The King's Bastard (23 page)

'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.'

Before her mother could speak, the door opened and her old nurse came back.

'Not ready yet, Piro? They're waiting for you in the trophy chamber,' Seela said. 'I caught a glimpse of him. Such a good-looking man. Clever too, they say.'

'Who are you talking about?' Piro fought a sinking feeling.

The old woman cast her mother a sharp look. Seela had been the queen's nurse and tutor when she was a child, having come with her from Merofynia. After the marriage Seela had stayed on to help rear the royal children. 'You haven't told her, Myrella?'

In a flash, Piro realised what this meeting was all about. Just as Lence must marry to strengthen Rolencia's alliances, so must she. 'Who have I been betrothed to?'

'A fine young warlord,' her mother spoke soothingly. Seela stepped behind Piro to undo the laces of her gown. 'This is just a first meeting. Either of you may decide not to take it any further.'

But they both knew Piro could not decline without offending the warlord. He was some upstart princeling from beyond the Divide, the petty ruler of a barren spar of land that stretched out into the sea. Piro snorted. A mere barbarian warlord, not even a kingson!

Not that there was a king's son the right age for her. Ostron Isle was ruled by an elector, chosen from one of the great merchant families who held court feasting and bickering over trade agreements. And the last Merofynian kingson had been her mother's younger brother. Poor little Sefon, her mother always called him. Queen Myrella hadn't seen her brother since he was a toddler and she was eight years old. After his death, the throne had passed to King Merofyn the Sixth who was older than Piro's father. From what she'd overheard, he was a nasty piece. His own wife had killed herself to escape him. Piro was relieved her parents weren't trying to betrothe her to King Merofyn.

Even so, the thought of political marriage made her burn with resentment. She had always known she would have to marry to further Rolencia's alliances, but until today that had been in the distant future.

'I don't want to m -' Her voice was muffled as Seela pulled the gown over her head. Piro blinked, '- marry. I'm not ready.'

'Those boots will have to come off,' her mother said. 'Sit by the fire while I find your gold-beaded slippers.'

'The ones that match the red and gold velvet gown, Myrella?' Seela asked.

'Yes. And she can wear the gold head-dress.' The queen adjusted her own head-dress. It was the married woman's style with a little hood that sat forwards over her face and fine gold net which confined her hair.

Being unmarried, Piro's head-dress was a small cap which would sit on the crown of her head, held in place with a few pins, the fine mesh falling to her shoulders, beaded with mandarin garnets.

'I don't want to -'

'Take those boots off!' her mother called over her shoulder. She picked the gown up by the shoulders and shook it to get the wrinkles out. Several little sacks of lavender fell on the floor.

Piro sat on the chest in front of the fire wearing only her woolen chemise. She tugged at the laces of her riding boots. They were made of soft suede, bleached white to match her gown, and weren't designed for snow. Even her woolen stockings were damp.

Seela put the boots and stockings aside then rubbed lavender-scented oil into Piro's cold toes, chaffing them to get the blood flowing. It felt good, even better when Seela slid silk stockings onto her feet.

'Silk?' Piro muttered.

'Fix those stockings in place,' Seela said. 'There's a good girl.'

'I'm not a good girl.' Piro rolled the ends of the stockings over her garters to hold them up just above her knees. 'I don't want to marry some hairy, half-savage warlord!'

Piro was very aware of her mother and Seela exchanging glances.

'And I will tell father so!' Piro announced.

Her mother's mouth settled into that familiar thin line of annoyance. 'Arms up.'

Piro held up her arms and wriggled as the gown settled over her shoulders. Seela pulled the lacing tight.

'Red suits you,' her mother said.

Piro frowned. Just then Seela surprised her with a dab of expensive Ostronite myrrh. The perfume wafted up around her face, sweet and fruity, exotic as Ostron Isle itself.

Queen Myrella turned Piro around to look in the mirror. Taking a hairbrush, she unravelled Piro's plaits. Once her hair was loose, it fell in wavy ripples to her waist, black as sable. 'You have lovely hair.'

'It doesn't matter what I look like,' Piro said. 'I'm not... Ouch!'

Seela had jabbed her scalp as she stood on a foot stool to pin Piro's cap in place. 'Sorry.'

She draped a net of fine gold mesh over Piro's shoulders. It gleamed in contrast with her hair. Piro tugged her royal emblem out of the dress's bodice. Her small, silver foenix pendant glowed against the rich velvet.

'You look just like a kingsdaughter should!' Seela beamed.

Piro fumed.

'Something's missing,' the queen murmured. 'I know. Fetch the ruby choker from my jewellery box, Seela.'

The old woman scurried over to the dresser where several jewellery boxes had been left open. She began sifting through one.

Piro watched proceedings mutinously.

Queen Myrella stepped closer to Piro, her face next to Piro's in the mirror.

'Do you think I wanted to leave my home when I was betrothed to your father?' she whispered. 'I was only eight years old. I never saw my mother and my baby brother again. My father visited once, when I was wed at fifteen. But I never complained. I married King Rolen to stop the constant warring between our kingdoms. Rolencia and Merofynia have been ancestral enemies forever. Hardly a summer went by without some skirmishing. Now we have had peace for nearly thirty years. I did my duty. Lence is doing his. You must do yours!'

The queen's brilliant black eyes met Piro's in the mirror. For a heartbeat Piro was too startled to speak. She had never considered that her mother might not have wanted to marry. 'But you love father.'

'Now I do,' her mother revealed. 'Ahh, Piro. Give this warlord a chance. Don't close your heart and mind against him.'

'Here it is,' Seela announced, placing the choker around Piro's throat.

It was heavy and gleamed against her skin. Her fingers stroked the gold filigree and cabochon star rubies. She stared at the person in the mirror. This grand kingsdaughter didn't look like the Piro who had begged a ride with a cart load of minstrels. She looked older, aloof and angry.

Piro hated not being in control of her life.