Byren felt a prod in his back, then another. What was Lence up to? Couldn't he see he was sleeping? Trust his twin to get pleasure out of waking him. He shouldn't have drunk so much last night. On top of that his side hurt with every breath he took. Must have been in a fight.
'Look what I found, Da,' a child's high voice pierced Byren's foggy brain. 'A dead man.'
And it all came back to Byren with horrible clarity.
Lence was dead. Rolencia had been invaded and the abbey had fallen. He'd been mortally injured. He must reach his father while he still had breath in his body. King Rolen had to know that there was no help coming from the abbey.
'Go stand with Miron.' The adult spoke sharply.
'Is he dead, Da?' a third voice asked, cracking on the last word. Byren placed him at about thirteen winters.
'Lotsa blood. Smells real gamey, been sleeping in the snow,' the father muttered. 'If he's not dead, he should be.'
Byren felt hands roll him over and managed to prise his eyes open. There was barely enough light to see in the pale, predawn grey of late winter but he did notice the man's stained fingers. A dyer by profession.
'Ulfr… 'ware the pack!' Byren croaked.
'What's he saying, Da?' the thirteen-year-old asked.
'Must've seen the same tracks we saw.' The dyer peered down into Byren's face. 'You're lucky Rodien spotted your body half-covered in snow. Rolencia's been invaded, so we're headed for the Divide. Or maybe I don't need to tell you that?'
'Merofynians,' Byren whispered.
'Should we take him with us, Da?' Miron asked.
'Can't leave him here.'
'Seep,' Byren warned. 'Pack inna seep.'
'No sign of a seep around here,' the dyer told him, making Byren wonder if it had all been a hallucination for, as far as he knew, he was in the same place where he had lain down with the pack. Or thought he had. Had he been delirious?
'Do you think you can stand? Reckon I can't lift a big fella like you.' The dyer helped haul him upright.
Byren gasped as he felt the wound tug something fierce, but made it to his feet. He was too weak. He had to face it. He couldn't get the message to his father.
The man studied Byren. 'Reckon you need a healer. Have to put you on the sled.'
No healer could save him. 'No point.'
'Can't leave a man to freeze in the snow,' the dyer muttered. 'Come along.'
Byren didn't have the energy to argue as the dyer helped him up the slope towards his sons. At a glance Byren took in Miron. He had the look of a boy who had grown fast, as if he hadn't had time to get used to the length of his arms and legs. The youth soothed the pony as Byren approached, while a boy of about four watched him with wide brown eyes. The pony pulled a sled laden with belongings which the father rearranged to make room for him.
'Wait,' Byren protested as they strapped him onto the sled. 'Have to get to Rolenhold. Merofynians -'
'I know. Marching on Rolenton,' the dyer agreed. 'My eldest, Miron, came home as soon as the king ordered the townsfolk into the castle.'
Byren blinked. 'The abbey's fallen. Can't look for help from them. Must warn m'father -'
'I know who you are!' The dyer announced, peering into his face. 'You're Byren Kingson. You have the look of King Rolen. Served a summer under him when I was seventeen, keeping the warlords in their place. My eldest was going to offer service when his time came.'
'I'm offering now,' Miron insisted. 'I only come back to warn you, Da.'
Byren nodded. Most able-bodied men served a summer or two on the high Divide. 'Send your boy to the castle. He must warn my father that the abbey's fallen.'
But how would this skinny youth convince the king that the message came from Byren, when he'd lost his royal foenix pendant? Byren reached inside his woollen vest, feeling for the two leather thongs he wore. Should he send the foenix spurs taken when he and Lence tried to capture the foenix, or the leogryf teeth? The leogryf was most recent. He hauled the leather thong with its teeth out from inside his vest and lifted his head to remove it. Even this exhausted him.
Blinking blearily, Byren fixed on the earnest Miron. 'Take this to King Rolen. Tell him the abbey has fallen, that I have been injured and that Lence…' Byren could not go on as the loss hit him. He shuddered and his stomach heaved. 'Lence died bravely.'
The dyer squeezed his shoulder. 'My boy will make sure your message gets to King Rolen.'
Byren nodded, and let himself slip into a state of numb exhaustion. Now that he wasn't bringing the abbey's warriors to help his father crush the invaders, how would he prove his loyalty?
Piro knew she was dreaming and she knew how it would end but she couldn't escape. With her mother and old nurse locked up there was no dreamless-sleep to dull her Affinity-induced premonitions. All she could do was hold on and go along for the ride.
In the vision, she hovered just behind her father as he rode out of Rolenhold, resplendent in the manticore chestplate that was Byren's gift. Behind him rode half a dozen of his oldest and most trusted honour guard, men who had been youths and stood at his back when it seemed his kingdom would fall thirty years ago. Now they rode with him to face the Merofynians again.
A wash of frustration rolled through Piro. What was wrong with people? Why couldn't they get on with their lives, instead of making war?
With typical dream suddenness her father now confronted a warlord in Rolenton Square. The warlord rode under the banner of Merofynia but it was clear he was a spar warrior. This was different. In the previous dreams, Merofynian warriors had been in the castle, masquerading as wyverns as they hunted her family.
She knew with the omniscience of a dreamer that the warlord had demanded Rolencia's surrender and that her father had no intention of surrendering. He wanted to meet his enemy to get the man's measure. But the warlord had other ideas.
He dropped his guise, dissolving into the form of an amfina, the twin-headed, winged lizard-snake. While one head smiled and talked with her father, the other signalled assassins in the form of wyverns.
Piro tried to warn her father, but he couldn't hear her dream voice. Frustration tore at her.
Still smiling, the Amfina warlord stepped back and the wyverns plunged in, aiming straight for her father. Old Lord Steadfast tried to protect him but a wyvern shattered his head with one terrible blow. Though Piro had never liked the pompous man, tears stung her eyes. She could do nothing as the wyverns tore her father and his honour guard to pieces.
'Girlie, here girlie. Wake up,' a creaky old voice urged, breaking the paralysis that held Piro captive to the dream vision.
She rolled into a crouch like a cat, heart pounding, stomach heaving. The logical part of her mind told her she didn't have to worry about her father, safe in his sick bed.
The woman eyed Piro warily but her words were kind enough. 'Bad dream, eh? Well, that's not surprising for all that we're safe behind Rolenhold's great walls. Take heart, love. The king defeated Merofynia once before. He'll do it again.'
Piro nodded. Even if her father was crippled by Merofynian treachery, there were still her brothers. Lence and Byren were mighty warriors and canny strategists. She shuddered and pushed back dark tangled hair from her face, thinking how her old nurse would frown to see her like this.
'Feeling better?' the woman asked.
Piro nodded.
'Come share our breakfast. It's not much, but it's hot.'
Piro smelt honey-oat cakes and her stomach heaved. 'Thank you, but I don't think I can eat right now.'
The woman nodded. 'Then come sit by the brazier.'
Piro gave in and joined the family group, who'd had the forethought to bring a small travelling brazier. Oat cakes lay toasting on its griddle and cinnamon milk steamed in a pot. Several children made room for her and she started to feel a little better. It was odd to sit here in the chantry, which was usually so solemn, and see it turned into an impromptu home for so many.
'Nan, Nan.' A boy of about ten darted through the other family groups to join them. 'King Rolen's about to ride out to speak with the Merofynians.'
Piro sprang to her feet. 'But he's sick. He can't ride out.'
'He is!' the boy insisted. 'I saw him and his honour guard heading for the stables. And he's wearing a real manticore chestplate!'
Piro ran. No one tried to stop her as she dashed out of the chantry, heading through a courtyard, along a hall, down stairs and out into the stable yard.
Good, she wasn't too late. It was still packed with spectators, stable lads, old gaffers offering advice and men-at-arms. She hesitated, taking in the crowd.
No sign of Sawtree. What had they done with his body?
No sign of Cobalt. He was probably up on the gate tower.
The king and his honour guard rode out of the stables, already mounted. In his armour, helmet and cloak her father still looked magnificent, but she had seen him bedridden last night. What had the healers given him to help him get about today? Whatever it was, it was sure to take a toll on his reserves.
Piro darted between the mounted men and grabbed her father's boot.
'Eh, Piro? They told me you'd gone to Sylion Abbey.' He frowned down at her, then cupped her cheek in one hand, his face a mixture of pain and love. 'You shouldn't be here, little Piro. You should be safe at the abbey.'
'You mustn't meet the warlord.'
His expression hardened.
She recognised that look. This was the face he wore when he was dispensing justice or sending her brothers out to protect Rolencia's borders. Even so, she had to try. 'You mustn't, Father. You should be in bed. You're sick.'
He grimaced. Through the contact of his roughened hands she had a flash of Affinity-induced insight. He did not fear death, he had faced it enough times to know this old foe. What he feared was dying by degrees, a shrivelled, pitiful parody of what he had once been.
Even so, she had to try. 'You can't go out there, Father. The Merofynians will turn on you.'
'No harm will come to us under a flag of truce. I'm only going to size up the enemy, Piro. Besides, I can't sit up here and not answer Palatyne's bluster!'
'But…' Unlike her mother, who had let her own father sail to his death, Piro could not let her father ride out to his. Besides, he already knew she had Affinity so she had nothing to lose. Piro strained on tip toes, keeping her voice low. 'I had a vision. I saw them turn on you and your men.'
He drew back, shaking his head. 'This is war, Piro. We have our code. He might be a spar upstart but he is overlord of the Merofynian army now, in service to King Merofyn. As such he's bound by the code of -'
'I've seen into his heart. He's a two-headed snake, Father. He smiles with one head and spits death with the other.'
Revulsion for anything to do with Affinity travelled across King Rolen's face. His features hardened. 'Let go of my leg and not another word. You are a kingsdaughter, Piro, you should understand. I must go out to meet this overlord or be shamed before my men.'
She understood. He rode to his death for the sake of honour. With a sob she turned and fled.
Fyn stood on the wharf to farewell the last of the acolytes and boys, who were about to sail across the bay to Sylion Abbey.
The small fishing boats looked vulnerable as they set off under a low-slung grey sky, travelling across a sullen, dark green sea. Hardly a ripple disturbed the bay's oily surface and only the tips of ice chunks could be seen, with most of their bulk just visible below the water line. Mere minutes in that water would mean death. Fyn repressed a shudder. Although he could swim, he hated the sea.
About a bow shot from the wharf, safely on the way to Sylion Abbey, Joff waved Halcyon's Sacred Lamp, a small warm glow in the otherwise grey day. Fyn smiled as Lenny waved solemnly from Joff's side. Feldspar was already waiting on the far shore with the rest of the acolytes and Dinni.
This morning, a chapter of Fyn's life had ended, and he felt the finality of it. With a shiver, he tightened the toggles on his borrowed sheepskin jacket. The sea was Sylion's domain. He belonged to Halcyon and he was glad he was going by land.
'Ready?' Lame Klimen's granddaughter asked. She was about ten years of age, and her face almost disappeared under a too-large cap. The tips of her dark plaits were streaked gold by the summer sun. She grinned at him. 'Though I don't know why you would walk, when you could sail halfway there!'
'You feel at home on a ship's deck, I prefer solid ground,' Fyn told her. The elders had tried to convince him to sail to Port Marchand, then skate the lakes and canals to Sapphire Lake. Fyn had considered this, but decided against it. With a pair of borrowed skis and skates, he could reach the nearest canal and be in Rolenton in three days, or less if he did not stop to rest.
The girl led Fyn away from the wharves. 'Come on, Great Granna has travelling food prepared for you, master monk.'
'I am not a master, not even a monk, only a -'
'If you don't want to be known as a monk, wear this.' She tugged off her sheepskin cap, reaching up to plant it crookedly on his head. 'Cover your skull tattoo and pretend that skinny plait comes from a full head of hair.'
Fyn straightened the sheepskin cap, which covered his ears and was wonderfully warm. His plait had not been cut since he entered the abbey at the age of six, and it fell to his waist. This spring cusp it would have been shaved off, when he left the ranks of the acolytes and became a monk. Already a dark fuzz threatened to cover the tattoos because he hadn't shaved his head for two mornings. In a couple of weeks he would be able to cut off his plait and no one would guess he had been a monk. They'd think he'd been sick and had shorn his head because of the fever.
Loss tugged at him, but he did not have time to mourn.
'There's Great Granna and Granda,' the girl said, skipping towards the old woman and Lame Klimen. He waited at the gate along with the rest of the village who had come to see him off.
The old woman handed Fyn a shoulder pack, saying. 'This should last you.'
He thanked her even though he knew she couldn't hear.
'Your clothes are a bit big, but you'll be safer as a fisherman than a monk,' Lame Klimen told him.
Fyn looked around at the villagers then held the old man's eyes for a heartbeat. They needed to talk. Privately.
Taking his meaning, Lame Klimen stepped through the gate with him.
Fyn gestured to the gate and wall. 'Your defences won't hold against the Merofynians. You must go to Port Cobalt.'
The old man rubbed his chin. 'The port defends the valley from the Lesser Sea. The Merofynians are sure to attack it to bring in supplies. But our village…' He shrugged. 'Who would bother to attack us? Besides, we can run up to the cave. I'll have my people store food and blankets up there. We always kept it stocked when I was a youth, but we haven't bothered since I was a young man. That's what thirty years of peace does to you.'
Fyn bent to strap on his skis. 'I hope you are right. I appreciate your help. I don't know what's going to happen,' he straightened up, 'but if we come through this I'll -'
'Don't worry.' Lame Klimen touched his arm. 'When the nobles make war they make their names. When the people make war they make sacrifices. Remember this and you will be a good king, one day.'
'I'm not going to be king,' Fyn objected, but Lame Klimen only nodded, smiled and stepped back to wave him off.
The villagers on the gate tower waved and cheered.
Fyn returned their wave and set off. Somehow he must get across Rolencia with Merofynian warriors roaming the countryside, and reach his family.
Piro's slippered feet made no sound as she raced through the busy yards and passages. When she found herself in the courtyard at the base of the mourning tower, she could only think of one thing, telling her mother. The queen had always been able to guide the king with a subtle word here or there. If anyone could convince her father not to ride out, her mother could.
She surveyed the courtyard. Between townsfolk come to check on their animals and others come to discuss the news, the courtyard was as busy as a hiring fair market. The shouts of a pugnacious, bald man attracted her attention. He was disputing the ownership of a goat with a harassed pregnant woman. His bullying manner told Piro he had every intention of winning the argument.
Determined to get past the guards, Piro snatched a red speckled bantam hen that had slipped its cage and headed across the courtyard, with the vague intention of attempting bribery.
Two of the guards stood on the bottom of the external stair to the first-floor entrance, deep in discussion. She knew them to be honourable men. They weren't part of her father's original honour guard but they both knew her by sight, so that ruled out approaching them herself.
The bald bully raised his voice again and gave the pregnant woman a shove. That decided Piro. She tapped a boy of about six on the shoulder and thrust the chicken into his arms.
'Give this to the guards. Tell them the bald man sent it.' She jerked her head towards the two who were still arguing.
The boy nodded and tucked the chicken under his arm. Piro watched as the guard received the chicken, glanced to the man and went over to settle the argument.
Piro smiled, because these were honourable men, they would not accept bribes.
She ran up the steps. Now there was just the guard at her mother's door, but when she got there she found he had left his post. Probably stepped out to relieve himself, knowing the others guarded the base of the tower.
'Mother?' Piro tapped at the door.
'Piro? What are you doing here? Where's the -'
'He's gone.' Piro gulped, her words rushing over themselves. 'Father's going to ride out to meet the Merofynian commander. Palatyne will kill him. I know he will. You've got to stop it.'
There was a moment's silence.
'Mother?'
'Listen, Piro.' It was Seela, her old nurse. 'Can you see the key?'
She glanced around. There was a tray, with what was left of the guard's breakfast right under the narrow window. 'No.'
And even as she said it, she realised it was pointless to worry her mother with Father's fate, when there was nothing the queen could do. 'I'm sorry. I -'
'Don't fret, Piro,' Seela told her. 'You can't be sure. Dream visions -'
'Piro?' her mother broke in. 'Run to the top of Eagle Tower. From there you can see Rolenton Square. And I can see the top of Eagle Tower from my window. If Rolen falls, signal me. Can you do that?'
'I can. I'll wave my smock,' Piro whispered. Perhaps there was something her mother could do. 'I'm going now.'
'Wait. Piro?'
'I'm still here.'
'If Rolenhold falls -'
'It'll never fall!'
'If the castle falls we'll need to negotiate surrender. Dress as befits a kingsdaughter.'
'If it comes to that I will,' Piro agreed, dismissing it as an impossibility. 'I'm going now.'
She turned and ran down the steps, pausing on the landing at the first-floor doorway. The altercation over the goat was still going strong, only now the bully was denying that he had tried to bribe the guards with a stolen chicken.
It was the work of only a few minutes to reach Eagle Tower. By the time Piro climbed to the top, her heart was pounding like a drum, but she wasn't hot and bothered. Instead shivers shook her body and her teeth chattered so that even clenching her jaw didn't stop them.
The castle's parapets were thick with people watching the confrontation, while a dozen castle servants had climbed Eagle Tower. Piro burrowed through them to get a viewing spot. They were all straining to see the king's party and no one paid her any attention. The family's banner, a flash of deep red on black, attracted her eye as her father and his companions rode into Rolenton's square. The large bonfire had burned down, only a thin finger of smoke rose on the air.
Overlord Palatyne waited astride his great black warhorse. The Merofynian banner stood behind him, stretched on two poles. Piro could just make out the shape of a rearing wyvern depicted in rich azure.
Her father rode out under a flag of truce. According to the code of war the overlord would threaten and bluster, while King Rolen would dare him to do his worst. They would trade insults, then the Rolencian party would ride back to the castle and wait for the warrior monks to arrive. That was how it should have gone, but Piro knew better.
Being so far away she could only read large actions. Overlord Palatyne gestured to his warriors. King Rolen gestured to the castle.
Movement drew Piro's eye to insect-like creatures which crept across the roofs of the houses that faced onto the square. Bowmen… silent assassins. Her mouth went dry.
Their presence might just be a display of strength.
But when they stood and drew their bows, notching arrows, she knew. A silent scream of warning drove the air from her lungs.
Overlord Palatyne gestured to the roof tops around the square. It was the same gesture his second amfina head had used in her vision.
She read defiance in her father's stance, defiance and contempt.
Tears stung her eyes. He would get his wish. King Rolen would die in battle.
Palatyne raised his arm. The arrows flew.
The king's chitin chest plate withstood the barrage, while around him his honour guard went down. The survivors drew swords and tried to engage the Merofynians, but Palatyne's swordsmen held back, letting the bowmen soften them up before they moved in.
King Rolen's horse reared as he signalled his remaining men. They formed a defensive circle around the banner, raising their shields. At this, the swordsmen rushed them, dragging the men from their mounts.
Piro's breath caught in her throat. At this distance she could only just hear the clash of metal and roar of voices. Her father and his men were like characters in a play as they fought on, hopelessly outnumbered.
Numbly, she watched the struggle. The Rolencian banner dipped, then fell. Finally, the fighting ceased. Men pulled back, wiping their weapons, leaving a litter of bodies. One man plucked something from amidst the fallen, then strode over to Palatyne to present the foenix banner.
The overlord swung it by the pole so all could see. He cantered his mount over to the still-burning remains of the bonfire, tossing the banner into the flames. His men cheered.
Piro's vision swam. Her father was dead. Hot fury seared away her grief. King Rolen had refused to use the foreknowledge her Affinity gave her. He had chosen to die. She was so angry with him she could have hit him.
And it struck her that, although she had not made the same mistake as her mother, her father had still died.
High on Eagle Tower, all around Piro the servants exclaimed, stunned and indignant.
Piro ran to the far side of the tower. Several courtyards over, the mourning tower's top floor was visible above the intervening roofs. Two pale faces peered from a window. Piro tore off her white maid's over-smock and waved it. Someone bumped her and the smock fell like a wounded bird, fluttering all the way down to the crowded courtyard below.
'Sorry,' a young candle-trimmer muttered. His eyes widened when he recognised her.
Piro pressed a finger to her lips and he nodded. She took off down the stairs.
She had to reach her mother and make plans. Rolenhold would not be taken.
The loyal warlords would come to their aid. Byren would bring back the abbey's warrior monks, and he and Lence would crush the Merofynians. They had only to shut Rolenhold's gates and hold out until help came. The people would be dismayed by Palatyne's treachery but they must not lose heart. What the castle needed now was strong leadership.
With all the confusion, perhaps she could steal the key from the guard and free her mother. Quick as thought, her feet carried her across the first courtyard, where she heard the cries of despair and outrage as the news of the king's murder spread. Many townspeople wept openly and it struck Piro that they had loved her father.
With their reaction came understanding. The Merofynian overlord had broken the code of war and killed King Rolen, to break the will of Rolencia, but he would not succeed.
By the time Piro reached the courtyard below the mourning tower, the news was already ahead of her and the townsfolk lamented loudly. Piro's hands closed in fists, nails biting into her palms. She wanted to shake the townsfolk. All they had to do was remain resolute and wait for help. Now was the time for her mother to prove her loyalty to Rolencia and provide that strong leadership.
Even the animals responded to the mood, with their own cries of distress. There was no sign of the two guards, who had probably run to their commander. If the third man on guard outside her mother's chamber had also left, then there would be no chance to steal the keys.
Piro raced up the stairs. Her calves would be aching tomorrow from all this running up tower steps. She reached the top floor and peered around the corner. No guard.
Only slightly out of breath, she padded over to the door. 'Mother?'
'Piro? Don't let the guard see you!'
'He's gone. Even the courtyard guards have gone. I'm going to try to get you out of here. The people need their queen.'
From the courtyard below someone screamed and Piro heard the clash of steel on steel.
When she ran to the window her mind denied what she saw, as warriors in Merofynian blue poured through the far arch. This could not be happening. The castle was too strong to be taken by force.
She craned out even further and saw the curve of her mother's cheek as she did the same from her window.
'Mother.'
But the queen did not hear her. Piro snatched the remains of the guard's bread bun and threw it at her mother, who turned and caught sight of her. About a body length of slightly curved dressed stone wall separated them.
Piro gestured below. 'How could they breach our defences?'
'Guile.' Her mother pointed. 'See the direction they're coming from. A traitor must have opened the postern gate!'