her observations without reservation, as though it never occurred to her that he would not take her seriously.
The firelight sculpted her strong jaw and long nose, but he saw past her unconventional looks to her mind and liked what he found.
In some ways, she reminded him of Piro. Not in looks, for his sister was small and dainty, piquantly pretty. But Piro had always been impatient with court etiquette, much preferring to say what she thought. He only hoped she was keeping low in Merofynia. Surely, a slave could slip into the background and stay safe?
Chapter Four
Piro's feet ached by the time the feast ended and Isolt bid her father and Palatyne good night. The kingsdaughter ignored Piro, who followed her from the hall, up many corridors and stairs until they entered the chambers belonging to the kingsdaughter.
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?'
