Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “My dear girl,” Laral said, a finger brushing her damp cheek, “this is what your songs are made of. Did you think it wouldn’t hurt? Give me something for luck.” On the day he met Arryk and vowed never to raise a sword against him, he carried a pink ribbon that had fallen from his daughter’s hair. Today she pulled a kerchief from her sleeve. The hem was embroidered with plump brown wrens, their tails perked high. He tucked it into an iron-studded vambrace, and Bethyn handed him his helm.

  “I think we’ll stay here until the time comes,” she said. “You’ll see us waving from the gatehouse tower. Come along, dear.” She led Lesha back upstairs.

  Laral hurried off in the other direction.

  Men crowded the courtyard. Half the garrison saddled horses and lined up at the smithy to have their swords sharpened at the whetstone, while the other half had gone into town to divide the militia. Smiths checked the shoes on every hoof, filled quivers with quarrels, checked crossbow fittings, and mended broken links in chainmail. Men from the militia trickled through the castle gate, hefting their pikes and heavy packs. Sedrik and Haldred tried to obey a hundred orders at once and looked relieved when their foster lord emerged from the keep. “Your horse is ready, m’ lord,” said Sedrik. “Ours too.”

  “Do we get to carry arms?” asked Hal. Bless the boy, he was ready to be knighted yesterday.

  “I’m only taking one of you,” Laral said. At their protest he added, “I don’t need three squires on the road. I’ll send for the other of you later. Though I hope I won’t need to.”

  “I been your squire the longest,” Hal said.

  “I’m the king’s cousin!” Sed cried, furious face turning as red as his hair. “You have to take me. We gotta find him.”

  “Give me a coin.” The boys dug in their pockets as if someone had filled them with hot embers. Haldred produced a tarnished silver piece fastest and flipped it toward Laral. “You’re tails, Hal.”

  “Heads, I wanna be heads.”

  “Ach, fine, heads.” Laral tossed the coin skyward, let it fall. It struck the cobbles with a ting, bounced and rolled. Sedrik chased after it.

  “Don’t touch it!” Hal called, chasing Sed. The boys watched the coin slow down and wobble onto its side. Arryk’s profile winked up at them. Hal laughed.

  “You cheated,” Sed cried. “That coin is weighted. M’ lord, he cheated.”

  Laral didn’t have the patience for this. “Hal, get your things together. Sed, you’re to stay here and keep—”

  A ruckus in the gatehouse caught his attention. Militiamen weren’t trickling in anymore. They were running, glancing back over their shoulders. One of them shouted, “The king is coming!”

  Laral plowed through the pikemen to reach the gate. Great spiked barricades had been erected outside the portcullis. The town, usually quiet, overflowed with strangers. Wagons and carts clogged the streets. Crowds gathered and argued. Bethyn would have much to do in Laral’s absence. He searched the eastern stretch of highway, past the Demon Ring and dead ash trees, but only a mule-drawn cart hauling more frightened farmers approached from that direction. Arryk wouldn’t be coming from the west, but that’s where he saw the White Mantles.

  Half a hundred of them rode through the ford with the impressive display of an avalanche. The king was not among them. Three massive dogs trotted alongside the horses, tongues lolling from their mouths. One hurled a bark toward Laral and charged ahead. The beast nearly bowled him over in her excitement to greet him. “Daisy! Or are you Woodbine?” Her sisters, dripping strings of slaver, caught up and circled and sniffed. Rose had a brindled coat and was easy to tell apart from the other two. They all demanded their share of attention.

  “Lord Brengarra,” called one of the Mantles, trotting into the shadow of the towers. His shiny silver helm was inlaid with gold wire in elaborate patterns. Tall silver wings swept back from his face. Captain Moray was a thundercloud of a man, brusque and glowering and suspicious with a waxed black beard and bushy black eyebrows threaded with gray.

  “Captain, welcome. Have you heard from His Majesty, then?”

  “We were hoping you had.” His fist rose, and the Mantles reined in.

  In that case, their eastbound journey could mean only one thing.

  Moray dismounted. His Mantles followed suit, moving as one man. “The Lord Chancellor ordered us to stay and defend the city, but our job is to protect the king’s person, and so we will, if we can. I knew we shouldn’t have stayed behind, but His Majesty is too honorable for his own good.”

  “But how did you get out of Brynduvh? The people here say—”

  “The tunnels, and I expect you to keep your mouth shut about that, Aralorri. Er, m’ lord.”

  After all these years, the same distrust. Laral led the Mantles through the gate and into the courtyard. Most of the pikemen were simple folk who had never had occasion to lay eyes on the king’s guard. They gawked and scurried out of the way. The three mastiffs, however, managed to scare more people than the men or swords did. But Rose, Woodbine, and Daisy preferred to harass the garrison horses. Panicked whinnies echoed inside the walls, and the men of the garrison had to wrangle the dogs to get the horses under control.

  Captain Moray inspected the chaos. “You say you’ve heard of Brynduvh’s troubles. You mean to lead this lot to her aid?”

  Best leave out the bit about the bird and any mention of Thorn Kingshield. “Er, we are on the same mission. To find the king.”

  Moray grunted approval. “If he’s dead, we mean to make his assassins hurt. If he’s alive we’ll cut him free or die trying.”

  Foolish bravado. “Will you consider talking before you bare your sword?”

  “Negotiate? With Aralorris?” He spat on the cobbles like a storm hurling lightning. “They guaranteed the White Falcon’s safety. Seems to me they’ve proven the usefulness of negotiation.”

  “You don’t know what happened, Captain. None of us do. You march in swinging a blade and you might do more harm than good. If you ride with me, you will restrain yourself. I mean to find Arryk, hopefully without unnecessary bloodshed. We march in an hour.” If Laral pushed the Mantles hard enough, maybe they would be too tired to fight before he could find some answers.

  But the captain of the king’s guard wasn’t about to take orders from an Aralorri. “Our horses need rest. If you will refuse to wait, we’ll meet you at Athmar.”

  Laral beckoned to one of his grooms. “See that the Mantles’ horses receive the finest care. Haldred! Escort His Majesty’s guard to the guest wing.” The orders were formalities. Everyone at Brengarra was accustomed to seeing to the comforts of Arryk’s guard. They frequented these halls at least twice a year. Laral turned back to Moray, leaned close and whispered, “We won’t be staying at Athmar, Captain. It’s in enemy hands.”

  That knocked the wind out of him. “Athmar? Drona is my cousin. She…” He jabbed a finger in Laral’s face and bellowed, “You’re not going to find the king! You’re taking your men north to aid Aralorr. It’s they who have done this!”

  A hush descended over the bailey.

  Laral would’ve liked nothing better than to dunk Moray into a horse trough until he grew some sense, if not some common courtesy. “Careful, Captain. If you were a rash man, you would have been demoted long ago. And if Aralorr has attacked your cousin’s lands, no one consulted me. I will help you find Arryk. He is my dearest friend, and I fear he has come to harm.”

  “What if he has?” Implied: would Laral raise a sword against his own people?

  “I will do everything in my power to see him safely home. But we will negotiate first. Am I clear? Otherwise, you can cross into Aralorr on your own. I will have no part of you.”

  Moray paced, whipped off his glove and slapped it across his palm while he wrestled with his suspicions and gathered his composure. At last, he decided to be reasonable. “If we’re cautious we can skirt Athmar to reach the bridge. But if Athmar is surrounded—”

  “The bridge
is taken, aye. Any enemy worth the name would’ve seen to that first. We will avoid bridges and roads.” Just as the falcon said.

  “But the river.”

  “Captain, you do not forget I am Aralorri. Remember also that my father is … was … Lord Tírandon. I know how to cross that bloody river.”

  Laral did not wait until the Mantles were settled before ordering his men into ranks. He wanted to travel quickly but knew the pikemen on foot would slow him down. Best get started. The twenty-five ‘ones’ from the garrison mounted up. Hal and Sed buzzed about him like flies, double-checking his gear, and Andryn emerged from the stables, leading his own pony. Laral called across the yard, “No, Andy, put him up. You’re not going.”

  A light died in his son’s face. He stood holding the reins, blinking in startled silence.

  Laral winced. Sheepish, he crossed the yard, though it was probably too late to handle the matter delicately. He laid a hand to Andy’s shoulder. How thin it was. “Son…”

  “How can you leave without me? I’m your squire. I’m indispensable. You can’t ride into battle without your squires. Tell me the truth! You’re leaving me because you think I’m a weakling!”

  Laral squared his feet. Brawling time. “That is not true. Sedrik is staying too. He’s going to keep training you while I’m away. You’ve had all of two lessons, Andy, and—”

  “But I’m your son. That makes it different.”

  “And if I took you with me, I wouldn’t have to worry about an enemy’s sword. Your mother would kill me. Try to understand, we don’t know what we’re riding into. If it turns out to be nothing, I’ll send for you and Sed. All right?”

  Andryn’s teeth ground in fury. Tears welled as he glared sidelong at his father.

  “I know it won’t help, but here.” Laral unlatched the diamond-studded dagger from his belt. Andy stared at the black leather sheath sparkling with gems for a long time before he reached out and took it. “Guardian. That’s its name. Take care of your mum and sister for me.”

  Andy held the reins in one limp hand and the dagger in the other, and stared at the cobbles, desolate. The sight of it broke Laral’s heart. He turned without another word, mounted his charger and dug in his spurs. His soldiers could keep up or not. The cloud-ringed spire of Tor Roth grumbled with thunder, like a seer telling of dark tidings. Atop the hill near the ring of dead ash trees, Laral reined in and turned in the saddle. Two women waved from atop the ivy-bearded tower. If Andryn joined them before the garrison caught up, Laral would go back for him. He raised a hand to wave, hoping to catch a glimpse of his son, but he saw only shiny helmets of the sentries, the wind-whipped hair of his wife and daughter, and the banner lowering from atop the keep’s roof.

  “M’ lord?” asked Haldred, cantering up the hill. “Did you forget something?” The garrison trotted up behind him; the militia marched double-time but stopped when the horses stopped, huffing, waiting for a new order.

  Laral gave the towers one last long look, then swung his charger east again, the ache of regret enough to choke him.

  ~~~~

  “No more wars,” Kethlyn muttered to himself. He rode a great gray brute of a warhorse before the ranks of Windhaven’s troops. A thousand archers and pikemen stood at attention in the plaza. They looked sharp in new uniforms dyed dark Evaronnan red, with the great silver dome of the council forum towering behind them. Identical bows of pale thelnyth wood peeked over their shoulders, and quivers full of red-fletched arrows hung from their belts. Over their heads, a banner blazoned with the silver arrow snapped in a brisk westerly hurtling off the sea, and the morning sun shone in the mirror-like polish of their helms. Kethlyn reined in and turned to their commander. “Captain Leng, have the quartermaster call on me tomorrow.”

  The captain was as broad and solid as an oaken door. “Something amiss, Your Grace?”

  “These helms. Very fine. So fine that they are beacons on a hill. I don’t want Evaronna’s archers spotted by an enemy before they can hit their mark.”

  “Ah, yes, Your Grace, of course. I will speak with Captain Fynds as soon as we are dismissed.” A squire dogging Leng’s heels scratched a note on a tablet.

  These men and women had been training intensely for the past week, in case something went amiss at the Convention. Three days ago, in compliance with Valryk’s orders, Kethlyn sent summons to each of his holdings. Vonmora was to prepare her archers. Westport and Brimlad their soldiers, sailors, and ships. The smaller towns across the countryside and along the coast were to amass their militias. No more wars, Valryk said.

  Why, then, was Kethlyn raising an army? “Let me see if these new uniforms have improved their formation. Those men there.” He pointed at the company drawn up on the far side of the plaza, to see if it had been positioned in the back corner because it was weakest.

  Captain Leng barked orders. The archers of Blue Company turned sharply and began a circuit of the plaza, shined black boots marching out a tight cadence. All but one man. The young archer stood in place while the rest of his company wheeled line by line around the great fountain. “What’s that man’s problem?” Kethlyn demanded.

  Leng’s mouth tightened. “Branyr! Move your hide or I’ll flog it for you.”

  The archer raised his chin a fraction and double-timed it to catch up with his company, but as he passed, he cast a sideward glare up at Kethlyn.

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  The archer obeyed, but instead of turning and saluting, he glared daggers past the nose of the warhorse. Kethlyn realized too late that he should have ignored the man entirely. His gut wrenched as he guessed why this man might despise him. “I know you, don’t I?”

  The archer moved not one hair to acknowledge the question.

  “Branyr, damn it,” growled Leng. “I will have you for insubordination. Your duke has addressed you.”

  “He’s not my duke,” the archer said.

  Leng called Blue Company to a halt, then beckoned sharply to his sergeants. Ten of them hurried across the plaza to surround the archer. Kethlyn waved a hand bidding them wait.

  “Refresh my memory, soldier.”

  The archer let out a deep breath of ‘all or nothing,’ then turned to answer him. “Five years ago I begged for an audience with ‘Er Grace. My brother’s ship were taken by pirates, and I pleaded for ‘er to do something to save him. Out of the goodness of ‘er heart she sent three patrol ships to track down the ‘ole crew, and they didn’t stop looking and fighting till they found him. My little brother came home safe because of ‘er.”

  “Yes, I remember that incident.” Would it do any good to tell the man that it was Kethlyn’s pleas that convinced his mother to send the patrol ships after what looked like a hopeless cause?

  “And where is she? Where is ‘Er Grace? There ain’t been no funeral. Nor bells tolling. Nor even secret smoke rising from the burning yard up at the palace. Yet ‘ere you are calling yourself the duke. Where’s ‘er ashes, eh? If ‘Er Grace died, why weren’t ‘er people told?” He raised his voice and waved his arms to rally the rest of the regiment. “Where’s her ashes? Where’s her ashes?”

  More than a few voices scattered among the companies echoed the cry. The sergeants pounced the archer. Two grabbed his arms; another seized him by the scruff. The rest bared their swords, ready to make a pincushion out of him. “Usurper!” he shouted. A hand smashed down over his mouth.

  Hoping he looked more calm than he felt, Kethlyn reached into his doublet and pulled out a crisply folded parchment. “Can you read, Branyr?”

  The archer shook off the stifling hand. “I can manage. My lord.”

  “Captain, hold this up for Branyr’s convenience.”

  Leng took the parchment, opened it, and held it in front of the archer’s face.

  “Aloud, please,” Kethlyn ordered.

  Through fits and stutters and much squinting at the elegant script, Branyr started bashfully: “By order of His Maj … Majesty, the Black Fal … con, King Valryk
—”

  “Louder,” Kethlyn said. Could the rest of the soldiers in the plaza see him sweating?

  Branyr damn near shouted the rest. “—we he-hereby name Kethlyn, son of the H-houses Liraness and ee-Ilswythe, Duke of all Eva-ronna, master of all her lands and shores and all who dwell therein. Signed … I can’t read that.”

  “By the king.” Kethlyn lowered his hand, and Leng placed the parchment in it. “I am duke by the king’s wishes,” he announced over the heads of every soldier and civilian in the plaza, “not my mother’s, not mine. If you have issue with that, take it up with the Black Falcon. Until the king changes his mind, we will all do as we are told. Agreed?”

  The archer clenched his jaw and though he continued to glare defiantly, he said, “Yes, sir. Your Grace.”

  “Return to your place.”

  Leng raised surprised eyes. The sergeants released their prisoner. Branyr snapped a salute across his chest, then fled across the plaza to fill the hole he had left in the phalanx.

  No more wars. Yet since breaking the seal on that parchment, Kethlyn felt as if had fought one war after another. He still doubted if he had won the battle with Aunt Halayn. “But your mother still lives!” she had cried, wizened voice cracking. “She has never failed the king, not this one or the last one. What justification does Valryk have?”

  “He doesn’t need justification, Aunt. He’s the king. If he wishes to surround himself with people who share his trust and his vision, who are you to question him?”

  “Who, indeed! I am his grandmother’s sister! We shall see about this. Oh, yes, we will.” She stormed off as fast as her feeble legs could carry her and wrote a letter addressed to Kethlyn’s mother. Of course, Kethlyn intercepted it and tossed it into the fireplace. When Aunt Halayn found out, she accused him of treachery. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew Valryk planned to oust her. How long? How long had the two of you been scheming against her? Since Rhorek’s burning, perhaps? Hnh, longer than that, I’ll wager.”

  “That’s a wager you would lose. And if I hear talk of it outside this room, I will know who to blame.”