by Ellyn, Court
“He won’t,” Briéllyn replied.
~~~~
After that day, the queen occupied the council table next to Rhorek. On the dais behind them, a second throne soon joined the first. It was a fanciful, delicate-looking thing carved of andyr, with silver accents that picked out a falcon on the backrest. Instead of the majestic spread-winged falcon, the bird on Briéllyn’s throne stood passively, wings folded, stance turned toward the king, but with her onyx eyes facing the crowds of petitioners and advisers below. Behind her head, the disk and rays of the setting sun paid homage to the queen’s Leanian origin.
“Am I a falcon now too?” she asked when she first saw it.
“The bravest and the strongest,” Rhorek replied. “There’s a reason why hunters prefer female birds.”
“It’s not for their brains?”
Rhorek chuckled. “That, too.”
Briéllyn soon demonstrated her agile mind in council. She rarely asked a question or inserted her opinion unless it was sought. She watched and listened, learning which family was connected to which, who troubled her husband the most, whom he favored highest, and whom to flatter in order to win to Rhorek’s causes. She made Lander of Tírandon her special case. Though she loathed the man for antagonizing the king and needlessly angering him, she often invited him to her dinner table to discuss their disagreements in a more civilized setting. While a flautist filled the parlors with soft notes and the brandy sank deeper into Lander’s veins, Briéllyn let him gradually talk himself into agreeing with Rhorek’s views.
“How do you do it?” Rhorek asked after learning that, after all, Lander agreed to move more of his men to the river forts despite the depth of the snows.
Briéllyn exhaled and flicked a hand. “The man wants to agree with you, but he can’t say it out loud. He would argue himself into believing the sun is black, simply because you say it’s not. There’s no harm in it, he’s just the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met.”
“I should turn you loose on King Shadryk.”
“Every falcon has her limits, I’m sure.”
With the approach of spring and the convening of another battle season, the king and queen demanded more time alone. In the world outside, armies were prepared. Supplies were brought in from villages and manors already hurting and hungry. Youths—and not a few girls—scrambled to sign up with the infantry and sought positions as squires and armor bearers for the sole purpose of having a meal each day. Among the commanders, campaign strategies were introduced and argued. Lord Davhin journeyed up from Nathrachan to inform them that Fiera, being in a warmer latitude, was seeing the last of its snows dissipate. Standing at the council table, he said, “I fear Degan and Drona will march on Nathrachan any day.”
“Damn,” Rhorek muttered, leaning back heavily in his chair. “I’d prayed for Shadryk’s surrender.”
“Why should he?” Lander asked. “Returning Goryth to him was a mistake.”
Briéllyn smiled sweetly. “Lander, is mercy ever a mistake?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and on that he would not be moved. “Did he and his men show mercy to your household, or to mine?”
Briéllyn turned that sweet smile on Rhorek and shrugged. She couldn’t argue with that.
“So it goes on,” Rhorek said decidedly. “Very well, Lander, Allaran, your people need to be ready to march in seven days. Where’s Kelyn?”
“Er, off duty, sire,” said Jareg.
“Off duty? That boy is never off duty. He belongs here, in his father’s place. Fetch him.”
~~~~
Kelyn was enjoying lunch with Lissah in the Falcons’ common hall when Jareg arrived. “Look smart, Ilswythe. King wants you. Move it.”
Lissah grinned, sarcastic. “The king wants you.”
“Ach, stuff your face,” Kelyn said, tossing his napkin on the tabletop, “and keep that warm for me.”
“Hnh, you’ll be occupied for hours, if I know your meetings with Rhorek. Brush off your crumbs there, delicate eater that you are.”
Kelyn slapped at the bread crumbs on the front of his black uniform and hurried after Jareg. Arriving outside the Audience Chamber they ran into a commotion. The commanders were dispersing. Even Queen Briéllyn stepped out and took the offer of Lander’s arm. They drifted off bickering about something or other, and Kelyn beckoned to his uncle. “What happened?”
“Rhorek’s sister just arrived.”
“All the way from Brimlad?”
“Aye,” Allaran said, eyes sly. “For a private audience. Must be a big to-do.”
Jareg clapped Kelyn on the back. “Convenient, showing up when you did. You get sentry duty outside the door.”
Kelyn groaned and proceeded to the royal suite where he and Lestyr of Whitebarrow stood like a second pair of doors outside the formal parlor. Goddess, why was Jareg always pairing him with Loudmouth Lestyr? The man couldn’t stand it that Kelyn had earned the nickname ‘Swiftblade’ while he got stuck with ‘Loudmouth.’ It was his own fault for being the most tactless ogre’s arse in the Guard. Few could stand his presence for long, even the captain, who enjoyed sticking him with guard duty whenever he had the excuse.
“You’d think the cap’n’d forgive you by now, Slowblade,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
“You, too.”
“Hey, I didn’t do nothing to piss him off.”
“You opened your mouth, Lestyr. That’s enough.”
“Least I didn’t desert.”
Let it die, would you? Kelyn sighed. “If I had deserted, I wouldn’t be here guarding doors alongside your ugly face, would I?”
Voices floated through the doors at their back. The trick was to be blind and deaf to the conversations of those they guarded, while keeping their senses open to trouble. Not a simple task, and with no trouble to be had, it was all too natural for their ears to pick up a word or two. The space under the door was half a handspan high, which made room for rugs, but there were none, and so the conversation flowed freely over the Falcons’ polished black boots and into the corridor. Princess Rilyth went on and on about her son. Drem this and Drem that. “He turns eighteen in a few weeks. War or no, I need to consider the lady he’ll take to bride.”
Silver tinked against glass. “Whom do you have in mind?”
Rilyth answered too softly for Kelyn to hear.
“She is spoken for, sister,” Rhorek said. “They are to wed in few weeks.”
“Where have you been, brother? Oh, I forgot. Rumors started spreading like a rash from the stews during your own wedding, but they’re no rumors. I’ve seen for myself. The duchess is undoubtedly …”
Lestyr nudged Kelyn in the ribs. He realized he’d all but pressed his ear to the door. He stood at attention, but soon found himself tilting an ear toward the floor.
“… dress out to here, she couldn’t hide it, not from me. And where is her betrothed, you ask? No one knows. He might’ve jumped from the cliff for all we know. Gone without a word, leaving the poor girl…. And just when I was growing fond of him, too. I knew he had fallen out of favor with his father for being….” Kelyn could imagine her mouth moving with the word, as if “avedra” were a vile invective. “But what would Keth do if he learned—”
“Keth is dead,” Rhorek cut in sharply. “We will not speak of this. Let Rhoslyn deal with her own private troubles. They are none of your concern.”
“But, brother! Sire, I have my son’s future to consider.”
“If you’re so offended by Rhoslyn’s condition, why dare consider marriage between her and Drem? It can’t be because you want the Duchy, snatched out from under your cousin in the guise of a marriage? No, I can’t believe that of you. Surely that, of all things, is not what you’re proposing. Is it?”
“Certainly not!” Rilyth’s denial was made of glass. “Of course, what can I do if Drem voices … affection for her?”
“Refuse him. What else? On the basis of …,” Rhorek chuckled, “… his good reputation.
”
Silver and crystal shivered and tinkled, but the conversation was at an end and Rilyth’s proposal cut off before she could give it full breath. At Kelyn’s side, Lestyr’s shoulders relaxed; he’d been leaning back a bit, too. “Don’t whisper one word about this,” Kelyn said, though he immediately regretted it.
Loudmouth Lestyr grinned and said, “You have my solemn vow.”
Kelyn didn’t believe it for a moment. “This is my brother we’re talking about.”
“Aye, and what else, deserter?”
That caught Kelyn by surprise. Did Lestyr know? What exactly were the rumors floating around behind his back? All these weeks and Lissah hadn’t mentioned a word about it. Maybe the rumor-mongers feared the lieutenant’s wrath, so were just as determined to keep the juicy tidbits from her as well from Kelyn. Maybe he was being paranoid.
Once the king concluded the audience with his sister, which surely didn’t last as long as she had anticipated, Rhorek swung open the parlor doors and exclaimed, “Ah, Kelyn!”
In the parlor, Rilyth’s head snapped around, then she fled into the next room, nose high. “We got a bit distracted, didn’t we?” the king went on. “Yes, we’ve a war season to plan. Come, come.” He briskly led the way from the royal suite and down to the Audience Chamber, where he sent one steward for the maps of the riverland and another to round up the commanders again, but Kelyn’s heart wasn’t in it. He said not a word while Lander and Garrs and Allaran tossed around ideas and knocked them down again. At last, Rhorek put a hand in the center of the map, stopping Kelyn’s eyes from staring blankly at it. “You heard, didn’t you?” he whispered. Lander and Garrs tried to listen in, but Rhorek waved them aside.
“Yes, sire.”
“Thought as much. Do you know where he is?”
“No. I searched, but I found no sign of him.”
“When he turns up, I’m sure we’ll have answers.”
“Sire, Rhoslyn’s condition is not his fault.”
Rhorek’s smile was full of grief. “You’re good to defend him.”
Kelyn opened his mouth to confess everything, but nothing came out. If the others weren’t present, he told himself, but now was not the time, and Rhorek had other concerns. The king was not the confidante of a wretched nineteen-year-old kid.
Rhorek gestured toward the door. “You’re in no condition to move armies around a board, and frankly, neither am I. We’ll let these men argue over it a day more. But be in top condition tomorrow morning. You’re dismissed.”
Kelyn bowed and scurried off, trying to keep his departure from looking like a desperate rout. Lissah was gone from the Falcons’ Hall when he returned, so was his plate of bread and stew. He couldn’t have stomached food anyway. His squires inquired after his mood, but he asked them, “Has Chaya had a bath today?”
“Yes, m’ lord,” said Eliad. Laral was teaching him to stitch holes in socks. Better to start there than with gashes in his lord’s hide. He was having a rough time of it.
“Go bathe him again.” The boys took the hint and gladly tossed aside the hole-filled socks. When Kelyn was alone in his alcove, he whisked the tapestry closed and cursed Rhoslyn for a fool. Why hadn’t she gotten rid of it and saved them both the scandal? Clearly she wasn’t pointing fingers if Rilyth had to assume Kieryn was the louse of a father who’d abandoned her. What if Kieryn turned up, denying everything? Worse, telling the truth. Maybe he wouldn’t ever come back. What if Mother was wrong and Kieryn wasn’t hiding in the woods but was, in fact, dead. No, don’t consider that! How could Kelyn value his pocked reputation more than his twin’s life? Owning up to what had happened would be easy if he had the guarantee that it wouldn’t cost him anything more than he’d lost already. But who could guarantee him that?
Early that evening, Lissah sent Laral with a message. Eyes going for the ceiling, he relayed it with the enthusiasm of a student reciting the same calculation tables for the thousandth time: “You’re to meet with the lieutenant in one hour. It’s an order.” He shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “Why are you two still sneaking around? Everybody knows.”
Kelyn squeezed his nape. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Laral’s lip curled and he preferred to give Kelyn’s armor another round with the oil cloth than discuss the dubious adventures of romance.
Kelyn decided an hour was too long to wait, so he hurried down the corridor to Lissah’s room. He needed her close, warm and sighing. She made him wait only a few minutes before she turned in the door still talking to Jareg. The captain’s voice receded slowly along the corridor. Seeing her visitor, Lissah pulled the door close around her shoulders and listened to the captain’s question. Kelyn hid behind the door and kissed her fingers and sword-calloused palm.
“Hmm …,” she breathed.
“Hm?” asked Jareg.
“Yes,” she replied. “Actually, no. I’ll get back with you on that.” She shut the door and scolded, “You’re going to get us caught!”
“Everybody knows.” Kelyn swept her up.
“Hmm,” she sighed, “your squire is a good boy.”
“He’s getting tired of delivering your orders. You should just marry me and be done with it, then they can catch us all they want.”
She laughed, but she didn’t say no. Half an hour later, she was mixing them andyr liquor and water in small pewter goblets and wearing nothing but her undershirt. She didn’t look pleased, however. Eyebrows and mouth pinched, she asked, “You … heard the rumors, I suppose.”
Kelyn groaned and sat up in bed. Lestyr, damn the man. “Yes, I heard them. From the princess herself, no less.”
That brought the floodgates down. “How could he do it? He was going to marry her anyway. Why would he run off? You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? I mean, it could happen. My tea could fail me.”
“Your tea?”
She gave him that look that said he was a silly little boy. “I can’t be having babies, now, can I? But the duchess needs an heir—”
“So do I! I could be killed tomorrow, and who will inherit Ilswythe? It could be you—”
“Your brother will, wherever the coward is.”
Tea and refusals of marriage he could stand, but not insults to his brother. “Watch it! Kieryn might’ve run, but he’s not to blame.”
“Kelyn, really. You told me yourself, he was in love with her from childhood, but he’s not the father?”
“No,” he said. His stomach dropped. He felt sure he would throw up all over her sheets.
She stared at him, holding a goblet in each hand, and read the truth in his face. “Ah, Goddess,” she cried. “You were wounded! You …” In an instant, her disbelief sparked into rage. “How could I ever have trusted you!” One goblet sailed past his head; the other struck him in the chest. Sweet liquor sprayed across the bed and up his neck.
She paced wildly, aimlessly, face and throat blotching. “That was months ago! When did you mean to tell me?”
“Never.”
She rounded on him. “And the others? Gonna tell me about them?”
“Lissah, what others? There are none.”
She was deaf to him. “We lowly slatterns aren’t good enough for you now, are we, Lord Ilswythe? You move on to duchesses. And not only that but the heir to the throne, now that your father is dead. Will you be disappointed if the queen bears a son? Or would that one be yours, too?”
“Stop,” he snapped. “You’re being—”
“Oh, I know Her Grace’s kind well, I’ve watched her. She wasn’t satisfied with one brother, she had to have you both.” She grabbed her trousers off the floor and stepped into them.
“Would you listen? I don’t know what Rhoslyn wanted, but for my part—”
Lissah broke into ragged sobs. Kelyn didn’t think she’d had it in her to cry. She looked like a little girl, all freckles and mouth open. “I’m such an idiot!” she screamed.
“You’re not,” he said, hurrying to her. He reached for her,
but she shoved him back and dove for her shin guard. Leaping up, she swept her arm with a dancer’s grace and power. The point of her dagger left a trail of fire across Kelyn’s cheek. He staggered back and grabbed a pillow for a shield.
Lissah stood on the rug, eyes red, teeth grinding, dagger poised, but she didn’t run at him again. “Stupid kid. I knew better. You’re all the same. But you’re a mistake I won’t make again. Get your clothes and get out.”
“Lissah—”
“Get out!” she shrieked.
The last thing Kelyn wanted was a crowd gathering at the door. He swept up his things and retreated. She slammed the door after him. He heard the dagger clatter on the floor and a long whispering sound as Lissah slid slowly down the door, her sobs cutting him deeper than any blade. He dressed, past caring if anyone caught him half-naked in the corridor, then trudged back to his own bed. Luckily, the common hall was empty but for a small knot of Falcons playing Skull ‘n Rose at a far table. “Hey, Swiftblade, come join us.”
Kelyn waved them off and ducked behind the tapestry of his alcove. His squires were still awake. Eliad saw the blood dripping down Kelyn’s cheek and onto his shirt, scrambled up from the floor, and overturned the toy ballista he was building. “What happened?” he cried.
Laral gaped, his studies forgotten.
“Shh,” Kelyn ordered them. “Eliad, go to the medical supply and get something to stitch me up. It’s a good thing you’ve been practicing.”
“Aw, m’ lord, I couldn’t.”
“Go, and be discreet. Don’t talk to anyone.”
The boy ran, setting the tapestry to swinging. Laral poured water into the basin, squeezed out a washcloth and began dabbing away the blood. “Did she do this?”
After a while Kelyn said, “I don’t think you’ll have to deliver anymore orders.”
Laral didn’t look happy about it. “All I can say is, I hope my woman, whoever she is, don’t know how to use knives.”
~~~~
Kelyn was in anything but top condition the next morning. Dragging himself to the Audience Chamber, he wanted to curl up in a hole somewhere and die. He had stared at his breakfast, unable to eat, and would have forgotten to put on his surcoat had Eliad not chased him down with it. How could he win Lissah back? She would make it difficult for him, but he had to try. This, and not the deployments of armies, were the strategies that occupied his mind. The other commanders had arrived at the council table ahead of him, Lander, Garrs, Davhin, and Jareg.
