'Right.' Galestorm rubbed his hands together eagerly. 'Strip him and toss him into the rubbish.'
Fyn writhed and twisted, avoiding them. Before anyone expected it, he caught one of his attackers with a throw that sent him into the rubbish heap. Byren felt like cheering. But there were three more and they had all been trained by the weapons master so they knew the moves and counter moves, same as Fyn did.
The outcome was inevitable.
Byren waded in. They were too absorbed attacking Fyn to notice him coming up behind them. He could have ordered them to back off and they would have. But he wanted to get his hands on them. Seizing Beartooth by the shoulders, Byren jerked him off balance, then shoved him on top of his friend. Suddenly Galestorm was alone, facing Fyn and Byren. The monk recognised him, looked worried for a heartbeat, then tried to brazen it out.
'So your big brother does your fighting, Fyn Kingson?' he sneered.
This was exactly what Byren had feared.
Fyn was so angry his hands shook.
'He was doing fine on his own,' Byren said. 'I just thought I'd even the odds. Two of King Rolen's kin should be able to stand up to four of Halcyon's monks!'
The other three had scrambled to their feet now and looked to Galestorm for guidance. Unlike hot-headed Galestorm, they were clearly not eager to tackle both the kingsons.
'Come on, Fyn.' Byren slung an arm around his brother's shoulders and deliberately turned his back on the others.
His neck tingled as they walked off. Were these monks cowardly enough, not to mention foolish enough, to attack them? But Galestorm and his companions must have thought better of it for Byren and Fyn made it safely out of the Three Swans' lane.
Fyn turned to face Byren, shrugging off his arm. 'Thank you for helping me, but — '
'Now they'll come after you when I'm not around, I know,' he muttered. 'Not much I can do about that, I'm afraid. Don't get caught alone. Stay with your friends. That Lonepine looks like he could handle himself.'
'Feldspar might be the mystical type but he can handle himself too,' Fyn insisted.
Byren studied Fyn.
'What is it?' Fyn asked.
'I got the impression that this is not the first time Galestorm and his bullies have picked on you. Why didn't you say something? And why do they dare to bully a kingson?'
Fyn sighed. 'At the abbey I am just Fyn. We're supposed to leave our past lives behind, especially once we take our monk's vows. The abbey has great ideals but reality is different. In a place where all are equal in the goddess's sight, the masters vie for power. The abbot is chosen from their ranks and to be abbot is to rule all of Halcyon's abbeys and oversee the distribution of the goddess's wealth. He is only one step less powerful than father.'
Byren rubbed his chin, he hadn't considered it that way. 'But you're still a kingson. Why do they dare — '
'That's the problem. Galestorm knows my birth will help me rise to become the master of whatever branch I enter and he resents me for it. Besides, I caught him tormenting a grucrane and now they've flown off, leaving our abbey without its sentries.'
'They'll come back. Where else will they sleep these cold winter nights?' Byren rubbed his brother's shaven head. Fyn had lost his cap in the scuffle, revealing his crown of tattoos. Soon they would shave off the thin plait that grew from the top of his head and begin the first of his monk tattoos, above and between his acolyte tattoos. On that day he would become the lowest of the monks. Byren summoned a smile. 'I'm the lucky one. I don't envy you or Lence. Now come up to Rolenhold and share a drink with me. An acolyte who's nearly a monk can still enjoy a fine Rolencian red, can't he?'
Fyn grinned. 'I can and I will. But first there's something I must do.'
'Yes. You'd better warn your friend to watch out for Galestorm.'
Fyn hesitated for an instant. 'Exactly. See you later, Byren.'
As he watched his younger brother forge through the crowded square Byren wondered what Fyn was really up to, then dismissed it. He had to get back to the castle and find Piro. And when he found her, he was going to give her a piece of his mind. It was time she grew up!
Piro climbed down from the minstrels' cart with a word of thanks, then slipped away through the servants' courtyard. She was not looking forward to apologising to Fyn or her mother. Then she remembered she hadn't fed her foenix yet, so she went to the kitchens.
Three summers ago Byren and Lence had tried to trap a foenix which had been ravaging the high farms on the Dividing Mountains. The birds were very rare now and their father wanted to capture a pair for the royal menagerie, but this foenix had turned vicious to protect its nest. Byren had brought the two eggs back to Rolenhold and Piro had kept them warm, turning them every day, but only one had hatched. Now her foenix was as big as a large chicken, though his legs were longer in proportion to his body. He had yet to develop the crest and beak sharp as a dagger, but he did have the brilliant red feathers as fine as fur, and the gleaming red chest scales. Because foenixes liked heat she kept him in the menagerie which was glassed over, and warmed by hot vents from the pools far below the castle. King Byren the Fourth had built it before the wars distracted him from collecting Affinity beasts. According to the old stories he'd liked animals better than people. Piro had never known her father's father but she often felt a sneaking sympathy for him.
'How's my pretty boy?' Piro whispered. She admired the foenix as he ate kitchen scraps from her hand, then rubbed his throat on her fingers. He blinked his emerald eyes and made a soft interrogative sound in his throat. Piro was sure he understood everything she said and, unlike her mother, he never scolded her or tried to change her.
'There you are!' Seela, her old nurse, pounced on her. 'The queen wants you, and be quick about it.'
Seela bustled Piro up the stairs, warning her to mind her tongue as they hurried along to her mother's solarium. It had been decorated with a recurring flower, vine and animal motif. These wound in and around each other in complex patterns. Picked out in paint and semi-precious stones, every surface glistened, catching the light. The chamber ran the length of the west wall, which was illuminated by deep-set diamond paned windows, so it was pleasant even in midwinter. But Piro hated it because it felt like a prison to her. Its walls were the invisible walls of royal expectation, fine lace, female giggles and lessons in law and account keeping.
Piro found her mother surrounded by the ladies of the court. They were laying out clothes and jewellery for tonight's midwinter feast, gossiping and laughing, twittering like birds.
Piro dutifully bent one knee. 'You wanted me, queen mother?'
Myrella dismissed her women. While they collected their combs and shawls, Piro shifted impatiently from foot to foot, her toes damp in her riding boots.
People said she looked like Queen Myrella, but they were nothing alike. Her mother had been a dutiful daughter to one king, then the equally dutiful wife of another. Piro couldn't get through the day without treading on someone's toes.
She was a little taller than the queen but just as fine-boned. Her mother had been considered a beauty in her day. At nearly thirty-six the queen's fine skin was barely lined, and her black hair, hidden under a fashionable head- dress, held hardly any grey. All her life Piro had been disappointing her mother. If the queen was a potter and Piro was her pot, then the queen was constantly pinching and prodding her into a shape that was not natural.
Piro mentally rehearsed her apology. As soon as the last woman left, she launched into her speech. 'I am so sorry, mother. What with all the excitement and Fyn's friend finding Halcyon's Fate, I — '
'Forgot? I thought as much, but you're no longer a careless child. At your age I was planning my wedding! How do you think Lence felt, when you didn't bother to turn up for his betrothal?'
'Betrothal?'
'To King Merofyn's daughter.'
Piro was stunned. 'I… I did not know. You should have told me.'
'Delicate negotiations have been going on for two years. Hardly the sort of thing a careless child needs to know!'
Piro was stung.
Her mother smoothed down the central panel of her heavily embroidered velvet gown and frowned as she looked Piro up and down. 'That dress won't do. Off with it.'
'I don't see why I have to get changed. The feast is not until this evening.'
