The King's Bastard (3 page)

Shoving the stones into his belt pouch, Byren went to rise, turning to face the lincis at the same time. One snow shoe twisted, obstructing the other. Heart thudding, he struggled to free the snow shoe, snapping the thongs that held his right boot in place. Standing at last, he glanced up to check on the beast.

About two body lengths down the slope, the lincis confronted them, hackles raised. Oh, but it was a beauty. The silvery fur made it hard to see against the twilit snow. Lence would have killed it for its coat alone, but Byren was content with the stones.

Unfortunately the lincis was not. A low, warning rumble came from deep in its chest, making its muzzle pull back from its teeth.

Byren swore softly. Too late to put the lincurium back, too late to climb a tree, too late to do anything but bluff.

With the speed and economy of long practice, Orrade stepped in front of Byren, reaching behind his shoulder for an arrow. His arm hit one of the dead tree's low-hanging branches, triggering a fall of snow and a terrible screech as if the dead tree itself was protesting. Before Byren could yell a warning, a large branch split from the trunk. Byren watched it swing for Orrade, gathering momentum as it fell, striking the back of his head below his right ear with a sickening crunch. His friend toppled into the snow, pinned under the branch between Byren and the beast.

The lincis sprang back startled by the noise, but it grew bold when it smelt the fresh blood from Orrade's head wound.

Byren's mouth went dry with fear.

Instinct told him if he lowered his guard to collect his bow and string it the lincis would attack Orrade, so he raised his hunting knife, eyeing the beast. The knife was an in-close weapon. No one in their right mind would tackle a lincis with only a hunting knife but all he wanted to do was scare it.

He leaped over Orrade and the fallen branch, roaring.

It might have been enough but, as he landed, his right boot, with no snow shoe to cushion it, went through the crust. Combined weight and momentum drove his leg down into thigh-deep snow, toppling him sideways. Hard to look menacing, when his head was level with the beast's. At least he was between it and his unconscious friend.

Desperate, he shoved his right hand out to lever himself up, only his hand went through the fractured crust plunging his arm deep into the snow. His right cheek stung as it slammed into the ice crystals. Rearing up, he twisted about trying to get purchase.

Meanwhile, the lincis padded back and forth a little more than a body length from him, broad paws barely denting the snow's crust, as it prepared to attack.

Stupid!
In a heartbeat the lincis would be on him, going for his throat and then Orrade would freeze to death, if the seep didn't attract some other beast to make a meal of him.

Taking the knife blade between his teeth, Byren lurched back, trying to scramble out of the hole he'd dug with his thrashing.

The beast yelped.

Byren looked up, startled, then stopped struggling to gape. The knife dropped from his mouth.

An old woman, draped in straggling furs, clipped the lincis over the nose with the end of her staff as if it was a greedy piglet. 'Pah. Be gone!'

Though it could have crushed her old bones with one blow, it whimpered and slunk off, tail between its legs.

'Thank the goddess!' Byren muttered.

Thwack.

The old woman's staff connected with his head. 'Thank me, not Halcyon. She gets more than enough credit!'

Byren grunted. With tears of pain stinging his eyes, he blinked and tried to focus on the old woman. Though she looked, and smelt, like she came from the savage Utland Isles, she'd spoken Rolencian with the accent of Merofynia and, besides, she was old enough to be his grandmother, so he owed her the veneration due her many winters. 'Forgive my -'

'Hisst. None of your mother's courtly airs, Byren Rolen Kingson, or should I say Byren Myrella Queenson?' Her clever black eyes fixed on him. 'Mark my words.' She dropped the staff and her body straightened, eyes rolling in her head until only the whites showed.

Byren sucked in his breath, teeth protesting at the sudden cold. He might not have Affinity, but he knew it when he saw it. She was a renegade Power-worker, outlawed by his father's royal decree. If discovered, banishment or death were her only choices.

The old woman lifted one arm to point at him, hand twisted with the bone-ache. He was pinned in the snow, helpless as a hare in a snare.

'Seven minutes younger than kingsheir, yet destined to be king. Blood, I see, your twin's blood on your hands -'

'No!' Byren shouted.

His cry broke her trance and she focused on him, eyes brilliantly black despite great age. Wheezing with the effort, she leant down to scoop up her staff, muttering. 'Pah. The boy thinks he knows better!'

Byren stiffened. He was no boy. He'd killed his first warrior at fifteen and he'd been leading raids against upstart warlords since he was seventeen.

Thwack.

The staff connected with his head.

'Hey!' he protested.

'Silence, and listen.
Boy
you are, and
boy
you'll be until you learn to lead your people along the right path. But what is right? Right by might? Right by law? Right by tradition? Or is right a matter of perception?'

He stared, unable to make sense of her babble. As if he couldn't tell right from wrong!

He shook himself.
First things first. Check on Orrade.

Byren leant back, grabbed the fallen branch and, with a determined wrench, hauled himself out of the snow pit, then shoved the branch off his friend. Kneeling, he rolled Orrade over, hardly registering the broken bow. His friend was unconscious, barely breathing. Blood from his head wound stained the snow, appearing almost black in the gathering gloom, and a pale fluid leaked from his eyes and nostrils.

Byren's stomach clenched. He'd seen enough men die from head wounds to know the signs. That pale fluid was bad.

'Always the same. Won't listen, can't see,' the old seer muttered. 'Waste of breath. I'll be off then. No, don't thank me...' Still mumbling, she turned her back on him.

'Wait,' he cried. Those with Affinity could sometimes heal. 'What about Orrie? Can you help him?'

She tilted her head like a curious bird. 'Your own father has outlawed renegade Power-workers. Why ask me?'

Byren brushed this aside. 'He's dying. I can't let him die.'

Her wrinkled face creased with a mixture of malicious spite and delight.

'Please,' he whispered.

That surprised her.

She hunkered down in the snow next to him, placing one grimy, clawed hand on Orrade's forehead. Byren watched anxiously as she concentrated, seeming to turn her focus inward, for several heart beats.

'He'll linger for a day or two then die,' she announced.

'But you can prevent that?'

She studied him. 'He won't be the same -'

'Doesn't matter. Uh...' Byren reconsidered. Affinity was tricky and those with it, doubly so. 'Do you mean he won't have his wits? Orrade would hate that. He'd rather die.'

'Oh, he'll still be your friend. But there'll be consequences if I use Affinity to -'

'Sylion take the consequences. I can't let him die.'

'What will you give me?' she countered.

He stared at her, shocked.

Her eyes narrowed. 'Do you expect me to help you out of the goodness of my heart?'

He nodded. 'I would.'

She laughed, then shook her head. 'You have a long way to go before you're ready to rule Rolencia. But perhaps -'

'So you'll do it?' he asked, concentrating on what was important. 'You'll save him?'

'I'll try. Good spot for a healing, plenty of raw power.' She replaced her hand on Orrade's forehead and her eyes glazed over. Sweat appeared on her top lip, popping up between the sparse silver hairs. Byren could see the effort required for healing, but he felt nothing as time stretched. It went on long enough for him to get a cramp in his foot. He massaged it surreptitiously.

'There.' She grunted with relief, sitting back on her heels to catch her breath. 'He'll pull through. But you'll need to get him somewhere warm to recover, and he'll never be the same.'

'Thank you, thank you!' Byren grabbed her shoulders, planting a smacking kiss on her papery cheek.

She stared at him, stunned, then smiled like a young girl.

He laughed and turned back to Orrade. 'Orrie, can y'hear me? Orrie?'

No answer. But his friend was breathing easier and Byren was sure his cheeks were a better colour already. He swung back to thank the old woman. 'You've done it, he's -'

She'd gone.

Chapter Two

Byren sat up on his heels, searching the hollow. No sign of the seer. In fact, with all the churned-up snow it was impossible to tell that she'd even been there. The dark must be playing tricks on his eyes but her disappearance had made things easier for him. If she had been an ordinary old woman, he would have been bound by the travellers' code to offer her shelter. Since she was a renegade Power-worker, he should have urged her to leave Rolencia.

He grinned. His instinctive fear of renegade Affinity had faded when she proved to be such a terrible seer. As if he'd ever turn on Lence!

She should have stuck to healing. Still smiling, he glanced down at Orrade. His friend was still out cold.

Too cold.

It would be ironic if Orrade caught a chest affliction and died despite the seer's help. Already the first bright stars winked above them in an oyster-shell sky, heralding a fine, extremely cold night. Byren checked Orrade's head wound, binding it with a strip of cloth. The wound had stopped bleeding, but there was too much fresh blood to stay here and, besides, the seep would draw Affinity beasts down from the Dividing Mountains.

Hastily, he rigged a strap for his broken snow shoe. If only the branch had struck Orrade a hand's breadth lower. Then it would have connected with his broad shoulders and done no more than knock him off his feet and maybe wind him. Bad luck.

Sylion's luck. But then it was nearly midwinter and that cold, cruel god had a firm grip on Rolencia.

He collected the spear, then took off his bow and arrow quiver, hefting Orrade onto his back. Now all he had to do was walk until he reached the village. He turned towards the rim where he could still see the passage of Winterfall's party on the silvery snow. Just as he set off, the deep ululating cry of an ulfr pack on the hunt echoed down from the bluffs behind the village. The direction suggested the pack were between him and safety.

'Freezing Sylion!' He adjusted Orrade's weight. The blood and the seep would attract the Affinity beasts. Ulfrs were related to timber wolves, though larger and more cunning than their mundane cousins.

Guilt lanced him, sharp as a blade. He shouldn't have delayed for the lincurium. Orrade must not suffer because of his stupid rivalry with Lence.

With its walls, the village would not need to fear the pack, and he trusted Winterfall had the sense not to send anyone out to help him until the seep was contained and the area made safe. This meant he was on his own, which made climbing a tree useless. He didn't want to be staked out by the pack. The further he went from the seep, the better. Affinity beasts hunted ordinary animals for food, but raw Affinity would draw them. Hopefully Affinity lust would win out over hunger. He had heard reports of the beasts rolling in a seep in a state of ecstasy, an image he found hard to visualise.

But which way should he go? If he travelled east he would be on Dovecote land. He cast his mind back to steamy summers when he and Orrade roamed the estate. He seemed to remember a fortified farmhouse near the foothills. If he walked all night he would get there by dawn.

Byren turned east.

Used to skating the winter canals, his long legs ate up the ground. Despite the cold he was soon sweating, and Orrade seemed to grow heavier with every step. His weapons became a burden but he could not discard them.

Later, when he heard the ulfr pack calling again, he glanced up to the stars and judged he had been walking for two hours. The echoes off the bluffs tended to confuse the source of sounds, but he could not fool himself.

The pack was following him. Their silver-grey winter coats would make them hard to spot, but he did not need to see them. He could tell by the extreme hush of the snow-shrouded forest that its winter inhabitants had gone to ground. The pack was near.

'Halcyon help me!' he muttered, calling on the goddess of healing and growing things. He would not reach the fortified farmhouse. He needed somewhere defensible. If he could just reach the ridge that marked Dovecote land.

Adjusting Orrade, he set off again.

Half an hour later, he felt the land rise under him and looked up. About two bow shots away he could see starry sky through the trunks.

Now to choose a spot and start a fire... pity he didn't have a male and female firestone. Once placed in contact with each other the stones produced a blaze which sustained itself until they were separated. But only the very wealthy could afford them and they were treasured family heirlooms.