He slid his legs out of the bed, careful of his bandaged ribs, and shuffled to the fire. His breeches were almost dry, so he eased them on but didn't attempt the boots. Byren unrolled his shirt. It had been washed and hastily stitched, and was warm from hanging in front of the fire. He pulled it on and lifted his vest. Someone had sponged the blood off but had not attempted to repair the leather.
As he turned for the door a wave of dizziness hit him, greyness eating into his vision. He clutched the shelf above the fireplace, feeling his legs shake and his stomach clench. A light sweat broke out on his skin. Either he was going to pass out, or his head would clear. He ground his teeth.
The dizziness cleared. He crossed the room and took a deep breath which triggered a cough. It hurt but did not tear at him inside, nor did he have that odd panicky feeling as if he could not get enough air. He checked by coughing again. No blood on his hand.
So he was not going to die. Amazing.
The healer must be blessed with great Affinity. He wondered if, by healing him, she had triggered some unpleasant side effect of Affinity, as the old seer had done when she healed Orrade. Since then his best friend had twice lapsed into visions and passed out, and had only admitted the truth to Byren the night they tackled Palatyne.
How was Orrade coping, leading the survivors of his father's estate into the mountains? Had he had any more visions? Concern for Orrade made Byren impatient with his weakness. He owed his friend an apology.
Others would turn on Orrade if they suspected he had Affinity, or if they realised he followed Palos's path. And suddenly, the fact the Orrade was a lover of men did not seem so important. Even the Affinity was a nuisance rather than a tragedy.
Had the Sylion healer triggered Affinity in him? Byren paused and searched his mind and body for some difference that he could sense. Nothing.
He was untouched by Affinity and he would live.
Yet he felt no joy.
At the door he had to pause and bend double to catch his breath. Voices came through from what smelt like the kitchen. Determined to tell them to leave him behind, he shoved the door open.
'He's awake!' the four-year-old piped up. He pushed his plate of hot oat cakes towards Byren. 'Have some. They're really good!'
Both the healer and dyer turned to Byren, startled. She had been rolling smoked meat in calico for travelling and the dyer was bent over, scraping mud off his boots by the door.
'I was hungry,' Byren said and realised it was true.
'I'll make up a plate,' the healer offered. 'Only reheated cakes I'm afraid. Not what a kingson is used to. Everyone's run off.'
'Oat cakes are my favourite,' he said, relieved there was no need to lie.
'How are you feeling?' She put a plate on the table in front of him, watching closely.
'Stiff and sore,' Byren admitted. 'But alive. You know your craft, that's for sure. I owe you my life.' This was also true, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt empty.
Still, the hot cakes smelt good and the syrup gleamed golden in the early morning light. He took a large serving, ravenously hungry.
Byren noticed the dyer catch the healer's eye.
'Come, show me where you left the harness,' the dyer said.
The healer nodded and Byren found himself alone in the kitchen with the little boy. Hadn't the man said his older son had come back? He was probably out in the yard preparing to leave with them.
Byren lifted a hot cake. 'Good as your mother makes?'
'Dunno. Ma died when I was born,' the boy answered simply.
'I'm sorry.' The loss of his own mother and sister returned to stab at Byren's composure.
'You finished, Rodien?' the dyer called. He appeared in the doorway. 'Don't want to hurry you, kingson, but we must be moving.'
Byren mopped up the last of the hot cake and washed it down with warm ale. 'That's just it. I don't want you to risk your family for me.'
He rose, meaning to tell them to leave him, but he must have stood too fast because his head swam and he nearly lost his breakfast. A strong arm with stained fingers caught him, supporting his weight.
'Come along now.'
Too weak and disorientated to argue, Byren yielded to the dyer as he helped him outside. The food felt good in his belly, now that it wasn't trying to come back up again, but his whole body ached as if he'd taken a tumble from his horse. He let himself be lowered onto the sled for now.
'But I'll walk when I can,' he insisted.
'Of course you will,' the dyer agreed.
The healer ran back into her cottage and came out slinging a travelling cloak over her shoulders. She bolted the door behind her.
'Is she coming too?' Byren asked, worried that she would also pay for helping him.
'No, I'm off to Waterford,' she nodded to the west, 'to warn them.'
Byren nodded. Someone was missing. 'Where's… what was his name, Miron? I heard you say he'd returned last night.'
The dyer lifted his little boy onto the pony's back, then turned to Byren. 'I sent him back to Rolenhold last night, kingson. I sent him to find your honour guard, give them your leogryf necklace and to tell them to join us at Cedar tradepost.' He ducked his head. 'With your leave, kingson.'
A smile tugged at Byren's lips. 'Without my leave, you mean. For a dyer you are an excellent warrior.'
The man beamed.
But his initiative would be wasted. Those honour guard who had remained loyal to Byren had come to save him at Dovecote and, if any of them survived, they would already be with Orrade in the mountains. A stab of pain hit Byren — they had lost Garzik that night. At fourteen Orrade's little brother had wanted to become a warrior and serve Byren, who had sent him to his death.
He was a failure over and over.
Because Byren hadn't returned to the castle with the warrior monks, no one at Rolenhold would believe he'd remained loyal, that is if anyone who knew him still lived. He couldn't imagine Captain Temor dropping his sword and surrendering to the Merofynians. Sorrow too deep for tears settled on him, smothering him in a blanket of despair.
He hoped Miron made it safely back to his father in the mountains. He knew only too well how rash boys on the verge of manhood could be. Poor Garzik.
They left Sylion's oratory and residence behind. At the end of the single street of empty dwellings the dyer embraced the healer, and Byren was struck by the resemblance as they parted. They were family separated by Affinity, he guessed.
The dyer had already done more than he needed to, risking his thirteen-year-old son twice for Rolencia. As soon as Byren was well enough he'd strike out on his own.
And then it hit Byren. His family were all dead and his home taken. The dyer expected Byren, King Rolen's only surviving kin, to raise an army in the mountains and retake Rolencia, but how could one man hope to achieve so much? Why would anyone follow him, when his own father had died believing him a traitor?
Elbow-deep in bread dough, Piro was grateful for the warmth of the kitchen. All day she had helped the cook, under Soterro's watchful eye. At first light Dunstany had been called up to the castle to treat Cobalt, who'd developed a fever. If she was lucky, Cobalt would die.
When she thought of Dunstany up there with Palatyne and the Utlander, she was surprised by a pang of concern for him.
It was evening now and they were expecting the noble scholar's return any moment. Piro planned to stay long enough to hear if there had been news of Byren, and then escape.
They shared the rear courtyard with several other fine houses, and there were four narrow lanes that led out to the main street. She was reasonably certain she could knock Grysha unconscious long enough for her to make it out into Rolenton. From there, well, she knew the town and they did not.
She twisted the bread dough into small lumps and dropped the raw buns onto the tray, careful not to look
