As Byren regained his balance he found his sword was already drawn. Ideal for warriors, not so good for the predators. He didn't want to get that close. With a yell, Byren threw himself back. A dark head with blazing eyes speared into the place where he had been a moment before, jaws slashing. A second blazing-eyed head lunged. Two of them.
He yelled again.
His boot snagged on a rock as he tried to back up. His legs went out from under him. Thump. He hit the ground, almost losing his grip on his sword. Two sets of blazing eyes reared over him. He saw long necks, vestigial wings.
Still, he could not make sense of what he saw.
'Over here!' Garzik yelled to distract it, charging in from behind.
'Freezing Sylion!' Byren muttered. They didn't even know what they were fighting and Garzik was going to tackle it alone. Byren struggled to his feet and felt Orrade almost collide with him.
Against the starry sky Byren saw Garzik wrestling with a man-high snake. No, it had small forearms and vestigial wings. Where its tail should have been a second head reared up, eyes blazing like lamps.
'Amfina,' he warned. Both heads had to be removed before the beast died. If only the primary head was removed the secondary would become primary by growing horns, and the damaged end would sprout a secondary head.
Garzik screamed with pain.
Byren lunged in, attacking the secondary head which turned and went for him, jaws snapping. He jerked aside, swinging his sword, but the amfina weaved away. At least the primary head released Garzik. To attack him. It darted in before Byren could bring the sword up. He only escaped the lunge by throwing himself back on the snow, narrowly missing a large, balanced rock.
Orrade had already run around and was dragging Garzik out of reach of the Affinity beast. Garzik left an ominous dark streak on the snow.
The secondary head speared down. Byren rolled, bringing the sword up, straight into the creature's mouth. The head reared back, pulling the hilt from his hands which left him with only his hunting knife. Again.
'Help Byren, not me!' Garzik urged.
The primary head swung in an arc, going for Byren's face. He slashed, leapt and rolled. Luckily the injured secondary head was slowing the amfina down.
'Garzik, are you all right?' Captain Temor charged down the path with the others puffing behind. 'Byren?'
'Over here. Watch out. Amfina!' Now that the pressure was off him, he felt dizzy from lack of air.
Temor darted between him and the amfina, yelling to distract it. The old captain stumbled into a rock and lay still. Must have hit his head. There was little room to manoeuvre, too many rocks, narrow path, a terrible drop. The primary head swerved for Temor. Byren sprang to his feet. No point in attacking one head with a hunting knife and leaving himself open to the other head. He searched for inspiration; nothing but rocks and snow.
The other men-at-arms got in each other's way. Orrade stood over Garzik, prepared to defend him.
The secondary head writhed as it flung Byren's sword away. The weapon clattered, falling over the edge, striking rocks on the way down. Enraged, the amfina's secondary head turned on Orrade. He was the only person who did not back off, refusing to leave Garzik undefended.
Byren cursed again.
Throwing his weight behind the chest-sized, balanced rock, he thrust at it with all his might. It teetered. Muscles straining, he put his legs into it. The rock slipped off its perch, rolled and landed on the amfina's back. Pinned by the rock, the creature's two heads writhed, hissing in fury.
One of his men cheered and threw Byren a sword. He caught it, the hilt slapping into his palm. Now they could deal with the beast.
He ploughed in, distracting the primary head as he dragged Temor out of striking range. There was blood on his forehead but he was coming around.
Byren placed him next to Garzik and straightened.
'So that's why the pass was unguarded,' Orrade muttered.
Byren laughed, then took another deep breath. 'Why waste men, when a beast will do it for the price of a few tethered goats?'
The new warlord was a clever man. Byren stood back and let his men hack the amfina to pieces. With no Affinity warder to say the words, Byren whispered them hoping to settle the beast's innate Affinity. Then he and Orrade carried Garzik to the camp fire. Of course, the boy protested all the way. They peeled off his bloodied clothes.
'It's nothing,' Garzik insisted.
'You're lucky the amfina is not poisonous,' Byren told him.
Orrade and Temor caught his eye. The amfina's bite was not poisonous, but it was prone to going bad. Garzik would have to be treated by a healer, and soon.
'I'll wash the bite out with wine and pack it with herbs,' Temor announced. 'With his woolens and bearskin coat it isn't deep, but anything that breaks the skin is dangerous.' The bleeding from his head wound had slowed.
Byren nodded. 'Treat yourself, too.'
'I'll help,' Orrade offered.
'We'll ask the warlord's healer to take a look at Garzik,' Byren said.
Now there was even more reason to get down to Unistag Stronghold. Byren inspected the stars. 'Be dawn soon. We'll move out at first light. We'll need to build a litter for Garzik. Exertion will only weaken him.'
'I'm sorry,' Garzik croaked.
Byren laughed. 'You jumped in to save my life. I won't forget. It could have been me with the bite or worse.'
Garzik grinned, but already his face was flushed and his eyes too bright. Byren's spirits sank. It would break Elina's heart if anything happened to him.
Leaving Orrade and Temor to look after Garzik, Byren moved off to walk around the campsite, stopping to speak with the men and see how they had fared. He was annoyed because now he would be greeting the warlord from a position of weakness, needing a healer's help.
In the darkest time of the night, just before dawn, Fyn stood at Master Wintertide's side fighting exhaustion. They were surrounded by many abbey masters who had come to witness the starkisses bloom. Being allowed to attend was an honour, but he could barely keep his eyes open. If he could just stay awake long enough to escort Master Wintertide back to his chamber…
Sweat trickled down Fyn's face. Hot water — pumped up from the spring in the abbey's courtyard — usually kept the garden pleasantly warm, but tonight Master Sunseed had turned the heat up to encourage the flowers to open. The heat, the long sled trip and the beating all took their toll. Fyn felt so tired he caught himself drifting into a half-waking state where time slid past him.
Through the roof's glass panels he could see the night sky ablaze with stars. They were so thick in places that they formed clouds of rainbow brilliance. Blazing starlight filled the hothouse, also enticing the starkisses to bloom.
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.
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!