the part of a kingsdaughter, so she hurried to where she had stashed her bundle and hastily changed in the dubious privacy of a store room, amidst jars of cherry and apricot preserves. Doing the best she could with a wet cloth she cleaned her face, hands and feet, hearing her mother's voice in her head. No daughter of mine will appear before visiting nobles grubby as an urchin!
Tears stung her eyes as she slung an old cape over her shoulders and took the servants' stairs to the great hall. From an archway on the mezzanine floor she stood in the shadows trying to locate the queen amid the confusion. Servants scurried about, terrified by the Merofynian men-at-arms, who were swift to speed them on their way with a blow as they set the tables for a great feast. As yet, there was no sign of the victorious overlord.
Through the forest of decorated columns Piro identified her mother. The queen and most of the servants had been herded into the space to one side of the great hearth. The Rolencian royal banner had been torn down from above the fireplace, leaving a square of pale golden sandstone. The remaining servants clung to one another, terrified. In their midst Queen Myrella stood pale but resolute with old Seela at her side.
Piro's heart swelled with pride. Now all she had to do was wait and follow her mother's directions.
A ripple of excitement drew her gaze to the far end of the hall where a group of powerful men entered. Piro recognised Cobalt. He walked a step behind the leader, and a surge of pure fury made her body burn at the sight.
Had he truly been lord protector of the castle, he would be dead, not following in the overlord's footsteps like a faithful dog.
As for the overlord, if she hadn't known him by his swagger and his elaborate surcoat — emblazoned with the twin-headed golden-scaled amfina on a black background — the reaction of his men would have told Piro who he was. They sprang to attention, greeting him with a respectful and wary silence that spoke of fear.
Piro shivered.
She recognised the same indefinable aura which had surrounded her father. Like King Rolen, Palatyne was big and raw-boned, a leader of men, but her father's men had followed him out of love and admiration. Palatyne's men watched him, as though their lives hung on his reaction.
She had expected the overlord to be accompanied by mystics from the two great abbeys of Merofynia, but there were no religious Affinity workers with him. Instead, there were two advisors. The first was a stooped, iron- haired man who had once been tall and broad-shouldered. He wore the indigo robes of a noble scholar but even without calling on her Unseen sight she could see the power shimmering off his skin.
Taking two steps to every one of his was a thin little silver-haired man, an Utland Power-worker by his warding tattoos and the fetishes woven into his waist-length beard. In Rolencia, these men would have been trained to serve the abbey and the common good. But these two Power-workers were motivated by personal ambition rather than religious fervour.
The overlord took off his azure crested helmet and shook his head. His hair was worn loose down his back in the style of Merofynian nobles and, right now, it was lank with sweat. Tucking the helmet under one arm, he lifted a goblet of wine, gulped a mouthful and spat the wine with great deliberation onto the Rolencian banner which lay on the flagstones. 'Throw it in the fire!'
Hastily, three men ran forwards to lift the intricate tapestry and toss it into the fireplace. The overlord crossed the hearth stone in two long strides and tossed the rest of his wine into the fireplace. Instantly flames surged up, devouring the Rolencian banner.
Palatyne spun to face the hall, both arms raised. 'So falls Rolenhold. And they said it could not be done!' His deep voice carried, and he spoke Merofynian with the accent of the spars.
Even as his men dutifully cheered, one hurried forwards with the foenix wrapped in his cloak. 'A treasure for you, my lord.' He pulled the cloak back a little to reveal the foenix's brilliant neck and chest colours. 'A royal foenix, the pet of the kingsdaughter herself!'
The overlord stiffened, regarding the beast intently, then he smiled and his whole stance radiated satisfaction. He nodded to the noble scholar. 'See, Lord Dunstany. What was theirs, will be mine. This foenix will be a gift for my betrothed.' He pulled a ring from his finger and tossed it to the man, who caught it eagerly. 'Have the beast cared for.'
As the man hastily backed out, Palatyne raised a hand to stroke the pendant resting on his chest plate. With a start Piro recognised her father's royal emblem. And his death hit home. She bent double, her stomach cramping with pain.
Through the rushing in her ears she heard her mother's voice and straightened up to find the queen had stepped away from the servants to confront Palatyne.
'Queen Myrella greets you, overlord.' In the sudden silence her beautifully modulated voice carried through the great hall. 'On behalf of the people of Rolencia, I claim the rights of surrender, as it seems the castle's lord protector has failed in his duties.' Her royal demeanour faltered, voice growing rich with scorn. 'How could you, Illien?'
Cobalt lifted a hand as if to ward off her accusations.
Palatyne spun away from her, staggering back several steps so that he put a body length between them. 'What's this? I ordered all King Rolen's kin killed!'
Piro's heart missed a beat. Unable to breathe, she saw the warriors hesitate. From their expressions, none of them wanted to strike down an unarmed woman. A woman who was the daughter of their old king.
Cobalt glanced from the overlord to the queen.
An inarticulate sound of protest escaped old Seela's lips.
Piro clutched the door frame, faint with horror. She couldn't stand still and let them kill her mother. But what could she do?
Unarmed, alone and also marked for death, she raged against her weakness.
Fyn skied around a bend then froze, unable to believe his bad luck. He had stumbled right into the path of a band of Merofynian warriors. What were they doing on the little-travelled foothills below Mount Halcyon?
'You, fisherman,' one addressed him in poor Rolencian.
Heart thudding, Fyn shuffled closer.
'Have you seen an injured man?
'No, I haven't seen anyone.' How would a lone fisherman react to a party of seven Merofynian warriors? Cautiously, that was certain. Better pretend that he thought they were escorting a pilgrim to Halcyon Abbey. 'Did your injured pilgrim get lost? Should I send him this way if I see him?'
They laughed.
'Yeah, tell the kingson we want to take him home to meet our mothers!' one muttered in Merofynian.
Fyn fixed a smile on his face and nodded, as though he did not understand but his heart raced with the knowledge that Byren (it had to be Byren for, if it was Lence, they would have said kingsheir) had met up with the Merofynians. At least he had escaped, albeit injured.
'This friend of yours, how will I know him?' Fyn asked.
'He's big and bad-tempered. If you see him, keep away from him. Ski up to the abbey and let them know. Their healers can help him,' the first one told Fyn.
The others nodded, exchanging looks that said they enjoyed a private joke.
Fyn nodded. All he wanted to do was get away from them before they saw through his disguise. The tattoos of learning were still visible through his sprouting hair. If his fur cap was knocked off… he must not think like that. He must act the part of a fisherman. It was customary to offer to share food with pilgrims.
'I'm off to see my sister who's expecting her first, come spring cusp,' he said. 'Our mam sent her some fish stew. There's not much but I'm sure — '
'So that's the smell,' the rude one complained in Merofynian. 'Mulcibar's balls, send him on his way before he offers us fish stew.'
The others chuckled. Fyn managed a chuckle of his own, as though he was trying to ingratiate himself with them, despite being unable to understand their speech.
'Be off with you and watch out for our pilgrim. Remember, he's bad-tempered so don't go near him. Let us know if you see him,' the spokesman insisted.
Fyn nodded. Relief made him lightheaded as he shuffled past them and slid down the slope, weaving through the evergreens until he was well and truly out of sight. By then his knees were shaking so badly he had to stop and bend double to clear his head, so he sat for a few moments in lee of a snow-skirted tree.
