Galestorm rolled his eyes and appealed to Masters Hotpool and Firefox. 'Of course he'd say that. But I have witnesses.'
'Who? Your friends?' Fyn countered.
'Three fellow monks, and Master Oakstand and Healer Sandbank — '
'Wait,' Oakstand objected. 'I didn't see Fyn hurt the grucrane — '
'But we did, my friends and I,' Galestorm insisted.
'Silence!' the abbot snapped, then beckoned Master Firefox. 'Acolytes master, isolate this youth until we can call the witnesses tomorrow.'
As Firefox turned towards him, Fyn appealed to the boys master. 'You know I would never hurt a person or an animal, Master Wintertide. Tell them.'
'I can tell them this, but I was not there so I cannot be your witness,' he explained regretfully.
Galestorm's gloating gaze fixed on Fyn. It would come down to the word of four monks against Fyn and there was nothing his old master could do. But why had Hotpool and Firefox put Galestorm up to this? Fyn's head swam.
Byren walked behind Garzik's stretcher, carrying the ends of the poles himself. If it had been flat ground, they could have dragged the stretcher behind the pony, or if they had been near a farm they could have borrowed a wagon. Instead, Byren carried the poles. The lad winced at every bump but did not complain.
They had been walking since dawn and now Byren's back and shoulders ached but all he could think of was getting Garzik to a healer.
Orrade led the pony. When it stopped and did not move, Byren took the chance to ease his grip on the poles.
'What is it?' Byren whispered. 'Trouble?'
'Can't see from here,' Orrade muttered.
Byren waited a moment, put the stretcher down gently and climbed up onto a rock beside the narrow path, shading his eyes. He couldn't see Temor who was leading them, because there was a bend in the path, but from his vantage point he could see the spar, a long ridge of rocky land with small valleys and narrow inlets, spreading out below him. Steep islands shot out of the jewel-bright sea. Even on the small ones terraced fields had been tilled and houses sprouted from the rocks. From each chimney a trickle of blue smoke rose on the still air. How many people lived on Unistag Spar? It was hard to know. He doubted if even the old warlord knew, if he still lived.
Byren jumped down. The pony behind him nuzzled his pocket, looking for oats. He chuckled. 'Not yet. We've a long way still to go before we camp tonight.'
He debated whether to walk to the front of the column.
Thwang.
The unmistakable sound of an arrow cutting the air made everyone duck instinctively. There was a clatter as the arrow skittered off the rocks ahead. The pony behind him whinnied, reacting to their fear.
'That's far enough,' a voice called. It sounded like a girl, or a boy whose voice hadn't broken. 'The next one won't miss.'
The man behind Byren muttered, 'Impudent whelp. Let me teach him a lesson, kingson.'
That was how things started, threats and counter-threats, and soon someone was dead.
Byren found a laugh. 'No. This one is mine.' He picked his way around the stretcher and horse, passing Orrade.
'Don't get yourself killed, Byren. Who'll carry the stretcher?'
He grinned as he edged along the path, past the men and pack ponies, until he came to Temor, who was stood with his hand on his sword hilt, back pressed to a rock wall.
'Up there,' Temor whispered, nodding to a ledge on the right which overlooked this part of the path.
'How many?'
'Don't know.'
'Turn around and go back,' the youngster ordered. 'Unistag Spar is closed to all merchants.'
'Do we look like merchants?' Byren asked, then laughed. 'Is this any way to greet King Rolen's delegate?'
There was silence. Good, he had them on the back foot.
'Well, where's my escort?' Byren demanded. 'I am Byren Rolen Kingson and I am here to meet the warlord of Unistag Spar.'
There were muffled mutters, then a boy of about twelve stepped out from behind a bend on the path to their left. They had them pinned.
'Are you the Byren who killed the leogryf with a hunting knife?' he asked.
Temor grinned. 'Everyone's heard of your leogryf slaying.'
'I told you it was true!' the boy yelled back to the person on the ledge.
A girl jumped down to join him. Byren was a little surprised to find two youngsters watching the pass. Still, it was midwinter, not generally a time for raids, and the warlord had left the amfina to guard the pass, so these two were only backup.
'You did not,' the girl countered. 'You said — '
'Enough!' Byren barked. The youngsters fell silent, responding to the voice of authority. 'Does the old warlord still live?'
'He died ten days ago.'
'Take me to the new warlord.'
The children exchanged glances. They were alike enough to be brother and sister.
'We'll take you to Lady Unace,' the girl announced. She was probably older by a year.
'Does she have a healer?' Byren asked.
They nodded.
'Good. The sooner we get there the better.'
Byren sent a man back to carry the stretcher, then continued on with the children. Happy to oblige, the youngsters fell into step with him, chattering away. According to them, when the old warlord died his nephew, Steerden, had taken the Stronghold, murdered all his rivals and claimed the spar.
This left only Lady Unace, and her infant son who had been smuggled out to safety.
'She's camped outside the stronghold now,' the boy explained.
'With all the warriors who served her brothers. The ones who escaped the castle,' the girl added. 'Lord Steerden can't get out and she can't get in.'
Great, Byren thought. I'm walking into a stalemate with two dozen men, an injured youth and no real authority.
If he was killed, his father and brother would seek revenge. But revenge did him no good if he was dead.
Fyn was given some bread and watered wine at around mid-morning. He tried to make it last, but he had been smelling the buttered mushrooms, eggs and beans cooking on the floor below since dawn and his stomach rumbled in protest.
That had been hours ago. Now only a thin arrow of natural light filtered through to this inner chamber. He could tell by the colour and the way it was creeping up the wall, soon to disappear altogether, that it was past midday and still no one had come for him.
No. He mustn't think like that. He was innocent and he would prove it, somehow. His head ached because, try as he might, he couldn't see how Masters Hotpool and Firefox benefited from his disgrace. Galestorm's motivation was easy to see. For some reason this youth had always hated him.
If the ruling went against Fyn, the abbot would have two choices, cast him out or make him serve some sort of penance. If he was banished from the abbey he would be exiled from Rolencia because of his Affinity. The injustice of it made him pace from one end of his prison to the other. He was innocent, but how could he prove it?
When they came for him it was just before the evening prayer bell and he'd given up pacing, choosing instead to sit and meditate. The time elapsed made him wonder what had been going on behind the scenes. Had the history master made some sort of deal with the abbot?
The accusation must have undermined his chances of being accepted into any branch of the abbey. Before
