The King's Bastard (19 page)

'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.

He could not see his sister beside his mother. In fact, Fyn could not see his sister anywhere. A kernel of worry formed in his belly.

'They're bringing the horn.' Lonepine nudged Fyn. 'Not long now!'

To win the highest accolade they had to not only find the Fate but make it back across the lake to blow that horn. Other acolytes would form teams to help each other, networks of trust that they would rely on later when they were monks, trying to make their way up in the hierarchy. A rush of energy filled Fyn for he could only trust two of his companions, which put their team at an immediate disadvantage.

Shifting his weight from skate to skate to keep warm, he studied the dais where the abbot stood. They had the horn but there seemed to be a delay. If only it would start.

'Spread out and form one line along the lake's edge,' the acolytes master ordered.

Twenty-two acolytes shuffled along, holding their quarterstaffs at the ready. Fyn faced the lake, sucking in great gulps of icy air which stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. Dimly, he heard the abbot wish them Halcyon's luck. Then the mystics master blew the horn.

A great cheer went up from the people of Rolenton. The rush of sound filled Fyn's head, sweeping him up, sweeping him along with the others.

Out of the wharf's shadow, blindingly bright sunshine reflected off the ice. The acolytes bunched together, all making for the island. A few tried to sprint away. Many followed Lonepine's example and concentrated on swinging their staffs, sending their fellows to the ice before making a break for it.

Like some multi-legged beast the whole mass travelled across the ice, some breaking free of the pack, only to be tackled by followers. Fyn ducked a blow, sending Foxtail down with a strike behind the knee.

Darting away from the main group, he tried to put some distance between himself and the others. Someone clipped him between the shoulder blades, knocking him down head first onto the ice. His face stung with cold.

Eat ice!

Scrambling to his skates, he skidded sideways. Riverford came after him. Fyn avoided Riverford's strike, but lost the chance to counter, his momentum swinging him around. Fighting with quarterstaffs on the ice was difficult. The skates had a mind of their own.

Fyn took a glancing blow and twisted desperately, trying to get his staff between them.

Feldspar shouldered Riverford aside, sending him sprawling. Fyn caught his friend's arm, steadying him. 'Thanks.'

'Come on, you two, quit playing around!' Lonepine sped past.

The three of them took off towards Ruin Isle. Fyn's thigh muscles flexed, driving him forwards with each gliding stride. His eyes watered, stinging from the cold wind. Fyn concentrated on building up speed as they overtook and passed a half a dozen acolytes who had stopped to fight amongst themselves. He cast one swift glance behind him. The race had broken up into several small battles.

Only one other group remained between them and the island. These acolytes put their heads together and turned, preparing to defend their ground as one of them took off his skates and strode up the beach to search the island.

Fyn's heart sank.

'Looks like Hawkwing has organised his friends to back him up,' Lonepine shouted.

Neither Fyn nor Feldspar bothered to answer, saving their breath.

Hawkwing's five supporters waited, spinning their staffs. Fyn slewed his skates side-on to slow down. He caught Lonepine's eye and glanced to the acolytes on the far left. Lonepine nodded. He would tackle them.

Fyn held Feldspar's eye, letting him know he would handle the two on the right. That left the one in the middle for Feldspar.

Fyn skated in, feinting with a high blow, changing it at the last instant. Ducking under the acolyte's strike, Fyn knocked his first opponent's legs out from under him and followed up with a blow that took the second's breath away.

Fyn straightened up in time to see Feldspar put down his attacker, but one of Lonepine's acolytes had gotten away from him. Foxtail was as cunning as his namesake. He rounded on Feldspar, who wasn't expecting an attack from that quarter.

Foxtail aimed a blow at Feldspar's shoulder which bounced off, onto his head. It sent him reeling and the tall youth went down like a felled tree.

Furious, Lonepine barged into Foxtail, knocking him off his feet. The downed acolyte skidded across the ice on his back like a stranded summer beetle.

Fyn darted between the other acolytes who were struggling to rise, and leant down to grab Feldspar's arm. 'Are you all right?'

Feldspar managed a sickly grin. 'Why are there two of you?'

'I'll go after Hawkwing!' Lonepine announced and took off.

'Come on.' Fyn helped Feldspar upright, tugging him along as he headed for the island.

Hawkwing's supporters didn't come after them, electing to deal with the next group of acolytes, fast approaching.

Feldspar shook off Fyn's helping hand within a few heart beats and they reached the island's snowy shore together. Lonepine's boot prints showed where he had taken off his skates to run up the beach.

Fyn unstrapped his skates and slung them over his shoulder, then he hurried to catch up. 'Which way?'

Feldspar was already climbing the snowy slope, his expression focused inwards as he tried to sense the Fate's location. Feldspar had excellent Affinity.

'Strange,' he whispered, 'I can't seem to -'

The crack of wood striking wood interrupted him. Fyn ran over a rise into a grove of winter-bare trees. Through the mottled silver trunks he saw Hawkwing and Lonepine circling each other in a clearing.

'I'll take care of Hawkwing. You two go on,' Lonepine ordered.

'Ha. You'll be eating snow before me!' Hawkwing sneered and leapt to the attack.

As they fought furiously, Fyn turned to Feldspar. 'You lead.'

'I don't know what's wrong. I can't sense a thing,' the tall acolyte confessed. He frowned, trying to discover the Fate. Meanwhile, in the clearing below a flurry of blows fell with dull thuds and grunts of effort.

'If you can't sense it, we'd better separate,' Fyn decided. This gave him a chance to find the Fate for himself. 'I'll take this side of the ruins. You take the other.'

Fyn nodded and ran off to his right, avoiding Hawkwing and Lonepine, who had stopped to catch their breaths. They leant on their staffs, panting in a way that would have been funny if they hadn't been so serious.