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.
