Come, my pretty boy.'
His cage had been placed on a low table beside theirs. Piro watched as the Affinity beast daintily took the fruit from Isolt's fingers.
At two years of age his beak could slice flesh. One day he would be as tall as a man and his leg spurs would contain deadly poison. If only he were full-grown now and she could turn him on Palatyne!
Chapter Eleven
Fyn collected the cards and shuffled them expertly. He'd grown adept in the last few days. This evening, he and Bantam were alone. Jakulos had gone down to buy another bottle of wine. It would have been the perfect opportunity to escape, but the sea-hound was on his guard.
'Go on.' Bantam indicated Fyn should deal the cards.
At that moment, they heard the heavy tread of Jakulos's return. The big man entered, plonked two bottles of Rolencian red on the table and dropped into his chair with the air of one who is well pleased.
'Look what I've just bought.' He pulled a drawstring bag out of his vest and undid it to reveal a small piece of fabric so fine it was almost see through.
'A caul,' Bantam whispered. 'Bet you paid the midwife a fortune for that.'
Fyn blinked. It was not fabric at all. Sailors believed those born with a caul, a piece of the birth sack over their face, could not drown. Fyn had not known they also believed the caul itself could prevent drowning. Back in Rolencia it was thought to be a sign that the baby would develop Affinity.
'Worth every silver.' Jakulos folded the caul carefully and slipped it into the bag, tucking it safely inside his vest.
Bantam uncorked one of the bottles. 'Don't supposed she had another one?'
Jakulos shook his head. 'Tell you what, if the boat sinks, hold onto me. I'll keep you afloat.'
The big sailor looked so pleased, Fyn didn't have the heart to point out that he had parted with good silver on the strength of an unknown midwife's word.
'Go on, pour the wine.' Jakulos gestured to Bantam. 'Guess what? Palatyne's been made a Duke.'
'You don't say?' Bantam muttered. 'That jumped up spar warlord?'
A roaring filled Fyn's head. To think, the man who had murdered his family had been rewarded with a dukedom.
Jakulos nodded. 'When I left Merofynia six summers ago, there were rumours about the warlord from Amfina, as he was known in those days.' He grimaced. 'Never thought to see Palatyne made a duke.'
There was a knock at the door as the serving boy delivered their evening meal. And a fine meal it was too. If Fyn hadn't been eaten up with outrage and the need to get home he would have been enjoying himself.
He glanced out the window behind Bantam. The last rays of the setting sun picked out the tip of Mage Tower, making the white stone glow salmon-pink. He'd had time to think over what the sea-hounds' captain had said. Nefysto was right. Byren needed allies, strong allies, and the elector was no use to him.
But a renegade Power-worker like the mage?
Since arriving in Ostron Isle the arguments had gone around and around in Fyn's head until he was dizzy. Having Affinity of his own meant he was open to those who used Affinity for evil purposes. But he had been abbey- trained, and knew the wards to protect himself. He was ideally suited to meeting the mage and at least sounding him out.
But it would depend on what the mage wanted — no one offered an alliance without asking for something in return. Fyn could always refuse and walk away. He'd be no worse off than he was now.
And there it was. He'd decided to go against the teachings of Halcyon Abbey and seek out Mage Tsulamyth. Nefysto had been right, a desperate man couldn't afford to be picky. Besides, forewarned was forearmed.
'Another hand of cards before dinner?' Bantam asked.
'Food,' Jakulos said, the same as he'd done every night.
They laughed.
If there was a way to leave without killing at least one of these two, Fyn had yet to find it.
'Byren?' Orrade met his eyes across the fire circle, his mouth grim.
Rather than leap up and worry the others, Byren said, 'Watch this, Orrie. Go on, Vadik.'
The boy beamed and did the dancing-coin trick, running the coin over the fingers of his left hand, as if he'd been born left-handed.
Orrade laughed and clapped.
'My best student,' the player said. He'd been teaching all the maimed his tricks, to train their minds and coordinate their fingers.
Byren clapped his hand on the lad's shoulder then stood, wandering outside with Orrade. After their talk last night, he had barely seen his friend that day and now it was dark.
When they stood under the stars, out of hearing distance of those in the cave, Orrade turned to face him, voice low and tight. 'Word's come of a large force of Merofynians camped in the burnt-out remains of Waterford. Either the raid gave us away or they've had a tip-off.'
'Bound to happen eventually.'
'You can't wait for Fyn any longer.'
Byren nodded, mind racing. The last of the monks had reached them. Twenty-two of them boys under sixteen. He didn't want to send children into war. Neither did he want to appear before Warlord Feid as a supplicant, but he had no choice. 'With so many elderly and children, we can't travel fast.'
'There's no cloud cover to cloak the starlight. Send them over the Divide tonight with an escort. Keep your best warriors here. Buy time.'
Byren nodded, not happy with sacrificing his best to save non-combatants. But what kind of a leader would he be, if he left the defenceless behind?
'I know,' Orrade began. 'I'll take a dozen, lay a false trail and lure the Merofynians away. Maybe I can take out a few stragglers, make them suspicious of an ambush.' He grinned. 'That should hold them up for a day or two.'
Byren didn't want to put Orrade in danger so he didn't agree to, or refuse, his friend's plan. Instead he played for time, hoping something would come to him. 'Let the camp know. Oh, and Orrie, tell Florin I'm relying on her.'
In no time at all the camp was abuzz with movement. Since most people had carried their belongings on their backs, there was not much to pack. Adults hurried about, efficient and focused, while small children darted round them, excited for now. Soon they would be tired and grumpy.
Byren watched the proceedings. He had to leave the horses behind, turning them loose to fend for themselves. He regretted this, fearing Cobalt's men would recapture the animals and use them against him. There was an alternative, but it went against the grain to order the killing of good animals just to prevent them from falling into the enemy's hands.
Lence and his father might have done it, but not him.
Again the old seer's words came back to Byren. And he'd thought it simple to tell right from wrong.
As the last of Halcyon's monks shouldered their packs and buried the hot coals of their cooking fires, Byren wondered if he had what it took to be a leader in these desperate times. Was he ruthless enough?
Coming around the bend from the cave his honour guard shared, Byren met up with Florin on her way down, her travelling bag slung across her shoulders. There was a smudge of soot on one side of her nose. He wondered if he should tell her.
'Nearly ready to go?' he asked.
'Aye. You know the way as far as the big boulders.' She pulled several pieces of charcoal from her pocket with blackened fingers. That explained her nose. 'After those stones, I'll mark the trail so you can find it. Be sure to obscure the marks as you pass.'
He nodded. He wanted to take her chin in his hand and clean off her nose. But the very fact that he wanted to, meant he couldn't. 'There's a smudge on your nose.'
