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 off 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 woman 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.
'Yes. And she can wear the gold head-dress.' The queen adjusted her own head-dress. It was the married woman's style with a little hood that sat forwards over her face and fine gold net which confined her hair.
Being unmarried, Piro's head-dress was a small cap which would sit on the crown of her head, held in place with a few pins, the fine mesh falling to her shoulders, beaded with mandarin garnets.
'I don't want to — '
'Take those boots off!' her mother called over her shoulder. She picked the gown up by the shoulders and shook it to get the wrinkles out. Several little sacks of lavender fell on the floor.
Piro sat on the chest in front of the fire wearing only her woolen chemise. She tugged at the laces of her riding boots. They were made of soft suede, bleached white to match her gown, and weren't designed for snow. Even her woolen stockings were damp.
Seela put the boots and stockings aside then rubbed lavender-scented oil into Piro's cold toes, chaffing them to get the blood flowing. It felt good, even better when Seela slid silk stockings onto her feet.
'Silk?' Piro muttered.
'Fix those stockings in place,' Seela said. 'There's a good girl.'
'I'm not a good girl.' Piro rolled the ends of the stockings over her garters to hold them up just above her knees. 'I don't want to marry some hairy, half-savage warlord!'
Piro was very aware of her mother and Seela exchanging glances.
'And I will tell father so!' Piro announced.
Her mother's mouth settled into that familiar thin line of annoyance. 'Arms up.'
Piro held up her arms and wriggled as the gown settled over her shoulders. Seela pulled the lacing tight.
'Red suits you,' her mother said.
Piro frowned. Just then Seela surprised her with a dab of expensive Ostronite myrrh. The perfume wafted up around her face, sweet and fruity, exotic as Ostron Isle itself.
Queen Myrella turned Piro around to look in the mirror. Taking a hairbrush, she unravelled Piro's plaits. Once her hair was loose, it fell in wavy ripples to her waist, black as sable. 'You have lovely hair.'
'It doesn't matter what I look like,' Piro said. 'I'm not… Ouch!'
Seela had jabbed her scalp as she stood on a foot stool to pin Piro's cap in place. 'Sorry.'
She draped a net of fine gold mesh over Piro's shoulders. It gleamed in contrast with her hair. Piro tugged her royal emblem out of the dress's bodice. Her small, silver foenix pendant glowed against the rich velvet.
'You look just like a kingsdaughter should!' Seela beamed.
Piro fumed.
'Something's missing,' the queen murmured. 'I know. Fetch the ruby choker from my jewellery box, Seela.'
The old woman scurried over to the dresser where several jewellery boxes had been left open. She began sifting through one.
Piro watched proceedings mutinously.
Queen Myrella stepped closer to Piro, her face next to Piro's in the mirror.
'Do you think I wanted to leave my home when I was betrothed to your father?' she whispered. 'I was only eight years old. I never saw my mother and my baby brother again. My father visited once, when I was wed at fifteen. But I never complained. I married King Rolen to stop the constant warring between our kingdoms. Rolencia and Merofynia have been ancestral enemies forever. Hardly a summer went by without some skirmishing. Now we have had peace for nearly thirty years. I did my duty. Lence is doing his. You must do yours!'
The queen's brilliant black eyes met Piro's in the mirror. For a heartbeat Piro was too startled to speak. She had never considered that her mother might not have wanted to marry. 'But you love father.'
'Now I do,' her mother revealed. 'Ahh, Piro. Give this warlord a chance. Don't close your heart and mind against him.'
'Here it is,' Seela announced, placing the choker around Piro's throat.
It was heavy and gleamed against her skin. Her fingers stroked the gold filigree and cabochon star rubies. She stared at the person in the mirror. This grand kingsdaughter didn't look like the Piro who had begged a ride with a cart load of minstrels. She looked older, aloof and angry.
Piro hated not being in control of her life.
'She reminds me of you at the same age,' Seela whispered. 'So beautiful.'
Piro glared at her face in the mirror. She'd drawn both their portraits and she had no illusions. 'My chin is more pointed and my mouth is bigger. I'll never be a beauty like mother.'
Queen Myrella spun her around by the shoulders. 'Beauty's only a tool, and not a very good one. You're on your own after the first five minutes. Now, you go down to the trophy chamber and — '
'That's what I am, just a trophy!'
'Mind your tongue,' Seela snapped. 'Don't you shame your mother. She's a kingsdaughter in her own right with a better claim to the Merofynian throne than Merofyn the Sixth!'
Queen Myrella shook her head with a half-smile. 'Don't rake over the past, Seela. I am queen of Rolencia. One kingdom is enough for me. Now, off you go, Piro. And just this once, think before you speak!'
Fyn made his way through Rolenhold's great hall, keeping watch for a green-grey robe and Galestorm's distinctive, thick neck. The hall was so packed it was hard to find anyone. All around him monks and acolytes celebrated as they relived the race to Ruin Isle.
He sighted a saffron robe surrounded by fellow acolytes and recognised Lonepine, who was re-enacting the battle with Hawkwing. Fyn smiled to himself, remembering how he'd have hung on every word only a year ago. Letting Lonepine enjoy his triumph, Fyn waited until the story came to an end, then caught his friend's eye.
'Come, join the fun, Fyn.' Lonepine would have pulled him into the centre of admiring youths.
'We need to talk,' Fyn mouthed.
Lonepine forged through the younger acolytes and joined Fyn saying, 'Feldspar is meeting with the mystics master. He's due back soon. His place will be ensured when we get back to the abbey.'
'That's what I wanted to tell you. We need to stick together. Galestorm thinks I told the weapons master how he injured the grucrane.' The only people he'd told had been Lonepine and Feldspar.
Lonepine's brows drew down and his hands curled into fists.
'No you don't,' Fyn said quickly. 'That's all he needs, a chance to teach you a lesson. Besides, I can look after myself.'
'When the odds are fair.' Lonepine held Fyn's eyes. 'And we both know Galestorm likes the odds to be in his favour.'
The older boys bullied the younger boys, the older acolytes bullied the young ones, and the monks bullied everyone they could. It was the way of the abbey. If you were lucky you found a safe niche and kept out of trouble. Fyn had always admired Wintertide because the boys master punished bullying. But his old master could not be everywhere.
'Well Galestorm didn't succeed this time and as long as we stick together he won't get another chance.'
Lonepine went to speak, but a young acolyte called him over to sort out an argument over which stroke he had used to fell Hawkwing.
'Be right there.' Lonepine laughed. 'Come on, Fyn. Have some fun.'
Fyn noticed Farmer Overhill's fifteen-year-old son watching from the edge of the group. He would have a hard time in the abbey, being thrown in with the small boys when he should have been in the year below Fyn. 'Say, Lonepine, keep an eye on the new boy.'
His friend glanced over his shoulder. 'Another stray?'
Fyn grinned. 'Just do it. I can't hang about, I'm seeing my brothers.'
'Then watch out for Galestorm.'
'You too, and warn Feldspar.'
Fyn crossed the busy hall, heading for the far door. Just as he stepped out into the connecting hall someone hailed him. He got the feeling they had been lying in wait for him. Catching the flash of a dark robe, he turned, his hands lifting defensively.
'Ahh, Fyn Kingson, I didn't mean to startle you.' History Master Hotpool beckoned him into the shadows. As a master, he wore a silver torque with one row of lapis lazuli. 'I hear the mystics master has offered your friend Feldspar a place. You must be pleased for him, but where does that leave you? This made me wonder why you hadn't come to ask me for a place.' Though he fixed Fyn with a fond, avuncular look, his eyes held a predatory gleam.
Fyn avoided his gaze. He had not gone to the history master because, though he had a genuine love of history, he did not like Hotpool. The master's smile did not reach his eyes and the monks who went into his service complained of favours they did not wish to give.
Fyn cleared his throat. 'Master Oakstand said he would offer me a place with the warrior monks, so I thought — '
'The weapons master?' Hotpool frowned. 'I would not have thought you were the type to favour brawn above brains, Fyn. Besides, I know you turned him down.' His eyes narrowed. 'Did you hope to pass over both and aim for a cleric's place? Four of the last ten abbots have been clerics. Is that your goal, to rule Halcyon's abbey since you can't rule Rolencia?'
'I am just a lowly acolyte,' Fyn said quickly, heart hammering with discomfort. 'I can only hope that in their wisdom, the masters select the right vocation for me.'
Before Hotpool could comment, he bowed and slipped away.
Knees shaking, Fyn cursed Piro. It was all her fault. If she hadn't interfered he might have found the Fate and then he would have been with the mystics master right now, safe from Master Hotpool and others like him.
Fyn headed for his brothers' chambers. Life was relatively simple for Piro, but she had certainly complicated his life.