Fyn reached Viridian Lake by mid-morning and strapped on the borrowed skates. It looked like the thaw would be late this spring, even so, Fyn kept to the edges where the ice was thickest. Twice more he had seen Merofynian search parties but managed to avoid them.
Viridian Lake, named because of the exquisite shade of its deep waters, was a long sinuous lake, connected at the far end by canal to Sapphire Lake. From there he was on the last leg of his journey to Rolenhold, where his father was probably wondering why the abbot had not sent aid.
Fyn could only hope that Byren's injury was not as bad as the Merofynians believed and that his brother had found some helpful farmers willing to risk their lives to save him.
Fyn stood on the borrowed skates. There was no wind and the sky was cloudless, which meant it would be frightfully cold when night fell, but this also meant the stars would be out in force, great swirls of effervescent colour to light his way.
And aid the Merofynian search parties.
Fear for Piro's safety and the news he had to deliver empowered him. Trusting to his disguise to fool any Merofynians who might spot him, Fyn set off. If he skated all night and all day he would reach Sapphire Lake by tomorrow evening and Rolenhold by the next day.
As Piro left her father's hall – where she had seen him host feasts, award honours and boast of his hunting skills – she let her hair fall forwards and focused on the ground. In a matter of days she had fallen from kingsdaughter to slave, just another prize of war.
All around her the raucous warriors roistered, eating and drinking, grabbing any passing wench they fancied. A servant, who only a few days ago had filled her bath, darted past hurrying to serve new masters. Piro averted her face.
They were out of the great hall now, walking through the bloodied courtyard, heading for the main gate. All around her the people of Rolenton shuffled past, driven back to the town. Dunstany kept well away from Palatyne's men, who were tossing bodies into an open cart.
Panic spiked in Piro. There, by the gate, was Cobalt's servant, the one who had been told to look out for her. He knew her face.
Dunstany stopped suddenly, turning to her. 'What is your name, girl?'
Panic seized her. How could she hide from the servant?
'Your name?' Dunstany pressed.
She hadn't thought that far ahead and said the first thing that came to her. 'Seela, sor.' Then she remembered that was a Merofynian name and hurried to add, 'My mother's mother come from -'
'I don't want your family history,' he snapped. 'Listen, Seela. I am your master now. Walk one step behind me and do not speak unless I give you permission. Understand?'
She nodded, feeling resentful – worse, feeling trapped. How could she escape the servant's notice?
'Come.' As Dunstany strode off towards the gate, Piro considered running away but he glanced back over his shoulder impatiently and she fell into step.
'Didn't they tell you?' Dunstany asked as he approached the man. 'They've already found the kingsdaughter. Palatyne's in King Rolen's trophy room handing treasures out to his faithful servants.'
Piro hovered behind Dunstany, grateful for his broad, if stooped, back. The man thanked the noble Power-worker and hurried off, eager to get his share of the treasure.
Piro swallowed. She was safe, safe as long as the man didn't think to check her body. 'Lord Dunstany? What happened to the bodies of the queen and the others?'
He glanced swiftly to her. 'They'll have been burned by now. We don't want anyone saving a lock of hair and selling it as a relic. Come along.'
His casual attitude stung, but she was relieved to hear the bodies had already been burnt. Now Cobalt's servant would never know that another girl had taken Piro's place.
As they walked down the steep winding road to Rolenton, the townsfolk gave them a wide berth. They were silent, shuffling along, defeated. She prayed none of them took a close look at her, for she was well known in town and at any moment someone might recognise her and give her away. She wanted to get out of sight as soon as possible.
'Where are we going, Lord Dunstany?' she asked softly.
'I did not give you permission to speak. But to answer your question, I prefer my own quarters as far from the Utlander and his twin brother as possible. Mark my words, Seela, if either of them approaches you they are up to no good.'
Piro nodded. She never intended to have anything to do with the other Power-workers, and the less she had to do with Dunstany the better. At least she was safe if she stayed in his dwelling and saw only his servants, for none of them would recognise her. Once there, she would lay low until she was ready to escape to the mountains.
Focusing on Dunstany's indigo robe, she followed the tall scholar. He strode along so fast that she had to take a skipping step every now and then to keep up.
At the town gate her step faltered. There was Captain Temor's head on a spike along with others from the king's honour guard, men she had known all her life. To her right the Merofynians were throwing bodies onto a bonfire. Yet she felt nothing but relief. What was wrong with her?
The position of the sun told her that it was only mid-afternoon. It felt like days had passed since her father rode out to meet Palatyne under a flag of truce, though it had only been this morning. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. In the cold, the heads would last a long time. Her throat grew tight with unshed tears.
'Look at me, not them!' Dunstany spun her around to face him, his black eyes fierce. He gave her a little shake and a surge of anger banished her tears. 'I've called your name three times. Don't make me come after you again. Hurry up.'
Dunstany strode through the gate where Captain Temor and his men had bought enough time for Piro to retreat to the castle, a sacrifice wasted by the traitor who opened the postern gate. Fury fuelled her as she scurried after the noble Power-worker. It felt good. She nurtured the sensation.
Just inside Rolenton's gates several servants, wearing the same shade of indigo as Lord Dunstany, waited beside a heavily laden cart.
'Ahh, Soterro.' Dunstany greeted one of them in Rolencian, so he intended Piro to understand. This was confirmed when he turned to her. 'Soterro is the head of my house when I am travelling. You will obey him as you obey me.'
Piro dipped her head as a maidservant would do when greeting a higher-ranked servant. Soterro was an Ostronite name but it was not unusual to see one of the decadent Ostronites serving a great Merofynian lord.
Dunstany switched to Merofynian. 'My new slave needs warm water and fresh clothes. I won't have her take up her duties until she has been thoroughly washed.'
Piro bristled. She was not that dirty. No… but a serving girl might be and this gave her a chance to disguise the fact that her deception was not perfect.
'Give her a room that can be locked. She's from the castle and we don't want her running away.'
The servant looked her up and down and sniffed. 'If that's the pick of the castle's servants I wouldn't want to see the worst.'
Piro gave him an uneasy look, careful to give no sign that she understood anything but his tone. He spoke Merofynian with a slight Ostronite accent, which confirmed her guess.
'There's no female clothing in the chest, my lord,' Soterro said, with some satisfaction.
'Even better. Come along.' Dunstany led them along the street into the town square where the wealthiest merchant houses stood. He strode straight past the proud three and four-storey buildings, heading for the apothecary's. A man stood guard in front of the door, which hung off one hinge.
Dunstany tossed the man a coin and strode into the ground-floor room where the herbalist would have served his customers. Much had been destroyed by Palatyne's men. Cabinets with narrow drawers covered the wall on Piro's left. Some had been tipped on the floor. Symbols told her the drawers were filled with herbs both rare and common. This hadn't interested the looters. But it did interest Piro. She recognised the powdered form of hellsbane, a powerful poison. What were her chances of slipping that in the overlord's wine?
On the mahogany counter, a stack of starkiss-scented candles gave off a delicious citrus aroma even though they were unlit. On the shelves behind, glass jars containing preserved organs gathered dust.
Piro glanced to the right. There were framed illustrations of bodies, both human and Affinity beast, with detailed diagrams of their internal organs. The notes were written so small they were almost illegible.
Trust an Affinity renegade to take over an apothecary's shop.
Beyond this room there would be a hall with a chamber where the herbalist prepared his treatments and one where the family dined, then the kitchen. The family would have slept on the next floor and the servants in the attic above that. She tried not to think of the family that used to live here.
Dunstany surveyed the mess disgustedly, then pointed to the crooked door. 'Soterro, get that fixed and tidy up here.'
'Certainly, my lord.'
While Dunstany strode off, Soterro ordered the others about in Merofynian and then, seeing Piro looking lost, beckoned her impatiently.
She followed him through to the kitchen, where it seemed the looters hadn't bothered to venture, for the room was tidy. A little man who was as wide as he was tall entered from the courtyard with three chickens, their necks freshly wrung.
He tossed them to a kitchen boy. 'Don't just sit there, Grysha, get plucking. The lord will want a hot dinner and no excuses.' He paused as he eyed Piro with growing resentment. 'I supposed I'm to look after the new slave?'
'You heard the master, Cook,' Soterro said. 'He wants her washed and dressed.'
'What am I, her nursemaid?' Cook grumbled. 'There's no hot water. I've only just lit the grate.'
'Then she can use cold and be grateful for it.'
Though they spoke Merofynian, Piro suspected they would probably have been just as rude if they thought she could understand them.
Soterro turned to Piro, speaking excellent Rolencian. 'Fill a bucket with water and come this way.'
She used the pump over the stone sink to fill the bucket and the cook tossed her a rag to wash herself with. It was already filthy. Piro eyed it reluctantly, but a maidservant who had become a slave would not protest.
'Hurry up, I haven't got all day,' Soterro snapped. 'This way.'
Back in the next room he dug through one of his master's chests until he found what he was looking for, tossing her a bundle of clothes. 'Here, catch. Something will fit you. Come on.' He led her into the hall saying, 'You can call me Master Soterro. And you always call our master Lord Dunstany, or "my lord." He's a great man. He's been advisor to the kings of Merofynia for seventy years!'
Piro blinked. Except for the bone-ache that twisted his hands, Dunstany looked no older than fifty. It appeared long life was a by-product of renegade Affinity.
A youth passed them, carrying a pan of broken glass.
'Put that aside and bring your tools.'
They waited until he returned, then Soterro led them up the stairs. The head servant was puffing when he came to the second flight of much narrower stairs. At the top landing he opened door after door until he found a tiny room tucked under the ceiling. It was piercingly cold. 'What's your name, girl?'
Piro blinked. 'Seela, sor. I mean, Master Soterro.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'That's a Merofynian name.'
'I'm named after me ma's ma. She was from Merofynia. Reckon she -'
He silenced her with a wave. 'Get cleaned up.' He turned his back on her to speak with the carpenter. 'I want a bolt fixed to this door and her locked in safely before you come back downstairs.'
As the youth got out his tools, Piro sat on the single low cot to watch, while he fixed a large metal bolt to the door. He did not meet her eyes but, when he was done, he cast her a shy glance.
She turned her face away, not wanting to make friends with Dunstany's servants. The youth shut the door and she heard the bolt slide home.
As the air slowly left Piro's chest, she felt a little light-headed. The water in the bucket was cold, so she bathed quickly. Determined to keep her wits about her, she changed into the boy's leggings and the azure thigh-length pinafore of a Merofynian court page. Its heavy brocade yoke came down to her mid-chest, hiding her breasts. Dressed like this she could pass for a boy. A pretty boy. She pulled her hair into a single tight plait like the Merofynian servants wore, and sat the white rabbit-fur cap on her head. There was no mirror, but if she stood in the right spot she could just make out her reflection in the attic window.
Excellent. No one would recognise Piro Rolen Kingsdaughter now.
Her stomach rumbled. How could she be hungry after everything that had happened?
Could she climb out the window? Piro forced the catch, knocking snow off the sill. It landed on the roof of the kitchen far below. The slates of the attic roof were slick and icy. In desperation she might risk trying to cross them, but not today, not when there could be easier ways to escape.
She gazed out at the many steep, snowcapped roofs of Rolenton. Above the town Rolenhold sat on its pinnacle, with the Dividing Mountains rising high behind it, shrouded in clouds. Palatyne's azure and black flags hung from Rolenhold's two gate towers. She felt as limp as those flags.
Her home, her whole life lay in ruins. The overlord had set out to destroy King Rolen and all his kin to escape a prophecy.
I make my own fate! he'd claimed.
And so he did.
A small, grim smile tugged at Piro's lips. Overlord Palatyne might have killed her family and stolen their kingdom, but he had overlooked one small, insignificant slave girl who knew which herbs could kill. She would fulfil the prophecy!
Fyn ate while skating, determined to make up time. The brilliant evening star was four fingers above the horizon when he slipped and skidded across the ice. He lay stunned for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Rolling onto his knees, he realised he'd almost dozed off. He should rest for a bit and skate later.
Grateful for the thick fisherman's coat, he built a hasty snow-cave on the shore and crawled inside. As he curled into a ball, his hand went to his chest to settle on the royal emblem that he no longer wore. Instead his fingers closed around Halcyon's Fate.
Had Master Catillum escaped the mass grave? Would he survive his injury and the dangers of Rolencia's winter? Would he reach Sylion Abbey despite all the Merofynian search parties wandering the slopes of Mount Halcyon?
Fyn knew there was a chance he could turn the Fate to his will. Logic told him not to try, when there was also a chance some Merofynian Power-worker might capture him while he was vulnerable, viewing the Unseen world, but… the Fate had shown him Isolt, daughter of King Merofyn. And it hadn't shown any visions to Piro, who had handled it before him. Unlike Feldspar and Piro, it seemed his Affinity was attuned to the Fate.
He stroked the opalised seashell's spiral surface. Like a cat stretching under a loving hand, the Fate warmed to his fingers. A flicker of light travelled through the opal, distant lightning behind stormy clouds.
Fyn was tempted…
But the memory of emptying his stomach in the snow outside Lame Klimen's cottage was still too fresh. If the Fate took that much of a toll on his Affinity he might end up as Feldspar had warned, with a brain spasm.
In the end caution won out.
Rest, then set off later tonight.
Byren heard them whispering. He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey him. At least he was in a real bed, not being rocked to pieces on that sled. He recalled flashes of being carried inside, someone peeling off his bloodied vest. That was when he'd almost passed out.
The healer – he remembered her Sylion veil now – had given him a draught that tasted foul despite the addition of peppermint. Then, before she could finish stripping him, the dyer had interrupted her.
Now they whispered furiously in the hallway. Byren struggled to open his eyes, and saw a wall, the shadows of two people with their heads together.
'…can't stay here -'
'None of us can stay here,' the dyer said. 'My Miron's just come back with bad news. The castle's fallen. The Merofynians will rampage across the valley, taking what they want.'
Byren refused to believe it. It was the abbey that had been taken, not the castle. He had to warn his father.
That's right, he had. He'd sent word, sent it with the dyer's son, Miron who had come back because… no, the castle couldn't have fallen!
'Can we move him?' the dyer asked.
'I haven't checked the wound yet, but from the amount of blood on his vest… moving him might kill him.'
'It hasn't killed him yet. Sleeping in the snow should have killed him. He's tough as an old goat. Treat him and we'll move on. I'm guessing he's the last of King Rolen's kin. Miron says they burned the royal bodies so there would be no relics.'
'Burned who?'
'The king, his queen and the kingsdaughter.'
A moan was torn from Byren. Not Piro, not his mother.
Footsteps. Cool fingers on his forehead. Soft, female voice, calming.
Byren tried to catch her hand, but his arm was too heavy to lift. He tried to focus on the healer's face but his lids would not stay open. Not only was he useless, he'd failed his family. Another moan escaped him.
'Hush, bantling,' she whispered, speaking the kind of words mothers used to soothe small children. It amused him. He was a man, not a child of five. 'You've been very sick. You need to rest.'
How could he sleep when… 'M'mother, Piro!'
'I should have kept my voice down,' the dyer muttered.
'He should have been dead to the world. I gave him enough dreamless-sleep to knock out a horse.'
Byren lifted his head and prised his eyes open a crack, only to discover the single candle was too bright to bear. But he squinted up at the dyer, holding his eyes. 'Are you sure they're dead?'
The dyer's voice dropped as he leant closer. 'Miron met others fleeing. The overlord ordered the bodies burned.'
Byren fell back on the pillow. Hot tears seeped from his eyes, running down the side of his face. He had failed. His family were all dead but for him, and that could surely only be a matter of time.
The air escaped his chest in a long, despairing sigh. 'Don't risk your lives for me. Save yourselves and your families.' His voice was only a thread. 'Head for the mountains.'
'But Rolencia needs you,' the dyer insisted. 'You can't give up.'
Why not? He'd failed everyone who loved him, starting with Elina.
Byren turned his face to the wall as a wave of sorrow engulfed him, dragging him down.