Fyn glanced to Feldspar who shivered, either unable or unwilling to speak.
'A mass grave filled with bodies,' Fyn whispered. 'Men with torches were throwing more bodies in on top of me… on top of Master Catillum, I mean.' He looked to Feldspar for confirmation.
'If you say so,' Feldspar muttered. 'All I felt was cold, a terrible cold. And the need to run.'
Joff turned to Fyn for an explanation.
'Sensation without sight,' Fyn guessed. That would have been even more terrifying. But he didn't say anything. Feldspar had always been the clever, nervy one, now his friend looked fragile.
Feldspar wiped blood from his lips and chin. 'If the Merofynians are throwing bodies into a mass grave, Master Catillum amongst them, the weapons master and all the warrior monks must be dead.'
Fyn nodded. 'So we know for certain that they were ambushed and the cream of Halcyon's warrior monks defeated. The Merofynians would have travelled with Power-workers just as we had our mystics. It's a wonder Master Catillum had any strength left to use the Fate.' Fyn imagined the mystics master injured, half-frozen with the use of only one arm. 'Poor Catillum, he wasn't dead when they threw him into the mass grave, but — '
'They couldn't have dug a trench,' Joff, the farmer's son, objected. 'The ground is still frozen. They must be throwing them into a ravine.'
'Whatever it was,' Fyn conceded, 'Master Catillum was being buried alive.'
'Probably the safest place for him,' Feldspar muttered. 'Lay low until they leave, then crawl out.'
Fyn nodded slowly. 'If he can get out with that withered arm.'
No one spoke for a while. A branch crumpled in the fire, revealing glowing coals. Fyn shivered, shaken by the vision, even if the experience had been secondhand.
'You must let him know we are safe,' Feldspar whispered and removed the Fate's chain, thrusting it towards Fyn.
Fyn shook his head, eyeing the seashell stone where a residual glow still lingered in its opalescent spirals. 'I'm not touching that thing.'
'You have to. You have an Affinity with the Fate. I don't. Take it.' Feldspar forced it into Fyn's hands. 'Since I joined the abbey, all I ever wanted was to train as a mystic. But I know my limits. When the Fate had me I felt like my head was going to burst. Any more and I think it would have.' He touched his nose, which was still bleeding sluggishly, then fixed on Fyn. 'You have to concentrate on Master Catillum to make contact, then send him a picture of us escaping from the caves and looking across to Sylion Abbey. He can guess from that where we'll be hiding. We need him.'
Fyn's stomach churned. He did not want to summon the Fate's powers again. But Master Catillum had risked exposing himself to the Merofynian army's Power-worker to contact them. He deserved to know the abbey's boys were safe. If the master could get to Sylion Abbey, Catillum could begin to rebuild Halcyon Abbey.
'What…' Joff began. 'What if you contact the wrong Power-worker? The nearest one must be with the Merofynians who took the abbey.'
Feldspar met Fyn's gaze, waiting for his response.
Fyn closed his eyes. Could he reach only Master Catillum? He shivered, remembering the cold, and the way the body plummeted towards him. It was so easy to imagine himself back in that moment. 'I think I can.'
Feldspar offered Fyn his hand. Another bead of blood seeped from his nostrils. 'Do you want my help?'
'No, I'll manage.'
Fyn closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. It was not hard to recall the body spiralling down towards him, the sense of entrapment…
All around him it was quiet, the quiet waiting of the dead. He was weighed down by the dead…
He was the mystics master.
Fyn recalled the fisher folk sheltering the boys. He visualised the distant cliffs with Sylion Abbey standing silhouetted against the sky.
A sense of relief washed over him and he realised it was Master Catillum's emotion. The sensation was so unnerving, he pulled back instinctively. The world dropped out from under his feet. He fell through nothing.
He was nothing… the gorge rose in his throat.
Suddenly he was in his body again, pitching forwards as he threw up all over his knees.
The horrible wracking spasms eventually passed and Fyn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, supporting himself with a trembling arm.
'Here.' Joff offered Fyn a beaker of water from the bucket by the fire.
'Thanks.' Fyn could only croak.
'Fish stew,' Feldspar muttered. 'Smells just as bad the second time around. Think I'm — '
As he gagged, Fyn felt another spasm take him and, together, they staggered outside to throw up in the snowdrift by the door. They both heaved until they had nothing left to bring up.
Fyn sat back on his heels and picked up a handful of fresh snow to wipe his face. He laughed, even as tears stung his eyes.
'You're crazy,' Feldspar muttered, but he also grinned.
Fyn felt weak but oddly lighter and happier. They both sucked on fresh snow to rinse their mouths.
By the time they returned to the cottage, the old woman had lit a fish-oil lamp and was already cleaning up. She took one look at them and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. 'Off with those clothes.'
Both Fyn and Feldspar protested but she couldn't hear them and, anyway, she wouldn't have taken no for an answer, so they stripped down. Joff didn't bother to hide his grin. Fyn removed his abbey leggings and the borrowed shirt with a sense of finality. Feldspar removed his robe. The old woman took the clothes off to wash and they were left in nothing but their breech cloths, huddled before the fire.
Lame Klimen fetched a patchwork quilt. It smelt just like him and was still warm from his body but they accepted it gratefully.
Under cover of the quilt Fyn undid the chain that held the Fate. 'I'm not going to Sylion Abbey. You keep this, Feldspar.'
Pale and shaken, his friend shook his head. 'No. You keep it, Fyn. I can't use it.'
Fyn gave an unsteady laugh. 'What makes you think I can?'
'If it's activated again while I'm wearing it I fear my brains will come pouring out my nose,' Feldspar said, his face naked of pretence.
Fyn shuddered.
Without warning, the woman pulled the quilt off their shoulders. Thrusting an armful of clothes at them, she said, 'Might be a bit big.'
Fyn and Feldspar unrolled the leggings and fisherman smocks. They dressed hastily, cold despite the thick walls of the cottage.
After tugging the smock over his shoulders, Feldspar pulled the acolyte plait free. 'At least Catillum knows we escaped. You did well, Fyn.'
But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed. If only he'd realised the original message from King Rolen was a fake. Then the abbot wouldn't have sent the fighting monks out and the abbey wouldn't have fallen. If only Fyn hadn't frozen, then the abbot would still be alive.
A wave of despair washed over him.
He could not change the past but he could influence the future. He must warn his father that the abbey had fallen. King Rolen would have to rethink his battle campaign.
Chapter Nine
Byren felt a prod in his back, then another. What was Lence up to? Couldn't he see he was sleeping? Trust his twin to get pleasure out of waking him. He shouldn't have drunk so much last night. On top of that his side hurt with every breath he took. Must have been in a fight.
'Look what I found, Da,' a child's high voice pierced Byren's foggy brain. 'A dead man.'
And it all came back to Byren with horrible clarity.
Lence was dead. Rolencia had been invaded and the abbey had fallen. He'd been mortally injured. He must
