Seeing one of Halcyon's renowned warrior monks, the swordsmen collected their wounded companion and backed out the far door, blades raised defiantly.
Lence cursed. 'They're getting away!'
'Let them,' Byren snapped. 'In case you hadn't noticed, they're the ones with swords!'
Fyn stepped inside and let his door swing shut behind him. 'What's going on? Are you all right?'
'I'm fine,' Byren said. 'What about you, Lence?'
He rubbed his head. 'I can't believe that pretty little serving maid set me up.'
'I can't believe someone made an attempt on your life in our own home town,' Byren whispered.
'Who?' Fyn asked.
'One of the warlords.' Lence lifted the cloak for Byren to see. It hung from his fingers supple and rich, feathers as fine as fur. Cockatrice cloak. Too expensive for any but a nobleman or a wealthy merchant, or…
'A warrior from Cockatrice Spar?' Fyn guessed.
'Too easy,' Byren muttered. 'And there's no reason for that warlord to turn on us.'
'Agreed.' Lence rubbed his jaw. 'Besides, he'd never be fool enough to send his own men.'
'Are you saying someone set him up? Another of the warlords?' Fyn muttered. 'But they are all here to renew their oaths of allegiance.'
'Not all of them,' Lence countered. 'The Unistag warlord is missing.'
'His successors can't decide — ' Byren began to explain.
'They could have heard a rumour about the betrothal,' Lence said, thinking aloud.
Fyn looked confused.
'We've been keeping the warlords in line with Lence as bait, a possible alliance with one of their daughters, you see. Now that he's getting married…' Byren shrugged.
'Married?' Fyn mouthed, glancing to Lence.
'Don't you dare congratulate me!' he warned.
Byren grinned. 'We'd be in trouble if the warlords ever stopped fighting amongst themselves long enough to unite against us!'
Fyn's eyes widened. 'But father is their king.'
Lence sent him a withering look. 'What do they teach you at the abbey?'
Fyn flinched.
'The spars make poor farmland. The warlords are constantly looking to expand their territory and Rolencia is the richest prize. They're always sniffing around, looking for weakness in each other or us,' Byren explained. 'Killing King Rolen's heir would make one of them look strong to the other warlords. It might be enough to unite them against us.'
'Why now?' Fyn asked.
'The balance of power is about to change,' Byren said, 'Lence is to be betrothed to the Merofynian kingsdaughter.'
'Buck teeth for sure,' Lence muttered, shaking his head.
Byren grinned, glad Lence was back to normal, even if it had taken an assassination attempt to cheer him up.
'I don't understand,' Fyn protested. 'Why does Lence have to marry a girl from the Merofynian royal family? We haven't had trouble from them since before mother and father — '
'No. But…' Byren glanced to Lence. He was being no help. 'But when mother's younger brother, King Sefon, died in mysterious circumstances — '
'He fell off his horse while hunting,' Fyn corrected.
'They found him with a broken neck in the forest and his horse walked back to the stables,' Byren countered. 'That was just over seven years ago. His death made mother the rightful heir to Merofynia. While Merofynia was having its war of succession, father could have invaded and claimed the crown in her name. We didn't and mother's cousin became king. King Merofyn the Sixth has no love for Rolencia but he does have a daughter. Marriage between second cousins, Lence and the kingsdaughter, will cement a shaky peace.'
'But why — '
'Enough history. You saved my life again, Byren.' Lence faced him, a grin on his lips, but a penetrating look in his eyes. 'Two minutes later and you'd be kingsheir right now.'
'No thanks needed.' Byren laughed, relieved. 'Besides, if I was kingsheir I'd have to marry your bucktoothed kingsdaughter!'
'That reminds me.' Lence grimaced. 'Duty calls. Come on.'
As they climbed the stairs to the bell tower, Byren rolled up the cockatrice cloak. It was one of the more common ones, a mix of brown, red and gold feathers, but still expensive. It meant whoever had sent the assassins had deep pockets.
He was aware of Fyn following quietly. Sometimes Fyn seemed so knowing, and other times he failed to understand the real world. That's what came of being reared by a pack of prayer-chanting monks.
Lence stopped on the top step. He glanced to the rolled-up cloak in Byren's hands. 'We'll have to tell them about the assassination attempt — '
'But we don't want the Merofynian ambassador knowing about our troubles with the warlords,' Byren anticipated. 'I'll hide the cloak to show father later.'
Lence nodded and went ahead.
After this close call, Byren wished he'd found Piro. In all probability, she was safe back at the castle playing with her foenix, but this escalation of violence would be one more thing to make their parents' eyes gleam with worry.
No wonder he'd never wanted to rule Rolencia!
Still shaky from walking in on the assassination attempt, Fyn followed his brothers into the chamber on the fifth floor of the bell tower, where their parents waited. Through the open doors, he could see the balcony and the roof tops of the grand merchant houses which framed Rolenton Square.
'There you are. What kept you?' his mother greeted them as she hurried over. 'Just look at you, Lence. Anyone would think you'd been fighting!'
As she folded Lence's ermine-edged cloak neatly over his shoulders, Lence rolled his eyes. Byren winked at Fyn, who did not understand how they could be so cool-headed. His heart still hammered.
'You do your father proud,' Queen Myrella said, arranging Lence's kingsheir emblem in the centre of his chest.
Lence brushed her hands away. 'Leave be, mother. I'm not six years old.'
She ignored him and stepped back, a fond smile on her face as she turned to Fyn and Byren. 'Let me look at my three boys.'
Lence and Byren were dressed in rich red and black, the royal colours, their cuffs trimmed with gold embroidery. Their vests were decorated with red garnets and black onyxes. Fyn wore only the simple saffron robe of an acolyte.
'They're fine, Myrella,' King Rolen assured her, linking his arm through hers. 'The ambassador will be here any moment. Where's Piro?'
The queen cast Byren a quick look. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head which Fyn caught. He held his tongue. Only he knew where Piro was, and he hoped she stayed safely hidden until all the acolytes left Ruin Isle.
'Oh, Rolen. I forgot to tell you. She had a sore throat so I told her to stay in bed,' his mother lied straight- faced, which surprised Fyn. Or perhaps Piro had pretended to have a sore throat. He wouldn't put it past her. She was such a minx.
Then he heard boots on the stairs. 'Here comes the Merofynian ambassador. '
He stepped aside as the elderly man entered, followed by several servants, among them a page boy who carried a small, gilt chest. They were all dressed in the height of Merofynian court fashion. Their sleeves were so long they would have dragged on the ground if they had not been pinned up with jewelled broaches. Fyn frowned. Were those real foenix feathers in their velvet hats? His father would not approve. King Rolen had tried to breed foenixes in captivity to restore their numbers.
'Ah, Lord Benvenute,' his mother greeted the ambassador. 'I see you brought the miniature of Isolt
