The Uncrowned King

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  While he gulped his meal, the elders debated the relative merits of Port Marchand's defences over Port Cobalt's. When he had done eating they walked Byren out onto the lake and saw him off, wishing him luck, insisting he take the family's prize ulfr-fur cloak.

  He set off with a half-loaf of hot bread in his travel bag and a meal in his stomach, heading towards Mount Halcyon. He'd be there by midday. Once he had the warrior monks at his back, he could return to Rolenhold.

  Actions spoke louder than words. When he returned to help defend the castle, his father would have to believe his loyalty.

  Beneath Fyn's feet the flagstones gave way to unworked stone. They must have left the man-made tunnels and entered a natural cave system. Here, he slowed his pace, wondering what he would do if he came to a fork and the sylion was not carved into the floor, but he saw no more side passages.

  Exhausted, the youngest boys faltered. Some sat on the ground and wept quietly, while others pleaded for food and water.

  'They're only little,' Lenny told Fyn and went to help the nearest who was no bigger than him.

  'Hold this.' Fyn handed Lenny his second candle, which had burnt down to a stub, and knelt next to a boy. 'Climb onto my back.'

  Thin arms clasped around Fyn's neck, half-choking him. He adjusted the boy's arms then stood, his leg muscles protesting.

  Feldspar pushed past the boys, joining them. 'How much longer, Fyn?'

  He drew breath to confess that he did not know then stopped. Surely the air tasted fresher?

  Hurrying on around the bend, he found the ground and walls illuminated by natural light. Another turn and a sliver of silver daylight greeted him. It was so bright he had to shield his eyes. He let the boy slide to the ground. Relief made him try to shout the news but his voice cracked, even so they came running.

  'Stay here. I'll see if it's safe,' Fyn told the others as they rushed to join him.

  He stepped cautiously out of the tunnel, blinking fiercely in the silver glow of a winter's dawn. The sun had just broken free of the Snow Bridge's highest peaks and delicate light made the snow glisten.

  With the sun on his right, he faced north, into the cold. Back in Rolenhold, south would mean going into the cold. According to the monks, Halcyon Abbey sat on the equator of their world, which made sense since it was the site of the goddess Halcyon's greatest seep.

  The Lesser Bay opened on his right and the Greater Bay to his left. Though he was west of Port Cobalt, where the monks took the boats across to Sylion Abbey for the autumn cusp festival, Fyn recognised the distant sheer wall and spotted the silhouette of Sylion Abbey, safe on its cliff-top eyrie.

  Beyond the abbey lay Sylion Strait. Like two great arms, the cliffs formed a passage to the Stormy Sea. Fyn had never been that far. The trip across to Sylion Abbey was bad enough for him.

  From where he now stood, the land fell away until it met the bay. Fyn could just make out the snow-covered roofs of a small fishing village behind its defensive palisade. Right now the village's wharves would be well above the water line. When the snow and ice melted the water levels would rise and it would become safe for the fisher folk to venture out, past the Utland Isles to the ocean fields where the great shoals of fish would be found. A fisherman's life was not an easy one, but then it was the harshness of winter that made summer all the sweeter.

  Fyn knew it would take until early afternoon to reach the village, but the promise of hot food would spur the little boys on. Relief filled him. They had walked under Mount Halcyon to the mountain's far northern slope. He had done what the abbot asked of him. Soon he would be free to help his family.

  'It's safe. You can come out,' Fyn called.

  Byren shouldered his skates and strode up the rise towards the abbey. The familiar path between the pines was covered in deep snow. From this angle the pines themselves blocked out the abbey. Worry gnawed at him. Other than the royal symbol, what did he have to convince the abbot to hand over command of his warriors?

  Only the conviction that he must save Rolencia.

  Intent on his plan, Byren strode through the gates which traditionally stood ajar during the day to symbolise that the goddess's loving heart was always open to her children. He waved to the shadowed niche where the monks' gateman stood and strode across the fan-shaped courtyard.

  Although it was midday, the acolytes hadn't swept the light carpeting of snow from the paving stones around the central fountain and its pool. Beyond the pool's stone lip, hot water steamed invitingly in the cool air.

  Byren glanced to the left where the animals were housed. No sign of life. He glanced to his right. In early spring those chambers were where the monks handed out the hothouse seedlings so that the farmers could get two crops in during the intense, but brief, summer.

  He skirted the fountain and headed for the central archway, directly opposite the gate. Rich, formal waiting rooms opened off this part of the courtyard. The greater part of the abbey was dug into the mountain itself, and was rumoured to extend to hidden chambers containing wealth dating from before his family ruled Rolencia, from the lost civilisation that had left those statues on Ruin Isle.

  Byren grinned - treasure hunts for children. What concerned him now was convincing the abbot to hand over command of his warrior monks. And directly ahead, three levels up, were the abbot's chambers. Byren shaded his eyes and counted floors. The abbot would be behind that row of arched windows, if his memory served him right.

  He heard no singing from the chantry so he must have just missed the midday prayers. A horse neighed and wandered out from the archway on his left. From inside the animal's enclosure a cow lowed with discomfort and several of the long-haired mountain goats gave voice in complaint. Byren recognised their tone. They hadn't been milked this morning.

  That was odd. Was everyone down with a terrible winter fever? That might explain the silence and the neglect of the animals.

  Byren went over to the horse. He let it nuzzle his hand, threaded his fingers through its mane and walked it back towards the archway that led to the animals' pens.

  As he entered the arch's shadow he spotted several monks crouched in a circle as though inspecting a sick animal. Perhaps that was the problem.

  Byren pulled the royal emblem from under his shirt. 'I need to see the abbot on king's business.'

  The men stared at him.

  Words of jest died on Byren's lips as his eyes adjusted and he realised these were not pious monks, but hard-faced warriors. They wore no surcoats to identify who they served so they were swords-for-hire.

  They looked pale and bleary-eyed. None carried weapons other than their knives. As one tucked something in his pocket Byren recognised the wyvern symbol, tattooed on the man's forearm.

  Merofynians. They must be escorting a wealthy merchant who had sought traveller's ease at the abbey. This made things difficult for, even though they were now the enemy, he could not confront them while they were under the protection of the abbey.

  As he grappled with the ramifications, Byren caught the leader's signal to surround him. The men fanned out to cut him off. Escorts did not launch unprovoked attacks.

  With a cry, Byren shouldered the closest warrior aside. The horse reared, making the two on the other side back off. A man lunged for Byren, caught the foenix symbol and tugged. With a jerk, the chain broke. Byren pulled away even as something thudded into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

  One man grabbed him from behind. Clenching his fist, Byren drove the point of his elbow into the man's midriff and heard a satisfying grunt of pain as he broke a rib or two. A warrior lunged forwards, slashing with a hunting knife. Byren sidestepped, caught the man's knife arm, twisted, snapped his wrist and took the knife as it fell from his fingers.

  With no time to draw his own weapons and no chance of defeating so many armed attackers, Byren thrust the injured man on top of his companions and ran a few steps. He threw his arm over the horse's neck and leaped across its back.

  It danc
ed sideways, frightened by the violence and smell of blood. Byren urged the horse out into the sunshine of the courtyard, crossing the stone paving. The Merofynians followed him, shouting a warning.

  Byren turned the horse towards the abbey proper. He'd ride straight up the main steps and tell the abbot the men he had given sanctuary to had raised arms at a kingson!

  Merofynian warriors charged out of the abbey's central archway.

  'Cut him off. It's the kingson!' a warrior from the stables cried.

  Blinking in the bright winter sun, the second lot of Merofynians fumbled for absent weapons. Byren knew the signs. They'd been up all night drinking, celebrating. The only explanation was that the abbey had fallen, impossible as it seemed.

  He'd been lucky. In another day, they would have set guards and organised defences.

  Even as this flashed through his mind, he was turning his horse and racing for the gate, where the gate keepers finally stepped out to block him. More Merofynian warriors.

  Urging his horse to a gallop, Byren kicked one man, slashed at another and charged a third, who leaped aside at the last minute.

  The terrified horse galloped down the steep slope, missed the first bend and ploughed through a knee-high snow bank, venturing into the pine forest. Byren would have urged it back onto the path, but he heard shouts behind him as the invaders organised pursuit.

  His head buzzed. It hurt when he breathed. Why was his side sticky and hot? He felt his ribs and his hand came away bright with blood.

  Byren cursed. He could not afford an injury, not with the Merofynians after him.

  How had they taken the abbey, and where was Fyn?

  No time to think. He let the frightened horse have its head. The snow banks and steep slope meant his mount could go no faster than a canter. Still, he had to clench his teeth as the rhythm of its hooves made his side throb.

  Soon the silence of the evergreen forest closed around him. The snow was thick, mantling the trees and meeting the ground like a trailing cloak. Only patches of the trees' deep blue-green foliage could be seen. It was impossible to tell where the deep snow drifts were. One moment his horse was fetlock-deep, next the snow came up to its belly or higher as it fought its way through. The poor beast would be winded in no time.

  Speaking gently, he soothed his mount and it slowed, picking its way through the trees. Soon he was out of the pines and in open, rolling farm country.

  Clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain, Byren twisted from the waist and looked back.

  What he saw made him curse. The horse had left a clear path in the snow. Worse than that, his blood was a bright marker.

  Grey moths fluttered across Byren's vision. He knew the signs and panic tightened his belly. He must not pass out.

  He was injured and alone. The only advantage he had was local knowledge. Wasn't there a small stream not far from here that fed into the lake?

  Oddly enough, after wrestling with the Merofynians, he still had his skates.

  His pursuers were searching for a man on horseback. Byren looked for a suitable spot to dismount and hide his tracks. There, a steep slope of stone stretched off to one side of the path. From the looks of it there was a ravine below. Wind had scoured the rocky slope free of snow. He guided the horse towards it.

  Slipping out of the saddle, he almost fell as his legs took his weight. The icy stone was slippery, but he held onto the horse's mane with one hand and hugged his side with the other to stop the bleeding. He led the horse a little way along the scree, then sent it off with a slap on the rump. It clambered up, eager to get off the treacherous rocks, leaving the slope by a different place from where they had entered. Let his pursuers think he had thought better of travelling this way.

  Byren gritted his teeth and edged crablike across the steep, exposed stone. Snow had settled in the few crevices but it was mostly iced-over rock and dangerous. If he fell into the ravine he would break his leg and lie there until he froze to death, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky the ulfr pack would find him and make a meal of him. If he was really unlucky the Merofynians would find him.

  But he had always been light on his feet. Lence used to resent the way he only had to go through a dance once to get the steps. Lence... grief wound its finger through his gut and twisted sharply. He must not think of his twin.

  He had to warn his father. The Merofynians had dishonoured the code of war when they took the abbey. How could they capture it? The abbey contained at least six hundred trained warrior monks. Were the monks all dead? Where was Fyn?

  His head spun.

  First he must save himself. The steepness of the rocky scree eased and he made better time as he picked his way down the slope into the ravine. At the base, he found he was right. There was an iced-over stream. Perched on a rock, he strapped on his skates and had to rest to catch his breath. He'd bled again. He turned the snow over to hide the signs, smoothing it with his sleeve. It would fool a man but not a tracking dog.

  Then he stood. With this injury, he had no hope of reaching Rolenhold in the normal three days' skate. Frustration ate at him, for he had no warrior monks to bring to his father's aid, only bad news. He would be confirming the Merofynian invasion and bringing news of the abbey's capture. But worst of all, he had to tell his parents of Lence's death. And they had only his word for how it had happened. No doubt Cobalt would try to twist all this to his advantage.

  Somehow, Byren had to avoid capture by the Merofynians and expose his cousin for the traitor he was.

  He headed for Rolenhold, trying not to think of the long haul down Viridian Lake, through the connecting canals and across Sapphire Lake.

  Driving his legs, he glided out onto the lake and bent forwards to get up speed. But this tugged on his wound and made him pitch onto his knees, coughing. Sparks swam in his vision. When they cleared he saw a fine spray of pink on the ice below his face. Blood.

  He'd seen enough injured men to recognise the signs. The wound had pierced his lungs. He would drown in his own blood. He came to his feet, head reeling. Only one thing mattered.

  He had to reach Rolenhold, had to warn his father, had to prove his loyalty before he died.

  Piro had no trouble slipping into an empty covered cart in the confusion of the loading and unloading in the castle courtyard. As the cart trundled out of Rolenhold, tears stung her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Furious, she brushed them away.

  Leaving the castle was the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

  But it felt wrong to abandon her mother while she was locked in the tower, a prisoner of her Merofynian blood. Worse, it felt wrong to run away when her father needed her. But she could only hide for so long before someone recognised her.

  Her mother was right. Sylion Abbey was the best place for her right now. An ironic smile tugged at her lips. To think how she had railed against being sent to the abbey because of her Affinity.

  Now she was going there by choice. She had a small travelling pack tucked under her cloak, some food and a good gown to wear when she met the abbess of Sylion.

  She would jump out of the cart before the men started loading up the townsfolk. Her father had dragged himself from his sick bed early this morning, demanding news of Byren and Lence. When he learnt none had come, but that smoke had been seen in the direction of Dovecote, he had ordered the town evacuated so that the inhabitants could not be used as hostages. Piro regretted not saying goodbye to him, but he had been told she was already on her way to Sylion Abbey so she must not look back but forwards.

  Once away from the cart, she would make her way to the wharves. There were still merchant sled-ships preparing to dash back to Port Marchand before war was officially declared. She could barter for passage on one of them.

  The cart went dark as it trundled through the gate into Rolenton, then rattled over the cobbles as it traversed the two blocks to Rolenton Square where the people waited. A confusion of shouting voices told her the townspeople were only too eager to take shelter
in the castle. Time to slip away.

  Piro pulled her hood forwards. If anyone saw her, they would think she was a servant running home before war broke out. She had her story prepared and, thanks to her mother's delight in acting out the old sagas, she had the accent right.

  Hands tore the cart's rear flap open and small children and old folk were thrust in, stumbling forwards to claim a patch of floor. Piro pushed past them to the opening, where a sea of anxious faces and clamouring arms greeted her. She was surprised there were this many townsfolk still to move. The carts had been ferrying people since dawn and it was now late afternoon.

  'You're going the wrong way, girlie,' a man told her, as she jumped down and thrust through the throng.

  'I'm trying to get home to Marchand to see me mam,' she said, but he wasn't interested.

  The sky seemed so low and oppressive it made her head hurt. It was a grey day, the air thick and still. No wind. At worst the sled-ships would have to be dragged until the wind picked up as it usually did around dusk.

  Piro had to battle to cross the square, where the carts were lined up to collect people. Of course, there were the hardy souls who swore they would not leave their homes, but there were also many who thought it prudent to take shelter in the castle with their families and as much of their belongings as they could manage to bring. Piles of bedding, bed frames, chests, tables and chairs were stacked high in the square where people waited. Some families had come prepared with a packed lunch, which they shared with their servants.

  'A crust of bread for my little ones,' a woman pleaded, at one of these tables. Her three small children hung on her skirts, frightened and grubby. 'We've been waiting since dawn and they're ever so hungry.'

  The wealthy merchant turned his back on her.

  'Jorge,' his wife pleaded.

  'If we give them some, they'll all want some,' he said, but he looked uncomfortable.

  'Here.' Piro reached into her pack and pulled out a loaf baked fresh that morning in the castle's kitchen. 'And I have some cheese.'

  'Halcyon bless you,' the woman whispered, hastily sharing the food with her little ones.