by Ellyn, Court
Her hazel eyes narrowed, as sharply bladed as ever. “How hard did you try to talk him out of it, I wonder. For your mother’s sake, of course. You wouldn’t dare see her shamed before all her people, now would you? You love her too much. Or so I always believed.”
He did love her. That’s why he was scared. He still had the hardest battle to fight. And that was facing Mum and Da.
The king promised to break the news to them during the Convention. “I will take your mother aside and explain this change in the watch. She won’t like it, but she’ll get used to it. You’ll see.” Kethlyn knew Mum would be devastated. He waited uneasily for a letter expressing her outrage. Part of him hoped, however, that she would understand Valryk’s reasoning and accept it sooner rather than later. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but the king had made up his mind. Even Kethlyn’s protests hadn’t swayed him. Was Aunt Halayn right? Had he protested long enough, loud enough?
The decree crackled crisply inside his doublet. His inheritance guaranteed by this slip of parchment. Not Carah’s. His. The bastard becomes a duke, and no one could change it now.
He endured the rest of the inspection, nodding at the parade of companies and drills, but he was impatient to return to the palace. A letter might be waiting. From Mum or from Valryk. Ten days since the Convention and not a word from either of them. Why hadn’t the king written and told him how things had gone?
He shouldn’t be so selfish. Valryk had other concerns besides his cousin’s premature succession. All Kethlyn knew was that Valryk’s spies had unearthed proof that the White Falcon meant to finish what his father began and reunite ancient Westervael. Valryk hoped to intercede with charm and grace and other generous methods of persuasion before Arryk sent his troops across the Bryna. If he could show the White Falcon how strong Aralorr was, in men, arms, and unity, then maybe Arryk would rethink his hopes of conquest.
King Ha’el was invited to act as mediator. A task a Leanian king was well suited for. Had he performed it well?
Evaronna was always the last place to receive news, and all Kethlyn heard was rumor. A courier from Helwende said Mithlan had been attacked and not one soul was spared. An envoy from Brimlad arrived only yesterday with the same report. And this morning, traders from the east said Ilswythe Village was a pile of ashes.
Ilswythe under attack? No, it was too farfetched to believe. If Fiera had declared war on her neighbors, how in the Mother’s name had the White Falcon’s host managed to sweep as far north as the Avidan River in under ten days? Impossible. Something else, then. Think, damn it. You’re the War Commander’s son. What is happening?
He had heard accounts of how his father seemed to know what was coming long before anyone else and was able to plan and parry, dodge and strike at the right moment. Kethlyn decided he hadn’t inherited his father’s foresight. He only knew that something was wrong, and he hoped he wasn’t in the middle of it.
“His Grace is satisfied?” asked Captain Leng.
Kethlyn realized he stared at the cobblestones. The regiment stood silent and at a attention. “I … yes, Captain, very good,” he said, sitting up straight. “Cancel all leave. The regiments are to train every day. Insubordinates are to be hanged.”
Leng saluted. “Even Branyr?”
Kethlyn eyed the men and women of Blue Company. The archer’s defiance had provided him an opportunity to explain things to the entire city. Hanging him now would be counterproductive. “Next time.” He turned his charger and cantered from the plaza. Household guards fell in behind him. A herald galloped ahead, wielding the duke’s banner and clearing the way. Their route home took them along the crowded quay. Even over the clatter of hooves Kethlyn heard angry shouts of people clustering around the market stalls. They complained about the price of fish, no doubt. When the moons warred over the waters, food was harder to come by, and this particular lunar feud had lasted for months.
Thyrra’s silver crescent slipped shyly over the roofs that dominated the eastern hills; Forath was nowhere in evidence, and the tides couldn’t decide which way to flow. It was a dangerous time for vessels to put out. Windy Coves was crowded with ships and merchanters that dared not venture too close to shore. Cavalcades of dinghies carried out supplies and returned with trade goods. Four war galleons risked approaching the deep-water piers, and only because Kethlyn had ordered them to. A minimal number of ships had to stand ready in case Fiera attacked by sea. Waves pummeled the galleons, splashing white against their hulls, while heavy-duty padding protected their dock-side planks. Cranes hoisted ballistae onto their decks and fed crates of garrots down into their bellies. Tomorrow Kethlyn was to return to town to give them his blessing as they embarked upon their patrol.
The quayside highway brought him and his escort to the bridge that spanned the slow, lazy waters of the Liran. Kethlyn remembered when there was only a ferry to carry people to the palace, but he had forgotten the name of the ferrymaster. The way that giant of a man had been so brusque and snappish with his oarsmen, then jovial and gentle with the duchess had scared Kethlyn witless when he was a boy. Time and again he had begged his mother to have a proper bridge built, but she refused, saying, “I won’t put Rygg out of work.” That was it! Rygg. All he ever talked about was his service upon some pirate ship on the Big Water. Kethlyn never understood why his mother should have such affection for him, a mere ferrymaster and an admitted pirate. When he died, the duchess even gave him an admiral’s burial at sea. “Why, Mum?” he had asked, watching the shrouded body slip deeper and deeper beneath the waves. When it disappeared, she dabbed her tears away and said, “Because he earned it.”
The next day she commissioned the bridge. It was an elaborate work in steel and stone. Lampposts like giant arrows set ablaze stood sentry along the entire quarter-mile stretch. A middle section raised to allow for the masts of Vonmora’s merchant vessels. The boathouse that once accommodated Rygg and his oarsmen now housed the winch. Kethlyn rang a bell, and the wardens waved a flag in the window, indicating they had heard and were seeing to their task. A man upriver and another downriver raised more flags, bidding any masted boats to haul in their sails and wait. The raised section lowered slowly, but it was still faster than riding the ferry.
Once across, Kethlyn charged up the cliff-side road and through the palace gate. He had to rein in hard to avoid trampling a cluster of squealing children. They ran past without seeming to notice him, many of them pointing skyward, all of them smiling and sweaty.
“Pardons, Your Grace,” cried Captain Drael, running from the gatehouse. He took the bridle of the warhorse while Kethlyn dismounted.
“What is this?”
“Well, we seem to have a visitor.” Drael pointed in the same direction as the children. Kethlyn shielded his eyes against the late morning sun and found a falcon cutting an arc against the sky. “It’s been circling the palace all morning. It settles on occasion. The household children have made a game of trying to capture it. They haven’t come within ten feet.”
The falcon alighted upon one of the towers, shook the wind from her feathers. The children cried out, shoving and stumbling over each other to be the first up the tower. They disappeared in the stairwell, laughter and shouts tumbling down after them.
“One of ours?”
“Madam Hana says all His Grace’s birds are accounted for.”
“Ah. Lost, then.” He started for the palace steps. “Any couriers arrived?”
“I’m sorry, no, Your Grace.”
Damn. No more wars, indeed, yet people were dying and castles were burning. He ordered luncheon brought up to him, mostly in the hopes of avoiding Aunt Halayn, and resolved to write a letter to Valryk, tactfully demanding some answers. No sooner had he dipped his quill than he heard a scrabbling, thudding commotion at his window. He rose from the desk, swept aside the drape, and found the falcon perched on his windowsill. His fingers tapped the glass, but the bird sat there staring at him. “You’re a befuddling one. Hana miscounted, didn
’t she?” A blanket bundled around his hand served for a glove. He opened the window slowly, expecting his attempt to fail just as miserably as those of the children in the courtyard. But the falcon beat her wings and stepped onto Kethlyn’s arm. He tried to stroke the silver breast, but the yellow beak lowered and pinched his finger. The markings on her chest were different, too. “I don’t think you are one of my birds.” He met the falcon’s eye, and a jolt lashed down his spine, paralyzing him.
Kethlyn, nephew, he heard. The convention was a disaster. Valryk used the King’s Hall as a slaughterhouse. Your father requests your aid immediately. Bring Windhaven’s host to Drenéleth. Avoid Ilswythe. Make haste.
The falcon screeched as the contact severed. Several moments passed before Kethlyn’s head cleared enough to realize she had flown away.
He sank onto the window ledge. Slaughterhouse? Valryk’s doing? Unlikely.
Uncle Thorn was good at telling stories. All prone to exaggeration if not outright fantasy. ‘Disaster’ and ‘slaughterhouse’ might mean merely that the Fierans hadn’t liked Valryk’s attempts to persuade them toward peace and blows had been exchanged. A few people might even have been killed, but fewer Fierans couldn’t hurt.
When the food arrived, he was too confused to eat. Wine, that’s all he wanted. Yes, the wine would steady him, help him puzzle this out. “Where have you been all these years? Beloved uncle.” He carried his goblet to the window and glowered at the sun-glassed sea. The ships, so far away, were black silhouettes amid the white glare. “You had little enough to do with me growing up, why should I listen to you now? Jump when you say jump? Hnh.”
But it was Father’s need, not Uncle Thorn’s. And no mention of Mum.
The warning to avoid Ilswythe only confirmed the other rumors he had heard, but it did not explain them. Why was Da at Drenéleth and not at home defending Ilswythe?
Kethlyn nearly choked on his sip of wine. Oh, dear Goddess, he had fled from Bramoran after Valryk told him and Mum about his plans for the duchy, and then Valryk attacked Ilswythe, forcing Da to flee again. Da was raising an army against the king! Over Kethlyn’s inheritance? No, if that were the case, Da wouldn’t expect his traitor son to lead a regiment to his aid.
Kethlyn slammed his goblet down on the window ledge, splashing red wine across the glass. “Damn you, Uncle, for your riddles!” Aye, the conundrum was a painful reminder. He didn’t have to understand; he had only to obey. First rule of soldiering: do as your commander orders, no questions asked.
He scribbled a note to Captain Leng. Windhaven’s regiment was to prepare to march. He returned to the courtyard, surrounded by a maelstrom of anger. “Captain Drael! Sound assembly.”
A silver horn blared. Men tumbled from the training yard, the barracks, the mess hall, and lined up in the courtyard. Inspecting them on the brink of need, Kethlyn realized how fat and sloppy his palace garrison was.
“Look sharp, men,” he called. “The defense of Windhaven will soon be in your hands. Tomorrow I march east with my army at the War Commander’s behest. You!” He shoved his letter at the nearest man. “Mount up and deliver this to Captain Leng in the city barracks. See that he acts upon it immediately.”
Drael leaned close. “Your Grace, are we at war?”
“I don’t know.” Having no better answer humiliated him. He retreated inside and shouted for his chamberlain. In his suite, he had another glass of wine while servants laid out mail and plate and surcoat. They took pieces away for polishing and ironing and brought them back again to assemble them on an armor tree in his dressing room.
“What in all Lethryn is going on?” Aunt Halayn stood on the threshold, hands knotted atop a silver-headed cane. Even at eighty-something she didn’t really need it. People expected old women to carry canes, so she did. Kethlyn decided she wielded it like a watchman wields a club, in the event that her great-nephew needed a beating over the head.
Kethlyn tried to look occupied inspecting his sword. “I figured your spies might know. In the least, your gossip ring.”
Halayn tilted her head and smiled as sweetly as vinegar. “Your mother could be just as nasty at your age. She soon learned to aim that nastiness at pirates and solicitors rather than family who wanted the best for her. I assume you will too, but forgive me for not liking you in the meantime.”
It was too bad that ‘liking’ had nothing to do with duty. “Looks like I’ll be facing my father sooner than I expected. That should make you happy.”
“I doubt my happiness really concerns you.”
Kethlyn groaned. Mum had warned him. Get Aunt on your bad side, and know no peace. “You’ll handle things here?”
She flapped a hand. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’ve just taken care of things for years when the duchess—and duke—ride away. But you won’t hear songs about poor Aunt Halayn who stayed behind to save the day.”
Falling for her manipulation was not on today’s schedule. “Then if you don’t mind, I have preparations to make.”
Halayn raised her nose and turned for the door. “Dismissed like any other servant…” Her grumbling followed her the length of the corridor.
Kethlyn ordered new shoes for his warhorse and his sword carried to the armory for a lick at the whetstone, wrote a couple of letters canceling appointments, then climbed to the watchtowers where an oversized brass spyglass was mounted to the crenels. As a boy he had watched the seals fighting for space on the sea stacks. Now, he peered across the river and over the roofs of the city toward the barracks and the militia’s out-camps. Tents lined the hillsides beneath the slopes of the mountains. Men smaller than pewter soldiers ran to and fro, frantic. Leng had received his orders then. Good. Tomorrow at dawn Kethlyn would cross the bridge, assemble the regiment in the plaza as he had this morning, then lead them along their parade route through town. Children would cheer; women would weep and wave kerchiefs and toss petals, and Kethlyn would act like he knew what he was doing. All he had to do was get the regiment safely to Drenéleth, then Da would tell him what to do next. That was a comfort. Not having to decide for himself took a stone’s weight of anxiety out of his belly. He swung the spyglass along the highway, past the bridge and the winch house, and there saw the rider.
This was no casual traveler. A long gray cloak flowed down the horse’s flanks, and though the day was warm and dry, he wore a deep hood. Rather than continue along the highway into town, the rider stopped on the bridge and rang the bell. A pair of watchmen emerged from the winch house to question the stranger. A gloved finger pointed toward the palace. He showed them a parcel. A letter! At last.
Kethlyn was too eager for news to wait for a footman to bring it to him. By the time he returned to the courtyard, the courier was approaching the gate. “Halt,” cried the sentry on the wall. “Dismount and state your business.”
The courier obeyed. How tall he was standing beside the gray racer. The small, swift horse looked too short to accommodate him. “I bear tidings from His Majesty, the Black Falcon. For His Grace.”
Kethlyn’s heart rose. This would put his mind at ease, maybe answer a few questions.
The portcullis clanked upward. The courier entered the deep shadow of the tunnel under the gatehouse but did not emerge again. Kethlyn felt the man’s eyes on him even though he couldn’t see them.
Captain Drael appeared from his office in the base of the tower, glanced curiously between the courier and his duke. “I’ll take it.”
The courier hung back, not liking that idea. His answer was too soft for Kethlyn to hear, but he refrained from passing the letter to the captain.
Drael swept a hand tersely toward the palace. “Go, then. You don’t make His Grace come to you.”
“It’s no matter,” Kethlyn said, approaching. “He’s traveled all the way from Bramoran. We can spare him a few steps.” The shadows smelled of cool stone and moss. The courier’s face seemed to shimmer inside the hood. Kethlyn snatched the letter, unable to conceal his eagerness, and started to carry i
t back out into the sunlight but paused. “You came by Ilswythe. Is it really under attack?”
“No longer, Your Grace.” The man’s voice was too cultured and fine to belong to a courier. A bard, perhaps, but not a courier.
“The matter is resolved?”
“Very nearly.”
“Was it Fierans?”
“I fear not.”
“The king’s soldiers, then. I knew it.” What had Da done? “Do you know the cause behind it?”
The courier shrugged gracefully. “His Majesty willed it. Other than that, I know not. It’s unwise for one such as myself to wade in those deep waters. Forgive me.”
The letter would explain. He broke the seal.
The courier bowed and mounted up again.
“Is the king not expecting a reply?”
The courier’s grin was wolfish. “No.”
It wasn’t only Kethlyn’s hackles that rose. With a snarl frozen on his face and a hand squeezing the pommel of his sword, Captain Drael watched the courier until he reached the bridge.
Kethlyn opened the parchment and read:
~To His Grace, Kethlyn, Duke of Liraness,
Our hopes are dashed. Battle broke out in my own Hall before I was aware. King Arryk and King Ha’el are dead, and hundreds more with them. But do not fear. We will bring peace to the Northwest. Move the armies of Vonmora and Brimlad to the Avidan and secure Evaronna’s southern border. I have every reason to believe that Leania will raise her sword against Aralorr. Westport is to send her ships to the mouth of the Avidan in guard against Leania’s navy. Continue drilling Windhaven’s host yourself and keep every eye open. The land is full of traitors.
Despite any rumor you may hear, you are not to leave your post until you receive further orders from me. I have every confidence in you, cousin.
~Valryk, the Black Falcon, and so forth.
Leania! Not Fiera. The last thing Kethlyn would have expected was Leania moving against her former ally. Ha’el being slain at Bramoran explained Leania’s outrage, but if they attacked Kethlyn’s border they would regret it.
