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!'
