Merofynian let his sword drop and raised his hands with little hope.
In the sudden silence the very air of the cavern seemed to throb.
Byren strode around to the crevice to where the mystics master hid. 'Drop the illusion, Catillum.'
Grey-faced, the mystics master stumbled from his hiding place and leant against the wall, lifting his good hand to his face, fingers trembling.
When Byren glanced behind him, the black maw of the hole was revealed.
The surviving Merofynian cursed under his breath.
Byren turned back to Catillum. 'Holding the illusion weakened you?'
He nodded. 'People see what they expect to see. In this case a flat floor. But yes, it weakened me. My presence has awakened the seep and I had to fight the urge to draw on it. Untamed Affinity leads to evil.'
Byren no longer believed this, but he was not about to argue the point.
A shout made him spin. The Merofynian had tried to plunge through the others in a bid to escape. The scuffle ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
Orrade knelt next to the collapsed man. 'Dead, I'm afraid. Broken neck.'
Byren swore. They had been going to leave the man with a false memory of foenixes driving his companions into the pit, but that would not work now. Byren would have to improvise.
'Bring him here.' He indicated a spot under the tallest foenix painting.
Byren took one of the foenix spurs and slashed it across the dead man's throat, leaving it hooked in his flesh.
He stood back as blood flowed across the man's chest. With no heartbeat to pump the blood, it soon stopped. Byren wiped his hands, fastidiously. 'Best I can do. Foenixes can grow a new spur if one snaps off in combat. Unless they look closely it will appear that he was killed by the kick of a foenix.' Byren removed the burning brand from under the foenix paintings. 'Right. Everyone out!'
Two monks hurried around the pit to help Catillum, while the others filed out. All but for Orrade, who stayed back to help Byren complete their illusion.
Knowing the distinctive sign of a foenix's tracks, Byren had no trouble making a few fake prints on the floor. Then he partially scuffed the tracks as if there had been a struggle.
That done, he and Orrade prepared to leave, but hesitated over the deep pit. Far below, a pinpoint, the remains of the Merofynians' makeshift torch, glowed.
'Hope they're all dead,' Orrade said softly, voicing Byren's thoughts.
'Come on.'
In the entrance to the caves they removed all signs of their men leaving, while making sure the signs left by the Merofynians' entrance remained. A boot mark on the soft earth here, a scuff mark there.
When Cobalt's main body of soldiers found this cavern and followed the trail into the far chamber they would find one dead man, no sign of the other bodies and the prints of the foenixes. Since they knew of no pass in this valley, they would turn around and leave, carrying tales of phantom Affinity beasts coming to defend the royal house of Rolencia.
At least, this was what Byren hoped to achieve. It was the best he could do.
He checked the stars. Barely an hour had passed since they had first spotted the Merofynians. If they hurried they could catch up with the tail of the army.
The ravines were covered in new trails, caused by the men coming and going from cave to cave. If Byren's group covered their tracks well, Cobalt's men would never find the beginning of the secret trail. They might even think he had spirited them over the mountains with the Goddess Halcyon's intervention.
Once they got over the Divide and into Foenix Spar, he had a whole new set of problems. Unace would be true to her word, but would Warlord Feid remain loyal to King Rolen's kin? And even if he did, would the three remaining warlords support Byren?
Chapter Twelve
Fyn yawned and scratched his tummy as he sprawled across the window seat. To anyone observing him, he was idly watching the comings and goings on the long road down to Mage Isle. In fact, he was waiting for Jakulos to slip off to the privy at the end of the hall.
The big sea-hound went every morning around this time. Sure enough, he stood, stretched and headed off.
Fyn's heart rate picked up a notch, but he continued to casually swing his bare foot. Bantam sat at the table, practising card tricks. His nimble fingers flew as he made the cards dance. Then he reached for another sticky date bun.
'Hey, leave one for me,' Fyn protested. He stood and came towards the table, passing behind Bantam to reach for a bun.
But his hands went for the man's neck instead. One arm slipped around Bantam's throat, the other applied pressure directly to the artery on the side of his neck and, at the same time, Fyn pulled him backwards off the chair, so that he was unbalanced, his legs scrambling for purchase.
He'd seen the weapons master knock out an acolyte in a matter of heartbeats like this. The youth had woken soon after with a thumping headache, nothing more.
Bantam's fingers went for Fyn's arm, trying to pry him off. This was the mistake of the untrained. The weapons master had shown the acolytes how to break this hold. You had to turn your throat into the crook of the elbow, giving yourself a little more room and time, then go for your captor's fingers, bending them back and breaking them.
Fyn applied even more pressure to the big vein that ran up Bantam's throat. Soon the little sea-hound's struggles slowed.
Fyn held on, counting to twenty. When he was sure Bantam was out cold, he released him, carried him to the bunk, and left him safe.
Quickly, Fyn grabbed his boots, not yet slipping them on. Then he went to the door. No sign of Jakulos, he'd be a while yet.
Pausing, he glanced once more around the room, then darted through the door, closing it softly after him. He headed down the stairs, all seven flights, bare feet flying almost soundlessly.
At ground level he slipped on the boots and walked casually out through the cinnamon-tea room, as though he hadn't been a captive here for the last three days.
Out on the street, he blended with the busy Ostronite people, making his way down the road towards Mage Isle. Just another sailor on shore leave. No one gave him a second glance.
Twenty minutes later, as Fyn crossed the causeway to the island, he noted the solid gate tower. These were the first strong defences he had seen on Ostron Isle. Tsulamyth's miniature island kingdom would not be taken easily.
At the gate, he knocked and waited. A slot opened and someone peered out.
'I wish to speak with the mage,' Fyn said. Would Tsulamyth deign to see him? Back in the room it had seemed so simple.
'And who are you?'
'I can tell only the mage.' Without his royal emblem how could he prove his claim to the throne? Fyn expelled his breath in annoyance. He'd been so intent on getting away from the sea-hounds, he really hadn't thought this through. Maybe he should give up and go barter his way onto a merchant ship headed for Rolencia.
'Why should I let you in?' the gate-keeper asked.
Was he angling for a bribe? Fyn wondered. The abbey hadn't prepared him for this.
Of course…
Wordlessly, he tugged at the Fate's chain, pulling it free. As it swung in front of the gate-keeper's gaze, Fyn focused his Affinity and the opal began to glow.
The slot closed abruptly and, after some clanking, the small postern gate swung open. Fyn tucked the Fate away and entered a dark tunnel that gave out onto a leafy courtyard. With the Fate, he'd have no trouble convincing
