the arm-bar firmly fixed, so he used his other hand to reach inside Fyn's jerkin and pull Halcyon's Fate out. The opal flashed, catching the fire's light. 'Just as I thought.'
'Take it and let me go. Please,' Fyn whimpered. First chance he got, he'd knock out the old man down and retrieve the Fate. 'Just let me go.'
'You can't trick me. You forget I have already tested your mettle through this tool!' The Power-worker released the Fate and it swung on the end of its chain. When Fyn said nothing, his captor laughed softly. 'Give me one good reason why I should not kill you.'
'Kill me then and be done with it,' Fyn muttered. 'Everyone I love is dead.' His captor would have to release him to kill him and the moment he did, Fyn knew at least four moves which would disable him.
'Men deal far too freely in death. I prefer to keep my weapons well honed,' the Power-worker muttered and applied his elbow to a pressure point high on Fyn's back, making him duck his head in pain.
Before he could move, the Power-worker's arms slid around his throat, cutting off his air. Fyn retaliated, trying for the first release. He was countered. He tried for the second and failed. Stars swam in his vision. Fyn went for the third, but he was too weak to complete the manoeuvre. As he went under, his chest screaming for air, he thought of Piro.
He'd failed her, failed everyone.
Piro pressed her face to the wardrobe door, trying to peer through the key hole, but there was no one in her line of vision. Frustration made her grind her teeth. She'd heard fighting, then whispering. Now nothing. Had Dunstany been killed? He might look fifty but, according to Soterro, he had to be at least ninety, and she did not see how his frail body could withstand an attacker.
If he was dead she could escape. She had to, or she would become Overlord Palatyne's property. Her stomach revolted at the thought. With a start she discovered she trusted the noble scholar to protect her from Palatyne.
'My lord, are you safe?' she whispered.
She heard a body being dragged. Then Dunstany spoke to her from just the other side of the wardrobe door.
'I am unhurt. Go back to sleep.'
There were more muffled noises, then silence, and Piro sensed the room was empty. She sank to her knees, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Dunstany must have taken his captured assassin to Palatyne to prove himself worthy of the overlord's trust. She pitied the assassin, especially since his fate would be hers if she failed to escape when she killed the overlord.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fyn woke, wondering why he wasn't dead. His head thumped, his ribs and shoulders ached, and he could not move for the ropes that bound him. He could see nothing, but he sensed he was in a confined space. Footsteps moved on the boards above his head. He smelt salt and sea. The sacking where he lay lifted and fell rhythmically. His stomach rolled with nausea.
Fyn swallowed and fought to keep his last meal down. By Halcyon's blessing he was alive, even if he was a prisoner on a ship. For some reason the Power-worker hadn't turned him over to Palatyne. His hands were tied in front of him and he felt for the Fate. Strange, it was still safe around his neck.
Now what double-game was the Power-worker playing?
Determined to free himself, Fyn lifted his hands to his mouth and tried to undo the knot with his teeth. But they were sailor's knots and there was not a thing he could do.
Piro woke as Lord Dunstany opened the wardrobe door. He was dressed for the day in his usual robes and all evidence of the struggle had been cleaned up.
Stiffly, she climbed out and looked around. 'Was the Utlander furious when you upstaged him and delivered the assassin to Overlord Palatyne?' Piro was angry — for some obscure reason, she felt as if he had let her down. 'Are we to watch his execution before we set sail?'
Dunstany went very still, his piercing eyes fixed on her. 'There was no assassin.'
She frowned.
'There was no assassin,' he repeated.
A buzzing filled her head and she almost forgot what she was saying but at the last moment she held onto it. 'Yes, there was. I thought you would deliver him to Palatyne to win his trust.'
Dunstany sighed. 'You might be clever, Seelon.' He emphasised her assumed name, watching her closely. 'But you don't know everything. The assassin was just a foolish boy, a monk from Halcyon Abbey who wanted to avenge the abbey's destruction.'
Piro's heart raced. 'So what did you do with him?'
'I slapped his wrist and sent him somewhere safe, for now. As far as the overlord is concerned nothing happened last night and that's the way we'll keep it. Right?'
Piro nodded.
Satisfied, Dunstany sent her into the bathing chamber to get dressed. Here she found rich new clothes, but they were still the clothes of a Merofynian page. She peered around the door to find the noble scholar slicing fresh bread and pouring hot chocolate for breakfast. 'Why — '
'Why? I've never had such a slave as you. On the ship you'll travel as Seelon, my page. You'll be safe in my cabin from the soldiers. Now get dressed.'
Piro nodded and dressed. It was only as she laced up her ankle boots that she realised Dunstany had unwittingly placed himself in her power. She only had to tell the Utlander about the assassin to see the Power- worker fall from Palatyne's favour. But if she did, he still had her soul encased in amber and the Utlander was sure to recognise the pendant for what it was. No, she was safer as Dunstany's slave than Palatyne or the Utlander's.
When Byren woke the next morning, every bone in his body ached. Across from him, Leif heated a broth over a small smokeless fire in the middle of the cave. Flatbread smelt good as it cooked on the heated stones.
'Where's Florin and Orrie?' Byren had to clear his throat before he could speak.
'She's gone back down to the farm to make sure Nan's all right and hear the news. We need more food. Orrie went with her.' Leif smiled and nudged a large pack with his foot. 'He left his sword in there. Will you teach me to use it?'
Byren sat up and grunted with pain as he leant forwards to drag the pack nearer. Orrade's sword, the one the Old Dove had carried into battle thirty years ago with King Rolen, was safe in its scabbard, which had been wrapped in an old blanket.
Byren drew the sword to see if it needed oiling. His arm muscles trembled with the effort of lifting it. Disgust filled him. He was useless.
Leif crept closer. 'Florin wants me to go stay with Nan but I want to go with you and win back Rolencia!'
'I couldn't ask for a better man at my back,' Byren said with a smile, 'in ten years time.'
'I wish I was ten years older now!' Leif muttered.
'And I wish I was well. If wishes were fishes we'd never go hungry!' Byren sheathed the sword. How was he going to defeat the overlord, when Palatyne held Rolenhold and his army rode across the valley terrorising the farmers?
He needed allies. He needed the support of warlords from the five spars. True, they had sworn fealty to his father only this midwinter just passed, but he couldn't appear before them weak from an injury and alone. They respected strength. It was his father's strength that had kept them in line.
He needed time to heal and gather loyal valley men. Then Overlord Palatyne would regret he had ever set foot in Rolencia.
The second time Fyn woke it was to the deep roll of the open sea and unremitting nausea. The hatch above him was open and he could see the silhouette of a small man against the cold blue light of the winter sky.
'He's moving. Lift him outta there, Jaku,' the man said in the trading dialect of Ostron Isle. A large arm
