The Ursuper

Corvel indicated the leogryf-tooth necklace which rested on Byren's chest. 'They call you Byren Leogryfslayer, say you killed the beast with your bare hands.'

'I had a knife,' Byren admitted. 'And the beastie was old.'

'But not toothless?'

'He was when I finished with him.' Byren grinned, determined not to beg Corvel to join him. This old warrior respected strength.

Corvel studied him. 'Now your cousin Cobalt sits on your father's throne, with the backing of Merofynia. Cobalt is not old and toothless.'

'Cobalt is a snake,' Byren said. 'Toothless but dangerous.'

Corvel's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 'You talk well, second son, but can you lead an army?'

Since Byren had asked himself the same question he had no easy answer. 'Only Halcyon's Fate knows. And, since the mystics master does not have the Fate, he can't glimpse the future. As I see it, you have two choices, Corvel. Break your oath to my father, give Cobalt your loyalty and let him tax your spar to line his pockets, or join me and throw him out of Rolencia.'

'Perhaps I have a third choice. Break no oath and resist Cobalt myself.'

'You cannot stand alone. If Cobalt chose, he could chase your people down the length of Manticore Spar, raiding and looting until he drove the last warrior into the sea and took your women and children for slaves. United, we can defeat him. He can't fight on five fronts. If the warlords don't unite behind me, he can pick you off one by one.'

Corvel considered this, then he held out his right hand. 'They say you can be trusted, Leogryf Slayer.'

Relieved, Byren took his hand off his sword hilt and stepped forwards to grasp the warlord's. Without warning Corvel pulled him off balance, sweeping his legs from under him. It was a wrestling move Lence had used on him many times.

Byren reacted without thinking. Even as he went down he scissored his legs, trying to catch Corvel, but the older man's sons saved him, hauling him back and steadying him.

Orrade drew Byren upright. 'Say the word.'

At his signal there would be bloodshed, a pitched battle on the wharf. Byren waited, watching the warlord's face. If Corvel had meant to kill him he could have.

The warlord eased his shoulders, threw back his head and laughed. His laughter echoed up the steep-sided bay, echoed by the cries of the gulls circling overhead.

Corvel opened his arms and Byren stepped in, ready for anything, but this time Corvel clapped him on the shoulders, leaning close.

'Your father belittled me. My men would not have respected me if I hadn't done the same to you.' And he went off into another deep belly-laugh.

Blood roaring in his ears, Byren joined him. It seemed he had passed the old warrior's test.

But now he had to strike soon. No doubt Corvel would have brought food. Even so, Feid would be making up the shortfall, supplying wine and ale. The warlord could not afford to keep this up for long.

Chapter Seventeen

As Fyn stepped off the gangplank onto the deck of the Wyvern's Whelp, Bantam nudged Jakulos, who straightened up. Both men grinned at him.

'Did you have your way with the pretty little maid?' Jakulos asked.

Fyn shrugged. 'She's not my type.'

'What, you fancy the kingsdaughter?' Bantam asked. 'Think she'll lift her skirts for a common sailor, even if he was a monk?'

Fyn's hand shot out, fixing on Bantam's throat, lifting him off his feet. Jakulos grabbed Fyn, his sheer strength breaking his hold.

'A jest, little monk. 'Twas only a jest,' Bantam rasped, massaging his throat and watching him warily.

'Come here, Agent Monk,' Captain Nefysto called, frowning from the cabin door. Fyn hurried over to him. Nefysto closed the door after them. 'Don't threaten my crew, kingson. As far as they are concerned, you're the mage's agent, a monk out for revenge.'

'He insulted the kingsdaughter,' Fyn said.

'He's an ignorant man but he's a good sailor, and loyal. Something a deposed kingson should appreciate.'

Nefysto was right. 'I'm sorry.'

'So you should be. We're risking our lives so you can play Kingdoms and we are not even your men-at-arms.'

Nefysto gestured for Fyn to enter his cabin. As the captain placed a rolled-up map on his desk, Fyn wondered how much Tyro had revealed. Obviously not Piro's true identity.

Nefysto spread out the map, holding it in place with an inkwell and several books. 'The Wyvern's Whelp will avoid the shipping lanes. When we approach land again we will be deep inside Rolencian waters. We'll make our way around the spars to Foenix Spar. Byren Kingsheir has taken refuge with Warlord Feid.'

'Good.' The sooner he reached Byren, with the offer of support from the Elector of Ostron Isle, the better were his brother's chances of winning over the other four warlords. 'How long?'

'Nine, ten days.'

'So long?' The warlords might turn on Byren and hand him over to Cobalt.

Nefysto placed a hand on Fyn's shoulder. 'The Wyvern's Whelp is the fastest ship of her size on the seas. No one could get you there sooner!'

Piro crept into the war table chamber to look at her piece. They had been on Mage Isle five days and the little carving still had no face. Did that mean she was going to die?

She wished she'd never seen the war table. Going to the balcony, she stepped out and looked across at the steep slope of the encircling island, Ostron Ring. It was covered in terraced gardens and villas. A strange bird cried above her and she turned to look up at the tower. From the top floor she saw someone release an Ostronite messenger bird. The Pica's black wings and white vest flashed as it arrowed out in search of its mate. The female could find her way anywhere in the world to her mate. And, if either died, the other sang a song of love and lay down beside them, refusing to eat. Since only Agent Tyro went to the top of the tower, he had to have released the bird.

Piro took to her heels, waiting in the shadows for Tyro to come down the stairs. They'd hardly seen him since the initial meeting. She suspected he was avoiding them.

Hearing his footsteps, she moved to confront the agent. 'Was there news from Fyn?'

He shook his head.

'News for Fyn?'

'Not this time. The mage has his fingers in many pies, Piro.'

She bristled. Every time he said her name, he made it sound like he was laughing at her.

Tyro kept walking, so she followed. They came out into a courtyard where Isolt sat feeding the foenix.

Tyro bowed. 'Mage Tsulamyth invites Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter to attend the elector's feast with him.'

Piro and Isolt exchanged looks.

'But you said Isolt was safe as long as she stayed on Mage Isle,' Piro countered. 'Why should we risk this?'

'The elector is dying. The other four powerful families are preparing to choose a new elector. The mage will need the new elector's support. Tonight my master needs to show the powerful nobles that he holds the winning piece.' Tyro nodded to Isolt. 'The mage will be by your side and you will be under the protection of the elector himself.'

Isolt released the foenix, which flew over to Piro. She caught him but had to put him down, as he was getting too big to hold. She knelt to stroke his long neck, noting how the brilliant red comb was already coming through on the crown of his head.

'Is Mage Tsulamyth's position so precarious?' Isolt asked.

'We are approaching nexus points in every kingdom.' Tyro turned to Piro. 'The mage asks that you tell him if you have any Affinity visions.'

She nodded.

'Then he knows who Piro is?' Isolt asked.

Tyro barely hesitated. 'Of course.'

He lied. Why? Piro wondered.

'I don't like appearing before Ostronite nobles like a Kingdoms piece,' Isolt said. 'But then I've had to do a lot of things I haven't liked.'