The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,184

Byren threw himself to one side, the tip caught him a glancing blow, sending him sprawling on the floor.

When his vision cleared, Palatyne had Elina's bodice in his hands. With one heave he tore it open and swung her around so that Byren could see her naked breasts. 'Look what I will be enjoying tonight!'

Though every man present stared at her she lifted her chin, staring past them all, her gaze defiant.

Byren's heart swelled with pride.

Palatyne fixed on Byren, triumphant. 'Take him away and lock him up.' He turned to the noble Power-worker. 'See, Lord Dunstany, your prophecy will not come true. I'll kill every last one of King Rolen's kin. They will not be my downfall. I make my own destiny!'

Lord Dunstany's reply was lost to Byren as they dragged him out of the hall, past the sullen, subdued kitchen staff and into the stable yard. Behind the stables, the road rose to the old keep with its warning tower, every window lit. As it loomed over Byren, despair welled up in him. How would Orrade reach him now? How would he light the beacon and save Elina?

He would never get to Halcyon Abbey to deliver his father's message and no one would ever know that he had died loyal to Rolencia.

'Drink, my lord?' a throaty female voice piped up.

The Merofynians stopped and turned around to see a pretty serving girl standing in the kitchen doorway. She held a tray laden with tankards and a steaming jug of mead.

'This is for them in the keep, but they've been guzzling all evening.' She nodded towards the warning tower, where men could be heard singing loudly off key. 'Want a sup?'

'Don't mind if I do.' The leader of their group strode back towards her, followed by the other four guards with Byren in the middle.

Byren noticed a familiar face peering out from behind the serving girl's skirt. Rifkin, the kitchen boy. As the honour guards grabbed themselves a tankard, the lad caught Byren's eye, holding his gaze with desperate but impenetrable meaning.

A body barrelled into Byren's back, driving him to his knees. The Merofynian groaned and collapsed beside him, blood dark as night, pooling on the churned up snow.

'Hold still,' Orrade whispered, grabbing Byren's arms.

His shoulders protested. Then he felt the blessed release as the pole was pulled out and the ropes fell off his hands. 'What took you so long?'

Orrade laughed and hauled him to his feet. Two bodies shot past them, locked in desperate combat.

Byren blinked recognising one of them. 'Winterfall?'

Orrade nodded. 'Eight of your honour guard. Chandler and Winterfall convinced them that you were wrongfully accused.'

Crack. Mead showered Byren's left leg as the serving maid smashed the jug over the last struggling Merofynian. Young Chandler cut his throat, then cleaned his knife.

'We couldn't let you down,' he said.

Byren grinned and tried to massage feeling back into his hands.

'We're in luck,' Orrade whispered. 'Only Palatyne and his lordlings are housed in New Dovecote. His honour guard refused to sleep under the same roof as Rejulas's honour guard. Couldn't stomach traitors. So they've taken the old Keep and Rejulas's men have the town.'

Byren grinned. 'You've been busy.'

'Servants hear everything.'

'What of the townspeople?'

'Turned out of their own beds. They're sleeping in the servants' quarters in New Dovecote. Here's your hunting knife. It was all Rifkin could steal.'

'I'm obliged,' Byren said, slipping the knife into its customary place. If he were Palatyne, he would have Rejulas and his warriors killed the moment they were no longer useful. Anyone who could betray their sworn oath of allegiance was a worthless ally. 'Where's the healer and Affinity warder?'

'Willowtea's dead. The Affinity warder took a blow from one of Palatyne's Power-workers. They thought it had killed him but he was just knocked out. The cook hid him. Unfortunately he's too weak to help us.'

'Too bad.'

By the time Byren could use his fingers, they'd dragged the bodies away to hide them and Rifkin was raking the snow to disguise all sign of the skirmish.

Winterfall returned with a broken nose and a sheepish grin. 'I neber doubted you.'

Throat tight, Byren hugged him. 'Pack snow on that nose.'

As the maid took Winterfall off to apply the snow, Chandler said, 'You've eight more swords at your back.'

Eight honour guards, some of them mere callow youths, townspeople and servants... Byren ran his hand through his hair. They were vastly outnumbered; subterfuge was their only hope. 'We need a plan.'

'This way.' Orrade led them back into the new wing, through the