Rowena Daniells - The King's bastard

He debated whether to walk to the front of the column.

Thwang.

The unmistakable sound of an arrow cutting the air made everyone duck instinctively. There was a clatter as the arrow skittered off the rocks ahead. The pony behind him whinnied, reacting to their fear.

'That's far enough,' a voice called. It sounded like a girl, or a boy whose voice hadn't broken. 'The next one won't miss.'

The man behind Byren muttered, 'Impudent whelp. Let me teach him a lesson, kingson.'

That was how things started, threats and counter-threats, and soon someone was dead.

Byren found a laugh. 'No. This one is mine.' He picked his way around the stretcher and horse, passing Orrade.

'Don't get yourself killed, Byren. Who'll carry the stretcher?'

He grinned as he edged along the path, past the men and pack ponies, until he came to Temor, who was stood with his hand on his sword hilt, back pressed to a rock wall.

'Up there,' Temor whispered, nodding to a ledge on the right which overlooked this part of the path.

'How many?'

'Don't know.'

'Turn around and go back,' the youngster ordered. 'Unistag Spar is closed to all merchants.'

'Do we look like merchants?' Byren asked, then laughed. 'Is this any way to greet King Rolen's delegate?'

There was silence. Good, he had them on the back foot.

'Well, where's my escort?' Byren demanded. 'I am Byren Rolen Kingson and I am here to meet the warlord of Unistag Spar.'

There were muffled mutters, then a boy of about twelve stepped out from behind a bend on the path to their left. They had them pinned.

'Are you the Byren who killed the leogryf with a hunting knife?' he asked.

Temor grinned. 'Everyone's heard of your leogryf slaying.'

'I told you it was true!' the boy yelled back to the person on the ledge.

A girl jumped down to join him. Byren was a little surprised to find two youngsters watching the pass. Still, it was midwinter, not generally a time for raids, and the warlord had left the amfina to guard the pass, so these two were only backup.

'You did not,' the girl countered. 'You said — '

'Enough!' Byren barked. The youngsters fell silent, responding to the voice of authority. 'Does the old warlord still live?'

'He died ten days ago.'

'Take me to the new warlord.'

The children exchanged glances. They were alike enough to be brother and sister.

'We'll take you to Lady Unace,' the girl announced. She was probably older by a year.

'Does she have a healer?' Byren asked.

They nodded.

'Good. The sooner we get there the better.'

Byren sent a man back to carry the stretcher, then continued on with the children. Happy to oblige, the youngsters fell into step with him, chattering away. According to them, when the old warlord died his nephew, Steerden, had taken the Stronghold, murdered all his rivals and claimed the spar.

This left only Lady Unace, and her infant son who had been smuggled out to safety.

'She's camped outside the stronghold now,' the boy explained.

'With all the warriors who served her brothers. The ones who escaped the castle,' the girl added. 'Lord Steerden can't get out and she can't get in.'

Great, Byren thought. I'm walking into a stalemate with two dozen men, an injured youth and no real authority.

If he was killed, his father and brother would seek revenge. But revenge did him no good if he was dead.

Fyn was given some bread and watered wine at around mid-morning. He tried to make it last, but he had been smelling the buttered mushrooms, eggs and beans cooking on the floor below since dawn and his stomach rumbled in protest.

That had been hours ago. Now only a thin arrow of natural light filtered through to this inner chamber. He could tell by the colour and the way it was creeping up the wall, soon to disappear altogether, that it was past midday and still no one had come for him.

No. He mustn't think like that. He was innocent and he would prove it, somehow. His head ached because, try as he might, he couldn't see how Masters Hotpool and Firefox benefited from his disgrace. Galestorm's motivation was easy to see. For some reason this youth had always hated him.

If the ruling went against Fyn, the abbot would have two choices, cast him out or make him serve some sort of penance. If he was banished from the abbey he would be exiled from Rolencia because of his Affinity. The injustice of it made him pace from one end of his prison to the other. He was innocent, but how could he prove it?

When they came for him it was just before the evening prayer bell and he'd given up pacing, choosing instead to sit and meditate. The time elapsed made him wonder what had been going on behind the scenes. Had the history master made some sort of deal with the abbot?

The accusation must have undermined his chances of being accepted into any branch of the abbey. Before this, he had been worried which one to choose. Now he would be lucky if any of the masters accepted him.

His cell door swung open to reveal Feldspar and Lonepine. Feldspar looked worried, but then he always did.

Lonepine gave Fyn a wry grin. 'We're your escorts. We've offered to vouch for your character.'

But they were only acolytes and he'd been accused by four monks.

'Thanks.' Fyn's voice cracked from lack of use. He stood up and stretched. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd been in last night and he felt strangely distanced.

'Don't worry, Fyn. The abbot is a fair man,' Feldspar assured him.

Fyn nodded once. He just wanted to get this over with.

The walk to the abbot's chamber seemed to take forever. His knees felt weak. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself and fall flat on his face when he went down the steps.

The official greeting chamber was where the abbot met representatives when he wanted to impress them. Before today, Fyn had only been inside to polish the brass work and mop the floor mosaics. In niches around the room were statues of Halcyon, some dating from the earliest times. They ranged from crude stone effigies which showed her big with child, to a recent gold statuette from Ostron Isle which portrayed her as a young woman on the verge of womanhood, for Halcyon was the child-woman, the pregnant mother and the crone.

Under the greeting chamber's central dome was a flat circle then a series of concentric shallow steps so the chamber became a theatre in the round.

Fyn's friends escorted him to a spot opposite the abbot and then retreated to join a group of monks who had to be the other witnesses, some ready to vouch for his character, others ready to assassinate it. Galestorm sent him a stern look in keeping with the formality of the chamber, but there was a glint of malice in his eyes. It was clear he believed, with Fyn disgraced, the path to mastership and eventually the abbot's position would be open to him.

Had his future been so decided? Fyn hadn't thought so, but then perhaps he'd been naive. He caught Master Hotpool watching him and looked away quickly. What if all the other masters refused to take him and he was left with only Hotpool's offer? He'd have to serve the history master. Was that why he and Master Firefox had done this?

Panic threatened, making Fyn's stomach churn with nausea. He didn't want to be in Hotpool's power.

His gaze flew to Master Wintertide. Was there any hope? His old master's mouth remained immobile, but his deep-set eyes smiled and Fyn felt a little better. Like all the other masters, Wintertide knelt on a cushion on the fourth stone step so that Fyn faced a semicircle of masters, their heads one step above his.

The abbot nodded to the clerics master, who cleared his throat and read from a scroll. Another cleric waited with a scriber, ink and paper to take notes. A record of this hearing would go into the abbey's great archives. One day it would be dry, dusty history. Right now Fyn's heart hammered and his palms felt sweaty.