to hide his presence. He concentrated on cloaking himself, and taking no action that would give him away.
The renegade Power-worker, however, did not seem to notice that Fyn had been swept along with him as he let his bloodhound follow the trail. He swooped over the starlit, snow-mantled land. The chantries and oratories in various villages glowed, but he ignored them until a Sylion oratory drew them down through the thatched roof of its residence, into the only bedroom.
A man lay there, on his side, his face turned away to the wall. With Unseen sight Fyn could see a miasma of grief and guilt radiating from him, but his actual features were blurred. Fyn's instinct was to try to help the grieving man, but he dare not do anything that might attract the Power-worker's attention, so he held back.
Beside the man knelt a veiled healer. She did not glow with power — her Affinity was only mild. She would heal with herbs, stitching and encouragement. Right now, she was bathing the blood from the man's ribs. The wound was revealed, an ugly, puckered knot of flesh.
He felt the nun's surprise. Fresh blood on an old wound. Days old.
Then where did the blood come from?
What did all this mean? Why had he been swept along in the Power-worker's search?
One thing was clear to Fyn, the nun could not heal the injury to the man's soul and, if that wasn't dealt with, he would not have the will to heal his body. Fyn could feel him relinquishing his hold on this mortal plane. It would only take a fever to carry him off. Fyn had to risk helping him.
On the Unseen plane he had no physical body, yet he reached out for the man's wounded essence. Contact stunned him. It was Byren, and his heart was broken, his sense of self destroyed.
It was too much, more than Fyn could stand.
Another presence pierced his awareness. With a heart-juddering start, Fyn realised he had betrayed himself.
For an instant the Power-worker was too startled to react, then he stretched out a questing tendril into Fyn, who wrenched himself away. Nausea coiled in his belly as he fell, spiralling down… down, down into his body.
Re-entering his corporeal form was like a kick in the stomach. It stole his breath and left him gasping. He found himself lying in the snow-cave, the Fate clutched in his hand, frozen tears on his cheeks. Fyn struggled to his knees and dry-retched. Pinpricks of light danced in his vision. It was a good eight heartbeats before his sight cleared.
He felt physically drained, but he had escaped the Power-worker and that amazed him. He studied the Fate. Its dim opal surface gave no hint of the power it contained. To think, he could be captured while he slept and dragged on a journey. Truly this Fate was a tricky tool to use. And there was no chance of training, now that he no longer served the mystics master.
Fingers trembling, he tucked the Fate inside his jerkin, wondering what to do next.
He was both relieved and worried to learn that Byren lay injured in a farmer's cottage, wounded physically and mentally. The impact of his brother's heartbreak still weighed on Fyn. Lence must be dead. Only his twin's death would be so devastating for Byren.
Lence dead… why did he feel only relief?
Unable to sit still, Fyn broke out of his snow-cave and shook himself.
Byren was not dead, but he was close to death and the Merofynian Power-worker knew where he was. That is, if he recognised him. Physical features did not hold shape on the Unseen plane, it was a person's essence that gave him form. How would someone who had never known Byren recognise him?
Fyn could only hope the Power-worker had not recognised either of them.
Wide awake now, he was ready to skate through the night. His father had to be told that an evil Power- worker roamed Rolencia using Affinity paths. If the king sent to Sylion Abbey for the mystics mistress, she would know what to do. She would be able to locate Byren and help him.
Fyn must reach Rolenhold and warn his father. Thank Halcyon Piro was safe in the castle.
Piro pushed helping hands away and sat up, surprised to find herself lying on the floor with the noble scholar kneeling over her. She grabbed her rabbit-skin cap, which had fallen off, and pulled it down low over her ears. The last thing she wanted was to attract the overlord's attention but that was exactly what she had done.
'What's wrong with your slave?' Palatyne demanded as Dunstany helped her to her feet.
'She has not eaten since breakfast.' He gave her a push towards the door. 'Foolish child, go to the kitchen and ask Cook for a meal.'
Grateful for the reprieve, Piro headed for the door.
'What happened, Utlander?' asked Palatyne.
'Dunstany left his body for several heartbeats — '
Piro remembered the floating sensation and realised she had been carried along by the Power-worker's Affinity. She wanted to stay and learn more, but she had to obey Dunstany.
Opening the door, she found Cook, Soterro and Grysha, all listening in the short hall. They made no apology and they each held a mug brimming with Rolencian red wine. The cook shoved her aside as the door swung shut and they craned to hear what was being said in the next room. Piro stood just behind them, listening unashamedly.
'Well, Dunstany, what did you learn?' Palatyne prodded, his deep voice carrying through the closed door.
'It was hard to tell. The Unseen plane is not like ours. Things appear — '
'No excuses. What did you see?' Palatyne demanded.
'One of Sylion's oratories.'
'Who was there?' Palatyne asked. 'Byren Kingson?'
Piro bit back a gasp. Byren? They were looking for Byren, not Lence?
Could the man on the bed have been Byren? Piro tried to recall his features, but he had been turned away and it was Fyn's face that came to her. Thoughtful, kind Fyn. Sorrow carried on a wave of love swamped her. She told herself she must not give in to despair. They had not found Fyn's body. He may yet live.
'No, I did not see the kingson,' Dunstany admitted. 'It was a Sylion healer exercising her craft on an injured man. Her deep Affinity must have drawn me.'
'Another failure!' the Utlander commiserated, and there was the unmistakable edge of triumph to his voice.
'Ahh, you're useless, the pair of you. I'll have Cyena and Mulcibar's mystics try when they get here!' the overlord growled. The floor creaked as he strode to the far door.
Piro realised Palatyne must have sent the mystics from Merofynia's two great abbeys with the warriors to take Halcyon's abbey. Fight fire with fire.
The overlord spoke again. 'I'm going back to the castle to host the victory feast. You Power-workers needn't bother to attend until you have some real news of Byren Kingson.'
When the door closed after him the Utlander said, 'I'll take King Rolen's finger.'
'Be my guest.'
There was a muffled sound and the Utlander cursed. 'You dropped it!'
'Sorry. Here, let me clean it for you.'
'You keep your hands off it. I don't trust you. You'll wipe out its usefulness with a counter-spell!'
'You wrong me.'
The Utlander made a rude noise and left. There was silence from the room beyond. Soterro and Cook exchanged looks. While they were distracted the kitchen boy's hand cupped Piro's bottom suggestively. She froze in surprise, then drove her elbow into his midriff. He gave a grunt of pain.
'What?' The cook turned around and saw Grysha's pained face and Piro's anger. 'I told you if you stroked that kitten's fur the wrong way she'd scratch.'
Grysha refused to answer and Piro pretended she had not understood his Merofynian speech.
The cook waddled back to the kitchen and poured himself another goblet of wine. 'Master's got his work cut out for him, keeping one step ahead of that jumped-up barbarian overlord and the greedy little Utlander. Thanks be to Mulcibar, the twin is dead. I don't know much about Affinity, but I'm guessing losing one twin more than halves the other twin's power.' He noticed Piro and switched to Rolencian. 'Don't just stand there. Fetch the plates and do the dishes.'
At that moment, Soterro returned, beckoning Piro. 'Lord Dunstany wants you.' He added in Merofynian, 'looks like he's fed one appetite, now he wants to feed another!'
