Freath pulled out a kerchief and wiped his face, wishing that he could wipe away his fear. For ten anni patience had been all that shared his life. It was a companion that made him feel weak, disloyal, pathetic. He knew it was also his friend. Patience would win through for him, for them, for their cause. Them. He closed his eyes. He had bought them some more time in dissuading Loethar from hunting down Faris. Freath had presumed for many years now that the true king, Leo, had fled to Faris and his men. Now he must get word to Faris and learn at last whether the outlaw had raised a king in these intervening years. A decade of distance. A decade of hate. Would he even recognise Leo Valisar, King of Penraven? Would Leo ever forgive him?
He had to get to Kilt Faris before Loethar’s men did. He had to pray that Faris was not the wounded man.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Kirin approaching. ‘Are you feeling all right, Freath?’
Freath nodded. ‘Yes. A moment of reflection, that’s all.’
Kirin smiled softly and there was so much sympathy in the gesture Freath had to look away. ‘That’s always dangerous,’ his friend said.
‘Very true. Were you looking for me?’
Kirin looked around, checking they were alone, and Freath immediately felt his fear twist up another notch. ‘A pigeon has arrived,’ his friend murmured.
A combination of thrill and puzzlement skipped across Freath’s heart. ‘But it’s been years.’
‘It’s an old pigeon,’ Kirin said.
Freath erupted in an unexpected bellow of laughter at the comment. Few, if any, had ever heard such genuine laughter around the halls of Brighthelm, and Kirin’s expression was delighted.
Freath continued chuckling. ‘Lo, but that was a good feeling.’ ‘I wish I could do that more often,’ his younger friend admitted. ‘It gets better. The bird’s from Clovis.’
Freath closed his eyes, shooting a silent prayer of thanks. They had both long given up hope of hearing from their old friend who had escaped Loethar’s clutches in the madness of the original occupation. Freath had tried through every clandestine method he had available to find him, without success. ‘Where is he?’ he asked, breathless.
Kirin grinned. ‘With Reuth. Medhaven.’
Relief passed through him before another, still more exciting notion struck Freath. He reached for Kirin’s arm, squeezing it. ‘Piven?’ he whispered, daring against all his better judgement to hope.
Kirin’s mouth creased into a wide smile and he nodded just once before he faltered. ‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Someone comes.’
Freath let go of Kirin’s arm, stood back, and within moments one of Valya’s retinue of servants came scurrying up. She was a tribal woman. Freath liked her. She was quiet, diligent and good at her work—a lot like Genrie although she lacked spine against the empress. But that was understandable. Showing any sort of opposition to Valya, however minor it seemed, was met with punitive retaliation. Only Freath managed to rise above her dominion, and that was only because he had the protection of a higher authority.
‘Bridie?’ he enquired as the servant raced up.
‘Master Freath, she is…’ The girl stared at them both, lost for the right words.
‘I know, Bridie. I’m coming now,’ he assured.
The girl looked so relieved that Kirin shook his head. ‘Don’t let her bully you, Bridie,’ he said.
‘No,’ Freath countered. ‘Let her bully you. It will keep her claws out of you. Come on, we’ll go together and tame her, shall we?’ Bridie smiled tentatively and nodded. He looked over at Kirin. ‘Later? Supper, perhaps?’
Kirin nodded. ‘I’ll be in the library if you need me.’
How very normal that sounded, Freath thought. Kirin, a man of learning, was off to the library, while he, an experienced steward, was off to see to his superior’s needs. They had all settled down into a comfortable life, existing relatively easily with the barbarian horde—as though all the pain and despair never really mattered. And yet his heart was hammering and he knew Kirin was experiencing a similar rush of excitement that was a prelude to a new battle. This battle would not be fought in the fields with two armies. No. This one would be fought by subterfuge. Cunning alone had kept Freath and Kirin alive to fight this new day. And cunning would return the rightful king to the Valisar throne.
He strode alongside the scuttling Bridie, his heart suddenly full, his chest feeling broader than it had in the last ten anni, and his mind filled with wonder.
Piven was alive.
King and crown prince had possibly survived. He had never allowed himself to dream this much. But it seemed Lo had granted him his prayers.
If he achieved anything with his miserable double-life, he would see King Leonel crowned and the false ruler who called himself emperor humbled and brought before the Valisar sovereign.
Leo alone would decide Loethar’s fate.
Two men were breaking their fast at an inn in Francham. The Amiable Dragon was a busy watering hole and resting spot almost at the base of the Dragonsback Mountains that separated Penraven from Barronel. It was in Francham that traders in particular, after a long trek through Hell’s Gate—as the pass through the mountains was known—would stop for a day or so. Weary travellers would replenish their stocks, and those who were crossing in the opposite direction would make their final preparations for the trip. The traffic made for a lively town with a varied, transient population, which meant someone who wanted to remain relatively invisible could roam Francham without being noticed. It was an unspoken rule, in fact, that people were entitled to privacy in this town.
The weather was mild. Blossomtide meant Hell’s Gate was well and truly open and thriving. The pair of diners was enjoying the morning sun, sitting at a corner table, facing the main street to the mountains beyond that loomed over Francham. One of the men, who had just finished eating and was washing down his early meal with a pot of steaming dinch, was explaining this to his companion. He leaned back with his mug and sighed his pleasure as he swallowed the mouthful of dinch. ‘…it used to be a great smuggling spot, you see, so the legacy of secrecy has been handed down through generations. I’m surprised I haven’t told you this before.’
His listener grinned. ‘You’ve only brought me here twice.’
The speaker gave a look of genuine surprise at this but the companion didn’t look as if he was fooled, going by his wry expression.
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you ever need to hide, this is the place to begin. The mountains are better but they don’t offer a bed at night or an ale to quench a thirst.’
‘Why are we here again?’
‘I have to see someone.’
A huge man approached the table. ‘It’s true,’ he confirmed.
The first man put down his mug and pointed to the pot. ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze narrowed in thought.
‘What does it mean, Kilt?’ the big man said, sitting down and taking his friend’s mug. ‘I’ll just have yours.’
‘Jewd! Ah—’ Faris said, with a sound of disgust. ‘I’d just got that to the perfect temperature!’
The younger man sitting