30
To Cipres

Lauryn withdrew as far within herself as she could and cowered there. Pain had passed; now it was just the detestable feel of him against her, over her, that she must endure. And Xantia, laughing manically at her suffering.

She thought of Tor and felt strengthened that she had not capitulated to the monster’s demands, although several times when the fear of him threatened to overwhelm her it had been tempting—to link with her father; link with them all and let happen whatever was to be. But in the next second she had thought—through the pain, through the humiliation and the despair—of all those counting on her to protect their identity, their location.

The horror had begun three nights earlier. Somehow she had found the will to survive. Today, though, the fourth day, when he returned to take her again, she felt that resolve ebb. How many more times would he visit? How much longer could she resist his demands? They were always the same: she was to call her father for help. But then, just a few moments ago, when her resilience was at its lowest and even the notion of his hurting Gidyon seemed almost fair to her in her terror, she had heard the voice.

I will save you from him. Be strong, Lauryn. Just a little longer.

And then the voice had disappeared. It sounded weak but it was there and it was making a promise. She could hear the determination and the fury within it before it disappeared again.

It was the voice of Orlac.

It was then that Lauryn realised the man who was hurting her was not the same one who had wooed her so carefully. This Orlac was different, both in voice and posture. Somehow, Orlac’s body had been overpowered and possessed by an impostor.

Her senses heightened by terror, Lauryn found her mind was open to Orlac’s. Perhaps he had been reaching for her since the terror began. Now he promised to rescue her. Curiously, it was relief she felt. Relief that this horrible thing was not, in fact, the Orlac who had spent so many evenings talking about everything and anything with her. They had shared so much in that time and in all those nights he had done no more than kiss her hand. It was as though he had been too shy to touch her. But the monster within him was not.

Lauryn could not be sure her presumption was correct, but she suspected her instincts served her well. And she recalled now that Juno and even Adongo had tried to warn her. Had they seen the impostor perhaps?

She would survive. She would let him do his horrible acts over and over but she would not be cowed by his threats or demands. As long as she did not call her father, he would have to keep her alive. She was as good as dead, Lauryn decided, if she so much as uttered Tor’s name. And so she hid his trace. Buried all pathways to him. He was the One. He must be protected by her. Orlac would save her and with that thought—as the beast who hurt her made his demands again—she sensed something new.

It was Xantia now. Xantia casting out! Could she follow that Link? Lauryn did not know if it was possible but she had to try. From her withdrawn self she focused…felt her Colours; kept them small and private and through her new and special self she sensed and was shocked to see her mother’s tormented face through a ring of flames—could even listen in on her mother’s thoughts. She believed she might scream for she sensed her brother’s and father’s presence and she pulled back instantly, running away from them, desperately hoping the thing which inhabited Orlac would not find her out.

Lauryn’s luck held. Dorgryl was lost to the pleasures of the flesh and in his ecstasy did not sense her casting out through Xantia. Lauryn withdrew herself again as he became still. He shoved her hard backwards. She heard Xantia’s horrible laugh but showed nothing. She scrambled aside, pulling up her knees to her chest; no longer caring to hide her shame in front of these two creatures.

She pretended to swoon. Xantia slapped her hard to see if Lauryn was faking but Lauryn felt it coming—she steeled herself and went limp, allowing the sting of the slap to tingle across her face whilst her expression betrayed nothing but a slackness indicative of sleep.

They spoke in her apparently unconscious presence and she listened, not so much as twitching a muscle.

‘Thank you for giving me my freedom from the archalyt, Dorgryl,’ Xantia cooed.

Lauryn noted the name, cheered inwardly. It was not Orlac. Dorgryl! She hated its ugly sound in her head.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, seeming to turn on his charm. It did not work—the deep voice was still laced with scorn. ‘Use your freedom wisely, Xantia. Do anything stupid with it, like following your own mindless and petty hates, and I will take your life as easy as blinking.’

The words were uttered softly but there was no disguising the threat in his voice. Lauryn could sense Xantia shudder. The Witch was scared of him but she was helplessly attracted to his power.

‘Stay with me, Dorgryl. Don’t let Orlac come back. I will serve you with a loyalty like no other,’ Xantia begged.

‘He is as much at my mercy as she is,’ he said, looking over at Lauryn.

She held her breath.

‘Do you think she will call her father?’

‘She cannot take much more of this and I have plenty to give.’ He laughed harshly. ‘She will call him. A day or two more, no longer.’

‘Why can’t you just go and finish him yourself? I think we can all guess where he hides.’

‘Because I want him to come to me!’ Dorgryl shouted. There was no warning in his manner or his speech that his anger would ignite with such terrifying speed or burn quite so brightly. ‘I want him begging for the life of his daughter. I know him. He loves others more than the power he owns; more than what he is or who he could be. He worships the woman you hate and the children she birthed. They are his weakness. He will come.’

They left Lauryn finally but not before Xantia had thrown a jug of chilled water over her and promised they would return later. Just before she pulled away, Xantia whispered to her.

‘I gave your mother a little insight into what you get up to in Cipres, you wicked child.’

Lauryn noticed, for the first time, that Xantia no longer wore the disk of blue archalyt on her forehead, though it had probably been removed for days. It did not scare her to realise that this woman was reconnected to her powers. She rolled back to face the Witch and somehow found the courage to give the leering face a look of scorn.

‘That was stupid. Now she can trace you, she’ll destroy you.’

‘Light be praised!’ Cyrus said. ‘He’s still here.’

They were standing at the docks of Caradoon having travelled at speed from Ildagarth. The soldier was impressed with how quickly they had covered such ground. Although the great northern city and this relative backwater were close in terms of the size of the Kingdom of Tallinor, he recalled such a journey would normally take two, possibly three, days. They had made it in the course of a day.

Did you have anything to do with how fleet of foot our horses were?

Rubyn only barely smiled. It was answer enough.

‘How can you know?’ Sarel asked.

Cyrus looked away from Rubyn’s smug expression to the Queen. ‘Because only when the sovereign is aboard can a ship fly that pennant…or so it was in my day,’ he replied.

‘Do we just stride up then and present ourselves?’ It was Hela. ‘Because we look very conspicuous right now and it’s a matter of moments, I’m sure, before soldiers ask us to move on.’

She saw Cyrus’s normally serious expression change to one of amusement. He scratched gently at his closelyshaved beard.

‘I think I’ve just spotted our way into an audience,’ he said softly. ‘Follow me.’

They did as told, trailing his long stride a few steps behind. Hela felt a tingle of pride on his behalf. He’s magnificent, she could not help but privately admit, as she watched the confident—and indeed arrogant—walk of Kyt Cyrus.

The ship was clearly being readied to sail and if Cyrus’s still sharp eyesight served him well, frantic activity was underway which seemed to be under the command of a civilian. Perhaps he was the captain— this was no royal vessel and certainly no warship. The only ships which left from this port were pirate craft…usually slavers.

A look of distaste crossed his face. He had always hoped to do something about Caradoon and yet it had been his idea to leave it alone. He had finally decided that to monitor it closely—have spies even —would be a more subtle way to control it. Lorys had not been keen but he had appreciated the good sense of his Prime who argued it would be best to keep potential troublemakers in sight. Heavy handling would only send them all scurrying to new regions, the Prime had assured, adding that as long as the problem did not spill south—could be kept contained within Caradoon—then it was as good as controlled. Lorys had finally agreed, and so as much as it galled him to leave the town of scoundrels alone, Cyrus had bided his time, infiltrating the pirating community with two or three men who lived amongst the Caradoons for many years, reporting back cautiously but frequently once they knew they had been accepted.

He looked again at the man in charge. He seemed awfully young to command his own ship. Cyrus checked the name—The Raven— and his thoughts moved swiftly, racing back amongst his memories to bring to mind the name of the owner of this ship.

‘Janus Quist,’ he murmured. The others looked at him and he explained. ‘But that’s not Quist. He was distinctive to say the least.’

Rubyn’s much keener eyesight focused on Locklyn Gylbyt, barking orders. ‘He’s about the same age as I am, perhaps younger.’

Sarel squinted into the distance. ‘It’s Locky!’ she suddenly squealed.

Hela admonished her for the loud voice although none of the busy soldiers seemed to take any notice.

It was Hela’s turn to narrow her gaze towards the young man. ‘I think Sarel’s right. His brother—well, brother by marriage —is Quist. The captain was exceptionally generous towards us. He helped us to escape from Cipres when we fled.’

‘Good news. He might be useful,’ Cyrus said. ‘But he’s too far away right now to do us any good,’ he added, nodding towards the three soldiers approaching them.

‘Ho, you people,’ the youngest one said. ‘What do you want down here? This wharf is a protected area until that ship sets sail.’

Cyrus smiled disarmingly. ‘And you are?’

‘A soldier of his majesty’s Shield and not answerable to you, sir,’ he replied. ‘We must ask you to leave.’

‘Is the King on board?’ Cyrus continued, ignoring the young man and turning towards the eldest one in the trio. Cyrus did not recognise him but he hoped the man was old enough to have a long memory.

‘What’s it to you, may we ask?’ the older man said.

The first soldier bristled at being ignored as he was obviously of superior rank and Cyrus could not help but smile as the older man gently raised his hand. It was not the act of a subordinate but it was not confrontational and his younger superior wisely held his tongue.

‘The King will be interested to meet me.’

‘Your name?’ the same man now asked.

‘Cyrus.’

A uncommon name but certainly not rare. The man nodded.

Cyrus could see the younger fellow was about to explode into a tirade of orders, presumably along the lines of asking them to leave, so he cut across him before a sound came out.

‘It’s Kyt Cyrus,’ he said firmly, his piercing look narrowing and hardening as he impaled the eldest soldier with a look once legendary amongst the King’s Guard.

The older man’s attention was equally riveted now. He frowned. ‘Very familiar although forgotten by most. I never knew him, of course, so I am not the one who can verify the face that goes with such a memorable name.’

‘But he can,’ Cyrus said, nodding towards a very senior ranking soldier coming down the gangplank of The Raven.

They looked over. ‘Now look here,’ the young guard said. ‘If you think I am bringing him into this conversation, you are sadly mistaken. He is not disturbed happily by trite requests from strangers.’

‘I am no stranger to him, boy, and there is nothing trite about my coming here.’ Cyrus’s voice had an edge. ‘Fetch him.’

The soldier could take the insult of being ignored but being referred to as some sort of snivelling lad was an indignity he would not abide.

‘You and your friends can either leave of your own accord or I shall have you forcibly escorted from this wharf. Make a decision.’

Hela had to smile to herself. Cyrus was so calm. He seemed to pour more scorn with his eyes than any words could. She saw that he simply looked beyond the officer giving orders and addressed the elder subordinate.

‘Fetch Herek.’ It was no polite request.

The older man nodded and stepped away.

‘You will do no such thing,’ the officer commanded. ‘I am in charge here,’ he said, realising it was already too late. His superiority had been calmly and brilliantly undermined as the older soldier shrugged and continued to approach Prime Herek.

‘Guards!’ the younger man yelled to some men loading goods onto a cart.

‘Oh be still!’ Cyrus cut in, his voice hard and commanding.

Sarel and Hela had to stop themselves laughing at the poor speechless soldier. Rubyn looked away, knowing how humiliating this would be for a young man in front of women and himself.

The guards ran up but the officer could already see it was useless. Herek was looking over—he was squinting towards their group and then beckoned.

‘Thank you,’ Cyrus said to the officer. His words were polite. The tone was not.

The others silently followed Cyrus as he walked towards where the Prime of Tallinor stood and watched them approach. He had his captains nearby. They also stopped their activity as the group arrived. The Prime of Tallinor stared. It was as though all the frenzied activity of the wharf was muted as he stood there in obvious shock; his ruddy complexion paling to waxy.

‘Herek,’ Cyrus spoke very softly and they could hear the catch in his voice too. ‘It’s good to see you, man.’

The Prime’s mouth opened and closed. He shook his head.

Cyrus saluted before clasping his friend’s hand and then briefly hugging him. Herek, the shorter of the two, returned the Tallinese handshake, clearly moved. Everyone around them had stopped their tasks now and watched in surprise their normally dour Prime displaying such an outpouring of emotion. Both men began to laugh and baffled smiles began to appear all about them.

They finally stood back from each other. ‘What? Where? Why?’ Herek said and grinned. It was the old trio of questions Cyrus used to impress upon his captains over and again. Facts! he would argue. Give me the facts. Then we’ll talk about the solution.

Cyrus acknowledged the old line. ‘Indeed, Herek. You are owed much explanation but our time is very short. We come on urgent business for the King.’

‘He is on urgent business too,’ Herek said with a sigh. ‘I am imagining that your urgent business and his urgent business are one and the same.’

Cyrus nodded more sombrely now. ‘You would be right. Herek, this,’ he said reaching for Sarel and gently pulling her forwards, ‘is none other than Her Majesty, Queen Sarel of Cipres.’

Loud murmuring broke out and soldiers took off their helmets. Herek looked astonished, his eyes flicking between Sarel and Cyrus. His former prime nodded and Herek went down on one knee. ‘Your majesty.’

She stole a quick glance towards Hela whose eyes told her to go ahead. She was Queen. She must now act like one. Sarel bent to take Herek’s hand. ‘Please,’ she said, encouraging him to stand. ‘You and your men,’ she smiled, looking about him, ‘are most gracious. We come with news for King Gyl. I beg an audience, sir.’

‘And you will have one,’ Herek assured her.

Sarel turned and introduced Hela. ‘This brave woman helped me to escape the usurper’s clutch. We owe much to her for keeping the royal line of Cipres intact.’

Herek bowed to Hela. She liked him already.

‘And this,’ Cyrus said, putting his hand on Rubyn’s shoulder, ‘is the son of Torkyn Gynt.’ He carefully did not mention Alyssa as all these men, he knew, were loyal to Lorys and now to his son. They had served Queen Alyssa briefly too and all would know her as wife to their former king and now King’s Mother. It would not do to inflame emotions at this delicate stage.

Herek’s response was subtle. He took Rubyn’s hand in his. ‘I think I could have guessed at your parentage. You are most welcome here, Rubyn Gynt.’

‘Sarel!’ They all turned at the sudden outburst as a young man nimbly ran down the gangplank.

The Queen smiled demurely.

‘Locky,’ Hela said.

‘Light! How come you’re here?’ Locky asked the women, his eyes shining.

Sarel nodded. ‘It is good to see you again, Master Gylbyt.’

‘Thank you, your majesty,’ he replied, remembering himself. ‘Er, they call me Captain Gylbyt now,’ he said, casting a glance at her male companions, his eyes resting on the tall young man with fair hair who stood beside her. He nodded towards him. ‘You remind me of someone,’ Locky muttered, not actually saying that the man reminded him of two people very strongly.

‘I am Rubyn Gynt, son of Torkyn Gynt and—’

‘And I am Kyt Cyrus,’ he cut across Rubyn. Best not to talk of your mother in this company, son, he cautioned.

Locky nodded and then smiled at Hela. ‘Hello again,’ he said, real warmth in his voice.

‘Brave Locky,’ she replied. ‘You made it. We all knew you would.’

He grinned.

‘If you are captain of this ship now, may I ask where Quist is?’ Cyrus asked.

‘Dead.’ Locky answered flatly. ‘At the hands of Goth.’

Now both Prime and former prime bristled and glanced at each other.

‘It is in hand, Locky,’ Cyrus reassured him. ‘We have much to tell you all.’

‘Come, then,’ Herek said. ‘The King must hear it first.’

Alyssa shielded her spirit as she felt herself coming closer to Xantia. She had gathered in the trace, pulling herself nearer as she hurtled blindly, relying on her senses. She wondered if Xantia would be waiting; ready to strike at her? Alyssa slowed herself. The sense that she was now upon her target was very strong. She must be wary. And suddenly she could see her, standing in a room—a beautiful room—her eyes riveted on the two people with whom she shared it.

The god, Orlac, was laughing at her child again. She could see Lauryn backed against a window. He was taunting her and her heart broke to see Lauryn pull her very thin satin wrap closer around her petite frame. He would strike again soon—how many times already she wondered? But Alyssa had plans for him too.

Xantia! she called into the woman’s mind. I am here you black-hearted witch. Come face your destroyer.

The Raven had sailed three days and was now barely hours from docking in Cipres. Locky could not understand it. The voyage, in good weather, took about six days, and yet here they were on the third night virtually at their destination. The ship was fast, for sure, but not this fast—he had sailed these waters enough times to know this crossing was impossible in the time they had achieved.

He gave an order which was passed on to the lookout and then his attention came to rest on Rubyn. It then shifted to Sarel whose eyes, he had already noticed, rarely left the newcomer. Rubyn seemed oblivious to her gaze and somehow Locky knew not only did the son of Torkyn Gynt wield a power which had brought them here so soon but he also wielded a different sort of power over a queen. Locky swallowed hard and then took a gulp of the fresh breeze. He had lost her then—not that she was ever his—but somehow he had hoped their paths would cross again. That final glance in the Heartwood had spoken much. He knew he had not imagined it. Sarel had communicated more than just camaraderie brought on by their terrible circumstances. But in his absence, whilst he had galloped away to entreat a king, another man had stepped into focus.

And why not? he asked himself as he swung back to face the sea, banging his fist on the rail. He is everything she would want in a man and empowered to boot. Why would she ever look at a common sailor, a man whose only ambition was to be a soldier?

It was as if Herek could read his melancholy thoughts.

‘Well done, Captain Locky.’

He worshipped the Prime. ‘Thank you, sir, though I fear the swift sailing has been out of my hands.’

Herek leaned over the rail, matching Locky’s stance. ‘You’ve done your bit, lad. You’ve impressed everyone including the King, since your arrival. Whatever other forces are prevailing we’ll take if they help us in our mission.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I understand it not either, boy. We are navigating through strange times and even stranger events. If the likes of Torkyn Gynt are on our side, we are fortunate. He is a good man.’

‘That he is, Prime Herek. No question.’

‘And so his son comes from good stock…mother and father.’

Locky nodded.

‘We must help one another. No room for pettiness.’

‘My heart is not petty, sir.’

‘Ah, so I have been following the wrong thought pathway, son. My apologies. I cannot advise your heart…only your head. She is a queen, Locky.’

‘As was his mother, sir. They are well suited.’

Herek sighed and squeezed Locky’s shoulder. It was probably best to leave the lad alone to lick his wounds. Soon he would receive the news that he was to be trained and appointed as captain to Herek, if he still wanted to join the King’s Guard, although the Prime could not understand why he would give up life on the sea. He was obviously an excellent sailor and already a captain. With a good crew, perhaps ridding The Raven of her pirate mantle, Locklyn Gylbyt could be a rising star as a merchant and sea trader, buying and selling legitimate goods. He would talk to the young man when this was over—perhaps on the voyage back to Tallinor.

Herek looked over to where his King and their guests stood on deck. Gyl and Cyrus—similar characters, though Gyl had some years to put under his belt to achieve Cyrus’s level of poise and experience. Herek felt quite the odd man out, obliged to hand over the reins of command to his former chief. Cyrus had sensed this of course and had moved to quash that inclination very quickly. Cyrus had not returned to claim back his position; he had come back with a far loftier mantle falling on his broad shoulders.

Herek and Gyl had listened in some awe as Cyrus, over these past three days, had related the most incredible tale. Gyl accepted it immediately, which surprised Herek at first—but on reflection he realised that Gyl had learned to accept a great deal of strange and challenging notions since Torkyn Gynt had come back from the dead. And if Gynt could, why not Cyrus? They had learned as much as Cyrus could tell them of his recent past. Gyl had drained a cup of wine at one point and then stood and paced the chamber distractedly. Herek recalled the conversation.

‘And so you were captured by the Heartwood and—’

‘Not captured, sire. Invited to remain.’

Gyl had looked at Cyrus and been met by an equally firm gaze. There was no guile in Cyrus. Herek had long ago related tales to the young Gyl of the legendary Prime. The King had grown up on stories of Kyt Cyrus and felt no little sense of wonder to be in his presence now.

Gyl had nodded, although it was obvious he found this story hard to swallow.

Herek remembered how Cyrus had continued the story; telling them about raising the weakened newborn with the aid of a silver wolf and the god of the Forest. When the boy was strong enough, they were transported.

Cyrus had given the same details as those he had given not so many days ago to Tor and Alyssa, citing how at Orlac’s arrival in Cipres, Rubyn had fainted and then they had been called back by a mysterious messenger, called Yargo.

The King’s eyebrows had lifted at this. The story was getting stranger in its telling. He continued to pace. ‘Go on,’ he had encouraged.

And Cyrus had, bringing them up to date with the meeting with Rubyn’s parents in the Heartwood.

‘As far-fetched as this all sounds, it correlates with Locky’s tale of my mother’s adventures in the Heartwood,’ he had said, ruefully, digging out a pale green disk from his pocket. ‘She sent me this. It is hers alone. I know she is there.’

‘But she is no longer there, sire.’

At this King Gyl had stopped his pacing. ‘Where is she?’ he had demanded.

‘I left her and Gynt making plans to take the butcher, Goth, into the mountains.’

‘Why?’

‘Apparently there is a valley where all the surviving sentients Goth tortured were taken.’

‘Did you know of this?’ Gyl had asked Herek.

And Herek had shaken his head, as baffled as his King at the news.

‘It was at Lorys’s instructions,’ Cyrus then confirmed. ‘He wanted them taken somewhere safe and remote where they could live without fear of further repercussions from the inquisitors. I imagine he assembled a small and reliable team of soldiers, Herek. He would not have told me either…don’t feel bad.’

‘No I don’t. I feel proud that he made such a decision. It never sat comfortably with me that we perpetrated such terrible things in the name of our realm.’

Cyrus had only nodded. He too understood the feeling of helplessness and recalled many conversations he had held with King Lorys to stop the madness and cruelty.

‘So what are you telling me, Cyrus?’ Gyl had asked. ‘My mother is taking Goth for judgement by the people over whom he made judgement for years?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you, sire.’

‘She’ll be the death of me, that woman,’ the King had muttered and yet no one in that chamber missed the tinge of pride in his tone.

‘They asked me to get to Cipres and get their daughter back. I thought it best to meet with you first, sire; prevent any…well, any unnecessary show of strength being visited on our neighbours. Hela can get us into the palace and Rubyn has the…’ he had searched again for the right word, ‘the skills to get us back out with Lauryn.’

Gyl had seen the sense of his reasoning and immediately called for word to be sent, ship to ship, for all his men to turn back. The two ships following had slowed, confused, and finally turned, uneasy about leaving their King to sail into the unknown. But everyone on board the principal ship knew it would take a covert arrival to allow them to somehow snatch Lauryn back. Arriving aggressively with weapons and soldiers would prevent any surprise element or indeed the opportunity to reach her.

And now they found themselves on the deck, not long from mooring at the famous Ciprean docks. Thankfully it was night and all was still.

Herek approached and heard the King say, ‘Do you have a plan?’

Cyrus shook his head. ‘No, sire. But trust me.’

Herek had laughed then. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

And then Cyrus had turned serious. ‘We take as few people as possible ashore.’

The others had nodded.

‘Providing you don’t say “and the King stays here because he is to be protected”…in which case I shall pull rank and throw you off this ship, former prime or not,’ said Gyl.

Cyrus grinned. ‘Hela to get us in. Rubyn is critical. Sarel.’ He saw both men baulk at the Queen’s name. ‘My bet is that the impostor will flee…he will head to Tallinor. She is safe from him for now.’

‘How can you know this?’ Gyl asked.

‘I have explained I am Paladin now. I know what Orlac wants. And once we remove Lauryn, his desire will not be to remain in Cipres. He holds her purely to attract her father. Without the bait, he must hunt him another way.’

‘What does he want?’ Herek questioned.

‘Torkyn Gynt.’ They had both looked amazed at this and Cyrus nodded. ‘Gynt and his family. They all threaten him.’

‘I don’t understand,’ the King admitted.

‘And the history as to why this is, is too long in the telling for now,’ Cyrus offered sagely. ‘Another time and I will tell you a fascinating story.’

He continued.

‘Sarel must come so that we secure her throne and get her crowned Queen. Hela will see to all of this once she can gather the Ciprean Council of Elders, if they are alive,’ he said ruefully. ‘Herek, you’ll need to handpick half a dozen men. We are dealing with a mightily empowered soul here. No weapons will help us. What we need is stealth and cunning and some of the same sentient power to wield of our own. Locky must have The Raven ready to sail.’

They nodded again.

‘Are you sure I cannot persuade you to remain, your majesty?’ he asked Gyl. ‘Your life is worth everything right now to the Tallinese people.’

‘Yes, and the woman who would give me its heir is in that palace. No, Cyrus. I will be at your side to claim back my betrothed.’

This shocked everyone. So far the women and Rubyn had been silent, although listening carefully. When everyone’s exclamations had died down, they saw that Gyl looked embarrassed.

‘Forgive me. No one knows of this yet; I pray you don’t speak of it outside of these ears.’

‘And does your intended bride know yet?’ It was Rubyn, posing his question with a deadpan face.

Gyl bristled but held his famous temper in check. ‘I understand she is your sister, Rubyn—’

‘Sire, I do not even know her. Feel no embarrassment on my behalf.’

‘I don’t, be sure of it. I just thought it polite to tell you that I am very much in love with Lauryn and I think I am right in saying she feels the same way about me. We just did not have a chance to make such a thing public before her capture.’

This is not helping, Cyrus cautioned.

He’s just awfully cocksure of himself isn’t he?

I hope so, damn it! He’s the King of Tallinor and just a year or so older than you, lad. You have no idea what this young man is up against or has faced in recent weeks.

‘My apologies, your majesty. Lauryn is fortunate indeed.’

Gyl sensibly left it alone.

Later as they were mooring—everyone dressed in civilian clothes and Locky making his profuse apologies to the port’s master for arriving at such an hour—Cyrus took his chance to speak with the King privately.

‘Your majesty, I want to say I’m sorry for the lad’s curious manner.’

Gyl eyed Cyrus. He had liked him on first sight, recognising someone of similar ilk to himself and his father. Cyrus had continued to make an impression on the young King throughout the short voyage and he was much relieved for the older soldier’s wise head and counsel.

‘He is a strange sort.’

‘Rubyn has not led a normal life. He is very…disconnected from people. I think he needs to learn a great deal about social etiquette, particularly in the presence of his sovereign.’

Gyl smiled and Cyrus relaxed. He already recognised some of Lorys’s traits in the youngster—from his swaggering walk to his easy manner—he would make a good King with the right people around him.

‘No offence taken. I can’t say this to anyone around me, of course, but I’m learning this royal business as I go. Everyone, except Herek I have to say, seems to think that with the crown came instant wisdom and experience at being a king. I know nothing about this, Cyrus. I am a soldier, like you. I can fight and ride, I can drink and swear with the best of them. And I can lead men. I’m hoping it’s the latter which will get me through. It was thrust upon me—I didn’t ask for it, didn’t even wish for it, though I would be lying if I said I hadn’t entertained the notion that it would be perfect to have Lorys as a father. He and I were such good friends.’ Gyl sounded sad.

Cyrus nodded. ‘He had his failings but he was the best king our realm has ever seen. I don’t know you Gyl, but if you open your heart to the sentients and remember where you’ve come from, I think you’ll make an even better king than your father. Choose your counsel wisely…and keep Herek close. There is no more loyal subject than he.’ Flouting protocol, the soldier tapped the King on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. Then he turned to join the others.

‘Cyrus!’ Gyl called him back. ‘Could I persuade you to be part of my counsel? I need men like you. Men who know battle as much as protocol and who especially know Tallinor inside and out. Will you join me?’

Cyrus smiled gently and kindly. ‘Perhaps we should have this conversation when you have your bride back safely in your arms and I’m not buried on Ciprean soil.’

‘We’re all coming back to this ship, Cyrus. Alive!’ the King said, fiercely.

‘I pray you are right, sire.’