Rowena Daniells - The uncrowned King

Even so, she eased the knife down until its hilt rested in the palm of her hand.

All the small hairs on her body rose as the king's severed finger crawled slowly across Rolencia. Her father had been a hard worker and a fighter all his life and his hands reflected this. The work-blunted nail came to rest, pointing to Rolenton. Or to Piro who was directly in line with it, behind Dunstany.

'Ha!' Palatyne said. 'It points to Rolenton where all the king's ancestors are buried. Your focus is not refined enough, Utlander.'

Piro let her breath out slowly and eased her grip on the knife hilt, returning it to its hiding place.

'I quested for Rolen's blood kin!' the Utlander insisted. 'Rolen's children are half-Merofynian. It points to you, Lord Dunstany. You are confusing the power because you are related to the old royal line of Merofynia through their mother's great, great aunt.'

'Enough talking! I want the kingson dead,' Palatyne ground out. 'The way you Power-workers snipe and snap at each other, I swear you are more of a hindrance than a help.'

'Overlord.' Lord Dunstany gave him a smile of apology. 'Let me try.'

The Utlander sneered but watched closely, his eyes shrouded beneath bristling brows as Dunstany pressed his finger tips to his temples and closed his eyes.

This time Piro did not feel a sense of oppression. The back of her neck tingled and she felt as if she was slowly rising through the roof of her skull. She lifted higher until she hung over the table, looking down on the three men and herself.

Then she was arrowing out across Rolencia, searching.

While rolling over in his sleep, Fyn felt something burn his chest. He sprang up, pulling the Fate from its resting place under his jerkin. The opal glowed with Affinity.

Fascinated and fearful, Fyn opened his mind to greet the mystics master. But it was a stranger, a presence which winged across Rolencia searching for something. It had to be a renegade Power-worker.

Even as he thought this, an image took form in his mind, the castle hunt-master with a bloodhound on leash, sniffing out a trail. Searching… for who or what?

The Fate? It called those with Affinity.

Fyn fought panic. He was no mystic. Without the mystics master to aid him, how could he do battle? He had to hide his presence. He concentrated on cloaking himself, and taking no action that would give him away.

The renegade Power-worker, however, did not seem to notice that Fyn had been swept along with him as he let his bloodhound follow the trail. He swooped over the starlit, snow-mantled land. The chantries and oratories in various villages glowed, but he ignored them until a Sylion oratory drew them down through the thatched roof of its residence, into the only bedroom.

A man lay there, on his side, his face turned away to the wall. With Unseen sight Fyn could see a miasma of grief and guilt radiating from him, but his actual features were blurred. Fyn's instinct was to try to help the grieving man, but he dare not do anything that might attract the Power-worker's attention, so he held back.

Beside the man knelt a veiled healer. She did not glow with power — her Affinity was only mild. She would heal with herbs, stitching and encouragement. Right now, she was bathing the blood from the man's ribs. The wound was revealed, an ugly, puckered knot of flesh.

He felt the nun's surprise. Fresh blood on an old wound. Days old.

Then where did the blood come from?

What did all this mean? Why had he been swept along in the Power-worker's search?

One thing was clear to Fyn, the nun could not heal the injury to the man's soul and, if that wasn't dealt with, he would not have the will to heal his body. Fyn could feel him relinquishing his hold on this mortal plane. It would only take a fever to carry him off. Fyn had to risk helping him.

On the Unseen plane he had no physical body, yet he reached out for the man's wounded essence. Contact stunned him. It was Byren, and his heart was broken, his sense of self destroyed.

It was too much, more than Fyn could stand.

Another presence pierced his awareness. With a heart-juddering start, Fyn realised he had betrayed himself.

For an instant the Power-worker was too startled to react, then he stretched out a questing tendril into Fyn, who wrenched himself away. Nausea coiled in his belly as he fell, spiralling down… down, down into his body.

Re-entering his corporeal form was like a kick in the stomach. It stole his breath and left him gasping. He found himself lying in the snow-cave, the Fate clutched in his hand, frozen tears on his cheeks. Fyn struggled to his knees and dry-retched. Pinpricks of light danced in his vision. It was a good eight heartbeats before his sight cleared.

He felt physically drained, but he had escaped the Power-worker and that amazed him. He studied the Fate. Its dim opal surface gave no hint of the power it contained. To think, he could be captured while he slept and dragged on a journey. Truly this Fate was a tricky tool to use. And there was no chance of training, now that he no longer served the mystics master.

Fingers trembling, he tucked the Fate inside his jerkin, wondering what to do next.

He was both relieved and worried to learn that Byren lay injured in a farmer's cottage, wounded physically and mentally. The impact of his brother's heartbreak still weighed on Fyn. Lence must be dead. Only his twin's death would be so devastating for Byren.

Lence dead… why did he feel only relief?

Unable to sit still, Fyn broke out of his snow-cave and shook himself.

Byren was not dead, but he was close to death and the Merofynian Power-worker knew where he was. That is, if he recognised him. Physical features did not hold shape on the Unseen plane, it was a person's essence that gave him form. How would someone who had never known Byren recognise him?

Fyn could only hope the Power-worker had not recognised either of them.

Wide awake now, he was ready to skate through the night. His father had to be told that an evil Power-worker roamed Rolencia using Affinity paths. If the king sent to Sylion Abbey for the mystics mistress, she would know what to do. She would be able to locate Byren and help him.

Fyn must reach Rolenhold and warn his father. Thank Halcyon Piro was safe in the castle.

Piro pushed helping hands away and sat up, surprised to find herself lying on the floor with the noble scholar kneeling over her. She grabbed her rabbit-skin cap, which had fallen off, and pulled it down low over her ears. The last thing she wanted was to attract the overlord's attention but that was exactly what she had done.

'What's wrong with your slave?' Palatyne demanded as Dunstany helped her to her feet.

'She has not eaten since breakfast.' He gave her a push towards the door. 'Foolish child, go to the kitchen and ask Cook for a meal.'

Grateful for the reprieve, Piro headed for the door.

'What happened, Utlander?' asked Palatyne.

'Dunstany left his body for several heartbeats — '

Piro remembered the floating sensation and realised she had been carried along by the Power-worker's Affinity. She wanted to stay and learn more, but she had to obey Dunstany.

Opening the door, she found Cook, Soterro and Grysha, all listening in the short hall. They made no apology and they each held a mug brimming with Rolencian red wine. The cook shoved her aside as the door swung shut and they craned to hear what was being said in the next room. Piro stood just behind them, listening unashamedly.

'Well, Dunstany, what did you learn?' Palatyne prodded, his deep voice carrying through the closed door.

'It was hard to tell. The Unseen plane is not like ours. Things appear — '

'No excuses. What did you see?' Palatyne demanded.