Blood of the Falcon, Volume 2 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Will they?”

  “Bano’en’s troops will bear some of our burden.”

  “Yes, and the fighting will go on and on.” He plastered on a fake smile. “But let’s not dwell on the ugliness. Yes, the Leanians have come to our rescue and will send the Fierans fleeing home, and we’ll all go back to our lives and live happily ever after. No, Lieutenant, I’ll celebrate on the day the Warlord gives my mother back to me, whole and well, and when he erases the visions of horror my sister witnessed, and when he rebuilds Tírandon to her former glory.”

  Lissah glowered in reply, then stalked away to find someone more optimistic to celebrate with.

  The cries and laughter frightened Ruthan. She covered her ears and clamped her eyes shut. Leshan picked her up, but before he could carry her out and ask her about her dreams, Captain Jareg shouted, “Falcons, attention!” The celebration went silent, and spines snapped taut. “His Majesty will ride out to meet Lord Wyramor and his troops, where they wait on the west bank of the Leathyr. Those of you who still have your horses are to accompany him. The rest will remain and make Lanwyck ready to accommodate our allies.”

  Leshan stayed, not because he didn’t have a horse, but because he couldn’t take Ruthan along. While the Falcons and Acwyl’s household saw to the necessities of making room for more guests, Leshan took his sister aside and said, “If you have any more dreams, will you tell them to me?”

  She nodded.

  ~~~~

  Brandrith loped eagerly westward, perceiving the change in his rider’s spirits. Rhorek had sent the Leanian courier back to the border to invite Lord Wyramor to begin crossing the river. Late in the afternoon, Rhorek spied the blue and orange banners of Leania approaching. He reined in atop a stony hill, and the Falcons on their blues gathered around him.

  The helms of the Leanian troops shone in the autumn sunlight. The rumble of horses, infantry, and supply wagons carried across the windswept moor, a balm to Rhorek’s scarred spirit. “Two thousand at least, sire,” Jareg said.

  When at last the Leanian host had drawn within a hundred yards of the Black Falcon and his escort, the man leading them raised a fist, and the rumbling behind him gradually ceased. Banners snapped in the wind, horses whickered, and harness jingled. The commander rode forward with two others. Flicking up his visor, he bowed in the saddle and announced, “Allaran of Wyramor and His Majesty’s Second Army at your service, sire.”

  Rhorek took Allaran’s hand. “We cannot exaggerate our joy at your arrival, friend.”

  “Nor mine in coming, Your Majesty.” Allaran gestured at his companions. “May I present Lady Va’eth of Dravahyll.” The woman was nearly Rhorek’s own age with fading strawberry curls and a grim mouth. She sat her horse as if she had never stood on her own two feet. “And Rhogan, Lord Mithlan.” Perhaps five years younger, Rhogan’s uncannily black hair shone almost indigo in the sunlight.

  “Of course, Lord Rhogan,” said Rhorek. “You guard our western hinterlands as effectively as you guard your own borders.”

  Rhogan bowed solemnly. “His Majesty is generous to say so. Aralorr’s safety is Mithlan’s safety.”

  The great clanking beast set into motion again, and as it crossed the miles to Lanwyk Manor, Allaran explained Bano’en’s change of heart. “After the Fieran scum attacked my sister and myself, sire, I rode to Graynor at least every other week to petition my uncle to declare war on the bastards. But he wasn’t to be moved.”

  “Even after a threat to his own kin?” Rhorek asked.

  “Oh, he was appropriately offended. But he also made the excuse … ahem, asserted, rather … that my sister was their actual target, and being the lady of an Aralorri lord, she is an enemy of the Fieran state, and, by rules of war, subject to attack. I just happened to be in the wrong place. As if I should’ve saved my own hide instead of trying to protect my little sister.”

  “But the attack happened on Bano’en’s land, neutral territory,” Rhorek put in. He took pleasure in Allaran’s lack of restraint and his candor.

  “Yes, I told him that Shadryk and his people owned not one measure of fear for Leania. If you will permit to tell it in his manner? ‘Nephew,’ he told me, ‘we are not daft. We are aware of Shadryk’s contempt for us, but Shadryk has no desire to fight us, and we will not challenge his desire—yet.’ As you must know, my uncle is fond of escape clauses.”

  Rhorek grinned but said nothing that could be taken back to Bano’en and cause him offense.

  “And then, of course, Shadryk sent Bano’en a written apology which seemed to alleviate his anger, and I feared the whole venture lost.”

  Ah, yes, Rhorek remembered the masterfully phrased letter. It said everything short of a true apology. Shadryk’s favorite words had been ‘regret’ and ‘shame.’

  “I went home to live out the rest of life in peace with my family,” Allaran continued, “but I won’t bore you with the details, Your Majesty. I had vowed to never waste my time trying to sway that man again. Then, lo and behold, a couple of weeks ago, he sent me a summons. At Graynor, I learned that the Warlord had crossed the Great Ford into Leania. The garrison at Gethmar warned him to turn his armies, but Goryth told them—so I’ve heard—that his purpose lay in Aralorr and for the sentries to move their accursed carcasses aside or risk hostilities. The sentries let them pass, but they also sent a rider to Graynor. Honestly, Your Majesty, I didn’t know Bano’en had it in him to throw such a fit. He sent an embassy to order Goryth once more to turn back, but the Warlord said there was no other path he could take as the river was flooded. As soon as Bano’en received report of this, he summoned his war council. For a while we were divided on the issue, but then an emaciated old man arrived from one of our eastern holdings, er, Rhyverdane. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sire—”

  Rhorek smiled and let Allaran continue. “Yes, Rhyverdane, and this poor man informed us that the Fierans had overrun the place and were abusing the household, especially the women, you can imagine. At that point, most of the council were convinced that there was no avoiding the inevitable, but our outrage only grew when we learned that the bastards made off the with the lady of the house. We can only hope that Lady Rhyverdane is not suffering too greatly at the Warlords hands. We have vowed to find her and rescue her—”

  Rhorek laughed into the wind. How good it felt to laugh and mean it. “She is here, man! Lady Briéllyn is here. With us. With me.”

  Allaran slapped his thigh and turned red with laughter. “Best not tell Bano’en. Best tell him the lady was rescued from Fieran hands, for her disappearance has the entire country up in arms.”

  “Briéllyn will enjoy hearing it. And calling us all great, swaggering fools.”

  “Regardless, we’re here to stay, sire. Bano’en is resolved at last. He even sent Shadryk a letter denouncing the fop for allowing his people to have free run of the continent. And the seas, for that matter. My eldest was pleased to ready her ship for the voyage south. Your blockade will now have the support of our navy.

  “The Mother is good,” Rhorek said.

  Allaran’s face grew grave. “Of that I have no doubt. But men are another matter. Had Bano’en decided sooner, my kinsman might still be alive.”

  “Yes,” Rhorek said, swallowing his sorrow like stones in his throat, “Keth is worth mourning beyond tears.”

  “We will avenge him and restore the peace, sire.”

  They rode in silence for a mile or so, pensive and calculating, then Allaran asked, “You have not heard from my sister, perchance?”

  “No,” Rhorek replied. Nor have I been brave enough to send her my condolences.

  “And my nephew? How is he handling the loss of his father?”

  Rhorek hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m afraid. Kelyn … took a leave of absence after we reached Lanwyck.”

  “He went to Ilswythe, to his mother?”

  Quietly, fearfully, Rhorek said, “I hope so.” He imagined his best friend’s son lying dead as
well, in some remote meadow or wood, only to be discovered as a heap of bleached bones decades hence by some traveler who could never know what unsurpassed and honorable warrior he gazed upon.

  “What, then, is our first objective, sire?”

  Turning in the saddle, Rhorek took in the long line of soldiers and horses and bobbing pikes, and listened to the thunder in the ground. He smiled. “We’re going to attack my castle.”

  ~~~~

  46

  Hundreds of lifelights passed on the busy quayside road, alluring, tempting. But the rágazeth let them pass. Under the tattered awning of a boarded-up warehouse, it crouched, waiting, watching, hoping the bright azeth Master had described would pass by and save it the trouble of crossing the great river. It loathed crossing water. Water made flight sluggish and painful. In the beginning, the rágazeth had tried to destroy the Goddess’s wonder that was water, but the substance had inflicted great agony; so now the rágazeth tried to avoid it. Many rivers and streams had been crossed to reach the city by the sea, but only one more, the widest and deepest yet, stood between the hunter and the golden palace where Master said this azeth was to be found.

  All day the hunter lingered, motionless but for the sweep of its fathomless eyes. Ships sailed into port; ships sailed away. The lifelights of sailors, longshoremen, vendors, and servants of the wealthy swirled past, and several times these lesser lights approached to ask if the stranger needed direction or assistance, or to reprimand it for loitering where it didn’t belong. The rágazeth said nothing to these lesser lights, only turned its eyes on them, and they shrank away in fear.

  When the sun set into the sea, it knew it had waited in vain. The bright azeth would not come. Hissing, it left the corner under the awning and entered the busy street with long, angry strides. In its haste to reach the river, it made way for no one. A woman with a basket of wares stepped into its path, trying to hurry across the street. The rágazeth shoved her aside. Her basket rolled and trinkets scattered across the cobbles. A freight wagon rumbled around the corner, and the woman fled, screaming, but the rágazeth met the large, dumb eyes of the drays and hissed. The horses whinnied and shied toward the pier, leapt a low wall and high-centered the wagon. Barrels toppled and tumbled along the docks.

  From an austere stone building emerged a man in a uniform. He held up a hand and ordered, “Hold there, stranger. Are you drunk? You can’t walk down the middle of the street. Look what trouble you’ve caused. You and me are going to the Galley and you can explain yourself to the Head Warden. Move! Or I’ll have you shackled.” This lesser light didn’t flinch when he peered into the rágazeth’s eyes or its ugly, diseased face. A brave soul.

  The rágazeth swept a scarred and scabby yellow hand across the warden’s chest and tore the shimmering, pulsing light from the man’s body. The corpse collapsed, and onlookers screamed and ran away. As a man gazes on the face of a lover, the rágazeth admired the ball of light hovering in its grasp. Those fathomless black eyes began to devour the light in slow, savoring gulps. So long … it had been so long. Ah, each lifelight tasted different, this one of courage and the ingrained desire to protect. There was also a hefty helping of pride, a hatred of injustice and love for a woman. Delectable.

  But Master had promised more. The rágazeth hurried on to the river. No one else tried to stop it. At the end of the street, it ventured out onto a small pier; the water lapping at the fat timbers sent a shiver of pain through the fleshly disguise and deep into the chaotic emptiness inside.

  Across the river, high atop the pale cliffs, the golden palace blushed under the touch of the last light of day. Lesser lights, those of guards, drifted along the walls and watchtowers, tiny from so far below. The rágazeth watched them until the daylight crawled all the way up the roofs, up the Beacon Tower, and disappeared with the dusk. Stars emerged and the sky grew almost as black as the Abyss. Then the rágazeth spread its arms and rose off the pier. Hissing against the pain, it drifted over the river.

  ~~~~

  When Kelyn could stand on his own and dress himself, he decided it proper to pay his respects to the duke. Harac was pleased to receive him. His sister helped him sit up against the pillows, then retreated to the sitting room. Holding out his good hand in invitation, Harac said, “But for the pain in your face … you are the image of … your brother.”

  “The pain lessens every day, Your Grace,” Kelyn said, filling Halayn’s chair at the bedside. He found it difficult to look the duke in the face. He had been so strong, boisterously so, the last time Kelyn had seen him at Assembly.

  “It is not merely … the pain of … your wound I refer to. The fighting is bitter?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Harac nodded, grave. “Rhoslyn told me of … your loss. I grieve with you. What a firebrand … your father was. I remember … during the last war … there wasn’t a man who wouldn’t follow him … over a cliff even. I led the archers at the Bryna … watched Keth with the day. There are … few men I admire more.”

  Kelyn swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

  “And you … are just like him … I’ll wager.”

  “Different enough to fear I’ll never be able to fill his shoes.” Shame stabbed through him.

  The Duke waved his good hand, dismissing the idea. “Ah, that’s normal. A bit of advice, Lord Ilswythe. Walk in your own. It’s healthier.”

  The words resonated deep inside Kelyn, and he felt his spirits lighten.

  “Now, my daughter tells me … you were less than happy to learn of her … betrothal to your brother.”

  Kelyn could hardly tell the duke why. Instead he said, “Just jealous, Your Grace.”

  One side of Harac’s face lifted with a chuckle. “Yes, everyone is … in love with my Rhoslyn. But I think … she chose well, don’t you?

  “She chose the best.”

  They talked until the dinner hour, then Lady Halayn bade him to excuse himself so she could see to her brother’s supper. Kelyn had his own delivered to his room as well. He hadn’t expected the brief audience to exhaust him so, or to leave him so sad.

  Down the corridor from the duke’s quarters and across the way from Rhoslyn’s suite, the Blue Room was aptly named. The walls were covered in silk the color of the summertime sky. Hues of midnight and the wind-tossed sea were in the upholstery and bed hangings. Even the rugs were blue with touches of silver and brown. A fine place to heal when compared to Lanwyk’s dilapidated hall. Convalescence gave Kelyn a ravenous appetite. After eating half a ham—which wasn’t easy with one useable hand—and a bread round with butter and honey, he sent for the physician and asked him how much longer before he could return to his duty at the king’s side.

  “Another week at least, m’ lord,” he said. “Though I wish you would give it three, even four. Wait until your brother returns, then we’ll see how you feel, hmm?”

  Too long. Jareg would replace him by then, Kelyn was sure of it. What a disgrace, to be suspected of desertion. He would ask Rhoslyn to write that letter to the king in the morning, to ensure there was no misunderstanding. With that slim comfort, Kelyn found his whetstone and oil and attempted to see to his neglected sword. It still had the grime and gore from Slaenhyll crusted on it and was showing signs of rust on the edges. He finally had to forego the physician’s orders and slipped off the sling so he could hold the whetstone properly. The stitches in his shoulder pulled uncomfortably, but he experienced little pain otherwise.

  While he was bent over the blade, his mind occupied with trying not to think about Da or Mother or Leshan or neglected duties, a chill shuddered up his spine. No fever this, nor a draft from an open window, but the chill of fear. A deep, primal fear, the kind he only experienced in nightmares. Glancing toward the windows, black with night, he saw he wasn’t alone.

  The stranger stood tall between the drapes, its face deathly white, its black hair wild with the nightwind. And such eyes. It was as if Kelyn were peering through an empty skull into an endless
void. Those eyes did not hide their intent. This thing had come to destroy him …

  … In the library on the floor below, Zellel scanned the Elaran script. His apprentice had learned well in so short a time. The old avedra found only a couple of conjugation errors that any Elari student might make. He decided he would have to make future lessons more challenging when Kieryn returned. He missed the boy already. Unexpected. Zellel had nearly insisted he accompany the boy for his own safety. He’d be traveling close to Avidanyth on his way home and Zellel doubted Lothiar had given up so easily. But the boy was in a hurry; perhaps assassins wouldn’t have the chance to catch up with him. And, though he would never admit it, Zellel’s bones ached with the approaching winter and the mule ride so recently undertaken back from Linndun. He hadn’t pressed too hard to ride along.

  Over the scribbled pages, Yarrow’s yellow light suddenly appeared, furiously bright. “Zellel!” he cried. “Eeeevil!” Offering nothing more, he darted out the library doors.

  Zellel snatched up his staff and followed …

  … “A ssscholar—Master says,” the thing hissed and slunk forward with the ease and grace of sliding shadows. “This—is warrior. Azethhh—too small. Does—Master lie?”

  Kelyn understood that he was sharing the room with something from beyond the realm of humanity, something rare and dangerous. He rose slowly from the bed, poising the falcon blade, and backed for the door.

  The creature seemed to struggle with some confusion or doubt, which gave Kelyn time to swing open the door. Where was he to go? Why should such a nightmare spring from the dark and come after him? Shaking with a terror he had never known, even with a thousand Fierans bearing down on him, he managed to slip into the corridor.

  The thing’s eyes locked on him, and those gray corpse-like lips curled in a grin. It charged, so fast, its feet making not one sound on the tiles, and flung Kelyn into the wall. One cold hand gripped him under the chin, turning his glance up at those bottomless eyes. The other hand grabbed the blade, and though it twisted the sword until Kelyn lost his grip on it, not one drop of blood spilled from the fetid flesh.