The King's Bastard (63 page)

Skating with bound hands interfered with his balance and he couldn't save himself if he fell. But he dare not stumble deliberately. He already had rope burns on his neck from the last time he'd slipped. When the right moment came, he would drive the pole from behind his arms, wriggle his legs through his arms and chew at the knot until he was free. But the moment had not come yet.

Hopefully, Orrade had recovered quickly. He hadn't been unconscious for long the last time. With any luck, Garzik and Orrade were watching him right now, waiting to make their move. Two men against twenty or more - three men once he was free - the odds were not good.

'Not far now, kingson,' Rejulas told him.

They rounded the bend in the canal to see Doveton, across the small lake. There were lights in every window and Byren guessed warriors had taken over the villagers' homes. New Dovecote was also aglow, every window gleaming yellow, while behind it stood the sturdy old keep, lights burning there too. So many warriors, Byren would not have guessed Rejulas could muster such a large force.

His gaze flew to the high tower. Had Lord Dovecote kept the warning beacon readied with oil to hasten its burning? Byren trusted to his thoroughness.

Too late to try anything now. Better to wait until he saw how things were inside Dovecote. Maybe they could free Elina and the old lord. And there was still Lence. Though all the evidence pointed to Lence's betrayal, Byren was convinced his twin had been tricked by Cobalt.

They slowed as they reached the village wharf. Someone shoved Byren backwards until he sat on the wharf step. His skates were unstrapped while his hands remained tied. Then they trudged up the road through the village. It was filled with Rejulas's men. Warriors stood in doorways, tankards in hand as they yelled congratulations and toasted to their warlord's success.

Beyond the village, they wound their way up to the terrace, where light poured from the large indefensible windows. On the terrace, in front of the great double doors, stood the two huge foenixes. Cast in bronze, they had been given to Lord Dovecote by King Byren the Fourth as a reward for his loyalty. Their backs were hollow, forming braziers, and flames leapt from them, casting crazy shadows across the front of New Dovecote.

The big double doors stood closed. Byren frowned. There was something strange about the doors. From where he stood on the terrace below he could see someone was waiting, standing pressed against the door. By the flickering flames Byren suddenly understood what he was seeing. 'Lord Dovecote!'

He staggered.

They'd run the Old Dove through with a lance, pinning him to one of the doors. But why leave him there?

Rejulas laughed. 'How do you like our little welcoming gift?'

Rage surged through Byren. Rejulas was a typical spar warlord, a leader only because he was crueler and more vicious than his barbarous warriors. He did not deserve Piro. Byren was glad she was safe back at Rolenhold. His stomach knotted with fear. If only the same could be said for Elina!

If he could get her to safety he would die happy.

The double doors creaked and swung open, carrying their grisly symbol.

Word of their arrival must have gone on ahead because a tall man in armour strode out, the torchlight glinting on the embossed metal on his chest plate. For a moment Byren could not make sense of what he saw, he had been expecting... hoping to meet Lence and convince him this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

The pattern on the stranger's breast plate was that of a two-headed snake, the amfina.

'Overlord Palatyne.' Rejulas bowed.

Byren felt this revelation like a body blow. It knocked the air from his chest and patches of grey swam in his vision. So Old Man Narrows had not been mistaken. There were Merofynian warriors in Rolencia, making Rejulas a traitor. This explained how the Merofynian army had penetrated the valley without triggering the warning beacons. The warlord of Cockatrice Spar had let them use his pass.

Where was Lence in all this? Captive, Byren fervently hoped. Captive and cursing his naivety.

'I bring you Byren Kingson, overlord,' Rejulas said with a flourish. 'Never question my loyalty.'

'Do you think me a fool, Rejulas?' Palatyne countered.

At his signal two warriors wearing helms bearing horse-hair plumes dyed the royal azure of Merofynia dragged Elina out from the ranks behind Palatyne. Her hands were bound at the wrists in front of her. She almost stumbled. Byren's wanted to help her but he dared not move.

'There, my pretty,' Palatyne gestured to Byren. 'I said we'd bring you a playmate.'

Elina stared at Byren, her dark eyes blazing.

Byren's stomach turned over. Seeing her a captive of the Merofynian overlord had made him a coward. He was ready to fall on his knees and promise them anything, as long as they let Elina go free.

'Why did you come here, Byren?' she demanded. 'Why?'

Palatyne caught her chin in one hand and said something softly that made her shoot Byren an agonised glance.

'Don't listen to him,' Byren yelled. 'I'm a dead man anyway.' Then the back of his head imploded and the ground came up to hit him in the face.

Consciousness returned as they dragged him, none too gently, up the steps.

'He weighs as much as a full-grown wyvern,' one warrior complained.

'And smells almost as bad. Quit your griping!'

Byren let his body stay limp, pretending to be worse than he was, as they hauled him across the terrace. They shoved him through the double doors, dragged him past the great fireplace, and came to a halt.

He sagged between them.

Someone grabbed his head by the hair and threw a tankard of wine in his face. He spluttered, pretending to be groggy. It gave him time to look around Dovecote's great hall.

This was not an ancient hall with huge columns decorated with ancestral friezes like Rolenhold, but a well-proportioned long chamber with polished wood panelling, and exquisite hangings depicting famous scenes from Rolencia's history. He pushed away the memory of Lord Dovecote walking them around the hall as children, telling them the stories of their shared history.

Directly in front of him, a balcony looked down from the floor above, where the family's bed chambers were. From this railing, a great embroidered banner hung to the ground depicting the estate's emblem, the feather and the sword.

Byren looked at the elegant brass aviary which housed Lord Dovecote's fancy birds. No birds fluttered from perch to perch, no soft cooing came from the cage.

He knew that if he went closer he would find the doves lying dead and this told him more about his captor than anything else. Harmless, beautiful creatures killed for effect.

Byren glanced away, trying to think. To each side of the fireplace stood stone pedestals on which rested the family's treasured firestones. They were just close enough so that they glowed with a fiery inner radiance, yearning for each other like lovers.

Byren focused on Overlord Palatyne, who stood in front of a high table laden with gold ornaments, personal items of great beauty like tortoiseshell combs and mother-of-pearl jewellery. These things sat oddly amidst steaming dishes of roast mutton, goose and fresh-baked bread. A dozen lordlings roistered drunkenly, waited on by curled and perfumed servants. Byren suspected this was the cream of Merofynian aristocracy, who had come along to see Rolencia conquered. But where were the real warriors?

Two of Dovecote's servants hurried out with a huge chair, which they set up in front of the high table like a throne for Palatyne. Then Byren noticed silent warriors standing in the background, alert but relaxed, their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts. They wore the amfina crest on their surcoats and they watched everything. Palatyne's honour guard, Byren guessed, veteran spar warriors who had come up with their warlord as he rose in rank.

As for the overlord himself, he was perhaps as tall as King Rolen. No longer a young man, by the grey in his beard he looked to be in his mid-to late thirties. His nose had been broken and set badly so that it was flat from the bridge down, giving him a pugnacious aspect.

Palatyne grabbed a sword from the laden table and lounged in the great chair, the weapon resting casually on his lap. For a heartbeat Byren wondered why he bothered, until he recognised the Old Dove's sword, the one that should have been Orrade's.

Just behind him stood an old renegade Power-worker. He wore a necklace of wyvern teeth and, on the tip of his staff, a stone wyvern's head sat. His hair was completely silver and hung in a single thin plait from the crown of his head. His waist-length beard was loose and threaded with bones and things Byren didn't want to identify. Everything about him proclaimed his barbaric Utland origins.

'Your foretelling was right, Utlander,' Palatyne told him.

'Of course,' he countered. 'If you would only trust -'

'You sent for me, overlord?' A tall, iron-haired man, who wore the indigo robes of a noble scholar, entered from under the mezzanine floor and strode around the table to stand on the left of Palatyne's chair. Byren had expected to see barbaric Power-workers serving the overlord but not a cultured man like this.

'There he is.' Palatyne indicated Byren.

The noble Power-worker shifted his weight, causing the globe on the end of his staff to flare briefly, attracting Byren gaze. Penetrating black eyes searched Byren's face.

Byren returned the stare, refusing to back down. His head thumped and his vision blurred. The noble blinked first but Byren's stomach lurched with the knowledge that these were renegade Power-workers like the ones who had murdered his grandfather and uncle from afar on the battlefield. He was grateful he had no Affinity to make him vulnerable.

Unlike this Merofynian noble, a Rolencian noble with Affinity would have been sent to Halcyon Abbey as a child and taught to serve Rolencia, not a wicked overlord and his corrupt king.

Byren shuddered, licking dry lips. He had really fallen into the fire this time.

Palatyne snapped his fingers and the two honour guards behind the laden table bent down. When they straightened up, they dragged Elina to her feet. Blood trickled brightly from her swollen bottom lip, running down her throat, into the delicate shadow above her low-cut bodice. They marched her around the table to stand on Palatyne's right. Her gaze flew to Byren for one desperate heartbeat, then she looked down at her bound hands, apparently defeated.

Byren steeled himself to give nothing away, not even if they threatened Elina, but the overlord ignored him.

Turning to Elina, he said, 'There he is, my pretty Dove, the second kingson. I already have the heir to use against King Rolen, so I'm going to execute this kingson at dawn. How he dies is up to you. A swift axe or burnt alive? You'll watch whatever happens.'

She wrung her roped hands.

'Well? Are you going to welcome me to your bed tonight?' Palatyne prodded. 'If you please me I may let him live another day -'

Throwing aside the ropes, Elina sprang towards Palatyne, plucked the knife from his belt, and stabbed for his throat. He only just managed to divert the blow so that it wedged in the wood of the chair next to his neck. His great arm swung in an arc, sending Elina flying like a rag doll. He lurched to his feet and the sword fell forgotten to the ground, clattering on the tiles.

Elina hit the floor a body length from Byren, skidding. She lay there stunned.

Byren kicked one guard, shouldered the other and ran to her side, dropping to his knees. His arms pinned behind his back, he leant over her. 'Elina, can you hear me?'

Her eyes fluttered open as she struggled to drag in a breath. He was only vaguely aware that Palatyne had called off his warriors and was watching them.

'Byren,' she gasped, lifting her hands to touch his face. 'Why did you come?'

'I had to,' he whispered. 'I've always loved you, Lina. Always will.'

'I know.' She blinked away tears. 'But I was so angry, so hurt -'

'I'm sorry. I wanted to explain.'

'I read your poem. But, when I went to the water-wheel, you weren't there.'

'You didn't tell Lence to send me away?'

She shook her head.

Byren was aware of Palatyne bearing down on them.

'Ask for quarter,' Byren whispered. 'Go to Sylion Abbey. You'll be safe there -'

'You little bitch.' Palatyne pulled Elina upright by her hair. She cried out as he swung her around, sending her staggering away. 'You two are lovers!'

She kept her feet and straightened up, tears of pain glittering in her fierce eyes. 'No. But I wish we were!'

With a roar he leapt on her, his hands closing on her throat.

Byren lurched, trying to rise, but two of the honour guard held him down. He could only watch as Palatyne throttled her.

The noble Power-worker strode over to Palatyne, slamming his staff on the floor so that the tip glowed, illuminating Palatyne's rage-engorged face.

'Think, overlord!' his voice rang out. 'Think how much more satisfying it will be to bed this wench while her lover is your captive. Think how he will feel going to his death, knowing you have taken what he prized!'