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.'
Feldspar nodded, but he didn't go. Fyn tried to sit up, swinging his legs off the bunk.
'Slow down.' Catillum put a hand on his chest.
Fyn brushed his hand aside and sat up. His best friend had been murdered and he was next. Surely the mystics master could see that.
Fyn froze. Was Catillum trying to protect someone?
'We must go to the abbot,' Feldspar said, his voice gaining strength. 'We must report this. Master Catillum can skim Beartooth's mind, get the truth — '
'Wait. There's more at stake than you realise.' Catillum's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if debating something, then he seemed to come to a decision. 'The abbot holds power by a narrow majority. Galestorm and his friends are the history master's tools and he supports the acolytes master. The abbot can't risk moving against either master, not when he's just rebuffed the history master by assigning Fyn Kingson to the mystics.'
They digested this in silence.
'You want us to let Lonepine's murderer walk free?' Feldspar whispered, his voice growing louder with indignation. 'You want us to see Galestorm and his friends every day? To eat in the same hall as them? To fear walking the corridors alone because we could be next?'
'I don't want you to do anything rash,' Catillum temporised.
Feldspar snorted. 'Lonepine's dead. I think it's a bit late for caution!'
'On the contrary, now is when we must be most careful.' The mystics master glanced from Fyn to Feldspar, then back to Fyn. 'If a feud starts it could divide the abbey. Last time the masters took sides, they used their monks and acolytes as weapons. Hundreds died.'
'I don't remember that from the history lessons,' Feldspar objected.
'That's because it's not in the official histories. It is our darkest shame. Remember the Black Summer of 182?' Catillum asked.
'The Summer of the Black Spot Fever?' Fyn whispered, sure he was not going to like what he was about to hear.
'It wasn't a fever that killed a third of us, but another kind of evil… the lust for power.'
Feldspar sat down abruptly, making the tripod stool creak.
Fyn shook his head. 'How can the balance of power be that fragile?'
'Some people crave power and the craving consumes them. All it takes is something to upset the balance — '
'And I'm that trigger?' Fyn asked.
Catillum nodded. 'Generally the abbot is voted into power by a meeting of the masters. If the abbot proves to be a despot, poison is the preferred method to remove him. Our abbot is no despot but there are some who can't wait for him to die. He is an old man after all. It wouldn't be the first time an old man's stomach played up. Then Master Firefox's supporters would back him for abbot.'
'And who do you back?' Fyn dared to ask.
'I back the abbey and the best abbot is now ruling it, but there are some who would back me when he dies.'
Feldspar swore softly, something he rarely did. 'Then everything we have been taught about the goodness of Halcyon and her monks is a lie.'
'Not a lie.' Catillum smiled painfully. 'We are only men. We make mistakes. Some of us are motivated by greed and ambition. Sylion Abbey is the same.'
Fyn rubbed his face and tried to make sense of this. 'So we're caught in the middle of a battle for succession?'
'That sums it up.' The mystics master came to his feet, one shoulder higher than the other, his withered arm tucked against his body. 'Now, do you want to go to the abbot and force a confrontation that I fear we cannot win, or are you willing to be guided by me? Well, Feldspar?'
Fyn glanced to his friend.
Feldspar sent him an agonised look. 'Lonepine did not deserve to die. It's not fair!'
'Many things are not fair.' The mystics master indicated his arm. 'I was mauled by a leogryf when I was nineteen. I lost the use of my arm and gained access to my Affinity, which meant I had to leave my pregnant wife to join the abbey.'
'You could have left Rolencia,' Fyn ventured.
Catillum shook his head. 'She is safe with her family and my son has grown into a fine young man, about your age, Fyn. I've never seen him.'
They were silent for a moment.
Feldspar shifted impatiently. 'Lonepine is dead because — '
'Lonepine is dead because he was my friend,' Fyn whispered, soul sick.
'He died because several ambitious, impatient men don't value life,' Catillum corrected.
Fyn looked down at his hands which clutched his knees, the knuckles white with tension. He cleared his throat. In the whole abbey there was one person whose opinion he valued above all else. 'I'd like to speak with Master Wintertide.'
'Wintertide could have been abbot but he chose not to force the issue. He's the abbot's strongest supporter,' Catillum told him. 'What do you think he will say?'
Fyn looked up at the crippled mystics master and the fight went out of him. 'But what of Feldspar and I? How can we sleep at night knowing Lonepine's murderers have got away with it and we could be next?'
Catillum pulled over the other stool and sat down. 'I am almost certain Lonepine's death was an accident. No.' He held up a hand. 'I don't mean to insult you by telling you that he tripped. There's a good chance Beartooth did push him. He's hot-headed and doesn't think about the consequences of his actions. I'm as certain as I can be that he was not acting on orders from Masters Hotpool or Firefox. They are not so rash. They'll punish him in their own way. As for you two… come spring cusp you will be sleeping in the mystics' chambers, safe under my protection. Until then I will keep you close by me.' Catillum held their eyes. 'I am truly sorry. Lonepine would have made a fine monk.'
Tears stung Fyn's eyes. He tried, but he could not speak past the lump in his throat. To his horror great wracking sobs tore from him. Feldspar threw his arms around Fyn and they both sobbed unashamedly, partly for Lonepine and partly for what they had lost.
They cried until they could cry no more.
At some point the mystics master must have left them because, when Fyn sat back to wipe his face on his sleeve, they were alone.
'I'm sor
ry I got you into this, Feldspar,' he said, voice raw from weeping.
'Master Catillum means well, but I don't think anyone can protect us all the time.' His friend cleared his throat, fixing serious red-rimmed eyes on him. 'Do you think we should kill Galestorm?'
For a heartbeat it seemed entirely logical for Feldspar to suggest murder. Then sanity reasserted itself and Fyn shuddered, shaking his head.
Feldspar went to argue, then thought better of it and looked relieved. He shook his head. 'All my life I've admired the monks and looked up to them. Now, this. It's clear we must protect ourselves. Even if the plotters punish Beartooth there's still Galestorm. Think of a lifetime trapped inside these walls, never knowing when he might move against us. We might baulk at murder, but they won't.'
Fyn looked down. He did not face a lifetime in the abbey. He was going to run away and all the people he loved and respected would think him a coward. But what could he do? He couldn't betray Piro.
'Fyn?' Feldspar pressed.
He shook his head. 'I can't think straight.' At least that was true.
Feldspar came to his feet, his face ravaged. He seemed ten years older. Fyn and Feldspar had lost more than Lonepine's friendship with his murder.
'You're right,' Feldspar said. 'It would be foolish to make a decision now. We should go wash our faces and put on our formal robes for the farewell.' He shivered. 'Lonepine's empty bunk will be next to mine.'
Fyn felt raw and bruised, as if one more blow would shatter him. It could so easily have been he who met Beartooth on the stairs. Even now, a solemn monk would have been skating across the valley to his parents to tell them of his accidental death.
Byren slid open the drawer where he kept the lincurium jewellery and the notes for Elina's poem. He was going to escort Garzik to Dovecote and he wanted to make a clean copy to take with him. When the moment was right he'd give the poem to her. He gathered the scraps of half-finished verse, thinking surely there were more of them. No matter, the best version was on the top so he began to write it out on a clean sheet.
'Byren?'
He looked up to see his mother at the door to his chamber. Quickly, he slid the paper under an innocuous book of pre-Merofynian myths.
'I've been thinking.' His mother swept gracefully into the room, accompanied by the soft chink of her keys of office. 'You should take Piro with you, when you go to Dovecote estate. Time with Elina would do her good.' Seeing his expression she added, 'You do mean to escort Garzik back to their estate before the Jubilee, don't you?'
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