The accusation must have undermined his chances of being accepted into any branch of the abbey. Before this, he had been worried which one to choose. Now he would be lucky if any of the masters accepted him.
His cell door swung open to reveal Feldspar and Lonepine. Feldspar looked worried, but then he always did.
Lonepine gave Fyn a wry grin. 'We're your escorts. We've offered to vouch for your character.'
But they were only acolytes and he'd been accused by four monks.
'Thanks.' Fyn's voice cracked from lack of use. He stood up and stretched. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd been in last night and he felt strangely distanced.
'Don't worry, Fyn. The abbot is a fair man,' Feldspar assured him.
Fyn nodded once. He just wanted to get this over with.
The walk to the abbot's chamber seemed to take forever. His knees felt weak. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself and fall flat on his face when he went down the steps.
The official greeting chamber was where the abbot met representatives when he wanted to impress them. Before today, Fyn had only been inside to polish the brass work and mop the floor mosaics. In niches around the room were statues of Halcyon, some dating from the earliest times. They ranged from crude stone effigies which showed her big with child, to a recent gold statuette from Ostron Isle which portrayed her as a young woman on the verge of womanhood, for Halcyon was the child-woman, the pregnant mother and the crone.
Under the greeting chamber's central dome was a flat circle then a series of concentric shallow steps so the chamber became a theatre in the round.
Fyn's friends escorted him to a spot opposite the abbot and then retreated to join a group of monks who had to be the other witnesses, some ready to vouch for his character, others ready to assassinate it. Galestorm sent him a stern look in keeping with the formality of the chamber, but there was a glint of malice in his eyes. It was clear he believed, with Fyn disgraced, the path to mastership and eventually the abbot's position would be open to him.
Had his future been so decided? Fyn hadn't thought so, but then perhaps he'd been naive. He caught Master Hotpool watching him and looked away quickly. What if all the other masters refused to take him and he was left with only Hotpool's offer? He'd have to serve the history master. Was that why he and Master Firefox had done this?
Panic threatened, making Fyn's stomach churn with nausea. He didn't want to be in Hotpool's power.
His gaze flew to Master Wintertide. Was there any hope? His old master's mouth remained immobile, but his deep-set eyes smiled and Fyn felt a little better. Like all the other masters, Wintertide knelt on a cushion on the fourth stone step so that Fyn faced a semicircle of masters, their heads one step above his.
The abbot nodded to the clerics master, who cleared his throat and read from a scroll. Another cleric waited with a scriber, ink and paper to take notes. A record of this hearing would go into the abbey's great archives. One day it would be dry, dusty history. Right now Fyn's heart hammered and his palms felt sweaty.
The master cleric's voice echoed in the dome above them. 'This hearing has been called to determine if Fyn Rolen Kingson did wantonly torture the abbey's grucranes and in doing so, drive them off. How do you plead?'
Fyn blinked. 'Innocent, of course!'
Then he heard himself and winced. He had sounded rude. Or perhaps his unguarded reaction would convince them of his innocence? Frustration flooded him. He didn't know.
First the abbot called on Galestorm to recount his version of events, which were corroborated by his three companions. Fyn watched them lie straight faced and wondered how they slept at night.
The weapons master could only confirm that he had come upon Fyn and the monks just as they had described it. 'They were running across the lake towards Fyn who had the grucrane wrapped in his cloak.'
'To protect it,' Fyn protested.
'Silence,' the clerics master warned, then dismissed Oakstand and called on healer Sandbank who confirmed what the weapons master had said.
'And then Fyn said to me "There's something wrong with his wing and I think he broke his leg when he hit the ice." Fyn was clearly concerned for the grucrane.'
'Because he realised how seriously he'd hurt it,' Galestorm insisted.
'Silence,' the clerics master snapped.
'Tell me, Sandbank, what happened to that grucrane?' the abbot asked.
'The break was a bad one. We could not save the bird. The grucranes seemed to know because they left the day he died.'
'And haven't been seen since!' Galestorm added with relish.
'One more comment from you and you'll be sent outside,' the clerics master warned, but it was too late. The damage was done. Fyn's hopes sank as Master Hotpool exchanged looks with his crony, Firefox, then permitted himself a small, satisfied smile.
Master Wintertide came to his feet. 'Permission to speak, abbot?'
'You wish to vouch for Fyn's good character.' The abbot anticipated him. 'I know, and there are several more who would do the same.' The abbot fixed on Fyn. He was a small man of the same generation at Master Wintertide. His head was completely bald and a wispy white beard hung from his chin like summer moss from a branch. Fyn had not had much to do with the abbot, being only a lowly acolyte. The general feeling was that the abbot was fair. Fyn certainly hoped so.
'You have heard the accusations levelled against yourself, Fyn Rolen Kingson. What have you to say?'
It was his chance at last. 'I was trying to save the grucrane. It wasn't my slingshot that crippled the bird.'
'Whose slingshot was it?'
Fyn licked his lips. 'Monk Galestorm.'
'Why didn't you tell the weapons master this when he arrived?'
Fyn shrugged. 'I was worried about the bird and besides…' he heard bitterness creep into his voice. 'I knew it was my word against the word of four monks.'
The scribe scratched away diligently, while the masters muttered amongst themselves.
'This is a very serious accusation, Fyn,' the abbot said at last.
'Perhaps there is someone who can corroborate his version of events,' Firefox suggested, knowing full well there wasn't.
Fyn had never hated anyone before. The force of his emotion surprised him. He could not even look at the acolytes master.
The abbot turned to Fyn. 'Is there a witness who saw Galestorm take a shot at the birds?'
There was. The old seer had seen it all, but she was dead, killed by his brother. And who would have believed her anyway?
'No,' Fyn admitted. Yet he held his chin high, refusing to let his enemies know how he felt.
'I can vouch for Fyn,' Feldspar announced suddenly. He darted from his spot amidst the witnesses, dropping to his knees beside Fyn and bowing in apology. 'Permission to speak, abbot?'
'A character witness won't help now, acolyte Feldspar,' the abbot told him, though not unkindly.
'I have a confession to make,' Feldspar blurted, lifting a strained face to the masters. 'As much as I long to, I am not worthy of becoming a mystic. I did not find Halcyon's Fate, Fyn did. He gave it to me because he knew how much I longed to be a mystic. That is the sort of person Fyn is. He would never hurt a defenceless bird!' Feldspar turned a little so that he could bow to the mystics master. 'Forgive me, Master Catillum. I could not go into your service with a lie in my heart.'
Masters Hotpool and Firefox looked stunned. Obviously they had not planned on Feldspar's confession, though Fyn didn't see how it could help him. The other masters muttered, while the abbot consulted with the mystics master.
Finally Master Catillum turned back to Fyn. 'Is this true, Fyn Rolen Kingson?'
Fyn dropped to his knees and prepared to lie. He had to protect Piro no matter what. 'I was not worthy. I only found it by chance and I knew Feldspar's Affinity was greater than mine, so — '
'You gave the Fate to him?' the mystics master marvelled.
Fyn nodded miserably.
Master Catillum frowned
at Fyn. 'Tell me, when you touched the Fate, did you see a vision?'
Feldspar glanced to Fyn, who hesitated.
'The truth, lad,' Master Catillum urged. 'We have no seer and the abbey needs to know what the future holds.'
Fyn's face flamed. 'I saw Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter.'
The weapons master gave a bark of laughter, which several others echoed. A smile tugged at the mystics master's mouth. There were dismayed mutterings from several others.
'What does it mean?' Firefox asked.
'It means he's a normal young man,' Oakstand answered. 'With normal appetites.'
'It means he is not worthy of the abbey,' Hotpool snapped, 'being consumed with the hungers of the flesh.'
'And you'd be a shining example of abstinence?' Oakstand jeered.
'Silence!' the clerics master clapped his hands. 'The abbot wishes to speak.'
The abbot turned to the mystics master. 'What does Fyn's vision mean, Catillum?'
'It means there is a connection between him and the girl, not surprising since his brother is betrothed to her. His vision has no significance for the abbey. But of greater significance is the fact that he had a vision. I must have him for the mystics.'
Fyn's heart lifted. Piro might have found the Fate but the vision had been his. Then he noticed how Feldspar's shoulders sank. He wanted to argue that Feldspar's Affinity was stronger than his but he felt he was skating on thin ice. He shuffled his knees closer to his friend. 'I'm sorry.'
'It's all right,' Feldspar whispered. 'I shouldn't have agreed to take the Fate. It was weak of me.'
Guilt twisted in Fyn's gut like a thief turning the knife. He'd almost been just as weak. Piro had meant well, but look how her interference had complicated things.
'This hearing comes down to the word of an acolyte against the word of four monks,' the abbot began.
'Not just that,' the mystics master said. 'I could skim Galestorm's mind, see if I can find the truth.' Catillum's penetrating black eyes settled on the young monk who cast a look of panic to Masters Firefox and Hotpool.
'Tell the truth, lad,' Firefox urged, when Fyn was reasonably certain the master had coached the monk to lie for him. 'If the mystics master must plumb your mind it will be painful.'
And more might be revealed than whose slingshot hurt the bird? The acolytes' and history master's plans? Fyn fixed on Firefox, who cultivated a benign expression and tapped his chin once.
As if this was a signal, Galestorm fell to his knees. 'Forgive me, abbot. I was trying to protect Beartooth. Sometimes, he acts without thinking. He never meant to hit the grucrane, just give them a fright.'
Behind him, Beartooth, Whisperingpine and Onetree fell to their knees, foreheads pressed to the floor.
'It appears the hearing is over,' the abbot muttered and signalled the clerics master. 'See that these four are contained until we decide their punishment.'
The masters came to their feet, many of them in deep discussion. The abbot beckoned the clerics master and nodded in Fyn's direction. Lonepine made his way through the others to meet up with Fyn and Feldspar, who stood, massaging their knees.
'Well, that'll serve them right,' Lonepine said, the tips of his large ears red with excitement.
'Yes, justice. If only it were so simple,' Master Wintertide agreed as he joined them. He turned to Fyn. 'Why did you give Feldspar the Fate? Do you really feel so unworthy?'
Fyn wanted to reassure Wintertide but at that moment the clerics master came over and ordered Feldspar and Lonepine to escort Fyn back to his cell.
'But — ' Lonepine objected.
'Fyn lied to Master Catillum,' Wintertide explained. 'This is serious, no matter how honourable his motivation. Take him to his cell and count yourselves lucky you are not staying there with him.'
'Come on.' Lonepine turned towards the door. When they left the masters behind, he whispered, 'You've certainly set the cat amongst the pigeons, Feldspar!'
'Master Catillum would have discovered it once I began training. To train your Affinity you must be open to your teacher.'
He was right. Fyn glanced back to the masters. Hotpool and Firefox listened intently to the abbot and the mystics master. Catillum was sure to discover Piro's part in all this. How could he hide her guilt from a master who was able to skim the minds of those he trained?
'Hey!' Lonepine protested as Galestorm shouldered him aside while being escorted from the chamber.
'Ignore him. He's gone too far this time,' Fyn advised.
Feldspar nodded. They escorted Fyn back to the cell in silence, then they paused at the door. There was no lock, no guard. Honour held Fyn captive. After all, where would he go if he ran away? All of Rolencia would turn on him.
Feldspar cleared his throat. 'I may lose my place with the mystics, but I'm glad I did it. You don't deserve this, Fyn.'
'Don't worry, a seer is too valuable for the abbot to do more than give you some mild punishment.' Lonepine squeezed Fyn's shoulder. 'You'll be right.'
Fyn had to smile. If only his problems were so easily resolved. By trying to help, Feldspar had made things so much worse.
'Thanks. I guess, all we can do now is wait.' So he went into his cell and sat there stewing. If only Piro hadn't interfered. If only he had found the Fate by himself, then he would gladly accept his place with the mystics!
Chapter Seventeen
'So this is Byren Rolen Kingson, the leogryf slayer?' the woman asked. She could have been twenty-five, but her eyes looked older. Her hair hung in one battletale with seven gold links. Life on the spars was hard. Women fought alongside their men, sometimes by choice, often through necessity. 'And why are we honoured with your presence?'
'Lady Unace of Unistag Spar.' As Byren made his court bow, he decided she looked like the sort of person who liked plain speaking. 'The warlord of Unistag did not send a delegate to renew his oath of loyalty, so King Rolen sent me to ensure this happens.'
'You and twenty-five men?' Humour glinted in her black eyes.
Byren grinned, acknowledging a hit.
Her smile vanished. She strode to the canvas flap which hung in the doorway of the large snow-cave and flipped it open to reveal Unistag stronghold. Lit by the setting sun, it was built into the cliff opposite, projecting out from stone ledges. Layered and cantilevered, the whole thing looked like a strong wind would blow it down. The walled town spread down the slope to a narrow bay. The place was a rabbit warren, though Byren conceded it would be easily defended. From the stronghold's tallest tower a banner blew, a white unistag on a green field, the symbol of the spar.
'I was born there, along with my four brothers. When my father lay dying he called all his heirs into his bedside to elect a new warlord. But, before he could, my cousin Steerden had him suffocated, then he murdered my brothers, their wives and their children, my husband and little boy of six summers…' Her voice cracked, mouth twisting as she fought to hold back her grief.
After a moment she went on. 'The only reason I'm still alive is because the stronghold's healer and I were in Halcyon's chantry to have my ten-day-old baby receive his life-blessing. The monk smuggled us out.' She strode over to the cradle and lifted the infant for them to see. Startled by the move, the baby flung out both small hands, fingers spread as if to cling to life. 'If I fail to take back the castle, my son will not live to see his first birthday. If we flee Unistag Spar, my cousin will send assassins after us, for he cannot rest easy in his bed while little Uniden lives.' She hushed the infant and returned him to the cot then faced Byren. 'So I ask again, why are you here?'
He knew what she wanted to hear, that he could help her avenge her family and win back the leadership of the spar. Warlords were mostly male, but there had been some remarkable women who ruled the spars. However, he wasn't here to help. He could hardly send Temor back to Rolenhold to gather a small army, for though the warlords of the spar swore fealty to his father, they were princelings of their own kingdoms and Rolencia never interfered with their rul
e. If he brought in an army to make Unace warlord, he would be setting a bad precedent.
Even as he took a breath, he saw her shoulders sag. She had read his face.
'I'm sorry. It is not my place to intervene. I am here only to ensure the next warlord's fealty.'
'I thought as much.' She nodded, then glanced to an old monk. 'Monk Seagrass is our healer. I owe my life and that of my son to him.'
Byren nodded to the monk, who was small and slightly stooped because of a hump that rode his back, just to the left of centre.
'Seagrass will see to your wounded man.' Lady Unace met Byren's eyes. 'You are welcome to eat and sleep in our camp. If I become warlord I will swear fealty to King Rolen.'
Byren nodded, made uncomfortable because she was ready to give, when he could give nothing.
The healer collected his pouch of herbs. It was not customary for the monks and nuns to support aspirants vying to become warlord. Seagrass must have been motivated by his conscience.
'Garzik is this way,' Byren said and led Seagrass to a large snow-cave, which had been hastily erected for them.
Orrade watched everything the healer did, his anxiety palpable. Temor stood back but his sharp eyes missed nothing. Byren knelt by the fourteen-year-old while his wounds were cleaned and packed. Garzik did not let out a whimper.
'You're lucky the bite is only shallow,' Seagrass said as he mixed up a tisane.
Byren lifted Garzik so he could sip it. He was flushed and had been delirious earlier but was clear-headed now, if a trifle pale from the pain of the monk's ministrations.
'This will bring the fever down and fight the evil humours which had taken root in your body,' Seagrass told Garzik who nodded, wearily.
Byren wanted to ask what Garzik's chances were, but not in front of the lad. 'Watch over him, Orrie, while I walk the healer back to his snow-cave.'
'I share with the Lady Unace. I have been serving her family since before she was born,' Seagrass explained.
Byren nodded. Before he left he paused to ruffle Garzik's hair. 'As for you, hurry up and get well. I didn't bring you along so you could lie about while everyone else worked!'
The King's bastard cokrk-1 Page 25
