beard he looked to be in his mid-to late thirties. His nose had been broken and set badly so that it was flat from the bridge down, giving him a pugnacious aspect.
Palatyne grabbed a sword from the laden table and lounged in the great chair, the weapon resting casually on his lap. For a heartbeat Byren wondered why he bothered, until he recognised the Old Dove's sword, the one that should have been Orrade's.
Just behind him stood an old renegade Power-worker. He wore a necklace of wyvern teeth and, on the tip of his staff, a stone wyvern's head sat. His hair was completely silver and hung in a single thin plait from the crown of his head. His waist-length beard was loose and threaded with bones and things Byren didn't want to identify. Everything about him proclaimed his barbaric Utland origins.
'Your foretelling was right, Utlander,' Palatyne told him.
'Of course,' he countered. 'If you would only trust — '
'You sent for me, overlord?' A tall, iron-haired man, who wore the indigo robes of a noble scholar, entered from under the mezzanine floor and strode around the table to stand on the left of Palatyne's chair. Byren had expected to see barbaric Power-workers serving the overlord but not a cultured man like this.
'There he is.' Palatyne indicated Byren.
The noble Power-worker shifted his weight, causing the globe on the end of his staff to flare briefly, attracting Byren gaze. Penetrating black eyes searched Byren's face.
Byren returned the stare, refusing to back down. His head thumped and his vision blurred. The noble blinked first but Byren's stomach lurched with the knowledge that these were renegade Power-workers like the ones who had murdered his grandfather and uncle from afar on the battlefield. He was grateful he had no Affinity to make him vulnerable.
Unlike this Merofynian noble, a Rolencian noble with Affinity would have been sent to Halcyon Abbey as a child and taught to serve Rolencia, not a wicked overlord and his corrupt king.
Byren shuddered, licking dry lips. He had really fallen into the fire this time.
Palatyne snapped his fingers and the two honour guards behind the laden table bent down. When they straightened up, they dragged Elina to her feet. Blood trickled brightly from her swollen bottom lip, running down her throat, into the delicate shadow above her low-cut bodice. They marched her around the table to stand on Palatyne's right. Her gaze flew to Byren for one desperate heartbeat, then she looked down at her bound hands, apparently defeated.
Byren steeled himself to give nothing away, not even if they threatened Elina, but the overlord ignored him.
Turning to Elina, he said, 'There he is, my pretty Dove, the second kingson. I already have the heir to use against King Rolen, so I'm going to execute this kingson at dawn. How he dies is up to you. A swift axe or burnt alive? You'll watch whatever happens.'
She wrung her roped hands.
'Well? Are you going to welcome me to your bed tonight?' Palatyne prodded. 'If you please me I may let him live another day — '
Throwing aside the ropes, Elina sprang towards Palatyne, plucked the knife from his belt, and stabbed for his throat. He only just managed to divert the blow so that it wedged in the wood of the chair next to his neck. His great arm swung in an arc, sending Elina flying like a rag doll. He lurched to his feet and the sword fell forgotten to the ground, clattering on the tiles.
Elina hit the floor a body length from Byren, skidding. She lay there stunned.
Byren kicked one guard, shouldered the other and ran to her side, dropping to his knees. His arms pinned behind his back, he leant over her. 'Elina, can you hear me?'
Her eyes fluttered open as she struggled to drag in a breath. He was only vaguely aware that Palatyne had called off his warriors and was watching them.
'Byren,' she gasped, lifting her hands to touch his face. 'Why did you come?'
'I had to,' he whispered. 'I've always loved you, Lina. Always will.'
'I know.' She blinked away tears. 'But I was so angry, so hurt — '
'I'm sorry. I wanted to explain.'
'I read your poem. But, when I went to the water-wheel, you weren't there.'
'You didn't tell Lence to send me away?'
She shook her head.
Byren was aware of Palatyne bearing down on them.
'Ask for quarter,' Byren whispered. 'Go to Sylion Abbey. You'll be safe there — '
'You little bitch.' Palatyne pulled Elina upright by her hair. She cried out as he swung her around, sending her staggering away. 'You two are lovers!'
She kept her feet and straightened up, tears of pain glittering in her fierce eyes. 'No. But I wish we were!'
With a roar he leapt on her, his hands closing on her throat.
Byren lurched, trying to rise, but two of the honour guard held him down. He could only watch as Palatyne throttled her.
The noble Power-worker strode over to Palatyne, slamming his staff on the floor so that the tip glowed, illuminating Palatyne's rage-engorged face.
'Think, overlord!' his voice rang out. 'Think how much more satisfying it will be to bed this wench while her lover is your captive. Think how he will feel going to his death, knowing you have taken what he prized!'
Palatyne grimaced with annoyance but released Elina. She dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. She was only a body length from Byren, yet he was powerless to help her.
'Yes,' Palatyne agreed. 'His suffering will add to my enjoyment.'
He strode towards Byren, a boot swinging for his head. Though 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?'
