arrival of the lantern came full dark.
'Well?' the weapons master demanded. 'The others have all returned to the abbey.'
'I wasn't watching my feet, Master Oakstand,' Fyn said, knowing he sounded foolish. 'I...' He was about to mention the old woman, but was surprised to find that he could not speak of her. When he tried his tongue grew thick and clumsy in his mouth. He swallowed and the sensation passed, but he suspected it would return.
'Eh, well, come on then.' The burly master led him through the snow and Fyn found he was only a few steps off the path.
They trudged up the hill in silence for a bit, then the weapons master slowed, his heavy eyebrows drawing together.
Fyn waited expectantly. Their lantern failed to illuminate the great looming towers of the pine trees that stood silhouetted against the froth of sparkling stars. Twilight seemed to have passed abruptly, something to do with the seer, Fyn guessed. He wondered if she was out there even now, watching them. He should denounce her but he couldn't, not when she seemed so frail and sick, not when she had a ring of dirt under her neck. He had never visualised a renegade Power-worker like that. Evil, perhaps... but not vulnerable.
Fyn glanced to the weapons master. Oakstand's scar from the last great battle with Merofynia reminded him that his mother had been betrothed to his father as part of the peace. Strange to think of Queen Myrella as a child, leaving her home in Merofynia to come and live in Rolencia, and his father waiting seven years for her to grow up. For the first time, Fyn wondered if the eight-year-old Myrella had felt as homesick as he had, when his parents sent him to the abbey at six years of age. It was not as if either of them had had any choice.
'They'll run the race for Halcyon's Fate on Midwinter's Day,' the weapons master said abruptly.
Fyn had to collect his thoughts. He nodded. 'The Proving.'
'Wanted to get this said before the race, Fyn. You're small, but winning's not about brute force, it's about strategy. You've got a good head on your shoulders.'
Fyn could see where this was going, and his stomach churned. His father expected that Fyn would eventually become weapons master, leader of the elite band of warrior monks, able to support Lence, when he became king. But...
The weapons master grinned. 'I'm offering you a place in the ranks of my elite warrior monks. Who knows. I've got plenty of fine warriors, but it's thinkers I need to train as leaders.'
Fyn's heart raced. This was everything his father had hoped for him and for the future of Rolencia. But... 'I can't do it.'
'What?' The weapons master looked stunned.
Fyn felt equally surprised. 'I'm sorry. I'd be the joke of the abbey.' Heat raced up his cheeks. All he wanted to do was run to Master Wintertide and ask his advice. 'Surely you've heard what they're calling me. Coward, snivelling -'
'Hold up. Is this about that time with Hawkwing?'
Fyn nodded miserably. 'I fainted when his finger was cut off.'
Oakstand laughed. 'The moment I turn my back to take a leak, you acolytes chop each other up. Teach you to be more careful next time!' He sobered, sharp eyes on Fyn. 'Now, as I remember it, you held his finger in place until the healers came while everyone else panicked.'
'He still lost most of his finger and I fainted.' Fyn felt the master wasn't taking this seriously. He'd suffered enough jibes since then to make his life miserable.
'True, but you fainted after the healers took him away.' The weapons master grinned. 'So what if he lost his finger? What's a man without a few scars?'
Fyn shook his head miserably. 'It's just -'
'Enough, lad.' Master Oakstand placed a hand on Fyn's shoulder and began to stride up the rise towards the gates, which were just around the next bend. 'You don't have to give me your answer right now. Think on it. Three of the last ten abbots came from my branch. Come on. Let's get inside before we freeze our balls off.'
Fyn had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the master. Oakstand was right, the role of weapons master was a step towards becoming abbot. Halcyon's fighting monks had earned their reputation through years of conflict. But that was in the brutal past. They were living in a new, more civilised age of study and prosperity.
As Fyn walked through the abbey's