Rowena Daniells - The uncrowned King

'Come, little monk. A shot of Merofynian rum is what you need.' Jakulos dragged Fyn upright. Fyn tried to pull away, embarrassed, but Jakulos wouldn't let him go.

'It's what you do when it counts that matters,' he told Fyn.

Fyn blinked to clear his vision, surprised to hear such wisdom from a man he had thought a bluff, brainless oaf.

Jakulos led him over to the steps, where they sat to share a bottle of Merofynian rum while they watched the transfer of stolen treasures. Wiry little Bantam perched on the steps and Jakulos handed him the bottle without comment.

Bantam took a long gulp then wiped his mouth, eyeing Fyn with calculation that verged on suspicion. 'Cap'n's mighty pleased with you, little monk. He tells me you disarmed a man with your bare hands.'

Fyn shrugged. 'Abbey training.'

Bantam held his eyes for a moment, letting Fyn see that he was not so easily won over, and then nodded to the bundles of all shapes and sizes that were being carried across the gangplanks. 'And he's pleased with this plump cargo. The spoils of war from Rolencia will make us sea-hounds rich. Better in our pockets than King Merofyn's, eh?'

'As long as we fill the hold of the Wyvern's Whelp by the cusp of spring,' Jakulos muttered. 'I promised a girl on Ostron Isle I'd be back by then.'

'There's always a girl waiting for Jaku.' Bantam winked at Fyn, who felt an unexpected fellowship.

The weapons master would have said this was a normal reaction to escaping death. But by Halcyon, it felt good to be alive!

Jakulos nudged him. 'Don't hog the rum.'

Fyn passed it over. He would never have thought last midwinter — when he prepared for the race to win Halcyon's Fate — that he would end up a landless kingson, serving a sea-hound captain.

Now, why hadn't he seen this vision in the Fate? Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter had nothing to do with him.

Jakulos passed Bantam the bottle. He took a gulp.

'If the captain's pleased with me, will he take me back to Port Marchand?' Fyn asked.

Bantam shook his head. 'Our orders are to prevent as much of the spoils of war from reaching King Merofyn as possible.'

Fyn hid his surprise. It appeared either Captain Nefysto, or his mysterious benefactor, or both were Rolencia's allies. Even so, as soon as the Wyvern's Whelp returned to Ostron Isle Fyn would jump ship, and take passage back to Rolencia.

The ache of Piro's loss would never fade, but at least he could avenge her death. And to do this, he must help Cobalt find Byren.

Byren strode into the loyalist camp as though he hadn't been near death only five days ago, hale and hearty. Word of their approach had been passed on ahead by scouts and everyone had downed tools and come out of the caves to watch. So many people.

So many old men and women, and small children.

This was not an army. It was a liability. Who was he kidding? He could not go to the spar warlords with these people in tow. It would make him look weak.

And they all depended on him to protect them and win back their homes. His heart sank.

Hiding his despair, Byren grinned and waved, calling to people he knew from his many visits to Dovecote estate. The cook was there, a little slimmer, but just as competent. Byren blew her a kiss, knowing she would like it.

'Da!' Leif took off at a run, going to his father.

Florin laughed and ran over to hug her father, then stood on the other side of him as Byren approached.

'I left Old Man Narrows in charge,' Orrade whispered, 'rather than the survivors of your honour guard. He was more experienced.'

Old Man Narrows was perhaps forty summers, with iron-grey hair, and stood half a head shorter than his daughter. So she didn't get her height from him.

He greeted Byren cheerfully, 'Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, my king.'

Byren flushed and shook his head. When he replied, his voice ground deep in his throat, tight with emotion. 'Don't call me that. Until I send the last Merofynian home with his tail between his legs, and stand in Rolenhold's great hall where my father stood, I won't be worthy of that title.'

A cheer broke from the men behind Old Man Narrows and Byren recognised four of his original honour guard. He acknowledged them with a smile, praying he would prove worthy of their devotion.

'So be it,' Old Man Narrows said. 'What d'you want us to call you?'

'Byren will do.'

Florin's father nodded and turned to Orrade. 'Well done, lad.'

'I'd never have found him without Florin's help.'

Leif made a sound of protest.

'Or gotten back without Leif's help,' Orrade added, with a grin.

Chandler, Winterfall and the other two honour guard claimed Byren. He welcomed them each with a hug while someone handed around tankards of ale. They'd saved the banner Garzik had designed and now they unrolled it.

It gleamed bright against the snow. A rearing leogryf attacking a foenix on a black background. The loyalists cheered. Reminded of Garzik's loss, Byren blinked tears from his eyes.

For now, everyone was happy, buoyed up by his return. But soon they would realise the immensity of what he had to achieve. Without trained men-at-arms it was impossible to convince the spar warlords to honour their oath of fealty to his father.

When Old Man Narrows drew Orrade aside to consult him about something, Byren was reminded that his friend had established the hidden camp, and kept everyone fed and protected from discovery. He always knew Orrade's keen mind would take him far.

To the execution block, if Byren failed and the Merofynians captured them.

Byren felt a fraud, but he managed to grin and trade friendly insults with his loyal honour guard.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Orrade returned to tap his arm. Byren barely restrained the impulse to shrug him off. The honour guard had chosen not to believe Cobalt's slurs about him and Orrade. But if Orrade revealed his true feeling by so much as a look, they would turn against Byren.

Steeling himself, Byren turned to his old friend.

'Old Man Narrows tells me someone arrived yesterday. They've been asking to see you,' Orrade revealed. 'Come on.'

'Can't it wait? I still have to work out how many able-bodied men we have, and how many mouths we need to feed.' Sylion's luck. How would he feed all these children?

'I can count heads for you. But this person is important.' Laugher lit Orrade's dark eyes.

A smile tugged at Byren's lips. He fell into step with Orrade, climbing up, around the track. Who could it be? All his family were dead. All of Orrade's family were dead. 'Who — '

'Come on,' Orrade insisted, not about to give him a chance to speak.

They'd gone several steps when Byren came to a stop. 'It's Garzik, isn't it? He found his way up here…'

But he broke off, seeing the sudden grief in Orrade's thin face. 'Orrie, I'm sorry. I thought for a moment he was safe.'

Orrade shook his head, unable to speak.

Aware that they were unobserved, Byren pulled his friend into his arms. 'I'm sorry, Orrie, truly I am. I'd give anything to bring him back.'

'I know.' Orrade pulled away, and brushed the tears from his face. 'Come.' He swept Byren uphill and into a cave.

Eyes blinded by the change from light to dark, Byren could barely make out the outline of a shrunken old woman.

He blinked. 'Seela?' Surely not. Their old nurse was a plump little thing, with twinkling eyes.

'Byren!' She beamed.

A thin, care-worn version of his old nurse embraced him. Tears stung Byren's eyes. Seeing Seela, who had so often stood beside his mother, admonishing Piro to behave, made him all the more aware of their loss. He hugged her tighter.

'Enough,' she complained. 'You'll crack a rib.' She pulled back to look up at him. Light bounced up from the snow outside, reflecting on the roof of the cave. 'Let me look at you, my beautiful boy.'