the mage he was from Halcyon Abbey. But how was he going to convince him he was Fyn Rolen Kingson?
As the gate-keeper trotted ahead of Fyn, leading him out into the sunlight, Fyn's step faltered. What if he did convince Tsulamyth of his identity, and the mage betrayed him to the Merofynians?
Too late to back out now. He would just have to keep his wits about him.
In the centre of the courtyard was an ancient peppercorn tree. Willow-like, its long, fine branches trailed almost to the paving. The smell of horses came from an open double door and light came through from another courtyard beyond this. Washing, strung from one corner of the courtyard to the other, flapped in the light breeze. A flute's rippling tune flowed from an open window somewhere above. Buildings of between two and four storeys surrounded them but did not crowd the courtyard. Permeating all was the sweet smell of baking bread. It hung on the air, making Fyn's stomach rumble.
A boy of about eleven threw a rag-ball for a puppy, while a smaller lad cheered them on.
The gate-keeper turned to Fyn. 'Wait here. I'll see if one of the mage's agents will meet you.' He went over to the boys and sent the older one off with a message, before going back to his post.
Fyn leant against a mounting block, crossing his legs at the ankles. Here he was, about to walk into the spider's web. The mystics master would be horrified.
Piro nudged Isolt. 'See that man? I think he's one of Palatyne's spies.'
They sat on travelling chests, waiting while the servants set up Isolt's tent. Other servants had already started the cooking fires. Because the kingsdaughter was on a pilgrimage, she could not stay with any of the nobles. She had to walk and sleep on the ground. This was interpreted to mean servants carried her things and set up a tent with carpets and every luxury she could ask for. Piro found the Merofynian interpretation amusing.
Estates and farms they passed along the way had only been too happy to give them fresh bread, eggs and a chicken or two.
'The man who's missing most of his left ear?' Isolt whispered.
Piro nodded. 'I think I remember his ugly face from the ship.'
'Well, it won't do him any good. The abbess allows no men past the abbey's outer courtyard.' Isolt squeezed Piro's hand. 'Only another six days. And once I take the acolyte's vows, we'll be safe. No one, not even Father can touch us.'
Piro smiled, but she was not so sure. Palatyne struck her as a man who would not be thwarted.
Byren surveyed the hasty camp, set in the Foenix Spar foothills. Thanks to the elderly and the mothers with small children it had taken the better part of three days to make it over the pass. Byren had left Catillum and his monks to defend the rear, while forging ahead to catch up with Florin and the others.
First he caught up with Old Man Narrows, who said they'd been sighted as soon as they came down out of the pass, which meant word would have reached the warlord.
Good. He did not want his people having to spend another night in the open. This was not an invasion, so they did not attempt to hide their camp, but he felt vulnerable, with makeshift shelters spread out over the only patch of relatively flat land they could find.
Now he went in search of Florin.
Leaving the path, he climbed across boulders to reach the lookout where she watched for signs of Foenix warriors or messengers. It wasn't because he wanted to stretch out on a rock in the sun with her… well, only partly. No, he wanted to thank her for bringing his people safely over the Divide and share details of how they had tricked the Merofynian advance party. She'd enjoy hearing about that.
Old Man Narrows had said to follow this path and just around the bend he'd find…
'Come on,' a male cajoled.
Byren froze. He'd thought Florin was alone. He knew that voice, Winterfall. Since when did he fancy Florin? And Byren thought he'd made it clear she wasn't to be treated like a camp follower, but one of his warriors.
'Just one kiss.' Impatience drove the voice.
'Get your hands off me,' Florin muttered, annoyed rather than frightened.
Scuffling.
'Come on.' Rough now. 'Why are you playing hard to get?'
Byren didn't like the growing anger in Winterfall's voice. He started forwards. They'd be in sight once he rounded this bend.
'Ah, I see,' Winterfall mocked. 'You're saving yourself for him. He'll never bed you. If he'd wanted a quick tumble, he'd have had you by now.'
Byren hesitated. Florin had her eye on one of his men? Why should he feel betrayed?
'I don't want him,' she protested. 'I don't want any man. I've sworn my service to Sylion.'
Winterfall laughed. 'Don't lie. I've seen the way you look at him, when he's not watching. You're sick with love for — '
'You two up there,' a voice shouted from far below. 'Let your master know Warlord Feid approaches.'
Byren backed off, turned and ran lightly down the slope, then pretended to be making his way up to the lookout.
Winterfall and Florin nearly barrelled into him as he rounded a large, rocky overhang.
'Feid's coming,' Winterfall gasped.
'Good. You lead him up to meet me. I'll go back to the edge of camp. Come on, Florin.'
She fell into step with him as Winterfall veered off. Byren didn't know what to say. He could hardly admit to overhearing.
'Will Feid support you? Can we trust him?' Florin asked. No hesitation, no awareness of him as anything other than her king.
'Apart from the occasional hot-head, the warlords of Foenix Spar have always supported Rolencia's kings. But the people of the spars respect strength, and…' Byren wondered if news of Palatyne's elevation to duke of Merofynia had reached the warlords yet. If one of their Merofynian counterparts could conquer Rolencia and rise so high, why should the warlords honour an oath of fealty?
'And you come to him, laden with more families than warriors,' Florin finished for him.
Byren nodded. They'd reached the camp. 'Find Orrie and your father. I want them at my back when I meet him.'
She hurried off. What was he going to do with her? How was he going to protect her from the likes of Winterfall?
In a short time, Byren had gathered his honour guard and chosen supporters for when he would meet the warlord. The trail opened up briefly. Amongst the rocks and patches of snow grew bright green grass and spring wild flowers. Most were still buds, but a few had bloomed, their scent piercingly sweet on the cold air.
He watched the sloping path.
Winterfall rounded the bend first, followed by Feid and five of the spar warlord's honour guard astride wiry mountain ponies. For all Byren knew, Warlord Feid might have a hundred warriors waiting around the bend to slaughter his people.
Feid came to a stop while Winterfall stepped past Byren and joined the others.
'Wait here,' Byren told his honour guard as he walked forwards alone, displaying a confidence he did not feel.
Warlord Feid and his five warriors waited at the end of the open ground, making Byren come to them. As he approached, he studied their faces, trying to gauge their mood. Only last midwinter he had drunk at the same table as Feid and arm wrestled him, beating him two times out of three.
Then the warlord had laughed and drunk to his health, but now he watched Byren coldly, one hand on his sword hilt. Feid was in the prime of life, perhaps eight years older than Byren, and he had always kept his own counsel when visiting Rolenhold to give his oath of fealty, unlike some of the other warlords who blustered and crowed like roosters squaring off.
'Warlord Feid,' Byren greeted him. 'I see a man who stood before my father last midwinter and swore fealty.'
'I see a man with a couple of hundred hungry, footsore followers. I see a king without a kingdom,' Feid said.
'I see a warlord who is a prisoner on his own spar,' Byren countered. 'I see a warlord who must pay taxes to our ancestral enemy. Is the warlord of Foenix Spar a servant of Merofynia?'
