The Uncrowned King Read online

  The man retrieved the pack and turned to leave, but the girl was staring at the sorbt stones with a mixture of fear and fascination. The warrior casually cuffed her over the ear and walked off. She wiped her face on her sleeve and hurried after him, before the chain could jerk painfully on her collar. Her slave collar... for that's what it was.

  He'd heard of such things in the tales his mother told. Parents too poor to educate a child born with Affinity might consider themselves lucky to sell the child to a Power-worker.

  Merofynia was a strange place. They considered themselves more civilised than Rolencia, but the gap between the very poorest and the rich was much greater.

  Byren watched as the Utland Power-worker separated the two stones. He wore gloves but, even so, he moved swiftly, touching the smaller stone that fitted into the larger very gingerly. He tucked the larger stone under his arm and placed the other in the centre of the seep. Its surface began to pulsate like the calandrius. Soon it was pulsing regularly as if it contained a beating heart, growing brighter with each throb.

  'Well done, my pretty. And now for some roast bird,' the Utlander muttered, sounding like a baker who'd put his loaves in the oven and was due for a well-deserved break.

  As soon as the Power-worker went over the far rise, Byren slid down the dark side of his rise and rolled to his knees. There were six warriors escorting the Utlander, too many for him to tackle, and that was without even considering the danger of confronting a Power-worker. He lacked warding talismans to protect him. Besides, the best wards the monks could build had failed to protect his grandfather and uncle all those years ago.

  No, he could not release the calandrius, save that girl and take the sorbt stones for the abbot. He had a duty to Rolencia and he must not endanger himself. He should turn his back on them, bed down for the night then leave early tomorrow to see the abbot and Fyn.

  Feeling sick at heart, Byren came to his feet.

  But instead of heading away from their camp, he crept towards it. At least he could take a look in the dip beyond the hollow.

  They were fast workers, these Merofynians. Already they had constructed three low snow-caves, just big enough for the travellers to crawl inside with their packs and a brazier. The calandrius remained rolled in the cloak but was cradled in the girl's arms. She crooned to it, feeding it slivers of something from a pack. The Power-worker ignored her.

  The other bird had been plucked and now was being dismembered so that pieces would cook quickly over the braziers in the snow-caves. The men worked efficiently, retiring eagerly to the warmth of their shelters. Only one was left on sentry duty - they thought themselves safe. Few people travelled this late in the winter, when the creatures began to stir from their long slumber and those that had stayed awake were desperate for food.

  The Utlander kicked the girl as he passed. 'Give me the bird and get inside.'

  Without a word, she handed over the injured Affinity beast and crawled into the Power-worker's snow-cave, but not before Byren saw her cast her master a look of pure hatred.

  'Is there anything I should look out for?' the sentry called as the Utlander went to follow the girl, with the bird in his arms.

  'No more than usual. The seep is no longer radiating Affinity and won't attract beasts, and the Rolencians don't know we're here.'

  Then he crawled into his shelter while the sentry selected a spot on the rise, where he had a good view of the undulating snow-shrouded banks of the lake, and prepared to wait out his watch, unaware of Byren.

  One man was a different proposition from six, but there was still the Power-worker and Byren had no weapon that would work against him. Shuffling down the slope, he found a niche behind a rock and pulled his cloak around his body.

  He would sleep and wake early, the better to get away before the Merofynians stirred. He was not worried about waking in time. Ever since he could remember, he'd had an internal sense of time.

  But the moment he closed his eyes he saw Elina leap in front of him, trying to turn Lence's blade with her own. She must have known her wrists weren't strong enough. He felt her wound like it was his own, searing through his gut. With a groan he doubled up.

  Elina...

  Death was too good for Illien of Cobalt!

  Elina would still be alive, if Lence hadn't believed Cobalt's lies, if Byren hadn't written that love poem... It had been so easy for Cobalt to twist the words to prove that Byren was Orrade's lover instead of Elina's. If Orrade hadn't confessed that he was a lover of men like Palos of legend, then Cobalt couldn't have convinced Lence and the king that the Servants of Palos had reformed to put Byren on the throne.

  Frustration raged through him, for there was no secret society calling itself the Servants of Palos. Thirty years ago there had been. His father had eradicated the traitors, executing lord and commoner alike. But how could Byren prove that a secret society no longer existed, when suspicion and innuendo were enough to undermine his reputation?

  Cobalt was so good at playing on people's fears. Byren cursed the day his cousin had come back to Rolencia.

  Shaking with anger and exhaustion, he vowed to kill Cobalt. Elina would approve, for she was a true warrior's daughter. But first he had to expose Cobalt for the traitor he was.

  Decision made, Byren welcomed sleep, letting the exhaustion that had been circling like a predator consume him. The great muscles of his weary thighs twitched from over-work and, as he welcomed the oblivion of exhaustion, in his mind's eye he saw the Affinity-slave girl cradling the wounded calandrius. Both trapped, both innocent.

  How could he defeat Cobalt when he could not save them?

  Chapter Two

  Fyn woke with the feeling that something was wrong. Then it came back to him... Rolencia was at war with Merofynia.

  He rolled over, his hand going to his chest to stop the royal emblem from tangling in its chain, but he'd left the foenix pendant in Halcyon's Sacred Heart. That was when he'd planned to leave the abbey to protect his sister's secret, and needed to hide his identity.

  He hadn't wanted to leave but he couldn't stay, not after Piro had revealed her Affinity to him. The mystics master would have uncovered Fyn's guilty knowledge as soon as he began training. But now that the mystics master had gone off to ambush the Merofynians, the unexpected dawning of Piro's Affinity was the least of his troubles.

  He told himself his sister would be safe as long as she stayed in Rolenhold, for the castle's defences had never been breached. It did no good. Fear for his mother and Piro gnawed at his belly. Before this, he had never understood how his brothers could cheerfully lead war parties against upstart warlords, but the thought of thirteen-year-old Piro in the hands of Merofynian warriors ignited his blood.

  He suspected the same feelings had kept the other acolytes awake, talking long into the night boasting how they would prove their bravery, if only they had the chance. But Halcyon's warrior monks did not send children to war, even if those acolytes were due to become monks this spring cusp with the responsibilities of men.

  War with Merofynia...

  Fyn didn't understand how it had come to this. His father's betrothal to King Merofyn's daughter had heralded thirty years of peace. When Myrella's younger brother had died in suspicious circumstances, her cousin had seized the Merofynian throne. This meant Fyn's eldest brother could become betrothed to the new king's daughter, and it should have ensured another thirty years of peace. But, early yesterday, a message had arrived from King Rolen asking the abbot to send the warrior monks. So the weapons master had marched out with every able-bodied monk, leaving only the frail and the lads in Halcyon Abbey.

  At nearly seventeen, Fyn and his fellow acolytes thought themselves men and had railed against being left behind.

  Unable to lie still Fyn rolled over again and, once again, his hand went to settle on the absent foenix symbol. He felt its phantom presence, its shape, its weight... and the niggling sense of wrongness solidified with an uncomfortable jolt of fear. The seal o
n the king's message had been a fake. The foenix symbol was too small to belong to his father.

  Fyn sat up in bed, nauseous with the realisation that the weapons master and nearly six hundred of Halcyon's finest warriors were skating into a trap.

  He sprang out of the bunk, heart racing.

  'Bad dream?' Feldspar whispered. 'Don't worry, your sister will be -'

  'I'm not worried about Piro.' Fyn crouched between their bunks. For a heartbeat he considered telling Feldspar his fears, but decided against it. He'd creep upstairs to the abbot's chamber, light a candle and check the seal. If he was right, they could send someone to warn the weapons master. A single skater could travel the frozen canals faster than hundreds of warriors. If he was wrong, he'd come back to bed and put it down to a vivid imagination and no one would be any the wiser.

  'Go back to sleep, Feldspar. It's probably nothing.' Fyn kept his voice low so as not to disturb Hawkwing on the other side.

  Already dressed in his breeches, Fyn slipped on his indoor shoes, soft-soled slippers, and tugged his saffron robe over his shoulders. The abbey was built into the side of Mount Halcyon and warmed by her hot springs, but even so the night was cold.

  Leaving the sleeping acolytes, Fyn entered the hall leading towards the spiral stairs. He was already beginning to doubt his memory of the seal and wondered if he should simply go back to bed, when an odd noise made him stop. It sounded like the distant pattering of rain. The abbey had been unnaturally quiet since the warriors set off, its empty halls and chambers magnifying every sound.

  Fyn tilted his head, straining to hear. The sound made no sense. It was too cold to rain. Silent on his indoor slippers, he ran to the window which looked down into the courtyard.

  Illuminated by brilliant starlight, the courtyard rippled with life. Hundreds of warriors hurried across the stone flags, their boots making a soft susurration. Fyn's mind refused to accept what he saw, even as the men crept across the courtyard, flowing into the abbey's formal ground-floor chambers.

  How could the enemy have penetrated this far without sounding the alarm? The old monk on night duty must have been tricked into opening the gate. The abbey was defenceless!

  Alarm made his heart race. Fyn's feet hardly felt the ground as he ran back to the acolytes' chamber, waking Feldspar. 'To arms! We are under attack!'

  Feldspar threw back the covers.

  Hawkwing rolled out of bed, reaching for his boots. 'Merofynians?'

  'I didn't stop to ask,' Fyn admitted.

  'Did you have another vision?' Feldspar asked. 'Is that why you woke?'

  His last vision had been of his brother's betrothed, Isolt. What manner of king would promise his daughter in marriage then make war on his future son-in-law's kingdom?

  An unscrupulous man, a cunning man. The kind of man who would send a fake message to lure Halcyon's monks away from the abbey, leaving only acolytes and old men to defend it.

  The boys... they didn't stand a chance!

  'What's going on?' an anxious voice asked.

  'We're under attack,' Hawkwing answered. 'Get everyone up.'

  Word spread like a forest fire.

  Their surprised exclamations made Fyn impatient. They had no time for this. He grabbed Hawkwing's arm. 'Wake the abbot, tell him the abbey's been breached.' Fyn turned to Feldspar. The boys, aged six to twelve, were on the floor below, between them and the intruders. 'Feldspar, take the boys down to the inner sanctum and bolt the door. Do it quickly, before the Merofynians find the great stairs.'

  'This would never have happened if the grucranes hadn't left us,' Feldspar muttered, putting on his slippers.

  He was right. The god-touched beasts had lived in the abbey for generations. One of their flock always stood guard ready to call a warning, but...

  'No time for ifs,' Fyn snapped, thinking of the day the grucrane leader had been injured, the day the old seer had foreseen this very attack. When she'd spoken of Halcyon Abbey in ruins, he'd laughed. The seer must not be proven right. 'Hurry, both of you!'

  Hawkwing and Feldspar darted away.

  Fyn turned to the others. They'd tugged on boots and robes and faced him. 'The rest of you, come with me.'

  He snatched a lamp someone had lit and ran out the door and down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear the acolytes' boots slapping on the tiles, hear their hurried explanations as the younger acolytes poured out of their sleeping chambers. He couldn't possibly lead thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds against grown warriors. Fyn stopped in his headlong race for the armoury and spun to face them.

  'You.' He pointed to a youth of fourteen, whose name escaped him. 'Take the younger ones down to the sanctum, the rest of you come with me. We must defend the abbey.'

  There was muffled shouting as boys of thirteen insisted they should stay and take up arms. The thought made Fyn sick to his stomach. True, they'd been studying weapons since they were six, but experienced warriors would cut them down like chaff. Besides, the best weapons had gone with the warriors, which meant the abbey's defenders would have to make do with blunted practice swords.

  Furious, he signalled for silence. The acolytes obeyed, watching him expectantly, hopefully. Who was he to decide who lived and died? Who had elected him their leader?

  'I need the youngest acolytes to go down to the sanctum where they can protect the boys and Halcyon's Sacred Flame. Can you do that?'

  Put that way, they nodded and ran off. He only hoped they reached the sanctum in time. 'The rest of you come with me.'

  Down one flight of stairs and along the corridor, Fyn flung open the armoury, hung the lantern high on a hook and began handing out padded chest protectors, swords, long knives and pikes, whatever he could find.

  'I don't understand,' a youth muttered, 'the abbeys have always been sanctuaries in time of war. Why would the Merofynians attack us?'

  'Booty,' Fyn guessed. 'Both the abbeys contain great wealth, gold icons, jewelled chests -'

  'Fyn?' The abbot hurried in, with half a dozen elderly monks. Hawkwing brushed past Fyn, intent on grabbing a weapon.

  'Abbot.' Fyn gave an abbreviated bow. 'The message from Father was a fake. The foenix was too small to be the king's seal.'

  The abbot winced. 'You're sure?'

  Fyn nodded.

  'The attack on the abbey is all the proof we need,' muttered Sunseed, the gardens master. Gnarled hands that had nurtured delicate seedlings strapped on a sword belt with equal efficiency. 'So, our warriors were lured into an ambush?'

  'When the real target was the abbey,' Fyn agreed.

  'Clever!' Old, half-blind Silverlode buckled a chest plate by feel.

  'What of the boys?' the abbot whispered. 'We must protect the little ones.'

  'Feldspar's taken them down to the mystics' inner sanctum,' Fyn said. 'It's big enough for all of them and the doors lock from the inside.'

  'Well done, Fyn.'

  'Abbot?' Hawkwing shuffled to the front of about forty lads of fifteen and sixteen. 'We're ready.'

  'Good. Now listen. Their Power-workers must not steal our sorbt stones,' the abbot announced.

  Fyn cursed under his breath. Of course. The stones held power drained from Affinity seeps. In the wrong hands...

  'We should have destroyed the stones!'

  'Power is like fire, it is only a tool. Evil is in the heart of the ones who wield it,' the abbot told him. 'They'll be heading for the great stairs -'

  'To the stairs!' Hawkwing yelled and charged out the door and down the corridor, followed by eager shouting acolytes.

  'There goes the element of surprise,' old Silverlode muttered, then ran after them.

  Fyn was drawn along in the mad rush. He quickly outstripped the old monks.

  Like the spine of a great animal, the abbey was united by the great spiral stairs, which connected the mystics' inner sanctum far below to the libraries and offices of the abbot far above. Between them lay seven floors containing the workshops, the kitchen, the bathing chambers and dormitories.<
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  When Fyn reached the stairwell, the youths were milling on the large landing, whispering excitedly.

  'Quiet!' Fyn warned. 'Quiet!'

  At his order they fell silent. Far below, the rapid tattoo of running boots echoed in the stairwell, getting further and further away.

  Fyn cursed just as the abbot and the old monks joined them. 'We're too late. They've sent scouts down to the inner sanctum.'

  The abbot turned to the gardens master. 'Hold the stairs, Sunseed. Fyn, come with me.'

  Piro had been in hiding since Illien of Cobalt had turned her father against her. As lord protector of the castle Cobalt had ordered her arrested, but she still had friends. And so she waited in the scullery for the cook to bring her food. For years she had been coming to the kitchens to collect the special meals prepared for her pet foenix. Now she was living on scraps and dressed in a maid's pinafore stolen from the laundry.

  Rolenhold Castle was home to six hundred people. And Piro knew each one, from the lowliest stable lad to the lord protector. Tonight all those people had been fed and the last pots from the last meal of the day had been polished and hung on their hooks, gleaming in the light of the kitchen's remaining lamp. Like the kitchen boys and girls who slept under the tables, Piro was terribly tired. Soon she would slip into Halcyon's chantry and crawl behind the nave to snatch some rest. So far she had chosen a different sleeping place each night.

  The spit-turners had crept off to their bed bundles and now only the cook remained awake, planning the menu for the next day. When the last of the whispers died away and it was clear the kitchen children were fast asleep under the long wooden tables, the cook put her notes away and rose, glancing to the scullery where Piro was hidden. Piro's stomach rumbled in anticipation. Just then two servants returned with laden trays.

  'What's this?' the cook demanded. 'Didn't he touch his dinner? But it's his favourite.'

  Piro went very still.

  'The king suffers something awful. Won't eat. Can't sleep for the pain and there's nothing the healers can do for him,' the servant explained, sliding the tray onto the table. 'It's terrible to see.'