had Elina?
'Byren,' Garzik tugged on his arm. 'Orrade's unconscious. We have to get him out of here.'
'We can't run carrying Orrie and we can't fight two dozen men,' Byren told Garzik.
By the starlight filtering in the small barn window the lad stared at him, horrified.
'Byren Kingson, surrender now,' Rejulas urged. 'One man cannot stand against thirty.'
They thought he was alone… Possibilities flashed through Byren's mind. 'I'll surrender.'
'No!'
Byren caught Garzik's shoulders. 'Think. If we fight we all die. By surrendering, I get captured then you and Orrade can save me.'
'What if they kill you?'
'They could have done that already. They want me alive for some reason and this way you two stay free.'
He felt the fight go out of Garzik.
Byren coughed. Smoke stung his eyes now. 'Look after Orrie.'
For a heartbeat, he wondered if this was a side-effect of the Affinity affecting Orrade, then he dismissed it. He had his own problems.
'Stay out of sight, Garza.' Byren thrust the shutter open and shouted, 'I'm coming out. Hold your archers.'
He brought his head back inside, turning to Garzik. 'Pull your vest up over your mouth, breathe through it.' Feeling around, he found his pack and he slung it over his shoulder. 'Hide. They won't be looking for you.'
'What about the fire?'
'Bluff. They'll put it out — '
'Byren Kingson?' Rejulas shouted.
'I hear you.' He squeezed Garzik's shoulder and, with a heavy heart, opened one barn door a fraction. They were raking the burning brands away from the entrance. Red coals winked on the frozen earth.
'Get his weapons,' Rejulas ordered. 'And put out the fires. We don't want to set off a warning beacon now!'
His men laughed, hastening to obey.
Byren didn't resist as Rejulas's warriors divested him of his weapons, both his knives, his sword, his bow and his arrows. He'd armed himself properly for once and it had done no good.
'Right,' Rejulas said. 'Restrain him.'
They moved efficiently in the pale predawn. His hands were tied behind his back and a pole slid under his arms along his back, and he was lowered by pulley to the beach.
After herding him into the centre of the group, they slung a rope around his neck and handed it to a grizzled campaigner. Then they set off in the chill predawn.
'Where are we going?' Byren asked.
'Dovecote,' a youth near him muttered.
The old campaigner cuffed him, then cuffed Byren for good measure, jerking on the rope.
Head still buzzing, Byren managed to keep skating.
One piece of the puzzle didn't fit. Only Captain Temor and those who had joined him at the war table knew Byren planned to sleep here last night. He knew Cobalt was sitting at the war table advising his father, privy to his secrets. But that didn't explain how Cobalt could get word to Rejulas so fast.
Before long they had moved off Sapphire Lake. Tall, snow-capped pines flashed past him, dark against the gradually lightening sky.
They'd be at Dovecote by late tonight and then his questions would be answered. Byren dreaded what those answers would reveal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fyn remained still, trusting to the shadows to hide him. His heart hammered uncomfortably. The dim glow of the abbot's lantern illuminated a halo of light around the masters as they followed the abbot down the corridor. Master Catillum came last, glancing casually into the corridor where he knew Fyn hid.
Fyn swallowed, licking dry lips.
The scuffing of the monks' soft leather slippers ceased, signalling that the abbot and masters had arrived at the secret entrance to the catacombs. Fyn waited. The secret passage lay behind an ordinary stretch of wall decorated with the same carved frieze that enlivened even the simplest abbey vessel.
There were too many masters clustered around the abbot for him to see which key the old man selected from the ones on the chain around his waist. Fyn strained to see which carving the abbot slid the key into, but this was also impossible. With a soft grinding noise the stone slid away to reveal a dark passage. The abbot and masters entered, taking the lantern with them, and the stone slid back into place. But not before Master Catillum left a small wedge of wood in the doorway.
Eyes still blinded by the passing of the lantern light, Fyn stepped out of the cross passage and ran to the secret entrance. A dark sliver was all that remained. He glanced up and down the corridor. Only the faintest of lights came down the stairwell from the floor above. By this feeble illumination, he could see no one.
Slipping his fingers in the narrow slit, he forced the panel wide enough to slide through. Bending down, he scooped up the wedge and tucked it in his pocket. The stone panel slid closed after him, leaving him in total darkness.
A wave of oppression rolled over Fyn, making his heart labour. Usually being below ground did not bother him. In the abbey you could always see reflected sunlight or look out a window. But here, he felt the whole weight of Mount Halcyon pressing down on him.
Nausea roiled in his belly, urging him to retreat. He refused. He had to prove the death of the boys master had been murder and the only way to do that was to retrieve the sacred vessel that held Wintertide's heart.
Fyn visualised the map he'd memorised and stepped into the darkness. After rounding two bends he could just hear the soft shuffle of the monks' shoes on the stone, echoing back to him.
Silent as a winter hare, Fyn scurried after them down the stairs. It grew steadily colder. Strange, he had expected it to be hot in the very heart of Mount Halcyon. After all, the goddess's blessing was heat.
He shivered and turned a bend, then stopped.
A glow came through a tall doorway with smooth stone lintels. The pool of light seemed glaringly bright to Fyn's dark-adjusted eyes. He crept closer, listening intently. He could tell by the echo of the monks' steps that they were walking across a cavern. As yet no one had spoken.
Pressing his cheek to the cold stone, Fyn peered around the entrance. His breath caught in his throat.
Halcyon's Sacred Heart opened before him, a great cavern filled with the glow of many candles… more were lit every moment as the masters performed their task. Each candle sat on the cupped hands of a long-dead master. Each mummified master knelt on a flat-topped stone, his face serene. They seemed to be scattered at random across the floor. Then Fyn noticed that above every master there was a finger of glistening stone extending down from the cavern ceiling.
The masters' skins glistened like glazed pottery. Stone had dripped down from above, encasing the long-dead monks in columns of stone. So this was what meant by the words
Abbot Halcyon and the masters had gathered around a flat-topped column, which stood beneath a glistening spike of rock. When the abbot stepped away Fyn recognised Master Wintertide. Bound in fine cloth, Wintertide's body had been placed in the kneeling position, hands folded left on right, palms up in his lap. A newly lit candle flickered in his upturned hands. Fyn searched for and found the sacred jars with his master's internal organs ranged in front of his knees. All he had to do was wait out the ceremony, take the heart jar and return to Master Catillum's private chamber.
'Who brings this worthy master to join the goddess?' a woman asked, her voice echoing across the cavern.
