The King's Bastard (34 page)

In their natural state these flowers were extremely rare and only the size of a thumbnail. The abbey's starkisses would be the size of an open hand when their petals unfurled, but in the selective breeding they had lost their hardiness and could only survive in the hothouse.

'The blooming is late this year,' Master Wintertide observed. His gaze met Fyn's and held it briefly. Fyn's heart lifted. His old teacher understood that he needed to speak with him.

'There have been years when the starkisses did not bloom at all,' the history master said heavily. 'Why, in the year of -'

'They will bloom this year,' Master Sunseed said.

'Hopefully it will be a good harvest,' Willowbark, the healers' master said. 'Our stock of dreamless-sleep is running low.' Seven of his healers waited to collect the pollen.

'Late blooming is a bad omen,' Master Catillum said. Behind him three of his mystics played an eerie melody on their silver flutes to entice the starkisses to bloom. Fyn could have sworn the petals vibrated in time to the high notes.

After that no one spoke for a while. Fyn shifted from foot to foot. He found his eyes drifting shut and forced them open. Finally, he leant closer to Master Wintertide to ask, 'Can't they peel the blooms open, then collect the pollen?'

'They could, but the pollen would not have its power. The starlight and heat trigger its potency. Have a little patience.' Wintertide smiled. 'See, the first one is about to open.'

An expectant hush fell over the hothouse. Fyn watched the first flower's long white petals part with languid ease. As it opened an exotic scent filled the night, reminding him of oranges and musk. The scent made his groin throb and he felt himself harden. Luckily, his robe hid this. If it affected the others in the same manner, no one mentioned it. The mystics lowered their flutes and everyone pulled their cowls up over their mouths and noses, to escape the narcotic effect. Pure starkiss scent like this could cause hallucinations in those without Affinity and visions in those with it. Only mystics used the scent to induce visions and only under special circumstances.

Master Willowbark nodded to his healers. One monk stood by each starkiss waiting for the right moment to gently scrape the pollen from his flower's stamen. He had to leave just enough for the gardeners to ensure next year's crop.

The abbot sprinkled droplets of water, Halcyon's blessing from her sacred pool, on the plants and the harvesting began.

Master Wintertide let out a sigh of relief. 'I have seen many bloomings, yet I never tire of it. But now these old bones are ready for bed. If you're finished with Fyn, Sunseed, I'll have his help getting down the stairs.'

The gardens master waved them aside.

Fyn offered his arm to support Master Wintertide and they turned towards the door. At last he could unburden himself. Wintertide would know what to do. But he found the top of the stairs barred.

'That's the one,' Monk Galestorm said, pointing at Fyn. He was with the acolytes master, who Fyn now realised had missed the blooming.

'Fyn Kingson tortured the grucranes,' Galestorm accused.

A wave of outrage rolled over Fyn.

All the masters turned.

'So he's the reason our sentries have abandoned us,' Master Firefox said. 'His cruelty drove them off!'

'That's a very serious accusation.' The abbot looked from the acolytes master to the Fyn.

Galestorm nodded. 'My friends and I stopped him before he could injure more than one.'

'But it was one too many, for we are without our faithful sentries,' Master Firefox said, sounding rehearsed. Fyn marvelled that no one else noticed.

'It's not true,' he protested. 'I was trying to save the grucrane!'

Galestorm rolled his eyes and appealed to Masters Hotpool and Firefox. 'Of course he'd say that. But I have witnesses.'

'Who? Your friends?' Fyn countered.

'Three fellow monks, and Master Oakstand and Healer Sandbank -'

'Wait,' Oakstand objected. 'I didn't see Fyn hurt the grucrane -'

'But we did, my friends and I,' Galestorm insisted.

'Silence!' the abbot snapped, then beckoned Master Firefox. 'Acolytes master, isolate this youth until we can call the witnesses tomorrow.'

As Firefox turned towards him, Fyn appealed to the boys master. 'You know I would never hurt a person or an animal, Master Wintertide. Tell them.'

'I can tell them this, but I was not there so I cannot be your witness,' he explained regretfully.

Galestorm's gloating gaze fixed on Fyn. It would come down to the word of four monks against Fyn and there was nothing his old master could do. But why had Hotpool and Firefox put Galestorm up to this? Fyn's head swam.

Byren walked behind Garzik's stretcher, carrying the ends of the poles himself. If it had been flat ground, they could have dragged the stretcher behind the pony, or if they had been near a farm they could have borrowed a wagon. Instead, Byren carried the poles. The lad winced at every bump but did not complain.

They had been walking since dawn and now Byren's back and shoulders ached but all he could think of was getting Garzik to a healer.

Orrade led the pony. When it stopped and did not move, Byren took the chance to ease his grip on the poles.

'What is it?' Byren whispered. 'Trouble?'

'Can't see from here,' Orrade muttered.

Byren waited a moment, put the stretcher down gently and climbed up onto a rock beside the narrow path, shading his eyes. He couldn't see Temor who was leading them, because there was a bend in the path, but from his vantage point he could see the spar, a long ridge of rocky land with small valleys and narrow inlets, spreading out below him. Steep islands shot out of the jewel-bright sea. Even on the small ones terraced fields had been tilled and houses sprouted from the rocks. From each chimney a trickle of blue smoke rose on the still air. How many people lived on Unistag Spar? It was hard to know. He doubted if even the old warlord knew, if he still lived.

Byren jumped down. The pony behind him nuzzled his pocket, looking for oats. He chuckled. 'Not yet. We've a long way still to go before we camp tonight.'

He debated whether to walk to the front of the column.

Thwang
.

The unmistakable sound of an arrow cutting the air made everyone duck instinctively. There was a clatter as the arrow skittered off the rocks ahead. The pony behind him whinnied, reacting to their fear.

'That's far enough,' a voice called. It sounded like a girl, or a boy whose voice hadn't broken. 'The next one won't miss.'

The man behind Byren muttered, 'Impudent whelp. Let me teach him a lesson, kingson.'

That was how things started, threats and counter-threats, and soon someone was dead.

Byren found a laugh. 'No. This one is mine.' He picked his way around the stretcher and horse, passing Orrade.

'Don't get yourself killed, Byren. Who'll carry the stretcher?'

He grinned as he edged along the path, past the men and pack ponies, until he came to Temor, who was stood with his hand on his sword hilt, back pressed to a rock wall.

'Up there,' Temor whispered, nodding to a ledge on the right which overlooked this part of the path.

'How many?'

'Don't know.'

'Turn around and go back,' the youngster ordered. 'Unistag Spar is closed to all merchants.'

'Do we look like merchants?' Byren asked, then laughed. 'Is this any way to greet King Rolen's delegate?'

There was silence. Good, he had them on the back foot.

'Well, where's my escort?' Byren demanded. 'I am Byren Rolen Kingson and I am here to meet the warlord of Unistag Spar.'

There were muffled mutters, then a boy of about twelve stepped out from behind a bend on the path to their left. They had them pinned.

'Are you the Byren who killed the leogryf with a hunting knife?' he asked.

Temor grinned. 'Everyone's heard of your leogryf slaying.'

'I told you it was true!' the boy yelled back to the person on the ledge.

A girl jumped down to join him. Byren was a little surprised to find two youngsters watching the pass. Still, it was midwinter, not generally a time for raids, and the warlord had left the amfina to guard the pass, so these two were only backup.

'You did not,' the girl countered. 'You said -'

'Enough!' Byren barked. The youngsters fell silent, responding to the voice of authority. 'Does the old warlord still live?'

'He died ten days ago.'

'Take me to the new warlord.'

The children exchanged glances. They were alike enough to be brother and sister.

'We'll take you to Lady Unace,' the girl announced. She was probably older by a year.

'Does she have a healer?' Byren asked.

They nodded.

'Good. The sooner we get there the better.'

Byren sent a man back to carry the stretcher, then continued on with the children. Happy to oblige, the youngsters fell into step with him, chattering away. According to them, when the old warlord died his nephew, Steerden, had taken the Stronghold, murdered all his rivals and claimed the spar.

This left only Lady Unace, and her infant son who had been smuggled out to safety.

'She's camped outside the stronghold now,' the boy explained.

'With all the warriors who served her brothers. The ones who escaped the castle,' the girl added. 'Lord Steerden can't get out and she can't get in.'

Great
, Byren thought.
I'm walking into a stalemate with two dozen men, an injured youth and no real authority.

If he was killed, his father and brother would seek revenge. But revenge did him no good if he was dead.

Fyn was given some bread and watered wine at around mid-morning. He tried to make it last, but he had been smelling the buttered mushrooms, eggs and beans cooking on the floor below since dawn and his stomach rumbled in protest.

That had been hours ago. Now only a thin arrow of natural light filtered through to this inner chamber. He could tell by the colour and the way it was creeping up the wall, soon to disappear altogether, that it was past midday and still no one had come for him.

No. He mustn't think like that. He was innocent and he would prove it, somehow. His head ached because, try as he might, he couldn't see how Masters Hotpool and Firefox benefited from his disgrace. Galestorm's motivation was easy to see. For some reason this youth had always hated him.

If the ruling went against Fyn, the abbot would have two choices, cast him out or make him serve some sort of penance. If he was banished from the abbey he would be exiled from Rolencia because of his Affinity. The injustice of it made him pace from one end of his prison to the other. He was innocent, but how could he prove it?

When they came for him it was just before the evening prayer bell and he'd given up pacing, choosing instead to sit and meditate. The time elapsed made him wonder what had been going on behind the scenes. Had the history master made some sort of deal with the abbot?

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.