The Uncrowned King Read online

  She had to believe this.

  Fyn should have been asleep on the stone hearth in front of Lame Klimen's fire but he could not rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw himself fleeing down the abbey's stair while the others held off the Merofynians on the landing above.

  He knew it was illogical to feel guilty about leaving the old masters and his fellow acolytes to die - without him, Lenny and the rest of the boys would have been trapped and killed. But this did not stop the sick rush of emotion.

  It had been the kind of critical tactical decision the weapons master had been training him for all this time and he understood it, even if he didn't like it.

  What really ate away at him was the knowledge that, if he hadn't frozen, the abbot might still be alive and able to rebuild the abbey.

  Why had he seized up? He'd never failed in practice.

  That was practice, this was nothing like the bouts with the weapons master.

  Oakstand had taught that sometimes it was necessary to kill to save an innocent life. But when Fyn had imagined enemies they were faceless warriors with bad hearts, not ordinary men like his father's loyal men-at-arms, whose misfortune it was to serve the wrong king.

  He rolled over and tried to think of something pleasant. At least Piro was safe in Rolenhold. But this didn't make him feel any better. He felt a niggle of worry every time he thought of her.

  Feldspar jerked awake, alert and troubled, hand pressed to his heart.

  'Bad dream?' Fyn asked, lifting on one elbow.

  Feldspar inhaled sharply and sat up. 'Don't you feel it? My Affinity is itching like a -' His eyes widened and he glanced down to where his hand pressed to his heart. No, not to his heart. He pulled the Fate out from under his vest.

  The seashell-shaped stone glowed fiercely, bright as a captured star. Fyn swallowed.

  'It's beautiful,' Joff marvelled, as he, also, sat up. 'Perhaps the goddess herself has seen our plight and seeks to comfort us.'

  Feldspar's hand closed over the stone, trapping the light so that only a deep orange seeped through the crevices between his fingers. Fyn wondered if it felt as hot as it appeared. As he watched, his friend's beatific expression faded and a sheen of sweat covered his skin. Feldspar's breath caught in a gasp and, when another breath failed to follow, Fyn grabbed the hand that held the Fate intending to prise it free, but...

  ...the instant he made contact with the Fate, a vision swamped him.

  Cold leached into the very marrow of his bones. As good as dead, he lay wedged between bloodied corpses. Above him on the edge of a rocky ledge, torch-wielding men tossed another body over and it plummeted down, landing on top of him, burying him alive. His heart tried to climb out of his throat.

  An imperative came to him.

  Run. Leave the abbey. Flee for your lives. We are betrayed!

  Fyn tried to run but his body wouldn't obey. His legs felt strangely stiff and disjointed. He recognised that terrifying dream sensation, where every movement takes incredible effort and happens too slowly. Yet he knew this wasn't a dream. It was a vision, and it was imperative he escape. It felt as if his heart would burst with the effort.

  'Fyn!' Joff bellowed, as something snapped his head around, making one side of his face throb. Another blow sent him off his knees onto his back, knocking the air from his chest.

  His sight cleared to discover Joff hovering over him, ready to deliver a third blow.

  'Stop,' he croaked, lifting arms that ached from exertion, even though he had been sitting still.

  Joff scrambled aside and turned to Feldspar. Fyn struggled to his knees to find his friend collapsed on the hearth stone, bleeding from his nose.

  'You didn't have to hit him so hard, Joff,' Fyn protested, his voice a mere thread.

  'I didn't hit him at all. His nose started to bleed when you touched the Fate.'

  Fyn crawled over, touching Feldspar's forehead, feeling for the pulse in his throat, for signs of breathing. Good. He wasn't dead. 'Feldspar, can you hear me?'

  His friend's eyes flickered open, fixing on Fyn.

  'Have to escape!' Urgency warred with exhaustion.

  'We've already escaped. We're safe. Remember?'

  Feldspar frowned, then nodded and tried to sit up. Fyn went to help him but the Fate brushed his hand and he jerked back instinctively. Joff cast him a quick glance, then helped Feldspar, who hugged his knees, trembling.

  'What did you two see?' Joff whispered. 'Was it the same thing?'

  Fyn glanced to Feldspar who shivered, either unable or unwilling to speak.

  'A mass grave filled with bodies,' Fyn whispered. 'Men with torches were throwing more bodies in on top of me... on top of Master Catillum, I mean.' He looked to Feldspar for confirmation.

  'If you say so,' Feldspar muttered. 'All I felt was cold, a terrible cold. And the need to run.'

  Joff turned to Fyn for an explanation.

  'Sensation without sight,' Fyn guessed. That would have been even more terrifying. But he didn't say anything. Feldspar had always been the clever, nervy one, now his friend looked fragile.

  Feldspar wiped blood from his lips and chin. 'If the Merofynians are throwing bodies into a mass grave, Master Catillum amongst them, the weapons master and all the warrior monks must be dead.'

  Fyn nodded. 'So we know for certain that they were ambushed and the cream of Halcyon's warrior monks defeated. The Merofynians would have travelled with Power-workers just as we had our mystics. It's a wonder Master Catillum had any strength left to use the Fate.' Fyn imagined the mystics master injured, half-frozen with the use of only one arm. 'Poor Catillum, he wasn't dead when they threw him into the mass grave, but -'

  'They couldn't have dug a trench,' Joff, the farmer's son, objected. 'The ground is still frozen. They must be throwing them into a ravine.'

  'Whatever it was,' Fyn conceded, 'Master Catillum was being buried alive.'

  'Probably the safest place for him,' Feldspar muttered. 'Lay low until they leave, then crawl out.'

  Fyn nodded slowly. 'If he can get out with that withered arm.'

  No one spoke for a while. A branch crumpled in the fire, revealing glowing coals. Fyn shivered, shaken by the vision, even if the experience had been secondhand.

  'You must let him know we are safe,' Feldspar whispered and removed the Fate's chain, thrusting it towards Fyn.

  Fyn shook his head, eyeing the seashell stone where a residual glow still lingered in its opalescent spirals. 'I'm not touching that thing.'

  'You have to. You have an Affinity with the Fate. I don't. Take it.' Feldspar forced it into Fyn's hands. 'Since I joined the abbey, all I ever wanted was to train as a mystic. But I know my limits. When the Fate had me I felt like my head was going to burst. Any more and I think it would have.' He touched his nose, which was still bleeding sluggishly, then fixed on Fyn. 'You have to concentrate on Master Catillum to make contact, then send him a picture of us escaping from the caves and looking across to Sylion Abbey. He can guess from that where we'll be hiding. We need him.'

  Fyn's stomach churned. He did not want to summon the Fate's powers again. But Master Catillum had risked exposing himself to the Merofynian army's Power-worker to contact them. He deserved to know the abbey's boys were safe. If the master could get to Sylion Abbey, Catillum could begin to rebuild Halcyon Abbey.

  'What...' Joff began. 'What if you contact the wrong Power-worker? The nearest one must be with the Merofynians who took the abbey.'

  Feldspar met Fyn's gaze, waiting for his response.

  Fyn closed his eyes. Could he reach only Master Catillum? He shivered, remembering the cold, and the way the body plummeted towards him. It was so easy to imagine himself back in that moment. 'I think I can.'

  Feldspar offered Fyn his hand. Another bead of blood seeped from his nostrils. 'Do you want my help?'

  'No, I'll manage.'

  Fyn closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. It was not hard to recall the body spiralling down towards him, the sense o
f entrapment...

  All around him it was quiet, the quiet waiting of the dead. He was weighed down by the dead...

  He was the mystics master.

  Fyn recalled the fisher folk sheltering the boys. He visualised the distant cliffs with Sylion Abbey standing silhouetted against the sky.

  A sense of relief washed over him and he realised it was Master Catillum's emotion. The sensation was so unnerving, he pulled back instinctively. The world dropped out from under his feet. He fell through nothing.

  He was nothing... the gorge rose in his throat.

  Suddenly he was in his body again, pitching forwards as he threw up all over his knees.

  The horrible wracking spasms eventually passed and Fyn wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, supporting himself with a trembling arm.

  'Here.' Joff offered Fyn a beaker of water from the bucket by the fire.

  'Thanks.' Fyn could only croak.

  'Fish stew,' Feldspar muttered. 'Smells just as bad the second time around. Think I'm -'

  As he gagged, Fyn felt another spasm take him and, together, they staggered outside to throw up in the snowdrift by the door. They both heaved until they had nothing left to bring up.

  Fyn sat back on his heels and picked up a handful of fresh snow to wipe his face. He laughed, even as tears stung his eyes.

  'You're crazy,' Feldspar muttered, but he also grinned.

  Fyn felt weak but oddly lighter and happier. They both sucked on fresh snow to rinse their mouths.

  By the time they returned to the cottage, the old woman had lit a fish-oil lamp and was already cleaning up. She took one look at them and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. 'Off with those clothes.'

  Both Fyn and Feldspar protested but she couldn't hear them and, anyway, she wouldn't have taken no for an answer, so they stripped down. Joff didn't bother to hide his grin. Fyn removed his abbey leggings and the borrowed shirt with a sense of finality. Feldspar removed his robe. The old woman took the clothes off to wash and they were left in nothing but their breech cloths, huddled before the fire.

  Lame Klimen fetched a patchwork quilt. It smelt just like him and was still warm from his body but they accepted it gratefully.

  Under cover of the quilt Fyn undid the chain that held the Fate. 'I'm not going to Sylion Abbey. You keep this, Feldspar.'

  Pale and shaken, his friend shook his head. 'No. You keep it, Fyn. I can't use it.'

  Fyn gave an unsteady laugh. 'What makes you think I can?'

  'If it's activated again while I'm wearing it I fear my brains will come pouring out my nose,' Feldspar said, his face naked of pretence.

  Fyn shuddered.

  Without warning, the woman pulled the quilt off their shoulders. Thrusting an armful of clothes at them, she said, 'Might be a bit big.'

  Fyn and Feldspar unrolled the leggings and fisherman smocks. They dressed hastily, cold despite the thick walls of the cottage.

  After tugging the smock over his shoulders, Feldspar pulled the acolyte plait free. 'At least Catillum knows we escaped. You did well, Fyn.'

  But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed. If only he'd realised the original message from King Rolen was a fake. Then the abbot wouldn't have sent the fighting monks out and the abbey wouldn't have fallen. If only Fyn hadn't frozen, then the abbot would still be alive.

  A wave of despair washed over him.

  He could not change the past but he could influence the future. He must warn his father that the abbey had fallen. King Rolen would have to rethink his battle campaign.

  Chapter Nine

  Byren felt a prod in his back, then another. What was Lence up to? Couldn't he see he was sleeping? Trust his twin to get pleasure out of waking him. He shouldn't have drunk so much last night. On top of that his side hurt with every breath he took. Must have been in a fight.

  'Look what I found, Da,' a child's high voice pierced Byren's foggy brain. 'A dead man.'

  And it all came back to Byren with horrible clarity.

  Lence was dead. Rolencia had been invaded and the abbey had fallen. He'd been mortally injured. He must reach his father while he still had breath in his body. King Rolen had to know that there was no help coming from the abbey.

  'Go stand with Miron.' The adult spoke sharply.

  'Is he dead, Da?' a third voice asked, cracking on the last word. Byren placed him at about thirteen winters.

  'Lotsa blood. Smells real gamey, been sleeping in the snow,' the father muttered. 'If he's not dead, he should be.'

  Byren felt hands roll him over and managed to prise his eyes open. There was barely enough light to see in the pale, predawn grey of late winter but he did notice the man's stained fingers. A dyer by profession.

  'Ulfr... 'ware the pack!' Byren croaked.

  'What's he saying, Da?' the thirteen-year-old asked.

  'Must've seen the same tracks we saw.' The dyer peered down into Byren's face. 'You're lucky Rodien spotted your body half-covered in snow. Rolencia's been invaded, so we're headed for the Divide. Or maybe I don't need to tell you that?'

  'Merofynians,' Byren whispered.

  'Should we take him with us, Da?' Miron asked.

  'Can't leave him here.'

  'Seep,' Byren warned. 'Pack inna seep.'

  'No sign of a seep around here,' the dyer told him, making Byren wonder if it had all been a hallucination for, as far as he knew, he was in the same place where he had lain down with the pack. Or thought he had. Had he been delirious?

  'Do you think you can stand? Reckon I can't lift a big fella like you.' The dyer helped haul him upright.

  Byren gasped as he felt the wound tug something fierce, but made it to his feet. He was too weak. He had to face it. He couldn't get the message to his father.

  The man studied Byren. 'Reckon you need a healer. Have to put you on the sled.'

  No healer could save him. 'No point.'

  'Can't leave a man to freeze in the snow,' the dyer muttered. 'Come along.'

  Byren didn't have the energy to argue as the dyer helped him up the slope towards his sons. At a glance Byren took in Miron. He had the look of a boy who had grown fast, as if he hadn't had time to get used to the length of his arms and legs. The youth soothed the pony as Byren approached, while a boy of about four watched him with wide brown eyes. The pony pulled a sled laden with belongings which the father rearranged to make room for him.

  'Wait,' Byren protested as they strapped him onto the sled. 'Have to get to Rolenhold. Merofynians -'

  'I know. Marching on Rolenton,' the dyer agreed. 'My eldest, Miron, came home as soon as the king ordered the townsfolk into the castle.'

  Byren blinked. 'The abbey's fallen. Can't look for help from them. Must warn m'father -'

  'I know who you are!' The dyer announced, peering into his face. 'You're Byren Kingson. You have the look of King Rolen. Served a summer under him when I was seventeen, keeping the warlords in their place. My eldest was going to offer service when his time came.'

  'I'm offering now,' Miron insisted. 'I only come back to warn you, Da.'

  Byren nodded. Most able-bodied men served a summer or two on the high Divide. 'Send your boy to the castle. He must warn my father that the abbey's fallen.'

  But how would this skinny youth convince the king that the message came from Byren, when he'd lost his royal foenix pendant? Byren reached inside his woollen vest, feeling for the two leather thongs he wore. Should he send the foenix spurs taken when he and Lence tried to capture the foenix, or the leogryf teeth? The leogryf was most recent. He hauled the leather thong with its teeth out from inside his vest and lifted his head to remove it. Even this exhausted him.

  Blinking blearily, Byren fixed on the earnest Miron. 'Take this to King Rolen. Tell him the abbey has fallen, that I have been injured and that Lence...' Byren could not go on as the loss hit him. He shuddered and his stomach heaved. 'Lence died bravely.'

  The dyer squeezed his shoulder. 'My boy will make sure your message gets
to King Rolen.'

  Byren nodded, and let himself slip into a state of numb exhaustion. Now that he wasn't bringing the abbey's warriors to help his father crush the invaders, how would he prove his loyalty?

  Piro knew she was dreaming and she knew how it would end but she couldn't escape. With her mother and old nurse locked up there was no dreamless-sleep to dull her Affinity-induced premonitions. All she could do was hold on and go along for the ride.

  In the vision, she hovered just behind her father as he rode out of Rolenhold, resplendent in the manticore chestplate that was Byren's gift. Behind him rode half a dozen of his oldest and most trusted honour guard, men who had been youths and stood at his back when it seemed his kingdom would fall thirty years ago. Now they rode with him to face the Merofynians again.

  A wash of frustration rolled through Piro. What was wrong with people? Why couldn't they get on with their lives, instead of making war?

  With typical dream suddenness her father now confronted a warlord in Rolenton Square. The warlord rode under the banner of Merofynia but it was clear he was a spar warrior. This was different. In the previous dreams, Merofynian warriors had been in the castle, masquerading as wyverns as they hunted her family.

  She knew with the omniscience of a dreamer that the warlord had demanded Rolencia's surrender and that her father had no intention of surrendering. He wanted to meet his enemy to get the man's measure. But the warlord had other ideas.

  He dropped his guise, dissolving into the form of an amfina, the twin-headed, winged lizard-snake. While one head smiled and talked with her father, the other signalled assassins in the form of wyverns.

  Piro tried to warn her father, but he couldn't hear her dream voice. Frustration tore at her.

  Still smiling, the Amfina warlord stepped back and the wyverns plunged in, aiming straight for her father. Old Lord Steadfast tried to protect him but a wyvern shattered his head with one terrible blow. Though Piro had never liked the pompous man, tears stung her eyes. She could do nothing as the wyverns tore her father and his honour guard to pieces.