'I don't need your word, Piro, not when I have this. If I break the stone, your essence escapes and, unless you are within touching distance, you'll die.'
Anger rushed through Piro, driving her to her feet. To think, she'd wanted to console him. 'You don't trust me!'
'Should I, kingsdaughter?' His eyes glittered strangely. 'Isn't your loyalty to your brothers, your kingdom and even your friend Isolt, before me?'
She didn't know what to say. He was right. Wasn't he?
'Besides, the things I've seen in the courts of Ostron Isle and Merofynia have not given me reason to trust anyone.'
'Then I pity you, for loyalty coerced is not loyalty at all!' Piro blinked away tears of fury. If she stayed here another moment she would disgrace herself. 'I'm going down to the grotto… that is, if I have your permission?'
Tyro said nothing.
She marched out, leaving him alone in the tower room.
Piro had found Mage Tsulamyth and she wished she hadn't.
Chapter Twenty-One
Byren arrived at Narrowneck to find Orrade had already reinforced the palisade, which was built across the narrowest part of the isthmus that stretched out into the lake. The men, who were building a new gate, paused to give a cheer as he rode past, then went back to work.
In the last few days the ice had melted and the lake was no longer frozen. There was only one place where anyone could approach Narrowneck over water, and this small beach was defensible with steep cliffs. Byren grinned, remembering Florin's challenge to him. She claimed she'd tried to climb those cliffs and failed and if she couldn't, no man could. He had vowed to come back next summer and prove her wrong.
Then the smile disappeared, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He should be happy now that Orrade had claimed Florin. It made sense, since his friend was Lord Dovecote, he had to marry and produce an heir. Maybe a mountain girl was not the kind of wife his father would have chosen but in these troubled times, she was just the kind of wife a man needed. Someone who would stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Riding up the winding path, Byren noted where trees had been felled. Soon, every clearing on Narrowneck would be crowded with camp circles. Give him a day or two to send out scouts and find out where the Merofynians were nesting, then he'd lead his men out to clean up the valley. He intended to make Cobalt so furious, his cousin would leave the safety of Rolenhold to engage him on open ground.
'Byren!' Orrade appeared around the bend, heading down the path from Narrowneck tradepost, with Florin at his side.
Byren swung his leg over the mount, jumping to the ground. He should be happy for them. He couldn't speak, his throat was so tight, but he hugged Orrade, slapping him on the back, then tugged on Florin's braid. She brushed his hand away, grumbling without heat.
By Sylion, he should have been a player.
They fell into step with him, one to each side as he led his horse around the back to the stable.
'I've prepared the chambers for your warlords. And I've checked the larder,' Florin said. 'We had to slaughter the hens and drive the cows to a nearby farm when we fled. They've returned the cows and sent more laying hens. I can feed two dozen men for ten days on what's left in the larder. After that…' She shrugged.
'I've rebuilt the palisade and the new gate will be finished soon,' Orrade said. 'Now that everyone's here, I'll finish the ditch across the narrows and plant it with stakes.'
'You've both done a fine job,' Byren said, handing his mount over to Leif. The boy grinned and led the horse off.
Old Man Narrows welcomed Byren at the tap-room door. A fire burned in the grate, fresh bread and cheese were laid on the long table and he could smell a roast cooking in the kitchen. So different from last time he had been here. Then, they'd huddled in the kitchen and planned how to survive the manticore pride. 'Whatever happened to Leif's dogs?'
Even as he said this, the two wolfhounds bounded out of the kitchen to greet him. Byren laughed as they reared up, putting their paws on his chest. Now this was the kind of greeting a man should come home to. How he envied Orrade.
Behind him, the warlords and their captains poured into the tap-room. As Catillum arrived with several of his monks, Byren lost track of Florin. Men took their seats at the long table and Florin reappeared with Leif and her father. They moved about, serving tankards of ale.
When Fyn passed by Byren grabbed his arm.
'Join me.' He indicated the bench beside him. Orrade made room. 'In a day or two, when my scouts come back, I'll be leading raids. I intend to wipe out all Merofynians not living in the castle and the abbey. While I'm away, I'm putting you in charge of Narrowneck.'
'Me?' Fyn almost squeaked. 'What about Orrie — '
'He'll be with me.'
'Or Feid, or Corvel or — '
'They'll be leading attacks. We'll strike in several places at once, strike fast, before the Merofynians realise what's happening and can gather their forces.' Byren grinned at Fyn's expression, then he sobered. 'You're seventeen now. You're my brother and kingsheir. By appointing you captain of Narrowneck, I make it clear to my followers that I trust you. If anything happens to me, you'll be — '
'No.' Fyn would have pulled back, but Orrade didn't let him. 'I don't want — '
'D'you think I want this? How do you think I feel, turning the valley into a battlefield?'
Fyn blinked. 'The valley first, then the abbey, then Rolenhold?'
Byren nodded and laughed as he ruffled Fyn's newly grown hair. 'You'll do, lad.'
Fyn woke, his heart racing. Even as he sat up his dream faded, leaving him with a sense of being lost in the caverns below the abbey, trying to keep the young boys safe from wyverns.
It was almost dawn.
Byren had made him responsible for Narrowneck. Equal parts pride and trepidation filled him. But Byren was right, he was a man now. He'd turned seventeen without noticing, because the sea-hounds hadn't celebrated spring cusp. Time to take on a man's responsibilities.
He stretched out on his bedroll, listening to the snores of Byren's honour guard. Tonight he'd have the chamber to himself, as Byren headed out today. Each of the warlords had an objective. Strike fast, strike before Cobalt could prepare and anticipate.
His stomach churned. He couldn't sleep.
From today, he would be responsible for protecting Byren's bolt hole and the lives of everyone in it. Might as well start now.
He rolled to his feet, grabbed his boots and crept between the sleeping bodies.
Bantam lifted his head.
Fyn signalled for him not to get up. No point in the sea-hounds also going without sleep.
He padded lightly down the stairs and through the tap-room, where more men slept. On the porch he found the man on duty sleeping, huddled in the doorway. Fyn slipped on his boots, and still the man did not wake.
So he kicked him, just hard enough to hurt.
The warrior woke with a start and sprang to his feet, reaching for his knife.
'You're lucky I'm not a Merofynian, planning to slit your throat and assassinate King Byren,' Fyn told him.
He left the chagrined man trying to gather his wits and wandered down to the lookout over the lake where the winch was built to haul loads up from the small beach. Here the three sentries were awake, at least. They were talking softly, their bodies clearly silhouetted against the stars.
Fyn paused, selected a rock and threw it straight into someone's back. The man gave a grunt of surprise and spun around.
Fyn stepped out from the shadows. 'If I had a bow and arrows, all three of you would be dead before you could raise the alarm. Tomorrow night, I want stuffed decoys on guard where you are and the real guards back in the trees, or stretched out on the cliff edge, where they present no silhouette.'