The King Rolen's Kin: The Uncrowned King - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,7

were six, but experienced warriors would cut them down like chaff. Besides, the best weapons had gone with the warriors, which meant the abbey's defenders would have to make do with blunted practice swords.

Furious, he signalled for silence. The acolytes obeyed, watching him expectantly, hopefully. Who was he to decide who lived and died? Who had elected him their leader?

'I need the youngest acolytes to go down to the sanctum where they can protect the boys and Halcyon's Sacred Flame. Can you do that?'

Put that way, they nodded and ran off. He only hoped they reached the sanctum in time. 'The rest of you come with me.'

Down one flight of stairs and along the corridor, Fyn flung open the armoury, hung the lantern high on a hook and began handing out padded chest protectors, swords, long knives and pikes, whatever he could find.

'I don't understand,' a youth muttered, 'the abbeys have always been sanctuaries in time of war. Why would the Merofynians attack us?'

'Booty,' Fyn guessed. 'Both the abbeys contain great wealth, gold icons, jewelled chests -'

'Fyn?' The abbot hurried in, with half a dozen elderly monks. Hawkwing brushed past Fyn, intent on grabbing a weapon.

'Abbot.' Fyn gave an abbreviated bow. 'The message from Father was a fake. The foenix was too small to be the king's seal.'

The abbot winced. 'You're sure?'

Fyn nodded.

'The attack on the abbey is all the proof we need,' muttered Sunseed, the gardens master. Gnarled hands that had nurtured delicate seedlings strapped on a sword belt with equal efficiency. 'So, our warriors were lured into an ambush?'

'When the real target was the abbey,' Fyn agreed.

'Clever!' Old, half-blind Silverlode buckled a chest plate by feel.

'What of the boys?' the abbot whispered. 'We must protect the little ones.'

'Feldspar's taken them down to the mystics' inner sanctum,' Fyn said. 'It's big enough for all of them and the doors lock from the inside.'

'Well done, Fyn.'

'Abbot?' Hawkwing shuffled to the front of about forty lads of fifteen and sixteen. 'We're ready.'

'Good. Now listen. Their Power-workers must not steal our sorbt stones,' the abbot announced.

Fyn cursed under his breath. Of course. The stones held power drained from Affinity seeps. In the wrong hands...

'We should have destroyed the stones!'

'Power is like fire, it is only a tool. Evil is in the heart of the ones who wield it,' the abbot told him. 'They'll be heading for the great stairs -'

'To the stairs!' Hawkwing yelled and charged out the door and down the corridor, followed by eager shouting acolytes.

'There goes the element of surprise,' old Silverlode muttered, then ran after them.

Fyn was drawn along in the mad rush. He quickly outstripped the old monks.

Like the spine of a great animal, the abbey was united by the great spiral stairs, which connected the mystics' inner sanctum far below to the libraries and offices of the abbot far above. Between them lay seven floors containing the workshops, the kitchen, the bathing chambers and dormitories.

When Fyn reached the stairwell, the youths were milling on the large landing, whispering excitedly.

'Quiet!' Fyn warned. 'Quiet!'

At his order they fell silent. Far below, the rapid tattoo of running boots echoed in the stairwell, getting further and further away.

Fyn cursed just as the abbot and the old monks joined them. 'We're too late. They've sent scouts down to the inner sanctum.'

The abbot turned to the gardens master. 'Hold the stairs, Sunseed. Fyn, come with me.'

Piro had been in hiding since Illien of Cobalt had turned her father against her. As lord protector of the castle Cobalt had ordered her arrested, but she still had friends. And so she waited in the scullery for the cook to bring her food. For years she had been coming to the kitchens to collect the special meals prepared for her pet foenix. Now she was living on scraps and dressed in a maid's pinafore stolen from the laundry.

Rolenhold Castle was home to six hundred people. And Piro knew each one, from the lowliest stable lad to the lord protector. Tonight all those people had been fed and the last pots from the last meal of the day had been polished and hung on their hooks, gleaming in the light of the kitchen's remaining lamp. Like the kitchen boys and girls who slept under the tables, Piro was terribly tired. Soon she would slip into Halcyon's chantry and crawl behind the nave to snatch some rest. So far she had chosen a different sleeping place each night.

The spit-turners had crept off to their bed bundles and