The King's Bastard (43 page)

'What birthright?'

'Merofynia!'

Byren blinked. The stable lads went about their tasks, pretending not to hear. Brookfield and Dellton kept their heads down as they checked their horses' saddle girths. Only Cobalt glanced their way. Byren ignored him.

'I'm mother's first born,' Lence said, 'and she is the rightful heir to Merofynia, not her cousin. That makes me kingsheir, not this brat that they've betrothed me to. I should be ruler of Merofynia in my own right, able to choose who I marry!'

'But -'

'Don't bother. I know all their arguments. But no one asked me. Mother and father just gave up the rights to my inheritance!'

Byren did not know what to say. They'd been not quite thirteen when King Sefon was killed. Too young to understand the significance of their parents' decisions. He'd never given it another thought. 'But -'

'Forget it.' Lence strode over to his horse. 'Come on, Illien.'

Byren stood aside, while Lence led his horse outside into the stable courtyard to mount up. Byren followed, watching as the rest of Lence's party took to their mounts.

His twin headed towards the archway first, with Brookfield and Dellton next, then Cobalt. Not by so much as a quirk of his lips did Illien betray his feelings as he urged his horse past Byren. But Byren could stand it no longer. He grabbed the saddle's pommel. The stable boys had retreated, they were alone. 'You've been putting ideas in Lence's head.'

Cobalt's lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that did not reach his eyes. 'Nothing that isn't justified, kingson.' His clever black gaze fixed on Byren. 'Ask yourself this, if Lence claimed Merofynia, who would rule Rolencia?'

It took Byren a moment to grasp the implications. 'But I don't want to rule Rolencia!'

Cobalt snorted. 'Then why do you try to outshine Lence at every opportunity?'

He kicked the horse's ribs and the beast plunged past Byren, through the archway into the next courtyard. Byren watched them go, stunned by what he had learnt, but also oddly relieved, for he had begun to understand what had driven him and Lence apart. It wasn't anything he had done but, conversely, it wasn't anything he could fix. Lence had finally found a grievance he felt was justified.

As for Byren, he could avoid Elina - had no choice but to avoid her - but that would hardly satisfy Lence. Briefly, he considered asking their mother's advice, but Cobalt seemed to be her blind spot. Everything came back to Illien, son of the King's bastard.

Byren had to handle this himself.

Fyn and Feldspar knelt to scrub the floor of the mystics' inner sanctum where Halcyon's sacred lamp burned eternally. Actually it had burnt for the last three hundred years, ever since King Rolence the First gave thanks for his victory and gifted the mountain to the abbey. Other equally precious relics stood in niches around the walls. One row consisted entirely of sorbt stones. The mystics had shaped them so that they sat linked, one on the other, in pairs. Their pearly surfaces glistened as if alive. Communing, it was whispered by mystics in training.

Fyn and Feldspar would not begin training until after spring cusp. For now they had been assigned to serve the mystics branch, which meant they were given all the dirtiest tasks. But it was better than serving the livestock master. Galestorm and his friends were still reporting to him each morning as part of their penance. No one liked the bullies and their past victims made no secret of the fact that they were glad to see them mucking out stables and shovelling chicken manure for the gardens. Personally, Fyn saw nothing wrong with caring for animals. He would count himself lucky if he was able to get work as a stableboy, when he ran away from the abbey. Still, he was careful never to go anywhere alone.

'...looking for Fyn Kingson,' a voice said.

Fyn glanced up as Joff came to the sanctum's entrance.

Farmer Overhill's son now wore the ochre boys' robe and his hair was pulled back in a single plait. He gave the proper bow of a boy to an acolyte. 'Master Wintertide sent me to fetch you, Fyn. He wants to speak with you.'

So far, Fyn had avoided his old master, but he couldn't avoid a direct summons. The boys master was sure to quiz him about finding the Fate and he didn't want to lie. Tension coiled through him as he stood up. 'I'll have to clean up. I can't go to the master covered in dirt and suds.'

'Lucky you,' Feldspar muttered and went back to scrubbing, with a suffering expression on his long, narrow face.

Fyn grinned and glanced to the other youth, who was still waiting.

'Master Wintertide said I was to escort you,' Joff explained diffidently.

Fyn shrugged, heading up the central stairs to the acolytes' chambers, where he had a quick wash and put on a fresh saffron robe and brown knitted leggings, tying off the straps on his ankle boots.

'How are you settling in?' he asked Joff.

'It's not so bad. Wintertide's fair.'

'Yes, there's not many like him,' Fyn agreed. That was why he felt he owed his old master nothing less than the truth. But to save Piro he would lie to the man, who had been like a father to him.

'Ready?' Joff asked.

Fyn nodded, sick at heart, and came to his feet.

They entered the corridor, almost colliding with Lonepine, who had been assigned to laundry duties. He side stepped them, spilling an armload of clean saffron robes.

'Sorry,' Fyn said. Joff echoed him. They both knelt to pick up the robes, returning them to the basket.

Lonepine thanked them. 'Don't know why the acolytes master doesn't assign me to serve Oakstand. I'd rather sharpen swords than sort clothes.'

Fyn snorted. 'Be grateful you're not mucking out the stables!'

Lonepine grinned.

Fyn straightened up, sure the acolytes master was aware of Lonepine's preference and was punishing him because he was Fyn's friend. Guilt seared Fyn. 'See you later.'

He and Joff headed down the corridor towards the stairs to the boys' wing. Two landings below they had to step aside to let a monk past - Beartooth carrying a bucket of kitchen swill for the pigs.

Not wanting to rub salt in the wound, Fyn quickly looked away. But not before he registered Beartooth's glare of pure hatred.

When they were out of hearing range, Joff muttered, 'I'm glad I'm not a kingson.'

As they stepped into the boys' corridor Fyn wondered if Galestorm and his friends hated him because of what he was, not who he was. It had never occurred to him before and was, oddly enough, a relief.

Joff bowed at the door to Master Wintertide's chamber, and backed off. 'See you later, Fyn.'

I must not weaken
, Fyn told himself.
I must not betray Piro's Affinity, even if it means losing Master Wintertide's trust and friendship.

He knocked on the door.

'Come in,' the boys master called.

'Master Wintertide.' Fyn gave him the bow of an acolyte to his master, even though Wintertide no longer held that position over him.

The old monk smiled and nodded to the little boy who was sharpening a quill, his tongue peeping between his teeth in concentration. 'You can go, Lenny.'

So it was to be a private talk. Fyn steeled his resolve.

Master Wintertide met Fyn's eyes. 'It does not seem that long since you were sharpening quills for me.'

Fyn glanced at the desk, nostalgic for happier, simpler times. 'May I?'

Wintertide nodded and Fyn sat down at the desk. Picking up the tools, his hands resumed the familiar task. It felt good.

'Most of the servants I've had over the years have been thoughtful, clever boys, but you were special, Fyn.' Wintertide spoke slowly. Fyn sensed he was choosing his words with care. 'You would have been special, even if you hadn't been born a kingson. Whatever happens in the future, do not doubt yourself, Fyn. I know you will serve Master Catillum well. I have faith in you.'

Fyn knew he did not deserve Master Wintertide's trust - he was lying by omission right now - and it stung him to the quick. He desperately wanted to confess the truth and ask Wintertide's advice. If only there was a way he could stay at the abbey without betraying Piro.

A boy shouted, his high voice echoing in the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

'Noisy things, boys,' Wintertide said, his deep-set eyes twinkling. 'Why walk, when they can run? Why talk, when they can shout? Eh, Fyn?'

He couldn't answer. His throat was too tight to speak.

Another voice joined the first, laced with fear. Running steps sounded on the stairs.

Fyn glanced to Master Wintertide, who came to his feet, features tight with worry.

'Some silly boy has probably hit another and knocked a tooth out,' the master muttered. 'They'll be on their way to the healers.'

The steps continued on past their floor and Master Wintertide sat down. Fyn had been willing the messenger to interrupt them so he could escape. He resumed sharpening the quill.

'Is something troubling you, Fyn?'

He looked up. How he longed to unburden himself, but...

The abbey bells began their mournful death dirge, sending another soul to Halcyon's warm heart.

'Who...?' Master Wintertide went out into the corridor, with Fyn at his heels. They hurried towards the stairwell, where the voices echoed. On the landing, they came to an abrupt stop as they spied three monks carrying a limp body up the steps towards them, a saffron-robed acolyte's body.

When they came level, Fyn recognised the acolyte.

Lonepine.

He gasped.

Sandbank met Fyn's eyes, his full of sympathy. 'He fell, broke his neck -'

'No. I was speaking with him only moments ago!' Fyn protested, pushing between them to touch his friend's face. He touched dead meat. Lonepine wasn't there any more.

It shocked him so deeply he staggered back a step and would have fallen if Master Wintertide hadn't steadied him.

'I'm sorry, Fyn,' Sandbank said. 'He was carrying a laundry basket, must have missed his step on the stairs.'

'Rubbish!' Fyn wrenched free of Wintertide's hands. 'Lonepine wouldn't do that.'

'Anyone can trip,' Sandbank told him gently.

Those words... Fyn's skin went cold with shock. He stared at Lonepine's body. Mouth suddenly dry, his heart hammered as he recalled Beartooth's glare. A quiet corridor, an empty stair well, a monk meets an acolyte and...

Fyn's stomach heaved.

'Here, you look pale. Sit down.' Master Wintertide urged him to sit on the stairs.

Sandbank and the other monks moved on, carrying the body to be prepared to rejoin Halcyon's fiery heart.

Fyn recalled Galestorm's smirk. How could they do this? How could they kill Lonepine? Fyn stared at his old master as the ramifications hit him. Anyone who cared for him was in danger.

He pulled away from Wintertide.

'Fyn?'

But he was running down the stairs, running to see if Feldspar was all right. He found him emptying the mop bucket.

'Back, are you?' Feldspar muttered. 'That was well timed. I just finished.' Then he saw Fyn's face. 'What's wrong?'

'Lonepine's dead. Beartooth killed him.'

Feldspar dropped the bucket. 'He can't -'

'He did. He pushed him down the stairs or perhaps he broke his neck, then pushed him down the stairs.' Fyn heard his voice from far away sounding so calm and reasonable, but inside his head he was screaming. 'No one saw it happen.'

'Fyn?'

'We can't prove a thing. Don't you see? They waited until Lonepine was alone and did what Galestorm threatened to do to me!'

'And what was that?' Catillum asked, coming out of his private chamber behind Fyn.

He jumped with fright, then turned slowly to face the mystics master. It was time to speak the truth. 'Last midwinter, Galestorm told me accidents happen, people fall down stairs -'

'And you think your friend was pushed?' Catillum asked.

'I know so!'

'Did you see it happen?'

'No.' Frustration ate at him. 'But I spoke with Lonepine, Joff can confirm it, just before we passed Beartooth on the landing, and he sent me such a look of hatred...' Fyn shuddered with the sudden realisation that if he had been alone, it would have been him for whom the bells were tolling now. Grey spots flowered in his vision, spreading across Master Catillum's face.

'Catch him. He's going to faint,' Catillum said.

Which was rubbish. Fyn had no intention of fainting.

He came around to discover he was being carried by the mystics master and Feldspar. Catillum struggled to hold his legs with his one good arm.

'I can walk,' Fyn muttered, trying to wriggle free.

'Hold still. You're only making it harder,' Catillum told him. They placed him on the bunk in the mystics master's private chamber. Fyn caught a glimpse of scattered scrolls piled high on a desk and robes flung over chair backs.

'Go to the kitchens, bring back warmed honey-wine. It's good for shock,' Catillum told Feldspar. 'You look like you should have some too.'