monks'.
There were four of them, their different coloured robes revealing their affiliation with different abbey masters, but these four had always been fast friends, united by their similar natures. The monks had cornered a flock of grucranes. These large, cumbersome Affinity beasts survived Rolencia's cold winters by cohabiting with people. In exchange for a warm roost at night near the chimney pots of homes, they kept watch over the buildings. One of the flock was always awake, a stone clutched in its claw. If it fell asleep, the stone would fall and wake the others, so the birds made excellent sentries. Many a household had been saved from thievery or fire, always a constant threat with wooden homes, by the raucous cry of the sentry grucrane.
This particular flock slept on the abbey's chimney vents and spent their days on the lake, swimming and fishing in summer, fossicking along the shore in winter. Now they were confronted by Monk Galestorm and his three friends. The flock's leader had shepherded the birds into a hollow in the shoreline, effectively trapping them because, unless the heavy, ungainly birds took to the air, the only way out was closed off by Galestorm and his friends. Used to nothing but kindness from the monks, the birds milled about in confusion.
While his three companions watched, Galestorm shoved a stick at the Affinity beasts, then made an opening, only to dart in and block it off before the grucranes could escape.
Indignation filled Fyn. He wanted to jump down and defend the grucranes, but there were four monks and only one of him. It would be madness to risk a beating over a bird, even an Affinity-touched bird.
Galestorm misjudged the distance, or else really intended to harm the grucrane, for his next jab took it in the chest. It gave a raucous squawk of protest.
'Hey!' Fyn yelled, swinging his weight over the ledge and jumping down to the frozen lake below. A snow bank absorbed the impact of his landing.
'Fyn Rolen Kingson, what're you doing here?' Galestorm strode towards Fyn, swinging the stick so that it cut the air with a sickening swish.
Fyn's heart thundered and he glanced over his shoulder, but the rocks behind him were too steep to climb. He faced Galestorm. 'Leave the grucranes alone.'
'And what are you going to do about it, coward?'
Cruel laughter followed Galestorm's taunt.
Fyn shrank inside. The moment Galestorm was distracted, the lead bird took off, flapping madly to gain height, then circling protectively as the others spiralled above him, heading towards the abbey.
'Did you hear?' Galestorm asked his ready audience. 'The kingson faints at the sight of blood — '
'Watch out. The birds are getting away,' Onetree yelled.
Galestorm spun around, swore, then tossed the stick aside. He pulled out his slingshot, grabbed a stone from his pouch and let fly into the mass of grucranes. One bird gave a forlorn cry, falling to the lake with a solid thump.
Fyn could not believe his eyes. 'You idiot!'
Galestorm faced him, his top lip lifting in a sneer.
Fyn tried to go to the aid of the injured bird but Galestorm stepped into his path, reaching for him. Without thinking, Fyn evaded the grab, caught Galestorm's arm and flipped him off his feet. The air left Galestorm's lungs with a satisfying
The other three monks protested.
Fyn ignored them, hurrying over to the bird. It was trying to rise with an injured leg, wings flapping unevenly. Taking off his cloak, Fyn threw the woolen mantle over the bird, then gathered it in his arms. The Affinity beast was trembling badly and he pressed it against his chest to reassure it. Nothing infuriated Fyn more than wanton cruelty.
Shouts from Galestorm and his companions told him they were coming up fast behind him. He could not protect himself, let alone the bird. What had possessed him to interfere? They would kill the bird and beat him black and blue.
Still, he turned to face his tormentors.
'What's going on here?' a deep voice called.
Fyn looked beyond them to see Oakstand, the weapons master, approaching with Sandbank, a third-year healer.
'Why aren't the sleds being loaded?' the weapons master demanded. Oakstand was short, with a deep chest and a scar that puckered one side of his forehead, creeping up into his hair which grew white along the scar's length. It must have been striking once but now the rest of his hair was iron-grey. For a man who knew how to disarm and kill an armed opponent in three swift moves, he was amazingly patient with the boys.
'I've got an injured bird.' Fyn indicated the bundle in his arms. One long clawed leg projected from it in an ungainly manner. The bird had calmed down.
'A grucrane?' Healer Sandbank asked. 'Give it to me. I'll take it back to the abbey.'
Fyn handed the bundle over. 'Careful, something's wrong with its wing and I think one of its legs broke when it hit the ice.'
'So the kingson is a healer now?' Galestorm asked.
The weapons master frowned. 'Enough, Galestorm. I want the sleds packed and ready to leave at first light. Fyn, get back to the abbey.'
For a heartbeat Fyn considered revealing how the bird had been hurt, but it was his word against four monks and they could cause trouble for him later, so he hurried off. Behind him, Fyn could hear the weapons master ordering Galestorm and the others about and knew they would regret failing in their duties.
Monk Sandbank was already three body lengths ahead of him, following the winding trail up the slope to Halcyon Abbey. As Fyn watched, the healer rounded a curve, disappearing behind snow-cloaked evergreens.
Taking to his heels, Fyn ran up the slope, rounded the corner and looked up. No sign of the healer, who must have been hurrying to pass the next bend so quickly. Head down, Fyn concentrated on where he put his feet, not wanting to slip on the icy snow. Already the chill of the night was settling in and he was without a cloak. He rounded the next bend and nearly ploughed into a snowdrift.
That was strange. He didn't remember stepping off the path.
Fyn spun around only to find himself eye to eye with an old woman wearing moth-eaten furs. Her lips pulled back in a gap-toothed leer that might have been a smile.
Startled, he took a step back, overbalancing into the snowdrift. The snow broke the impact of his fall but he was still a little winded. Gasping, he lay stretched out on his back. When he went to get up the old woman prodded him in the chest with her staff, effectively pinning him there.
'You struck a monk.'
'He tried to kill a grucrane.'
'What's that bird to you?'
What indeed? Fyn shook his head, not even sure why he had bothered to answer her the first time. She was obviously mad, god-touched in her own way.
'No idea, just like the other one.' She shook her head and laughed to herself. It wasn't a pleasant sound, ending in a raw hacking cough.
After the fit had passed, while she was labouring to regain her breath, Fyn gestured up the rise behind him. 'If you are ill, seek out the healing monks. They have a hot potion for a cough like that.'
She glanced up behind him. The light was fading rapidly and he could hardly see her face for the glow of the nacreous sky behind her. Here, under the pines, it was already twilight.
Alert black eyes fixed on him. 'Most surely they do, Fyn Kingson, but not for the likes of me. No, not them pure and mighty servants of Halcyon!'
He did not know what to say to that.
'Not much longer.' She hawked and spat to one side, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Obviously weary and ill, her eyes met his and held. 'Now, mark my words, Fyn Kingson.'
Her body jerked and her head tilted back until he could see the lines of dirt under her chin.
Fyn drew away in revulsion as an aura of power gathered around her frail form, making her seem larger. Even with his weak Affinity, Fyn could tell this was the untamed power of a Renegade.
'A seer!' He tried to scramble back, but the snowdrift held him. He should have been terrified. He should have denounced her to the mystics master, who would have ordered her immediate execution.
