Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Rhian peered around Kelyn’s smaller trunk. “It means that much to you, being avedra?”

  “It’s the one thing I looked forward to all my life.”

  “Is it what you hoped?”

  She raised her chin. Don’t look at his eyes. “Not yet.”

  Uncle Thorn hurried into the courtyard, rubbing his hands eagerly. “Are we ready to go? Where’s your da?”

  Carah replied with a shrug.

  “Jaedren!” he called. “You and Carah come here.” The squire stopped whispering sweet nothings to Rhian’s horse and ran to Thorn. Laying a firm hand to Carah’s shoulder, her uncle said, “You are to stay with Rhian or myself at all times and do exactly as we tell you, and no arguments.”

  Memory of the nightmare shuddered through her. Running, running from the crush of bone and the smell of blood. “Yessir,” she said, her deference genuine.

  “Good. Go acquaint yourself with Záradel. You’re going to ride my horse today. She can outrun any ogre and get you to safety.”

  “You don’t think their waiting to … to ambush us?”

  “I don’t know what to think, love. Saffron and Zephyr will scout ahead and let us know well ahead of time if there’s trouble.” He placed his hand on the crown of Jaedren’s head. “And I have an assignment for you, young man. You’re our man in reserve. Whenever you have time between duties, studies, and sleep, you’re to walk the wall with Captain Maegeth and use Veil Sight to look for ogres.”

  “Yes, sir!” the boy exclaimed, slamming a fist to his chest. “I’ll be the best sentry ever.”

  “Only if you know what to look for. An ogre’s azeth is different from ours. It has only a semblance of light. They’re more like murky greenish halos. Easy to recognize. You may not see any, and that’s what we want. But if you do, count how many you see and note where they’re bound. I expect a full report when I get back.”

  Jaedren’s chin jutted proudly. “I won’t fail you, sir.”

  Thorn chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “You sound like your father and look like your Uncle Leshan.”

  “That’s what Kelyn always says.”

  One of the massive bronze doors crashed wide, and Kelyn stormed from the keep. “Foul blasted weather,” he snarled, eyes cursing the flat gray sky.

  “Right,” Carah said, backing away and nudging the others. “Time to mount up.” Jaedren gave her foot an extra lift as she hoisted herself into the saddle. The Elaran black was taller than her desert pony and Thorn’s legs longer. While her uncle adjusted the stirrups for her, Carah eyed her da. He growled something at Rhian, who kept his gaze on his task. His fingers worked a bit faster. Wading into the snake pit, Carah asked, “Isn’t Mum coming down to say goodbye?”

  “Oh, she said goodbye, all right. What are you doing on that horse? The one I gave you isn’t good enough?”

  Thorn dropped the second stirrup and stood between the two of them. “It’s my wish. There’s no harm in it, and what does it matter so long as we get to Bramoran alive?”

  The glare that Da cast his brother dragged out like the slow drawing of a sword. Anger must have rolled off him in palpable waves, for Thorn eased back a step, looked round at Carah, the keep, and finally spread his hands and asked, “What?”

  The hostility ebbed gradually from Da’s face. He turned away. “Nothing. I’m a fool. And don’t read my mind!”

  “The idea never occurred to me.”

  “Aye, sure.”

  “This is disgraceful,” Thorn declared. “I can’t play chess with you. I can’t even let you insult yourself without you thinking I’m up to something.”

  Carah clamped her teeth on a grin before Da saw it. He started for his horse. “The day is wasting, and the king is waiting.”

  Thorn, too, swung into the saddle and ordered, “Saffron, Zephyr, report.”

  The last thing Carah needed on a long ride was a headache, but she blinked and focused her Veil Sight in time to see two streamers of light dart under the portcullis and draw up before her uncle. The fairies chirped and twittered, and Thorn nodded the all-clear. He led his brother and niece through the main gatehouse, down the hill, and onto the King’s Highway. Rhian brought up the rear at a more casual pace, leading the luggage horse. They took their time navigating across Ilswater Ford. The river still ran swift and high; drowned rats and uprooted saplings swept past. Carah thought it was high time Ilswythe had a proper bridge, like the one Mum had built across the Liran below her palace, but now was hardly the best time to mention it.

  On the other side, the Highway ran straight and clear. The wheels of merchants’ wagons had rutted it, but Lord Ilswythe’s party made good headway, trotting along silently for several miles. The misting rain turned the tilled fields into slick black mud; sheep and cottages drifted in and out of site. Carah was not mistaken when she assumed her father kept up the swift pace to leave behind the harsh words that had passed between him and Mum.

  The mood lifted only when they trotted up a hill and saw two lines of dwarves in the valley below, marching down the middle of the road. “Master Brugge,” Kelyn called. The column stopped and waited. The ruddy-faced dwarf led them. His beard was more salt these days than pepper. He raised a wide, square hand as the riders reined in.

  “Thought you might pass us this morning, m’ lord,” he said. “Gloomy day for a march, so it is.”

  “You are to represent Thyrvael at the Convention of Kings?”

  “Aye, the longer walk troubles us not, but are you keen on this arrangement?”

  Kelyn chuckled dryly, and he needed not say more. He glanced back along the lines of dwarves. Each carried a wickedly spiked khorzai on his back and wore half-helm and scalemail. “Valryk is permitting you this many soldiers in your escort?”

  “Hnh, a king’s order lines a privy well. We know it’s unsafe to travel without fighting men these days. Don’t we, Lord Commander?” His speckled jasper eyes strayed over Thorn who looked brazenly avedra in his blue robe.

  “We do,” Thorn said.

  “But where is your son?” asked Kelyn. “He is not among your party.”

  “Ach, damn blasted fool, he’s gone to sea!” Brugge spit. “Imagine it, a proper dwarf serving aboard a seagoing vessel. Vargo was corrupted, I tell you, and by your cousin no less.”

  “Athna?”

  “Aye, the seawitch. A fine friend she’s been since we sailed with her into Fieran waters, but I never dreamed she’d sway my boy into stepping foot aboard her ship. As soon as he did, he was lost to me and no mistake. Last I heard, he was sailing after some pirate called Laughin’ Jass up north of Windy Coves. I have eight daughters left, and it will be they who run the mines after me. But we tarry. We will see you and yours tonight at the feast. I will drink to your health, Commander.”

  “And I to yours, Master Brugge.” Kelyn nudged his courser and off they rode.

  Over her shoulder, Carah called, “Save me a dance, will you?”

  His stone-hard hands waved her off as if the request embarrassed him. “If I danced the human dances, I would dance with you, lady. But I fear my legs do not permit it. Stay close to your uncle!”

  He knows, Carah realized, shivering as a chill breeze slid down the back of her neck. Had Brugge been given the same dream? Or had he known about the dangers longer than that? Da never confided his discussions with people like Brugge to his daughter, but now that she was diving into the dark waters with him, she hoped that might change.

  “I thought Eliad might join us,” she said as they left the dwarves behind. A deep, lusty marching song cut through the mist and faded slowly as the road drew out between them. “He is coming, isn’t he, despite his claim to the contrary?”

  “I wrote to him last week, ordering him to stop acting like a child and do as he was told. It’s for his safety, I said. He didn’t reply. I hope he shows up and plays the submissive bastard brother or he might have hell to pay. I assume none of Valryk’s other siblings were invited. Eliad is a fool to snu
b the king.”

  That was more like it, Carah decided, smiling at him. If she was going to be the Duke of Ilswythe someday, she needed to know the things that troubled him and those that didn’t.

  Early in the afternoon, they caught first sight of Bramoran. The towers and red, circular curtain wall spread out on the edge of the gray moor. Below them, the land began to slope down toward the Plain of Tírandon and turned green. Small talk ceased and the horses slowed to a cautious walk as Thorn and Rhian surveyed the hillsides and the flattening land below. Carah squinted through fingers of pain so she could see what they saw.

  “Not a glimmer of Elari or ogre,” Thorn said.

  “That’s good, right?” Kelyn asked.

  “Aye, but surprising.”

  Far ahead, Carah glimpsed a cluster of bright lights nearing the city’s main gate, but they were too far away to recognize. “Those are humans then? It could be Fierans. Do you think the White Falcon will actually come?”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll all see it as an unforgivable slight,” Da said.

  “Did you ever meet him? During the war, I mean, when he was a boy?”

  “No, but we held his brother captive for a time, and if this king is anything like Nathryk, nothing the White Falcon does will surprise me.”

  “Is it true his queen was murdered? When it happened, it was all the girls could talk about at Assembly.” Carah had been eleven at the time, and the news had filled her with delicious dread. “Of course, they could only speculate, and they had the stupidest ideas. Maeret proposed that the White Falcon killed her himself, then blamed everybody else for it.”

  Da grunted, disgusted with the entire subject. “He wouldn’t be the first king to tire of his queen, but Laral vouches for him. That’s enough for me. But like I said, nothing will surprise me.”

  For the next hour, the walls loomed closer, the towers grew taller, and Carah tried to forget the nightmare in which those stones had been as red as blood and as dark as shadow.

  When they had ridden within a mile of the city, Thorn dismounted and gave the golden pony’s reins back to Carah. “We don’t want the king taking issue with his cousin breaking a sumptuary law, now, do we?” He let out Záradel’s stirrups again, and as soon as he mounted up, he disappeared. His voice floated out of nowhere: “I’ll be right behind you, brother. And hopefully no one notices horse tracks without a horse.”

  “Now I’m nervous,” Kelyn bit. “Did you have to add the last part? Don’t tell me everything that’s on your mind.”

  “Oh, I don’t.”

  “And stop talking to me when I can’t see you. Gives me the chills.” Kelyn nudged his courser to a trot, and all too soon Carah found herself gazing straight up the sheer height of Bramoran’s walls. The rains had darkened the red striated stone to a dark rust color. More sentries than usual walked the battlements. Da led his party across the moat to the unassuming north gate, the gate he and Carah always used when they visited, but the gate was shut. Sentries wearing city watch uniforms waved them away. One of the half dozen men was helpful enough to inform them, “All convention traffic is to report at the main gate.”

  “ ‘Report’ or ‘be made welcome’?” Kelyn asked.

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  Kelyn cocked his head. “My lord.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Whichever you prefer, my lord.”

  The sentry cleared his throat and bobbed his head in a cursory bow. “M’ lord.”

  Starting around the curve in the great circular wall, Kelyn glanced back at the sentry. “He doesn’t know who I am. Worse, he doesn’t care. Where the hell did Captain Tullyk dig up these people?”

  “What’s the world coming to, indeed, when a highborn isn’t given his due?” Thorn said, sarcasm plain. Long ago he’d told Carah that it was odd coming back to Ilswythe and being milorded right and left. The Elarion afforded such styles to their Lady alone. The pearl fisher certainly didn’t bother calling him “Lord Dathiel.”

  Carah found Rhian riding close on her right flank; the luggage horse was lathered and forced to trot to keep up with the black’s longer stride. Surely all her jewelry, powder, and lip dye had spilled out of their cases by now. Far more worrisome was Rhian’s expression. He was actually frowning. A deep, hard frown as he scrutinized the lifelights of the sentries in the towers and the guards lined up outside the main gate. For once his emotions were as plain to Carah as the clouds in the sky.

  He caught her staring, and the heated suspicion melted from his face. At least Carah wasn’t the only one who had a hard time thinking past the images of the nightmare. Thorn seemed to have forgotten it altogether. “I haven’t been here since we were kids,” he said, sounding wistful. “The outer wall is Elaran, no doubt about it. Look at the carvings in the frieze.”

  “I’m no longer acknowledging you,” Kelyn declared, even as he raised a hand to wave at Lady Genna and Lord Davhin who arrived on the Lunélion road. Their daughter rode behind them, looking as aloof and humorless as ever. Carah still couldn’t decide why the other daughters and granddaughters of the noble houses had elected her to head the Lady’s Riding Society.

  “Fine, ignore me. I was talking to my niece anyway.”

  “Talk silently, then.”

  Carah laughed at their bickering; it distracted her from her fears. Humoring her uncle, she looked closer at the wall. In the broad band beneath the battlements, graceful dragons flew, spouting jets of smoke and flame. She’d never noticed them before. They were smudged by time and weather, untended for centuries.

  Three enormous banners snapped and rustled over the gatehouse. The white falcon on green and the orange sun on indigo flanked the crowned black falcon on blue. Quite a sight, the three of them billowing in the wind together and all flying in the same direction. Carah hoped it was a good omen.

  The Ilswythe party reined in behind those from Lunélion. While Lady Genna announced her party to a perfumed minister with a ledger, Lord Davhin greeted Kelyn. “You know how I feel about war, Commander. Besides that, I haven’t the shoulders to play archer anymore. Let’s hope those banners wish us as peaceful a departure as they do a welcome, eh?” He was a quiet, gray man, who never demanded attention or recognition; his daughter was dull and mousy and easily overlooked, as far as Carah was concerned. Maeret seemed to be a far cry from the famed berserker women of her Lunélion heritage.

  Carah tried forcing an empty platitude from her mouth, but Maeret spoke first, as flat and colorless as the rainclouds: “I haven’t received your dues. Remember, you can’t ride for the prize at the midsummer competition if you don’t send me your dues.”

  Carah hoped a lightning bolt slapped her atop the head and spared her the effort of swallowing the unladylike remarks crowding her tongue. But as the sky was not cooperative, she spouted the niceties. “How lovely to see you, Maeret. I thought we might miss each other in the crowd. Do you think there will be dancing?”

  “I was hoping for horseraces. I might’ve won this year.”

  Carah gritted her teeth.

  “Maeret darling,” called Lady Genna, “hurry along.”

  Though Da did not appear to recognize the minister, the minister recognized Da and checked his name off a long list and Carah’s, too, then asked how many manservants and maids the party would require. Carah might have her hair done and dresses pressed after all. The minister handed Da a pair of keys. “You will occupy these two rooms in the new wing, and remember, m’ lord, no weapons will be permitted at any time in the King’s Hall. Er, for obvious reasons.”

  The half-mile expanse of the Green stretched out inside the gate. Apple and cherry orchards bloomed, looking almost cheerful despite the heavy gray sky; herds of blue roans munched the grasses contentedly in their paddocks. The pastures, trees, and fencing looked … shinier … somehow. Doubtless Bramoran’s groundskeepers had worked frantically during the past weeks to ensure everything looked picturesque for Valryk’s guests.

  The town, c
lustered beneath the inner wall, was spotless as well. The gutters had been cleaned, new golden thatching laid on the roofs, and new whitewash applied to plaster walls. There was not a beggar to be seen on the street corners, and the townspeople wore their finest.

  Riding through the inner gate, Carah saw that the castle courtyard was packed with people. Dark blue surcoats and orange suns were everywhere. The Leanian party must have arrived as one great horde, inundating the staff and corridors all at once. Stableboys sweated as they darted past, leading yet more horses and carriages to the livery. Red-faced pages pushed small carts weighed down with luggage. Carah searched for a spot of Fieran green but saw not one.

  Behind her, Thorn hissed, “Kelyn, why didn’t you tell me? Look at what he’s done!” The castle no longer followed a circular plan. The eastern side had been expanded by thirty acres and the grand new wing, with five floors surrounded by marble verandas, gilded balconies, and gushing fountains, extended all the way to the inner wall. The dilapidated Tower, where newly initiated knights spent their first night at Bramoran, had been torn down. The rose garden with its trimmed hedges and winding paths where King Rhorek had enjoyed taking his walks, now lay under the foundation of the new wing. As boys, the Ilswythe twins had played ‘slay the dragon’ and ‘break the gate’ in that garden. There they had met Rhoslyn, and Thorn was never the same again. “You should have warned me!”

  Kelyn sighed and ignored his brother. “Ah, there’s Lander. Looks like he left Ruthan at home again.”

  “I’m glad you’re not like him, Da. You know, I’ve never met his daughter?”

  “You’re almost as strange as she is,” Kelyn said, winking. “But I’m more tolerant of avedrin.”