Kingsdaughter.'
'Welcome.' The king clapped the ambassador's shoulder and the man winced. 'Let's get this started.'
Then King Rolen took the queen's arm and they stepped out onto the balcony to enthusiastic cheering. It made Fyn's heart lift. The people of Rolencia were loyal, even if the warlords weren't.
Normally Lence would have gone next, but the ambassador followed before any of the kingsons. As the Merofynian king's representative, he ranked above them.
Standing out on the balcony in the crisp winter air, Fyn was suddenly aware of their vulnerability. Several good bowmen on the roof opposite could have wiped out the Rolencian royal family in a couple of heart beats.
Where was Piro? Was she safe?
His father held up his arms signalling for silence and the cheering died away. The king turned to the queen, lifting her hand, kissing it. They shared a private smile. It pleased Fyn to see them happy.
Rolen turned to the crowd. 'Rolencia has known many years of peace and prosperity since I was lucky enough to make Myrella Merofyn Kingsdaughter my queen.'
The crowd cheered again. From the level of noise they'd already been imbibing heavily. Hot honeyed mead for the farmers and best Rolencian red for the merchants and nobles. It was a festival, after all.
'Today we celebrate for a special reason,' King Rolen said, and the people grew quiet. 'Today, Lence Kingsheir will take Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter for his betrothed!'
The roar of approval deafened Fyn.
The ambassador turned to his page who opened the chest. From its azure velvet bed he took out a gold locket and opened it, holding it up for the crowd to see.
'Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter,' Ambassador Benvenute said. The crowd cheered again, though no one could have seen the miniature portrait when Fyn, who was only a body length away, could not see her face.
Fyn glanced to Lence. His brother looked grim. He'd made it clear how he felt about having to marry a girl he had never met. No doubt the artist had flattered King Merofyn's daughter. But even if she were beautiful, she was the daughter of a man who, if what Byren said was true, had come to the throne by murdering their mother's younger brother and defeating all other contenders. If the daughter was as ruthless as her father, poor Lence would never have an easy night's sleep!
'I am here in Isolt's place, to give her betrothal vows,' Benvenute said. He placed the locket in Lence's hand. The words of betrothal were said, and when the ceremony ended, Lence slipped the miniature over his head. It settled just above the foenix emblem. For the first time, Fyn saw those symbols as chains of servitude. His brothers had no more choice as to how they served Rolencia than he did. That reminded him, he still had to prove himself to the mystics master. But how? His stomach churned.
Piro! A wave of mingled frustration and admiration swept him. He had promised he would not reveal her secret. But how long could she hide it? And was it even safe to do so? He didn't want his sister becoming a channel for evil. The first thing he had been taught on entering the abbey was how to say the warding chant to clear his mind and tap on the vulnerable points of his body so that his Affinity could not be used by a renegade Power- worker. They sang the chant every night before falling asleep and every morning upon waking, so that it was drilled into their minds.
His father signalled for silence and the cheering died down.
'When you drink your toast tonight,' King Rolen raised his voice, 'drink to another thirty years of peace between Rolencia and Merofynia!'
At his signal the bells began their song of celebration. And Fyn slipped away to find Piro.
Brave, but silly girl.
Chapter Eleven
Piro frowned as the celebration bells rang on and on. Too late to join her family for the announcement now. Her mother would be furious. Resentment roiled in her belly. No one had told her what the announcement was about, yet she was still expected to be there.
She climbed onto the wharf and headed across Rolenton. Avoiding the bell tower square and the inevitable confrontation with her mother, Piro begged a ride in the back of a cart with half a dozen minstrels who had never seen King Rolen's daughter. The entertainers had been hired to perform for tonight's feast and, as she listened to their happy chatter, Piro wished her life was as simple. Maybe she should run away with them. Her mother had trained her well. A Merofynian noblewoman was expected to be able to run an estate employing a thousand people, do the accounts, know the law, speak three languages, play a musical instrument, paint a reasonable likeness and recite the great sagas. She could live a minstrel's life.
But she was only fooling herself. She could never leave her family.
With a sigh, she planned an apology for her mother as well as one for Fyn. It seemed she was always apologising.
Byren had noticed Fyn slip away and wondered why he was in such a hurry, but he still had to find Piro, so he jogged down the stairs and set out across the square.
Monks and acolytes mingled freely with townspeople and the warlords' noisy honour guards. With all the farm folk who had come in to Rolenton for the festivities, the square was packed and Byren despaired of ever finding Piro. If she was back at the castle he'd be wasting his time. Best to check the foenix's pen first.
Byren was about to return to the square's stables and get his horse when he heard raised voices coming from the end of the lane beside the Three Swans. His belly tightened, responding to their menacing tone. A muffled voice protested. His father had heavy penalties for thievery but it was impossible to stamp it out.
Byren didn't know who might be down the end of that lane but whoever it was, was the king's subject and it was his duty to protect them. He turned down the lane thinking the sight of his Rolencian royal colours should be enough to frighten off the thieves. If not, he'd knock a few heads together.
'Let me past.' Fyn sounded as if he was trying to be reasonable.
Fyn? Byren broke into a run. Covering the last two body lengths, he peered around the lane's bend in time to find Fyn confronted by four monks. They did not look much older than him and they had him backed up against the far wall. Last year's acolytes, Byren guessed. Curious, he hung back in the shadow of a staircase. The stench from a fresh pile of tavern refuse was bad despite the cold. Byren concentrated on breathing through his mouth.
'…and I won't take the blame for the grucranes leaving!' the ringleader announced.
'I haven't said anything,' Fyn protested.
'You were seen walking up the path to the abbey with the weapons master. What were you talking about?'
'The Proving.'
'Proving? You and your friends shone in the Proving today.' The ringleader shoved a finger in Fyn's chest. 'But don't think you three will outshine us. Beartooth — '
'My friends have nothing to do with this, Galestorm.' Fyn's voice shook with repressed anger. 'This is between you and me, and you know it, so leave Lonepine and Feldspar out of it.'
'But it is so much fun baiting that skinny streak and seeing him squirm. It's sure to drive Lonepine to throw the first punch!' Galestorm sneered with triumphant cruelty. 'Then we can chastise him, for an acolyte must obey a monk. And you three won't be monks until spring cusp, so we plan to make your lives miserable until then. And after that, well, accidents can happen. Even a monk can trip on the stairs.'
Byren went cold. Fyn had never told him abbey life was this dangerous. Every instinct told him to go to Fyn's aid, but he held back. He didn't want to shame Fyn by stepping in before he could help himself. Besides, his brother had to go back to the abbey and, when he did, Byren wouldn't be there to help him.
'Now, take off your clothes and climb into that pile of rubbish,' Galestorm ordered.
Fyn folded his arms.
'Are you disobeying a direct order, acolyte?' Galestorm gloated.
'It's not a fair order and you know it!' Fyn countered.
Galestorm looked to his three friends. 'Did you hear me give this acolyte an unfair order?'
They shook their heads.
