The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,5

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