The queen and Seela pushed Piro out the door of the solarium, into the long corridor, with admonishments still ringing in her ears. For one tempting moment, she considered running to the stables and hiding in the hay loft. Last winter she might have done it, but with the arrival of her Affinity had come the realisation that she would have to grow up and face the world eventually.
Still, her feet dragged as she made her way along to the trophy chamber. She understood why her father chose to meet the warlord there. The room housed tributes collected by the royal family of Rolencia over the last three hundred years. There were great metal shields, decorated with beasts as fierce as the barbarian warlords who had once carried them.
Niches in the walls housed porcelain urns of rare oils from Ostron Isle and vases encrusted with semi-precious stones. Also from Ostron Isle came cedarwood furniture, carved so skilfully it seemed alive. Over the fireplace hung the Mirror of Insight. In all the years Piro had peered into it, it had never done anything but reflect the room's trophies and her own curious face.
There was a stuffed wyvern, though not as large as the ones which roamed the Royal grounds of Merofynia. The taxidermist had done a wonderful job, standing it on its rear legs so that it was taller than a man, mouth open to reveal razor-edged teeth. Its gleaming sapphire eyes were real jewels which winked with reflected light. Its short upper arms were raised to claw and its wings were extended to display their delicate membrane. It stood to one side of the oriel window which looked out over Rolencia.
On the other side was a stuffed foenix. This bird had roamed the menagerie back in her grandfather's time. It was taller than Piro. A crest of brilliant red feathers added another head and a half to its height. It was not as fierce-looking as the wyvern, though its beak was hard as metal and its chest was covered in scales as hard as armour, plus it had dangerous spurs on its legs. Like the wyvern, its eyes were real stones, emeralds.
If they did not find a mate for Piro's foenix, he would end up like this one and then the only foenixes people would ever see would be stuffed ones.
Piro stopped outside the carved oak door of the trophy chamber, heart hammering. Two pillars rose up to an arch over the door. Their decoration was the royal foenix, gold on deep red, with onyx stone touches. Piro ran her fingers over the embossed surface, then, taking a deep breath, she felt for the door handle. Somehow, she must not antagonise her father.
Piro could have loved King Rolen, if he'd only let her. Throughout her childhood he had been a distant figure, striding in to take her older brothers hunting, while she had been lucky to get a pat on the head in passing. Now he was going to marry her off.
Anger rolled through her. How could she marry a strange barbarian warlord? Her mother's last words rang in her head. Still smarting from those comments — she was not a thoughtless child — Piro decided she would keep an open mind and give this warlord a chance, but if he proved impossible, she would have to refuse her father.
And that was a frightening thought.
She licked dry lips and went to turn the handle, but it turned under her hand as a servant opened the door, backing out. Sweetbreads and a bottle of Rolencia's famous red wine had been delivered on a trolley which stood in front of the oriel window. Her father and another man were standing in the window's curve. The light from the leaded panes was behind them, so she could not see their faces. The warlord was not as tall as her father, but then few men were. Only Lence and Byren were bigger.
Feeling at a disadvantage, she glided across the room, assuming the graceful walk her mother had taught her.
'You sent for me, royal Father?' Piro said, dropping her gaze and bowing from the waist, since this was a formal occasion.
When she looked up King Rolen beckoned her. 'Piro Rolen Kingsdaughter. I swear you are as beautiful as your mother was the day I married her.'
'I will not be old enough to marry until I turn fifteen,' Piro pointed out. 'And that is not until the midsummer after next.'
Her father ignored this, leading her around the food trolley. 'Meet the ruler of Cockatrice Spar. Warlord Rejulas… my daughter, Piro.'
She gave him the minimum dip of her head. After all, she was a kingsdaughter and Rejulas was a mere warlord.
Cockatrice Spar was not the largest of the ridges that fanned out from the Dividing Mountains, but it was the one nearest Merofynia. Border wars were always going on over the Disputed Isles, a cluster of islands off the coast from the spar. As a student of history, Piro understood her father was marrying her to this warlord to ensure the safety of Rolencia's borders. She would be expected to spy on her husband and report back to her father and brothers. It was necessary, but she still resented it.
Piro looked up and caught the warlord staring at her. He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking.
A jolt ran through her. This Lord Rejulas was an unusual man with a 'witchy' look around his narrow eyes and high cheek bones. There had to be a bit of Utland raider in him, back a generation or two. She guessed he was several years older than the twins, but not near thirty, for there was no silver in the hair at his temples. Rather than the much-admired black eyes, his were brown, and met hers thoughtfully.
So this was the warlord she was supposed to marry? She would be hard put to find a more striking man. But he dressed like the barbarian he was. He even wore a vest of wyvern scales. How many men had died so that he could show off that sun-on-sea rippling blue vest? His shirt leather was so soft the women of his tribe must have chewed their teeth down to stubs on it. He was in for a surprise if he thought she would chew his leather!
A gold clasp in the shape of a cockatrice, the tall bird with the serpent's tail, held his cloak at the shoulder. The cockatrice cloak was one of the rare pure black ones, the feathers so fine they were nearly fur. Most of his long black hair was plaited behind his head. The front half was drawn over to one side and hung in a long pony tail by his right ear. It was held at intervals by gold bands, one for every man he had killed in battle. His battletale, as it was called, was almost solid gold. If she was really lucky, he would get himself killed in a border skirmish. Small chance of that!
And, judging from the appraising look he gave her, he was intelligent. Good. She hated stupidity.
She met his gaze. He grinned, confidently. She disliked him on instinct but, before she could speak, her father indicated the board game which sat on a low table in the bay window.
'Why don't we play Duelling Kingdoms? You have probably played a version of this game, warlord Rejulas. The way we play it here at court is more complex. The rewards are greater but then so are the risks. Will you play?'
Was her father being subtly cryptic? Piro wondered, and glanced to Rejulas to see if he thought so.
'How can I refuse?' he replied, with a smile that said he would rise to the challenge.
'Would you like to be the Elector of Ostron, Piro?' her father asked. The ruler of Ostron Isle was in charge of the wild cards, Unknowables. The elector could not win, but neither could he lose, since the real battle was between the two kings. 'I'll take King Rolence the First's piece. And you can play King Merofyn the First, Rejulas.'
Piro's father smiled grimly as he sat down at the triangular table. She took her seat and studied the familiar board. Rolencia and Merofynia were two crescents, one opened to the north, the other to the south. They were linked at their closest ends by the Snow Bridge. In real life this was a series of high ridges where the air was so thin only the locals could live comfortably. The people of the Snow Bridge formed fiercely independent city states, which monitored the three passes between Rolencia and Merofynia, taking their cut of all land trade.
From the mountains that bordered the outer crescents, long spikes stretched into the sea. In real life these ridges were broken, with small islands scattered about them.
Piro picked up the piece she was to play. The carving of the Elector of Ostron was as tall as her shortest finger and engraved with lifelike detail. Tiny jewels were set in his turbaned crown. Judging from Lord Cobalt, this style of clothing was well out of date. The wild cards were stacked on Ostron Isle which lay to the east of Merofynia.
'Turn over the first Unknowable, Piro,' her father said.
When the game began, each king was evenly matched with the same number of trained warriors, plus five warlords and their warriors. The object of the game was to invade the other kingdom.
There were three ways to attack. One was over the Snow Bridge which linked the two kingdoms. Snow closed the passes from autumn to spring. The thin air and exertion could wipe out half the army, or the inhabitants of the Snow Bridge could open the gates of their city states and turn on the men, to loot the army.
The next way to invade was to sail around the warlords' spars and navigate the outlying islands where the ships were prey to storms, Utland Raiders and wyverns. All these obstacles had to be overcome to reach the two kingdoms' vulnerable crescent valleys.
The last and least used way, because it entailed bribing a warlord to betray his king, was to march across the spar nearest to the invading king's harbour. In Merofynia's case, Cockatrice Spar.
That made Piro wonder. If her brother was betrothed to the Merofynian kingsdaughter they did not need to ensure this warlord's loyalty, did they?
It struck Piro that the game assumed the two kings would always seek to conquer one another. What if they were both content to rule their own lands? He father certainly was.
'Ready, Piro?' her father prodded.
She stacked the cards neatly. As the Elector of Ostron Isle, she held the Unknowables, factors beyond the kings' control, storms that sunk ships, Utland Raiders that destroyed fleets, treacherous warlords who betrayed their king, or the elector himself might support one king against the other.
Piro picked up the top card and read aloud. 'The city states of the Snow Bridge refuse to open the passes to the king's army.'
It was a setback for the warlord. Her father smiled and his eyes gleamed. 'Your move, Rejulas.'
The warlord rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
'Piro, we will have our wine,' her father said.
She pulled the trolley closer and poured two elegant silver goblets of the gleaming, rich wine. Its celebrated colour appeared on the royal emblem. She loved the fruity smell, associating it with winter nights, festivals and story telling.
King Rolen accepted his wine and Rejulas did likewise.
'To Rolencia, may her borders always be free from threat,' her father gave the traditional toast.
'To Rolencia and Cockatrice Spar, brothers-at-arms,' Rejulas replied. At the same time he moved half of King Merofyn's army into the waiting fleet and embarked on the sea journey to Rolencia's vulnerable inner crescent.
King Rolen would have to counter. He savoured a mouthful of wine and studied the board.
'You don't drink, Piro Kingsdaughter?' Rejulas's smile was quizzical. He had an easy charm, as if he was used to getting his own way.
'I don't know yet if I have reason to celebrate,' she replied, watching for his reaction.
His eyes widened. Good.
'Piro, the sweetbreads,' her father suggested swiftly. He sent five ships to meet the Merofynian fleet. 'Your move, Rejulas. You will find I am most experienced at keeping what is mine!'
Piro cut a small loaf into thin slices. Its surface was crusted with honey-glazed almond slivers.
She could feel Rejulas watching her. She desperately wanted to know what manner of man he was. She felt an itch crawling across her skin, heralding the build-up of Affinity in her body. With every sense strained to interpret his actions, she held out the plate of sweetbread.
He took it from her. Dropping a dollop of cream on a slice, he offered it to her. It was neatly done, not something you would expect from a barbarian, and the smile that accompanied it was rueful, as if he was apologising for having misjudged her.
Piro accepted the bread with a cautious smile of her own. She took a bite, anticipating the sweetness of almonds and honey as the sweet bread melted on her tongue. Instead her mouth was filled with a vile taste. Burning fumes rushed up the back of her nose, threatening to choke her. She could not possibly swallow.
Piro grabbed a napkin as she sprang up from the table, sending the game of Duelling Kingdoms to the floor. Turning away she spat the food into the napkin but still the fumes lingered. A fit of coughing shook her. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She could not get the taste from her tongue. Fearing she might throw up, she stumbled a few steps further. Both men stood. Rejulas reached out to steady her. She sprang away from him, clutching her father's arm, and held on as she fought to catch her breath.
'Something go down the wrong way? Here, sup this.' King Rolen held his wine for her and she gulped to drown the taste. The wine was everything it should have been, smooth and redolent of plums.
'Th-thank you,' Piro managed. Feeling a little better, she wiped her eyes and glanced into the mirror over the fire place. She must look a fright. Her cheeks were hot and glistening with tears. Her cap was crooked. Her head and ears buzzed with excess Affinity. Even her vision wavered as the Unseen world tried to usurp the seen world.
'Your pardon, Father, Warlord Rejulas,' she said smoothly, if a trifle huskily. The queen would have approved of her control, Piro thought as she stepped closer to the mirror to straighten her head-dress.
'Next time don't rush your food,' King Rolen told her. 'Girls, eh, Rejulas? We will have to start the game again. Pick up the pieces, Piro.'
As she replaced the last pin and looked into the mirror to smooth her hair, the wyvern came to life. It went to tear off her father's head.
Spinning around, she drew breath to scream a warning. But her father was safely in his chair by the table and warlord Rejulas was about to resume his seat.
The implications made her head spin.
'Pick up the pieces, kingsdaughter,' her father ordered, growing impatient.
When Piro turned back to the mirror it reflected nothing more alarming than a table, two men and the stuffed wyvern.
What was going on? In her mind's eye she kept seeing her father struck down by the wyvern.
'Piro?' The king frowned at her.
She stared at him, horrified. He was going to die and he would never believe her if she tried to warn him!
She backed out of the room.
'Piro, come back here!' King Rolen roared.
She ran out the door.
In the corridor she hesitated, unsure where to go with so many people in the castle.
The door swung open behind her. Rejulas stepped out, obviously sent by her father to bring her back. When his hand closed over her arm she felt a wave of nausea.
'Let go!' As she twisted free, her fingers brushed the wyvern-skin vest. 'Barbarian!'
His breath drew in on a sharp hiss and caught her hand, twisting her wrist cruelly. 'The only difference between you and me, is that three hundred years ago your family clawed their way over the Divide and conquered the valley people, kingsdaughter!'
Piro fled.
Byren threw the door open to their shared chamber to find Lence waiting for him. Seated on his mahogany desk, his brother swung one booted foot.
'So you went to find our little brother,' Lence said.
He had been searching for Piro but their old nurse had found her first. No need to tell Lence that.
'Just as well I did. Some monks were about to beat him. I asked him back here for a drink. He should be along soon.' Byren went to the desk and poured himself a honeyed mead. It was still steaming, the servant must have just left.
As he went to take a mouthful Lence caught his arm. 'You shouldn't have told Fyn so much after the assassination attempt. He hasn't been invited to take a chair at the war table, Byren.'
'He's our brother.'
The door swung open and Fyn walked in. Lence dropped Byren's arm.
'Ah, Fyn. Share a drink with us,' Byren greeted him, pouring another tankard. He lifted his own. 'To Lence's betrothed, may her teeth be straight and her smile pretty!'
Lence smiled grimly. 'Doesn't matter what she looks like. As long as she does her duty, I'll do mine. I'll let her know who's in charge right away.' He tilted back his head and gulped some mead.
Byren felt a stab of pity for Isolt.
Fyn sipped his mead, looking from Byren to Lence. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Lence took out his dagger and began to clean his nails with the tip.
Byren put his tankard down. For the first time in his life he felt uncomfortable with Lence. Things left unsaid hung between them, threatening to erupt, but not with Fyn present. Byren didn't know which was worse, waiting for Lence to confront him, or waiting for Fyn to leave so Lence could.
Byren stretched and went over to the weapons display to select a knife, weighing it, feeling the balance. 'Lost my ceremonial dagger in the attack. Sylion take them. Reckon they'll be picking the jewels out of it right now, counting themselves lucky. This knife feels well balanced. What do you think, Lence?'
His brother shrugged, casting Fyn a swift glance. 'The proof of the knife or the man is in their actions. Throw it and see.'
Byren stiffened, hearing a criticism of Orrade. Was his defence of Orrade the reason why Lence was withdrawing from him? Fyn also stiffened, responding to the undertones in Lence's voice, so Byren wasn't imagining it. He strode over to the target, stepping onto a line, scraped in the floor boards by years of eager youths.
'If you think one of the warlords sent the assassins, which one was it?' Fyn asked.
Byren threw his knife. It hit the target just above centre.
'Not bad.' Lence continued to swing one boot, while cleaning his nails with his dagger.
'Let's see you do better.' Byren walked over to retrieve his knife. The soft wood-panelled wall to one side of the fireplace showed many small pit marks where daggers had missed, reminding Byren of their boyhood. He longed for those happy days before betrothals and honour guards. 'Give us a look at your betrothed, Lence. Does she have buck teeth?'
'She's pretty enough, if the artist can be trusted.' Lence pulled the locket over his head and tossed it to Byren, the chain trailing behind like a bird's long tail.
Byren caught it. 'Mother and Father made a political match and they're happy.'
'True. But that's rare.' Lence drained his honeyed mead, wiping his mouth. He stood, turning the knife in his hand to throw. The way he moved held menace. 'My go.'
Placing the tip of his boot on the starting line, he tossed his knife expertly. It quivered in the target, just to the right of Byren's mark.
Lence retrieved his knife.
Byren flicked the locket open. The artist had painted Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter from a three-quarters view. She looked stiff and a little frightened. Black hair, milky skin, luminous black eyes. No eyebrows, hair pulled back under a sapphire-encrusted coronet, high lace at her throat. Byren didn't think much of the Merofynian fashions. Too mannered.
'Why would the warlords want to destabilise the balance of power?' Fyn asked. 'Surely they don't want Rolencia to be at war with Merofynia?'
Lence said nothing, sending Byren a loaded look.
Fyn shifted, trying to contain his frustration, as neither of them answered. Much as Byren wanted to trust Fyn, Lence was right, they did not have their parents' permission to discuss war table matters with him.
'Come here, Fyn, and take a look at Lence's betrothed.' Byren said.
Fyn joined him, glanced at the miniature and gasped.
'What?' Byren prodded.
'She's… she's got no eyebrows!' Fyn stammered.
Lence caught Byren's eye with a cryptic look. Fyn had sounded like he'd been about to say something else.
'So what?' Lence snapped. 'Ambassador Benvenute assures me that's the fashion in the Merofynian court.'
Byren frowned at the face in the locket. 'She might be pretty but she doesn't look happy.'
Lence shrugged. 'Who would be happy with King Merofyn for a father? I hear he's gone through four food tasters since his unistag horn was stolen. Maybe I'll win his gratitude by sending him another one, a pure white one, perfect for detecting poison. I know! The warlord of Unistag Spar hasn't renewed his vow of loyalty. He can prove it by trapping a unistag and sending me the horn!'
'If he's failed to renew his vow, it's father's forgiveness he must win,' Fyn pointed out. Lence grimaced.
'Yes, Rolencia must do something about that warlord,' Byren said quickly, to divert Lence's anger from Fyn.
Their younger brother turned the miniature over, studying the Merofynian kingsdaughter. 'That's not a good likeness of Isolt.'
Lence snorted. 'And how would you know?'
Fyn looked startled, then guilty. 'I… I looked into Halcyon's Fate by mistake and she was in my vision. She was at a feast but her eyes were sad.'
'You'll be a monk soon and girls will be the last thing on your mind.' Lence grinned. 'Or do the monks get around their vow of chastity?'
Fyn's face went bright red.
'Hey, Byren, let's get a girl for Fyn before he gives up the world. With his pretty face it shouldn't be too hard to find one who'll lift her skirts.' There was a hard edge to Lence's laughter that Byren didn't like or understand. Was Lence angry because he'd been forced to give up Elina? Byren wondered how he would feel if he had to watch Elina take another man for her lover, or, worse, her husband. With a jolt he realised that he hadn't given up hope. Not yet. Somehow he would win her trust, win her back.
Fyn went to turn away.
Lence caught his arm. 'So you think yourself too good for the rest of us, master monk?'
'Leave him alone, Lence. Fyn never asked to be a monk!' Byren snapped. 'More importantly, if Fyn saw a vision in Halcyon's Fate, then he should be the one the mystics master accepts, not his friend. Why don't you go to the mystics master, Fyn?'
Lence let Fyn go. 'Well?'
Fyn did not meet their eyes. 'It was an accident. Feldspar dropped the Fate. I picked it up and the vision came. Much as I'd like to be the one, Feldspar deserves his place with the mystics.'
Byren frowned. Fyn was lying about something.
Lence snorted. 'I don't know about you, but I'd rather be a warrior than a mystic!'
Fyn stared at Lence, the gulf between them obvious to Byren. Lence's top lip curled. Quickly, Byren retrieved the miniature from Fyn saying, 'here's your locket, Lence.'
It made him realise he had been doing this sort of thing for a while now, diverting Lence, smoothing things over. He couldn't remember when it had started, only that it had become second nature to him. He turned to Fyn. 'Your throw, pick a knife.'
Fyn stepped over to the weapon display and selected a knife.
'Yes, take your throw,' Lence urged. 'Let's see what you're made of.'
Byren's stomach knotted.
Fyn lifted his knife, but before he could take aim the door to the hall flew open and their father stalked in.
'I swear I'll throttle that girl when I catch her. Do you know what your sister's done now? Thrown away a year's negotiation with the warlord of Cockatrice Spar!' His gaze settled on Fyn. 'Do you know where she is?'
'I don't know, Father. I've been here, with Lence and Byren.'
'That's right,' Byren said.
'Well, don't just stand there. Go find her!' King Rolen roared. 'I'll be waiting at the war table. Curse her for a wyvern's whelp!'
'You two go,' Lence said. 'I must tell father about the assassination attempt.'
'What?' King Rolen muttered, then glanced swiftly to Fyn.
'Fyn came upon us in the middle of it. Because of him the swordsmen fled,' Byren explained. 'Three of them armed, and us with nothing but our ceremonial daggers, in Rolenton itself!'
'Bold and confident,' King Rolen muttered. He focused on Lence. 'Are you all right, lad?'
'Of course.' Lence laughed but it was not a happy sound.
Byren glanced to his father, who appeared not to notice the undertone of anger. Was he the only one who heard it?
'If Byren had been two minutes later he would have been kingsheir now,' Lence said.
King Rolen's worried eyes turned to Byren, who shrugged this aside. 'I was lucky to be in the right spot at the right time. Come on, Fyn. Don't forget to tell father about the cockatrice cloak, Lence.'
As he led Fyn outside Byren remembered that their father had been the younger son and he had only inherited the throne after his older brother died on the battle field. Byren shuddered. Hopefully Lence would live to a ripe old age and have many sons.
'Be glad you've been gifted to the abbey,' he told Fyn as they stopped outside the chamber door. 'Right, we'd better split up to find Piro.'
Piro had run straight to her foenix only to have her old nurse catch her kneeling there. The only other surviving menagerie beast, the unistag, gave voice as if to warn her. Turning from the waist, Piro watched Seela approach with a sinking sensation.
'There you are!' Seela cried, wringing her hands. 'Your father is stalking around the castle bellowing for you. What have you done, child?'
'It was awful, Seela. I saw Father's death!'
Seela's face registered surprise, then went slack with shock and Piro realised she'd given herself away.
She sprang to her feet, clutching her old nurse's hands. 'You mustn't tell anyone. Please, don't — '
'Of course not. What do you take me for?' Seela demanded.
Stopped midstream, Piro gaped, then simply accepted her old nurse's assurance, focusing on the most important thing. 'I must warn Father. I can't let him be killed!'
'Warn him and he'll want to know how you know.'
Again, Piro stopped to think. 'I'll say it was a dream.'
'Unless you say it was a foretelling dream sent by the gods through your Affinity, he'll dismiss it.'
She was right. Piro's shoulders sagged and she searched her old nurse's face. 'What can I do, Seela?'
'It's time you knew, Pirola.'
'Knew what?'
Seela's sad dark eyes settled on her. 'Your mother's Affinity came on her at around the same age — '
'Mother? But — '
Seela nodded sadly. 'It was about a year before her wedding. We hid her growing Affinity, Myrella and I. We were doing fine until her father came for the wedding.'
'King Merofyn the Fifth?'
'Yes. After the marriage Myrella had a vision. She saw her father dying on the deck of his ship, killed by Utland pirates. She begged him not to sail back to Merofynia, to take the overland route, but she couldn't tell him why.
'If she had, the marriage would have been annulled and war would have resulted. So Myrella let her father set sail to his death. He never reached Merofynia and your mother has kept her Affinity hidden all this time.'
'You're saying I shouldn't warn Father, that I should let him walk into a trap?' Piro shook her head, backing up a step.
'What if it is a false vision? You have no way of knowing, not without consulting the abbey mystics. What if you have misinterpreted it?' Seela pressed.
Piro licked dry lips. Before today, her Affinity had helped her find lost possessions and guess which Unknowable card would turn up. It had never frightened her. Now it made her cold with fear.
She could still taste the evil fumes on the back of her throat and, when she closed her eyes, she could still see the wyvern about to tear her father's head from his shoulders. Her stomach clenched. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears slid down her cheeks. Brushing them away angrily, she refused to believe that her Affinity made her a channel for evil. This must be a message from the gods.
The vile taste had to mean that Rejulas might appear sweet but he was not to be trusted. And the wyvern's attack meant that Merofynia threatened… but it couldn't, not when Lence had just been betrothed to Isolt.
Piro began to pace, aware of Seela watching her. Perhaps she was mistaken, and these messages were the cruel jests of evil powers. Was the goddess angry with her for profaning the Proving today?
Her head spun and she sank to sit on the lower fence rail of the unistag's pen. He came to her, leaning over the top rail to nuzzle her head, his velvety stag's muzzle soft on the back of her neck. She rubbed his throat, taking comfort in his warm coat. He was looking for Affinity, which she usually let him lick off her fingers but, after the vision, she was drained of power. A part of her wanted to run to the abbess right now and ask the mystics mistress if her visions could be trusted. If she did, the abbess would claim her for Sylion Abbey and she couldn't bear that.
'Your father is in a fury. You must find him and apologise,' Seela urged. 'Swallow your pride, kingsdaughter, and marry a barbarian warlord. Because…' She broke off suddenly.
Piro turned to her. 'Why must I marry the warlord, Seela? What do you know, that I don't?'
'I'm just an old woman whose nurslings have all grown up.' Seela looked stricken. 'And I can't keep them safe, now that they must play Duelling Kingdoms for real.'
Piro's skin went cold. 'Where's Father?'
'At the war table.'
The war table was housed in a room directly above the trophy chamber. The table was covered with a scale model of their kingdom, its seas and surrounding enemies.
'You must go back to your chamber and prepare an apology for your father,' Seela said. 'Stay out of sight.'
Piro nodded, intending to do no such thing. It was only as she was walking back to the family's wing that she remembered the old seer's words.
Like mother, like daughter. The seer had been right!
Piro rubbed her arms to settle the goose bumps. Just because the old seer had been right about one thing, that did not mean she was right about anything else. The mystics mistress had said the future held many possible paths… but Piro didn't know how to find the right path.
She would tell her mother about the dream and ask her advice. Silent on her indoor slippers, she ran up the servant steps to her mother's private chamber which was down the far end of the solarium. A tapestry hung over the door to the servants' stair to keep out draughts, but it did not stop the voices.
Piro slowed. That was her mother speaking, but who was the man with her? She crept to the tapestry and parted it a chink to see the new Lord Cobalt standing much too close to her mother, who had her back to him as she looked through the diamond panes of the narrow window.
'I was twenty-two and you were only a year older, Myrella. I adored you. I thought you were wasted on Rolen.'
'And I told you I had room in my heart for only one man.'
'That's not the way I remember it. You told me you loved me and — '
'That I would never betray my husband.' She sighed, turning to face him. Seeing how close he was, the queen brushed past him to pace over to the fireplace. Piro was struck by how small and fragile her mother looked next to Illien, who was almost as tall as her father.
The queen turned to face Cobalt. 'I did love you, Illien. I was lonely. To Rolen I was a means to an end, to you I was a person. But nothing ever happened so we have nothing to be ashamed of. And then your father sent you away.' She summoned a brave smile. 'I have thought of you many times over the years and hoped you were happy.'
He came closer, voice dropping. 'I thought of you, too. Myrella. I never forgot…'
She held a hand up between them in a gesture of refusal. 'What I said still stands, Illien. Rolen's known me since I was eight years old. It took twenty years of marriage and four children but he has learnt to trust me. He loves me and I love him for the good qualities he has.' Tears glittered in her eyes. She cleared her throat, adopting a more formal tone. 'I was so very sorry to hear about your father and bride. Had you been married long?'
'We were wed…' his voice cracked, 'the day before we set sail — '
'Oh, Illien!' She reached out to him.
He went to her, sinking to his knees so that he pressed his face to her chest as he wept. She stroked his dark hair, her voice soothing.
Piro let the tapestry fall back into place, stunned. Her mother had loved Illien? Still loved him? But he was the opposite of her father, cultured, elegant, clever… Piro winced.
Stunned, she retreated down the stairs, her stomach churning. Unbidden, Affinity swelled under her heart like a thousand anxious butterflies. She had thought herself safe from it after the vision. Affinity had to be used or it would surface when she least wanted it to.
There was only one thing to do.