'The pain will come back, King Rolen,' Valens warned.
Byren hadn't been aware that his father's knee hurt with every step. He crossed the room. 'If it's your knee that's the problem, why massage your back?'
Valens flicked a disdainful glance to Byren. 'I must massage the knee, hip and back every day. The knee throws the back out — '
'And don't I know it!' the king muttered.
Valens nodded. He took several dark bottles from his case. Measuring a little from each he poured the liquid into a goblet of wine and stirred. 'And you must drink this every morning and night to bring down the swelling in the joint.'
King Rolen accepted the goblet, sniffed and took a sip. He looked relieved then drained the lot. 'Ah, that's better than any of the herbals my healers give me. I was afraid you'd ruined a good wine.'
'Never, King Rolen. We Ostronites know the value of Rolencian red!' With a bow, Valens continued to pack his tools away in a leather case.
'So, can I offer you a drink, Byren?' his father asked.
'No. I'm off to bed. I want a clear head for an early start tomorrow.' Byren hesitated but Valens showed no sign of leaving. He had begun polishing his father's boots. 'I'm glad your knee is feeling better.'
'My knee? My whole back feels better. It's never been the same since that riding accident.' His father slung an arm around Byren's shoulders. The king was nearly fifty now and he was a big man, deep through the chest with a bit of a belly on him, but Byren could feel the strength in his body and the vigour as he walked him to the door. 'I swear I feel twenty years younger!' Then he grew serious. 'While you're dealing with Unistag's warlord, I want you to listen to Temor's advice. He's had thirty years, dealing with spar leaders.'
'I will, Father. Good night.'
Byren headed back to his chamber relieved that his father was feeling better but frustrated with the meeting. If only he could reveal the truth about Cobalt's attempt to blackmail Orrade.
Orrade's sudden declaration of love had endangered them both. What was wrong with his friend? Orrade had certainly enjoyed women in the past.
Byren's hands itched to grab his friend and knock some sense into him. If only it was that simple!
Chapter Fifteen
Fyn found Rolenhold strangely empty without Byren. His brother had ridden out the day after midwinter with a Captain Temor, a dozen men-at-arms and his honour guard of twelve likely lads, Orrade and Garzik amongst them. Enough to deter treachery, but not enough to be a threat to a newly elected warlord, was how Byren had described it to him.
Several days ago his mother had taken one of her turns. Complaining of sleeping badly, she had retreated to her private solarium, which made his father worry. Lence went around like a bear with a sore tooth, while Piro hardly spoke and seemed preoccupied.
The four days of formal celebrations to welcome back the goddess Halcyon were finally over and, for once, Fyn was glad to return to the abbey.
'What will you do,' Piro whispered, 'now that you can't join the mystics?'
They stood to one side of the royal party, who were farewelling the abbot and the masters. It was early morning and the nuns of Sylion had already left Rolenhold, hitching the sails of their sled-boats to catch the breeze.
'Don't worry, I'll find a branch of the abbey to take me,' Fyn said. 'Maybe the clerics. Then, when I become abbot, I can send the weapons master to serve Lence.'
He expected her to laugh at this, but she nodded seriously. 'That way you wouldn't have to do the killing.'
No. He'd just send others to their death, he realised with a sickening lurch. How did leaders live with their decisions?
'Oh, Fyn. Last night I dreamed of Byren. He was running through the forest, running away from wyverns,' Piro whispered urgently. 'Do you think it was a vision?'
'That's silly. Wyverns live near water, not in the forest,' Fyn argued.
'They could have been freshwater wyverns.'
She looked so miserable he wanted to shake her.
'Byren will be fine. If you had a dream about a unistag confronting Byren, that might have been a vision. But not a wyvern.'
She managed a smile. 'You must be right. But, Fyn, I think my Affinity is getting stronger.'
Bitterness churned in him. He'd had to give up family and position because of his Affinity. He was the superfluous third son, when the king already had an heir in Lence, with Byren in reserve. Worse, his family didn't trust him. This midwinter at Rolenhold had convinced Fyn his place was with the abbey.
'Fyn?' Piro prodded. 'What's wrong?'
The weapons master blew the horn, signalling that it was time to go. Piro gave a little start of fright.
He hugged her. 'You'll be all right. Mother's been able to hide her Affinity all these years. You will too!'
Her tears felt wet on his cheeks as she kissed him.
'Oh, Fyn. I have such a bad feeling!'
He wanted to stay and reassure her but… 'Piro, I must go.' The abbey contingent was already marching, taking him with it.
'I know. Goodbye, Fyn,' she called, running a little way out the gates with him.
Then she fell behind as the masters marched the monks and acolytes down the steep road to Rolenton. They sang in time to their steps, the masters leading the chant. With the crisp morning air stinging his face and his fellow monks around him, Fyn felt a sense of belonging and realised, until today, he had not given up hope of returning home. Well, from now on the abbey would be his home. He had to forge a place there or be overwhelmed in the battle for position.
They were still high enough on Rolenhold's pinnacle for Fyn to look out across the fertile crescent valley of Rolencia. The Dividing Mountains curved away behind him, forming a half circle. In its hub was distant Mount Halcyon. The snowy-tipped peak stood like a beacon, glinting in the sun. In three days he would be there, safe in the abbey built into the side of the mountain.
As soon as they returned to the abbey, he would ask Master Wintertide's advice. As an acolyte, Fyn should have consulted the acolytes master, but he was a close friend of the history master. And that master had been watching him since they spoke on Midwinter's Day, smiling when their eyes caught. It worried Fyn more than he wanted to admit.
On Rolenton wharf they loaded up their sleds, strapped on their skates and prepared to set off across Sapphire Lake. Once across the lake they would travel the canal to Viridian Lake and Halcyon Abbey.
Because Fyn and Lonepine were the same height, they were usually paired together to pull a sled. Fyn helped his friend with his straps then turned so that Lonepine could buckle his.
'Don't bother,' Feldspar called, jumping down from the wharf to a snowdrift on the ice. 'I've been sent to find you, Fyn. Master Firefox wants you.'
'The acolytes master?' Surprised and a little worried, Fyn climbed back onto the wharf and wandered through the monks.
He found the acolytes master speaking with the history master and waited at a polite distance for them to finish. Farmer Overhill's son stood to one side, looking uncomfortable. Fyn felt sorry for him. It was bad enough joining the abbey as a six-year-old, but to be fifteen and to know as little as a six-year-old would be a nightmare.
The history master glanced once at Fyn, nodded in reply to something Master Firefox had said, then hurried away.
'There you are, Fyn Kingson,' Firefox greeted him, jovially. 'I can recall how troubled I was the year I had to find my place amid the priests, so I thought I'd put you out of your misery. This midsummer, when you give your
