22
A Fateful Cup

Saxon arrived in Cipres two days after Goth left the capital on one of the supply carts. It had been an extraordinarily long and frustrating journey for the Kloek as he tried to trace the steps of Pirate Quist. At Herek’s insistence, he had travelled to Caradoon with a small group of soldiers. The arrangement was not to Saxon’s liking, but once Herek knew that Goth still lived, naturally the Prime wished to do everything he could to bring the former Chief Inquisitor to justice.

Saxon and the King’s Guard had found the stracca den abandoned. Saxon had expected as much; these people would have heard of the military’s approach—no matter how small the party—long before the soldiers had hit the villages which considered themselves neighbours of Caradoon.

When Saxon had finally rid himself of the company of soldiers, sending them on their way to take news back to Herek, he too had hit on the notion of asking for information at the brothel. Unlike Tor, however, Saxon had been shunned by its owner. He was not even granted an audience. The Caradoons were suspicious by nature and news of a Kloek asking questions of one of their own was bound to provoke jaws to clamp shut. Saxon felt helpless. It had been several weeks now since Cloot’s capture; the first qualms of this being a desperately hopeless chase began to niggle.

His distress must have been written all over his face when his request for a brief meeting with the madam was turned down for the second time for a young and gregarious member of the establishment took pity on him.

‘Why so sad, Kloek?’ she said, a tray of glasses balanced expertly on her well-rounded hip.

Saxon looked at her. Pert and pretty, she was. He was exhausted and it had been such a long time since he had lain with a woman. It was tempting.

‘Cat got your tongue, eh?’ the girl said, putting the tray down. ‘Nobody is allowed to look forlorn here, Kloek. Do you have a name? Mine is Celya.’

‘Saxon,’ he said, before draining his mug. ‘Time to go.’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry that she won’t see you, Saxon.’

‘I don’t understand why. I only want to ask about one of the captains who may pass through here.’

‘Yes, I know. I gather no one has bothered to inform you though that the man you seek is Madame Eryna’s husband.’

Saxon was surprised. ‘I see. Then her reluctance makes sense,’ he said, scratching at his beard and feeling as though he had been kicked in the guts.

‘You could use a bath, a shave and a good night’s rest; all of which is available upstairs.’ She picked up the tray again. ‘Forget Quist. He and his wife own this place. You’ll get no information here. That last fellow, a few weeks back, he got the same answer.’

So, someone else was chasing the pirate. That figured, Saxon thought. ‘Which fellow?’

‘Petersyn or something. A beautiful man. Made all the girls’ hearts race in here. Each of us hoped he would pass the night with us. Tall, dark and those blue eyes. Light! What I’d give to roll between the sheets entwined in those arms.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘He got no answers about Quist, but I’ll tell you this, Saxon. He was on a ship bound for Cipres the next morning. I know because I was delivering something to the docks and saw him aboard The Wasp. Good night, Kloek.’ She winked.

Saxon wanted to kiss her. In her own clever way she had told him where to head next. Cipres! Who was the man she spoke of, he wondered. It probably did not matter to his quest, though he smiled wistfully. Her description had sounded like Tor Gynt. If only.

Saxon had gone directly to the docks only to learn that it was highly unlikely any more ships would be making the crossing now until Newleaf. Stumped yet determined, he had visited the inn at the docks and asked as many captains as he could find the same question: ‘How much to take me to Cipres?’

Each time he was met by laughter or derisive comments. The season was over. The men had finished their business for the year and the docks would become a ghostly place for the next few months.

Towards midnight, the innkeeper had suggested he try a wizened old sailor slumped over his ale in a smoky corner. ‘That silly old bastard Fawks has lost all his money again at hari. Wagered everything. He may make one last voyage. He’s got nothing more to lose except his life or his creaky old ship and neither of those are worth much these days. Give him a go.’

Saxon had approached Fawks, plied him with liquor stronger than ale and extracted a promise that they would sail the next afternoon, come what may. Saxon refused to pay a single duke until they were seabound and then he had promised just about everything in his purse. It was all he owned but it was worth it. He would die searching for Cloot if that’s what it took. He could not live as a soldier any longer. That was not his life. He was Paladin. He had a destiny and finding Cloot was part of it.

They had departed the next afternoon on a vessel that even Saxon, with his positive outlook, found difficult to imagine would last longer than one day at sea. But lasted it had. The weather had been surprisingly generous to them and with a small crew, scant provisions and only just enough fresh water to last them the voyage, the rickety ship had safely dropped anchor at the Ciprean docks.

Saxon thanked the gods who looked after him and paid the grinning Fawks everything but a few coins which he held back for a single good meal and a bed for the night. He felt incredibly uplifted as he began wandering the docks, until he learned the news that The Wasp had sunk without trace on its last voyage. His hope of following the lead of the stranger, whom he had nicknamed Gynt even though Celya had called him Petersyn, was dashed. But gradually he rallied. So be it. He was not following the stranger. He was chasing Quist. And Quist was not the one lying at the bottom of the ocean feeding the fish.

He began to ask questions. People here were not so suspicious. Travellers from many Kingdoms passed through Cipres. Strangers were commonplace. Answers did not carry a price. His spirits revived on learning that Quist frequented a particular inn and he immediately made his way there, hardly noticing the beautiful city around him, so intent was he on this mission.

He paid for a tiny room overnight and enjoyed a decent meal. The girl who served him the meal knew Quist but said he had already left for the mainland. His spirits sank again. He had missed him. That was it. It was over.

‘He never stays long, our Captain Quist. Sells his goods and leaves immediately,’ she said, putting his cheese down. She left.

Sells his goods and leaves, Saxon repeated in his head. He did not need Quist any more. He had a score to settle with him, yes, but that could wait. If he had sold his goods, that meant Cloot might still be found in Cipres.

‘Wait,’ he called out to the girl. He flipped her his last coin. ‘Where would someone sell a bird of prey here?’

‘At the market,’ she said, pocketing the coin in her apron. ‘The market has everything, including slaves. Quist would have sold his wares there.’

This tidy piece of information and his subsequent snooping had led Saxon to the conclusion that a falcon as fine as Cloot would almost certainly have been purchased for the royal aviaries. Which was why he found himself standing in the main courtyard of Queen Sylven’s palace, wanting to put his fist into the face of one of her lowliest staff members.

‘I’m sorry, Master Fox, but the main aviaries are not located here. They are all at the winter palace in Neame.’

He had already said this once and Saxon was tiring of learning the same information and facing the same polite but meaningless smile.

Saxon battled to keep his voice calm. ‘I realise this because you have already informed me of it. Tell me, are you hiring any staff at the moment?’

‘No, Master Fox. The Queen is now residing at the winter palace in the foothills and we will be winding down the household here until Newleaf.’ He smiled again.

Saxon’s fist twitched. ‘What about help for the winter palace? Could you use a strong pair of hands at Neame?’

‘Ah, well now, you would have to speak with our staff organiser, Jayklon. Thank you for your enquiry, Master Fox. Now, if you wouldn’t mind going around to the servants entrance—one of the guards will direct you—I have a busy morning ahead. Good day to you.’

Saxon snarled at the man’s retreating back. He got his directions and made his way to the servants entrance, where a queue of people waited, all apparently seeking work at either of the palaces. It took most of the day to shuffle forward to the front of the queue and by the time Saxon’s turn came around, any lightness of heart had dissipated and a black mood had descended on him. He decided to lie.

‘Right now, Master Fox.’ The tired interviewer rubbed at his eyes. ‘And what are you offering us today?’

‘I am from Tallinor.’

‘Of little relevance, I’m afraid,’ said the wobbling fellow, whose many chins suggested he was probably quite hungry by now for a large meal.

‘From the palace at Tallinor,’ Saxon continued.

‘Oh? Well, good. This is promising. And what did you do at the palace of Tallinor?’ Fat Belly enquired, still rubbing his eyes.

‘I was the head handler of falcons.’

‘My word. What brings you here?’ He had the man’s attention now.

‘This and that. I had a falling out. Water under the bridge. Right now, I seek work in your Queen’s aviaries. I don’t expect to be a senior member. I’ll muck out cages if required. An honest day’s work is all I ask, Master Jayklon, and in return you can rely on me to take exceptional care of the birds. I prefer them to people actually. And I am very experienced.’

‘I see,’ said Jayklon, sitting up and scribbling furiously onto some parchment. ‘Right, there’s some staff leaving tomorrow for the winter palace. Present this to a fellow called Hume and he’ll sort you out the other end. Hungry?’

Saxon nodded.

‘Well, give this to the kitchens and they’ll provide you with a meal for today.’

Jayklon handed him a pebble with a mark on it. Saxon looked at it in his palm, his face expressionless.

‘It’s a token, Master Fox. It authorises the kitchens to feed you as one of the palace staff. You will be paid two dukes a day and all meals and lodging provided. You leave tomorrow morning at first light. Thank you. Next.’

Tor had kept his peace throughout the journey. It would not do to rush Sylven. As they rounded the curve in the hills and set sight on the beautiful soft grey stone of the winter palace, however, he felt impatient. Somehow he knew Cloot would be here.

Sylven was saying something about the surrounding countryside but he paid no attention. He cast. There, it was happening again, just like it had with Alyssa. There was a slight give to the dense nothingness he usually encountered when attempting to reach Cloot. Yesterday when he had tried, the resistance had felt softer. Now, in Neame, literally at the doorstep of the aviaries, the resistance felt softer still.

‘…don’t you think?’ Sylven said.

‘Pardon me, your majesty?’

‘You haven’t paid attention to a word I’ve just said. I am not used to this, Tor.’ But she was smiling. ‘Thinking of your falcon, I suppose?’

‘I am, yes,’ he admitted.

‘Won’t you tell me why he is so important to you?’

‘I’m not sure you could believe it, Queen Sylven.’

She shook her head and pulled her veil down over her face. ‘I shall hear your story yet, Torkyn Gynt. But for now, welcome to my winter palace.’ The carriages pulled to a stop. ‘Ah, I do love it here,’ she said, leaning from the window and breathing in the cool air.

‘The fires are lit and Belsyn awaits, your majesty,’ the faithful Hela said as she helped her Queen step out.

‘Thank you, Hela. Isn’t it good to be back?’

Waiting at the palace gate was a short, roundish man with a genial face. He was rubbing his hands in front of him. He bowed low and with genuine honour for the Queen. ‘Welcome back, your majesty.’

‘Belsyn,’ Sylven said, waiting for him to stand upright again. ‘It is so good to see you again.’

‘Everything is ready for your majesty, just as you like it. And we welcome your special guest too.’ He bowed to Tor who was standing behind her.

‘Come, Tor,’ Sylven said. ‘Let me show you my favourite playground.’

Just then a squeal was heard and a girl came running towards Sylven. Laughing, the Queen clapped her hands and hugged the child.

She looked at Tor. ‘My greatest love of all. This is Sarel.’

He bowed to the child who would become the next Queen of Cipres.

Tor showed extraordinary patience during the next couple of days, amusing the Queen and pretending to be thoroughly fascinated by all she showed him. If it were not for the powerful feeling that Cloot was at Neame, he might really have enjoyed himself. The palace was a simple but very pretty structure, with Sylven’s signature gardens surrounding it. Nestled in a breathtakingly beautiful valley, it was protected on all sides from the worst of the winter elements. Even in his distraction, he knew he was in an idyllic place.

Several days had passed since their arrival and Tor was anxious to search for Cloot. This restless night, he found himself standing at the window of Sylven’s bedchamber, staring into the darkness towards the hills. He glanced over at Sylven, who was sleeping peacefully after a night of indulgence. Ryk’s incredible feast followed by several helpings of Tor’s body had finally sated her. He smiled. If he could only allow himself to relax, life could be very peaceful and happy for him here with Sylven. He knew she was in love with him; it was clear from the way her eyes followed him all the time. Her passion was fuelled by a need to be loved by him in return, but Tor knew that could never be. As long as Alyssa was alive and he had breath in his body, his heart belonged to her. He could never stop loving her or wanting her. Sex was different. He loved to please women and take his pleasure in return, but it was not love. He had discovered true love on the day of the Floral Dance at Minstead Green and rediscovered it at his reunion with Alyssa in the archive library at Caremboche. He had been consumed by love in the Heartwood for nine glorious cycles of the moon. And just before his body died from the executioner’s stones, he had seen love returned from that balcony where she stood. There could be no one else for either of them. He knew she would never love another.

Tor stared to the west where he imagined Cloot slept in the forest aviaries.

He would suggest a picnic. Sylven would like that and it could be combined with a trip into the forest. Perfect.

Not far away from the same window, Saxon sat munching on a hunk of bread and cold meat. He had arrived earlier that evening and would officially commence work in the aviaries tomorrow. He had not wasted any time, heading straightaway to find the man known as Hume. Saxon knew it would not take the keeper long to realise that he had none of his promised skills, but then he would not need very long to find Cloot. Free the falcon and escape—that was all he had in mind now.

He had strung Hume along, talking about things he remembered about the King’s four hawks. Much the same thing as falcons. Lorys loved to hunt with hawks and Saxon had been out with him on occasion and spent time talking with the two handlers. He had absorbed enough information to muddle through this first encounter with the head of the aviary.

Saxon asked Hume if he could see the birds. The light was very low, almost dark in fact, but even though he could not see clearly, Saxon did not think he would have missed the fine peregrine falcon if he had been there. Disappointment knifed through him.

‘Are these all the birds?’ he asked, as casually as his churning emotions would allow.

‘No. Two of the best ones are still out at the moment. My men took them out this morning to put in some practice before the Queen hunts with them. They’re both new birds so we thought we’d blood them a few extra times so they fly well for her majesty.’

Saxon felt weeks of disappointment and a great load of despair lift from his chest. New birds. He was sure Cloot was one of them.

‘How have you found the new ones?’ he asked.

‘Ah well, they’re both peregrines…temperamental. I suppose you’d know all about that.’ He tapped his nose and Saxon nodded as though he understood the gesture.

‘One’s going to be fine. The other is a magnificent bird but he’s odd. Very withdrawn. I think he just needs some settling, though he has been here long enough now. I keep him in a separate cage actually; he’s quite aggressive towards the others. When left alone he just sits very still. One of the boys calls him “The Dead” because he makes no sound; doesn’t even move unless he has to. Definitely a strange one, but flies like a bird of the gods. Faster, stronger and more beautiful in the air than any falcon we’ve ever had here, which is why I’ll persevere with him.

‘I have to keep him permanently in the hood. He’s only quiet if it’s on. We made the mistake the first few hours of leaving it off and he nearly killed himself flying against the cage, tearing at himself and the other birds in a frenzy to escape. We’ve got him under control now though. I think he’s forgotten freedom. He’s fallen into the routine here. Queen Sylven will adore him. He hunts with such ferocious intensity; she likes her birds to be a bit savage.’

‘Really?’ Saxon could not care less whether she did or did not but he had to sound interested in her majesty. In truth, all that mattered to him was Hume’s description of the strange falcon. It was Cloot. He was sure of it.

Back at the castle, well after dinner, the young lad who was the Queen’s chef had called to him. Ryk had obviously noticed Saxon lurking around the kitchens, hoping for some scraps from dinner. Always happy to feed someone, Ryk had not minded pulling together a meal of sorts.

The boy even had a way with bread and meat, Saxon thought, as he sat outside that night beneath a starry sky. Without realising it, his gaze followed the same direction as that of Torkyn Gynt, west towards where Cloot may be.

Goth had lain low since his arrival the previous day with the final carts of provisions and people who made up the winter palace staff. There were enough of them milling around that he could slip away unnoticed. If he stayed far enough away from the Queen and her immediate servants, no one would question him. He was a reasonably familiar face around the city palace by now anyway, though he intended to draw no undue attention to himself.

Goth found himself a tiny chamber within a seemingly unused wing of the Neame palace. He could hide out there and wait for the right opportunity to don Elma’s black robe and veil. Right now, inside the palace surrounds, the Queen’s women were unveiled. His plan depended on them leaving the palace walls, when they would wear their veils.

Patience is required, he thought, drumming his fingers on the sill of the window which overlooked a courtyard where provisions were being unloaded. He must not attract any attention to himself. It did not matter if he was seen by some of the palace staff, but he did not want the Queen to know of his presence. The fact that he had not been invited to Neame meant Sylven did not trust him.

Goth knew she did not like him, but he was used to such a response from women. She was, however, intelligent enough to appreciate the value of his counsel. Whether she would take much notice of it was still to be seen, but her interest in hearing information and, indeed, considering advice from someone who had been a senior member of the Tal court was heartening. Goth appreciated the quick mind of the Ciprean Queen; even at that very first meeting, when he had begged an audience after being rescued by her guards, he had seen immediately that she was no fool. Her frank appraisal of him had obviously resulted in a similar impression and she had permitted his continued presence at the palace, yet kept him very much at arm’s length. No formal appointment had been discussed on the few occasions they had met, but he had been asked by the Queen for a first-hand account of Lorys and the former Queen Nyria. Goth had been surprised at a more recent meeting to hear Sylven ask about Alyssandra Qyn as well.

And now she had taken Torkyn Gynt into her bed. Her interest in Gynt was salt in the wound of hate for the physic that festered inside Goth. But she would not enjoy Gynt’s attentions for much longer. Goth pulled out of his pocket the tiny vial with its even tinier amount of the palest of pink arraq. This liquid would be the undoing of Torkyn Gynt, he mused.

He had bought the tiny vial from the apothecary in Caradoon, at the same time as he had stocked up on supplies of the liquid to get him through the voyage to Cipres.

The wrinkled, shrunken old man behind the dilapidated counter had sold Goth the necessary supply of clear arraq to dull the pain of the stracca withdrawal. Then he had smiled malevolently and pulled another vial from under the counter. This one was tiny and curved and its contents were a very pale pink.

The apothecary held it up to the light. ‘Clear for health, pink for death,’ he said and winked. ‘Both come from the same berry but not many people know about the pink liquid.’

‘Poison?’

‘The nastiest and swiftest of all of them. Very painful but lightning fast.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Goth said.

‘Ah, but it will cost you plenty. A thousand dukes alone for this tiny amount.’

‘I have plenty,’ replied Goth, adding more money to the pile already on the counter.

‘Be careful with it, sir. Just one drop will kill a person.’

Now it was time to test the old man’s claim for the pink arraq. Just one drop and Gynt would be out of Goth’s life for ever.

Tor was up hours before the Queen. He had been unable to sleep properly and had fallen into a fitful doze, waking every now and then, longing for dawn. Before it had even announced its arrival across the sky, he was dressed for the day. When finally Sylven began to turn and make waking noises, he bent and kissed her.

‘Sylven, wake up.’

‘Why? Come to bed and make love to me.’ She spoke in a sleepy voice, hardly aware of what she said.

‘Come on, Sylven, I have an idea for today. You’ll enjoy it.’

Her eyes opened to slits. ‘Are you dressed already?’ She groaned.

‘Want to hear my plan?’ he said, brightly.

Sylven cleared her throat. It was obvious Tor was not returning to her bed this morning. ‘Tell me,’ she said and yawned politely.

‘A picnic in the forest. Sarel will love it!’

‘Sounds nice,’ she mused, her head falling back onto the pillow. ‘It’s still dark outside.’

‘Will you join me?’

She finally shook herself awake. ‘I shall get Hela to organise everything.’

‘No, I will. You take your time and get ready.’

He heard her groan again as he left.

Saxon and two other men were put to the task of cleaning out the cages. Hume had asked him to pitch in because the rest of his men had already been despatched this morning with most of the birds.

‘I need everything spotless for her majesty. I’ve just heard she’s coming into the forest today for a picnic and she’ll almost certainly want to see her aviaries. Tomorrow she’ll probably want to go hunting,’ he said apologetically.

Saxon had not minded; he preferred a task which would not show his incompetence.

‘Where’s that difficult falcon you spoke of?’ he asked, as though making conversation. ‘Don’t want my head bitten off whilst I clean the cages.’

‘Oh, you won’t have to worry, we always keep his hood on and he’s silent then. He came in late last night and is out again; we’ll show him off in flight this morning for the royal party.’

‘I see.’ Saxon felt the sharp pain of disappointment again.

Hume read it wrongly. ‘Oh, you’ll get your go with him. Think you can change him, eh? Help these men first and then I’ll meet you at that northern copse at noon.’

‘Right,’ Saxon said, reassuring himself it was only a few hours to go.

He finished his work much earlier than Hume had anticipated but did not want to be around when the Queen’s party came through, so he washed up and disappeared into the forest. He could kill an hour here before meeting at the rendezvous point. It was a good chance for some solitude and time to formulate some sort of plan for making his escape with Cloot.

Saxon chose a comfortable spot under cover of some bushes and sat down to munch on some cheese he had saved from his early breakfast. He slipped deep into thought, turning over ideas on how to get himself and Cloot out of Neame, back to Cipres and onto a ship. It was a tall order when he had no money and would soon be a fugitive on the run. Cloot could fly but he would be on foot and vulnerable. Perhaps he could steal a horse from Neame and gain some time?

Suddenly footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Coming into the clearing, his back to Saxon, was a man. It struck Saxon that the man was behaving furtively; he kept looking around, as if checking whether he was being followed. The Kloek could not see the stranger’s face but he took in that the man was not especially tall though fairly broad across the shoulders. He had the vague notion, from the man’s gait, the way he held his head, that this was someone familiar, but no name came to mind and the thought dispersed.

As he watched, the man pulled off his warm, long-sleeved jerkin. This was odd. It was cold in Neame. Saxon smiled at the curious behaviour and put down the apple he had been chewing. This would be interesting, he thought; there was something strange going on here. He could see the fellow was not young from his bared arms, although Saxon’s experienced eye, honed over years in Cirq Zorros, told him those arms had once been well muscled. He sensed there was strength in that body still.

Saxon suddenly felt awkward sitting amongst the bushes watching this person engage in tasks which were obviously personal. He decided he should announce his presence and was considering what he might say so as not to startle the man completely, when the stranger pulled some black garments from the sack he had been carrying.

They looked like a robe and veil, Saxon thought with surprise. What could the man want with what was obviously women’s attire?

Still with his back to Saxon, the man put on the long black robe over his own clothes and set the veil over his face. Saxon shifted for a better look and disturbed a small creature who broke cover. The noise made the stranger spin around. Saxon held his breath. It was too late to say anything now. He would have to remain hidden. All he could see were two small eyes staring through the slits in the veil. Saxon knew he was well covered yet those fierce eyes disconcerted him.

Then the stranger sat down in the clearing, obviously intending to remain there for some time. Saxon could not move without revealing his presence yet if he stayed under cover he would be late for his meeting with the other falconers. He did not care about Hume or the temper he was bound to get into if his new handler did not turn up, but he was desperate to learn whether Cloot was among the birds. But there was nothing to be done about his tardiness today. If he revealed himself now, it could have serious consequences. He had no idea who this fellow might be, but if he wielded any power at all with the Queen, Saxon would lose his best chance of tracking down Cloot.

Resigned to a lengthy wait, Saxon turned his attention to working out why the man was hiding in the clearing in the first place and in such strange garb. The man appeared to have disguised himself as one of the Queen’s personal servants. What reason could he have to do so, unless he meant to cause harm?

Goth, oblivious of Saxon’s presence, was turning over in his mind the frighteningly simple plan. Disguised as one of the Queen’s serving women, he would join the picnic party later that morning. He pulled the tiny vial of arraq from his sack and held it up so the sunlight glinted through its palest of pink contents. Goth chuckled softly and slid the vial into a pocket in the robe.

Even Saxon’s untrained eye recognised that the only thing likely to be contained in such a tiny glass vial was poison. So who was this fellow planning to kill? It had to be the Queen. There was no question of Saxon leaving his post now. He had to find out what the stranger intended and, if necessary, prevent him from achieving his evil aim. Just when Saxon thought he would have to let out the cough which had been tickling his throat for the past few minutes, the man stood, gathered up his sack and hid it behind a tree. Then he crept out of the copse and carefully picked his way back into the open, in the direction of the site where Saxon knew the Queen’s picnic was to be held.

Saxon followed. It meant he would have to wait longer still for a glimpse of Cloot, but if he was able to foil this man’s murderous intentions and save the Queen’s life, she might listen to his request to reclaim the falcon.

He may yet be able to get away from here with Cloot and himself in one piece.

They were welcomed by the head of the aviary, Hume, who immediately launched into a lengthy apology for the absence of his new man. Tor paid no attention. He could see two men on the rise of a hill, with three birds. All were falcons; two of them of similar size, the third much bigger. It could be Cloot, but from this distance he could not tell.

He cast and felt something give in the usual blankness. His heart leapt…but his concentration was interrupted as Sylven and her man stepped up next to him and he had to give them his attention.

‘Tor, this is Master Hume, head of our royal aviary. He has agreed to take us through the entire complex so you can search for your falcon. Right now, he wishes to give us a demonstration of his newest birds. He thinks I will enjoy them. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all, your majesty,’ Tor replied. ‘Please—I would be fascinated to watch them myself.’

The keeper bowed again and signalled. They watched the first bird launched into the air. It flew beautifully and then, at a single command, it returned to the handler’s thick glove.

Hume looked at his Queen. ‘Your majesty, this next bird is the one I’m excited about. He is very special.’

Once again he gave the command. The handler pulled the hood off the bird’s head and threw the falcon into the air. It lifted off with strength, its wings beating powerfully.

‘Ah,’ he heard the Queen say, ‘this one is majestic.’

‘I’m glad you like him, your highness,’ Hume replied, bowing again.

The falcon dived and swooped elegantly.

Tor instantly recognised the familiar flight. It was Cloot.

Tears welled in his eyes as he cast to his friend. Cloot, you old rogue. There you are at last.

The falcon faltered in the air.

‘Oh, what’s happened there?’ Sylven asked.

Hume cleared his throat with embarrassment. ‘Ahem…he is a little feisty, your majesty. We are training him still.’

The link was strong now; the falcon was reciprocating the bond.

Cloot. Don’t come back to the handler. Stay up there, Tor said.

Tor? came the deep and gentle voice, almost too frightened to ask.

Tor began to run towards Cloot. He could hear the Queen calling to him but he cared only for the falcon above.

‘Cloot!’ he screamed aloud now, so all could hear. ‘Fly, you beautiful falcon. Fly away.’

The handlers were incensed by this stranger yelling at their bird. Hume caught up with him. ‘Physic Gynt, sir. My falcon is nervous enough without you frightening it.’

‘He’s not nervous, fool—and he’s not your falcon either. He’s mine!’ Tor snarled. He surprised himself with the visceral emotion in his voice.

‘Tor?’ It was Sylven. She looked alarmed. ‘Are you not well?’

‘Never been happier, Sylven,’ he said, ignoring protocol. ‘That’s my falcon up there.’ His grin was fierce.

The handlers called out as Cloot climbed even higher into the sky. ‘He’s not returning, Master Hume. He’s not responding at all.’

‘This is terrible. That bird cost us a fortune,’ Hume said, glaring at Tor but unable to say too much; after all, the man was a guest of the Queen.

‘You won’t catch him now,’ Tor said with glee. He snatched at the hood which dangled from the handler’s hand. ‘Is this what you use to keep him quiet?’ he asked.

The man nodded dumbly. The hood was fashioned from leather and studded with the same midnight archalyt which had prevented Tor using his powers to save Locky from the Maiden’s Kiss.

‘Can I keep this?’ he asked the Queen but was already pushing it into his pocket without waiting for her answer.

‘Now, let me prove this is my falcon. You men—give your call, summon him.’

They tried again and again but Cloot continued to circle higher and higher above.

When they shook their heads in failure, Tor made his move. ‘Watch this,’ he said.

He reopened the link and felt it lock freely onto Cloot.

I’ve been shipwrecked, almost drowned, captured as a slave and now I’m having to play royal paramour…all to find you.

There was a long pause. Tor wondered if Cloot was changed in some way, if he had lost his ability to speak. But then he heard the voice again. Well, don’t you just have all the fun.

Tor laughed, surprising his audience. As far as they could see, all he was doing was staring at the bird; he made no attempt to sign or call out to it.

Cloot, show them we belong to one another. I have to prove it. Fly to me now.

The voices around him intensified their enquiries but Tor turned and put his finger to his lips to hush them and they fell silent. Looking up, they watched the superb falcon turn on itself into what seemed an impossible stoop, then drop like a stone from the sky.

‘It will never pull out of that,’ one of the handlers said.

‘He is the most amazing flyer I’ve encountered in my time,’ Hume said, his voice filled with awe.

Cloot was racing towards them at a reckless speed.

‘Step back, your majesty,’ Tor warned. Everyone else followed his advice too.

In a matter of seconds, the falcon slowed from its breathtaking speed, turned its body and put its bright yellow claws out to land. Tor needed no protection as Cloot alighted on his outstretched arm; his prayers were answered. Cloot flapped his wings once and turned to stare at his handler. Tor burst into laughter once again at the accusation in those piercing yellow eyes.

Thanks for finally turning up, Cloot said, the familiar sarcasm thrilling Tor.

Tor kissed the side of the sharp beak; behind him he heard the others make noises of revulsion. We shall never be apart again, old friend.

Cloot grunted in his head. Don’t make wild promises, Torkyn Gynt. He ruffled his feathers and stared balefully as the Queen approached.

I love you, Cloot, Tor said, then closed the link and smiled serenely at her majesty.

Sylven’s hand was on her hip. ‘Well, well, well. I suppose I have to give you this prized falcon then?’

‘He is mine, your majesty, and you did promise.’

‘Yes, I did, Tor. He is yours.’

‘What about him,’ he said, motioning towards Hume.

‘He does as he’s told,’ she replied.

She dismissed the men, who left looking disgruntled. Hume looked murderous.

Tor surprised her by dropping to one knee, his head bowed. ‘Thank you, Queen Sylven, for your generosity. You will never know how much Cloot means to me or how precious it is to have him back.’

There was such tenderness in his words, so much vulnerability, that she wanted to reach out and touch his thick dark hair. Here was the little boy in front of her now; a few moments ago he had been all swaggering arrogance, now he showed such humility. She loved these different aspects of him and she wanted to hug herself that she had this man with her in her bed. Yet, at the same time, she felt very alone. She sensed that the euphoria of having found her soulmate would be short-lived.

Instead of saying all that was running through her mind, she touched his shoulder. ‘Come, Tor. Let us celebrate with that picnic you promised me.’

He looked up at her and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of those bright blue eyes; a colour she swore she had never seen on a person before and never would again. Torkyn Gynt was as beautiful as the gods they painted in the murals on the walls of her palaces. Yet he was real. Her very own god. She let him take her arm and lead her back towards their chosen picnic spot.

Cloot, we shall meet later. I have to spend some time with her majesty now. I shall speak with you tonight. Head for safety and freedom high in those trees for now.

Cloot took off towards the trees. There was much to say but it could wait just a little while longer. Tor was obviously in a prickly situation.

Sylven felt compelled to ask the question that was brewing in her mind. ‘Does this mean you will leave me now?’

Tor was startled by the direct question; it stopped him in his tracks. He looked searchingly at her. ‘I must.’

‘You have your falcon again. Why can’t we enjoy more time together?’ The Queen hated to hear the plea in her voice.

‘Because I have found what I came here for. And now I must return.’

‘To her?’ she snapped, despising the jealousy which grabbed at her throat. She was Queen; she could command him to stay. She could have him thrown back in chains and kept her prisoner if she so desired. What was wrong with her? She sounded like a child of twelve summers.

‘Alyssa?’ he asked and then shook his head. He spoke gently, ‘No, Sylven, not to Alyssa. I am not permitted to be with her. You know this.’

He could scarcely believe it but the Queen was crying. Her party were waiting for them at the picnic spot but this needed delicate handling. He guided her behind a convenient tree and took her into his arms and hugged her. For all her poise and strength, all her power as the ruler of a mighty realm, she was weeping for the love of a man—the one thing she had assured him she did not need. She had a harem full of men, all awaiting her pleasure. She could use them as she wished and cast them aside, as he fully expected she did.

‘Sylven, hush, please. This is not right. You know I must go. I have explained—’

‘You have explained nothing!’ she snarled at him, pulling herself roughly from his embrace. ‘You talk about your destiny but it means nothing to me. I don’t understand any of it because you have not told me anything. You walk into my life, bed me, take my heart and then you think you can just walk away.’

Tor looked at her with incomprehension. He repeated in his mind what she had just said and couldn’t help but echo the words, ‘Take my heart?’; he spoke softly but she heard. She pushed him and turned away, still weeping.

Tor’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘What can I tell you that will make it easier?’

‘Why?’

‘Why what, your majesty?’

‘Why can you not love me? Be with me?’ She was trembling with anger now.

Tor gave her the full respect she deserved, by speaking only the truth. ‘Because I do not love you, Sylven. I love another. I cannot give my heart to any other woman as long as she is alive.’

‘Then I shall have her killed,’ the Queen said, petulance spilling into her passion for him.

‘You will not win my love that way. You will never win it. Alyssa and I are destined for one another. I will never marry another woman. She will never marry another man or call him hers.’

When he needed to convince himself that his path would never cross hers again, he had tried to believe that Alyssa might build a new life without him. And yet now, with the thought of the children coming back and Cloot safe, he knew deep down that he wished she might never have another man in her life. Tor wanted her to suffer the pain he suffered every day in being apart from her. Because it was only through the pain that he could keep her love alive in his mind. And, in turn, her pain would keep him real, even though she thought him dead.

‘Really?’ the Queen said. ‘She shall never take another? Perhaps you should read this, Tor.’ She pulled out a parchment scroll from her deep pocket. ‘I received it only this morning. It has come by way of the city palace with the carts which came in last night. It was written several weeks ago, I fear. The deed is done.’

She held it out to him, full of defiance. Was there also satisfaction in her expression?

He took the parchment. The situation felt suddenly dangerous and he wished he had just led her straight to the picnic and lied to her. Lied that he would stay, lied that he loved her and then he and Cloot could have escaped.

‘Read it,’ she commanded.

He did.

His royal highness King Lorys of Tallinor announces his marriage to Alyssandra Qyn of Mallee Marsh, to take place at the Royal Chapel of Tal in a private ceremony. The King hopes her royal highness the Queen of Cipres will join with the people of Tallinor in…

Tor could not read any further. The scroll was dated before the last moon. Alyssa was married to the man who had ordered his execution. She was Queen of Tallinor.

Tor felt as though he could no longer breathe. He crushed the parchment between his fingers and then he was on his knees, his emotions writhing agonisingly through his body. He began to moan.

It was a sound which tore at Sylven. Despite her anger and her terror of losing him, she kneeled beside him and held him as he whispered Alyssa’s name repeatedly.

Cloot arrived overhead. The link broke open in Tor’s head and he heard his Paladin. It was a voice of command now; no longer gentle. Tor!

She’s gone, Cloot. Alyssa is gone, he moaned.

Gone? Dead, you mean?

She might as well be. She is married to the King.

There was silence for a moment and then Cloot was back in his head, strong and convincing. Get up! Do you forget who you are? Do you forget you are the One? This very Land depends upon you; thousands of innocents don’t yet know it but they depend on you for their lives. Stand up!

Tor reluctantly pulled himself to his feet and took several deep breaths.

Sylven stood as well, still holding his arm, wishing she could take back all she had said and done. The pain on his face, in his trembling body, was too much for her to bear. She loved this man. He was the father of the child now growing inside her; a sister for Sarel, a second Princess for Cipres. Sylven wanted Tor as her Regent. What a dashing and brilliant royal couple they would make, if only he could be encouraged to forget this wench in Tallinor. She corrected herself—this Queen in Tallinor.

Sylven had taken the wrong approach and her anger had led her down a dangerous path. She must repair the damage now, bring him back to her side and gently show him that this Alyssandra Qyn was now in his past.

And Tor…Cloot said firmly.

Tor stood straighter. Yes?

Don’t forget that Alyssa is still your wife. Nothing has changed that.

It was as though a shaft of sunlight had just broken through the overcast day and shone directly into his heart. Cloot was right. Alyssa was his wife and that still stood. I won’t forget it.

Good, the bird said and flapped his wings. Now take part in that picnic and go through the motions of the day. We must escape tonight. I sense our time is almost here. Be strong now. Cloot flew off.

Tor turned to face Sylven. He could read a hundred apologies in her face but, before they could spill out, he put his hand to her mouth.

‘No, wait! It is good that I am given this news. Thank you, Sylven. And now, I believe we have a picnic to enjoy.’

There he was, in control again, she thought. The man was an enigma. One minute on his knees in shock and then, as though some magical guardian had made him see reason, composed and strong again. Sylven shook her head. They would not speak further on this subject.

‘My Queen?’ Tor said and gallantly offered her his arm, gritting his teeth to stem the flood of emotion he was experiencing.

She linked her arm through his and together they strolled to where Hela and the rest of the servants had set up the glorious feast prepared by Ryk. Sarel was waiting to join them.

They refused tables and chairs, preferring to lounge on cushions and a rug. The Queen dismissed most of the staff, leaving just a handful.

Tor, feeling more in control now, pushed Alyssa to that safe place in his heart, as he had done these past years, to be retrieved at another time when he was strong enough to confront her. He had the Queen laughing and even blushing within minutes of taking their first goblet of fine, chilled Ciprean wine. It was a pleasant scene and Sylven could almost forget the ugliness which had taken place just moments ago.

Tor kept the conversation on safe ground. ‘Why was your man Hume so grumpy when we arrived?’

The Queen wrapped a sliver of paper-thin meat around a fig and chewed. ‘He was, wasn’t he? Hardly the mood with which to greet one’s Queen. He had hired a new man to start this morning and was cross that he had not turned up for the great “showing” of this priceless new falcon we had to give away to a foreigner.’

Tor lifted his glass and grinned. A woman, veiled like her Queen and dressed in the full black of her retinue, came forward to top up his goblet. He thanked her and was momentarily arrested by her small, intense eyes, which were staring hard at him. They looked so menacing, he almost missed what the Queen was saying.

‘…yes, well, you can’t trust a Kloek, you know,’ Sylven finished, also holding out her goblet to the servant.

Tor’s attention was caught. ‘A Kloek? Surely you don’t get Kloeks this far north?’

The serving woman moved back to stand quietly at a polite distance from the sovereign and her guest.

Sylven sipped. ‘Oh, we get all sorts passing through Cipres. But you’re right, Kloeks are rare,’ she agreed. ‘Apparently he’s a hunting bird specialist and most lately from Tallinor. He only arrived last night and was very keen to see this great falcon—which we now know is yours,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘So Hume was understandably angry that the man did not turn up at the showing this morning.’

‘A Kloek with an interest in my falcon?’

‘Well, I’m sure he didn’t know it was yours, Tor. Do you know any Kloeks?’

Tor began to chew on a slice of delicious cold game pie. ‘As a matter of fact I do. His name is Saxon Fox. You would fall instantly in love with him, your majesty. He is as tall as you, with wild golden hair and the face of a warrior. He is as broad as an ox with a heart as big. He was once a famous trapeze artist.’

Sylven made a sound of appreciation. ‘Move over, Physic Gynt,’ she said, her eyes dazzling him from behind the veil. They shared more laughter and Sylven began to relax. Perhaps she could win his love after all.

Behind his veil, Goth’s face was a mask of hatred. He wished he could just pick up one of the sharp knives the stupid boy chef had sent along and plunge it straight into Gynt’s chest.

He knew he had to calm himself. There he was; the enemy. Drinking and cackling with the Queen of Cipres and her acting like a bitch dog on heat. Well, there will be no sport in the bedroom tonight, dear Queen, Goth thought, and fingered the vial of poison deep in his pocket. Your lover will be stone cold dead by then.

His tiny, sharp eyes watched Gynt drink again and again from his goblet; he must choose exactly the right time to serve the poisoned wine. He needed both of them in a merry enough mood that the goblets could be passed almost unnoticed into their hands.

Slipping away from the other servants, Goth moved behind one of the carts which had carried all the provisions for today’s decadence. He pulled a flask of a special sweet wine from the supplies. It was made only in this region, produced from a small grape which grew in tiny amounts each season. Exorbitantly expensive, it was considered by Cipreans to be the nectar of the gods. The Queen and her guest would not be able to resist it. He also pulled out two narrow goblets. These were exquisitely made from delicate glass, stamped with her majesty’s personal crest. It was fitting that Gynt should die with his lips touching her crest as he sipped the poison.

Goth took the tiny curved vial from his pocket and broke the seal. He looked around furtively, but no one was watching…or so he thought.

Saxon was hidden behind a second cartload of provisions.

He blew out his cheeks. It was obvious the man was up to no good. He had to act. He could see the Queen and her guest reclining on some cushions not far away. They were laughing. The man looked familiar, but he had his back to Saxon and the Kloek’s view was partially obscured by trees and the cart Goth was hiding behind. Saxon had heard of Queen Sylven’s voracious appetite for men; he guessed this must be her current lover.

He watched as the impostor carefully placed the goblets of freshly poured wine onto a tray. Saxon moved closer. Now he could not see the guest at all, just the Queen. Goth tipped several drops of the poison into one of the glasses and Saxon made careful note of which one. He was preparing to rush the stranger in the veils to prevent him carrying out his evil task, but to his surprise the impostor moved back to the royal party, probably to ask the Queen’s permission to serve this new wine. This was his chance. He ran towards the tray.

Goth hated leaving the poisoned goblet unattended, but there was a strict protocol for serving wine which he had watched over and again at the Ciprean palace. He must not endanger his plan with haste.

He motioned to the head maid that he wished to approach the Queen. She nodded.

Goth bent low to address Sylven and spoke in a disguised voice. ‘Your majesty, I have some of your favourite Tolique to serve with the sweet course…if you please?’

‘Yes, bring it…er…?’

‘Sacha,’ Goth replied, unable to help looking towards Tor.

He realised Tor was watching him closely. Had he been recognised, Goth wondered? No, he decided, casting another furtive glance at Gynt. He cursed his foe silently before turning back to her majesty.

‘Sacha, where is Elma, my usual bearer?’

‘Your majesty, Elma has trained me to your precise needs. She is presently hunting down some special Mytal for you for tonight. She knows it is your favourite,’ Goth said sweetly.

The Queen hardly paid any attention to Goth’s explanation but Tor did.

‘You know, there’s something odd about that woman,’ he said.

‘I don’t know her, she must be new,’ Sylven said distractedly. She was plaiting Sarel’s hair. ‘My people are always training youngsters into specialist roles.’

‘That one is hardly young, your majesty.’

‘Hmm, true. But she seems to know everything that matters,’ Sylven said, tying two plaits together.

‘But who checks up on these people, Sylven?’

One of the plaits came undone, annoying the Queen, as did Tor’s persistence. ‘Oh, Tor, someone would have. Don’t be so suspicious. What’s wrong with her?’

‘Her eyes—there’s malice in them.’

‘Rubbish!’ Sylven dismissed the thought. ‘Ah, here comes my Tolique. Now, Tor, prepare yourself for an extraordinary treat.’

Saxon had managed to switch the wine goblets, which meant the Queen was unlikely to die. But it still left the stranger at risk. He was about to throw himself into the peaceful scene and warn the two lovers of the danger, when a strong arm clamped around his chest and a large hand covered his mouth.

‘You bastard!’

Saxon recognised the voice of one of the handlers from the royal aviaries.

‘You’re no falconer. I had my suspicions this morning and now here you are spying on our Queen!’

The man had a companion, who now came in front of Saxon and began to rough him up, punching him in the belly. As Saxon doubled over, winded from the punches, he caught a glimpse of the veiled servant handing the goblet containing the poison to the Queen.

No! That was wrong! Saxon had carefully switched the glasses. Why would the impostor have intended the poisoned goblet for the Queen’s guest?

Saxon’s panic lent him extra strength. With a mighty grunt he shook off both his captors and lurched out from the cover of the cart, yelling like a mad man. He watched in horror as the Queen, still smiling at her companion, clinked glasses and then took one long gulp.

It was only then his noise grabbed their attention and they turned towards him in confusion: the Queen, the impostor and…Suddenly Saxon felt as though his heart had stopped its beating. The man turning towards him was Torkyn Gynt. Hale, smiling brilliantly at some jest and bursting with life. Time seemed to stand still for Saxon as everything ordered about his world fell apart.

Then he heard himself screaming, ‘Poison!’ He saw Tor throw down his glass and turn to the Queen. No one paid any attention to the impostor servant, who crept stealthily from the scene and then began to run.

Tor kneeled alongside Sylven, calling to her, trying to hold her attention. She was in agony, moaning and shrieking.

Sarel began to scream and suddenly people were running from all directions towards their Queen. Saxon arrived first.

Tor looked up, his brilliant blue eyes wild now. Saxon shook his head slowly. He was in shock; his mind in absolute turmoil. ‘It can’t be you.’

Sylven’s body began to jerk and flail in its death throes. She screamed one last time before her eyes rolled back into her head and her lips turned purple. Tor ripped away the Queen’s veils but it was too late. Sylven’s body arched in one last horrific convulsion and a painful guttural groan came from her throat; her face flushed with the blood that was carrying death around her body. She bared her teeth through foaming spittle to form one final angry sound at the world and then she fell back, lifeless. The poison had done its work.

Tor also fell back, into Saxon’s arms. He was breathing hard; he had tried to use his powers to save her but to no avail.

Hela kneeled beside him, almost rigid with shock. She grabbed the child, Sarel, and held her close.

Tor shook his head. ‘I…went inside. She was dead before I could do anything.’

Saxon held him firmly but could not believe it was Tor in his arms, warm and alive. The Torkyn Gynt he knew was dead, like the Queen now lying in front of them.

‘I was too late, Saxon. Too late!’

The Queen’s staff keened with despair, uselessly clutching at one another. It was impossible for them to believe that their Queen was dead.

Tor recovered first. ‘Saxon, the servant—she’s getting away!’

The Kloek was still in a state of shock and wonder. He had watched this man die by the executioner’s stones. He had seen his body taken down from the cross and his broken face washed clear of the blood. The corpse had been wrapped in muslin and then Merkhud had driven away with it on an old cart to only he knew where. He was dead.

Torkyn Gynt’s bright blue, very alive eyes communicated the need for urgency. Saxon pulled his scrambled thoughts together.

‘That’s no woman, Tor. Let’s go—he’ll head for the woods,’ Saxon replied and then he was running; running alongside his old friend after the impostor who had tried to kill a man already dead, but instead had assassinated a sovereign.