Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

“No!” he bellowed and broke into a cough. Each spasm sent jabs of pain through his skull. “He’ll be here soon and I have to be ready to go.”

  “The elixir has made you delusional, love.”

  “Aye, Da, you sound worse than me.” Andryn plunked down on the footstool. The boy was small for his twelve years. He was allergic to everything he touched and all too easily developed a rasping cough. Laral had informed the doctors that he himself hadn’t gotten any height under him until he was fourteen or so, and he pointed out that Bethyn was built like a bird, but after poking and prodding on the boy long enough, the doctors confirmed that Andryn’s heart wasn’t a healthy one. He tired quickly, his cheeks were often pale, and he had trouble catching his breath. “Fuss, fuss, fuss, Mum is very good at fussing. One little cough and it’s off to bed with you.”

  Bethyn straightened, doubled a fist on her hip, and glared indignantly at her son.

  “Who taught you to be such an ingrate?” asked Lesha. She sat at the nearest corner of the long table, tuning her lute. At sixteen she was a budding beauty, three inches taller than her mother with Bethyn’s delicate bones. The roaring fire turned her pale hair into veils of yellow gold. Of course, Laral preferred to pretend that his eldest was barely out of the nursery.

  Andryn giggled at his sister’s remark. One of his chief pleasures was getting a rise out of his mother and sister.

  “You have my sympathies, Andy,” said Laral. The coughing had turned his voice to gravel. “Remind me of this in a couple of weeks when I start coddling you again.”

  “Deal.” He’d inherited his mother’s large brown eyes and Laral’s lazy brown curls, and when they traveled to Drenéleth last autumn, Kelyn and Eliad both remarked how much Andy looked like his father. That made the boy’s chest puff out. “I’m going to be a knight like him, too,” he’d said, but it was his younger brother who got to stay behind as a squire.

  Bethyn popped him on the rear. “Get up. Your da needs to elevate his feet.”

  Andryn scurried off the footstool and dropped onto the bench across the table from his sister. A wicked grin crept across his face. He reached out and gave one of the lute’s pegs a full turn.

  Lesha squealed. “You little rat! I was almost finished.”

  Laral groaned at the irate pitch of her voice and Andy’s laughter; both reverberated in his ears. Their mother rounded on them, but before the scolding leapt from her tongue, the head steward bustled in and cleared his throat. Master Arvold was a rail-thin, balding man, whose gray livery was never soiled by a wrinkle or a speck of dust. When Bethyn acknowledged him, he announced, “His Majesty is arrived, my lady.”

  Bethyn hurried out to receive the king.

  “Oh, damn,” Laral muttered and tossed the blankets aside.

  “Don’t get up, Da,” said Lesha, setting aside her lute to bundle him under the blankets again.

  He let her fuss; he was terribly dizzy all of a sudden. Had to be the concoction they made him drink. Voices, urgent and concerned, rose over the roar of the fire and Lesha’s orders for her brother to behave like a gentleman.

  “…practically had to strap him down to keep him here, sire.” Bethyn’s explanation grew louder as she led the king into the Lord’s Hall. “The doctors say he’s flirting with pneumonia.”

  Lesha dropped into a deep curtsy, and Andryn bowed clumsily. It was a relief to see that a king looked crinkled and mussed from a journey like any other man. Holding back a cough, Laral started to push himself to his feet.

  “Stay put,” Arryk ordered. “Andryn, you’re looking well. You avoided your father’s folly, then?”

  The boy scowled. “Of course. I wasn’t invited to go.”

  Arryk took up Lesha’s hand and kissed it. “As fair as always.” She blushed and giggled, and Laral grunted. Coming into the firelight, Arryk leaned close to inspect his friend. “You look like you’ve been swallowed by a sea serpent and shat out the other end.”

  Andryn laughed so hard that he doubled over, gasping.

  “I’m not that sick,” Laral insisted.

  “Hunting in the rain? Your lady wife tells me correctly?”

  “It was only misting, and it’s a good time to go hawking. The birds aren’t expecting it. The falcons…” His version of the story ended with a violent sneeze. The fever flared in his cheeks, but he felt so damnably cold.

  “You only prove Bethyn’s point, my friend.”

  Laral wheezed a sigh. “Andy, put more wood on the fire. Sire, I will be well enough by morning to ride with you.”

  “Your things were unpacked hours ago,” Bethyn said.

  “They can be packed again, Wren. There’s still time.” He managed less of a growl when he addressed the king, “You mean to stay the night, don’t you?”

  “The men and horses are tired,” Arryk admitted. “We traveled through the night to be here on time.”

  Laral groaned. “You troubled yourself for nothing. My apologies.”

  “You see?” Bethyn said, undeterred. “Secretly he knows I’m right, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.”

  Arryk tugged off a fine pair of eel-skin gloves and let the steward take his mink-lined cloak. Andryn brought him a chair and positioned it on the other side of the footstool. The White Falcon made himself at home, stretching out his legs and soaking up the heat from the fire. “Your lady is wise. You’re too ill to risk it.”

  Laral resented that smug jump in Wren’s eyebrows. “But, sire, this is the perfect opportunity. Why now of all times must I be indisposed? I fail you at the most critical moment.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “The bridge! My duty. Ambassador from the other side. Everything I promised to do for relations between Aralorr and Fiera. Now is the time, and I’m stuck here because some bloody doctor mentioned the word ‘pneumonia’.” He threw a forearm across his mouth and coughed up enough slime to gag a slug.

  Arryk crossed his arms. An emerald ring winked in the firelight. “You’re not very convincing. Besides, the journey will be more peaceful if Lady Drona isn’t having to stare at your ugly Aralorri face the whole way.”

  Lesha gasped and turned up her nose. “Lady Athmar is uncouth.”

  “Keep your opinions of your elders to yourself, my dear,” Bethyn warned behind the warmest of smiles and waved the children out.

  “She is uncouth,” Arryk said as Lesha and Andryn bowed from the Hall, “but her sword arm is still able, and Rance won’t leave my side. That, I promise you.”

  Laral swore bitterly under his breath. “And here I had worked up all the right things to say to my father.” The last time he saw Lord Lander was at his wedding to Wren. Father brooded the entire time and proved himself all too eager to flee back to his side of the bridge as soon as the ceremony was over. He didn’t bother kissing his new daughter’s cheek, nor had he even presented himself to her properly. Laral had to point him out to her from across the crowd. Humiliating. The last he saw of Lord Lander was his back and his horse’s arse cantering north again.

  He remained so bitter about Laral’s choice of a bride that he forbade Ruthan to cross the river for a visit, even when Lesha was born. Of course, Ruthan was only twelve at the time. Years later, she finally worked up the courage to sneak away during the week Father spent at Ilswythe for the Assembly. By taking the new bridge at Athmar, she was able to stay at Brengarra for three whole days before she had to hurry home again. She claimed that Father never knew she was away. Always a bit vacant-eyed, Ruthan had grown into a strange, otherworldly sort of woman, quiet and tender in her affections toward her niece and nephews. They adored her as much as Laral did. She had never married, and apparently Lord Lander, knowing that she wasn’t quite … right … had never insisted. Laral supposed that, by now, Father was feeling a little panicky about the future of Tírandon. He had hoped to take the opportunity this week to mend the breach between them.

  “Ah,” Arryk said. “That is your noblest reason for going, but even that won’t
work. I won’t lose my dearest friend to his carelessness. Understand? So blame me if you must. You have your orders.”

  The White Falcon had spoken.

  Grudgingly Laral nodded. “But I insist you stop by on your return and tell me everything that happened, everything that was said, every insult and blow.”

  Arryk chuckled. “I shall be your most faithful informant.”

  Master Arvold delivered a wine service, and Bethyn poured for the king and herself. Laral was already half-drunk from the physician’s mysterious elixir. Arryk sipped the crisp winter white and grew somber. “You know my misgivings. I wouldn’t be going myself if I felt I had a choice.”

  “Of course, you have a choice, Arryk.”

  “Do I? Imagine, a war because I didn’t attend Valryk’s party.”

  “On the bright side, you’ll be the first Fieran king to see the inside of Bramoran in an elf’s years. At least this one will go down in the history books.”

  “Yes, but in what way? I’ve gotten too used to the throne. I don’t like this feeling of powerlessness.”

  “Just do your part to keep the peace and you’ll put the rest to shame.”

  That seemed to ease Arryk a little. He relaxed into the wine. More than once he’d told Laral that he cherished his time at Brengarra because in these halls rest wrapped warm arms around him.

  Master Arvold sniffed to announce his return and proclaimed, “His Majesty’s bath is prepared.”

  “Ah, glorious luxuries.” Arryk heaved himself out of the chair. “I feel like I’ve been trammeled under a parade of horses. Improved carriages, indeed. We’ll talk again tonight, if you’re up to it.”

  Laral doubted he’d be able to speak at all by suppertime but bowed his head in acquiescence and watched the king go. On the threshold Arryk paused, patted his chest, and fished an envelope from inside his doublet. “Where’s Lesha?” he asked the steward.

  She poked her golden head around the doorpost. Of course, she and Andryn had been listening in the corridor, nosey little snipes.

  Laral wasn’t so sick that he missed the sparkle ignite in Lesha’s eyes or the way they clung to the envelope. Her fingers twined into a knot, then snatched the letter and concealed it in the folds of her skirts. Arryk whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “…knew he’d steal you from me…” and “…walking on air, last I saw…” Giggles and blushes and eyes cutting Laral’s direction, and Lesha tried to slip away, but her father was having none of it.

  “Hey!” he barked, raw throat making him sound more menacing than a rockslide.

  “Don’t excite yourself,” Bethyn warned him.

  Lesha’s face went as straight as a brick wall, and the White Falcon condemned her to her fate. “Good luck, lady.”

  As soon as Arryk’s footsteps receded Laral jabbed a finger for his daughter to present herself, front and center. Andryn skipped ahead of his big sister. “Lesha’s got a love letter, love letter,” he chanted.

  “Oh, shut up, Andy Pansy.”

  “Give it to me,” Laral demanded, holding out his hand.

  “What?” Lesha secured the letter behind her back.

  “He won’t read it,” her mother consoled.

  “The hell I won’t!”

  “Dearest,” Wren said, “I won’t allow it. My foot is firmly down on this one. Neither did I allow anyone to read your letters to me. Not even Lady Brighthill. Have some wine.”

  “I don’t want any damn wine. If I’m too sick to go with Arryk tomorrow, I’m too sick to put up with this horseshit. Tell me who he is. Now.”

  Lesha twisted side to side. “Oh, Da, you remember him. You met him at this year’s Turning Festival. He’s the king’s first cousin on his mother’s side, and one of his courtiers.” Her nose lifted high, as if this was recommendation enough.

  “What’s his bloody name.”

  “Tarsyn, Father. He’s from Ca’yndale.”

  Laral sneezed into his kerchief. “I don’t recall any Tarsyn.”

  “Ah,” Bethyn said, “is he the young man I saw you dance with at the last banquet?”

  Andryn snorted, making a poor attempt to keep his laughter to himself.

  “The dark one,” Bethyn went on, “with the strange-looking sword?”

  “Him?” Laral roared, the reference to the sword jogging his memory. “That fop who can’t say who his father is?”

  “Da!” exclaimed Lesha.

  “I’m not the one causing the scandal here. He’s a bastard or he isn’t, and I’ll be damned if—” A coughing attack put a stop to the threat before he could voice it.

  Lesha took the opportunity. “He knows who his mother is, and she is the sister of a queen. If the family was good enough for Shadryk, it should be good enough for you.”

  Defiance? From his sweet little girl? “Can you believe this?” Laral choked out. “Wren, did you encourage it?”

  “I haven’t encouraged anything. First I’ve heard of it.” Her eyes warned him to speak softly. The matter was better discussed between them in private.

  But Laral hoped to beat her to the punch. “Just because I was married on a bridge doesn’t mean I have to tolerate everything.”

  Bethyn cleared her throat. “Lesha, your lute. Play something nice, eh? It will make everyone feel better.”

  Sulking, Lesha tucked the letter inside her bodice and grabbed the instrument off the table. The opening notes of Alovi’s Ballad leapt from her fingers. Three years before, Brengarra opened its doors to a young minstrel who claimed to have come from the courts at Graynor and Bramoran. Byrn the Blue was on his way to try his hand before the White Falcon. Indeed, in his pocket he carried commendations from King Ha’el, the Black Falcon, Lord Ilswythe, and half a dozen more. Lord Allaran of Wyramor acted as his official patron, however, because unknowingly the bard wrote his first song about Wyramor’s beloved sister. He asked only for stories in exchange for his songs, stories he could set to music and turn into legend. The story of Wren’s imprisonment and her marriage to a foreign lord upon a bridge had dazzled his imagination. By the next morning, he was counting out the syllables of a new song.

  Lesha adored his ballad about Lady Alovi so much that she’d begged the bard to teach it to her before he left. She sang it now with a voice as sweet and clear as her mother’s. “I shall seek thee, love, near and far, though I search beyond sun and star…”

  Laral grunted in disgust, certain his daughter imagined herself in Lady Alovi’s shoes, searching through the mists of adversity for her forbidden love. “You’re right, Wren, I’m too sick to handle this.”

  “You need more elixir?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it!” Andryn piped and raced from the Lord’s Hall. He took so long in returning that Bethyn started huffing and glancing at the bell rope. She rose from the king’s chair to give it a ring, but paused as Andryn crossed the threshold. On a tray he brought the elixir in a blue glass bottle, along with a bowl of steaming broth and little squares of twice-baked bread that Cook always had on hand for him when he was bedridden. He had to go slowly, with his tongue sticking out, or the broth might slosh over the side. A squire’s task. Laral and Bethyn exchanged a pained expression.

  “You didn’t have to trouble yourself, son,” Bethyn said as Andy set the tray over his da’s knees.

  “Soup was almost ready anyway,” he said, flinging out the linen napkin. “I just had to rush the cooks a little.”

  Laral’s chuckle ended with a cough. Andryn held the tray still; when the spasm passed, he popped the cork off the blue bottle and measured out a spoonful. “Smells like shit, Da.”

  “Andy!” his mother scolded.

  Laral had to grab the tray again because his laughter and coughing threatened to overturn the whole thing. Goddess, his head was going to burst like a melon on training day. “Tastes like it, too,” he said and shuddered through three spoonfuls.

  Satisfied that he’d done his duty, Andryn sat back on the arm of his mother’s chair. “I wis
h we coulda gone to Bramoran, Da. I kinda miss Jaedren.”

  Laral knew what followed next. He drank the broth straight from the bowl, hoping the plea wouldn’t come, but it did.

  “I was hardly sick at all this winter, Da. I think I’m strong enough to go to Ilswythe now.”

  Bethyn laid her hands on her son’s shoulders. “Andy, now’s not the time for this.”

  “But when?” He shrugged out from under her touch. “And don’t say ‘Maybe next year.’ It’s almost too late to start. I can be a squire. I can go away like Jaedren. I can do it, really!”

  Laral heaved a long rattling sigh. Over Andryn’s head, Bethyn chewed her lip in a frightened sort of way. Their usual excuse didn’t suffice anymore. For years they had told Andryn that they were training him to be a peacetime lord, one who they hoped would not need a sword in hand. Then why bother training Jaedren? he’d asked. Because peace is fragile, they’d answered. “Then I need to know warfare, too,” was his reply. Studies on paper did little to placate him. It was his body that was ill, not his spirit. How to tell a boy that he had to behave like an invalid?

  Melancholy notes rose from Lesha’s lute. “The mare of mist returned to tides of Bryna’s flow and waters white.”

  Andryn wanted to be part of the tales, too. Shifting uneasily, Laral asked, “What if … what if I made you one of my squires? Would that suit you?” He had two already. Haldred came from Gildancove; his uncles had agreed to foster him out at Brengarra as a statement of his disgrace. The boy wanted to be a knight rather than a ship’s captain, and for the men in his family that was a scandal of the highest order. Sedrik was one of the king’s cousins from Arwythe and had come under Laral’s tutelage at Arryk’s recommendation. Both squires were more than able, so he didn’t need a third.

  Andryn went limp in the spine. “But, Da, I would still be here.”

  “Kelyn trained his own son. And Kelyn was trained by his father. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing. It’s just not the same.”

  “Well, that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” While Andryn weighed his options, Laral added, “If you agree, you’ll have to listen to Sed and Hal. And muck out the stables. I practically lived in the stables when I was at Ilswythe. As we speak, your brother is either performing the same book studies you are or he’s scraping horseshit off Kelyn’s boots. Nothing more glorious than that.”