Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)
Page 12
The girl was, indeed, shorter and rounder than Nathryk liked, but her puffy sleeves and full skirts contributed to the effect. Her waist, cinched tight, was actually smaller than he expected. Her skin was unmarred by sun or scar, her hair a mass of golden curls gathered over one shoulder, as if she had been brushing it out for the night. It made him think of his cousin Istra’s hair. Her nose was a bit puggish and her lips more thin than voluptuous, but it wasn’t an ugly face, truth be told. Small, soft hands were folded modestly before her skirts, and her lashes fluttered low against her cheeks. Was she too afraid to look up at him?
She hadn’t come alone. The girl’s nurse stood staunchly at her left elbow. In her starched black dress and severe white wimple, she reminded Nathryk of a battering ram. Hair on her upper lip twitched as she cast a scathing scowl around the parlor.
“You may go,” Nathryk told the nurse.
“I shall stay, Your Highness.”
“But you’re not invited. Shoo.” Gently, he took the girl’s hand and escorted her into her parlor. Edryd, good boy, was on hand to shut the door in the nurse’s face. Her muted demands drowned under soft notes from the flute.
The girl tried to pull her hand free. Her eyes, large and brown, darted over the naked women and drunk men lounging about on pillows, and her mouth opened in silent outrage.
“Don’t be afraid,” Nathryk cooed. “Let me look at you. I have to know what I’d be getting myself into, after all. You, too, I suppose.”
The girl’s thin lips drew into a tight, angry line, but she stopped struggling and let Nathryk turn her slowly for the court to inspect. They whispered and giggled and nodded.
“I’ve forgotten your name,” Nathryk said.
Stiffly, she replied. “Aleksa, Your Highness.”
Queen Aleksa? It had a nice ring to it, he supposed. “And what do you like to do, Lady Aleksa?”
“Read.”
He smirked. “Poetry?”
Her jaw clenched. “History. Law.”
“Ooo,” passed like a mocking breeze among the guests.
“Law?” Nathryk drawled. “Goddess forbid. Isn’t that a bit much for you?”
Aleksa raised her chin in an expertly snobbish fashion. “I don’t think so, Highness. I am my father’s heir. I will need such knowledge.”
“And what holding is that? Her Majesty informed me, I’m sure, but it slipped my mind.”
“Seastrong, if it please Your Highness.”
“Where?” He had lived in this insufferable country for five years and never heard of it.
Edryd filled him in. “It’s between Endhal and Wyramor, on the coast, Highness. A small holding.”
“Ah.” Non-influential, then, posing a threat in neither arms or wealth. Yes, that must appeal to Bano’en. A Leanian tie to the Fieran throne was desirable to him, of course, but this was a safe little holding unable to reinforce Fiera’s military strength or prominence in trade. Even drunk, Nathryk was aware of that much. What other, unforeseeable benefits would this match bring Leania? “Your father must despise you, that he would offer you to his enemy. Or he’s more greedy than is good for you. What is his prize when you have a Fieran prince in your belly?”
Aleksa’s face flushed as red as the rugs under her feet.
Nathryk conducted a slow, scrutinizing turn around her. “You realize Bano’en insults me with this proposal? You, Lady Aleksa, are an insult.”
Her chest heaved with the breath of panic and impending tears. “I am the king’s cousin, on his father’s side, Highness.”
“Yes, no doubt Bano’en wants to see his own relations on the alabaster throne. There’s no mystery in that regard. Nor that he intends to use you as a spy. No, he either thinks I am stupid, or he brought you here as an insult. But, if I like you, we might manage, regardless. How are you on your back?”
His court hooted and snickered, and the wine made another round.
“I beg your pardon?” Aleksa asked.
Nathryk doubted she was as uninformed as the question made her sound. “You’re a virgin, I take it?”
“How dare you? That is none of your business!” she declared.
“Oh, it certainly is, lady.” His fingers encircled her wrist and he gave her a little tug. “Come, let us find out.”
She fought valiantly, even managed to smash a wine bottle and turn over a candelabra, but Edryd, good boy, nudged her along behind while Nathryk ducked her attacks and drew her into the next room. When she saw the massive four-poster bed, she tried to claw his face, but two imprisoned wrists were better than one. Edryd bowed out and closed the chamber door behind them. After that, it was only a matter of muscling her into bed.
Her cheeks against his face were slick with tears, and later he found a bruise where she had bitten him, but at last she wilted under him, and she was a sweet thing, indeed.
He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of that damn drum. No, it was only the pounding of his own head. He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, groaning. Where was the bloody wine when he needed it?
Someone inhaled deeply nearby, and turning, he found the girl stirring. Moonlight fell across smooth silver skin and lit the edges of her eyelashes. A nymph she was, and Nathryk loathed her. “What are you still doing here?”
She rolled onto her side, but didn’t look at him. “I belong to you now.”
Despite the throbbing in his head, he laughed. “What doesn’t belong to me? If it doesn’t presently, it soon will. Get out.”
Sitting up, she started gathering her dress and petticoats that were strewn around them. “But you’re going to marry me now?”
“Why?”
She blinked at him stupidly. He flapped a hand at her. “Go away. Quickly. Before I get cross with you.”
Eyes wide and mouth working to swallow a new round of sobs, she dressed as well as she could in the dark. Nathryk slumped back into his pillows, and vaguely heard the girl slip out the door. Neither jeers nor laughter followed. His court must have passed out hours ago. He wasn’t long in joining them.
~~~~
Arryk raised a fist. The mastiff pup’s eyes were riveted to his hand. She licked her chops and sat. Pleased, Arryk splayed his fingers and pressed the flat of his hand to her cold, wet nose. “Stay.” He turned and walked a few steps, then peered over his shoulder. The mastiff was bounding happily after him. “No! Stay.” He sat the pup down on her haunches, and repeated the order. Backing away this time, he made it only three steps before the pup followed, wagging her tail and grinning with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Arryk scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned.
Nearby, Gill chuckled. He was Éndaran’s master of hound. “She’s too young yet, Highness. She hasn’t the attention span for ‘stay’.”
Arryk gave up and scooped the pup into his arms, even though she was almost too big to carry anymore. “How are you to be my guard dog if you don’t stay where I need you?” She threw back her head, and her great tongue lashed him wetly under the chin. “I should’ve gotten one last year instead.”
“No need to worry, Highness,” said Master Gill. “You’ve some months yet. Let’s let her run with the others. If she’s tired, she may be more apt to listen.”
Arryk set the dog on her feet, and Gill’s assistants unleashed the wolfhounds. They streaked across the hills, and the bold mastiff pup labored to catch up with them. Chill autumn winds and shortening days had turned the hillsides of the Tempest Peninsula golden. Clouds clung to the cliff tops, cutting off the view of the Great Fire Sea, and drifted as wisps of fog among the jutting stones and stands of wind-gnarled trees. Éndaran’s sullen black walls swam through the mist like a great behemoth rearing from the sea and vanishing again.
Traipsing after the dogs, Gill asked, “Decided on a name yet?”
Arryk grimaced. “Istra keeps calling her Daisy. That’s no proper name for a fierce guardian, but she says ‘Fang’ doesn’t fit her either. She’s too sweet, Istra says. I don’t nee
d a sweet dog, I need a killer.”
Master Gill laughed. “It’ll come, Highness.”
The wolfhounds flushed out a nest of rabbits and chased after them, baying so loudly that none in the party heard Istra’s calls until she was almost upon them. “Arryk!” she cried, remembered herself and amended, “Your Highness!”
She cantered from the castle walls on a squire’s swift racer, even though she was a year knighted. She gripped the horse’s bare flanks with her heels. What was so urgent that she hadn’t taken the time to saddle the animal? Arryk started toward her. Istra raised a piece of parchment and waved it. The closer she rode, the clearer the distress on her face. Bad news. Of course.
Istra reined in and leapt from the racer’s back. Instead of bowing, she bent over to catch her breath. “From your aunt.” She lifted a sealed letter. The seal of the Princess Regent was stamped deeply in the green wax. Straightening, Istra added, “I assume it says the same thing as the one addressed to Grandmother.” The letter she had opened flapped crisply in her fingers.
“What is it?” Arryk demanded, swiping it from her and scanning the words too fast to eek meaning from them.
Istra’s fretful glance darted toward Master Gill and his assistants. They turned their attention elsewhere. Only then did she tell him. “Nathryk has been expelled from Graynor. He raped some lord’s daughter. Bano’en will abide his presence no longer.”
The blood drained from Arryk’s face. The hills and sky seemed to flip upside down. “No. Can he do that? It was agreed! He wasn’t supposed to release Nathryk until his eighteenth birthday. That’s three months away!” The nightmares that plagued his sleep cavorted in the mists around him, shrieked inside his head. He was going to be sick and Istra would see.
“It gets worse. Apparently, Nathryk meant to ride straight to Brynduvh, but word of his release reached your aunt first. Ki’eva met him on the road at Machara with a full company of cavalry and every man of her guard. She refuses to let him enter Brynduvh until his enthronement. They’re coming to Éndaran, Arryk. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
He shut himself in his rooms, just he and Fang, for the rest of the day. The preparations for the arrival of the Crown Prince and the Princess Regent sent the castle into a frenzy, but Arryk refused to allow the maids in to conduct a brisk cleaning. Last spring, the last time Nathryk visited, Istra’s brother Rance had whisked Arryk off to the Shadow Mounds for a month-long boar hunt. He’d rarely felt more grateful. But this time, with Aunt Ki’eva coming too, and on such short notice, there was no chance to prepare an excuse to escape.
For hours Arryk lay on the settee, hands clutching his shirtfront as he fought the panic. Though he stared at the ceiling, he saw only Nathryk’s hateful leer and remembered every blow of his fist.
Eventually he became aware of a permeating silence, close and stifling. The shouts of the housekeepers and clatter of the staff had trailed off. Fang slept between his ankles. How long had he lain here? The hour candle on his mantelpiece had burned out at midnight; the wax had built fanciful shapes and spilled over the rim of the brass holder. But he didn’t care enough to change his clothes and crawl into bed.
Fang raised her head suddenly, fawn-colored ears perking up. Knuckles softly tapped the door. Arryk sat up in a hurry. “Who is it?” His voice cracked, so he repeated the question, forcing his voice deeper.
“It’s Istra, Your Highness.” The thick andyr door muffled her reply. “Please, I need to show you something.”
He dragged himself off the settee and opened the door. The lamp in Istra’s hand blinded him. She gasped. “You look positively ill.”
When his eyes adjusted, he saw that she wore only a white sleeping gown. Her golden hair lay in a thick braid across her shoulder.
“Don’t let Nathryk do this to you,” she whispered. The lamplight flickered in tears that pooled but did not spill over. “I know well who you are when he’s not around, Arryk, and you’re no coward. Captain Bartran and I have worked with you every day so you can defend yourself. Have we strived for nothing? If Nathryk sees you like this …”
“I wish Fang was bigger.” Was that all he could think to say?
The pup whined at his feet. Her eyes were two black marbles in the lamplight. She raised a paw and set it against Arryk’s leg.
“And meaner,” Istra added. “She should’ve barked when she heard me outside. But never mind. We’ll take other precautions.” She took his hand and led him into the corridor. Those sword-hardened fingers didn’t belong to someone with so pretty a face. Even scarred, she still earned the stares of every man in the garrison. Oddly she didn’t seem to notice, nor did she go about holding their hands. In truth, Arryk suspected that she still thought of him as a nine-year-old. True, he was all neck and hands and feet, and his voice, damn the thing, couldn’t make up its mind which way to go, but his fourteenth birthday had come and gone, and Istra was ever in his dreams.
She led him downstairs to the library. When Arryk wasn’t training with her and Captain Bartran, he spent most of his time among books and scrolls. Master Graidyn, his tutor, must’ve retired only a short time ago. The tea in his mug still steamed. Beside it lay yesterday’s philosophy lesson: comparing the Shaddra’hin ways with Ixakan mysticism.
All the tables had been rearranged.
“Your writing desk is over there now.” Istra pointed at a table near the shelves that lined the north wall, opposite the library door. His chair, denoted by a drawing of horses and falcons on the backrest that he’d done when he was ten, stood between the shelves and the table. No one could enter the library without him seeing.
“You did all this?”
“Graidyn helped me. He agrees. You shouldn’t be caught unaware. There’s more.” She nudged him. “Sit down.”
For a moment, he thought her instructions humorous and his dark mood started to lift. Smiling at the puzzle, he obeyed.
“With your left hand, feel under the table. It has to be your left, in case you’re writing something and you don’t want to raise suspicion.”
Arryk’s fingers brushed the underside of the table until they bumped against a hard, cylindrical object. He couldn’t guess what it was until he recognized the hardened leather of a sheath.
“Practice drawing it,” Istra said. “Careful not to stab yourself.”
Arryk leapt up. “I can’t! Istra, he’s the Crown Prince and my brother. I can’t!”
“Highness, he murdered Bhodryk. Brotherhood means nothing to him. You have to be prepared.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Not this. I expect broken noses, not Nathryk’s sword between my ribs.”
“What about assassins?” Istra set the lamp on the tabletop and those calloused fingers squeezed his shoulder. “Listen, I know what you mean to do, after his enthronement. Rance told me, and I agree with you. I think you should flee. Every one of us who’s crossed Nathryk should flee, but until then, he will be living here with us, and you must not turn your back on him.”
Arryk became aware that his breathing came in small gasps, like that of a panicked rodent, and he loathed himself for it. Why couldn’t he be brave? “It isn’t fair. I’m not even the oldest. Why should I be a threat?”
“Because your father killed his older brothers to secure the throne. Nathryk knows it, and he won’t let it happen to him.”
“But I don’t want the throne!”
“Can someone like Nathryk understand that?”
Arryk sank onto the edge of the table, hands pressed over his face.
“We’ll fix something in your bedroom, too,” Istra added. “And you’re not to go anywhere unarmed. If Nathryk wants to pick a fight with you now, it needs to sting. Understand? Rance, Master Graidyn, or I will never be far away.”
Arryk thought of the girl mentioned in Aunt Ki’eva’s letter and grit his teeth. “I’ll kill him if he hurts you.”
Istra smiled, and her fingers on his arm became gentle. She touched his face and turned away.
She padded off to her own rooms, leaving Arryk with a terrible vision of assassins breaking down his door and slipping through his window.
~~~~
The escort rumbled into the courtyard early the following afternoon. One hundred cavalrymen and fifty royal guards wearing the Princess Regent’s livery surrounded a small mud-spattered carriage. A white spread-winged falcon adorned the door. Stiff green plumes quivered between the ears of the six white horses, and sweat slicked their necks. The Princess Regent had not traveled in luxury, but in haste.
Lady Éndaran, her family, and her household poured from the keep to attend their arrival. Arryk’s three sworn protectors stood near him, Istra on his left, Rance on his right, and Master Graidyn quietly behind, but the fear in his belly refused to wane. It curdled and clawed, and Arryk longed to run and hide in the tunnels hidden deep in the castle. Just like a mole, powerless and defenseless, he chided himself.
The carriage door opened and Aunt Ki’eva climbed out, anger tightening her face. “—will not discuss it now,” she was saying and followed the statement with a groan and a stretch. Wrinkles latticed her maroon travel skirts. Her tidy little hat sat slightly askew atop her golden coif. Though Éndaran maintained its share of roads, they were still hard on the traveler.
Ki’eva disregarded a sharp argument coming from inside the carriage and started for the keep. Lady Éndaran curtsied deeply and whisked the Princess Regent inside, promising an immediate bath and rest. That Eritha did not wait to greet her grandson was a slight lost on no one. Life was bound to get tense and ugly. Istra traded an apprehensive glance with her father. Lord Raed, as grim as the walls of his fortress, smoothed his expression with masterful control.