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.
'She reminds me of you at the same age,' Seela whispered. 'So beautiful.'
Piro glared at her face in the mirror. She'd drawn both their portraits and she had no illusions. 'My chin is more pointed and my mouth is bigger. I'll never be a beauty like mother.'
Queen Myrella spun her around by the shoulders. 'Beauty's only a tool, and not a very good one. You're on your own after the first five minutes. Now, you go down to the trophy chamber and — '
'That's what I am, just a trophy!'
'Mind your tongue,' Seela snapped. 'Don't you shame your mother. She's a kingsdaughter in her own right with a better claim to the Merofynian throne than Merofyn the Sixth!'
Queen Myrella shook her head with a half-smile. 'Don't rake over the past, Seela. I am queen of Rolencia. One kingdom is enough for me. Now, off you go, Piro. And just this once, think before you speak!'
Fyn made his way through Rolenhold's great hall, keeping watch for a green-grey robe and Galestorm's distinctive, thick neck. The hall was so packed it was hard to find anyone. All around him monks and acolytes celebrated as they relived the race to Ruin Isle.
He sighted a saffron robe surrounded by fellow acolytes and recognised Lonepine, who was re-enacting the battle with Hawkwing. Fyn smiled to himself, remembering how he'd have hung on every word only a year ago. Letting Lonepine enjoy his triumph, Fyn waited until the story came to an end, then caught his friend's eye.
'Come, join the fun, Fyn.' Lonepine would have pulled him into the centre of admiring youths.
'We need to talk,' Fyn mouthed.
Lonepine forged through the younger acolytes and joined Fyn saying, 'Feldspar is meeting with the mystics master. He's due back soon. His place will be ensured when we get back to the abbey.'
'That's what I wanted to tell you. We need to stick together. Galestorm thinks I told the weapons master how he injured the grucrane.' The only people he'd told had been Lonepine and Feldspar.
Lonepine's brows drew down and his hands curled into fists.
'No you don't,' Fyn said quickly. 'That's all he needs, a chance to teach you a lesson. Besides, I can look after myself.'
'When the odds are fair.' Lonepine held Fyn's eyes. 'And we both know Galestorm likes the odds to be in his favour.'
The older boys bullied the younger boys, the older acolytes bullied the young ones, and the monks bullied everyone they could. It was the way of the abbey. If you were lucky you found a safe niche and kept out of trouble. Fyn had always admired Wintertide because the boys master punished bullying. But his old master could not be everywhere.
'Well Galestorm didn't succeed this time and as long as we stick together he won't get another chance.'
Lonepine went to speak, but a young acolyte called him over to sort out an argument over which stroke he had used to fell Hawkwing.
'Be right there.' Lonepine laughed. 'Come on, Fyn. Have some fun.'