a foenix and bring it back for the castle menagerie. It had died defending its nest. Lence would have smashed the eggs. Byren had brought them home for Piro. Now that he thought back over the years, he could see many small things that proved he and Lence saw the world differently. His twin had made no secret that he'd fancied Elina, but then he fancied a lot of women. It would be ironic if he lost his twin's trust over Elina when he had no chance to win her himself.
Worse, what if Cobalt's assessment of the balance of power was right?
Byren was overwhelmed with the need to see Fyn. Not that Fyn knew what was going on in the Merofynian court, but he would let Byren talk about his worries and Fyn had a way of cutting through to what was important.
Chapter Nine
Fyn wrestled with the clasp on his shoulder guard, fingers clumsy with cold. Here he was, heart thundering ready to burst, and the race hadn't even started.
The cold leather strap slid through his fingers a second time. 'Freezing Sylion!'
The tent flap opened and Byren strode in. 'Eh, you're running late. I'm in luck!'
'Can't get this buckle done up,' Fyn muttered. He'd hung back behind the other acolytes, hoping Piro would come to wish him luck, only she hadn't. Neither had his father or mother, not that he'd expected them with their official duties. But Piro…
'Here, let me.' Byren, pulled the buckle tight, then cinched it securely. 'How's that?'
Fyn swung his arm. The padded leather shoulder protectors were tight, but still loose enough to give him full range of movement. 'Good.'
During the race across the lake acolytes would do their best to knock each other down. They were supposed to strike only between the knee and shoulder, hence the protectors. But in past years legs had been broken, shoulders dislocated and skulls fractured.
'Thanks, Byren.' Fyn picked up his quarterstaff. The ash rod was as tall as him and as deadly as a sword in the hands of a skilled opponent. For today's challenge both ends had been wrapped in padding. Still, a blow from the staff would knock the air from his lungs if Fyn wasn't quick enough, or maybe even crack a rib, and then he'd have no chance of finding the Fate. Mustn't let that happen. He glanced up at his brother who was watching him with a thoughtful expression. 'What?'
'Nothing. I can see you've got a lot on your mind.' Byren gave him a rueful grin. 'Beat the others across the lake and catch the eye of the weapons master. Who knows, maybe one day you'll be weapons master of Halcyon Abbey!'
Fyn nodded, not surprised that Byren expected this of him. But he intended to be first across the lake to get his hands on the Fate. Hopefully, when he looked into its satiny surface, the mists would clear and he would see a vision. If he did, his place with the mystics was ensured.
Byren came to his feet. At twenty he was a little more than three years older than Fyn, but he was a head taller and bigger boned. Fyn knew he would never grow as big as the twins. He was the runt of the litter, which was why his father had been only too happy to gift him to the abbey.
Fyn fought a wave of self-doubt and worthlessness. He'd been fighting it all his life.
'Halcyon's luck be with you, little Fynnish.' Byren used his childhood nickname, then hesitated. His hand rose to touch the sigil Fyn wore around his neck. Made of silver, it was embossed with the royal foenix. When he became a monk, Fyn would renounce his place in the succession and return his foenix emblem. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Monks were supposed to sever all ties with the material world, but he was still tied to Rolenhold.
Byren tucked Fyn's sigil inside his chest protector. 'I've always thought it unfair that you were gifted to the abbey. Lence and I have had all the fun while you've been studying dry old histories since you were six!'
Fyn wasn't about to admit that he found the dry old histories fascinating, besides Byren's idea of fun was leading raids against the warlords or tracking Affinity beasts.
'It's not so bad. Master Wintertide says we all serve Rolencia in our own way,' Fyn muttered, his mind on the task ahead. He hung his skates over his shoulder. Now that the race was about to start his mouth felt dry and his stomach tense. Other years he had laughed along with the townsfolk when the acolytes knocked each other flying, skidding across the ice like court jesters. 'I just hope I don't make an idiot of myself.'
'Make the other acolytes eat ice!' Byren gave Fyn a friendly thump on the arm. 'Now go out there and do father proud. I'll be cheering you on!'
Fyn looked up at his brother. Of all his family, only Byren had bothered to come to wish him luck. He opened his mouth to thank him, but his brother gave him a bone-crushing hug and headed for the tent flap.
Just before he got there he thumped the heel of his hand to his forehead and turned back. 'Freezing Sylion! I almost forgot. Come straight to the bell tower when you get back. Father has a big announcement to make.'
'What is it?'
'Can't say.' Byren winked, black eyes gleaming roguishly as he slipped out of the tent. He wasn't as handsome as Lence, but his slightly crooked grin was somehow more charming. No wonder the girls whispered like a flock of excited birds when he walked past.
Fyn wondered what his father was planning, then put it out of his head. King Rolen had made it clear his third son's future was not with the royal family. And that was what today was all about, proving himself to the mystics master.
Turning the staff over and over, Fyn changed hands and passed it behind his body without breaking momentum. The quarterstaff spun so fast it was a blur. He was good with weapons. He should be, he'd practised long and hard. But his heart wasn't in weapons training, that was why Lonepine always beat him. One day his friend would be weapons master, not him.
Time to go.
Fyn took a deep breath, smelling the pine resin from the cones that burned in the tent's brass stove and the linament the other acolytes had used on old bruises. He stepped outside into the brilliant, but distant white sunlight of Midwinter's Day. The tent flags hung limp in the still, frosty air. Last night's snowfall had been shovelled aside into waist-high drifts revealing the cobbled streets of Rolenton wharfside.
He caught himself looking around for Piro, unable to believe she had forgotten. Only she knew how important this was to him. He was surprised and hurt, and just a little worried. Piro was nothing if not loyal. Why hadn't she come to wish him luck?
He hoped she was all right.
Fyn smiled to himself. Piro could take care of herself. She could always use one of the tricks he'd taught her and, if that didn't work, knowing Piro she'd talk her way out of trouble. Besides, who would dare hurt King Rolen's only daughter?
The upper wharves were nearly deserted. Down on the lakeside wharf most of the acolytes and monks waited. Dressed in the Goddess Halcyon's earthy colours, browns, olive-greens and burnt orange, they looked like scattered autumn leaves. Only the abbot wore the red of Halcyon's fiery heart, with a circular torque inset with lapis lazuli, a sign of his office.
The abbess of Sylion and her nuns were clustered at the other end. In their robes of blue, aqua and grey they looked like a patch of shifting shadow on snow, a reflection of the cruel god of winter. The abbess stood out, dressed in pure white, wearing a torque inset with blood-red cornelian stones. Later tonight, at the midwinter feast, she would symbolically hand over Rolencia to the abbot. The days would soon grow longer and Sylion would relinquish his grasp on their valley kingdom.
As for the people of Rolenton, their excited chatter filled the air. They crowded the houses and warehouses bordering the lake's shores. Many had ridden out to the lake's snowy banks to find a good vantage point. Determined to enjoy the event, they had set themselves up with blankets, steaming honeyed mead and hot food. From where he stood, Fyn could smell roasting cinnamon apples and sweet potatoes sprinkled with cheese and chilli. His stomach rumbled. He'd been too nervous to eat this morning.
'Ho, Fyn! What's keeping you?' Lonepine swung his staff at Fyn's head, just missing. 'Ready to eat ice?'
'You'll be the one eating ice!' Fyn made a mock swing. Lonepine blocked. The two of them strained, strength
