Rowena Daniells - The uncrowned King

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.

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?