The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,55
location. Feldspar had excellent Affinity.
'Strange,' he whispered, 'I can't seem to -'
The crack of wood striking wood interrupted him. Fyn ran over a rise into a grove of winter-bare trees. Through the mottled silver trunks he saw Hawkwing and Lonepine circling each other in a clearing.
'I'll take care of Hawkwing. You two go on,' Lonepine ordered.
'Ha. You'll be eating snow before me!' Hawkwing sneered and leapt to the attack.
As they fought furiously, Fyn turned to Feldspar. 'You lead.'
'I don't know what's wrong. I can't sense a thing,' the tall acolyte confessed. He frowned, trying to discover the Fate. Meanwhile, in the clearing below a flurry of blows fell with dull thuds and grunts of effort.
'If you can't sense it, we'd better separate,' Fyn decided. This gave him a chance to find the Fate for himself. 'I'll take this side of the ruins. You take the other.'
Fyn nodded and ran off to his right, avoiding Hawkwing and Lonepine, who had stopped to catch their breaths. They leant on their staffs, panting in a way that would have been funny if they hadn't been so serious.
Stepping out of the trees into another clearing, Fyn shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow. Individual ice crystals gleamed like diamonds.
A grey stone obelisk stood before him. Topped by a cap of white crusty snow, it signalled the entrance to the ruins. Slowing down, he looked around for physical clues as to where the mystics master might have hidden Halcyon's Fate. His own Affinity was weak and if Feldspar couldn't sense the Fate, then Fyn would have to stumble over it before he felt its subtle tug. But he was a good tracker, so he looked for signs the master might have left last night. He was out of luck however. A light snowfall had hidden everything.
Fyn searched all the places he could think of, the forks of tree trunks, the mouths of statues, anywhere that might conceal a small, semiprecious stone on a silver chain.
Upwind of each statue, snow mounded into a heap while on the downwind side the wind had carved out hollows. It was both beautiful and eerie. Each statue depicted one of the god-touched beasts. He searched the statue of a leogryf, wings outspread, frozen in mid-attack, then a foenix with its head reared back, about to strike with its razor-sharp beak. Next he came to a wyvern. The sea dragon was poised to leap, again wings outspread. Then there was a cockatrice. Taller than a man with razor-sharp leg spurs, it had the tail of a serpent and could spit poison. The unistag had lost its horn. With the body of a horse and the head of a stag it was a graceful beast. Only the manticore was undamaged. Once its lion's body would have been painted blood-red. The paint had long since worn off but its tail of hard chitin still arched above its back, ready to strike. That barb carried deadly poison and could pierce armour.
Each statue was carved from white marble and each was mantled with fine snow, but none hid the Fate.
One small part of Fyn's mind whispered. Feldspar lied about not sensing the Fate. He wants to find it before you do.
But he knew Feldspar too well. If Fyn hadn't been so desperate to become a mystic, he would have been pleased to see his friend chosen.
Trudging through the knee-high snow, Fyn moved between a row of pillars, entering the roofless, ruined temple which stood in the centre of the island. Feldspar was already there, his saffron thigh-length robe bright against the snow. The thin acolyte's plait, which grew from the crown of his head, swung over his shoulder as he spun to face Fyn. He'd lost his cap and his shaven skull gleamed in the sunlight. A band of tattoos circled his head like a crown, each symbol represented a subject or a skill mastered.
'Did you find the Fate?' Feldspar demanded.
'No. You?'
'I can't sense it at all. I don't know what's wrong.'
They could hear the shouts of other acolytes now, beginning their search. Frustration filled Fyn.
'Keep looking,' he urged.
Feldspar nodded and plunged off to continue the search. Fyn headed towards the right side of the island with renewed urgency. The others must not beat him to Halcyon's Fate.
Ploughing through the snow, he was glad he knew this part of the island well. He'd come here with Piro last Midsummer to paint and practise the abbey's martial arts.