The King's bastard

'You're riding to Cockatrice Spar, Lence?' Byren made it a question.

'Yes.' His twin slung travelling gear over the rail and stepped back to let the stable boys saddle his mount. Lence folded his arms and eyed Byren. 'I suppose you'll be escorting Garzik back to Dovecote Estate? Knowing you, you won't pass up the chance to see Elina.'

Byren struggled with the complexities of this. He could hardly reveal that he had been banned from the estate. This would raise too many questions. Lence was right, he should escort Garzik back to his home to honour the lad's bravery facing down the amfina.

Had everything been right between them, it would have delighted old Lord Dovecote. Byren was very tempted to slip onto the estate and find Elina, but she'd be just as likely to order the stable lads to throw him out. Maybe he should send the poem first then approach her, but what if the poem was intercepted?

Lence shifted impatiently and Byren glanced at him. His twin was being a dog in the manger. If Lence couldn't have Elina then he didn't want Byren to have her either. He fixed on Lence. 'Elina can never be yours, so what is it to you?'

Lence glared. 'Nothing, and don't you dare pity me. My decisions are all made for me. Who I'll marry, whether I claim my birthright or not!'

'What birthright?'

'Merofynia!'

Byren blinked. The stable lads went about their tasks, pretending not to hear. Brookfield and Dellton kept their heads down as they checked their horses' saddle girths. Only Cobalt glanced their way. Byren ignored him.

'I'm mother's first born,' Lence said, 'and she is the rightful heir to Merofynia, not her cousin. That makes me kingsheir, not this brat that they've betrothed me to. I should be ruler of Merofynia in my own right, able to choose who I marry!'

'But — '

'Don't bother. I know all their arguments. But no one asked me. Mother and father just gave up the rights to my inheritance!'

Byren did not know what to say. They'd been not quite thirteen when King Sefon was killed. Too young to understand the significance of their parents' decisions. He'd never given it another thought. 'But — '

'Forget it.' Lence strode over to his horse. 'Come on, Illien.'

Byren stood aside, while Lence led his horse outside into the stable courtyard to mount up. Byren followed, watching as the rest of Lence's party took to their mounts.

His twin headed towards the archway first, with Brookfield and Dellton next, then Cobalt. Not by so much as a quirk of his lips did Illien betray his feelings as he urged his horse past Byren. But Byren could stand it no longer. He grabbed the saddle's pommel. The stable boys had retreated, they were alone. 'You've been putting ideas in Lence's head.'

Cobalt's lips pulled back from his teeth in a smile that did not reach his eyes. 'Nothing that isn't justified, kingson.' His clever black gaze fixed on Byren. 'Ask yourself this, if Lence claimed Merofynia, who would rule Rolencia?'

It took Byren a moment to grasp the implications. 'But I don't want to rule Rolencia!'

Cobalt snorted. 'Then why do you try to outshine Lence at every opportunity?'

He kicked the horse's ribs and the beast plunged past Byren, through the archway into the next courtyard. Byren watched them go, stunned by what he had learnt, but also oddly relieved, for he had begun to understand what had driven him and Lence apart. It wasn't anything he had done but, conversely, it wasn't anything he could fix. Lence had finally found a grievance he felt was justified.

As for Byren, he could avoid Elina — had no choice but to avoid her — but that would hardly satisfy Lence. Briefly, he considered asking their mother's advice, but Cobalt seemed to be her blind spot. Everything came back to Illien, son of the King's bastard.

Byren had to handle this himself.

Fyn and Feldspar knelt to scrub the floor of the mystics' inner sanctum where Halcyon's sacred lamp burned eternally. Actually it had burnt for the last three hundred years, ever since King Rolence the First gave thanks for his victory and gifted the mountain to the abbey. Other equally precious relics stood in niches around the walls. One row consisted entirely of sorbt stones. The mystics had shaped them so that they sat linked, one on the other, in pairs. Their pearly surfaces glistened as if alive. Communing, it was whispered by mystics in training.

Fyn and Feldspar would not begin training until after spring cusp. For now they had been assigned to serve the mystics branch, which meant they were given all the dirtiest tasks. But it was better than serving the livestock master. Galestorm and his friends were still reporting to him each morning as part of their penance. No one liked the bullies and their past victims made no secret of the fact that they were glad to see them mucking out stables and shovelling chicken manure for the gardens. Personally, Fyn saw nothing wrong with caring for animals. He would count himself lucky if he was able to get work as a stableboy, when he ran away from the abbey. Still, he was careful never to go anywhere alone.

'…looking for Fyn Kingson,' a voice said.

Fyn glanced up as Joff came to the sanctum's entrance.

Farmer Overhill's son now wore the ochre boys' robe and his hair was pulled back in a single plait. He gave the proper bow of a boy to an acolyte. 'Master Wintertide sent me to fetch you, Fyn. He wants to speak with you.'

So far, Fyn had avoided his old master, but he couldn't avoid a direct summons. The boys master was sure to quiz him about finding the Fate and he didn't want to lie. Tension coiled through him as he stood up. 'I'll have to clean up. I can't go to the master covered in dirt and suds.'

'Lucky you,' Feldspar muttered and went back to scrubbing, with a suffering expression on his long, narrow face.

Fyn grinned and glanced to the other youth, who was still waiting.

'Master Wintertide said I was to escort you,' Joff explained diffidently.

Fyn shrugged, heading up the central stairs to the acolytes' chambers, where he had a quick wash and put on a fresh saffron robe and brown knitted leggings, tying off the straps on his ankle boots.

'How are you settling in?' he asked Joff.

'It's not so bad. Wintertide's fair.'

'Yes, there's not many like him,' Fyn agreed. That was why he felt he owed his old master nothing less than the truth. But to save Piro he would lie to the man, who had been like a father to him.

'Ready?' Joff asked.

Fyn nodded, sick at heart, and came to his feet.

They entered the corridor, almost colliding with Lonepine, who had been assigned to laundry duties. He side stepped them, spilling an armload of clean saffron robes.

'Sorry,' Fyn said. Joff echoed him. They both knelt to pick up the robes, returning them to the basket.

Lonepine thanked them. 'Don't know why the acolytes master doesn't assign me to serve Oakstand. I'd rather sharpen swords than sort clothes.'

Fyn snorted. 'Be grateful you're not mucking out the stables!'

Lonepine grinned.

Fyn straightened up, sure the acolytes master was aware of Lonepine's preference and was punishing him because he was Fyn's friend. Guilt seared Fyn. 'See you later.'

He and Joff headed down the corridor towards the stairs to the boys' wing. Two landings below they had to step aside to let a monk past — Beartooth carrying a bucket of kitchen swill for the pigs.

Not wanting to rub salt in the wound, Fyn quickly looked away. But not before he registered Beartooth's glare of pure hatred.

When they were out of hearing range, Joff muttered, 'I'm glad I'm not a kingson.'

As they stepped into the boys' corridor Fyn wondered if Galestorm and his friends hated him because of what he was, not who he was. It had never occurred to him before and was, oddly enough, a relief.