Piro looked away, recalling the price her mother had paid for that peace. Rather than reveal her Affinity, Myrella had let her own father sail off to his death.
'So Rolencia is part of Mage Tsulamyth's Duelling Kingdoms game?' Fyn asked.
'It is hardly a game, Fyn Rolen Kingson. When Palatyne unleashed the hounds of war his warriors ravaged your kingdom.' Tyro lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. 'Palatyne is ruled by ambition. While playing Lord Dunstany, I did what I could to lessen Palatyne's evil influence, and I did save the kingsdaughter.' He nodded to Piro. 'Not that she wasn't doing a good job of saving herself.'
Piro flushed. Was Agent Tyro trying to charm her? She had instinctively wanted to trust Lord Dunstany, but he had never existed. Instead, this agent had played on her affection for an old man. At least that explained why Dunstany had entrapped her soul in the amber pendant. It was something Agent Tyro would do, because he did not truly trust anyone. How could he, when he was so good at deceiving people?
No one spoke. A ship passed by on the Ring Sea, the tips of its masts level with the balcony. They heard someone on board singing a song about parted lovers.
'So, do you want Byren to become king of Rolencia, Fyn?' the agent said.
'Of course.'
'What of yourself?'
'I was never raised to be a kingson. I was meant to renounce the world this midsummer when I became a monk.'
Fyn cast Agent Tyro a wary glance. 'Since the mage's spies know so much, they probably know that some of Halcyon's monks survived. My friends are waiting for me to return. When Byren is king we will rebuild Halcyon Abbey.'
'Very well. Captain Nefysto will take you to Rolencia.' Agent Tyro retrieved something from inside his deep sleeve. 'Take this to Byren Kingsheir. It will convince the remaining warlords to support him.'
Fyn eyed the brass message cylinder. From here Piro could see it was embossed with an image of the abeille, the butterfly-winged bee of Ostron Isle.
'What is it?' Fyn asked.
'An offer of alliance from the Elector of Ostron Isle.'
Relief flooded Piro.
But Fyn did not accept the cylinder. 'The elector is failing. He'll be replaced and this will be worthless.'
'A fair point, Fyn, but the warlords don't know that,' Tyro countered. 'While they're fighting for your brother in the belief that Ostron Isle supports him, the mage will be negotiating the support of the new elector.' He offered the message cylinder again.
Fyn accepted it, speaking stiffly. 'I thank you, Agent Tyro. It seems I have misjudged you and your master. I'm sorry. I was not trained for the game of Kingdoms.'
'Sometimes our path chooses us. Perhaps it is not your fate to renounce the world, Fyn Kingson. Here.' Agent Tyro passed Fyn the Kingdoms piece he had been toying with. 'Your piece.'
'But I wasn't playing,' Fyn said, taking it. 'It's warm to touch.' He glanced down at the piece and his eyes widened. 'Why, it looks just like me!'
Piro and Isolt hurried closer to study the Kingdoms piece. It was unmistakably Fyn. Did that mean…
Piro ran to the far end of the war table, locating Ostron Isle. The elector's piece wore his turbaned crown and there was a hooded piece, the mage. Amongst the many others were also two female pieces. 'Come look, Isolt. It's you. Why, it has your high forehead and small nose.'
'Don't touch,' Tyro warned, as he joined them.
Isolt leaned close. 'Why am I holding a sword?'
Agent Tyro gave her a rueful smile. 'The war table is Mage Tsulamyth's invention. According to this you are on the way to becoming a warrior queen.'
'Me? But I hate war!'
Fyn laughed. 'What about you, Piro? What does your piece reveal?'
She blinked, skin suddenly cold. 'Why do I have no face?'
As Tyro glanced to the piece, she read surprise and alarm, quickly hidden.
Isolt slid an arm around her shoulder. 'Don't worry, Piro. It is only a game.'
But they all knew it was much more. Fyn turned to the agent. 'What will happen to my sister and Isolt while I'm gone?'
'They will be safe here on Mage Isle. Even the elector has no power over this island. Wait.' Tyro held up his hand. 'Before you go. You wear a pendant around your neck?'
'Yes.' Fyn tugged on the chain, bringing Halcyon's Fate into view. 'Do you want it? You let me keep it in Port Marchand.'
'I've been hiding King Rolen's kin from the Utlander since Rolenhold fell. That Fate was nearly your undoing, Fyn. It was lucky I was the one who sensed it the first time you used it. I've felt it each time since, and others will feel it too. Don't use it again until I can train you in the art of defence.'
'That's it!' Isolt announced suddenly. They all turned to her. ' Tyro is an old Merofynian word for apprentice. You are Mage Tsulamyth's apprentice. That is why you have such strong Affinity.'
Agent Tyro gave her a mocking bow. 'You have exposed all my secrets, kingsdaughter.'
And still Piro didn't like him.
Byren watched Warlord Corvel as the gangplank was lowered. The sight of Corvel's fabulous manticore chitin armour reminded Byren how he had killed a manticore pride and given the chitin to his father, to be fashioned into armour. There had only been time to make a chestplate before the castle was besieged, and it hadn't helped King Rolen when Palatyne killed him under a flag of truce and confiscated the chestplate for himself.
Byren returned his attention to the warlord of Manticore Spar.
The spar's emblem, the red manticore, glistened on a field of black. Corvel was half a head shorter than Byren but thicker around the chest. The long temple plaits that hung from his helmet were iron-grey and bound with many gold circles, celebrating the enemies he had killed.
Last midwinter, when Corvel should have been swearing allegiance to King Rolen, he had been accused of slipping over the Divide to raid Rolencian villages. The warlord had denied it, claiming anyone could have planted the Manticore standard to implicate his warriors, and had eventually given his allegiance. But it had left Byren wondering about his loyalty.
Now they stood on the wharf in Feid Bay, Byren Kingsheir, his loyal Warlord Feid and Orrade, captain of his honour guard, along with their most trusted men-at-arms. Byren had thought they looked impressive in their armour, cloaks lifting in the breeze, until he got a good look a Corvel's ships.
Each must have held at least a hundred warriors. The sides bristled with oars and the deck could not be seen for shields and helmeted heads. The message was clear. Warlord Corvel would make a good ally or a very bad enemy.
What could Byren say to win this canny old warrior's support?
'Corvel must have sailed as soon as he got my message,' Feid whispered to Byren. 'That's a good sign. But he doesn't look too friendly.'
'He never does,' Orrade muttered. 'It's the eyebrow. Most people have two.'
Byren snorted and swallowed his laughter.
'Corvel gathered his warriors right away and sailed. Either he comes to aid me,' Byren whispered grimly, 'or he comes to wipe me out.'
He felt Feid shift uncomfortably. They were exposed on the wharf with a ceremonial guard. The Foenix warlord had not called his men in from their outlying farms. In the township women and children far outnumbered those who could defend themselves from seasoned warriors.
Corvel's boots thudded on the wharf as he strode towards Byren and his supporters. He came to a stop just beyond arm's length, with four of his seven sons at his back.
'This time we meet in very different circumstances, Byren Kingsheir,' Corvel said. 'This time I am not defending my name against baseless accusations.'
'It's the king's duty to protect his people.' Byren held the warlord's eyes, making no apology. 'Someone ordered the raid on that village.'
'Not me. Yet, I rebuilt it as a sign of good faith. Now, King Rolen's dead and you come crawling to me, needing my support.'