The Usurper

THE USURPER

Book Three of the Chronicles of King Rolen's Kin

Rowena Cory Daniells

First published 2010 by Solaris an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX1 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN (.epub version): 978-1-84997-182-9

ISBN (.mobi version): 978-1-84997-183-6

Copyright © Rowena Cory Daniells 2010

Maps by Rowena Cory Daniells and Luke Preece

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing

Chapter One

Upon the Stormy Sea

Fyn stood in the crow's nest, squinting into the westering sun to watch the merchant ship's mainmast fall. It groaned like a toppling tree, taking rigging and sails with it, leaving him with a savage surge of satisfaction.

As the two vessels drifted apart, he could just make out the merchant captain shaking a fist at the
Wyvern's Whelp
.

But Fyn felt no qualms. The Merofynians' ship had been laden with Rolencian treasures stolen from his homeland. His vision blurred, hot tears of grief stinging his eyes. His mother, father and eldest brother were all dead. Even little Piro...

He must not think of Piro. Must not dwell on how his thirteen-year-old sister would have felt, seeing their father killed under a flag of truce. Had Overlord Palatyne executed their mother in front of Piro, or had she been killed first? He hoped she hadn't watched. He hoped she hadn't wept and pleaded. Somehow, he couldn't see Piro doing that. She'd be angry and defiant to the end. A sob caught in his throat.

Why was he torturing himself?

Because he should have arrived in time to warn them of the invasion! Fury and shame burned within him. Here he was, press-ganged to serve on the
Wyvern's Whelp
, when he should have been back in Rolencia. All his family were dead except for his brother, Byren, and his cousin Cobalt.

Cobalt lay injured in the castle, forced to serve the invaders as their puppet king, while Byren was in hiding with a price on his head. Before Fyn had been press-ganged, he'd promised Cobalt he'd help find Byren so they could unite Rolencia against the Merofynians.

Frustration ate away at Fyn. If only he could reach Byren to let him know he wasn't alone.

A bird cried. He blinked and looked up, seeing a sea hawk circling above. Far beyond it, a scattering of high, lacy clouds glowed, reflecting the sun's rays from below the horizon. An extravagant display of stars had already claimed the eastern sky.

His hand rose to touch the Fate, which he wore hidden beneath his jerkin. This was the first time he'd been alone since finding himself tied up in the ship's hold.

Pulling on the chain, he brought the stone out. It lay heavy with potential in his hand - Halcyon's Fate, a mystic's tool. His heart picked up pace, pounding in his chest.

A sense of inevitability swept over Fyn. He'd known he was going to attempt this, whatever the risk, first chance he had.

Slowly, he sank to sit with his back to the mast, and the Fate cradled in his palms between his raised knees.

The opal flickered to life, awakened by his Affinity and need. The same fiery sliver of light that illuminated the high clouds above lurked in the stone's cloudy depths.

Fyn stared into the opal, seeing eager glints. Somehow, he had to bend its power to his will and locate Byren, but Halcyon Abbey had fallen before he could begin his proper training. All he had to go on was basic acolyte training, the whispers he'd heard and the experiments he'd tried on his own. The mystics master would have said Fyn knew enough to get himself into trouble, but not out.

He grimaced. There was no help for it, he had to use the Fate. If it attracted any enemy renegade Power-workers, he'd pull back and hope he could escape. After all, he was stuck here on the
Wyvern's Whelp
, way out on the Stormy Sea. It was not likely they could send Merofynian warriors to capture him.

But it wasn't his physical body that was at risk.

He could feel the power of the Fate, its Affinity-induced heat almost burning his skin. The one - and only - time his friend Feldspar had used the Fate, he'd bled from the nose and passed out.

Ignoring his trepidation, Fyn focused on Byren, trying to recall his brother's essential self. Last midsummer, they'd all gone fishing on Sapphire Lake. He grinned. Byren had hauled him out when Lence had thrown him off the boat. How Piro had laughed...

He mustn't think about Piro.

Gritting his teeth, Fyn narrowed his focus, recalling how Byren had come to wish him luck in the Proving, when his future with the abbey had been decided. Lence hadn't bothered. What a pity Byren wasn't the first-born twin. He would have made a better king than...

Fyn blinked. With Lence dead, Byren was the king's heir. In fact, with their father dead, Byren was the uncrowned king of Rolencia.

How could King Rolen, his louder-than-life father, be dead? Painful loss laid Fyn bare.

His vision blurred and, when it refocused, he recognised the mystics master, although the background was pale and shimmering, as if sunlight danced on mist.

Relief flooded Fyn. Now he wouldn't have to battle the power of the Fate alone. Master Catillum would tell him what to do.

But before they could communicate, Fyn's sight wavered again and, when it cleared, he saw Byren marching across a field, wearing the fabulous manticore chitin breastplate, a faceless host of warriors behind him. A banner flapped in the breeze, depicting a foenix battling a leogryf, which was odd because that wasn't Rolencia's royal banner.

Was the mystics master trying to convey a message with symbols or was Fyn seeing an Affinity vision of the future? Frustration gripped him. Without the proper training, he didn't know what to make of it.

His sight wavered again. This time he saw Master Catillum battling a wyvern, armed only with a hunting knife. The Affinity beast's claws raked the mystics master, but he didn't back off, didn't try to flee. He kept ducking and weaving, trying to slip under the wyvern's guard. A man with a hunting knife could not hope to defeat a full-grown wyvern. Fyn opened his mouth to warn Catillum, but no amount of straining could unlock his voice. He was paralysed, as in a dream. Urgency drummed through him as, with every strike, the mystics master weakened.

Tears of frustration and horror burned Fyn's eyes, streaming down his cheeks. His vision wavered, but not enough to prevent him seeing Catillum fall to his hands and knees.

Wait... Catillum was missing his left arm, but in the vision he was whole-bodied. What did this mean? Why -

Something struck the side of Fyn's face and he fell sideways, thudding into the rails of the crow's nest, his return to the present so abrupt that nausea threatened.

'That'll teach you to doze!' Bantam snapped. 'There's rocks, wyverns and storms, not to mention Utland raiders eager to rob the
Wyvern's Whelp
. So you keep your eyes peeled and if I catch you sleeping again, you'll be down there getting your back lashed, even if you are the captain's golden boy!'

Fyn apologised, and went to tuck the Fate inside his jerkin.

'What's this pretty bauble?' Bantam reached for it, then pulled back with a curse. 'Heathen Affinity!'

'Never.' Fyn bristled, even as one part of him realised the little quarter-master had to have some Affinity of his own to sense the Fate's power. If Bantam had been Rolencian he would have been sent to serve the abbey or face banishment. To abbey-trained Fyn, Bantam was the heathen. Fyn stiffened. 'This is a holy relic, blessed by the Goddess Halcyon herself.'

The little man snorted, clever eyes fixed on Fyn. 'You might have won Cap'n Nefysto's trust with your abbey martial training, but I'm not so easily convinced. What were you up to, boy?'

Fyn licked his lips. Although the captain had attacked a Merofynian ship, Nefysto was no friend of Rolencia. Fyn dared not reveal his true identity, or that his brother, Byren, had survived the invasion.

Bantam's eyes narrowed.

'I was trying to contact the mystics master, to see if he still lived,' Fyn confessed, hoping the half-lie would do. He knew Master Catillum was alive, since the mystic had already contacted him via the Fate, before warning him not to attempt to use it again.

Fyn held his breath, as the quarter-master studied him.

'Utlanders!' the cry went up from the deck below. 'Ship to port.'

Bantam stood and searched the horizon. Fyn sprang to his feet. A dark silhouette rode the star-silvered sea, making towards them.

Bantam cursed and cuffed Fyn over the ear again. 'That's why I sent you up here. Not to practise heathen Affinity!'

Fyn gulped. They'd left the merchant crew alive, with a disabled ship to limp into port. From the stories he'd heard, Utland raiders would not be so generous. The raiders would slit their throats and toss them overboard. 'Can we outrun them?'

The quarter-master grimaced. 'She has three masts, like us. It'll come down to whose hulls are the cleanest.'

'Clean hulls?'

Bantam snorted. 'Oh, you're a landsman for sure. Barnacles, boy. They slow the ship's passage through the sea. The cap'n was going to put her into dry dock and have her hull scraped next time we made port.'

Fyn frowned. He had been hoping for better news. Night had fallen while he endured his visions. Now he stared across the sea at a threatening, dark silhouette. 'They're getting closer.'

'Aye. Looks like you'll have another chance to use your fancy abbey training, then we'll see if last time was a fluke.'

Fyn didn't bother to answer. He hated violence. It made him sick to his stomach. And violence was the one thing these sea-hounds respected.

Rolencia

'Someone's coming,' Byren hissed, stopping in the knee-deep, starlit snow to listen.

Nothing.

He glanced over his shoulder. Despite her age, Seela had kept up with them since leaving their hidden camp, high in the foothills of the Dividing Mountains. Her anxious eyes fixed on his face.

Behind her, Orrade brought up the rear. At Byren's warning, his friend froze in his tracks. Seela, after her initial wariness, took the chance to bend double and catch her breath. This was exactly why Byren had not been keen to send her out into the valley to recruit loyalists to the Rolencian cause.

Byren touched her shoulder. When she lifted her grey head, he put his finger to his lips.

She nodded and tried to breathe quietly. Byren felt guilty. He shouldn't have agreed to let her go, not that he could stop her. His old nurse had a mind of her own. And she was right, Merofynian warriors wouldn't suspect an old woman of sedition, probably wouldn't even notice her.

Unsure what had prompted him to call a halt, Byren tilted his head, listening. His gaze was drawn up, past the tall, snow-shrouded pines, up to the froth of sparkling stars. He was glad now that they hadn't paused to make camp, deciding rather to reach the loyalist farmhouse by midnight. If there were enemies travelling the foothills, he didn't want them coming upon him while he was unawares.

The silence lengthened.

Byren met Orrade's gaze with an unspoken question.

His friend shook his head. Orrade's recently developed Affinity visions came upon him in his sleep or as waking dreams, but they were invariably accompanied by headaches.

'Not a twinge,' Orrade mouthed.

Seela glanced from him to Byren, coming to her own conclusions. So much for hiding Orrade's Affinity.

The soft snort of a horse reached them, confirming Byren's fears. He turned to Seela. 'Go hide. Orrie and I will scout on ahead.'

Without waiting for her agreement he set off along the path, cursing the snow, which left clear tracks all the way back to their secret camp.

'Probably someone coming to join us,' Orrade muttered, following in Byren's footsteps.

They crested the rise, crawling on their bellies in the snow. Below, coming around the bend, was a boy of no more than thirteen. He walked as if half-asleep, hugging himself.

Six warriors rode behind him. Over their armour they wore Merofynian surcoats, the azure wyvern on a black background. In the starlight the wyverns appeared pale grey, but the warriors were still recognisable as invaders, loyal to the Merofynian king.

The first rider wore an expensive lincis fur cloak and held a chain, driving the boy before him like a dog on a leash.

Fury ripped through Byren. If there was one thing he hated it was a bully. He might be half-Merofynian but he despised their arrogance.

Byren frowned. It was the Power-worker and his little Affinity-slave all over again. Only, this time, there was no Affinty seep exuding power and the man holding the chain was not a renegade Power-worker but an arrogant man-at-arms.

Last time, Byren had used the Power-worker's own tools against him to free the slave, while avoiding a confrontation with the men-at-arms.

This time he was hindered by Seela, who was used to the comforts of castle life, so it would be just him and Orrade against six men. Lence would have welcomed the odds. Byren flinched, reminded once more of the loss of his twin.

No time to mourn.

Time for strategy. He and Orrade had both brought bows, hoping to snag something for the pot. Between them, they could drop a few of the men-at-arms, but there was the boy. Clearly, the Merofynians weren't above using him as a hostage. Byren cursed softly. How could he ensure the boy's safety?

'I know that lad,' Seela muttered.

Surprised, he turned to see her stretched out on the far side of Orrade. 'Seela, I told you to hide!'