Where was Piro? Was she safe?
His father held up his arms signalling for silence and the cheering died away. The king turned to the queen, lifting her hand, kissing it. They shared a private smile. It pleased Fyn to see them happy.
Rolen turned to the crowd. 'Rolencia has known many years of peace and prosperity since I was lucky enough to make Myrella Merofyn Kingsdaughter my queen.'
The crowd cheered again. From the level of noise they'd already been imbibing heavily. Hot honeyed mead for the farmers and best Rolencian red for the merchants and nobles. It was a festival, after all.
'Today we celebrate for a special reason,' King Rolen said, and the people grew quiet. 'Today, Lence Kingsheir will take Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter for his betrothed!'
The roar of approval deafened Fyn.
The ambassador turned to his page who opened the chest. From its azure velvet bed he took out a gold locket and opened it, holding it up for the crowd to see.
'Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter,' Ambassador Benvenute said. The crowd cheered again, though no one could have seen the miniature portrait when Fyn, who was only a body length away, could not see her face.
Fyn glanced to Lence. His brother looked grim. He'd made it clear how he felt about having to marry a girl he had never met. No doubt the artist had flattered King Merofyn's daughter. But even if she were beautiful, she was the daughter of a man who, if what Byren said was true, had come to the throne by murdering their mother's younger brother and defeating all other contenders. If the daughter was as ruthless as her father, poor Lence would never have an easy night's sleep!
'I am here in Isolt's place, to give her betrothal vows,' Benvenute said. He placed the locket in Lence's hand. The words of betrothal were said, and when the ceremony ended, Lence slipped the miniature over his head. It settled just above the foenix emblem. For the first time, Fyn saw those symbols as chains of servitude. His brothers had no more choice as to how they served Rolencia than he did. That reminded him, he still had to prove himself to the mystics master. But how? His stomach churned.
Piro! A wave of mingled frustration and admiration swept him. He had promised he would not reveal her secret. But how long could she hide it? And was it even safe to do so? He didn't want his sister becoming a channel for evil. The first thing he had been taught on entering the abbey was how to say the warding chant to clear his mind and tap on the vulnerable points of his body so that his Affinity could not be used by a renegade Power-worker. They sang the chant every night before falling asleep and every morning upon waking, so that it was drilled into their minds.
His father signalled for silence and the cheering died down.
'When you drink your toast tonight,' King Rolen raised his voice, 'drink to another thirty years of peace between Rolencia and Merofynia!'
At his signal the bells began their song of celebration. And Fyn slipped away to find Piro.
Brave, but silly girl.
Chapter Eleven
Piro frowned as the celebration bells rang on and on. Too late to join her family for the announcement now. Her mother would be furious. Resentment roiled in her belly. No one had told her what the announcement was about, yet she was still expected to be there.
She climbed onto the wharf and headed across Rolenton. Avoiding the bell tower square and the inevitable confrontation with her mother, Piro begged a ride in the back of a cart with half a dozen minstrels who had never seen King Rolen's daughter. The entertainers had been hired to perform for tonight's feast and, as she listened to their happy chatter, Piro wished her life was as simple. Maybe she should run away with them. Her mother had trained her well. A Merofynian noblewoman was expected to be able to run an estate employing a thousand people, do the accounts, know the law, speak three languages, play a musical instrument, paint a reasonable likeness and recite the great sagas. She could live a minstrel's life.
But she was only fooling herself. She could never leave her family.
With a sigh, she planned an apology for her mother as well as one for Fyn. It seemed she was always apologising.
Byren had noticed Fyn slip away and wondered why he was in such a hurry, but he still had to find Piro, so he jogged down the stairs and set out across the square.
Monks and acolytes mingled freely with townspeople and the warlords' noisy honour guards. With all the farm folk who had come in to Rolenton for the festivities, the square was packed and Byren despaired of ever finding Piro. If she was back at the castle he'd be wasting his time. Best to check the foenix's pen first.
Byren was about to return to the square's stables and get his horse when he heard raised voices coming from the end of the lane beside the Three Swans. His belly tightened, responding to their menacing tone. A muffled voice protested. His father had heavy penalties for thievery but it was impossible to stamp it out.
Byren didn't know who might be down the end of that lane but whoever it was, was the king's subject and it was his duty to protect them. He turned down the lane thinking the sight of his Rolencian royal colours should be enough to frighten off the thieves. If not, he'd knock a few heads together.
'Let me past.' Fyn sounded as if he was trying to be reasonable.
Fyn? Byren broke into a run. Covering the last two body lengths, he peered around the lane's bend in time to find Fyn confronted by four monks. They did not look much older than him and they had him backed up against the far wall. Last year's acolytes, Byren guessed. Curious, he hung back in the shadow of a staircase. The stench from a fresh pile of tavern refuse was bad despite the cold. Byren concentrated on breathing through his mouth.
'…and I won't take the blame for the grucranes leaving!' the ringleader announced.
'I haven't said anything,' Fyn protested.
'You were seen walking up the path to the abbey with the weapons master. What were you talking about?'
'The Proving.'
'Proving? You and your friends shone in the Proving today.' The ringleader shoved a finger in Fyn's chest. 'But don't think you three will outshine us. Beartooth — '
'My friends have nothing to do with this, Galestorm.' Fyn's voice shook with repressed anger. 'This is between you and me, and you know it, so leave Lonepine and Feldspar out of it.'
'But it is so much fun baiting that skinny streak and seeing him squirm. It's sure to drive Lonepine to throw the first punch!' Galestorm sneered with triumphant cruelty. 'Then we can chastise him, for an acolyte must obey a monk. And you three won't be monks until spring cusp, so we plan to make your lives miserable until then. And after that, well, accidents can happen. Even a monk can trip on the stairs.'
Byren went cold. Fyn had never told him abbey life was this dangerous. Every instinct told him to go to Fyn's aid, but he held back. He didn't want to shame Fyn by stepping in before he could help himself. Besides, his brother had to go back to the abbey and, when he did, Byren wouldn't be there to help him.
'Now, take off your clothes and climb into that pile of rubbish,' Galestorm ordered.
Fyn folded his arms.
'Are you disobeying a direct order, acolyte?' Galestorm gloated.
'It's not a fair order and you know it!' Fyn countered.
Galestorm looked to his three friends. 'Did you hear me give this acolyte an unfair order?'
They shook their heads.
'Right.' Galestorm rubbed his hands together eagerly. 'Strip him and toss him into the rubbish.'
Fyn writhed and twisted, avoiding them. Before anyone expected it, he caught one of his attackers with a throw that sent him into the rubbish heap. Byren felt like cheering. But there were three more and they had all been trained by the weapons master so they knew the moves and counter moves, same as Fyn did.
The outcome was inevitable.
Byren waded in. They were too absorbed attacking Fyn to notice him coming up behind them. He could have ordered them to back off and they would have. But he wanted to get his hands on them. Seizing Beartooth by the shoulders, Byren jerked him o
ff balance, then shoved him on top of his friend. Suddenly Galestorm was alone, facing Fyn and Byren. The monk recognised him, looked worried for a heartbeat, then tried to brazen it out.
'So your big brother does your fighting, Fyn Kingson?' he sneered.
This was exactly what Byren had feared.
Fyn was so angry his hands shook.
'He was doing fine on his own,' Byren said. 'I just thought I'd even the odds. Two of King Rolen's kin should be able to stand up to four of Halcyon's monks!'
The other three had scrambled to their feet now and looked to Galestorm for guidance. Unlike hot-headed Galestorm, they were clearly not eager to tackle both the kingsons.
'Come on, Fyn.' Byren slung an arm around his brother's shoulders and deliberately turned his back on the others.
His neck tingled as they walked off. Were these monks cowardly enough, not to mention foolish enough, to attack them? But Galestorm and his companions must have thought better of it for Byren and Fyn made it safely out of the Three Swans' lane.
Fyn turned to face Byren, shrugging off his arm. 'Thank you for helping me, but — '
'Now they'll come after you when I'm not around, I know,' he muttered. 'Not much I can do about that, I'm afraid. Don't get caught alone. Stay with your friends. That Lonepine looks like he could handle himself.'
'Feldspar might be the mystical type but he can handle himself too,' Fyn insisted.
Byren studied Fyn.
'What is it?' Fyn asked.
'I got the impression that this is not the first time Galestorm and his bullies have picked on you. Why didn't you say something? And why do they dare to bully a kingson?'
Fyn sighed. 'At the abbey I am just Fyn. We're supposed to leave our past lives behind, especially once we take our monk's vows. The abbey has great ideals but reality is different. In a place where all are equal in the goddess's sight, the masters vie for power. The abbot is chosen from their ranks and to be abbot is to rule all of Halcyon's abbeys and oversee the distribution of the goddess's wealth. He is only one step less powerful than father.'
Byren rubbed his chin, he hadn't considered it that way. 'But you're still a kingson. Why do they dare — '
'That's the problem. Galestorm knows my birth will help me rise to become the master of whatever branch I enter and he resents me for it. Besides, I caught him tormenting a grucrane and now they've flown off, leaving our abbey without its sentries.'
'They'll come back. Where else will they sleep these cold winter nights?' Byren rubbed his brother's shaven head. Fyn had lost his cap in the scuffle, revealing his crown of tattoos. Soon they would shave off the thin plait that grew from the top of his head and begin the first of his monk tattoos, above and between his acolyte tattoos. On that day he would become the lowest of the monks. Byren summoned a smile. 'I'm the lucky one. I don't envy you or Lence. Now come up to Rolenhold and share a drink with me. An acolyte who's nearly a monk can still enjoy a fine Rolencian red, can't he?'
Fyn grinned. 'I can and I will. But first there's something I must do.'
'Yes. You'd better warn your friend to watch out for Galestorm.'
Fyn hesitated for an instant. 'Exactly. See you later, Byren.'
As he watched his younger brother forge through the crowded square Byren wondered what Fyn was really up to, then dismissed it. He had to get back to the castle and find Piro. And when he found her, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. It was time she grew up!
Piro climbed down from the minstrels' cart with a word of thanks, then slipped away through the servants' courtyard. She was not looking forward to apologising to Fyn or her mother. Then she remembered she hadn't fed her foenix yet, so she went to the kitchens.
Three summers ago Byren and Lence had tried to trap a foenix which had been ravaging the high farms on the Dividing Mountains. The birds were very rare now and their father wanted to capture a pair for the royal menagerie, but this foenix had turned vicious to protect its nest. Byren had brought the two eggs back to Rolenhold and Piro had kept them warm, turning them every day, but only one had hatched. Now her foenix was as big as a large chicken, though his legs were longer in proportion to his body. He had yet to develop the crest and beak sharp as a dagger, but he did have the brilliant red feathers as fine as fur, and the gleaming red chest scales. Because foenixes liked heat she kept him in the menagerie which was glassed over, and warmed by hot vents from the pools far below the castle. King Byren the Fourth had built it before the wars distracted him from collecting Affinity beasts. According to the old stories he'd liked animals better than people. Piro had never known her father's father but she often felt a sneaking sympathy for him.
'How's my pretty boy?' Piro whispered. She admired the foenix as he ate kitchen scraps from her hand, then rubbed his throat on her fingers. He blinked his emerald eyes and made a soft interrogative sound in his throat. Piro was sure he understood everything she said and, unlike her mother, he never scolded her or tried to change her.
'There you are!' Seela, her old nurse, pounced on her. 'The queen wants you, and be quick about it.'
Seela bustled Piro up the stairs, warning her to mind her tongue as they hurried along to her mother's solarium. It had been decorated with a recurring flower, vine and animal motif. These wound in and around each other in complex patterns. Picked out in paint and semi-precious stones, every surface glistened, catching the light. The chamber ran the length of the west wall, which was illuminated by deep-set diamond paned windows, so it was pleasant even in midwinter. But Piro hated it because it felt like a prison to her. Its walls were the invisible walls of royal expectation, fine lace, female giggles and lessons in law and account keeping.
Piro found her mother surrounded by the ladies of the court. They were laying out clothes and jewellery for tonight's midwinter feast, gossiping and laughing, twittering like birds.
Piro dutifully bent one knee. 'You wanted me, queen mother?'
Myrella dismissed her women. While they collected their combs and shawls, Piro shifted impatiently from foot to foot, her toes damp in her riding boots.
People said she looked like Queen Myrella, but they were nothing alike. Her mother had been a dutiful daughter to one king, then the equally dutiful wife of another. Piro couldn't get through the day without treading on someone's toes.
She was a little taller than the queen but just as fine-boned. Her mother had been considered a beauty in her day. At nearly thirty-six the queen's fine skin was barely lined, and her black hair, hidden under a fashionable head-dress, held hardly any grey. All her life Piro had been disappointing her mother. If the queen was a potter and Piro was her pot, then the queen was constantly pinching and prodding her into a shape that was not natural.
Piro mentally rehearsed her apology. As soon as the last woman left, she launched into her speech. 'I am so sorry, mother. What with all the excitement and Fyn's friend finding Halcyon's Fate, I — '
'Forgot? I thought as much, but you're no longer a careless child. At your age I was planning my wedding! How do you think Lence felt, when you didn't bother to turn up for his betrothal?'
'Betrothal?'
'To King Merofyn's daughter.'
Piro was stunned. 'I… I did not know. You should have told me.'
'Delicate negotiations have been going on for two years. Hardly the sort of thing a careless child needs to know!'
Piro was stung.
Her mother smoothed down the central panel of her heavily embroidered velvet gown and frowned as she looked Piro up and down. 'That dress won't do. Off with it.'
'I don't see why I have to get changed. The feast is not until this evening.'
Before her mother could speak, the door opened and her old nurse came back.
'Not ready yet, Piro? They're waiting for you in the trophy chamber,' Seela said. 'I caught a glimpse of him. Such a good-looking man. Clever too, they say.'
'Who are you talking about?' Piro fought a sinking feeling.
The old woma
n cast her mother a sharp look. Seela had been the queen's nurse and tutor when she was a child, having come with her from Merofynia. After the marriage Seela had stayed on to help rear the royal children. 'You haven't told her, Myrella?'
In a flash, Piro realised what this meeting was all about. Just as Lence must marry to strengthen Rolencia's alliances, so must she. 'Who have I been betrothed to?'
'A fine young warlord,' her mother spoke soothingly. Seela stepped behind Piro to undo the laces of her gown. 'This is just a first meeting. Either of you may decide not to take it any further.'
But they both knew Piro could not decline without offending the warlord. He was some upstart princeling from beyond the Divide, the petty ruler of a barren spar of land that stretched out into the sea. Piro snorted. A mere barbarian warlord, not even a kingson!
Not that there was a king's son the right age for her. Ostron Isle was ruled by an elector, chosen from one of the great merchant families who held court feasting and bickering over trade agreements. And the last Merofynian kingson had been her mother's younger brother. Poor little Sefon, her mother always called him. Queen Myrella hadn't seen her brother since he was a toddler and she was eight years old. After his death, the throne had passed to King Merofyn the Sixth who was older than Piro's father. From what she'd overheard, he was a nasty piece. His own wife had killed herself to escape him. Piro was relieved her parents weren't trying to betrothe her to King Merofyn.
Even so, the thought of political marriage made her burn with resentment. She had always known she would have to marry to further Rolencia's alliances, but until today that had been in the distant future.
'I don't want to m — ' Her voice was muffled as Seela pulled the gown over her head. Piro blinked, '- marry. I'm not ready.'
'Those boots will have to come off,' her mother said. 'Sit by the fire while I find your gold-beaded slippers.'
'The ones that match the red and gold velvet gown, Myrella?' Seela asked.
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