renounce his place in the succession and return his foenix emblem. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Monks were supposed to sever all ties with the material world, but he was still tied to Rolenhold.
Byren tucked Fyn's sigil inside his chest protector. 'I've always thought it unfair that you were gifted to the abbey. Lence and I have had all the fun while you've been studying dry old histories since you were six!'
Fyn wasn't about to admit that he found the dry old histories fascinating, besides Byren's idea of fun was leading raids against the warlords or tracking Affinity beasts.
'It's not so bad. Master Wintertide says we all serve Rolencia in our own way,' Fyn muttered, his mind on the task ahead. He hung his skates over his shoulder. Now that the race was about to start his mouth felt dry and his stomach tense. Other years he had laughed along with the townsfolk when the acolytes knocked each other flying, skidding across the ice like court jesters. 'I just hope I don't make an idiot of myself.'
'Make the other acolytes eat ice!' Byren gave Fyn a friendly thump on the arm. 'Now go out there and do father proud. I'll be cheering you on!'
Fyn looked up at his brother. Of all his family, only Byren had bothered to come to wish him luck. He opened his mouth to thank him, but his brother gave him a bone-crushing hug and headed for the tent flap.
Just before he got there he thumped the heel of his hand to his forehead and turned back. 'Freezing Sylion! I almost forgot. Come straight to the bell tower when you get back. Father has a big announcement to make.'
'What is it?'
'Can't say.' Byren winked, black eyes gleaming roguishly as he slipped out of the tent. He wasn't as handsome as Lence, but his slightly crooked grin was somehow more charming. No wonder the girls whispered like a flock of excited birds when he walked past.
Fyn wondered what his father was planning, then put it out of his head. King Rolen had made it clear his third son's future was not with the royal family. And that was what today was all about, proving himself to the mystics master.
Turning the staff over and over, Fyn changed hands and passed it behind his body without breaking momentum. The quarterstaff spun so fast it was a blur. He was good with weapons. He should be, he'd practised long and hard. But his heart wasn't in weapons training, that was why Lonepine always beat him. One day his friend would be weapons master, not him.
Time to go.
Fyn took a deep breath, smelling the pine resin from the cones that burned in the tent's brass stove and the linament the other acolytes had used on old bruises. He stepped outside into the brilliant, but distant white sunlight of Midwinter's Day. The tent flags hung limp in the still, frosty air. Last night's snowfall had been shovelled aside into waist-high drifts revealing the cobbled streets of Rolenton wharfside.
He caught himself looking around for Piro, unable to believe she had forgotten. Only she knew how important this was to him. He was surprised and hurt, and just a little worried. Piro was nothing if not loyal. Why hadn't she come to wish him luck?
He hoped she was all right.
Fyn smiled to himself. Piro could take care of herself. She could always use one of the tricks he'd taught her and, if that didn't work, knowing Piro she'd talk her way out of trouble. Besides, who would dare hurt King Rolen's only daughter?
The upper wharves were nearly deserted. Down on the lakeside wharf most of the acolytes and monks waited. Dressed in the Goddess Halcyon's earthy colours, browns, olive-greens and burnt orange, they looked like scattered autumn leaves. Only the abbot wore the red of Halcyon's fiery heart, with a circular torque inset with lapis lazuli, a sign of his office.
The abbess of Sylion and her nuns were clustered at the other end. In their robes of blue, aqua and grey they looked like a patch of shifting shadow on snow, a reflection of the cruel god of winter. The abbess stood out, dressed in pure white, wearing a torque inset with blood-red cornelian stones. Later tonight, at the midwinter feast, she would symbolically hand over Rolencia to the abbot. The days would soon grow longer and Sylion would relinquish his grasp on their valley kingdom.
As for the people of Rolenton,