'Listen, Orrie — '
'No, you listen. I've been thinking things through. Your honour guard don't understand why you turned the girl down. And you can't tell them about Elina because you can't offer her marriage now because of me. I've ruined things for you.' Orrade touched his chest where the damning symbol of Palos had lain hidden. He lifted troubled but determined eyes to Byren. 'I was wrong to join your honour guard. I don't want to be a liability. Release me from my oath so I can leave Rolencia.'
Stunned, Byren did not know what to say. Without Orrade he need not fear discovery…
Orrade must have read his face because he nodded once and turned on his heel and strode off.
Byren ran after him, catching up half way across the courtyard to grab his arm. 'Don't do this, Orrie. Stay.' He searched for a good reason. 'Think of Garzik. Who will watch over him?'
'Freezing Sylion!' Orrade flicked free of his hand, and cast a meaningful glance to the men-at-arms on the wall-walk who could see them below in the courtyard. 'I'm trying to protect you. I've lost position and family, I don't want that to happen to you!'
'Stay.'
Orrade searched his face. 'Why?'
Byren had no answer.
'Do you want me to stay, Byren? Tell me straight, because I'll go if you want me to.' Orrade's voice shook with repressed emotion. 'I couldn't stay knowing that you despise me.'
In a flash Byren understood. 'This is about last night when I snubbed you. Eh, Orrie. I'm a coward. I looked at you and my honour guard and I thought what if they knew about us. They'd — '
'There is no "us", Byren. I've loved you since we were fourteen. I've stood at your back and fought for my life, knowing you'd protect me, knowing that you trusted me not to turn and run.'
It was true.
Byren grasped his shoulder. 'I couldn't ask for a truer friend.'
Orrade blinked tears from his eyes and clasped Byren's hand where it rested on his shoulder. He had to clear his throat to speak. 'That's why I'm offering to go. I'd rather live as a beggar than dishonour you.'
'It would dishonour me if you left,' Byren said, and discovered he meant it.
Orrade met his eyes, face naked. What Byren read there made him look away. He was not worthy of such devotion.
Orrade cleared his throat, gave a small, jerky nod and walked off, leaving Byren alone in the courtyard.
He turned to face the steps to Eagle Tower. He had only a few moments to find Lence and give him the gift before the race for Halcyon's Fate started.
He took the tower's shallow steps two at a time, enjoying driving his powerful body.
'What's the rush?' Lence grinned. 'I could hear you thundering up the stairs like a wild boar.'
Byren laughed. The air was sharp and cold. It felt good on his face. He went to the battlement, leaned on the stone next to Lence and took a deep breath. It struck him that they hadn't been alone together for more than a moment or two since he came back with Orrade and Garzik. He put this aside and studied the snow-laden rich valley and Mount Halcyon itself, hub of the crescent.
Byren inhaled. He could smell beef seasoned with rosemary roasting for the feast tonight. Life was good. 'I have something for you.'
'Oh?' Lence turned to him.
Byren glanced down at his hand and hesitated. Once the kingsheir's betrothal was announced his twin would be swamped with exquisite and expensive gifts from the nobles, merchants and warlords, gifts that would make his token seem very meagre.
'It's just something I made.' Byren opened his hand to reveal the plaited leather thong, strung with the leogryf's teeth. As he looked down, he realised it was a boy's gift.
Lence stared at the trophy necklace.
'You keep it,' he said slowly. 'You earned it. After all, I can hardly give a string of leogryf teeth to the Merofynian kingsdaughter. It would confirm her worst fears. Illien says they already think us little better than spar warriors.'
Heat raced up Byren's cheeks.
'I see you wasted no time finding a reason to go to Dovecote,' Lence muttered.
'Orrie was injured.'
'He looks fine now. Was Elina pleased to see you?'
Byren's stomach clenched with pain. Elina… she had disturbed his sleep every night since he had been thrown out of Dovecote estate. In his dreams he would go to her and she would scorn him, telling him to go off with Orrade instead.
'Didn't waste any time, did you?' Lence asked.
'What?'
'My betrothal hasn't even been announced and you're already trying to charm your way into Elina's bed.'
'You fancy her!'
Lence nodded. 'And what's more, I've tasted her sweet fruit.'
'No, you never!'
'Autumn cusp, in the hay after the Harvest Feast.'
Byren blinked, shocked. Knowing Lence, it was no idle boast. Girls were always eager to lift their skirts for the kingsheir. But Elina? The most Byren had achieved was that kiss in the cold-cellar while she treated the bruise she'd given him, and he hadn't dared more because…
'Lord Dovecote would be furious if — '
'Fifteen's marriageable age and she'll be seventeen come spring cusp. Why hasn't he let her make an alliance? He's greedy, keeping her for himself to run his household. Besides, Elina's old enough to know her own mind.'
That was true, but… Byren remembered holding her as she wept in his arms. 'She deserves better than a fling in the hay, Lence.'
'Well, that's all I can offer, remember!' Lence snapped. 'I'm to be married to the Merofynian kingsdaughter. So, go ahead, woo her, marry her if she'll have you. But one day she will be my mistress. Most men are happy for their wives to swive the king!'
Byren took a step back, startled by his vehemence, startled that Lence would think like this. Of course he'd heard of the goings-on in the Merofynian court and the Elector of Ostron Isle was known to demand sexual favours for patronage. 'Cobalt's been putting ideas in your head.'
'Illien's seen the world,' Lence told him. 'All we've ever seen is Rolencia. Illien knows what's really going on in the Merofynian court.'
Did he? Byren didn't know who to ask. And if he had known who, it would have to be someone with Rolencia's best interests at heart. What if marriage to Isolt did not bring peace? What if it embroiled them in a civil war? As he went to speak the first horn sounded, calling the acolytes to the Proving.
Lence glanced out to the east where the town and lake were bustling with activity. 'The race will start soon. Are you coming?'
Byren caught Lence's arm. 'Elina turned me down. Don't let her come between us.'
'Oh, I won't.' Lence flicked his arm free and gave Byren a smile that made his twin look like someone else. 'I'll have her one day.'
Then Lence brushed the grit from the stone balustrade off his palms and left the tower top. Byren stood for a moment, stunned. How had things gone so wrong?
He and Lence had always competed for girls and glory but it had never turned nasty until now.
Grimly, Byren tucked the leogryf necklace inside his vest. It might be a handmade gift like the ones they had given each other as children, but a gift won at great risk was not a trifle.
Byren fingered the foenix spurs he wore around his neck. Three years ago, he and Lence had gone to capture a foenix and bring it back for the castle menagerie. It had died defending its nest. Lence would have smashed the eggs. Byren had brought them home for Piro. Now that he thought back over the years, he could see many small things that proved he and Lence saw the world differently. His twin had made no secret that he'd fancied Elina, but then he fancied a lot of women. It would be ironic if he lost his twin's trust over Elina when he had no chance to win her himself.
Worse, what if Cobalt's assessment of the balance of power was right?
Byren was overwhelmed with the need to see Fyn. Not that Fyn knew what was going on in the Merofynian court, but he would let Byren talk about his worries and Fyn had a way of cutting through to what was important.
&
nbsp; Chapter Nine
Fyn wrestled with the clasp on his shoulder guard, fingers clumsy with cold. Here he was, heart thundering ready to burst, and the race hadn't even started.
The cold leather strap slid through his fingers a second time. 'Freezing Sylion!'
The tent flap opened and Byren strode in. 'Eh, you're running late. I'm in luck!'
'Can't get this buckle done up,' Fyn muttered. He'd hung back behind the other acolytes, hoping Piro would come to wish him luck, only she hadn't. Neither had his father or mother, not that he'd expected them with their official duties. But Piro…
'Here, let me.' Byren, pulled the buckle tight, then cinched it securely. 'How's that?'
Fyn swung his arm. The padded leather shoulder protectors were tight, but still loose enough to give him full range of movement. 'Good.'
During the race across the lake acolytes would do their best to knock each other down. They were supposed to strike only between the knee and shoulder, hence the protectors. But in past years legs had been broken, shoulders dislocated and skulls fractured.
'Thanks, Byren.' Fyn picked up his quarterstaff. The ash rod was as tall as him and as deadly as a sword in the hands of a skilled opponent. For today's challenge both ends had been wrapped in padding. Still, a blow from the staff would knock the air from his lungs if Fyn wasn't quick enough, or maybe even crack a rib, and then he'd have no chance of finding the Fate. Mustn't let that happen. He glanced up at his brother who was watching him with a thoughtful expression. 'What?'
'Nothing. I can see you've got a lot on your mind.' Byren gave him a rueful grin. 'Beat the others across the lake and catch the eye of the weapons master. Who knows, maybe one day you'll be weapons master of Halcyon Abbey!'
Fyn nodded, not surprised that Byren expected this of him. But he intended to be first across the lake to get his hands on the Fate. Hopefully, when he looked into its satiny surface, the mists would clear and he would see a vision. If he did, his place with the mystics was ensured.
Byren came to his feet. At twenty he was a little more than three years older than Fyn, but he was a head taller and bigger boned. Fyn knew he would never grow as big as the twins. He was the runt of the litter, which was why his father had been only too happy to gift him to the abbey.
Fyn fought a wave of self-doubt and worthlessness. He'd been fighting it all his life.
'Halcyon's luck be with you, little Fynnish.' Byren used his childhood nickname, then hesitated. His hand rose to touch the sigil Fyn wore around his neck. Made of silver, it was embossed with the royal foenix. When he became a monk, Fyn would renounce his place in the succession and return his foenix emblem. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Monks were supposed to sever all ties with the material world, but he was still tied to Rolenhold.
Byren tucked Fyn's sigil inside his chest protector. 'I've always thought it unfair that you were gifted to the abbey. Lence and I have had all the fun while you've been studying dry old histories since you were six!'
Fyn wasn't about to admit that he found the dry old histories fascinating, besides Byren's idea of fun was leading raids against the warlords or tracking Affinity beasts.
'It's not so bad. Master Wintertide says we all serve Rolencia in our own way,' Fyn muttered, his mind on the task ahead. He hung his skates over his shoulder. Now that the race was about to start his mouth felt dry and his stomach tense. Other years he had laughed along with the townsfolk when the acolytes knocked each other flying, skidding across the ice like court jesters. 'I just hope I don't make an idiot of myself.'
'Make the other acolytes eat ice!' Byren gave Fyn a friendly thump on the arm. 'Now go out there and do father proud. I'll be cheering you on!'
Fyn looked up at his brother. Of all his family, only Byren had bothered to come to wish him luck. He opened his mouth to thank him, but his brother gave him a bone-crushing hug and headed for the tent flap.
Just before he got there he thumped the heel of his hand to his forehead and turned back. 'Freezing Sylion! I almost forgot. Come straight to the bell tower when you get back. Father has a big announcement to make.'
'What is it?'
'Can't say.' Byren winked, black eyes gleaming roguishly as he slipped out of the tent. He wasn't as handsome as Lence, but his slightly crooked grin was somehow more charming. No wonder the girls whispered like a flock of excited birds when he walked past.
Fyn wondered what his father was planning, then put it out of his head. King Rolen had made it clear his third son's future was not with the royal family. And that was what today was all about, proving himself to the mystics master.
Turning the staff over and over, Fyn changed hands and passed it behind his body without breaking momentum. The quarterstaff spun so fast it was a blur. He was good with weapons. He should be, he'd practised long and hard. But his heart wasn't in weapons training, that was why Lonepine always beat him. One day his friend would be weapons master, not him.
Time to go.
Fyn took a deep breath, smelling the pine resin from the cones that burned in the tent's brass stove and the linament the other acolytes had used on old bruises. He stepped outside into the brilliant, but distant white sunlight of Midwinter's Day. The tent flags hung limp in the still, frosty air. Last night's snowfall had been shovelled aside into waist-high drifts revealing the cobbled streets of Rolenton wharfside.
He caught himself looking around for Piro, unable to believe she had forgotten. Only she knew how important this was to him. He was surprised and hurt, and just a little worried. Piro was nothing if not loyal. Why hadn't she come to wish him luck?
He hoped she was all right.
Fyn smiled to himself. Piro could take care of herself. She could always use one of the tricks he'd taught her and, if that didn't work, knowing Piro she'd talk her way out of trouble. Besides, who would dare hurt King Rolen's only daughter?
The upper wharves were nearly deserted. Down on the lakeside wharf most of the acolytes and monks waited. Dressed in the Goddess Halcyon's earthy colours, browns, olive-greens and burnt orange, they looked like scattered autumn leaves. Only the abbot wore the red of Halcyon's fiery heart, with a circular torque inset with lapis lazuli, a sign of his office.
The abbess of Sylion and her nuns were clustered at the other end. In their robes of blue, aqua and grey they looked like a patch of shifting shadow on snow, a reflection of the cruel god of winter. The abbess stood out, dressed in pure white, wearing a torque inset with blood-red cornelian stones. Later tonight, at the midwinter feast, she would symbolically hand over Rolencia to the abbot. The days would soon grow longer and Sylion would relinquish his grasp on their valley kingdom.
As for the people of Rolenton, their excited chatter filled the air. They crowded the houses and warehouses bordering the lake's shores. Many had ridden out to the lake's snowy banks to find a good vantage point. Determined to enjoy the event, they had set themselves up with blankets, steaming honeyed mead and hot food. From where he stood, Fyn could smell roasting cinnamon apples and sweet potatoes sprinkled with cheese and chilli. His stomach rumbled. He'd been too nervous to eat this morning.
'Ho, Fyn! What's keeping you?' Lonepine swung his staff at Fyn's head, just missing. 'Ready to eat ice?'
'You'll be the one eating ice!' Fyn made a mock swing. Lonepine blocked. The two of them strained, strength against strength. Lonepine was the same height as Fyn, but heavier. Fyn was just about to break the stalemate with a trick stumble when the weapons master strode past.
'Save it for the race, lads!' Oakstand gestured to the wharf below. 'The others are already lining up. Don't keep the abbot waiting.'
They broke apart.
'We'll see who eats ice.' Lonepine's warm brown eyes gleamed a challenge. He had a square head and ears that tended to stick out, making him look more like a butcher's apprentice than a monk. 'Come on!'
As Fyn turned towards Sapphire Lake, Lonepine thrust the tip of his staff between Fyn's legs, toppling him into a snowdrift.
With a laugh Lonepine took off down the steps, jumping the last four.
Spitting snow from his mouth, Fyn blinked, only to discover he was sprawled in someone's shadow. Piro?
'You all right, Fyn?' Feldspar asked. He looked deadly serious as always but Fyn could hear the nerves his friend was trying to hide.
Rolling to his feet, Fyn brushed crushed snow from his knees and looked up. If he made it across the lake ahead of Lonepine, this tall, skinny youth was his greatest rival. Like Lonepine, Feldspar had already chosen his monk's name and it proclaimed his goal. The stone, feldspar, was a tool of the mystics. Competition for a place in the mystics was tough. Some years none of the acolytes were chosen. It didn't help that Feldspar was one of Fyn's best friends.
'Halcyon's luck be with you,' Feldspar said earnestly.
'And you,' Fyn said, meaning it, no matter what it cost him.
They hurried down the steps to the wharf, then onto the lake's icy surface where the others had already strapped on their skates. The acolytes were quiet and tense as they checked the straps of their protectors, and wiped sweaty palms on their leggings.
Fyn did up his skates then stood balanced on the narrow blades. Across the frozen lake lay his goal, Ruin Isle. Named for its stone statues which dated from before the abbey's written history, the island would be sacrosanct for the duration of the race, forbidden to all but the acolytes, for somewhere in those ruins the mystics master had hidden Halcyon's Fate.
And Fyn had to find it.
He transferred the staff from one hand to the other. Glancing over his shoulder, his gaze was drawn up beyond the town's snow-covered roofs, to his father's castle. Rolenhold stood high on a great pinnacle of rock. Behind it were the mist-shrouded peaks of the Dividing Mountains. In the three hundred years since King Rolence the First built the stronghold's original tower, the castle had been added to and reinforced. It had never been taken.
Fyn's heart swelled. This was his home and he would do his father proud.
He searched for the royal banner, finding the brilliant red foenix on black background draped from the merchant guildhall bell tower. He could just make out his mother seated with a blanket over her knees on the fourth-storey balcony. His father was sharing hot, spiced wine with his brothers, nobles, great merchants and warlords.
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