The King's Bastard (8 page)

'Housekeeper, escort my daughter to her room. She's had a shock.'

'Father!' Garzik protested, as Elina marched out with the three women.

'Come, son and heir.' Lord Dovecote beckoned him.

Garzik glanced to Orrade and Byren.

'Now!' Lord Dovecote's voice cracked dangerously.

Garzik looked to Byren, who did not want to trigger another brain spasm in the old lord so he gave a slight nod.

When Garzik joined his father, the old man steered him towards the door then turned to the wood choppers. 'See that these two are out of the house and off Dovecote land by dusk.'

The two boys nodded mutely and Lord Dovecote marched out with Garzik, who cast one desperate look over his shoulder then was gone.

Orrade sagged. 'Byren, can you ever forgive me?'

He was too stunned to speak, even to think.

The silence stretched.

'Master Orrade?' one of the wood choppers finally ventured, out of his depth.

'Don't worry. I can find my own way off the estate.' Orrade waved a hand in their direction. 'Go, all of you.'

They fled.

Orrade sank onto the bed. 'Byren, I swear before Halcyon and Sylion, if I could undo this, I would.'

'Can't be helped,' Byren muttered, mouth dry. Then anger flashed through him. 'Why did you have to wear that bloody pendant?'

'If you hated it so much, why didn't you get rid of it?' Orrade countered.

Why hadn't he? Byren snorted. 'I forgot I still had it.'

Orrade grinned ruefully. 'You always were too easy-going.'

They said nothing. The great house was oddly silent, as if all the servants were creeping about and speaking only in whispers.

'Suddenly I am a man without home or allegiance,' Orrade said, his voice gradually gathering strength. 'But I can still hold to my ideal, a world where a man who follows Palos is respected for his intrinsic worth, not despised for his -'

'Eh, Orrie. I don't think Rolencia's ready for you or your ideals,' Byren muttered. He did a mental calculation. 'It's been nearly thirty years since the last Servant of Palos was executed, but their betrayal is still fresh in the minds of my father's generation -'

'Their betrayal? What of all the times the warlords betrayed Rolencia? What of King Byren the Wicked who locked his nephew in Eagle Tower? Little Lence was the rightful heir, but he never lived to rule!'

'You're right, our history is a litany of betrayals but -'

'The Servants of Palos are particularly hated because they are lovers of men. I know. I'm sorry, Byren.'

He shrugged, forgetting Orrade couldn't see. 'What's done can't be undone. I guess we should pack and go.'

'Go where? You can go back to Rolenhold. Father will keep his word and Elina and Garzik will not reveal the reason I was disinherited. You can be sure I will never betray you, so you will not lose your inheritance because of me.'

While Orrade spoke, the ramifications hit Byren. What would his father say if he knew...

Byren fought a wave of nausea as he imagined King Rolen's reaction. At eighteen, his father had seen his own father betrayed and nearly lose the kingdom, all because of the Servants of Palos. His father would be devastated and Lence...

His twin would never believe it. Byren felt relieved as he thought this through. Lence would vouch for him and help convince their father. The three of them had gone wenching together enough times for Lence to know it was a lie.

But hopefully it wouldn't come to that. No one need ever know, not Fyn, his younger brother who had been gifted to Halcyon Abbey, not his mother or sister. His mouth went dry. But what if the servants suspected Orrade's real feelings? He knew how quickly rumour could spread. Before long, lies would seem like truth to those who did not know him. He groaned because it wasn't even remotely true.

Why did Orrade have to carry that accursed pendant?

Someone knocked on the door.

'Yes?' Orrade called.

The door opened to reveal the kitchen boy, who placed Byren's travelling pack on the floor. 'Cook's packing some food for you right now.' He looked up miserably. 'What's going on, Master Orrade? They say you're leaving.'

'And so I am. Don't worry, Rifkin. Just bring the food as soon as it is ready.'

A picture of dejection, the boy nodded and ran off.

Orrade shuddered. 'Where will I go? If only I could see, I could offer to serve in your father's honour guard, but who wants a blind warrior?'

Byren grasped Orrade's shoulder. 'You're coming back with me. You may be blind but you still have your wits, Orrie. And there's not a man who can match you word for word.'

Orrade's mouth twisted in a bitter parody of a smile. 'You're suggesting I turn a pretty rhyme for my supper?'

'No. I'm suggesting you come back as my advisor, just as Captain Temor advises father.'

But Orrade was off on another track. 'You took the blame for me, Byren, and I can't take it back. I tried but...'

'Doesn't matter,' Byren said. But it did, for if the rumour spread his reputation would be destroyed.

At least he was sure Lence would vouch for him.

Byren grinned. The old seer couldn't have been more wrong about his twin.

Chapter Four

A flash of annoyance warmed Fyn. The monks who should have been loading the sleds had wandered off. He lowered the bale and glanced back up the winding path to the abbey high upon Mount Halcyon. Almost dusk, no one else in sight.

The sleds stood on frozen Viridian Lake, waiting to be loaded so the monks could set off tomorrow. As a final-year acolyte it was not his place to tell first year monks what to do, but...

Jeering male laughter made Fyn stiffen. The sound carried from the next inlet along the lake's shore. He made his way carefully along the snowy bank, towards the outcropping that hid the inlet. Climbing onto the ledge, he crawled along until he could stretch out and look down onto the scene below, his head almost level with the monks'.

There were four of them, their different coloured robes revealing their affiliation with different abbey masters, but these four had always been fast friends, united by their similar natures. The monks had cornered a flock of grucranes. These large, cumbersome Affinity beasts survived Rolencia's cold winters by cohabiting with people. In exchange for a warm roost at night near the chimney pots of homes, they kept watch over the buildings. One of the flock was always awake, a stone clutched in its claw. If it fell asleep, the stone would fall and wake the others, so the birds made excellent sentries. Many a household had been saved from thievery or fire, always a constant threat with wooden homes, by the raucous cry of the sentry grucrane.

This particular flock slept on the abbey's chimney vents and spent their days on the lake, swimming and fishing in summer, fossicking along the shore in winter. Now they were confronted by Monk Galestorm and his three friends. The flock's leader had shepherded the birds into a hollow in the shoreline, effectively trapping them because, unless the heavy, ungainly birds took to the air, the only way out was closed off by Galestorm and his friends. Used to nothing but kindness from the monks, the birds milled about in confusion.

While his three companions watched, Galestorm shoved a stick at the Affinity beasts, then made an opening, only to dart in and block it off before the grucranes could escape.

Indignation filled Fyn. He wanted to jump down and defend the grucranes, but there were four monks and only one of him. It would be madness to risk a beating over a bird, even an Affinity-touched bird.

Galestorm misjudged the distance, or else really intended to harm the grucrane, for his next jab took it in the chest. It gave a raucous squawk of protest.

'Hey!' Fyn yelled, swinging his weight over the ledge and jumping down to the frozen lake below. A snow bank absorbed the impact of his landing.

'Fyn Rolen Kingson, what're you doing here?' Galestorm strode towards Fyn, swinging the stick so that it cut the air with a sickening swish.

Fyn's heart thundered and he glanced over his shoulder, but the rocks behind him were too steep to climb. He faced Galestorm. 'Leave the grucranes alone.'

'And what are you going to do about it, coward?'

Cruel laughter followed Galestorm's taunt.

Fyn shrank inside. The moment Galestorm was distracted, the lead bird took off, flapping madly to gain height, then circling protectively as the others spiralled above him, heading towards the abbey.

'Did you hear?' Galestorm asked his ready audience. 'The kingson faints at the sight of blood -'

'Watch out. The birds are getting away,' Onetree yelled.

Galestorm spun around, swore, then tossed the stick aside. He pulled out his slingshot, grabbed a stone from his pouch and let fly into the mass of grucranes. One bird gave a forlorn cry, falling to the lake with a solid thump.

Fyn could not believe his eyes. 'You idiot!'

Galestorm faced him, his top lip lifting in a sneer.

Fyn tried to go to the aid of the injured bird but Galestorm stepped into his path, reaching for him. Without thinking, Fyn evaded the grab, caught Galestorm's arm and flipped him off his feet. The air left Galestorm's lungs with a satisfying
whump
as he hit the ice, then skidded across the lake on his back.

The other three monks protested.

Fyn ignored them, hurrying over to the bird. It was trying to rise with an injured leg, wings flapping unevenly. Taking off his cloak, Fyn threw the woolen mantle over the bird, then gathered it in his arms. The Affinity beast was trembling badly and he pressed it against his chest to reassure it. Nothing infuriated Fyn more than wanton cruelty.

Shouts from Galestorm and his companions told him they were coming up fast behind him. He could not protect himself, let alone the bird. What had possessed him to interfere? They would kill the bird and beat him black and blue.

Still, he turned to face his tormentors.

'What's going on here?' a deep voice called.

Fyn looked beyond them to see Oakstand, the weapons master, approaching with Sandbank, a third-year healer.

'Why aren't the sleds being loaded?' the weapons master demanded. Oakstand was short, with a deep chest and a scar that puckered one side of his forehead, creeping up into his hair which grew white along the scar's length. It must have been striking once but now the rest of his hair was iron-grey. For a man who knew how to disarm and kill an armed opponent in three swift moves, he was amazingly patient with the boys.

'I've got an injured bird.' Fyn indicated the bundle in his arms. One long clawed leg projected from it in an ungainly manner. The bird had calmed down.

'A grucrane?' Healer Sandbank asked. 'Give it to me. I'll take it back to the abbey.'

Fyn handed the bundle over. 'Careful, something's wrong with its wing and I think one of its legs broke when it hit the ice.'

'So the kingson is a healer now?' Galestorm asked.

The weapons master frowned. 'Enough, Galestorm. I want the sleds packed and ready to leave at first light. Fyn, get back to the abbey.'

For a heartbeat Fyn considered revealing how the bird had been hurt, but it was his word against four monks and they could cause trouble for him later, so he hurried off. Behind him, Fyn could hear the weapons master ordering Galestorm and the others about and knew they would regret failing in their duties.

Monk Sandbank was already three body lengths ahead of him, following the winding trail up the slope to Halcyon Abbey. As Fyn watched, the healer rounded a curve, disappearing behind snow-cloaked evergreens.

Taking to his heels, Fyn ran up the slope, rounded the corner and looked up. No sign of the healer, who must have been hurrying to pass the next bend so quickly. Head down, Fyn concentrated on where he put his feet, not wanting to slip on the icy snow. Already the chill of the night was settling in and he was without a cloak. He rounded the next bend and nearly ploughed into a snowdrift.

That was strange. He didn't remember stepping off the path.

Fyn spun around only to find himself eye to eye with an old woman wearing moth-eaten furs. Her lips pulled back in a gap-toothed leer that might have been a smile.

Startled, he took a step back, overbalancing into the snowdrift. The snow broke the impact of his fall but he was still a little winded. Gasping, he lay stretched out on his back. When he went to get up the old woman prodded him in the chest with her staff, effectively pinning him there.

'You struck a monk.'

'He tried to kill a grucrane.'

'What's that bird to you?'

What indeed? Fyn shook his head, not even sure why he had bothered to answer her the first time. She was obviously mad, god-touched in her own way.

'No idea, just like the other one.' She shook her head and laughed to herself. It wasn't a pleasant sound, ending in a raw hacking cough.

After the fit had passed, while she was labouring to regain her breath, Fyn gestured up the rise behind him. 'If you are ill, seek out the healing monks. They have a hot potion for a cough like that.'