The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,172

his brother slept on, oblivious. 'Orrie, what's wrong with you? Wake up!'

'According to Lence, Rejulas is loyal. I don't know what's going on here,' Byren muttered. His mouth went dry. Maybe Lence had Rejulas's loyalty, maybe he was going to prove it by delivering Byren, bound and gagged.

The warlord of Cockatrice Spar must have come down over his pass into Rolencia, creeping past all the villages and fortified farmhouses. Old Man Narrows had been mistaken. It wasn't Merofynians he'd seen but Cockatrice warriors on the warpath. In one way it was good news. Byren knew his father could deal with Cockatrice raiders.

Then a sick lurch of fear ripped through him. Dovecote lay between here and Cockatrice Spar. What if they had Elina?

'Byren,' Garzik tugged on his arm. 'Orrade's unconscious. We have to get him out of here.'

'We can't run carrying Orrie and we can't fight two dozen men,' Byren told Garzik.

By the starlight filtering in the small barn window the lad stared at him, horrified.

'Byren Kingson, surrender now,' Rejulas urged. 'One man cannot stand against thirty.'

They thought he was alone... Possibilities flashed through Byren's mind. 'I'll surrender.'

'No!'

Byren caught Garzik's shoulders. 'Think. If we fight we all die. By surrendering, I get captured then you and Orrade can save me.'

'What if they kill you?'

'They could have done that already. They want me alive for some reason and this way you two stay free.'

He felt the fight go out of Garzik.

Byren coughed. Smoke stung his eyes now. 'Look after Orrie.'

For a heartbeat, he wondered if this was a side-effect of the Affinity affecting Orrade, then he dismissed it. He had his own problems.

'Stay out of sight, Garza.' Byren thrust the shutter open and shouted, 'I'm coming out. Hold your archers.'

He brought his head back inside, turning to Garzik. 'Pull your vest up over your mouth, breathe through it.' Feeling around, he found his pack and he slung it over his shoulder. 'Hide. They won't be looking for you.'

'What about the fire?'

'Bluff. They'll put it out -'

'Byren Kingson?' Rejulas shouted.

'I hear you.' He squeezed Garzik's shoulder and, with a heavy heart, opened one barn door a fraction. They were raking the burning brands away from the entrance. Red coals winked on the frozen earth.

'Get his weapons,' Rejulas ordered. 'And put out the fires. We don't want to set off a warning beacon now!'

His men laughed, hastening to obey.

Byren didn't resist as Rejulas's warriors divested him of his weapons, both his knives, his sword, his bow and his arrows. He'd armed himself properly for once and it had done no good.

'Right,' Rejulas said. 'Restrain him.'

They moved efficiently in the pale predawn. His hands were tied behind his back and a pole slid under his arms along his back, and he was lowered by pulley to the beach.

After herding him into the centre of the group, they slung a rope around his neck and handed it to a grizzled campaigner. Then they set off in the chill predawn.

'Where are we going?' Byren asked.

'Dovecote,' a youth near him muttered.

The old campaigner cuffed him, then cuffed Byren for good measure, jerking on the rope.

Head still buzzing, Byren managed to keep skating.

One piece of the puzzle didn't fit. Only Captain Temor and those who had joined him at the war table knew Byren planned to sleep here last night. He knew Cobalt was sitting at the war table advising his father, privy to his secrets. But that didn't explain how Cobalt could get word to Rejulas so fast.

Before long they had moved off Sapphire Lake. Tall, snow-capped pines flashed past him, dark against the gradually lightening sky.

They'd be at Dovecote by late tonight and then his questions would be answered. Byren dreaded what those answers would reveal.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Fyn remained still, trusting to the shadows to hide him. His heart hammered uncomfortably. The dim glow of the abbot's lantern illuminated a halo of light around the masters as they followed the abbot down the corridor. Master Catillum came last, glancing casually into the corridor where he knew Fyn hid.

Fyn swallowed, licking dry lips.

The scuffing of the monks' soft leather slippers ceased, signalling that the abbot and masters had arrived at the secret entrance to the catacombs. Fyn waited. The secret passage lay behind an ordinary stretch of wall decorated with the same carved frieze that enlivened even the simplest abbey vessel.

There were too many masters clustered around the abbot for him to see which key the old man selected from the ones on the chain around his waist. Fyn