The Uncrowned King (5 page)

Piro had remembered Fyn's self-defence tricks and escaped. She'd run straight to her father to warn him about Cobalt, only to discover he believed his nephew over her. That was a bitter blow.

Now she crept down the hall, one hand over the keys so they would not clink. Hopefully the healers would both be asleep, but there was still one of the king's honour guard at the door to her father's chamber.

A soft snore greeted her and she bit back a relieved giggle.

It was old Sawtree, asleep on duty. She didn't know how he managed. The seats were built at an angle sloping down so that a man might rest his weight a little, but if he relied on the seat to take all his weight, he'd slide off. This wing of the castle had been built by her namesake, Queen Pirola the Fierce, in the last years of her reign and the seat's wooden surface had been polished by a hundred and thirty years of guards' bottoms to a glossy, slippery finish. Yet somehow this man, one of her father's original honour guard - which made him at least fifty - had wedged his sturdy legs at just the right angle so that his shoulders took enough of his weight against the wall for the seat to support him.

Piro smiled to herself. She was fond of old Sawtree. Like Temor, the captain of the king's honour guard, he had always been part of her life. As a small child, she used to tease him mercilessly.

Tonight, she was glad he had been chosen to guard her father. She watched and waited for his doze to deepen, trying to judge the moment before his legs relaxed and the sliding action of the seat woke him.

She didn't think any the less of old Sawtree for dozing at his post. There were rumours of a Merofynian invasion, but there'd been no confirmation. Last night they'd seen a glow to the south, possibly from the Dovecote estate. The next beacon hadn't been lit, so it was probably just a house fire. House fires were common in winter, in a land where almost every home was made of wood.

Besides, they were safe in Rolenhold. The castle had never been taken, not since King Rolence built the first tower three hundred years ago, so old Sawtree was welcome to doze at his post.

But how long before he was woken by the seat's design? Piro decided she could wait no longer.

She sidled past him. Eyes on the sleeping man, her fingers found the door latch. Silently, she slipped into the chamber. The smell of powerful herbal remedies hung on the still, hot air. Someone had built up the fire and left it to burn down, so the room was stifling.

There was no sign of the castle's two healers, though the door to the connecting chamber was a hand's breadth ajar. No doubt they were sleeping lightly, ready to spring to the king's aid. Rivalry between the nuns of Sylion and the monks of Halcyon ran too deep for one healer to let the other gain an advantage.

By the glow of the banked hearth, Piro studied her father. King Rolen was still a big man, a head taller than average. But, since they had exposed the manservant for the manipulative Power-worker he was, the king's flesh had shrunk to reveal his bones.

Now that she saw him for herself, tears stung her eyes. Even in his sleep her father looked troubled. A frown gathered between his heavy brows. He shifted, rolled over and moaned with the pain this caused him, but did not wake. The servant had said the king couldn't sleep so they must have given him something, probably dreamless-sleep, to ease his pain.

He looked so deeply under that Piro doubted if she would be able to wake him. It didn't matter. She could still ease his discomfort. In a way it was lucky he was unaware, for he would have hated her to use Affinity on him. Ever since he'd watched helplessly, while his father and older brother were murdered by renegade Merofynian Power-workers, he had hated all Affinity and only suffered those with it to remain in Rolencia if they served the abbeys.

The irony of this struck Piro as she lifted one hand, reaching for her father's forehead.

A hand closed over her mouth and an arm swung around her waist, lifting her off her feet. In desperate silence, she writhed with all her strength but she was small for thirteen summers and her captor was a full-grown man.

Remembering Fyn's lessons, she threw her head back, connecting with his chin. Her captor gave a grunt of pain but did not release her.

'For Halcyon's sake stop struggling, Piro. I'm trying to help you!'

Recognising the castle warder's voice, she stopped resisting and he set her feet back on the ground.

'Monk Autumnwind?' Turning in the circle of his wary arms she met his eyes. The Halcyon monk had served her family since the previous warders died trying to protect her grandfather and uncle thirty years ago. Piro had never been close to Autumnwind, but she believed he was an honourable man. 'Can -'

He signalled for silence and led her to the far side of the room, away from the connecting door. They stepped behind a sandalwood screen into an alcove where the healers had set up their herbals. A mortar and pestle made of white stone gleamed in the dimness.

'What are you doing here, Piro?'

'I came to see Father.'

'He's suffering.'

'I know, that's why I came.' That, and because she had hoped he would see reason and reconcile with her mother. 'When will he be better?'

Autumnwind hesitated then gave her a pitying look that made her stomach curdle with fear. She didn't want to hear what he was about to tell her.

'The healers are doing all they can, but King Rolen may not get better.' He lifted his hands, turning them palm up. 'You must realise, Piro, a man's life force is held in his body by more than health alone. The heart's gone out of the king. His queen betrayed him...' He silenced her with a gesture before she could object. 'Whether she meant to or not, the effect is the same. Lence Kingsheir refused to heed his advice and called him a coward, said he was too old to rule. And Byren is a Servant of Palos, a lover of men -'

'Lies! Byren's loyal,' Piro whispered, fiercely. 'Just as I am.'

'I believe that you believe this. But it is what the king believes that's important. And he believes his wife and children have betrayed him. I was sent to serve him after the great battle. I've seen how he strove to rebuild Rolencia these last thirty years. Now it is all falling apart around him.'

'Only Cobalt has betrayed him. Don't you see -'

'I see a frail king who trusts no one but his nephew, who he named lord protector of the castle before his health began to fail.'

'So you serve Cobalt now?' Piro eyed him narrowly.

'I serve Halcyon.'

Piro understood only too well. Kings came and went, but the abbey had survived three hundred years. She swallowed. 'Are you going to turn me over to Cobalt, Autumnwind?'

He gave her a look of exasperation. 'I should.'

'But?'

He was silent for a moment. Then he fixed on her. 'I am going to check on the king. If you are still here when I turn around I will call the guard.'

He left her behind the screen. Through the gaps in the vine-leaf carving she caught glimpses of him moving about the chamber and checking the fire.

Piro slipped out from behind the screen, heading for the door.

'What's this?' Cobalt demanded from the hall outside, his voice muffled by the thick door but easily recognisable by its distinctive Ostronite accent.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Piro imagined old Sawtree straightening up and saluting, fist to chest.

'I should have you publicly whipped for sleeping on duty!' Cobalt snarled.

'Please, Illien.' The queen's voice was barely discernible. 'This man has served my husband faithfully for over thirty years.'

There was another painful pause. Piro imagined the old warrior's proud silence. He would not plead. If it came to the worst he would take his public whipping.

'Don't let me catch you napping again,' Cobalt warned.

The door was thrust open. Piro only just had time to dart behind it as Lord Cobalt and her mother entered.

Like her brothers and father, Cobalt was tall and well made, but Piro could only see the man for the soulless manipulator he was. He nodded to Autumnwind, strode across the chamber, peered behind the screen and closed the door to the healers' chamber.

While his back was turned, Piro darted over to hide in the screened alcove. Her mother's eyes widened and she stiffened slightly but did not give Piro away.

Cobalt turned to face the queen.

Though safe behind the sandalwood screen, Piro hardly dared to breathe.

Fyn raced down the spiral stairs behind the abbot with old Silverlode on his heels. Although he raced to protect the boys, it felt wrong to leave the others to face the invaders. They'd been considered either too young or too old to fight. Only the thought of Lenny and the rest of the little boys huddled defenceless in the mystics' sanctum kept him going.

Behind and above him, Fyn heard Sunseed shouting orders and Hawkwing yelling. He remembered holding Hawkwing's finger in place when it had been severed during weapons practice. Despite going white with pain, Hawkwing had joked while they waited for the healers. His friend had lost his finger and now he'd lose his life.

And Fyn was running away.

The sudden clash of steel and shouting told Fyn the main force of Merofynians had reached the central spiral stair. His heart swelled with pride because his fellow acolytes did not hesitate to defend the abbey.

Doubling over to catch his breath, the old abbot paused at the bottom of the stairs. Fyn almost collided with him, pulled up short, and peered past the two masters down a dim corridor. He could just make out the silhouettes of five lightly armed scouts, and beyond them were the double doors of the inner sanctum, securely bolted no doubt by Feldspar who was hiding inside. A pair of lamps lit the doors.

The abbot nudged Fyn, signalling for quiet, then entered the corridor. Silent in his slippers, the abbot crept up behind the last man and stabbed him under the ribs, a hand over his mouth. Shocked, Fyn froze. He could not reconcile this efficient killer with the kindly, wise old abbot.

Even as the abbot eased the body down, the man's companion turned and drew his sword. In the narrow hall, it scraped across the wall throwing an arc of sparks. This gave Silverlode time to run him through, while the abbot pulled his knife free.

Fyn hated to see an animal suffer, let alone a person. The man who'd been stabbed in the back was trying to breathe, blood bubbling on his lips. He was as good as he dead, but still he struggled.

The intruders' leader signalled the last two men to deal with the abbot and his companions, before going on.

The corridor was just wide enough for two men to stand side by side with weapons drawn. Fyn gripped his knife in his left hand, sword in the right, heart hammering.

The warriors, both seasoned veterans half the age of the masters, fell upon the old monks. Fyn knew enough swordcraft to recognise the monks' skill but their attackers were merciless. How did old Silverlode see the strokes, when he couldn't see well enough to read? Fyn felt he should help, but the pace was too furious and the space too tight to intervene. A barrage of attacks drove Silverlode back. Just a fraction too slow, the old monk failed to block. The top of his head flew off and hit the wall, followed a heartbeat later by his body.

Silverlode's attacker, a man with a scar where his right ear had been, turned to him.

Sound roared in Fyn's ears. Everything felt unreal.

He was vaguely aware of a flurry of movement behind the man as the abbot dispatched his opponent and prised his sword from the body.

The one-eared warrior's sword arced towards Fyn. Too late, his own weapon moved up to deflect it. Efficiently, the abbot caught the one-eared man from behind and cut his throat. The sword flew from the warrior's nerveless fingers.

Blood sprayed Fyn, hot and shocking.

'Are you all right?' the abbot asked.

Fyn could only nod.

The abbot stiffened and looked down as a sword point appeared from his chest.

With a savage kick, the leader of the intruders freed his sword and shouldered the abbot aside to charge Fyn.

Still reeling, Fyn side-stepped the attack, deflecting the strike with a circular motion that drove his attacker's sword hand into the wall, leaving the man's body open for a knife attack through the lacings of his chest protector. Fyn lost his grip on the knife hilt as the man slid down the wall, glaring at him even as he died.

Fyn gave him a wide berth. Stepping over the bodies, he dragged the abbot to a clear patch then knelt in the pool of blood that covered the floor. 'I'm sorry, so sorry.'

Blood covered the abbot's chin and his breath bubbled in his chest, but his eyes fluttered open and he recognised Fyn. He tried to speak. Failed. His hand felt along his waist sash for his keys. Tugging them free, he thrust the keys into Fyn's hand with painful intensity. A hiss of air left his lips. 'Take the boys and stones to Sylion Abbey.'

Fyn was so attuned, he felt it the instant the life-force left the abbot's body. Guilt lanced him. He'd frozen. That was the reason the abbot had died.

He stared at the abbot's keys. Dimly, he heard the roar of the fighting on the stairs. Why did everything sound so distant?