arm and they fell behind.
The mystics master glanced over his shoulder, noticed and sent Byren a look of query. Bearing in mind Feldspar's warning, Byren gave a slight shake of his head. The door closed on the others and Byren wandered over to the window where Orrade joined him. Byren barely noticed the activity in the courtyard three floors below them.
'Unace will send four hundred warriors, mostly untried youths.' Byren rubbed the bridge of his nose. He did not want to send boys to their deaths.
'And no word from Leogryf Spar,' Orrade said.
'Not surprising. He has farther to sail.' Feid's stronghold was on the east coast of Foenix Spar and, on a clear day, they could see the peaks of Unistag Spar. Leogryf Spar was further away, to the west. 'I don't expect to hear from him for a day or two.'
Orrade leant closer to the window, to look down into the courtyard. 'I knew it wouldn't last.' There was a smile in his voice.
Byren followed the direction of his gaze. His people filled the courtyard, sharpening weapons, repairing tack, laughing and talking. Florin moved through, heading for the stables to see her father and brother, no doubt. Byren should have known he couldn't keep her out of harm's way, but still it made his body tense.
'Florin's back in her trews.' Orrade grinned. 'I knew the dress wouldn't last. Mind you, it did look good. I'd no idea she hid a woman's curves under her men's clothing. Maybe I'll ask her to dance tonight.'
'Go right ahead,' Byren said, surprised by the pang it caused him.
But it would be the perfect solution to his problem. With Orrade in Florin's bed, no one would suspect his friend's preference for men, for Byren specifically. The thought of Orrade and Florin together left a bitter taste in Byren's mouth. Since he had no intention of attaching himself to a mountain girl without useful connections, he could not satisfy his itch and besides, Florin deserved more than a tumble in the hay.
With that realisation, Byren wanted to warn Orrade off, unless his intentions were honourable, but his friend was far too perceptive. So he kept his silence.
And he tried not to recall the feel of Florin's waist in his hands as they danced.
Chapter Fourteen
Disguised as a Merofynian merchant ship, flying the azure and black flag, the Wyvern's Whelp lay at anchor in a secluded cove not far from Cyena Abbey. Fyn perched on the window seat of the captain's cabin, fingering his dagger hilt. It felt strange having the captain answer to him.
Nefysto had confirmation that Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter was making her last camp before reaching Cyena Abbey. Fyn had to act tonight, to save this girl from Palatyne.
If only he'd been in time to save Piro. Despite his best efforts not to, he imagined Piro's last terrifying moments and his stomach churned.
At least he could save this young woman whether she wanted it or not.
Perhaps Isolt thought marriage to Palatyne would make her empress of the known world one day.
She should have been married to Byren.
Fyn sat up.
His mind raced as he made the connections. Isolt had been betrothed to Lence, so his death meant she was betrothed to Byren. His brother needed allies to win back Rolencia. If Fyn subdued Isolt and whisked her back to Mage Isle, then took her to Rolencia to find Byren, his brother could marry her.
Surely, if Byren and Isolt were married, King Merofyn would negotiate peace with his own son-in-law? But that didn't take into account Palatyne.
'Ready, Agent Monk?' Nefysto asked.
Fyn heard mockery every time the captain used this new title, but it was affectionate teasing.
'Ready as I'll ever be.' He came to his feet. Tonight he'd abduct Isolt. Tomorrow, he'd worry about Palatyne.
Dressed in a sailor's rough leggings and jerkin, Fyn stepped onto Merofynia's shore. Bantam and Jakulos pulled the row boat up onto the shingled beach under an overhang, where the stars cast a deep shadow.
'Sure you don't want us to come?' Bantam asked.
Fyn shook his head. Alone, he could slip into the camp, knock Isolt out and get away. He hoped. But with two sea-hounds in tow, the chance of discovery grew and the any ensuing altercation would make success less likely.
After a whispered word of luck from Jakulos, Fyn climbed the slope. He found Isolt's servants had already made camp. Oblivious to threat in their own kingdom, her attendants were relaxed as they wandered through gaily coloured tents and chatted around the cooking fires.
When the camp had settled for the night, Fyn crept stealthily towards the largest tent. The smells of Merofynian cooking still lingered on the night air, reminding him of his mother. Reminding him painfully that he'd lost her.
Dagger ready, Fyn hesitated at the rear of the tent. A knot of tension formed in his belly and fear made his mouth go dry. One outcry and he was dead. Fyn swallowed and tightened his hold on the knife. He would slit the canvas and go in, hold the girl's throat until she passed out, throw her over his shoulder and slip out the same way he'd come in.
His plan clear, Fyn lifted his dagger and slit the tent canvas. It sounded horribly loud in the still night air, but there was no outcry as he slipped inside. The interior was illuminated by the red glow of a brazier. Someone slept on a richly draped, low bunk. Creeping across the carpets, Fyn knelt and looked down on Isolt Kingsdaughter, schemer, betrayer.
In his vision he had seen her speaking, in the portrait he had seen her composed, now he saw her sleeping and his heart contracted. Why, she was smaller than Piro and, without her eyebrows, seemed even younger. Her black hair spread across the pillow, fine as silk, framing a face vulnerable in sleep. Her pale skin was so translucent he could see the tracery of veins on her eyelids. She gave a little moan, as if her dreams were troubled.
How could this innocent-looking young woman be the conniving daughter of King Merofyn, partially responsible for the fall of Rolencia and the death of most of Fyn's family?
Without warning, a small woman tackled Fyn and they fell forwards over the sleeping Isolt. She gave a muffled cry as the travelling bunk collapsed. Desperate not to alert the sentries, he struggled to subdue his attacker, while Isolt writhed to free herself from under him and the tangled bedclothes.
Sharp teeth sank into his forearm. Cursing, Fyn came to his feet. Manoeuvring his attacker so that her back was pressed to his chest, he held his dagger to her throat. His forearm stung with the imprint of her teeth. Silky dark hair tickled his nose and he could feel his captive's heart hammering, but he concentrated on Isolt, who stood on the far side of the splintered bunk.
Her frightened eyes darted from his face to the entrance beyond, as she calculated the odds of help coming before he killed them both. 'Don't hurt her,' she pleaded.
The serving girl jerked her head back, striking Fyn's nose. Tears of pain filled his eyes but his hold didn't weaken.
'Little wyvern!' Blinking to clear his vision, he spoke thickly through his throbbing nose. 'One word, kingsdaughter, and I will slit her throat!'
'It is a brave man who kills sleeping women,' Isolt told him haughtily. 'Strange. I thought Palatyne would wait until after we were married and I had given him an heir before having me murdered.'
Fyn gasped. 'If you believe he plans to kill you, then why are you marrying him?'
She glared at him. 'I will not debate marriage with a treacherous assassin!'
Anger flooded Fyn. 'That's right, you are an expert at treachery. You betrothed yourself to Lence Kingsheir, while sending an army to crush Rolencia!'
'I didn't know anything about that betrothal.'
'You sent your portrait on a pendant.'
'A portrait meant for my father.'
