The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,76
herself safe from it after the vision. Affinity had to be used or it would surface when she least wanted it to.
There was only one thing to do.
Chapter Thirteen
Fyn ran straight to the menagerie where the foenix lived. No sign of Piro. Though he rarely saw the bird it remembered him and gave a low interrogative chirrup of greeting. He stooped to scratch the foenix's scaled chest. As he stood up Byren arrived, his broad shoulders blocking the entrance.
'So you thought to look here too, Fyn? No luck?'
Fyn shook his head and rose. They strode out of the courtyard together and along the hall.
'Don't take Lence to heart,' Byren said. 'He's angry all the time now and it eats away at him.'
'I don't see what he's got to be angry about. He's kingsheir and father's favourite. Of all of us, he's most like father.'
Byren frowned for an instant, then dredged up a grin. 'Except Piro. She inherited his temper.' He shook his head. 'I don't know what's got into her this time.'
'Her heart's in the right place,' Fyn said, remembering how she'd risked the abbey's wrath to help him. 'But she doesn't think things through.'
They came to a point where two sets of stairs from different wings fed onto a hallway with many doors.
'I'll try the kitchen. Cook is probably hiding her again. If not, I'll ask Seela,' Byren said. 'You try the stable loft.'
Fyn nodded.
Illien came down the stairs from the family wing and crossed the hall to join them. 'Byren, what's going on?'
'You might as well know. It'll be all over the castle by dinner time. Piro's turned down the warlord father wanted her to marry. And now she's hiding,' Byren revealed.
Fyn put two and two together. He'd heard how the new Lord Cobalt had ridden in demanding justice on behalf of his father and bride.
'And this is little Fyn?' Cobalt asked with a smile. 'Not so little now. Last time I saw you, you were still in the nursery and Piro was a baby.'
'I'll always be little compared to Byren and Lence,' Fyn said. He felt he knew this man already. It had to be the family resemblance. He caught himself staring and remembered his manners. 'I'm sorry to hear about your loss.'
Grief's shadow darkened Cobalt's eyes, making the lines that bracketed his mouth severe. 'They will pay. Lence has sworn to help me avenge them.'
'We can't have Utland raiders attacking our people,' Byren said, though he seemed resigned rather than righteous. 'Meanwhile, we must find Piro.'
'I'll help. Where should I look?' Cobalt asked.
'We've already tried the menagerie,' Byren said. 'But she may circle back. She loves the Affinity beasties.'
They separated. With a nod to Cobalt and Byren, Fyn ran off.
The stables were deserted, the workers all madly preparing for the feast. Fyn climbed up to the loft, calling softly for Piro. She didn't answer but that didn't mean she wasn't there. He made a thorough search of the long loft with its sweet-smelling hay. No sign of his sister.
Before he could climb down, the stables filled with angry men saddling their horses.
Fyn listened at the top of the ladder. The men had the clipped accents of barbarians from beyond the Dividing Mountains and they occasionally threw in unknown words which made their speech hard to understand. When he heard their destination was Cockatrice Spar, he understood. Their warlord had been insulted and they were about to ride out of Rolenhold, even though it was nearly dusk on the shortest day of the year and their warlord had yet to renew his oath of allegiance at the feast tonight. No one in their right mind ventured abroad when the barriers between the Seen and the Unseen were at their weakest.
After the last horse was led out, Fyn climbed down the ladder to the floor below. The stable was warm and smelt of horses, earthy and familiar. He dusted hay off his leggings and saffron robe and headed out into the stable courtyard where two dozen of the warlord's honour guard adjusted their cinnamon-coloured cockatrice cloaks. They talked and laughed too loudly to show that they were not intimidated by King Rolen's men-at-arms, who stood on the ramparts, weapons in hand, watching them.
No one looked at Fyn. With all the visitors, servants, minstrels and men-at-arms crowded into Rolenhold, one more shaven-headed acolyte was unremarkable. A man in a wyvern-skin vest shoved past Fyn to speak with an old man nearby. Fyn just caught his words.