The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,72

only difference between you and me, is that three hundred years ago your family clawed their way over the Divide and conquered the valley people, kingsdaughter!'

Piro fled.

Byren threw the door open to their shared chamber to find Lence waiting for him. Seated on his mahogany desk, his brother swung one booted foot.

'So you went to find our little brother,' Lence said.

He had been searching for Piro but their old nurse had found her first. No need to tell Lence that.

'Just as well I did. Some monks were about to beat him. I asked him back here for a drink. He should be along soon.' Byren went to the desk and poured himself a honeyed mead. It was still steaming, the servant must have just left.

As he went to take a mouthful Lence caught his arm. 'You shouldn't have told Fyn so much after the assassination attempt. He hasn't been invited to take a chair at the war table, Byren.'

'He's our brother.'

The door swung open and Fyn walked in. Lence dropped Byren's arm.

'Ah, Fyn. Share a drink with us,' Byren greeted him, pouring another tankard. He lifted his own. 'To Lence's betrothed, may her teeth be straight and her smile pretty!'

Lence smiled grimly. 'Doesn't matter what she looks like. As long as she does her duty, I'll do mine. I'll let her know who's in charge right away.' He tilted back his head and gulped some mead.

Byren felt a stab of pity for Isolt.

Fyn sipped his mead, looking from Byren to Lence. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Lence took out his dagger and began to clean his nails with the tip.

Byren put his tankard down. For the first time in his life he felt uncomfortable with Lence. Things left unsaid hung between them, threatening to erupt, but not with Fyn present. Byren didn't know which was worse, waiting for Lence to confront him, or waiting for Fyn to leave so Lence could.

Byren stretched and went over to the weapons display to select a knife, weighing it, feeling the balance. 'Lost my ceremonial dagger in the attack. Sylion take them. Reckon they'll be picking the jewels out of it right now, counting themselves lucky. This knife feels well balanced. What do you think, Lence?'

His brother shrugged, casting Fyn a swift glance. 'The proof of the knife or the man is in their actions. Throw it and see.'

Byren stiffened, hearing a criticism of Orrade. Was his defence of Orrade the reason why Lence was withdrawing from him? Fyn also stiffened, responding to the undertones in Lence's voice, so Byren wasn't imagining it. He strode over to the target, stepping onto a line, scraped in the floor boards by years of eager youths.

'If you think one of the warlords sent the assassins, which one was it?' Fyn asked.

Byren threw his knife. It hit the target just above centre.

'Not bad.' Lence continued to swing one boot, while cleaning his nails with his dagger.

'Let's see you do better.' Byren walked over to retrieve his knife. The soft wood-panelled wall to one side of the fireplace showed many small pit marks where daggers had missed, reminding Byren of their boyhood. He longed for those happy days before betrothals and honour guards. 'Give us a look at your betrothed, Lence. Does she have buck teeth?'

'She's pretty enough, if the artist can be trusted.' Lence pulled the locket over his head and tossed it to Byren, the chain trailing behind like a bird's long tail.

Byren caught it. 'Mother and Father made a political match and they're happy.'

'True. But that's rare.' Lence drained his honeyed mead, wiping his mouth. He stood, turning the knife in his hand to throw. The way he moved held menace. 'My go.'

Placing the tip of his boot on the starting line, he tossed his knife expertly. It quivered in the target, just to the right of Byren's mark.

Lence retrieved his knife.

Byren flicked the locket open. The artist had painted Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter from a three-quarters view. She looked stiff and a little frightened. Black hair, milky skin, luminous black eyes. No eyebrows, hair pulled back under a sapphire-encrusted coronet, high lace at her throat. Byren didn't think much of the Merofynian fashions. Too mannered.

'Why would the warlords want to destabilise the balance of power?' Fyn asked. 'Surely they don't want Rolencia to be at war with Merofynia?'

Lence said nothing, sending Byren a loaded look.

Fyn shifted, trying to contain his frustration, as neither of them answered. Much as Byren wanted