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  'Untrained boys, playing at war,' Orrade whispered, disgusted.

  'Our acolytes may be unblooded, but they're trained in the use of weapons,' Master Catillum said.

  There was nothing Byren could do about Garzik. He sighed, thinking of Piro and Fyn. Two more people he could not help.

  The mystics master cleared his throat. 'According to Seela, Piro is guarded by Lord Dunstany's wards. Even if she had an Affinity stone and natural Affinity, I couldn't reach her. Fyn wears Halcyon's Fate. I could try to contact him. But I — '

  'Try,' Byren said. If he knew Fyn's whereabouts, he'd know whether it was worthwhile delaying for him.

  'There is the matter of the Merofynian Power-workers,' Catillum warned. 'It's dangerous.'

  Byren waited, grimly. He knew his request would endanger the mystic, but felt no regrets. He would endanger many more people before this was done.

  'I will need a quiet spot,' Catillum said at last.

  Byren beckoned Florin, who had followed the mystics master out and been listening unashamedly. 'Is there somewhere private?'

  She nodded and led them past the others, deeper into the cave by the light of a single smoking lantern until they came to a large cavern. There was a black gaping hole in the centre.

  'Listen.' Florin picked up a pebble and dropped it into the hole. They waited, and waited. Finally they heard the faintest of plinks as it hit the bottom.

  'And you must see this.' Florin lifted the lantern to the back wall. Paintings of tall foenixes loomed above them. Across the bottom were little people, men, women and children, all lined up as if they were dancing. But it was the foenixes that dominated the chamber.

  Awed, Byren lifted his hand.

  Florin caught his arm. 'Nan said not to touch. These are old beyond measure. We must honour the people of the past.'

  'Who were they?'

  'Nan called them the Foenix Faithful. We don't know what they called themselves.'

  'Do you know, mystics master?' Byren asked. He noticed the mystic's expression. 'What's wrong?'

  'It's an intermittent Affinity seep.' Catillum's nose wrinkled with distaste. 'I can sense the old residue.'

  Byren was relieved. He sensed nothing, and he'd feared his brush with the ulfrs in the seep had made him receptive to Affinity.

  'Have you heard of the Foenix Faithful, Master Catillum?' Florin asked.

  The mystic shook his head. 'At a guess they predate the ruins on Sapphire Lake and we don't know who made them. Some of life's mysteries are too deep even for a mystic.'

  Orrade snorted softly.

  The mystics master cast him a swift look but did not pursue it. Byren was not sure what was driving Orrade, but he had no time to find out.

  'Let's get started, then,' Byren said, turning to the master. 'Do you want us to leave you?'

  'You can stay. As long as you are quiet.'

  'I'll wait out here.' Orrade went back to the cavern entrance and Byren realised Orrade was uneasy with the use of Affinity. Not because he feared it, but because he had it.

  When Byren had begged the old seer to save Orrade's life, she'd said there would be a price and Byren had rashly agreed to anything. But Orrade was the one who had to pay the price and his friend was not prepared to accept banishment or devote himself to the abbey, not when he was lord of Dovecote and his people needed him.

  'Kneel here with me, Byren,' Catillum said. 'As Fyn's kin, you can help me focus on him. Fyn is not experienced with the use of the Fate, but we may still be able to share information before his concentration breaks.'

  Hands on his knees, back straight, the mystics master gathered his Affinity and Byren could feel him doing it, which only served to confirm his suspicion. He had been tainted by the Affinity seep after all. Maybe not enough to sense Affinity residue, but enough to sense the mystic at work when they were side by side.

  Master Catillum stared fixedly across the chamber at the far wall with its ancient paintings. By the flickering light of the lantern they seemed to be moving in the shadows. Byren's hand went to the foenix spurs he wore around his neck and he felt a pang of guilt at having killed the mother foenix when she had only been trying to protect her nest.

  Once these mountains had been filled with the beautiful but deadly birds. Now, few were left, and his father had tried to preserve them.

  What had the Foenix Faithful done in this cavern with its deep pit? In his mind's eye Byren saw leaping flames. Men and women dressed in foenix crests confronted a wretch who fell backwards into the pit, his piercing scream going on and on, before it cut out suddenly.

  Catillum cursed then lurched like someone waking from a bad dream. He shook himself and Byren jerked, his heart thumping. Byren glanced over his shoulder to Florin and Orrade at the cavern entrance, seeing them only as dark shapes. Now he wished he was with them and not close enough to the mystics master to be swept along in his Affinity-induced visions. The mystic was supposed to be contacting Fyn, anyway, not recalling the past.

  'I'm sorry, kingsheir. This place carries powerful memories,' Catillum whispered. He looked a little grey in the lamp light. 'Let's try again. Concentrate on your brother.'

  So Byren closed his eyes and thought of Fyn, as he had seen him at the Proving, ready to battle for his place in Halcyon Abbey.

  Fyn swayed in his hammock, listening to one of the sea-hounds sing a mournful song about love gone wrong. For ruthless pirate-hunters they were surprisingly fond of the old romances, tales of adventure and love from before the unifying of the Twin Isles under Kings Merofyn and Rolen.

  Fyn yawned and rubbed his face, feeling the calluses he'd developed splicing ropes under Jakulos's watchful eyes. At least he was not a dead loss now, and they were on course for Ostron Isle. Why hadn't he agreed to serve on the Wyvern's Whelp, and then jumped ship so he was free to barter a berth back to Rolencia?

  The Fate rested on his chest, much as the royal sigil had. He was glad he'd hidden the emblem far below the abbey in Halcyon's Sacred Heart.

  The Fate felt heavy and warm. Fyn's fingers settled around it and the singer's voice faded. He swayed in the hammock… no… he was floating above it, rising above the ship, which lay as a shadow on the pewter sea.

  This feeling of disembodiment did not surprise him. It had happened once before, back in Rolencia when he had seen Byren. Now his thoughts turned to Byren.

  He knew he should he afraid of the Fate's power. Much could go wrong, but the sea was so beautiful that, for the moment, he felt only wonder. It stretched out below him, glistening silver in the starlight. So much empty sea.

  Did physical distance matter when he was in this incorporeal state? He vaguely knew they were on an easterly bearing, which meant Merofynia lay due west and Rolencia lay beyond that. Dare he try to reach out to Byren? What if he couldn't find his way back to his body?

  While he agonised over this, he spotted another ship — far across the sea — and arrowed over to it, faster than any sea-eagle. This was a merchant ship, Ostronite by the flag, so the sea-hounds were honour-bound to protect it. One of them accompanied it.

  Uninterested in the ship, Fyn looked further afield. His home lay so far away. Dare he try to reach Byren?

  Fear made his stomach lurch and he dropped towards the Ostronite ship. Before he could save himself, he felt a force surge out of the ship towards him and recognised the essence of the dark-eyed noble Power-worker who had captured him back in Rolencia.

  Instinctively, he pulled back. Back across the silver waves, back to the Wyvern's Whelp below decks with its soft singing. Plunging back into his apparently sleeping body, he jerked awake, heart racing.

  With a curse he let the Fate go and licked his burned palm, blowing on it to ease the stinging. When would he learn to stop fiddling with things he did not understand?

  Byren watched sweat bead on the mystic master's face, noting that his breath had slowed until he seemed to have stopped breathing all together. Byren had not been born with Affinity like Fyn, b
ut he had become attuned to it and he could feel a building oppression now. Something was wrong.

  'Orrie?'

  His friend did not hesitate, hurrying to kneel at his side.

  Byren snapped his fingers in front of the master's blank eyes. Nothing. Not even a blink. He remained rigid, hands clasped on his knees.

  'Maybe a renegade Power-worker's got him.' Florin voiced the fear they all shared as she came closer.

  Byren looked to his friend. 'Can you help him, Orrie?'

  'If a renegade Power-worker does have him and I touch him, it'll claim me too.'

  Florin said nothing. She already knew about Orrade's Affinity. He'd revealed his vision of Byren bleeding in the seep so she could guide them there.

  Byren understood Orrade's hesitation. Even he, with just an awareness of Affinity, struggled against the oppressive, unseen force.

  'Byren?' Florin turned to him.

  'Ever since I lay in the seep…' He did not go on, ending with a shrug. The flickering lamplight made their eyes glisten. He looked for condemnation but did not find it in Florin's gaze.

  'I guess that leaves me,' she muttered, kneeling in front of the mystic master. 'Hey?' She prodded his chest. 'Hey, master monk, wake up.'

  Nothing.

  Florin bit her lip. 'I don't think I can reach him.'

  Head thumping with tension, Byren did the only thing he could think of. He jabbed the master's hand with his dagger, not holding back. Blood flowed from the broken skin.

  Luckily, pain did the trick.

  With a shuddering breath, Catillum collapsed. Byren caught him.

  'Remind me not to ask for your help,' Orrade muttered.

  'It worked, didn't it?' Florin countered, pulling a kerchief from her pocket and wrapping it around the mystic's bleeding hand.

  'I was desperate,' Byren admitted.

  'And desperate measures were called for,' Master Catillum whispered, his voice cracking. He tried to sit up and failed. Byren helped him. With a shaking hand, Catillum massaged the bridge of his nose.

  'What happened?' Byren asked. 'Did you reach Fyn?'

  The mystic's gaze strayed uneasily to the painted wall. 'No. Before I could, an enemy found me. A powerful renegade, with the taint of Mulcibar…' He shuddered and swallowed. 'He was searching for you, Byren. I held him off, but I couldn't get away. If you hadn't…' He lifted his injured hand. Blood had seeped through Florin's makeshift bandage.

  'I didn't know what else to do,' Byren admitted.

  'Brutal but effective. You saved me. Saved us all.'

  There was silence for a few heartbeats as they digested this.

  'Then you'd better not try to contact Fyn again,' Byren said.

  'I couldn't right now. Not for several days. I'm drained.' The mystics master grimaced as he pressed his injured hand to his chest. 'Fyn has no defences. I can only pray he won't try to use the Fate.'

  'Well.' Byren stood. Still no answers, and time was running out. He offered Master Catillum his hand, helping him to his feet. 'I thank you for trying.'

  Catillum swayed but stayed upright.

  'We can't stay here much longer,' Orrade said. 'What will you do?'

  Byren didn't answer, because he didn't know.

  'Come on.' He offered Catillum his arm. Florin collected the lamp and they headed back to the outer cavern, where they left Catillum with the monks.

  Florin walked Orrade and Byren outside to see them off, back to their cave.

  But before they could go, Leif came scampering to find them. 'Someone's come from Waterford. Lord Cobalt will be there by tomorrow evening.'

  'Cobalt?' Byren stiffened. This close?

  'Byren…' Orrade muttered. 'Don't fall for it. He's trying to draw you out.'

  'I know, but it's too good an opportunity to miss.'

  'If you go after him, I'm coming,' Florin insisted. 'I know Waterford and I know the foothills.'

  'Too risky.'

  'And living in the loyalist camp isn't?' Florin countered. 'You're too important to the loyalist cause, Byren. If you suspect a trap, you shouldn't risk yourself. Send Orrie.'

  'Yes, send me.'

  Byren shook his head. He'd already sent Garzik to his death and held Elina while she died. He wasn't losing Orrade. Besides…

  'You don't understand, Florin. I'm a king without a country. If I want the people of Rolencia to follow me, I must inspire them. Sitting safe up here in the caves while someone else risks their life to kill Cobalt will not win me their trust!'

  Chapter Eight

  Fyn sat on the window seat of the captain's cabin, trying hard to contain his resentment and frustration. Here he was, a prisoner, as far east of his homeland as he could be.

  Their ship had just entered the Ring Sea. Ostron Isle was actually two islands, a larger circle of steep peaks called Ostron Ring, with one break that led through towering headlands. On the inside the peaks sloped away more gently, down to the Ring Sea and Ostron Isle itself.

  As the Wyvern's Whelp sailed the Ring Sea, famous for its perfect blue-green shade, the water reflected the terraced slopes of the outer island, Ostron Ring.

  Ostron Isle was completely cultivated, dotted with pleasant villas and terraced fields. The Ostronites believed their inner island and city, with its boulevards and parks, was the most beautiful place in the known world. Watching these glide past, Fyn could almost agree.

  'How many days before we head out again, cap'n?' Jakulos asked. 'We're missing those fat Merofynian merchant ships full of Rolencian booty.'

  Fyn turned away from the windows.

  Jakulos had lathered Nefysto's face and now sharpened the razor on the strop. The captain's finest clothes were laid out on the bunk. Runt sat cross-legged on the floor polishing the captain's knee-high boots. Fyn suspected Nefysto was going to report to the elector's spymaster.

  Across the cabin, by the door, Bantam cleaned his nails with his dagger, saying nothing, watching everything.

  Nefysto caught Jakulos's hand as he went to scrape off the bristles. 'We're returning with a full hold and our lives, thanks to the little monk. Your share will be more than you would have earned in a lifetime serving the Merofynian navy. Why the urge to make more?'

  'There's a pretty lass I mean to marry, but not before I set myself up like an Ostronite noble.'

  'Is it the seamstress, the lace-maker or the hat-shop girl?' Bantam asked.

  Jakulos smiled and shook his head.

  Nefysto gave a shout of laughter. 'Well, Jaku? He has you there.'

  'I'm not about to bandy about the name of the lass I mean to marry.'

  'Then it's none of them,' Bantam said.

  Fyn felt a smile tug at his lips. He liked these men. He didn't want to have to kill them to escape.

  'So you're motivated by true love, Jaku?' Nefysto teased. He sent Fyn a sly glance. 'The little monk here is motivated by revenge.'

  Bantam returned his knife to his belt. 'And what's wrong with that?'

  Fyn watched the interplay, torn between curiosity and resentment.

  'What can one man, even an abbey trained warrior such as Fyn, achieve?' Nefysto said. 'Palatyne has gone back to Merofynia. Our monk could assassinate Cobalt but the Merofynians would just send another puppet ruler.'

  Nefysto was right, but Fyn did not intend to kill Cobalt. He'd promised to help his cousin find Byren so they could retake Rolencia.

  Byren did need allies. Even if Fyn could slip back into Rolencia and reach Cobalt without the Merofynians capturing him, his cousin was little better than a prisoner and his brother hid in the hills like a common brigand. Byren needed powerful allies.

  'There's the warlords of Rolencia,' Nefysto said, as though following Fyn's line of thought. 'The monk could call on them for help. But, knowing them, they'll sit back and see which way the wind blows. To really strike at Merofynia he needs a powerful ally.'

  'Like the elector?' Runt said, proving he was listening and learning.

  Nefysto's eyes smiled a
s Jakulos scraped his bristles off under his nose. Fyn waited.

  As Jakulos turned away to wipe lather off the blade, Nefysto answered. 'Normally, you'd be right, Runt. But the elector's health is failing and, until a new elector is chosen, Ostron Isle will make no new alliances. I was thinking of Mage Tsulamyth.'

  'A mage?' Bantam's tone echoed Fyn's feelings of distaste.

  'A desperate man must take allies where he can,' Nefysto said.

  Even living the life of a secluded acolyte, Fyn had heard rumours of the mage of Ostron Isle. He was said to be all-powerful and over two hundred years old. Obviously, stories put about to scare off other Power-workers. Even so…

  'According to the abbey mystics master, Tsulamyth is the most powerful living Affinity renegade,' Fyn said, choosing his words carefully. 'That makes him a very dangerous man.'

  'To his enemies, yes.' Nefysto smiled. 'The same is said of me. Besides,' he shrugged, 'whatever you may have heard, Tsulamyth is an honourable man. As the most powerful living mage he could rule the known world, but he sits on his island, collecting and breeding harmless abeilles.'

  The mage collected harmless butterflies? Well, not entirely harmless, no Affinity beast was. But the abeille was close to harmless. The Ostronites had adopted it as their symbol because they were both beautiful and industrious. An Affinity cousin to the bee, with the double wings of the butterfly, abeilles farmed the cinnamome trees for which Ostron Isle was famous, harvesting the pods and turning them into the fine powder. This cinnamon was prized across the known world for its restorative powers.

  'Done.' Jakulos stepped back with the razor and reached for a hand mirror.

  Nefysto wiped his chin, inspecting the big man's handiwork. 'A close shave. Now I'm fit to be seen by Ostronite society.'

  By mid-afternoon, the Wyvern's Whelp had docked and been unloaded before being moved to a dry dock, with the efficiency of a people dedicated to making money. The crew had dispersed, all but for Bantam and Jakulos, who escorted Fyn up the hill to a cinnamon-tea house where he would be their prisoner.

  It was the most beautiful city Fyn had seen. Because land was limited, the people built up. Seven storeys was not uncommon. It might have felt cramped but for the wide boulevards and palazzos. Every Ostronite took pride in their little piece of the island. Minuscule balconies were strung with washing and housed tubs filled with vegetables and flowers. Even the weather on Ostron Isle seemed kinder. There was a saying, Spring comes early to Ostron Isle.