'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 embraced by the goddess.
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.
Fyn blinked. For a heartbeat he believed it was the goddess Halcyon herself. Then the woman turned and he recognised the abbess of Sylion.
He bit back a gasp of surprise, for females were not allowed past the courtyard of the sacred pool, yet here she was. How had the abbess slipped into Halcyon's Sacred Heart unseen? There must be another way into the cavern, a passage just as secret as the one the abbot had used. It appeared Sylion and Halcyon had a much closer bond than he had been taught.
Fyn wrestled with this while the abbot and masters chanted Halcyon's psalm of praise and the abbess gave Sylion's formal responses.
Once the ceremony was over, the abbot spoke briefly with the abbess and headed towards Fyn, who stumbled backwards. He found a niche and stood pressed against the stone, hardly daring to breathe.
One by one the masters passed him. This time Master Catillum did not look for him. The abbess did not come this way.
'So, abbot, have you considered our list of possible boys masters?' Hotpool asked, his voice carrying back to Fyn. 'It will have to be someone well versed in the history of our order. The boys must respect the past.'
The abbot sighed. 'Tonight, Master Hotpool. You'll know tonight.'
As soon as their footsteps faded, Fyn resumed his place near the cavern entrance. He waited, listening to the soft tone of the female voices on the cold air as the abbess discussed something with a companion. Their voices faded, then he heard the grate of stone as a passage closed.
Believing the cavern deserted, Fyn stepped into Halcyon's Heart. His nostrils stung in reaction to intense Affinity. The intermittent seep below Mount Halcyon must be releasing power again. Not surprising, since other seeps had risen recently. The masters would have to bring down sorbt stones to absorb the Affinity.
As it was, he had to blink tears from his eyes. Since he meant no harm, he trusted the goddess would not hurt him. Still, his blood roared in his ears as he crossed to Master Wintertide's resting place.
Kneeling reverently, he looked up into his old teacher's face. Wintertide's pale skin had been painted with a clear glaze so that it resembled the finest porcelain. His expression was calm.
'I will miss you, Master Wintertide, more than I can say,' Fyn whispered and bent forwards, bowing from the waist, pressing his forehead to his hands on the floor. His royal emblem rode up, sliding out of the front of his robe to dangle in front of his eyes.
He straightened up, fingering it, feeling the familiar pattern of the embossed foenix. The metal was warm from his skin. The day he put this aside was the day he put aside his claim to his father's throne. He had thought he would be putting it aside t
o take up his place in the abbey, but now he knew that, after he did this last service for his old master, he would be without allegiance. The emblem must not fall into the wrong hands.
'Master Wintertide, I ask you to watch over this, as you watched over me in the abbey.' Fyn stood and undid the royal emblem's chain. It felt heavy in the palm of his hand. In the candlelight the foenix gleamed. He placed the pendant in the hollow behind his master's hands. The wax would burn down, hiding it. One day, many years in the future, Halcyon's stone would encase it.
'I promise you this, Master Wintertide, I will not rest until your killer has been punished.' He studied the four jars, comparing each one to Master Catillum's sketch. His hand moved even before he consciously recognised the jar that contained Master Wintertide's heart. 'Forgive me, master. This will be returned as soon as possible.'
He tucked the jar inside his belt pouch. All he had to do was take it to Master Catillum.
Feeling lighter, Fyn left the cavern. It was completely dark in the secret passage. He should have taken one of the candles but he recalled the way, counting the steps and making the turns until he came to a dead end, the sealed exit. No light seeped around the hidden door. Fyn's blind fingers brushed the stone wall, seeking the device which Master Catillum had told him would trip the opening.
Twice he searched where it should have been and found nothing.
What if he could not find it?
His mouth went dry with fear. Panic threatened. If he did not find the trigger to open the panel he would starve alone in the dark. The great weight of the mountain pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe.
He struggled to clear his mind.
Think. There had to be a way out.
Then it came to him… If he could not open this door he would return to Halcyon's Heart and try to find the passage the Abbess had used — it had to come out somewhere on Mount Halcyon — then he would double back to the abbey.
Having thought it through, Fyn calmed down and widened his search. As his fingers dipped into a depression in the stone, he realised the mystics master was taller than him. Catillum hadn't taken this into account when describing where to find the catch. The device sank at his touch and the panel slid open.
Blinking in the dim light and relieved beyond words, Fyn stepped into the hall.
Now, to take the jar to Master Catillum. He hurried up the steps, pressing the jar to his chest so it would not be jolted.
As Fyn rounded the corner, relieved he had got away with it, a large hand descended on his shoulder, squeezing painfully.
'What do we have here, Beartooth, a little mouse stealing about in the dark?'
'And what has it been stealing?' Galestorm asked.
Fyn tried to pull away from Beartooth.
'Grab him, Onetree,' Galestorm ordered.
Arms pinned him. Fingers prised at his, forcing them away from the jar. Fyn stopped fighting, fearful the jar would fall and shatter.
Whisperingpine whistled. 'That looks like — '
'A jar from Halcyon's Sacred Heart.' Galestorm's eyes narrowed, then he smiled with malicious glee. 'Fyn Kingson, you have just signed your own death decree!'
'Huh?' Beartooth muttered.
Galestorm held up the jar. The semi-precious stones set on the lid glinted. 'All we have to do is show the abbot this and he'll have to order the king's brat executed for profaning the goddess. Come on.'
As they dragged Fyn upstairs his heart sank. Master Catillum had made it clear he could not help him if he was caught. To have come so close!
Even so, Fyn did not struggle. Since he had nothing to lose, he would reveal his suspicions to the abbot. As they had the jar, all the abbot had to do was ask the mystics master to do the tests on Wintertide's heart. Firefox and his supporters might still be proven murderers.
'What I don't understand is why he wanted the jar,' Whisperingpine muttered.
Fyn tensed, but Galestorm was too busy gloating over his downfall to listen.
They drove him up the spiral staircase, through the passages, past the young boys headed into the dining hall to eat their first meal of the day, past the acolytes who were already leaving to learn their crafts. Behind many curious faces, Fyn recognised Feldspar's worried face. Without a word his friend took off, running towards the mystics' level.
'Should I stop him?' Whisperingpine asked Galestorm.
'Don't bother. No one can save the king's brat now.'
Fyn did not say a word as they herded him along the busy corridor towards the stairwell at the far end.
Master Firefox stepped out of his chamber, accompanied by Hotpool.
'What's this?' Firefox demanded. 'Where are you taking Fyn Kingson?'
'To the abbot,' Galestorm announced loudly, holding up the jar. 'We caught him stealing from the goddess's Sacred Heart!'
The nearest acolytes gasped and stared at Fyn, horrified.
When Firefox recognised the jar his eyes widened. Master Hotpool took a step back, going pale. He went to speak, but Firefox touched his arm.
'Well done, Galestorm.' Firefox recovered quickly. 'Give me the jar. We will take him to the abbot.'
No, Fyn thought. If Firefox and Hotpool took over he would never get to the abbot. They would kill him, hide his body and replace the jar.
Galestorm hesitated, obviously torn because he wanted to see Fyn suffer, but obedience won out and he handed over the jar.
Fyn's head filled with a roaring noise.
'Yes, let's take Fyn Kingson straight to the abbot,' Master Catillum said, joining them.
A firm hand descended on Fyn's shoulder, urging him forwards. As Fyn strode towards the stairs, followed by Masters Firefox and Hotpool, the acolytes parted for them, whispering intently.
On the abbot's level they marched down the main corridor, past the archways that looked out over Rolencia.
Master Catillum thrust the doors to the ante-chamber open.
The clerics master leapt to his feet. 'You can't go in — '
'We must!' The mystics master insisted and strode right past him.
He thrust the doors open and marched in.
The abbot and weapons master looked up. The desk between them was littered with notes, paper weights, ink wells and maps.
'There you are. That was quick,' the abbot said. 'But you didn't need to bring Fyn Kingson.'
'Oh, but we did,' Master Catillum insisted. 'He's — '
'He's stolen something from Halcyon's Sacred Heart,' Master Firefox asserted.
Fyn realised the master was going to try to bluster his way out of trouble.
'He's been in the sacred passages. Sacrilege!' Master Hotpool announced.
'It's sacrilege to murder a master,' Fyn cried. 'I took Master Wintertide's jar to prove that he was poisoned!'
'The healers said he had a heart attack,' Firefox countered. 'Surely they would know better than a mere acolyte?'
'A simple test will prove one way or the other,' Catillum said softly. Everyone went still. 'A test I can do before everyone here, now. Shall I send for my equipment?'
'To prove what?' Firefox countered. 'Even if you prove Wintertide was poisoned, how will you find out who poisoned him? Search the mind of every monk?'
'I won't have to search every monk, will I, Fyn?' Catillum prodded.
Fyn swallowed. 'Master Hotpool told me that the boys master died of a heart attack, but this was before the healers had even examined him. Hotpool could only have known what the healers would say if he knew which poison killed Wintertide. And he would have got that poison from the healer, Springmelt.'
'And Springmelt is safe in the mystics' chamber, waiting to be called,' Catillum explained.
They all turned to Hotpool including Firefox, who took several steps back from him. Hotpool opened his mouth, appealing wordlessly to his partner.
Firefox shook his head sadly. 'I always knew you hated Wintertide, but poison?'
Hotpool looked so shocked by this betrayal that Fyn almost f
elt sorry for him.
But he recovered quickly, gesturing dismissively to the mystics master. 'Catillum may swear Springmelt was working under my orders but it is his word against mine. He'll lie to implicate me.'
Crack!
The weapons master slammed a paper weight on the desk top. 'Enough of this. Rolencia has been invaded!'
Fyn gasped.
The masters turned in stunned silence.
'A rider just delivered this.' The abbot pointed to a message cylinder which lay on his busy desk. Beside it was a roll of vellum which had been sealed with a red wax impressed with the royal foenix.
'Father's royal symbol,' Fyn whispered.
'King Rolen has called on us to defend Rolencia from the Merofynians,' the weapons master explained, then glared at Firefox and Hotpool. 'So your petty politics can wait!'
'But King Merofyn betrothed his daughter to my brother,' Fyn protested.
'What better way to buy time to prepare for an invasion?' Master Oakstand countered. 'Remember your tactics lessons, lad. Force wins battles, but so does guile and it costs less lives.'
Fyn shook his head. He'd had a vision of the king's daughter in Halcyon's Fate. If she was not going to become his brother's queen, why had he seen her? 'I — '
'I know what you're going to say. I must refuse, Fyn,' the abbot told him. 'Acolytes cannot take up arms.'
Fyn gulped.
'According to King Rolen,' the abbot continued, 'the Merofynians are commanded by an ambitious warlord, who has been named overlord of the army.'
'How did they get into the valley undetected?' Fyn asked.
'The traitorous warlord from Cockatrice Spar let them use his pass,' the abbot said. 'King Rolen is going to march out to deal with Rejulas. This will leave his castle defended only by a few old men and untrained boys.'
Fyn froze. His mother, old Seela and Piro were in danger. For a moment he heard nothing but the rushing of a stream running fast with spring melt.
'We must stop this overlord from marching across the valley and laying siege to Rolenhold.' Master Oakstand unhooked one hand from his belt to tap the map. 'We must hold him until King Rolen's dealt with Rejulas and can bring his warriors back.'
The King's bastard cokrk-1 Page 43
