Briefly, he considered asking their mother's advice, but Cobalt seemed to be her blind spot. Everything came back to Illien, son of the King's bastard.
Byren had to handle this himself.
Fyn and Feldspar knelt to scrub the floor of the mystics' inner sanctum where Halcyon's sacred lamp burned eternally. Actually it had burnt for the last three hundred years, ever since King Rolence the First gave thanks for his victory and gifted the mountain to the abbey. Other equally precious relics stood in niches around the walls. One row consisted entirely of sorbt stones. The mystics had shaped them so that they sat linked, one on the other, in pairs. Their pearly surfaces glistened as if alive. Communing, it was whispered by mystics in training.
Fyn and Feldspar would not begin training until after spring cusp. For now they had been assigned to serve the mystics branch, which meant they were given all the dirtiest tasks. But it was better than serving the livestock master. Galestorm and his friends were still reporting to him each morning as part of their penance. No one liked the bullies and their past victims made no secret of the fact that they were glad to see them mucking out stables and shovelling chicken manure for the gardens. Personally, Fyn saw nothing wrong with caring for animals. He would count himself lucky if he was able to get work as a stableboy, when he ran away from the abbey. Still, he was careful never to go anywhere alone.
'…looking for Fyn Kingson,' a voice said.
Fyn glanced up as Joff came to the sanctum's entrance.
Farmer Overhill's son now wore the ochre boys' robe and his hair was pulled back in a single plait. He gave the proper bow of a boy to an acolyte. 'Master Wintertide sent me to fetch you, Fyn. He wants to speak with you.'
So far, Fyn had avoided his old master, but he couldn't avoid a direct summons. The boys master was sure to quiz him about finding the Fate and he didn't want to lie. Tension coiled through him as he stood up. 'I'll have to clean up. I can't go to the master covered in dirt and suds.'
'Lucky you,' Feldspar muttered and went back to scrubbing, with a suffering expression on his long, narrow face.
Fyn grinned and glanced to the other youth, who was still waiting.
'Master Wintertide said I was to escort you,' Joff explained diffidently.
Fyn shrugged, heading up the central stairs to the acolytes' chambers, where he had a quick wash and put on a fresh saffron robe and brown knitted leggings, tying off the straps on his ankle boots.
'How are you settling in?' he asked Joff.
'It's not so bad. Wintertide's fair.'
'Yes, there's not many like him,' Fyn agreed. That was why he felt he owed his old master nothing less than the truth. But to save Piro he would lie to the man, who had been like a father to him.
'Ready?' Joff asked.
Fyn nodded, sick at heart, and came to his feet.
They entered the corridor, almost colliding with Lonepine, who had been assigned to laundry duties. He side stepped them, spilling an armload of clean saffron robes.
'Sorry,' Fyn said. Joff echoed him. They both knelt to pick up the robes, returning them to the basket.
Lonepine thanked them. 'Don't know why the acolytes master doesn't assign me to serve Oakstand. I'd rather sharpen swords than sort clothes.'
Fyn snorted. 'Be grateful you're not mucking out the stables!'
Lonepine grinned.
Fyn straightened up, sure the acolytes master was aware of Lonepine's preference and was punishing him because he was Fyn's friend. Guilt seared Fyn. 'See you later.'
He and Joff headed down the corridor towards the stairs to the boys' wing. Two landings below they had to step aside to let a monk past — Beartooth carrying a bucket of kitchen swill for the pigs.
Not wanting to rub salt in the wound, Fyn quickly looked away. But not before he registered Beartooth's glare of pure hatred.
When they were out of hearing range, Joff muttered, 'I'm glad I'm not a kingson.'
As they stepped into the boys' corridor Fyn wondered if Galestorm and his friends hated him because of what he was, not who he was. It had never occurred to him before and was, oddly enough, a relief.
Joff bowed at the door to Master Wintertide's chamber, and backed off. 'See you later, Fyn.'
I must not weaken, Fyn told himself. I must not betray Piro's Affinity, even if it means losing Master Wintertide's trust and friendship.
He knocked on the door.
'Come in,' the boys master called.
'Master Wintertide.' Fyn gave him the bow of an acolyte to his master, even though Wintertide no longer held that position over him.
The old monk smiled and nodded to the little boy who was sharpening a quill, his tongue peeping between his teeth in concentration. 'You can go, Lenny.'
So it was to be a private talk. Fyn steeled his resolve.
Master Wintertide met Fyn's eyes. 'It does not seem that long since you were sharpening quills for me.'
Fyn glanced at the desk, nostalgic for happier, simpler times. 'May I?'
Wintertide nodded and Fyn sat down at the desk. Picking up the tools, his hands resumed the familiar task. It felt good.
'Most of the servants I've had over the years have been thoughtful, clever boys, but you were special, Fyn.' Wintertide spoke slowly. Fyn sensed he was choosing his words with care. 'You would have been special, even if you hadn't been born a kingson. Whatever happens in the future, do not doubt yourself, Fyn. I know you will serve Master Catillum well. I have faith in you.'
Fyn knew he did not deserve Master Wintertide's trust — he was lying by omission right now — and it stung him to the quick. He desperately wanted to confess the truth and ask Wintertide's advice. If only there was a way he could stay at the abbey without betraying Piro.
A boy shouted, his high voice echoing in the stairwell at the end of the corridor.
'Noisy things, boys,' Wintertide said, his deep-set eyes twinkling. 'Why walk, when they can run? Why talk, when they can shout? Eh, Fyn?'
He couldn't answer. His throat was too tight to speak.
Another voice joined the first, laced with fear. Running steps sounded on the stairs.
Fyn glanced to Master Wintertide, who came to his feet, features tight with worry.
'Some silly boy has probably hit another and knocked a tooth out,' the master muttered. 'They'll be on their way to the healers.'
The steps continued on past their floor and Master Wintertide sat down. Fyn had been willing the messenger to interrupt them so he could escape. He resumed sharpening the quill.
'Is something troubling you, Fyn?'
He looked up. How he longed to unburden himself, but…
The abbey bells began their mournful death dirge, sending another soul to Halcyon's warm heart.
'Who…?' Master Wintertide went out into the corridor, with Fyn at his heels. They hurried towards the stairwell, where the voices echoed. On the landing, they came to an abrupt stop as they spied three monks carrying a limp body up the steps towards them, a saffron-robed acolyte's body.
When they came level, Fyn recognised the acolyte.
Lonepine.
He gasped.
Sandbank met Fyn's eyes, his full of sympathy. 'He fell, broke his neck — '
'No. I was speaking with him only moments ago!' Fyn protested, pushing between them to touch his friend's face. He touched dead meat. Lonepine wasn't there any more.
It shocked him so deeply he staggered back a step and would have fallen if Master Wintertide hadn't steadied him.
'I'm sorry, Fyn,' Sandbank said. 'He was carrying a laundry basket, must have missed his step on the stairs.'
'Rubbish!' Fyn wrenched free of Wintertide's hands. 'Lonepine wouldn't do that.'
