The Uncrowned King (21 page)

Though they spoke Merofynian, Piro suspected they would probably have been just as rude if they thought she could understand them.

Soterro turned to Piro, speaking excellent Rolencian. 'Fill a bucket with water and come this way.'

She used the pump over the stone sink to fill the bucket and the cook tossed her a rag to wash herself with. It was already filthy. Piro eyed it reluctantly, but a maidservant who had become a slave would not protest.

'Hurry up, I haven't got all day,' Soterro snapped. 'This way.'

Back in the next room he dug through one of his master's chests until he found what he was looking for, tossing her a bundle of clothes. 'Here, catch. Something will fit you. Come on.' He led her into the hall saying, 'You can call me Master Soterro. And you always call our master Lord Dunstany, or "my lord." He's a great man. He's been advisor to the kings of Merofynia for seventy years!'

Piro blinked. Except for the bone-ache that twisted his hands, Dunstany looked no older than fifty. It appeared long life was a by-product of renegade Affinity.

A youth passed them, carrying a pan of broken glass.

'Put that aside and bring your tools.'

They waited until he returned, then Soterro led them up the stairs. The head servant was puffing when he came to the second flight of much narrower stairs. At the top landing he opened door after door until he found a tiny room tucked under the ceiling. It was piercingly cold. 'What's your name, girl?'

Piro blinked. 'Seela, sor. I mean, Master Soterro.'

He gave her a sharp look. 'That's a Merofynian name.'

'I'm named after me ma's ma. She was from Merofynia. Reckon she -'

He silenced her with a wave. 'Get cleaned up.' He turned his back on her to speak with the carpenter. 'I want a bolt fixed to this door and her locked in safely before you come back downstairs.'

As the youth got out his tools, Piro sat on the single low cot to watch, while he fixed a large metal bolt to the door. He did not meet her eyes but, when he was done, he cast her a shy glance.

She turned her face away, not wanting to make friends with Dunstany's servants. The youth shut the door and she heard the bolt slide home.

As the air slowly left Piro's chest, she felt a little light-headed. The water in the bucket was cold, so she bathed quickly. Determined to keep her wits about her, she changed into the boy's leggings and the azure thigh-length pinafore of a Merofynian court page. Its heavy brocade yoke came down to her mid-chest, hiding her breasts. Dressed like this she could pass for a boy. A pretty boy. She pulled her hair into a single tight plait like the Merofynian servants wore, and sat the white rabbit-fur cap on her head. There was no mirror, but if she stood in the right spot she could just make out her reflection in the attic window.

Excellent. No one would recognise Piro Rolen Kingsdaughter now.

Her stomach rumbled. How could she be hungry after everything that had happened?

Could she climb out the window? Piro forced the catch, knocking snow off the sill. It landed on the roof of the kitchen far below. The slates of the attic roof were slick and icy. In desperation she might risk trying to cross them, but not today, not when there could be easier ways to escape.

She gazed out at the many steep, snowcapped roofs of Rolenton. Above the town Rolenhold sat on its pinnacle, with the Dividing Mountains rising high behind it, shrouded in clouds. Palatyne's azure and black flags hung from Rolenhold's two gate towers. She felt as limp as those flags.

Her home, her whole life lay in ruins. The overlord had set out to destroy King Rolen and all his kin to escape a prophecy.

I make my own fate!
he'd claimed.

And so he did.

A small, grim smile tugged at Piro's lips. Overlord Palatyne might have killed her family and stolen their kingdom, but he had overlooked one small, insignificant slave girl who knew which herbs could kill. She would fulfil the prophecy!

Fyn ate while skating, determined to make up time. The brilliant evening star was four fingers above the horizon when he slipped and skidded across the ice. He lay stunned for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Rolling onto his knees, he realised he'd almost dozed off. He should rest for a bit and skate later.

Grateful for the thick fisherman's coat, he built a hasty snow-cave on the shore and crawled inside. As he curled into a ball, his hand went to his chest to settle on the royal emblem that he no longer wore. Instead his fingers closed around Halcyon's Fate.

Had Master Catillum escaped the mass grave? Would he survive his injury and the dangers of Rolencia's winter? Would he reach Sylion Abbey despite all the Merofynian search parties wandering the slopes of Mount Halcyon?

Fyn knew there was a chance he could turn the Fate to his will. Logic told him not to try, when there was also a chance some Merofynian Power-worker might capture him while he was vulnerable, viewing the Unseen world, but... the Fate had shown him Isolt, daughter of King Merofyn. And it hadn't shown any visions to Piro, who had handled it before him. Unlike Feldspar and Piro, it seemed his Affinity was attuned to the Fate.

He stroked the opalised seashell's spiral surface. Like a cat stretching under a loving hand, the Fate warmed to his fingers. A flicker of light travelled through the opal, distant lightning behind stormy clouds.

Fyn was tempted...

But the memory of emptying his stomach in the snow outside Lame Klimen's cottage was still too fresh. If the Fate took that much of a toll on his Affinity he might end up as Feldspar had warned, with a brain spasm.

In the end caution won out.

Rest, then set off later tonight.

Byren heard them whispering. He tried to move, but his limbs would not obey him. At least he was in a real bed, not being rocked to pieces on that sled. He recalled flashes of being carried inside, someone peeling off his bloodied vest. That was when he'd almost passed out.

The healer - he remembered her Sylion veil now - had given him a draught that tasted foul despite the addition of peppermint. Then, before she could finish stripping him, the dyer had interrupted her.

Now they whispered furiously in the hallway. Byren struggled to open his eyes, and saw a wall, the shadows of two people with their heads together.

'...can't stay here -'

'None of us can stay here,' the dyer said. 'My Miron's just come back with bad news. The castle's fallen. The Merofynians will rampage across the valley, taking what they want.'

Byren refused to believe it. It was the abbey that had been taken, not the castle. He had to warn his father.

That's right, he had. He'd sent word, sent it with the dyer's son, Miron who had come back because... no, the castle couldn't have fallen!

'Can we move him?' the dyer asked.

'I haven't checked the wound yet, but from the amount of blood on his vest... moving him might kill him.'

'It hasn't killed him yet. Sleeping in the snow should have killed him. He's tough as an old goat. Treat him and we'll move on. I'm guessing he's the last of King Rolen's kin. Miron says they burned the royal bodies so there would be no relics.'

'Burned who?'

'The king, his queen and the kingsdaughter.'

A moan was torn from Byren. Not Piro, not his mother.

Footsteps. Cool fingers on his forehead. Soft, female voice, calming.

Byren tried to catch her hand, but his arm was too heavy to lift. He tried to focus on the healer's face but his lids would not stay open. Not only was he useless, he'd failed his family. Another moan escaped him.

'Hush, bantling,' she whispered, speaking the kind of words mothers used to soothe small children. It amused him. He was a man, not a child of five. 'You've been very sick. You need to rest.'

How could he sleep when... 'M'mother, Piro!'

'I should have kept my voice down,' the dyer muttered.

'He should have been dead to the world. I gave him enough dreamless-sleep to knock out a horse.'

Byren lifted his head and prised his eyes open a crack, only to discover the single candle was too bright to bear. But he squinted up at the dyer, holding his eyes. 'Are you sure they're dead?'

The dyer's voice dropped as he leant closer. 'Miron met others fleeing. The overlord ordered the bodies burned.'

Byren fell back on the pillow. Hot tears seeped from his eyes, running down the side of his face. He had failed. His family were all dead but for him, and that could surely only be a matter of time.

The air escaped his chest in a long, despairing sigh. 'Don't risk your lives for me. Save yourselves and your families.' His voice was only a thread. 'Head for the mountains.'

'But Rolencia needs you,' the dyer insisted. 'You can't give up.'

Why not? He'd failed everyone who loved him, starting with Elina.

Byren turned his face to the wall as a wave of sorrow engulfed him, dragging him down.

Chapter Thirteen

Piro woke with a start, shivering. The attic window let in a wintery twilight, so she had slept the afternoon away, burrowing under the covers for warmth. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she remembered she hadn't eaten all day. Someone rapped on the door and thrust it open without waiting.

'Lazy Rolencian slave!' the kitchen boy muttered in Merofynian and gestured for her to get up. He was about her age with a thin, mean mouth that made Piro suspect he delighted in the misfortunes of others.

She climbed out from under the bedcovers, thinking at least it would be warmer down by the kitchen fire.

When she arrived, the smell of cooking made her stomach clench with hunger. Soterro and the cook were seated at the table. It was clear these powerful members of the household shared a bond that made them a formidable team. If she wanted her time in Dunstany's household to be as painless as possible she must not antagonise these two.

Cook looked her up and down, rubbed his bristly chin, then sent her to wash the dishes.

'Lying abed while others work!' he muttered disgustedly in Rolencian, so she could understand.

She wanted to protest that she had been locked in, but thought it wiser not to.

The kitchen boy smirked as he joined the two men at the table. Piro suspected that washing the dishes had been his job, but now that she was lowest on the pecking order it had become hers.

'Why is she dressed like that?' the kitchen boy asked in Merofynian. 'That won't fool anyone.'

'Grysha's right, that outfit won't fool anyone,' Cook muttered. 'She still walks like a woman.'

Piro pretended not to understand as she scrubbed and rinsed, stacking the cooking pots and utensils on the grate to dry. She had helped her mother clean when they prepared private meals for her father, so she knew what she was doing.

Her gaze settled on a small paring knife, still grubby from preparing the vegetables. She picked it up along with several ladles and wiped them all clean, but instead of placing the knife with the other utensils, she slid it inside her sleeve. The outer sleeve was full and gathered but her inner woollen sleeve was tight, and it held the knife against her flesh, safe from detection. Ready for use.

Silently, she thanked Fyn for teaching her how to kill a man quickly, going straight for the groin, heart or throat.

Fyn... Her throat tightened and tears threatened. She must not think about him, had to be strong. Just because Palatyne had sent men to take the abbey it did not mean the abbey had fallen, and even if it had, that did not mean Fyn was dead.

She flicked her hands dry and wiped them on a cloth.

'Don't loaf about, girl,' Cook snapped in bad Rolencian. 'You can serve the master.'

Piro hurried over. Food was laid out on the table, enough for many people. She got the impression that Dunstany's servants did not go without.

Beside the cook's elbow was a dish of roasted baby potatoes, sprinkled with herbs. Melted butter glistened on their steaming skins. Piro's stomach gave a painful spasm of hunger. Without thinking, she went to take a crisp potato.

The cook slapped her hand. 'You'll eat the scraps when I say!'

Grysha giggled and Piro decided she hated him.

'Here.' The cook indicated a tray with a bottle of fine Rolencian red and a single goblet. 'Take this in. Master likes wine before his meal.'

Piro backed into the apothecary's dining room, holding a tray.

Dunstany sat before the fire, his long legs thrust towards the flames, a pensive expression on his face. Piro set the tray on the side board and poured the wine. She had served her father enough times to be a deft hand at it.

With a murmured word, she presented the goblet to the noble Power-worker. He exuded Affinity in the same way a cat might purr and knead its paws before the fireplace. His Affinity made hers stir.

The glittering black eyes lifted to Piro's face. Hastily she glanced down.

'You serve me as though I was the king himself. So many talents for a healer's assistant.' He smiled. 'Why didn't Sylion's nun have an apprentice healer from the abbey?'