Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Thorn seemed to wilt as the fight ebbed from him. He leant heavily on the back of a chair, blistered palms turned up, smoldering fingers curled. “Brother,” he whispered, and his knees buckled. The chair toppled over on top of him, and he made no effort to move it. Out cold.

  Kelyn knelt beside him, touched the pulse in his throat. “Crazy bastard.” When he saw that the swoon had put a stop to the burning, he went to fetch Master Odran to bind up Thorn’s hands, just as he had so many years before.

  ~~~~

  10

  The lady of mists

  Cold as the snow-laden hills

  Bides her time, waiting

  For love, for conquest …

  —from Chants of Fire, by Byrn the Blue

  The song of the elk horn echoed back from the flanks of Mount Drenéleth. Eliad lowered the horn from his mouth and stood motionless, listening. Prince Valryk mimicked his stance, though he was keenly aware of the soft snow settling and squeaking under his boots. He heard nothing in response but the whicker of a horse, the thud of clumps of snow tumbling from the swaying pine boughs, the restless shifting of the highlander scout’s feet, and his father’s impatient sigh. Breath clouded before the king’s bearded face.

  Kelyn muttered something about a few more minutes, then the party would turn back to the lodge. “We don’t want to be caught out in the cold after dark.”

  “Ach, what I wouldn’t give for a brandy,” Rhorek said, blowing on his knuckles.

  Valryk gritted his teeth. If an elk bugled in some distant valley, none would hear it for all the chatter. This was his first hunt, and it was not going as he’d hoped. His fingers and toes were numb with the cold, his belly was empty, and for what? All day he and the rest of the party had tromped through the snow, up steep hills and across frozen streams, chasing ghosts. Here and there, tracks continued to give him hope, but he began to believe the elk mocked him.

  A few weeks ago the Black Falcon summoned him to his study to ask, “What does my son want for his thirteenth birthday?” The king actually looked up from the stack of correspondence long enough to look Valryk in the eye. For all of half a minute.

  He had hoped for this chance but never expected his father to ask. Usually, the king sent him something practical, like a practice sword with his name engraved on it, a pair of boots made of leather so fine that they appeared to be melting, a saddle with stirrups that barely let out long enough for him to use for more than a year. But he always sent a servant to deliver the package. Valryk might as well be living on the other side of the continent rather than in the same castle.

  “Did Mother tell you to ask?” he’d said, standing in that study and feeling like a stranger in it.

  “She doesn’t know I sent for you. This is between us. You’re not a boy anymore.”

  Valryk’s heart soared and he confessed his fondest dream of spending time with his father, “I want to go on an elk hunt with you. Now’s the season for it, isn’t it?”

  The Black Falcon smiled at the idea. “Good. Very good. I’ll consult my secretaries and schedule it. We should be able to leave for Drenéleth in a couple of weeks. And we’ll ask Kelyn and his son to accompany us.”

  “No! Not Kelyn.”

  Father’s smile slipped at that, but Valryk couldn’t take it back. He didn’t want to. Whenever Kelyn was around, Father seemed to think he was the only person alive. Valryk could ride a roaring bear buck-naked into the Audience Chamber, and Father wouldn’t notice. It was bad enough that Eliad, as their host, would be there claiming some of Father’s attention. Perhaps he should have asked for something else, something that allowed him to be truly alone with his father, but it was too late and Valryk had never been allowed to go on a hunt. His mother always refused.

  “Of course he can’t go,” she said this time, too. “You’ll turn your back for one instant and something will happen to him.” For the next two weeks Valryk worried that the king had caved; nothing more was said of the hunt. Then the day after the first snowfall, Valryk returned to his rooms, head muddled with a history lesson, and found his chamberlain packing his warmest clothes.

  He may have won his way this time, but Father also won his. Kelyn was sent an invitation and met the king’s party at Drenéleth Lodge. Kethlyn, however, was in Windhaven with the duchess, as he was every winter.

  It wasn’t long before Kelyn and the scouts and even Father seemed to endure the cold merely out of an obligation to humor a boy’s whim. Eliad alone gave it his all. Eliad alone seemed to remember the reason for the occasion. The party rode sturdy mountain ponies around the base of the spire-shaped mountain to a valley where, only three days ago, Eliad had seen a herd of fifty cow elk in their finest white winter raiment. The valley was empty now, but tracks crisscrossed the snow. Eliad called Valryk down from his horse to inspect the tracks; crouching down, he took the time to explain the difference between an elk’s print and those of sheep and cattle.

  Valryk watched his bastard brother closely. He looked like a younger version of the king. More than Valryk did himself. He was probably being nice only because he wanted Valryk to like him. Princes had to put up with that kind of thing. Mother said so. “Don’t trust him,” she told him for the hundredth time as he climbed into the fur-lined wagon to travel north. “Like Eliad, fine, we all do, but never trust him.”

  When Valryk nodded that, yes, he recognized the differences in the tracks, Eliad laid a heavy arm around his shoulders and asked, “Will you try to take one?”

  Valryk shrugged, too embarrassed to admit that he would have to be fairly close to make his arrow fly straight. The bow sheathed on his saddle was a gift from the Duchess of Liraness. Though he practiced weekly, the pull was still too strong for him. But what greater shame than to drag his father away from important duties, only to return empty-handed?

  Eliad saw his hesitation. “Don’t worry, Highness, we’ll find something. Come, the bull went this way.” He slung the horn around his neck, and the party mounted up again.

  The highlander scout crept up the slope and into the pine trees. The rest followed, riding slowly, keeping their mouths shut and their eyes open. White elk hiding in a snowy forest were hard to see, so they said.

  In the shade, the temperature plummeted. Valryk was grateful every time the scout led them into a clearing so the sun could warm his back.

  “Tell you what, Highness,” Eliad whispered, turning in his saddle. “We’ll build a blind tonight, over there at the head of the valley. You and I will come back tomorrow morning and let our quarry come to us. Sometimes it takes days to catch the prize, so don’t feel discouraged.” He would go to that much trouble for a prince’s thirteenth birthday? Maybe Eliad really did like him. Maybe he just liked to hunt.

  The party entered the shade again, and chill bumps shivered up inside Valryk’s heavy woolens. He glanced ahead for the next warm spot of sun. To the left of the trail, a beam of light … no! a ball of light shifted, ducked, rose, then darted behind the spruce trees. Valryk reined in so hard that his pony tossed her head and sidestepped.

  The king caught up, looked him over, concerned, hopeful. “Are you tired, son?” Rhorek refused to ride the small ponies, even though he knew better. His black Roreshan pawed the snow irritably. Brandrith was built for racing on flat ground, not trudging around in the foothills, and he was getting old and grumpy. Father, too. Just like him to grow weary of spending time with his son so soon.

  “I’m not blind,” Valryk wanted to say, but held his tongue. All Father wanted to do was sniff some brandy and have a pretty maid sit on his lap by the fireplace. As soon as they arrived at the lodge last night, Valryk had been sent to bed, but he hadn’t stayed there. He wanted to hear the men talking about plans for the hunt, so he crept downstairs barefoot and sat outside the door of the Bear Lounge. Eliad had built the room especially for talking about tracking and trapping, weaponry and war stories. A sideboard glittered with dozens of liquor decanters, and two gray-and-black hides of brindled be
ars, all the way from Valrosk, adorned the floor. That’s where Valryk saw the pretty woman sitting on Father’s knee. It wasn’t the first time. Valryk was always sneaking through the castle, catching the king up to something and listening to rumors and whispers. Fights sometimes. Only Mother dared shout at the king, but she didn’t shout about the other women so much anymore. Last summer, Valryk heard Mother’s handmaid say to Nanna, “The queen is more concerned about not losing more babies than she is about being His Majesty’s exclusive bed partner, so keep a civil tongue. It’s none of your business.”

  “Son?” The king peered into the trees, trying to see what startled him.

  “I thought I saw—” What? A bright light? The forest was full of sunlight bouncing around, shining off the snow, dazzling his eyes. “I thought I saw an elk.” He nudged his pony after Eliad. Sweeping a bough from his path, he glanced off into the trees again. There it was! A nebulous, pulsing light with a black center, just like a glowing eye, but enormous. “There, do you see?” He pointed frantically, but even as his father caught up and bent low to follow his finger, the light disappeared.

  The king squinted. “That’s just a dead tree sticking out of a snow bank. Hurry along. Supper is waiting back at the lodge.” He trotted ahead. Kelyn followed, peered into the same space of shadow and light, saw nothing special. The pack mules and another highlander brought up the rear.

  Whatever that light was, Valryk didn’t appreciate the trick it was playing on him. Likely, Father and Kelyn both thought him a simpleton who didn’t know an elk from a bowl of porridge. Deciding to avenge himself, he turned his pony off the trail and into the trees. The tracks of the others were easy to follow; he’d catch up later.

  The snow was deeper than it looked. His short-legged pony struggled to make a path, lurching and pawing through the drifts. A fallen branch hidden under the snow snagged a hoof and pitched the horse onto her nose. Valryk rolled out of the saddle and landed in the drift. Snow clung to one eyelid, clogged an ear, filled his mouth. He sat up spitting and scooping away the snow and found the light looming over him. It hovered not five feet away, the most beautiful star, shimmering with streaks of pink and green and gold.

  He’d heard of the Dragon Eyes that guarded Avidan Wood. Travelers disappeared there. Terror shivered through him along with the cold. He hadn’t considered that Dragon Eyes might live in other forests, too.

  “Don’t hurt me.” He tried to sound brave, but all that came out was a quivering squawk.

  The great eye winked out. Snow crunched and footsteps appeared, deep impressions receding fast. How could a floating eye leave footprints?

  Valryk scrambled out of the drift and examined the tracks. They were humanlike, narrow and long and shoed with soft soles.

  The crunching of snow went silent and the light appeared ahead, vanished again, reappeared farther away. Valryk ran after it, stumbling, kicking his way through the drifts. The tracks led to a giant spruce and stopped. He peered up into the gray-green boughs, walked all the way around the tree, but the light was gone.

  Disappointed, he started back, retracing his own trail so the going was easier. Halfway back to his pony, he paused, listening. Music? Yes, indistinct notes of what sounded like a harp drifted through the trees. He turned back to the giant spruce; the music was coming from farther away, over the next hillock. Valryk trammeled a new path through the snow, stopping now and again to make sure he wasn’t hearing a strange bird or icicles tinkling together. When he topped the hill, he heard a voice singing, too. The most beautiful voice he’d ever heard, like heartbreak and longing and one’s fondest dreams pouring from the sky, rising from the snow, swaying slowly through the trees.

  The song came from a stand of evergreens. Valryk tiptoed, but the snow failed to muffle his steps. Could the singer hear his approach? A woman, it had to be a woman, a highlander maybe, but what highlander was fool enough to sing in weather so cold that spit froze before it hit the ground?

  Valryk slowly lowered a branch. Snow slipped off the needles, cascading with an icy whisper. Seated amid the pine trees, a woman in a white gown plucked a silver harp perched in her lap. A lush ermine cloak draped her shoulders, trailed off into the snow, and her hair curled silver-gold down her back. The cold air turned her cheeks pink, but her skin was as smooth and pale as the cream Valryk poured into his tea. A rancid smell wafted from the clearing, spoiling the beauty of the spectacle, but the breeze shifted, and the smell was gone.

  For a long while the woman sang, too caught up in the music to notice her audience. The words were foreign, their meaning lost, but the sorrow in her voice made Valryk’s heart ache.

  The song ended before he realized. Trapped. He couldn’t leave now without being heard.

  The woman’s eyes opened. She turned to him as if she had known he was there all along. “Why, hello. Do I know you?” Her accent was funny, not highlander. More silken, as soft and musical as her song.

  Well, it wouldn’t do to stand among the prickly pine needles pretending he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “I’m Valryk, son of the Black Falcon,” he announced, pushing his way into the clearing. And why not? The ground they stood on, the trees, the snow, even this lady’s life belonged to his father, and one day to Valryk himself.

  The woman’s fingers darted to her lips. “A prince! What an unexpected surprise.” Her hand swept the clearing as if it were her palace. “Welcome, Your Highness. I’m Lady Lasharia.”

  Lady? A proper lady would know to stand and curtsy, but she remained sitting. She set the harp down beside her and tucked her hands inside a white fur muff. Her eyes were the color of lilacs, and there was that smell again, sickly sweet. Where had he smelled it before? Before he could place it, the trees swayed, filling the clearing with the crisp scents of ice and evergreen.

  “Have I seen you at court?” he asked.

  She ducked her eyes. “Not I. I am not welcome there.”

  “Why not? Were you banished?” The Drakhan Mountains, cold and barren and lonely, were the first choice for banishment if someone displeased the king or the queen. People who had been really bad might be put on a ship and sent to the ice shores of Dovnya.

  “Banished? No. I’m not of your people.”

  “You’re … Fieran?” He retreated a step, preparing to flee the clearing and wishing he wore his practice sword. Even a bluff was better than being caught unarmed.

  The woman smiled so sweetly that his fear shamed him. “Do you think Fierans are the only folk loathed by your people? Aralorr is my home, as it is yours. We’re not enemies, you and I. At least, I hope not.”

  He wanted to believe her. Besides, why would a Fieran have ventured this far north just to sing in the snow? That was not proper spying. Was it?

  Ah, maybe she was one of Eliad’s mistresses, one he’d hidden away so the king wouldn’t steal her for himself. She was too pretty to ignore, after all. Best not tell her that he understood now; he didn’t want to embarrass her.

  “What are you doing out here alone,” she asked, “and in so wild a place?”

  “My father brought me to hunt, but he’s already bored. I wish we hadn’t come. He’s going to spoil it.”

  “Spoil what?”

  “My birthday gift, what else?”

  “Ah, your ideal, rather.”

  She failed to curtsy; now she contradicted him. Beautiful as she was, she hadn’t learned proper manners. He couldn’t tell how old she was, maybe as young as eighteen, maybe as old as thirty. Old enough to know better, anyway. But, then, she was foreign, wasn’t she? His tutors had taught him that different behavior was acceptable to different people, and the worst-mannered people were the Zhianese. This lady surely wasn’t Zhianese.

  “You’ll find that’s the way of things, I’m afraid,” she added with a forlorn sigh. “Our plans rarely play into our hands as we hope.”

  “You’ve been disappointed, too?”

  “More deeply than you can possibly understand, Highness.” Dark memories r
aged behind those soft lilac eyes.

  Just like a grown-up to think he was incapable of understanding things. He thought turning thirteen would end that.

  He reached out a hand, almost dared to touch her shoulder. “Try me.”

  She studied him carefully, then admitted, “I hoped to be a musician, receive formal training, but—”

  “But you play so beautifully! No one taught you?”

  “Only my mother, and that was so long ago.”

  “You don’t need training, m’ lady. I’ve never heard anything so fine. You could be the best court musician ever.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Valryk nodded exuberantly.

  The joy withered slowly from her mouth. “When my mother died, I became a soldier instead.”

  Valryk’s lip curled. “A soldier? You don’t look like a soldier. You’re too—” His face heated and he bit his tongue.

  “High praise, indeed, and I thank you, Highness. I still find time to slip away and play.”

  “This is a strange place to play a harp.”

  She laughed at that, and the sound of it was so fair that Valryk’s heart rose into his throat. “Is it? Among the Mother’s birds and trees and sunlight? There’s no place more inspiring of song, Highness.”

  “Will you … will you play again?”

  “If you wish.” Her hands remained inside the muff. “But you mustn’t tell anyone we’ve met. Men might come and hurt me.”

  “Men, what men? Do you mean my father? Why would he hurt you?”

  A delicate pleat creased her brow. “Children, always asking why. Some things just are, Highness. You just happen to be a prince. I just happen to be what I am. Did you ever think that you might have been born a shepherd’s son, instead of the son of a king? The Mother-Father decides these things. I’m a soldier because it’s my destiny to do as I’m told. You were chosen to be a prince, because you have a far more important destiny at work.”