomfortably. This could be Fyn's fate if he tried to reach the camp.

  With a gesture, the man who could be Cobalt indicated the second youth's cap was to be removed. His hair was also cropped short. One of the men parted his hair, looking for abbey tattoos.

  'They're monks, alright,' the man reported, his voice carrying easily to Byren.

  'Perhaps they know where the other kingsheir is,' the leader said. 'Bring them inside.' As he turned to walk into the tavern, his features were clearly revealed for the first time. But Byren already knew by his voice that he wasn't Cobalt, just a Merofynian masquerading as his cousin.

  Orrade swore. 'It's a set-up to trap you, and they're going to torture the boys.'

  Byren swallowed. He should leave now, but he could not abandon the youths. 'Besides,' he said. 'It's clear the boys were headed this way to join me. They must know the camp's whereabouts. We have to -'

  'Kill them or rescue them,' Orrade finished for him.

  Byren met his eyes. 'I'm not killing them.'

&n
bsp; 'I know. So how do you propose we rescue them?'

  'A diversion.'

  'The horses?' Orrade's eyes gleamed. 'There's too many for the stable. They'll be in the holding yard. We could turn them loose and set fire to the stable.'

  'The tavern keeper won't be pleased.'

  'When you're king you can build him another stable.' Orrade opened the window. Night had fallen while they spoke and stars silvered the thatch. 'Don't make your move until I come back.'

  Byren nodded, fully intending to slip down the stairs and watch from the shadows. He didn't want the boys killed before he could rescue them.

  Orrade frowned. 'I know you, you'll -'

  'Just go. Time's a wasting. They could be losing fingers while we talk.'

  With Orrade gone, he went to the door. No one had brought the Merofynian leader's travel kit upstairs. They were probably too intent on the prisoners.

  Opening the door a fraction, Byren peered down the short hallway. Only two other rooms gave off it on the other side. When they didn't have customers, the tavern keeper and his family slept up here. Tonight they would sleep under the kitchen table, if they slept at all. Byren hoped they and the other villagers escaped this night unscathed.

  He went to open the door fully, just as the tavern keeper's son came up the stairs with several travel kits slung over his shoulders.

  The boy caught Byren's eye, stiffened, then kept coming. He slipped into the room, divesting himself of the largest travelling kit.

  'Lord Cobalt has two prisoners, both monks,' the boy reported, then shuddered. 'He's ordered the tap-room fire built up.'

  'That's not Cobalt,' Byren said. 'And don't you worry about the monks. When the fighting starts, get out. Hide in the hills. Tell the villagers.'

  He nodded and left. Byren waited for a moment, then headed for the stairs. Voices speaking Merofynian drifted up to him. He silently thanked his mother for making sure he spoke the languages of both Rolencia's trading partners.

  From what Byren could hear, the Merofynians had begun drinking already. Pity they weren't about to drink themselves senseless. No, they'd be too eager to discover what the monks knew.

  He shuffled lower, coming to the last bend, only six steps stretching below him to the tap-room. From up here, he couldn't see much, mainly men's backs. They faced the open fireplace. Presumably the monks were being held in front of it. The men-at-arms' rough, mocking voices told him they enjoyed baiting the two youths.

  How long must he wait for Orrade to organise the others?

  Byren fingered his sword hilt, reminded of how he'd had to leave Elina in Palatyne's bed while Dovecote's defenders prepared to strike. That had sorely tested him, and even though he did not know the monks this was no easier.

  A shout from the rear of the tavern reached Byren, but the Merofynians were too engrossed to notice.

  'Lord Cobalt, Lord Cobalt?' The tavern keeper himself came running in. 'There's a problem with the horses. Something spooked them. They've broken through the fence!'

  Byren could imagine the Merofynian leader's annoyance. The man masquerading as Cobalt sent half the men out to catch the horses. It was clear from his voice that he did not realise this was an attack.

  Now that there were fewer men, Byren could see the Merofynian leader seated on the end of a long table, one boot swinging, as one of his men added fuel to the fire. 'Yes, build it up. Get that poker nice and hot. I want it glowing.'

  The shouts from outside changed tone, becoming more frantic. A man came running into the tap room. 'The stable's on fire.'

  The Merofynian leader shoved himself to his feet. 'The kingsheir has made his move. Come on.'

  All of them raced out, leaving Byren a clear view of the two monks tied to chairs in front of the fire. The moment the Merofynians left, the monks began to struggle against their bonds. They broke off to stare at Byren as he came down the stairs, crossing the tap-room.

  'Byren Kingsheir?' the familiar one gasped. 'Am I glad to see you!'

  Byren grinned and knelt beside him to cut the ropes, then dealt with the other one's bonds.

  Someone charged through the kitchen, throwing the door open.

  Byren spun to his feet, sword drawn. He couldn't believe his eyes. 'Florin?'

  'There you are!' She darted between the tables and scattered chairs, unabashed. 'Quick, out the front door. Orrie has sent them on a mad goose chase, so our people can ambush them in the trees, but some stayed behind to rescue horses from the stables, and the leader took some men and went in search of you. He'll be back when he can't find you.'

  'Right.' Byren turned to the two monks. 'Can you run?'

  'We ran behind the horses since lunch time,' the skinny one with a protruding Adam's apple said. 'But we can run if we have to.'

  Byren headed for the door, throwing it open, only to find Cobalt's imposter there with a half a dozen men at his back. He slammed it shut, but not before one of them got his shoulder into the gap.

  'Out the back,' Byren yelled.

  But before Florin could get the monks out the kitchen door, it opened and several soot-stained men came running in. Seeing the monks free, they charged.

  'To the stairs,' Byren yelled.

  Florin ran, the Merofynians at her heels. Byren followed, slashing at the nearest warrior, who tried to block his way. Then he was running up the dim stairwell, expecting a knife in his back at any moment.

  At the top of the steps Florin ran down the hall, thrusting doors open.

  'The one on the right,' Byren yelled.

  She darted inside, followed by the monks. Byren joined them, slamming the door shut, cutting off the vision of Merofynians tearing down the narrow hall towards them.

  'Help me drag the chest of drawers,' Florin gasped.

  The monks took over and she directed them to shove it against the door. Meanwhile, Byren thrust the window open.

  The yard was empty.

  The chest of drawers jerked as men threw their weight at the door.

  'It's not going to hold,' Florin said.

  Byren beckoned. 'Over here. Quickly.' The monks joined him. 'Out the window, slide down the thatch, jump to the ground.'

  They nodded, the skinny one going first, then the other. The chest of drawers screeched as it was shoved aside.

  Florin glanced back to Byren. 'You go. I'll cover you.'

  But Byren wasn't having that. He swept her off her feet and dropped her out the window, onto the roof. She slid down and off the end with a cry of annoyance.

  The door burst open behind him. Byren swung his leg over the sill and let go. The last thing he saw was five men racing into the room, swords drawn. Then he was sliding down the thatch. He hit the ground with his knees bent. His stomach protested, reminding him it wasn't so long since he'd been wounded.

  Orrade rode up bare-back, leading three horses. The monks clambered onto one, riding double. Florin scrambled atop another horse. Byren reached for the last one, but it danced away, frightened. Someone crashed off the roof behind him, crying in pain as he landed badly. Another followed. By then, Byren was astride the horse and headed across the ford, into the forest.

  From there, it was a mad dash through the night on starlit tracks, as the sounds of pursuit faded. Twenty minutes later, Orrade called a halt and the horses snorted and stamped, shivering with excitement.

  Byren met his friend's eyes with a laugh. 'Your arrival was well timed.'

  'The whole thing was a disaster!' Orrade muttered. 'I don't know where our people are. Hopefully, they ambushed a few Merofynians, then melted into the trees.'

  'We're safe for now,' Byren said. 'Their horses are scattered. But they'll be furious. I hope the villagers got away...'

  He craned his head. They were on the crest of a ridge. Through the tree canopy, he could see the glow of flames. More than just the stable was burning. 'I think the Merofynians have taken their anger out on Waterford itself.'

  Orrade urged his horse closer. 'You're right. Nothing will be
left standing. Which means...'

  'Another thirty hungry mouths to feed, if they get away safe. Mostly women and children.' Byren sighed. 'Can't be helped. The Merofynians will be searching the foothills but they don't know the tracks like the locals do.'

  'Still, this was too close.' Orrade swung his leg over his mount and slid to the ground. 'We don't want the horses. Much better to go on foot. Hide our trail.'

  Byren dismounted and went to offer Florin his help before he could stop himself. It was his mother's courtly training. Not that Florin knew that. She saw it as an insult. With a toss of her head, she leapt lightly to the ground.

  For some reason this annoyed Byren. 'You nearly got yourself killed back there. Since when does a mountain girl know better than her king? What were you doing, disobeying a direct order?'

  Startled by his anger, her eyes widened. Then she tilted her chin and he just knew she was going to back-chat him.

  He wanted to grab her and shake her. 'If I give an order I expect it to be obeyed.'

  For a heartbeat she stared at him, defiance in the line of her mouth. Byren feared she would openly defy him and then what would he do? Her pride was so prickly. He shouldn't have pushed her.

  Before Florin could overstep the line, Byren turned around... to find the two monks kneeling at his feet.

  'Byren Kingsheir,' they chorused, slightly out of time. 'We come to serve -'

  'Yes, yes. No time for that now.' Byren took their arms and hauled them to their feet. 'You're lucky we were there...' He broke off, because he didn't know their names.

  'Feldspar,' the skinny one supplied.

  'Joff,' the other said. 'You were at the Hearing, back at midwinter, when -'

  'Now I remember. Your Affinity came on you late, and the villagers were angry with your father for keeping it hidden.' He hesitated. It had all seemed so cut and dried then. Now he worked alongside Catillum and dreaded discovery. 'Have you heard from Fyn?'