soft. Surely it cannot be like this in real life?'
'It's even softer,' Piro said, then added quickly. 'The kingsdaughter had a pet foenix. I used to feed it.'
'Father never let me have a pet,' Isolt said, then seemed to regret the admission, for she drew away from Piro.
Feeling lost amidst the pack of overdressed courtiers, Piro followed Isolt and remained by her side. As she watched the nobles chatter to either the king or the duke, depending on their allegiances, Piro felt her lips curl with contempt. No wonder Isolt trusted no one. None of these people were worth trusting, all too eager to flatter and win favour with the king or the duke. Dunstany would have flattered neither.
And, as if her thoughts had called him up, there he was, slipping into the feasting hall and making his way towards the gathering.
Isolt nudged Piro, gesturing to where Palatyne preened, enjoying the attention.
'The duke outdoes himself,' Isolt remarked, putting heavy emphasis on the title. She said the words loudly, as though baiting Palatyne.
Piro did not think Isolt expected an answer from her, but chose to give one. 'Naturally, he sets out to impress you.'
'Naturally?' Isolt looked at Piro. 'You placed extra emphasis on that word. Why?'
With a jolt Piro remembered that Isolt did not know Palatyne meant to marry her. Surely King Merofyn's daughter realised her betrothal to Lence had ended with his death? And, as far as Isolt knew, all of King Rolen's sons were dead, relieving her of any obligation, so that left her free to make a new match. Anger made Piro's pulse race as she hardened her heart towards Isolt. 'It was a word, nothing more. Forget it.'
'I don't know what manner of maids they have in Rolenhold but here, in Merofynia, no one speaks to the kingsdaughter like that.' With a toss of her head, Isolt turned away from Piro.
Just then, Palatyne called the kingsdaughter to take a closer look at the wyvern's sapphire eyes and Piro noticed Dunstany signal to catch her gaze. She wandered casually around the outskirts of the crowded courtiers to join him.
'A fitting gift,' he said, adding softly, 'watch over Isolt. She desperately needs a friend.'
Befriend that treacherous schemer? Piro stared at Dunstany. Was he mad?
'Careful, your face betrays your thoughts. I've come to tell you I must leave Port Mero for a while. If you have any news, or are in trouble, send word to my servants and they will let me know. I have instructed them to obey you.'
This surprised Piro. Then it hit her. Dunstany was going. Without him there was no one she could trust. But then, she reminded herself she should not really trust him either.
Piro swallowed. 'Where are you going?'
'I have a finger in many pies, and one of them is burning.' He gave her a conspiratorial wink and slipped away.
Piro watch him go, feeling bereft. No one else noticed the noble scholar leave, except for the Utlander. Thinking himself unobserved, the Power-worker's expression contained calculating hatred.
The Utlander's eyes narrowed and he turned to stare directly into Piro's face. She'd been mistaken, he knew she was watching him, but he thought her so insignificant he believed he could bully her. Piro swallowed and tried to hide her fear. With a smile that was more a sneer, the Utlander joined his patron, Duke Palatyne.
King Merofyn's palace was a dangerous place to be a slave, let alone a kingsdaughter. Piro's gaze was drawn back to Isolt as she listened to Palatyne, her face a polite mask. Isolt was good at masks and the removal of her eyebrows had made her face harder to read, cloaking those little quirks of expression that conveyed so much.
Piro sighed. Since he'd taken her for his slave, the noble scholar had been nothing but kind to her, if she omitted trapping her essence in the amber pendant. She would watch over Isolt for him, but even he could not force her to be Isolt's friend, not when her dead parents and brother lay between them.
Byren stood on the edge of the lookout, dragging in greedy lungfuls of sharp mountain air. Orrade had set a bruising pace to reach the outcropping of rock facing down into the valley. In the distance, Byren could see the drift of smoke from Waterford, the closest village, if six houses and a tavern could be called such. Not far away, he could hear the clack of wooden practice swords, as the loyalists trained.
Behind him, Orrade sat, with his back against the rock, legs stretched out. 'Four families in as many days, thanks to Seela. Two maimed, plus nine able bodied men, if you include the fourteen-year-old boy and the gaffer.'
'Accompanied by fifteen women and children,' Byren reminded him. 'More mouths to feed.'
'You weren't always such a grouch.'
Byren sighed. With Orrade he didn't have to pretend a confidence he did not feel. 'I was the second son, the spare heir. All I had to do was stay out of trouble and lend Lence a hand, putting down spar rebellions. I never wanted to be king.'
'We can't all have what we want.' Orrade folded his hands behind his head and let out a sigh. 'I swear I can feel the first touch of spring's kiss.'
Byren laughed. 'You should have been a poet.'
Neither of them spoke. Byren was thinking of his love poem to Elina and its disastrous consequences. He didn't want to know what Orrade was thinking.
'Nine able-bodied men, but untrained,' Byren said as he sat beside Orrade, back to the sun-warmed rock.
'They're willing to learn,' Orrade said.
All well and good, but he did not have long to turn these farmers and shopkeepers into warriors. Because he'd asked them, they'd left their fields unplanted, their shops and farms empty or manned by their womenfolk and children, and crept like thieves across their own country into his mountain hideout. Not because he was the rightful king of Rolencia, but because they believed he could lead a mostly untrained, poorly armed lesser force against his cousin Cobalt.
Byren rubbed his jaw. How many of them would live to return to their farms and shops? As Orrade had said, they weren't here because of some altruistic concept of rightful kingship, they were here because they could not live under an oppressive tyrant.
That reminded him of Fyn, who had suffered under the bullying acolytes at the abbey. There was still no word from his youngest brother, or word of him. It was not looking good. Byren could only hope Fyn was lying low. But surely, if he lived, his brother would come to him?
Byren frowned. 'It's only a matter of time before someone reveals our whereabouts. Then I'll have to lead everyone over the Dividing Mountains onto Foenix Spar.' He was not looking forward to that.
'Warlord Feid is loyal to Rolencia,' Orrade said Then his expression cleared. 'Ahh, it's appearing before him as a supplicant, that's what you can't stomach.'
'Aye, it's that. I have to ask him to shelter a rag-tag mob of old folks, women and children, who outnumber my fighting force three to one. Food's always scarce on the spars.'
'Can't be helped.' Orrade shrugged. 'Feid's one warlord. You can count on Unace, too.'
The warlord of Unistag Spar had sworn her allegiance, after Byren helped her regain her leadership, with a clever ploy that kept his interference secret. Byren trusted Unace to keep her word.
'The warlords of the other three spars won't swallow any of this nonsense about Cobalt being the true heir.' Orrade lowered his arms and sat forwards. 'Was there any truth in the accusation, Byren? I loved your mother, but there were times when she seemed to know what we were thinking before we did.'
Byren laughed. 'No one could ever put anything past her.' At least no one had until Cobalt returned. He'd been the queen's one blind spot. Surely, if she'd had Affinity, she would have seen through Cobalt?
'Pity Seela left so quickly. There's some things I'd like to ask her,' Orrade muttered.
But Byren was off on another train of thought. It wasn't that he had to convince the spar warlords he was the rightful king, but more he had to prove he was the most powerful contender for the title. 'Force is the only thing the spar warlords respect. If the other three don't stand behind me, they could wait for me to exhaust myself defeating Cobalt and his Merofynians, then march over the Divide and attack when I'm weakened.'
A whistling bird cry carried up the valley. Orrade tensed and scurried forwards to peer down at the trail.
'More loyalists?' Byren asked, joining him.
Orrade nodded and pointed. 'Fifteen men.'
