to her knees on the floor of the carriage and taking her mother's hands in hers to offer comfort. 'Don't worry, Mother, that... that...'
But she could not do it. She could not form the words to speak of the old seer.
The queen's luminous, obsidian eyes focused on Piro. A sense of imminence filled Piro and her heart quickened.
'That...' her mother stumbled then, as she forged on, Piro felt a shiver of relief. 'That seer!'
'Yes!' Piro nodded. 'She pretended to be a seer but she had no idea. Everything she said was wrong.'
Distress tightened her mother's features. The queen's lips worked and her chin trembled as if she was holding back tears or fury.
'What is it?' Piro whispered, empathy making her skin prickle. She felt as if her mother was about to reveal something vitally important.
The queen pressed her fingers to her mouth, took a shuddering breath then shook her head. She tucked a strand of hair behind Piro's ear. 'It's nothing.'
But it wasn't. Piro pulled back to sit on her seat. Something the old seer had said had disturbed her mother deeply.
Surely nothing could threaten Rolencia, not while her father held the kingdom together. At nearly fifty he was getting old, but in Lence and Byren he had strong warriors to defend Rolencia from beasts, spar warlords and Utland raiders.
It was probably the part about loved ones dying that worried her mother. After all, anyone could fall from a horse and break their neck like poor Uncle Sefon had, or catch a cold that went to the chest. And Lence and Byren were always facing danger. If their ongoing joke about who was due to save the other's life could be believed, they could have died a dozen times these last five years.
An image came to Piro, a body in the snow. In her mind's eye she dropped to her knees turning the body over, fearing the worst. But it was not Byren or Lence. It was Fyn.
She almost retched.
Stop it, she told herself. Fyn is safe with Halcyon's monks. It would break her heart if anything happened to any of her brothers but, despite the time he had spent at the abbey, she was closest to Fyn.
That image had to be the product of her over active imagination. She was not a seer - her growing Affinity had shown no sign of developing in that direction. Thank the goddess!
Suddenly afraid she'd betrayed herself, Piro focused on her mother. The queen stared distractedly out the window as the carriage climbed the steep road that repeatedly turned back on itself before reaching the gates of Rolenhold. Good, her mother hadn't noticed.
As if sensing her scrutiny, the queen met her eyes.
'Why do you look so worried, Piro?' she asked. 'Is something wrong?'
'What? No.' Piro looked down, adjusting the blanket over her knees. If she admitted her unwanted Affinity her parents would have to gift her to Sylion abbey. She'd be shut up with hundreds of other women, forced to worship the cold god of winter when she loved the sun and laughter. 'Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all.'
That seer was mistaken, Piro told herself. She must have been wrong about everything else because she was wrong about me being like Mother!
'We're home.' The queen sounded relieved.
Piro looked up at the castle's steep walls. Its domes and towers gleamed in the winter sun but instead of feeling a sense of homecoming, she fought a sense of entrapment. Piro put it down to wanting to hunt the leogryf, rather than sit and study.
Why couldn't her life be simple, like Byren's?
Chapter Five
Byren rode into Rolenhold's stable courtyard on a borrowed horse. With everyone about to leave to hunt the leogryf, he had to grab his father and explain Orrade's disinheritance. He stood in the stirrups. Where was King Rolen?
There, speaking with Captain Temor and Lence on the far side of the courtyard. Good.
'Come on, Orrie. Now's the best time.' Byren swung his leg over the mare and dropped to the cobbles. Orrade and Garzik followed suit. They were right behind him as he approached his father.
A group of new arrivals rode in between them, six or seven men on horseback, followed by a wagon-load of servants and belongings. They were led by a handsome man whose grim, rigid features seemed vaguely familiar. He rode one-handed, the other arm caught in a sling. His warriors wore the vivid blue surcoat of the Cobalt estate, with the coat of arms emblazoned on their chests. In the lower corner