Fyn noticed Farmer Overhill's fifteen-year-old son watching from the edge of the group. He would have a hard time in the abbey, being thrown in with the small boys when he should have been in the year below Fyn. 'Say, Lonepine, keep an eye on the new boy.'
His friend glanced over his shoulder. 'Another stray?'
Fyn grinned. 'Just do it. I can't hang about, I'm seeing my brothers.'
'Then watch out for Galestorm.'
'You too, and warn Feldspar.'
Fyn crossed the busy hall, heading for the far door. Just as he stepped out into the connecting hall someone hailed him. He got the feeling they had been lying in wait for him. Catching the flash of a dark robe, he turned, his hands lifting defensively.
'Ahh, Fyn Kingson, I didn't mean to startle you.' History Master Hotpool beckoned him into the shadows. As a master, he wore a silver torque with one row of lapis lazuli. 'I hear the mystics master has offered your friend Feldspar a place. You must be pleased for him, but where does that leave you? This made me wonder why you hadn't come to ask me for a place.' Though he fixed Fyn with a fond, avuncular look, his eyes held a predatory gleam.
Fyn avoided his gaze. He had not gone to the history master because, though he had a genuine love of history, he did not like Hotpool. The master's smile did not reach his eyes and the monks who went into his service complained of favours they did not wish to give.
Fyn cleared his throat. 'Master Oakstand said he would offer me a place with the warrior monks, so I thought — '
'The weapons master?' Hotpool frowned. 'I would not have thought you were the type to favour brawn above brains, Fyn. Besides, I know you turned him down.' His eyes narrowed. 'Did you hope to pass over both and aim for a cleric's place? Four of the last ten abbots have been clerics. Is that your goal, to rule Halcyon's abbey since you can't rule Rolencia?'
'I am just a lowly acolyte,' Fyn said quickly, heart hammering with discomfort. 'I can only hope that in their wisdom, the masters select the right vocation for me.'
Before Hotpool could comment, he bowed and slipped away.
Knees shaking, Fyn cursed Piro. It was all her fault. If she hadn't interfered he might have found the Fate and then he would have been with the mystics master right now, safe from Master Hotpool and others like him.
Fyn headed for his brothers' chambers. Life was relatively simple for Piro, but she had certainly complicated his life.
Chapter Twelve
The queen and Seela pushed Piro out the door of the solarium, into the long corridor, with admonishments still ringing in her ears. For one tempting moment, she considered running to the stables and hiding in the hay loft. Last winter she might have done it, but with the arrival of her Affinity had come the realisation that she would have to grow up and face the world eventually.
Still, her feet dragged as she made her way along to the trophy chamber. She understood why her father chose to meet the warlord there. The room housed tributes collected by the royal family of Rolencia over the last three hundred years. There were great metal shields, decorated with beasts as fierce as the barbarian warlords who had once carried them.
Niches in the walls housed porcelain urns of rare oils from Ostron Isle and vases encrusted with semi-precious stones. Also from Ostron Isle came cedarwood furniture, carved so skilfully it seemed alive. Over the fireplace hung the Mirror of Insight. In all the years Piro had peered into it, it had never done anything but reflect the room's trophies and her own curious face.
There was a stuffed wyvern, though not as large as the ones which roamed the Royal grounds of Merofynia. The taxidermist had done a wonderful job, standing it on its rear legs so that it was taller than a man, mouth open to reveal razor-edged teeth. Its gleaming sapphire eyes were real jewels which winked with reflected light. Its short upper arms were raised to claw and its wings were extended to display their delicate membrane. It stood to one side of the oriel window which looked out over Rolencia.
On the other side was a stuffed foenix. This bird had roamed the menagerie back in her grandfather's time. It was taller than Piro. A crest of brilliant red feathers added another head and a half to its height. It was not as fierce-looking as the wyvern, though its beak was hard as metal and its chest was covered in scales as hard as armour, plus it had dangerous spurs on its legs. Like the wyvern, its eyes were real stones, emeralds.
If they did not find a mate for Piro's foenix, he would end up like this one and then the only foenixes people would ever see would be stuffed ones.
Piro stopped outside the carved oak door of the trophy chamber, heart hammering. Two pillars rose up to an arch over the door. Their decoration was the royal foenix, gold on deep red, with onyx stone touches. Piro ran her fingers over the embossed surface, then, taking a deep breath, she felt for the door handle. Somehow, she must not antagonise her father.
Piro could have loved King Rolen, if he'd only let her. Throughout her childhood he had been a distant figure, striding in to take her older brothers hunting, while she had been lucky to get a pat on the head in passing. Now he was going to marry her off.
Anger rolled through her. How could she marry a strange barbarian warlord? Her mother's last words rang in her head. Still smarting from those comments — she was not a thoughtless child — Piro decided she would keep an open mind and give this warlord a chance, but if he proved impossible, she would have to refuse her father.
And that was a frightening thought.
She licked dry lips and went to turn the handle, but it turned under her hand as a servant opened the door, backing out. Sweetbreads and a bottle of Rolencia's famous red wine had been delivered on a trolley which stood in front of the oriel window. Her father and another man were standing in the window's curve. The light from the leaded panes was behind them, so she could not see their faces. The warlord was not as tall as her father, but then few men were. Only Lence and Byren were bigger.
Feeling at a disadvantage, she glided across the room, assuming the graceful walk her mother had taught her.
'You sent for me, royal Father?' Piro said, dropping her gaze and bowing from the waist, since this was a formal occasion.
When she looked up King Rolen beckoned her. 'Piro Rolen Kingsdaughter. I swear you are as beautiful as your mother was the day I married her.'
'I will not be old enough to marry until I turn fifteen,' Piro pointed out. 'And that is not until the midsummer after next.'
Her father ignored this, leading her around the food trolley. 'Meet the ruler of Cockatrice Spar. Warlord Rejulas… my daughter, Piro.'
She gave him the minimum dip of her head. After all, she was a kingsdaughter and Rejulas was a mere warlord.
Cockatrice Spar was not the largest of the ridges that fanned out from the Dividing Mountains, but it was the one nearest Merofynia. Border wars were always going on over the Disputed Isles, a cluster of islands off the coast from the spar. As a student of history, Piro understood her father was marrying her to this warlord to ensure the safety of Rolencia's borders. She would be expected to spy on her husband and report back to her father and brothers. It was necessary, but she still resented it.
Piro looked up and caught the warlord staring at her. He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking.
A jolt ran through her. This Lord Rejulas was an unusual man with a 'witchy' look around his narrow eyes and high cheek bones. There had to be a bit of Utland raider in him, back a generation or two. She guessed he was several years older than the twins, but not near thirty, for there was no silver in the hair at his temples. Rather than the much-admired black eyes, his were brown, and met hers thoughtfully.
So this was the warlord she was supposed to marry? She would be hard put to find a more striking man. But he dressed like the barbarian he was. He even wore a vest of wyvern scales. How many men had died so that he could show off that sun-on-sea rippling blue vest? His shirt leather was so soft the women of his tribe must have chewed their teeth down to stubs on it. He was in for a surprise if he thought she would chew his leather!