The Uncrowned King

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  'No, we can't!' He grimaced. 'Sorry. I don't want to lead you all into a trap.'

  'Do you think the Merofynians are already there?' Joff asked.

  Fyn shrugged. 'I just don't know.'

  'We'll wait,' Feldspar whispered. 'Settle them down, Joff.'

  He moved off and Feldspar squeezed Fyn's shoulder.

  He wanted to brush off that supporting hand. Felt a fraud. No one would be following him if they knew how he'd failed the abbot.

  On top of that, impatience and worry ate at Fyn. Already, he had lost a night and a day since the abbey had been taken. And he still had to cross Rolencia's ripe valley. No matter how often he told himself Piro was safe in Rolenhold, he couldn't rid himself of the worm of worry that gnawed at his belly. She was in trouble, he just knew it.

  'What is it?' Feldspar asked.

  Fyn glanced around the hollow while Lenny waited at his side, shivering but not complaining. This was all that remained of Halcyon's warrior monks, small boys and acolytes who were too young to go to war. A wave of loss engulfed Fyn. Tears burned his eyes as he thought of the knowledge lost with the monks' deaths. The Merofynians were probably ransacking the great library even now. On a more practical note, who would tend the hothouse seedlings? How would the farmers get two crops harvested this summer? A summer spent warring meant a winter spent starving.

  Speaking of which, the boys were hungry and needed somewhere warm to sleep. It was getting dark. 'I'll approach the village, see if it's safe.'

  'I'll come with you,' Feldspar decided.

  Lenny shivered and his stomach rumbled loudly.

  Fyn grinned. 'Wait here, Len.'

  He slipped out of the hollow with Feldspar at his heels, and made for the isolated cover of stunted pines until they reached a cairn of stones about a bow-shot from the gate. This was where the traveller coming from up the path around the far side of Mount Halcyon would stop to give thanks for a safe journey before entering the village.

  From behind this cairn, Fyn studied the village's single gate tower. Several youths between thirteen and seventeen were standing on the platform, hovering over a wyvern harpoon which some enterprising fisherman had mounted up there.

  The business end of the harpoon was pointed at a winter-bare, gnarled tree across the field just off the path from the valley.

  Feldspar shaded his eyes as he studied the village chimney pots, visible above the wall. 'No more than a dozen cottages. I think we outnumber them. I hope there's enough food to go around.'

  'The abbess can replace their supplies later.' Fyn glanced to the clouds. 'More snow on the way. Good. It'll hide our trail.'

  'You think the Merofynians will send warriors after us?'

  'I think we have a day or so before they begin to wonder where we got to. And, if they have a Power-worker with them, which they're sure to do, they will eventually find Halcyon's Sacred Heart.' He shivered, thinking of the invaders desecrating the mummies of the old monks and tapping into Halcyon's own seep. 'The sooner you lot are safe behind Sylion's walls the better.'

  'Well, something has stirred up the fisher folk.' Feldspar pointed to the tower with its cluster of defenders.

  Fyn agreed. He stepped out from behind the cairn and called. 'We're from Halcyon Abbey and we claim traveller's ease.'

  Several dogs barked. The youths swung the wyvern harpoon towards them. Fyn and Feldspar instinctively opened their arms to show they carried no weapons.

  'Halcyon Abbey,' they yelled to be sure there were no mistakes.

  The youths cheered and one of them shouted an order to the youngest. 'Fetch Lame Klimen. Tell him Halcyon Abbey has come.'

  'I'll go back and get the boys,' Feldspar offered and turned around only to mutter, 'Oh, I see Joff's bringing them.'

  Fyn glanced over his shoulder to find the others plodding after Joff, too eager to wait for his signal.

  Another head, this one weathered by time, appeared on the gate tower. There was some confusion as the old man pushed the youths aside. Then he raised his voice to call to Fyn. 'It's just as well the abbey sent you, we have a renegade Power-worker trying to get in.' He pointed to the gnarled tree.

  Secretly terrified, Fyn fixed on the tree. How he wished he'd completed his training under the mystics master. He was no match for a Power-worker.

  No one spoke.

  The gnarled tree continued to look innocuous.

  'Come out, you heathen wyvern!' Lame Klimen yelled. Several more heads had joined him on the gate tower and they added their abuse to his.

  Nothing happened.

  Joff jogged over to join them. 'There must be something you can do, Fyn.'

  'Neither of us are trained mystics,' Feldspar whispered.

  'True.' Fyn's fear receded as he thought things through. 'But if the Power-worker is so powerful, why is he hiding behind a tree, dodging the harpoon?'

  'I'd be scared of a wyvern harpoon,' Joff offered.

  Feldspar grinned. 'But you have no Affinity training. You can't manipulate the Unseen world.'

  Fyn reached a decision and set off across the field towards the tree. As he approached, he made out someone huddled behind it, someone young with a large bundle that they cradled like a baby.

  Fyn came to a stop as frightened, slightly lopsided eyes looked up at him from a dirty, tear-stained face. Odd, the renegade Power-worker might look like a grubby street urchin but they were wrapped in a rich Rolencian travelling fur, fit for a king.

  The bundle in their arms stirred and made a soft interrogative sound that reminded Fyn of his sister's foenix. At the same moment his nostrils stung with a rush of Affinity power. 'What have you got there?'

  The child's arms moved protectively and they muttered something that sounded Merofynian.

  Fyn switched to his mother's native tongue. 'Whatever that is, it's giving off enough Affinity to make me sneeze.' And before he could help himself he did, sneezing three times in a row.

  The child smiled reluctantly and let the blanket fall away to reveal a rare, feathered Affinity beast. 'It's a calandrius but it's injured. The kingson told me to take it to the village and ask for safe passage to Sylion Abbey in his name, but no one speaks Merofynian and they won't let me in.'

  'Kingson, you say?' Fyn tried not to sound too excited. 'Byren or Lence?'

  The child shrugged. 'He was nice and he had a crooked smile.'

  'Byren.' So Byren was somewhere in the Rolencian valley. 'Where is he?'

  She shrugged. 'He was on the king's business. He sent me here, but they won't let me in.'

  'Well, you're lucky I came along. What's your name?'

  'Dinni.'

  Fyn leant forwards and offered his hand. 'Come on, Dinni.'

  She did not accept his help or let him take the bird, but struggled to her feet alone. And, as she did, Fyn noticed a thick metal collar around her neck which had left angry marks on her pale skin. He had heard of Affinity-slaves but never actually seen one before. 'You're a runaway slave.'

  'Sold to a Power-worker who beat me, but the kingson freed me and saved the calandrius.'

  'That sounds like Byren.' A rush of pride filled Fyn, making it hard to speak. 'When did you see him?'

  'Last night.'

  So they were only a day apart. If Byren had run into a Merofynian Power-worker, and Fyn could not imagine how his brother had bested the Power-worker, Byren had to be headed back to Rolenhold to warn their father.

  If Fyn set out tomorrow he would be two days behind Byren, with no chance of catching up. He had to reach the castle to report the violation of the abbey and the destruction of the warrior monks. That would be a blow to his father's battle plans.

  'Master monk?' Dinni whispered.

  'I'm no master, not even a monk, only an acolyte,' Fyn told her. 'Come on.'

  He led her down the slope back to Feldspar and the others. Their eyes widened as he approached.

  'Beware, Fyn,' Feldspar called. 'I smell Affinity on her from here.'

  'It's
safe,' Fyn assured them. 'The Affinity's coming off the calandrius. My brother sent her.'

  'Calandrius?' Feldspar approached to take a look at the bird. The rest fell into step beside Fyn, giving the girl a wide berth. Fyn blinked a snowflake from his right eye as he looked up at the wary heads on the gate tower. 'This is Dinni, an escaped Affinity-slave who wants to claim sanctuary at Sylion Abbey. She brings a prized calandrius with her as a gift to the abbey. Open up.'

  In a moment the gate was winched open. Fyn watched, thinking that the village's defences would hold off the occasional brigand or small raiding party, but not a Merofynian army. What would become of these people then? His father could not protect every small village across Rolencia's rich valley.

  'Apologies, master monk,' Lame Klimen greeted Fyn, giving him the title of master even though the old man would have known by his plait that he was still an acolyte. 'We did not understand the slave.'

  'And you were being cautious which is understandable, grandfather.' Fyn gave him the honorific title, and slowed his pace so that the fisherman could keep up with them, despite his pronounced limp. On closer inspection, Klimen was not so old, just weathered by the sea and too injured to remain a fisherman. When the five youths had a good look at Dinni they mocked each other, shamefaced.

  Inside the wall, each little house had its own vegetable plot, empty now of anything but snow. The path wound through these blanketed gardens to the village square. Not even a bow shot across, it sloped down to the wharves.

  By the time most of the boys had reached the square all the villagers had gathered. Some carried fish-oil lanterns, bringing an early twilight as well as the oil's distinctive scent.

  Recognising the village elders by their air of authority, and by the way they greeted Lame Klimen, Fyn bowed to honour them. After Klimen explained who Dinni was, he turned to Fyn. 'Why has the abbot sent Halcyon's boys and acolytes to us?'

  'To save our lives. Last night Merofynians violated the sanctity of the abbey, killing everyone else.'

  'No. Never!' an old woman objected. 'Never in all my days...'

  The fisher folk muttered in dismay.

  'But the warriors?' Lame Klimen asked. 'Surely they -'

  'Lured away. Only the very old and the boys stayed in the abbey,' Fyn explained. 'We are all that remain of Halcyon's monks. We've walked all night and eaten nothing for a day.'

  Lenny made a funny noise in his throat and pitched forwards.

  'Oh, the poor bantling,' an old woman muttered, catching him before he could hit the ground. 'Enough talking. It's clear what these boys need.'

  At her words the womenfolk stepped in, leading the boys off. There would not be enough beds, but at least they would be warm and fed. Fyn was grateful. He was so tired he could barely think and all the while there was the worry for Piro and the need to reach his father weighing him down. Lame Klimen stepped aside to organise the men, sending any male over the age of fourteen to the walls.

  Lenny revived and protested as the woman tried to lead him away.

  'I've got hot fish stew cooking on the hearth,' she told him.

  'Go on, Lenny,' Fyn urged, then switched to Merofynian. 'You too, Dinni.'

  She looked doubtful but, when the old woman smiled and nodded, she allowed herself to be led away even as Klimen returned. He gave Fyn a bow which felt wrong to him, especially in front of Feldspar and Joff, who knew he was nothing special.

  'You're welcome to take your ease in my place, master monk,' Lame Klimen said.

  'I'm no master,' Fyn insisted.

  'If you've led these boys to safety, then you've done the work of a master,' the old fisherman told him. 'This way.'

  'All I did was lead them here so they could take shelter in Sylion Abbey,' Fyn said.

  'Only women and girls are allowed past the abbey's portals.'

  'I think the abbess will put aside the old laws for now.'

  Lame Klimen led them through the now-dark village to his home. A welcome light glowed in the single pane of uneven blown glass.

  He thrust the door open and they hurried in before the warm air could escape. An incredibly ancient woman bustled about setting food on the scrubbed table. She smiled and bobbed her head.

  'My mother,' he explained. 'She can't hear what you say but that doesn't stop her talking.'

  They took folding stools off their hooks on the walls and placed them around the table. As Feldspar took the seat next to Fyn, he muttered, 'We're not safe yet.'

  'No,' Fyn agreed and raised his voice. 'Tomorrow morning, Klimen, your people need to take the boys across to Sylion.'

  'That we can do.'

  'You're not coming with us?' Feldspar guessed.

  'Not coming?' Joff placed the sacred lamp on the table. Its jewel-encrusted gold looked out of place amidst the wooden bowls and home-made bread.

  'No. The abbot told me to get the boys to Sylion Abbey and then I -'

  'You have to warn the king,' Feldspar finished for him.

  Fyn nodded. 'You must tell the abbess how the Merofynians lured our warriors out and ignored the sanctity of the abbey. She'll see it's in Sylion's best interest to help Halcyon's monks to survive.'

  Feldspar met Fyn's eyes. 'The Merofynians will kill you first chance they get. Take some of us with you.'

  Fyn had already thought this through. 'One can escape detection more easily than several. I don't want anyone dying because of me.' No, the abbot had already paid that price. If his friends knew the truth they would not be looking up to him right now.

  'Ah, food, at last. Thank you, grandmother.' Joff accepted a bowl of fish stew. 'Don't look so down, Feldspar. Fyn will get through to the king, who'll rout the Merofynians. You'll see. One day it will be Abbot Fyn. I'll be weapons master and you'll be mystics master.'

  But Feldspar was in no mood for jesting. 'How can I become mystics master, when there is no one to train me?' He sighed. 'So much lost.'

  'You can rebuild the abbey in all its glory. You have your lives,' Lame Klimen told them.

  Both Feldspar and Joff looked to Fyn.

  'Thanks to you,' Feldspar said.

  He could not meet their eyes. Instead, he looked up at the single window, dark with snow, visualising his father's castle across the valley, directly opposite Sylion Abbey as the crow flies, but since he was not a crow Fyn would have to walk around the base of Mount Halcyon, borrow skates, cross Viridian Lake and thread his way along the canals to Sapphire Lake. 'The king must know of this treachery. If the Merofynians don't respect the sanctity of the abbey, who knows where they will stop?'

  What if the unthinkable happened? What if Rolenhold fell? Would the Merofynians recognise the time-honoured right of royal captives to be held hostage, or would they simply execute Piro and his mother?

  He had to get home.

  Chapter Eight

  Piro longed to ask her mother's advice, but Cobalt was sure to have spies watching the queen. If he had remembered a little detail like Piro's love for her foenix, he won't have left any avenue open for her to reach her mother or father.

  Even so, after she had eaten, she found her feet taking her to the mourning tower, where her mother was captive. The tower's courtyard was filled with animals, which the townsfolk had penned in hastily rigged shelters. Chickens and goats had settled for the night, making the area smell like a farm yard. And there, at the top of the steps to the tower's first floor, was one of the king's honour guard.

  That reminded her of Sawtree. She knew of a window where she could look down into the stable courtyard. She'd go there next and see what she could do for the old guard.

  The guard in front of her was one of the young ones loyal to Cobalt, lord protector of the castle. That role should have gone to Captain Temor...

  That reminded her of Temor and his stand at the last gate. A sob caught in her throat.

  Furious, she pressed the pads of her fingers into her eye sockets until she saw swirling patterns of rage. No point in crying. No point in feeling so
rry for herself. Feel sorry for Sawtree instead. Maybe there was something she could do for him... sneak him food, since she had saved some from her last meal. Or, if she was really lucky, she might slip him a knife and he could free himself when he had the chance. How had Cobalt punished him, by crippling him? She hoped it wasn't something permanent.

  One more grubby maid amongst so many, Piro made her way to the wing that overlooked the stable courtyard. It housed the castle hospice, packed now with injured townsfolk. Many had loved ones with them, nursing them, so there was a constant coming and going, with children crying and grown-ups bickering over space.

  From a narrow window in the hospice she saw a man in the centre of the courtyard with his arms tied above his head, toes off the ground, head slumped. There was an ominous dark patch in the snowy ground under his feet. It was only as he slowly swung around that she saw the arrows in his chest. Stunned, she found it hard to credit what she saw.

  It appeared as though, at Cobalt's orders, Sawtree's fellow men-at-arms had used him for target practice.

  Impotent anger rose up in her, threatened to choke her, and hot tears ran down her cheeks as she left the hospice. Cobalt would pay for this.

  Miserable fury raged through her as she wandered her home, recalling the many dreams where she had run down the corridors chased by wyverns, the Merofynian symbol. She should have heeded those dreams instead of trying to quell them with dreamless-sleep.

  Halcyon must have been watching over Piro, for she found herself near the goddess's chantry with no memory of how she got there. She had slept under the nave last night. With the wardess dead there was only the healer to serve the temple and both Halcyon and Sylion's healers had been caring for her father. So the chantry would be empty of nuns.

  As Piro had suspected it was empty of church officials, but thick with the scent of burning votive candles and full of desperate townspeople, praying to the goddess to bring them to safety. Piro entered, just one more desperate penitent. She ignored her royal family's private box and found a dark corner where she prayed, then dozed.

  Not the cold, not the hard stone or the crowding, nothing could not stop her from falling into the deep sleep. Tomorrow was another day. Things would be better.