Byren rode into Rolenhold's stable courtyard on a borrowed horse. With everyone about to leave to hunt the leogryf, he had to grab his father and explain Orrade's disinheritance. He stood in the stirrups. Where was King Rolen?
There, speaking with Captain Temor and Lence on the far side of the courtyard. Good.
'Come on, Orrie. Now's the best time.' Byren swung his leg over the mare and dropped to the cobbles. Orrade and Garzik followed suit. They were right behind him as he approached his father.
A group of new arrivals rode in between them, six or seven men on horseback, followed by a wagon-load of servants and belongings. They were led by a handsome man whose grim, rigid features seemed vaguely familiar. He rode one-handed, the other arm caught in a sling. His warriors wore the vivid blue surcoat of the Cobalt estate, with the coat of arms emblazoned on their chests. In the lower corner was the original Cobalt House symbol, the silver dalfino, a winged, warm-blooded fish. In the upper corner was the inverted crown, added when King Byren the Fourth's bastard married into Cobalt House.
'You, sir.' The injured man fixed on Byren, who stood a head taller than everyone else. He spoke Rolencian with a slight accent and his voice carried despite the din in the courtyard. 'Direct me to the king.'
'Who wants me?' King Rolen turned.
Orrade leant close to Byren to mutter in his ear. 'Who is that? I feel I should know him.'
The man dismounted gracefully, handing his reins to Byren, who accepted them without protest. Dressed in his stained travelling clothes Byren could easily be mistaken for one of his father's men-at-arms. Lence sent him a rueful look, one corner of his mouth lifting. Byren grinned and beckoned a stunned stable boy, who ran over and took the reins, apologising profusely. All around them the new arrivals were dismounting and handing over their reins as the stable lads took the horses away.
The general hubbub died down and everyone gathered to hear what the stranger had to say.
'King Rolen.' Even with one arm in a sling, the man managed to give an elaborate bow, reminding Byren of the Ostronite ambassador. That helped him place the accent. One thing was certain, the mannered style of clothes the stranger affected would not catch on at court. You'd never see Byren wearing a coat with shoulder pads, a nipped-in waist and lace at the cuffs and throat.
'My king.' The injured man straightened up, standing almost as tall as King Rolen. That was when Byren saw the resemblance. 'I have come to swear fealty and to demand justice.'
'Justice?' the king repeated with a frown, then it cleared. 'Why, you're young Illien, Spurnan's boy!'
His cousin, Illien? Byren stiffened. Illien's father, Spurnan, was King Byren the Fourth's bastard son by a travelling minstrel he'd bedded when he was only sixteen. The boy had been fostered out to Lord Cobalt, who'd married him to his daughter. After the old lord died, King Byren's bastard had inherited the Cobalt title and estates. Had he been legitimate, Spurnan would have been king, not Rolen, which would have made Illien kingsheir, not Lence. It had never meant anything to Byren when he was a boy. He'd adored Illien because, in those days, his cousin was everything a warrior should have been.
Now Byren studied Illien's face, trying to find the youth he used to admire in this elegant foppish man. He'd been seven and Illien twenty-two, when the old Lord Cobalt had sent Illien to Ostron Isle. There'd been an argument, something the adults never mentioned in front of the seven-year-old twins. As far as Byren knew Illien and his father had not reconciled.
'Weren't you living on Ostron Isle these thirteen years?' King Rolen asked, although their ambassador to Ostron Isle would have kept him informed.
'Yes,' Illien said, unabashed by the reference to the argument with his father. 'I've been serving my family's interests on Ostron Isle but, just this last summer, I swallowed my pride and contacted father because I was marrying into one of the great Ostronite merchant families and I wanted his blessing. Five days ago, I came home so that he could meet my bride when…' His voice wavered and he shook his head, face flushing with deep emotion, unable to go on.
Byren's throat tightened in sympathy.
'Raiders, my king,' a grizzled warrior in Cobalt-blue explained, one hand going to the injured man's shoulder. 'Old Lord Cobalt came to meet my master's ship when — '
'Raiders attacked us!' Illien ground out.
'Utland raiders dared to sail into the Lesser Sea?' King Rolen demanded. 'They haven't done that for twenty years!'
'Is that how you were injured, lad?' Captain Temor nodded to the sling.
'Yes, captain. And I am Lord Cobalt now.' He gave the slightest of bows, a dip of the head as befitted a lord addressing an old and respected man-at-arms. 'My father is dead.'
'Spurnan's dead?' King Rolen muttered. He stared hard into the middle distance, then shook himself. 'That leaves only the Old Dove.'
Garrade of Dovecote and Spurnan of Cobalt had stood by Byren's father, when he had come into the kingship. He'd only been eighteen and it had looked like Merofynia would crush Rolencia, which was still reeling from the attempt by the Servants of Palos to usurp the throne in Spurnan's name. The bastard had sworn he was not involved and his subsequent support of Rolen had proven his loyalty.
'This is bad news, indeed,' King Rolen said.
'Worse still, my bride…' Illien of Cobalt could not go on.
'Dead?' King Rolen whispered.
Cobalt nodded.
The thought of Elina in the hands of Utland raiders made Byren's heart thunder. He ached for action.
Lence stepped forwards. 'I'll lead a punitive attack on the Utlanders.'
The men around him cheered and Byren's heart lifted as Lence turned to Illien to assure him that his bride and father would be avenged. King Rolen smiled with pride and waited for the cheering to die down.
Byren had heard the stories of how his father spent the first seven years of his reign ensuring the safety of the kingdom by leading punitive raids against the savage Utlanders. There were four large clusters of islands and many small scattered ones.
'But which Utlanders?' Byren asked, turning to the new Lord Cobalt. 'Which Utlanders attacked Port Cobalt, Illien?'
Cobalt frowned at him.
'You remember Byren,' King Rolen said. 'He and Lence used to give you no peace.'
A smile lightened Cobalt's expression but only briefly. 'Which Utlanders?' He ran a hand through his long black curls. 'I don't know. It was dark, the fires, the screaming…' He fixed on Byren. 'I didn't stop to ask their names and affiliations, I was fighting for my life!'
'Of course.' Lence glared at Byren.
Byren nodded. 'But there are many Utland isles, we could attack innocent — '
'It doesn't matter which Utland isle sent the raiders,' King Rolen decided. 'All that matters is that we teach them the Greater and Lesser Seas are out of bounds.'
Lence nodded. 'If we set off now — '
'You'll miss the midwinter ceremony and insult Halcyon,' Captain Temor interrupted gently.
Their father nodded. 'Better to go after spring cusp when the seas are not so dangerous. That gives me time to call for ships and captains, get the support of the warlords. If we sail out in strength we can deal these Utlanders such a blow they'll crawl back to their hovels and not come out for another twenty years!'
Everyone cheered.
But Byren couldn't put his heart into it. From what he'd heard it was hard enough to claw a living from the Utlands at the best of times. If Lence's ships burnt innocent Utlanders' homes and food stores they would starve before their crops could be harvested the next autumn.
At the same time, if the Utland raiders had united under a charismatic leader they could cripple Rolencia's sea trade, the very trade that had bought them so much prosperity these last two decades.
'…go with Lence and Byren?' his father was saying to Cobalt. Captain Temor had moved off, leaving the king alone with his sons and nephew. 'Of course you're welcome to hunt the leogryf, Illien, but — '
'The arm? I cannot fire a bow or throw a spear. Still, I would be honoured.' Cobalt glanced to Lence. 'That's if you can think an injured man won't slow you down?'
Lence straightened. 'You'll always be welcome, Illien.'
A smiled tugged at Cobalt's mouth but his eyes remained shadowed. He stepped aside to give directions to his men-at-arms.
'Fancy seeing Illien again,' Lence muttered. 'Say, Byren, d'you remember the time he let us sit astride his stallion?'
Byren grinned. 'We were only six. Our feet couldn't reach the stirrups.'
'What, you rode Black Thunder?' their father demanded, then chuckled. 'Eh, I'm glad I didn't know. It's good to have him back, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances. At least Illien and his father made up their differences before he died.'
That reminded Byren. 'Father, there's something I must — '
'My father has disinherited me, King Rolen,' Orrade interrupted.
'What?' The king looked startled, then inclined to laugh. 'Always said the Old Dove's temper would get the better of him one day. I felt the hard edge of his tongue often enough when I was a lad. Don't worry, Orrie, he'll come 'round. Spurnan did.'
'What did you do that was so bad, Orrie, forget to give Halcyon her due last Feast Day?' Lence teased.
Orrade shook his head. 'It's not — '
'Not something to be laughed at,' Cobalt said, rejoining them. He acknowledged Orrade with a nod. 'If I had not been such a hot-headed youth, my father and I would have reconciled years ago. I should have admitted I was wrong but I was too proud.' He broke off, frowning at Orrade. 'Swallow your pride, lad.'
Orrade shook his head. 'It's not that simple.'
Lence frowned. 'Why did he disinherit you, Orrie?'
'That is between my father and I, kingsheir.' Orrade retreated into formality.
Byren watched his twin stiffen. Young Garzik went to say something in Orrade's defence, but Byren elbowed him.
'King Rolen, I've come to offer my sword in your service,' Orrade said, dropping to one knee and drawing his sword, a serviceable one he'd taken from the estate's armoury, not the blade which had been wielded by lords of Dovecote for over three hundred years. He offered the weapon, blade across his open palms. 'Please accept — '
But the king was already shaking his head. 'Your father will change his mind, wait and see.'
Orrade remained on his knees. 'Not this time, King Rolen. I am without land or allegiance. Please accept me.'
As Byren watched his father wrestle with this, he saw the larger ramifications. King Rolen did not want to offend the old lord, who had been his staunchest ally.
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
'A man has to live or die by his word of honour,' Cobalt said softly. 'I know what it's like. Go to your father, apologise and — '
'Impossible,' Orrade cut him off, eyes on King Rolen.
Cobalt looked grim. Lence glanced from him to the king.
'Orrade nearly died trying to save me,' Byren spoke up. 'I would trust him with my life.'
'Then have him in your honour guard,' Lence snapped.
'That's it!' King Rolen muttered, relieved. 'You twins are old enough to form your own honour guards. Let Orrade serve the kingsheir.'
He strode off leaving Orrade on his knees.
'I'm sorry.' Lence stood over Orrade, whose lowered, bandaged head hid his expression. 'But a king must trust his men implicitly. Mend the break with your father and all will be well, Orrie.'
He turned and walked off, with their cousin falling into step beside him. Cobalt's voice carried back to Byren. 'Your father's right. What are you now? Twenty? A kingsheir should have his own honour guard — '
'We ride in half an hour!' the hunt-master shouted. Immediately, the level of noise in the stables doubled.
On his knees, Orrade shuffled until he faced Byren. 'I offer my fealty, Byren Kingson.'
Byren was both embarrassed and annoyed. His first impulse was to tell Orrade to get up, but he understood that to preserve his dignity, his friend had to complete the ritual of service given and received. 'I accept your fealty, Orrade Dovecotesheir. Now, get on your feet. We ride in — '
'Not Dovecotesheir,' Orrade corrected as he sheathed his sword, rising to confront Byren, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. 'I have no name other than my given name.'
Byren realised he had unwittingly rubbed salt in Orrade's wounded pride. 'Then I'll give you another. Orrade Byrensman.'
Orrade's eyes glittered with unshed tears. His mouth opened but Byren did not want to hear what he was about to say.
'Can I join your honour guard too, Byren?' Garzik shoved between them. 'Can we have our own surcoats with our own symbol like King Rolen's honour guard? Can we — '
Byren laughed. 'Enough, Garza, run to the kitchen, fetch food for us.'
Eager as a puppy, he darted off, dodging the castle youths, the hunt-master's apprentices and the castle's Affinity warders, who were checking their supplies. Naturally both Sylion and Halcyon's warders insisted on accompanying them, neither wanted the other to gain an advantage. It was annoying because young Nun Springdawn would insist on having her own snow-cave and Monk Autumnwind was growing frail.
'Thank you, Byren,' Orrade whispered, recalling him to the present.
Byren shrugged. 'I'm sorry about Lence, Orrie. For him everything is black and white, always has been.'
'True, but this time he's right,' Orrade admitted. 'If you can't take a man at his word, he's worthless.'
He went to move away, but Byren caught his arm. 'Actions speak louder than words. Spurnan proved that when he supported father against the very men who would have put him on the throne.'
But nothing could lessen the bleak gleam in his friend's tilted black eyes.
Byren glanced at Lence, who was checking his saddle girth, with Cobalt at his side. Between them, half a dozen youthful warriors, sons of the great lords and merchants, clamoured to join the kingsheir's honour guard. Byren knew a moment's jealousy. He should be there with Lence, sharing in this moment as they planned their honour guards.
Worse, the warriors they'd fought alongside these last five years were obviously eager to swear allegiance to serve Lence, while all he had was a disinherited son and a boy who'd run away from his domineering father.
Byren stiffened. He didn't mind being the spare heir — let Lence marry for political reasons — but he hated being second best.
'Eh, Illien?' King Rolen passed Byren as he strode towards Cobalt and Lence. The youths parted respectfully and Cobalt turned to face the king.
'We've got half an hour, come see Myrella. She'll be delighted…' Rolen broke off as his bad knee gave under him, causing him to lurch to one side.
Only Cobalt's quick thinking saved him from falling. 'What is it, Uncle?'
Byren tensed. Illien's father had never been formally recognised, hence the inverted crown on his coat of arms, so his son had no right to call the king 'Uncle'.
'Sylion take this knee. It's never been right since my horse rolled on it,' King Rolen muttered, completely disregarding Illien's breach of protocol.
'The healers — '
'Have done what they can, but it stiffens up.'
'Valens?' Cobalt beckoned a perfumed servant who, now that Byren had a better look, had to be fifty if he was a day. Surely that glossy black hair was not natural? 'My manservant has wonderful hands. He can massage away the stiffness. Let me make a gift of him to you, Uncle.'
Valens bobbed down on one knee, head bowed. Byren saw his father blink in surprise. Having a personal manservant was an Ostronite custom.
'But how will you manage, Illien?' Rolen asked, glancing to Cobalt's bandaged arm.
He shrugged this aside. 'Please, let me do this for you. At least let him try.'
Valens lifted his head. 'If I cannot get the stiffness out of your knee in ten days you may chop off my hands!'
'Extravagant Ostronites!' Orrade muttered in Byren's ear.
'Uncle?' Cobalt pressed.
'Very well.' Rolen laughed.
'I'm honoured.' Cobalt bowed. 'King Rolen, I must speak with you on another matter. I bring grave news from the elector.'
Byren frowned as his father led Cobalt away. What could the Elector of Ostron Isle have to say? If it was important Byren would hear about it at the next war table meeting. He had enough on his mind without borrowing trouble.
Byren lay absolutely still, breathing slow and deep, wary of giving his position away. They were lucky the village's hunters had been tracking the leogryf and were able to lead them straight to its lair. The beast was old and canny, and knew the mountains well, but it was the leogryf's age that was its downfall. Although its wings were broader than the greatest of eagles', it could no longer lift its weight, so its lair was not atop a lonely pinnacle, but deep in a cave off a narrow goat track high on the Dividing Mountains. The beast had been spotted dragging its kill to feed in the privacy of the cave.
Shifting on the snow-covered rocks, Byren tried to keep his muscles limber. Who knew how long they would have to wait? Strange how he could feel bored and frightened at the same time. Not that he would ever admit to fear in front of Lence.
He licked dry lips.
Though old and weaker than it once was, the leogryf stood as tall as Byren's chest and, with one slash of its paw, could still disembowel a grown man or break his leg.
It was too dangerous to get in close. Byren had argued that they should trap the beast and dispatch it quickly, but Lence had got the idea in his head that he had to kill it from close quarters. Both the hunt-master and the Affinity warder had tried to talk him out of this and failed.
Byren adjusted his white fur coat, which blended perfectly with the deep snow. Focusing across the path to where his twin hid, Byren could just make out the gleam of Lence's eyes in the shadow of the rock crevice and a flash of white teeth as he smiled. In a way he was glad they were facing the leogryf alone together. Nothing had been right between them since Orrade had refused to reveal why he was disinherited. Cobalt was always at his twin's side, where Byren should have been.
The track zig-zagged up behind Lence to the cave entrance, which was the only way in. Eventually the leogryf would come back to its lair.
There was no breeze so they could not get downwind of the beast, but luckily its sense of smell was fading. To help disguise their own scents, Byren and Lence had scrubbed their bodies, aired their furs and rubbed dried heather on their skin.
The rest of the hunting party were waiting further down the track watching the three different approaches, ready to warn them when the beast was spotted and drive it back this way if it tried to retreat.
Not long now. The big muscles of Byren's legs trembled with tension. Waiting was always the worst. He had chosen to crouch on the extreme edge of the track. Behind him was a sheer drop into the ravine. Lence couldn't have done it. His head swam just looking at a drop like that, but heights had never troubled Byren.
Just then, a distinctive bird's cry floated on the cold, still air. Byren tensed and caught Lence's eyes across the path. The lookout's signal. Lence nodded. The leogryf approached.
Soundlessly, Byren strung his bow and selected an arrow, determined not to let the beast slink away wounded. It was better to kill it outright. If Lence's spear missed its mark, his arrow wouldn't.
Heart beating like a great drum, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension and fixed his gaze on the path. Like him, Lence would be preparing to meet the beast. But Lence's weapon of choice was the spear. There was no glory in killing from a distance.
Winter coat white against the snow, the leogryf's fur almost cloaked its presence as it padded up the path, wings folded along its back, forming a shield. The angle was bad for a shot, too great a chance of missing the spot where the shoulder met the neck. Still, Byren could have attempted it, an arrow striking there would pierce the beast's lungs or heart, but he held back so that Lence could make his move.
His brother would wait until the beast moved between them, then leap in to drive the spear in behind the foreleg, under the wing nodule. If the angle was right the spear would sever the spine, crippling the leogryf. Then Lence could finish it quickly and, tonight, the hunting party would celebrate his bravery around the feasting fire.
Byren held his breath as the leogryf hesitated. Massive head down, it sniffed the snow suspiciously. Unable to make out their scents, it kept coming, moving into full view.
Byren bit back a whistle of appreciation. They'd known from the size of the paw prints and the length of the stride that the beast was big, but knowing and seeing were two different things. Rearing on its hind legs this leogryf would be twice as tall as a grown man. Though hollow-boned, it would weigh more than him.
Barely breathing, Byren waited as the beast prowled up the path. The moment its head passed them, Lence sprang from behind the rock, took aim and threw. But the leogryf reared back and Lence's spear missed, skittering across the snow not far from Byren.
The beast spun to confront Lence, tattered wings lifting, revealing its back and providing a target for Byren. He could have put an arrow into the base of the leogryf's neck, but Lence had a second spear and Byren was not about to spoil his brother's chance of making the kill.
Lence aimed and threw. This spear took the leogryf in the shoulder. It screamed in fury, staggering, then snarled and dropped to all fours, muscles bunching to leap.
Byren sprang to his feet, aimed and let the arrow fly, but the beast chose that instant to spring. His arrow lodged in the muscle of a rear leg. Again, it gave that uncanny scream.
The leogryf collided with Lence, its momentum carrying him to the ground.
Lence did not stand a chance.
Byren plucked another arrow, notched and drew.
Thwang.
The string broke.
He'd waxed it only this morning, but there were no guarantees in life. Dropping the bow, he reached for his hunting knife. It was razor-sharp and as long as his forearm. He knew the others would be making their way up the track but they would not be in time to save Lence.
Desperate, Byren leapt onto the rock he'd been crouching behind and flung himself onto the leogryf's broad back. The half-raised wings collapsed under the impact.
The leogryf released Lence and reared, trying to throw Byren. His thighs flexed, clamping around the beast's flanks. The leogryf writhed, wings struggling to beat, thick mane nearly blinding him. It was worse than breaking a horse.
Byren buried his face in the leogryf's neck and held on with one arm, while reaching past the thick mane. He plunged the knife into the point where the leogryf's shoulder met the neck.
The beast screamed again and rolled, tearing the knife hilt from Byren's hands and crushing the air from his chest. It sprang to its feet, rounding on him.
He lay sprawled in the snow, facing certain death, unable to lift his head, unable even to catch his breath. He must not die like this!
Yet he could not move.
The beast took one step, then another, then fell to its knees and collapsed. Hardly able to believe his life had been spared, Byren scrambled to his haunches.
'Lence?' he croaked, gulping great lungfull's of cold mountain air. His legs shook so badly he had to crawl, praying all the while to Halcyon for his twin's life, praying the beast had not managed to get its rear legs into his brother's belly and disembowel him, or torn out his throat.