'Unwanted youngest son, god-touched, nameless boy. I see you fleeing for your life. I see a day when the Goddess Halcyon's name is said only in whispers — '
Fyn laughed. He could not help it. The goddess was revered throughout Rolencia, served by seven hundred faithful monks in the abbey alone, all trained by the weapons master, sheltered behind defensive walls, built into the very mountain itself. Nothing could…
'Pah!' She shuddered and spat again, frowning down at him now that her vision had passed. 'None so blind as they who will not see! Very well, I wash my hands of you.'
She put her back to him, hobbling off between the snow-coated pines, their white skirts joining with the deep snowdrifts.
'Don't go that way. You're not following the path,' Fyn called after her.
She laughed softly and kept going. 'Follow me own path, boy, always have.'
He rolled over onto his stomach and came to his feet, determined to set her right, at the very least warn her off approaching the abbey, but when he turned around, she was gone.
'You there?' he called, brushing snow from his breeches.
'Is that you, Fyn?' the weapons master asked. The glow of his lantern gave the snow a golden cast as he weaved between the snow-shrouded pines. 'What are you doing off the path, lad? Don't you know it's not safe to be out alone so close to midwinter?'
At midwinter the cruel god, Sylion, reluctantly relinquished his hold on Rolencia, giving the kingdom over to the goddess's care. With a major change of power the barriers between the Seen and the Unseen world were dangerously weak. And to think, he'd been too surprised to use any of the wards to protect himself from renegade Affinity.
Fyn blinked, the after image of the master's light dancing in his sight. With the arrival of the lantern came full dark.
'Well?' the weapons master demanded. 'The others have all returned to the abbey.'
'I wasn't watching my feet, Master Oakstand,' Fyn said, knowing he sounded foolish. 'I…' He was about to mention the old woman, but was surprised to find that he could not speak of her. When he tried his tongue grew thick and clumsy in his mouth. He swallowed and the sensation passed, but he suspected it would return.
'Eh, well, come on then.' The burly master led him through the snow and Fyn found he was only a few steps off the path.
They trudged up the hill in silence for a bit, then the weapons master slowed, his heavy eyebrows drawing together.
Fyn waited expectantly. Their lantern failed to illuminate the great looming towers of the pine trees that stood silhouetted against the froth of sparkling stars. Twilight seemed to have passed abruptly, something to do with the seer, Fyn guessed. He wondered if she was out there even now, watching them. He should denounce her but he couldn't, not when she seemed so frail and sick, not when she had a ring of dirt under her neck. He had never visualised a renegade Power-worker like that. Evil, perhaps… but not vulnerable.
Fyn glanced to the weapons master. Oakstand's scar from the last great battle with Merofynia reminded him that his mother had been betrothed to his father as part of the peace. Strange to think of Queen Myrella as a child, leaving her home in Merofynia to come and live in Rolencia, and his father waiting seven years for her to grow up. For the first time, Fyn wondered if the eight-year-old Myrella had felt as homesick as he had, when his parents sent him to the abbey at six years of age. It was not as if either of them had had any choice.
'They'll run the race for Halcyon's Fate on Midwinter's Day,' the weapons master said abruptly.
Fyn had to collect his thoughts. He nodded. 'The Proving.'
'Wanted to get this said before the race, Fyn. You're small, but winning's not about brute force, it's about strategy. You've got a good head on your shoulders.'
Fyn could see where this was going, and his stomach churned. His father expected that Fyn would eventually become weapons master, leader of the elite band of warrior monks, able to support Lence, when he became king. But…
The weapons master grinned. 'I'm offering you a place in the ranks of my elite warrior monks. Who knows. I've got plenty of fine warriors, but it's thinkers I need to train as leaders.'
Fyn's heart raced. This was everything his father had hoped for him and for the future of Rolencia. But… 'I can't do it.'
'What?' The weapons master looked stunned.
Fyn felt equally surprised. 'I'm sorry. I'd be the joke of the abbey.' Heat raced up his cheeks. All he wanted to do was run to Master Wintertide and ask his advice. 'Surely you've heard what they're calling me. Coward, snivelling — '
'Hold up. Is this about that time with Hawkwing?'
Fyn nodded miserably. 'I fainted when his finger was cut off.'
Oakstand laughed. 'The moment I turn my back to take a leak, you acolytes chop each other up. Teach you to be more careful next time!' He sobered, sharp eyes on Fyn. 'Now, as I remember it, you held his finger in place until the healers came while everyone else panicked.'
'He still lost most of his finger and I fainted.' Fyn felt the master wasn't taking this seriously. He'd suffered enough jibes since then to make his life miserable.
'True, but you fainted after the healers took him away.' The weapons master grinned. 'So what if he lost his finger? What's a man without a few scars?'
Fyn shook his head miserably. 'It's just — '
'Enough, lad.' Master Oakstand placed a hand on Fyn's shoulder and began to stride up the rise towards the gates, which were just around the next bend. 'You don't have to give me your answer right now. Think on it. Three of the last ten abbots came from my branch. Come on. Let's get inside before we freeze our balls off.'
Fyn had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the master. Oakstand was right, the role of weapons master was a step towards becoming abbot. Halcyon's fighting monks had earned their reputation through years of conflict. But that was in the brutal past. They were living in a new, more civilised age of study and prosperity.
As Fyn walked through the abbey's huge gates, he was relieved he did not have to accept the weapons master's offer immediately. It shamed him to admit he couldn't bear to see a bird suffer, let alone a person.
He'd never be a great warrior.
While Byren made camp, building a snow-cave on the bank of the canal, he kept one eye on Orrade. Working fast from long practice, he made the cave just large enough to crouch in, just large enough for two men and their travelling packs to stretch out. Once it was complete, they climbed inside and Byren heated some food on their small travelling brazier, tossing in salted meat and finely chopped vegetables, all prepared by the Dovecote cook. Halcyon bless her. This was their second night out and Orrade had been strangely silent all afternoon. Every now and then he grimaced with pain, and there wasn't a thing Byren could do.
'Hungry, Orrie?'
'Think I'll just turn in,' he muttered, rolling up in the blanket, huddling with his head in his hands.
'Head hurting?' Byren asked softly.
'Something awful,' Orrade admitted. So it must have been bad.
Byren wondered if this meant his friend was about to have another Affinity-induced vision and if Orrade had sensed the change in himself yet. 'How did you know the raiders were coming?'
'You asked me that before,' Orrade muttered. He rolled onto his back, eyes hidden under his forearm. 'I don't even remember warning you. Must have felt their approach through the ice like you said. Sorry, can't think now, Byren.'
Feeling useless, Byren stirred the food, cooking by the light of a single lamp. What would he do if Orrade became worse? The seer had said he would live, but men had been known to die from head wounds several days after getting up and walking around. At least they'd camped on the canal, so he could rig a stretcher and drag his friend. Get him straight to the castle healers.
That made Byren realise he would have to explain why Orrade hadn't stayed at Dovecote estate with their healer. He would have to tell his parents Orrade had been disinherited. Old Lord Dovecote wouldn't want him to reveal the real reason, which meant thinking up a lie. Byren wasn't good at lying.
Soon dinner was ready. The meat had already been cooked and, as for the carrots, he didn't mind if they were a bit crunchy, so long as they were hot.
