Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Don’t turn your back on anyone, Laral,” Wren had warned him, “and come home to me.”

  So Laral stood with his back to the Gallery wall. No sign of the great mural remained. The painted plaster had been overlaid with smooth cream-colored marble. Between Laral’s shoulder blades the stone was as cold as an icy reception.

  At noon, the tall silver doors to the throne room opened and a herald called, “Laral, Lord Brengarra.”

  A long green rug led him down an aisle between two tables lined with the king’s advisers. Wrinkled necks craned, and whispers rippled under the vaulted ceiling. Eyes scrutinized, passed judgment, drew conclusions, and heads shook in disapproval.

  Where the rug ended, alabaster steps reared up toward the alabaster throne. Semi-translucent wings swept forward, embracing the king while providing him a place to rest his arms. Eyes of onyx glared severely across the throne room. Beneath them, the king watched Laral approach.

  How young he was. Compared to the aged, clucking flock of roosters below, the White Falcon was little more than a fledgling. Dark hair curled around a stern, cautious face. It was the face of one who had learned to distrust every soul he encountered. From his shoulders trailed a green velvet cloak lined with ermine, so long it cascaded halfway down the steps, and in the tradition of a thousand years’ worth of Fieran kings, his brow knew not the weight of a crown.

  Just past the tables, Laral stopped and bowed. His nape tingled with the weight of eyes on his back. At the bottom of the dais, a pair of White Mantles had their swords bared, propped on their shoulders. A single step and swing from either of them and Laral’s head would be rolling across the marble floor.

  The White Falcon’s voice was flat, dry, and scoured of emotion: “I have never met an Aralorri before. You look like any other man to me.”

  A few of the advisers chuckled, but the White Falcon hadn’t meant it as a jest. The fingers of his right hand rose, and the snickering stopped.

  And what was Laral to say to this remark? “It’s good of you to say so, Your Majesty.”

  “Is it?”

  It was the kind of sarcastic riposte that Laral imagined Nathryk might fire at him. But Nathryk was dead, he had to remember that. What kind of king was this? A brief glimpse up at the boy gave no hint. How had one so young mastered the art of masks already?

  “Why did you not come with Lady Brengarra, two years ago?”

  Did he want flattery, diplomacy, pleas? There was no way to know. Tossing excuses and fear to the winds, Laral said, “My name was not on the summons, Your Majesty. I did not think my presence desired.”

  “Wasn’t it?” The White Falcon’s eyes darted between the two tables. One of the advisers cleared his throat; another shifted in his well-padded chair. The others were silent. “An oversight, surely,” the king added. “Your oath I required most of all, and it’s no wondering why.”

  “Before these same witnesses, I gave my oath to your aunt and your father’s heir.”

  “Both of whom are dead.”

  Laral lowered his glance to the bottom step and kept it there.

  “How often did the Princess Regent summon you?”

  “On only three or four occasions, sire. I couldn’t answer her questions, I’m afraid, so she finally stopped sending for me.”

  “And the Black Falcon? Has he summoned you?”

  The same mistrust all over again. Would it never end? Laral carefully smoothed the impatience from his reply, “Never once, sire.”

  “We’re to believe that?”

  “Believe what you will, Your Majesty. I will not lie to you.”

  Silence reverberated as insistently as a war drum. Laral seemed to have eaten sawdust. Impossible to swallow his uncertainty. Had he just stumbled into a dungeon cell?

  A soft rustle descended from the throne as the White Falcon swept a hand. “Everyone but Lord Brengarra is dismissed. The White Mantles, too. I will interview him alone.”

  Gasps and arguments rose from the tables. “This is not prudent, sire,” said one of the old men.

  The king grit his teeth. “Go. Rance, you may stay. Stand at the door, out of earshot but within sight.”

  Only then did the advisers rise, stiff from reluctance as well as being far too accustomed to sitting at those particular tables. The two White Mantles herded them out. The younger of the two, whose black eyes were painfully familiar, glared at Laral as he passed. He was the one called Rance, for he shut the doors and stood with his back to them.

  Laral felt more in danger now, alone with the king and a single guard, than surrounded by so many hostile gazes. This was not going to be a typical audience.

  “Those questions were for them,” said the king. “The ones they requested I ask you. The questions I want to ask are none of their concern.” Despite the absence of his advisers, the king remained just as stone-faced and formal. Had he ever enjoyed a single moment as a normal boy? “Answer me this. Aralorris are known liars, yet you claim that you are not one of them?”

  “An Aralorri or a liar, Your Majesty? I cannot deny the one, but I refute the other.”

  “Who does not lie to save their own skin?”

  Was Laral’s skin in danger? All he could do was wait it out and hope he didn’t put himself on the headsman’s block. “The last time I lied, sire, was to my foster-lord. I indulged in too much of his wine one night and was so ill the next day that I told him I had the plague, hoping he would take pity and excuse me from my duties. I think that proved to us both that I’m a rotten liar. It has never served me well.”

  “We’ll see.” The White Falcon rose and descended a couple of steps. The heavy cloak rippled like floodwater, preceding him to the floor. “You are a knight, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “A knight who swore before his king to protect his people and his realm.”

  Inwardly, Laral squirmed like a man whose neck stretched inside a noose. Outwardly, his only reaction was to glance at the ermine hem of the cloak pooling below the dais. “Yes.”

  “Would you ever break the oath you will swear here today?”

  Measuring his response carefully, he began, “I’ve had to reevaluate many things, sire, my conscience among them—”

  The king sighed in disapproval. “You disappoint me, Laral. I prefer you to be straightforward. I asked a straightforward question.”

  Yes, but your motives are not so straightforward, sire. What is it you really want? Laral kept the thought to himself, remembered his daughter’s pink ribbon in his pocket, and plunged in. “Would I ever break my oath to you? Yes. Yes, I would.”

  The White Falcon’s statue-like expression clouded. “Then why swear it?”

  “Sire, I will renew my oath in the hopes that my sovereign will never order me to act against my conscience.”

  “Is your conscience more honorable than mine?”

  “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  Laral expected a hellfire response. The boy’s eyebrows darted up, but neither tirade nor order for Laral’s head followed. Instead, the king descended the rest of the alabaster steps and looked up into Laral’s face. His eyes were as green as summer leaves, and Laral had trouble holding their intense gaze. Inscrutable, that’s what he was. What was the key to understanding him? Would Laral be permitted to find it?

  Likely this boy worried that a monstrous, maniacal enemy lurked inside Laral’s skin and hoped to tease it out, just as Laral feared a second Nathryk lived inside the White Falcon. He caught himself grinning at their mutual distrust and ducked his chin to clear his expression.

  The boy turned his back and strode toward the long row of windows in the southern wall, as if daring the Aralorri to take advantage of the easy target. Laral planted his feet on the rug and crossed his arms, disinterested in the game.

  Peering out the windows at the gardens below, the king said, “I heard your father disowned you when you married a Fieran. Is it true?”

  Old sorrow crept in again. “It is. My younger
sister inherits everything and my father no longer acknowledges me.”

  The king turned to face him. “You … you threw it all away for a woman?” There was neither scorn nor incredulity in the question. Instead, the boy chewed his lower lip as if the idea made him nervous or giddy. This, of all things, caused the masks to slip?

  “No, but for the only life I could contemplate. A life with her,” Laral clarified. “My choice is filled with danger and sorrow, certainly, but what kind of life is not?”

  “But if war breaks out, for which side will you fight?”

  It was a question Laral had considered all too often. When his silence drew out, the White Falcon took a step toward him, frowning. At last, Laral shrugged and admitted, “I cannot raise my sword against my wife or my father. As I told your aunt, I’ve made it my duty to promote peace and friendship, but my voice falls on scornful ears.”

  “My advisers tell me you have ambitions to foment rebellion.”

  Laral snorted. “I’m certainly taking my time about it. No, sire, I want to grow grapes, drink wine, hunt the hillsides, and watch my children grow.”

  The White Falcon cast a furtive glance toward the Mantle standing at the door, then beckoned Laral closer. In the sunlight pouring through the windows, Laral saw that he was not giddy, nor even nervous. The White Falcon was scared to death. Of what? “H-how many children do you have?”

  This was not the question he longed to ask, no doubt about it, but Laral played along. “My daughter, Lesha, is almost four, and we have another on the way. Else, Wren would have traveled with me.”

  “Did you … did you find it difficult to love a Fieran?”

  “On the contrary, sire. It was all too easy. We were sixteen, and it was the last days of the war. Our people were dying all around us, but Wren was a song of sweetness in the middle of it.”

  “Yes, that’s the way it should be, don’t you think?” The boy’s breath shook in his throat, and Laral decided it was only the massive weight of the cloak that held his bones together. He leaned closer, as if he were about to confess some horrible, shameful sin, and whispered, “Now that I’ve turned sixteen, my advisers urge me to marry. They’ve already chosen her. A girl from Quelstorn. I’ve never even seen her.”

  Is this why he had ordered those advisers from the room? The certainty of it struck Laral in the chest. He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and warned himself not to laugh or even crack a smile. In truth, the future of the kingdom depended on a king’s choice for a queen. But why ask a complete stranger about something so grave?

  When the boy raised his eyes, they made no attempt to mask a desperate hope for Laral’s advice. Indeed, the boy’s willingness to trust him stunned him for an instant. Recovering, he said, “I assume you don’t agree with their choice. You have someone else in mind?”

  The boy nodded, a gesture full of sadness. “They say she’s unsuitable.”

  Ah. Now Laral understood why the king took such an interest in his choice of brides. “Is she … Aralorri?”

  That earned him a grin. “No. Worse. She’s five years older than I. They say that’s too old.”

  “She’s what, twenty-one then?” Laral asked, incredulous. “My wife is twenty-three, Your Majesty, and I hardly consider her old. Another one on the way, remember? Whoever your lady is, she’s got years and years left to give you heirs.”

  The White Falcon flinched. “Y-yes … I suppose so.” The weight of the cloak finally became too much. He unclasped the silver latch and let it drop behind him as if it were the cares of the world. He groaned and stretched his shoulders and popped his neck. There was something endearingly humble and human in it.

  “There has to be more to their objection than her age, sire.”

  Arryk drifted back toward the tables, a hand kneading a knot in his shoulder. He pulled out one of the chairs, sat with his back to the Mantle at the door and gestured for Laral to take the chair next to him. Bracing his elbows on his knees, Arryk whispered, “They say it’s possible that she’s my father’s bastard.”

  And there was a mire Laral didn’t want to step in. “That does make things more complicated.”

  “Not one of those old men listens to reason. Uncle Raed—Lord Raed, I mean—says it’s absolutely impossible. Istra’s mother was never alone with my father when he visited Éndaran. He would know, wouldn’t he?”

  The plea carried impossible notes of innocence. Was it for Laral to teach this youth about the existence of clandestine meetings by moonlight?

  “They’ve all miscalculated anyway,” Arryk went on. “Istra’s mother was already carrying her. If my father is Istra’s father then she would’ve been born four months early, and Lady Eritha assures me that she was not undersized or unhealthy. But all twenty of my advisers insist Eritha is lying. How can they all believe something that’s nothing more than nasty rumor? Do you want wine?”

  The sudden pause in Arryk’s rant sent a jolt through Laral. He found the wine service amid the table and poured for both of them, all the while turning over the information. “Have they raised any other objection?”

  Arryk winced. “Even if we can disprove the slander, they will not love her now. She’s fiercely protective. Of me. You know? Every time she comes to court, she butts heads with the worst of them. She’s fearless in that regard. And last time, well, it leaked out that she called them greedy, brainless horses’ arses who have lost their way and their wisdom.”

  Laral managed to clear his throat and swallow the bark of laughter desperate to break free.

  “That’s a direct quote. I heard her say it myself. So did the wrong servant, apparently. I can’t trust anyone inside these walls. Rance is my only friend here.” He gestured over his shoulder at the Mantle. “But you, Laral, you won’t run to them with what I’ve said, will you?”

  Still such a child. “Of course not, sire.” He sipped the wine. “Let’s see if we can lay our finger on the truth here. It seems to me that your advisers mean to take advantage of farfetched rumors to discredit your choice, because they want an inexperienced, biddable queen, one who will urge you to do as they wish.”

  “That is my suspicion. But I do not want to thumb my nose at them and lose their favor either.”

  Laral choked on the wine. When he caught his breath, he said, “You have it backwards, sire. They should be terrified of losing your favor. Use your spies, find a reason to discredit a couple of them, and exile them. That will make the rest uncertain, then they will be biddable.”

  Mischief lit the king’s eyes. “You are dangerous.”

  Bite your tongue, fool! If Laral wasn’t careful, he’d find assassins leaking through every crack and cranny. He had little reason to trust that this boy would keep his council private.

  “Very well. If you were one of my advisers, what would you suggest I do about the lady?”

  Given his history, Laral could give only one answer without sounding hypocritical, and he suspected this boy knew it. “It’s your heart and your bed, isn’t it, sire?”

  Arryk sat back and his face flushed intense scarlet. Embarrassment drove him from the chair. He paced, raked his hands through his hair, and declared, “They’ll say you encouraged me.”

  Laral grinned. “Fomenting rebellion must be my secret talent, after all.”

  Arryk stopped pacing abruptly, and his stern, cautious face broke into laughter. He laughed so hard that he doubled over. “The irony—!” he began but couldn’t finish and finally sank onto the bottom step of the dais.

  Uncertain what to do, Laral glanced at the White Mantle and was astonished to find him, too, smiling at the sight of his king’s happiness. Aye, it must be rare, indeed. The Mantle caught Laral glancing at him, straightened his expression, and snapped to attention.

  Arryk’s laughter trailed away after a good long while. He leaned back on his elbows and crossed his ankles as if he lounged on a hearthrug in a parlor rather than in the cold, hard center of Fieran government. “When you
hunt, do you prefer hounds or hawks?”

  Laral sighed, relieved. “I prefer to stalk the snow elk without either. Unfortunately, I’ve not had the opportunity since I moved so far south.”

  Arryk sat up. “That’s troublesome.” He appeared to mean it. “We don’t have elk in the Shadow Mounds? We shall import some for you.”

  “There is no need—”

  “Of course, there is. I want you to show me how this is done.”

  “As it please you.”

  “Would you … would you be imposed upon if I paid you a visit in the spring? For this purpose, of course.”

  “Imposed upon? Greatly honored, Your Majesty.” This boy wasn’t like Nathryk at all. Laral decided he liked him immensely.

  Arryk pushed himself to his feet and hurried to the window to reclaim the heavy cloak. Clasping it upon his shoulders, he said, “Very well, Lord Brengarra. I will expect an invitation from you early next spring.” He climbed the dais to resume the throne and recalled his advisers. By the time the panel of old men reclaimed their seats at the long tables, Arryk had rebuilt that stony mask, and Laral felt no dread as he bent the knee to speak his oath of loyalty to the White Falcon.

  ~~~~

  9

  The Mother’s hand lays all roads.

  Men have but to walk.

  —Lyric 3, “Morning Praise”

  Songs of Dan Ora’as

  The Elarion of Linndun rose with the sun. All across the city, they stepped out onto chilly balconies tinkling with agate leaves, and into dewy gardens turning brown with autumn, and raised their hands toward the dawn. “Arga bi’ev er Ana-Forah”—“Blessed be the Mother-Father!” they sang. Notes from harps and flutes accompanied the chant. “Lithyan ola vri ya shath’anna. Trechilë chinál. Trechilë van’tav”—“We praise you for a new day. Teach us ways of kindness. Teach us songs of joy.”