The Usurper (34 page)

'Fyn, your part is crucial. After Palatyne marries Isolt, there will be speeches. Lord Dunstany will speak. When he rises, throw off your disguise to reveal yourself as one of Halcyon's monks, eager for revenge. Attack King Merofyn, but don't kill him. Palatyne will be right beside the king. We need to give people the time to see what Palatyne does. He'll make no attempt to defend Merofyn, because I know for a fact that Palatyne means to kill him. Isolt will spring to her father's defence. Take her captive, Fyn. Threaten, but don't hurt her. Byren can save her from you.

'This will give Byren a chance to win the people's love, while revealing Palatyne's true nature.'

Fyn nodded to himself. It seemed like a good plan.

Orrade cleared his throat. 'In my experience, plans never go the way you expect. There are too many factors beyond our control.'

'I know,' Tyro conceded. 'We'll have to adapt as things happen. But we must reveal Palatyne's true nature and give Byren a chance to clear his name.'

'Agreed.' Orrade glanced to Fyn, then back to Tyro. 'What of Fyn? You say his part is crucial. He could be killed.'

'Lord Dunstany will be there. He'll protect Fyn.'

'I don't mind taking a risk for Byren,' Fyn insisted. As long as Isolt was safe. He licked his lips. 'But what of the Utland Power-worker and the mystics from Cyena and Mulcibar Abbeys?'

'They are the factors we have no control over,' Tyro admitted. 'It could get interesting.'

Orrade laughed. 'That's one way of putting it.'

Fyn smiled. He'd missed Orrie.

'Right.' Orrade sat forwards. 'I'll watch Byren's back. Lord Dunstany will watch Fyn's. Who will make sure Piro is safe?'

'As far as Palatyne knows, Piro is a lowly slave girl,' Tyro said. 'If she keeps her head down, she's safe.'

Fyn said nothing. Since when could you rely on Piro's discretion?

It was dusk and Byren's stomach rumbled. It was always rumbling. He was grateful for the food Fyn had slipped him.

From the insults the townsfolk had hurled at him, he knew Isolt married Palatyne tomorrow, legitimising the ambitious murderer's claim to the Merofynian crown. Meanwhile, Byren hung here in a cage, impotent.

It was getting dark. Over the wall, he heard the market hawkers offering the last of their wares at bargain prices. The smell of roast chicken carried to Byren, making his stomach cramp painfully.

'Half a dozen roast potatoes going a begging,' a hawker called, wheeling his barrow into the courtyard.

'Be off with yer,' the guard nearest the entrance told him.

'Have one on me and tell me if they're not the tastiest tatties you ever had? Here, I'll top it off with onion and bacon.'

Several more guards came over, lured by the smell and the offer of free food.

Byren's stomach tied itself in knots.

As the potato hawker opened his barrow doors to prepare the guards' food, a figure slipped out from under the barrow.

Byren recognised Orrade, who darted over, taking advantage of the twilight to shove a couple of hot potatoes into his hands. 'We make our move at the wedding. Be ready.'

Then he was gone, before Byren could ask if there had been news of Florin. He hoped not, no news was good news. He hugged the potatoes, letting them warm him from the outside, before eating them to warm his innards.

His heart raced. Tomorrow, they freed him. He was more than ready.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As Piro woke on the morning of the wedding, a brooding dreamscape faded, leaving her with a sense of menace. If it was a vision, it was hardly useful, since she had woken before she knew the details.

Untangling her legs from the bedclothes, she padded over to the door to Isolt's chamber. Her thigh muscles trembled as if she had been running all night. That triggered a memory of running in her dreams.

Opening the door to the next chamber, she checked on Isolt, who lay fast asleep on the silk sheets. Squares of early morning sunlight came through the balcony doors casting patterns across the floor and the bed. Everything looked safe and normal, but Piro knew otherwise.

She didn't need Tyro to tell her that today was a nexus point and her dream a warning. All day yesterday Isolt had been overrun with officious persons trying to arrange the marriage and coronation. There had been no sign of Lord Dunstany, although Palatyne's guards may have excluded him.

'What's the matter, Piro?' Isolt asked, sitting up, her cheek creased from the pillow.

'For someone who's about to marry a man she hates, you look to have slept well!'

'I'm not going to marry him. And if I do, I'll kill him on our wedding night, before he can touch me. So I'm not worried.'

Piro studied Isolt. Was she delusional or just desperate? Palatyne could easily overpower her.

'What's wrong?' Isolt asked.

'I had a dream,' Piro said.

'A vision?'

Piro nodded.

Isolt patted the bed. 'Come, tell me.'

Piro climbed onto the high bed. Leaning against the headboard, she set about diverting Isolt. 'Before Palatyne took my father's castle, I was troubled by dreams of wyverns prowling the corridors, terrorising servants and hunting me. This became reality when Palatyne's soldiers did just that. But this time...' And she had a dream flash so vivid, her whole body jerked with fright.

'What is it?' Isolt reached for her.

'I had to escape. A grown foenix stepped in front of me.' Piro shuddered. 'It had clever cruel eyes and it hated me. Terror filled me. I couldn't move.'

Isolt rubbed Piro's arms. 'Your skin's gone cold and clammy.'

Piro turned to her. 'Don't you see? If the wyverns represent Palatyne, then the foenix represents a threat from Rolencia. That means one of my brothers is a traitor!'

'No, Piro. I refuse to believe Fyn a traitor. As for -'

'Byren is the best of brothers. He'd never hurt me or Fyn,' Piro insisted. 'The dream makes no sense. If only I could ask Tyro.'

'Well, we'll see him soon enough. The wedding starts at noon.'

'But we'll be surrounded by courtiers, and the Utlander will be watching.' Just then there was a knock at the door.

'What is it?' Piro called.

'Breakfast. Fresh-baked apple tarts and cream, and hot chocolate.'

Piro slid off the bed, getting to her feet. She struggled to smile. 'Come, kingsdaughter, this is your wedding day, and my last day as your maid. I'll run your bath and scent it with starkiss perfume.'

Isolt wrinkled her nose. 'Wasted on Palatyne, I fear.' But she called for the servants to enter and set the table.

Fyn peered into the mirror. After painting his face with the traditional jester's white, he exaggerated his eyes, drawing his eyebrows as big arcs of surprise. Everything was going according to plan, if you ignored the fact that they had only the barest of plans.

'All set?' Tyro asked, entering the chamber.

'Yes.' Fyn turned as Orrade came to his feet. He wore unremarkable clothes, so he could blend in the crowd.

'Where will you be during all this?' Orrade asked Tyro.

'Hidden, watching.'

Orrade nodded. 'How will we see your signal?'

'Fyn will know.' Tyro dropped a large key in Fyn's hand. 'In that costume you'll be able to get close enough to Byren to unlock the cage and slide him this sword.' He drew the weapon from under his robe.

Orrade took the sword, testing its weight. 'You're a good judge. It feels just like Byren's old sword.' He laughed. 'Byren would say a man makes his own future.'

Tyro gave him a grim smile. 'And so he will, with a little help from us.'

Byren tensed as the guards came towards him. They carried buckets of water. Ice-cold, he did not doubt.

'Come to clean you up for the wedding,' his chief tormentor said. 'Can't have you stinking up Duke Palatyne's coronation.'

'Be King Palatyne by sunset,' another said. 'And about time too.'

'Palatyne can't be king while the old king lives,' Byren pointed out, then dredged up his mother's lessons on royal protocol. 'Kingsdaughter Isolt will be regent, and her husband becomes her consort.'

'Oh, he'll be king soon enough,' one guard said, with an exaggerated wink.

Before Byren could comment, they tossed the cold water over him. He shivered and shook himself like a dog as a horse dray was backed under the cage. The cage was lowered onto the dray and the horse walked the streets of Port Mero to the palace's terraced gardens overlooking the Landlocked Sea.

They left his cage on the dray, but released the horses, propping the dray in place. It was parked below the first terrace where the wedding would take place. He could just see through the balustrades of the terrace railings. At least he was in the sun and would soon dry off. Below him the terraces descended to the sea.

While Byren and his guards waited, most of the population of Port Mero and surrounding countryside filtered into the gardens, or sailed their boats across the Landlocked Sea to get a view of the proceedings.

Byren's stomach rumbled. One way or another he would not be hungry after today.

Piro tucked her hair behind her ears, to keep it out of the way while she did Isolt's. Though it was only late spring a summer storm brewed, nature reflecting the gathering of forces at this nexus point, and humid, oppressive heat hung over the city, as the sun neared the zenith.

For the wedding and coronation, Isolt wore an azure gown of Ostronite silk, gathered under the bust with a long train at the back. Her bodice was encrusted with zircons. Zircons also covered her crown, but for now, her hair needed to be done simply so that the crown could sit in place once she was made regent.

Piro gathered Isolt's long hair into a fine silver net and fastened it to a clip at the back of her neck. Sapphires hung from her ears. She looked perfect, but her face was a mask as she stared, hard-eyed, into the mirror.

Piro tried to reassure her. 'Fyn will -'

'I don't want Fyn to risk his life for me.' Isolt squeezed Piro's hand. 'No. I must save myself. I had hoped to kill Palatyne before the wedding but he has not come near me, not even to boast. So I must kill him after. He has to take that ring off sometime and when he does I will take the poison out and save it.'

Piro bit her bottom lip.

'You doubt me?'

Piro shook her head. 'What if Palatyne tries to poison your father on your wedding day? He's so weak it would carry him off quickly and no one would suspect a thing.'

A travesty of a smile illuminated Isolt's face. 'I shall be watching the duke. When he slips the poison into my father's drink, I will distract him while you switch drinks.'

Piro gulped. That just might work. If Palatyne had already tested his drink, he would not test it a second time. So much rested on her.

Isolt twisted from the waist, clutching Piro's arm. 'You must do this for me. Palatyne murdered your parents and brother - we can't let him get away with murdering my father too!'

Piro agreed, but she feared the Utlander's cunning eyes. If he and his twin were powerful enough to kill Mage Tsulamyth, what chance did she have against him?

Isolt stood. 'I am ready.'

Piro squeezed her hand.

Palatyne's guards escorted them down to the terrace, where favoured nobles of Merofynia had already taken their places on the stage overlooking the gardens and the Landlocked Sea.

The Utlander had been busy indeed. Food had been delivered by the wagon load and prepared in the stifling heat of the kitchens, ready for the feast.

A dais had been hastily built for the royal entourage, right up against the balustrade in the centre of the top terrace, so that Isolt and Palatyne could be observed during the ceremony and feast.

The Utlander had made good use of his army of palace servants, Piro thought as they took their place on the dais. Urns as high as her waist were filled with dark red bougainvillea, topped with azure flags that hung limp in the still air. Sprays of flowers tumbled from hanging baskets, their scent almost overpowering.

Piro's diaphanous gown stuck to her shoulders and her hair hung limply, damp tendrils clinging to her neck and back. Nothing stirred in the oppressive heat, even the birds were still.

Clouds obscured the sun, sullen and threatening. But the impending storm hadn't deterred the people, who had turned out in their thousands. A huge crowd had gathered in the gardens along the Landlocked Sea shore. Many more had hired boats or paid for places on the decks of merchant ships.

The noble families of Merofynia, each with their own loyal guards in the coloured cloaks of the house, filled the next terrace, and more were scattered throughout the crowd. To Piro it was obvious no one trusted anyone in Merofynia. Isolt's father had acquired the kingdom through deceit, and this had tainted his rule.

A little shiver crept over Piro's skin and she turned to see the Utland Power-worker watching her. Did he have her ability to sense nexus points? Had he foreseen Isolt's plan?

She must stay calm and give nothing away.

Piro looked down into the gardens. It gave her a pang to see that Byren's cage had been brought around to rest just below the terrace so that he could stare up through the bars at the new regents of Merofynia, and starve as they feasted.

She willed him to look up and see her, but he didn't. His attention was on the crowd.

Fyn edged through the nobles, gentry and wealthy merchants, until he was within a body length of Byren's cage. Dressed as a jester, in black leggings, boots, a multi-coloured tunic, and a tasselled cap on his shaved head, he passed unremarked, if not unnoticed.

Two guards stood in front of Byren's cage, which sat on a dray so that everyone could see the Rolencian pretender's degradation. Fyn caught his older brother's gaze.

Byren's eyes widened slightly as he recognised Fyn, with Orrade behind him. Byren nodded his understanding. They were ready to make their move.

A hushed murmur ran through the crowd as Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter arrived on the terrace and took her position on the dais. Fyn caught a glimpse of Piro, standing one step behind Isolt. The Merofynian kingsdaughter looked beautiful, but distant. He longed to reassure her.

Luckily they'd put Byren's cage right under the terrace. This meant, once Tyro-disguised-as-Dunstany gave his signal, all Fyn had to do was climb onto the cage roof, and onto the terrace.

As yet Fyn saw no sign of Lord Dunstany. He searched the crowd urgently for Bantam or Jakulos. It was noon, so the sea-hounds should be here now.

'I always knew you'd make a fine jester!' Bantam nudged Fyn's ribs. 'Let's see your tricks.'

Relief flooded Fyn. He gave a mock bow. 'At your service, sir.' Dropping his voice, he asked, 'Where's Jaku?'

'Not far,' Bantam whispered. 'Our ship's down there.'

Fyn followed Bantam's gesture and recognised the
Wyvern's Whelp's
masts. 'Good.'

Byren's heart raced as Fyn, dressed as a jester, capered towards him. He teased the guards with his bell and ribbon-tipped staff, then scuttled away when they threatened him.

The crowd cheered him on, always happy to see authority mocked.

Surreptitiously, Byren flexed his shoulders and stretched his legs. Just let him get out of this cage and he would make Palatyne regret the day he had invaded Rolencia.

Fyn darted in, poking Byren with his bell-tipped staff. On impulse Byren grabbed the bells. They came off in his hand. Fyn, the jester, stomped his foot and made a big show of demanding his bells back.

The crowd laughed.

The two guards looked at each other and shrugged. Too bad. They hadn't liked the jester anyway. Fyn scuttled away.

Byren looked down at the bells. Tied amid the little silver baubles was a key. The key to his cage. He hid a smile.

Piro had seen Fyn pass something to Byren, right under the guards' noses. She smiled, admiring his skill. People laughed as the jester wandered off forlornly. He blended into the crowd, where many players kept people entertained until the real performance could begin.

Trumpeters sounded from the turrets at each end of the royal terrace and a hush fell over the crowd. All around her, the cream of Merofynia's nobility jostled for position, pushing Piro towards the back of the dais. Rich matrons and jewelled lords fanned themselves fiercely, their make-up and elaborate costumes wilting in the heat.

Piro climbed onto an urn base to get a view over the nobles' ornate head-dresses. Isolt stood silent and stiff in her zircon-embroidered silk. Palatyne joined her, a hungry, possessive gleam in his eyes. The old king sat in a litter drooling, unaware that the prize he had murdered to gain was about to be taken from him, as an upstart barbarian spar warlord married his only daughter.