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.
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.
The staff connected with his head.
'Hey!' he protested.
'Silence, and listen.
He stared, unable to make sense of her babble. As if he couldn't tell right from wrong!
He shook himself.
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 has outlawed renegade Power-workers. Why ask me?'
Byren brushed this aside. 'He's dying. I can't let him die.'
Her wrinkled face creased with a mixture of malicious spite and delight.
'Please,' he whispered.
That surprised her.
She hunkered down in the snow next to him, placing one grimy, clawed hand on Orrade's forehead. Byren watched anxiously as she concentrated, seeming to turn her focus inward, for several heart beats.
'He'll linger for a day or two then die,' she announced.
'But you can prevent that?'
She studied him. 'He won't be the same — '
'Doesn't matter. Uh…' Byren reconsidered. Affinity was tricky and those with it, doubly so. 'Do you mean he won't have his wits? Orrade would hate that. He'd rather die.'
'Oh, he'll still be your friend. But there'll be consequences if I use Affinity to — '
'Sylion take the consequences. I can't let him die.'
'What will you give me?' she countered.
He stared at her, shocked.
Her eyes narrowed. 'Do you expect me to help you out of the goodness of my heart?'
He nodded. 'I would.'
She laughed, then shook her head. 'You have a long way to go before you're ready to rule Rolencia. But perhaps — '
'So you'll do it?' he asked, concentrating on what was important. 'You'll save him?'
'I'll try. Good spot for a healing, plenty of raw power.' She replaced her hand on Orrade's forehead and her eyes glazed over. Sweat appeared on her top lip, popping up between the sparse silver hairs. Byren could see the effort required for healing, but he felt nothing as time stretched. It went on long enough for him to get a cramp in his foot. He massaged it surreptitiously.
'There.' She grunted with relief, sitting back on her heels to catch her breath. 'He'll pull through. But you'll need to get him somewhere warm to recover, and he'll never be the same.'
'Thank you, thank you!' Byren grabbed her shoulders, planting a smacking kiss on her papery cheek.
She stared at him, stunned, then smiled like a young girl.
He laughed and turned back to Orrade. 'Orrie, can y'hear me? Orrie?'
No answer. But his friend was breathing easier and Byren was sure his cheeks were a better colour already. He swung back to thank the old woman. 'You've done it, he's — '
She'd gone.
Chapter Two
Byren sat up on his heels, searching the hollow. No sign of the seer. In fact, with all the churned-up snow it was impossible to tell that she'd even been there. The dark must be playing tricks on his eyes but her disappearance had made things easier for him. If she had been an ordinary old woman, he would have been bound by the travellers' code to offer her shelter. Since she was a renegade Power-worker, he should have urged her to leave Rolencia.
He grinned. His instinctive fear of renegade Affinity had faded when she proved to be such a terrible seer. As if he'd ever turn on Lence!
She should have stuck to healing. Still smiling, he glanced down at Orrade. His friend was still out cold.
Too cold.
It would be ironic if Orrade caught a chest affliction and died despite the seer's help. Already the first bright stars winked above them in an oyster-shell sky, heralding a fine, extremely cold night. Byren checked Orrade's head wound, binding it with a strip of cloth. The wound had stopped bleeding, but there was too much fresh blood to stay here and, besides, the seep would draw Affinity beasts down from the Dividing Mountains.
Hastily, he rigged a strap for his broken snow shoe. If only the branch had struck Orrade a hand's breadth lower. Then it would have connected with his broad shoulders and done no more than knock him off his feet and maybe wind him. Bad luck.
Sylion's luck. But then it was nearly midwinter and that cold, cruel god had a firm grip on Rolencia.
