Rowena Daniells - The uncrowned King

With typical dream suddenness her father now confronted a warlord in Rolenton Square. The warlord rode under the banner of Merofynia but it was clear he was a spar warrior. This was different. In the previous dreams, Merofynian warriors had been in the castle, masquerading as wyverns as they hunted her family.

She knew with the omniscience of a dreamer that the warlord had demanded Rolencia's surrender and that her father had no intention of surrendering. He wanted to meet his enemy to get the man's measure. But the warlord had other ideas.

He dropped his guise, dissolving into the form of an amfina, the twin-headed, winged lizard-snake. While one head smiled and talked with her father, the other signalled assassins in the form of wyverns.

Piro tried to warn her father, but he couldn't hear her dream voice. Frustration tore at her.

Still smiling, the Amfina warlord stepped back and the wyverns plunged in, aiming straight for her father. Old Lord Steadfast tried to protect him but a wyvern shattered his head with one terrible blow. Though Piro had never liked the pompous man, tears stung her eyes. She could do nothing as the wyverns tore her father and his honour guard to pieces.

'Girlie, here girlie. Wake up,' a creaky old voice urged, breaking the paralysis that held Piro captive to the dream vision.

She rolled into a crouch like a cat, heart pounding, stomach heaving. The logical part of her mind told her she didn't have to worry about her father, safe in his sick bed.

The woman eyed Piro warily but her words were kind enough. 'Bad dream, eh? Well, that's not surprising for all that we're safe behind Rolenhold's great walls. Take heart, love. The king defeated Merofynia once before. He'll do it again.'

Piro nodded. Even if her father was crippled by Merofynian treachery, there were still her brothers. Lence and Byren were mighty warriors and canny strategists. She shuddered and pushed back dark tangled hair from her face, thinking how her old nurse would frown to see her like this.

'Feeling better?' the woman asked.

Piro nodded.

'Come share our breakfast. It's not much, but it's hot.'

Piro smelt honey-oat cakes and her stomach heaved. 'Thank you, but I don't think I can eat right now.'

The woman nodded. 'Then come sit by the brazier.'

Piro gave in and joined the family group, who'd had the forethought to bring a small travelling brazier. Oat cakes lay toasting on its griddle and cinnamon milk steamed in a pot. Several children made room for her and she started to feel a little better. It was odd to sit here in the chantry, which was usually so solemn, and see it turned into an impromptu home for so many.

'Nan, Nan.' A boy of about ten darted through the other family groups to join them. 'King Rolen's about to ride out to speak with the Merofynians.'

Piro sprang to her feet. 'But he's sick. He can't ride out.'

'He is!' the boy insisted. 'I saw him and his honour guard heading for the stables. And he's wearing a real manticore chestplate!'

Piro ran. No one tried to stop her as she dashed out of the chantry, heading through a courtyard, along a hall, down stairs and out into the stable yard.

Good, she wasn't too late. It was still packed with spectators, stable lads, old gaffers offering advice and men-at-arms. She hesitated, taking in the crowd.

No sign of Sawtree. What had they done with his body?

No sign of Cobalt. He was probably up on the gate tower.

The king and his honour guard rode out of the stables, already mounted. In his armour, helmet and cloak her father still looked magnificent, but she had seen him bedridden last night. What had the healers given him to help him get about today? Whatever it was, it was sure to take a toll on his reserves.

Piro darted between the mounted men and grabbed her father's boot.

'Eh, Piro? They told me you'd gone to Sylion Abbey.' He frowned down at her, then cupped her cheek in one hand, his face a mixture of pain and love. 'You shouldn't be here, little Piro. You should be safe at the abbey.'

'You mustn't meet the warlord.'

His expression hardened.

She recognised that look. This was the face he wore when he was dispensing justice or sending her brothers out to protect Rolencia's borders. Even so, she had to try. 'You mustn't, Father. You should be in bed. You're sick.'

He grimaced. Through the contact of his roughened hands she had a flash of Affinity-induced insight. He did not fear death, he had faced it enough times to know this old foe. What he feared was dying by degrees, a shrivelled, pitiful parody of what he had once been.

Even so, she had to try. 'You can't go out there, Father. The Merofynians will turn on you.'

'No harm will come to us under a flag of truce. I'm only going to size up the enemy, Piro. Besides, I can't sit up here and not answer Palatyne's bluster!'

'But…' Unlike her mother, who had let her own father sail to his death, Piro could not let her father ride out to his. Besides, he already knew she had Affinity so she had nothing to lose. Piro strained on tip toes, keeping her voice low. 'I had a vision. I saw them turn on you and your men.'

He drew back, shaking his head. 'This is war, Piro. We have our code. He might be a spar upstart but he is overlord of the Merofynian army now, in service to King Merofyn. As such he's bound by the code of — '

'I've seen into his heart. He's a two-headed snake, Father. He smiles with one head and spits death with the other.'

Revulsion for anything to do with Affinity travelled across King Rolen's face. His features hardened. 'Let go of my leg and not another word. You are a kingsdaughter, Piro, you should understand. I must go out to meet this overlord or be shamed before my men.'

She understood. He rode to his death for the sake of honour. With a sob she turned and fled.

Fyn stood on the wharf to farewell the last of the acolytes and boys, who were about to sail across the bay to Sylion Abbey.

The small fishing boats looked vulnerable as they set off under a low-slung grey sky, travelling across a sullen, dark green sea. Hardly a ripple disturbed the bay's oily surface and only the tips of ice chunks could be seen, with most of their bulk just visible below the water line. Mere minutes in that water would mean death. Fyn repressed a shudder. Although he could swim, he hated the sea.

About a bow shot from the wharf, safely on the way to Sylion Abbey, Joff waved Halcyon's Sacred Lamp, a small warm glow in the otherwise grey day. Fyn smiled as Lenny waved solemnly from Joff's side. Feldspar was already waiting on the far shore with the rest of the acolytes and Dinni.

This morning, a chapter of Fyn's life had ended, and he felt the finality of it. With a shiver, he tightened the toggles on his borrowed sheepskin jacket. The sea was Sylion's domain. He belonged to Halcyon and he was glad he was going by land.

'Ready?' Lame Klimen's granddaughter asked. She was about ten years of age, and her face almost disappeared under a too-large cap. The tips of her dark plaits were streaked gold by the summer sun. She grinned at him. 'Though I don't know why you would walk, when you could sail halfway there!'

'You feel at home on a ship's deck, I prefer solid ground,' Fyn told her. The elders had tried to convince him to sail to Port Marchand, then skate the lakes and canals to Sapphire Lake. Fyn had considered this, but decided against it. With a pair of borrowed skis and skates, he could reach the nearest canal and be in Rolenton in three days, or less if he did not stop to rest.

The girl led Fyn away from the wharves. 'Come on, Great Granna has travelling food prepared for you, master monk.'

'I am not a master, not even a monk, only a — '

'If you don't want to be known as a monk, wear this.' She tugged off her sheepskin cap, reaching up to plant it crookedly on his head. 'Cover your skull tattoo and pretend that skinny plait comes from a full head of hair.'