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

by Ellyn, Court

  He was deep in his cups when one of the dranithion on watch poked her head into the tower and announced a runner from Linndun. Smeared with sweat and mud, the runner saluted the captains and bowed his head toward Thorn. “The Lady sends for you. You’re to come as soon as you’re able.”

  Thorn swore. “I just left! Did she say what the problem was?”

  “No.”

  Elarion didn’t bother ‘milording’ him. He was only avedra to them, and he liked it that way. Less confusion.

  “We’ll escort you back,” Laniel offered.

  “Thanks, but no. You just got here yourselves. I know my way back. I’ll leave at first light. If I’m not hung over.”

  He was, so he didn’t leave Sheridath Tower until almost noon. Taking the trails he’d come to know so well, he made his way back to the city late that evening. He hoped for a bath and a fresh change of clothes before he saw the Lady, but he wasn’t two steps into the palace before Lyrienn found him and insisted he follow quickly. “She expected you hours ago.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something about your …,” she broke off with a sigh. “I’ll let her tell you.”

  “Did I set fire to something again?” Last time it had been a portion of the palace roof. He’d apologized and helped with repairs to make up for it.

  Lyrienn chuckled. “Not that I know of.”

  Aerdria had a feast set for him, which made him doubly suspicious. Why the need to butter him up? Tempting to read her thoughts, to get some clue, but she would reveal all in her own good time. He did not pretend to be happy about returning so soon. Conversation was clipped while he devoured the glazed duck on his plate. Pushing away the carcass, he asked, “What’s this all about, Aunt?”

  “Interesting things in the scrying pool these days,” she said. “I don’t have your gift of communicating through the waters, so it usually takes a bit of effort to decode what I see. Papers lying on desks are always helpful.”

  “Aunt, you’re shameless. Who were you spying on this time? More of Lothiar’s divisionists?” Charming the Elarion who sympathized with Lothiar had been a constant struggle for Aerdria over the past year.

  He shouldn’t have mentioned her former guardian. She glanced at down at her plate. “Some time ago, I saw him. He and Maliel both.”

  “Where?”

  “They were in the Gloamheath. Ogres attacked them. They are dead. Even after … what he did, I could not bear to watch it. They are dead, Thorn. I will not hear their names spoken in my presence again. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  Satisfied, she added, “The images in the pool that concern you are somewhat farther from home.” She sipped from her goblet, letting him stew a while longer. “Seems the White Falcon has called for a conference to discuss terms of peace.”

  Thorn snorted scornfully. “I had no idea you kept up with human affairs.”

  “Events that concern Aralorr concern the Wood. I’ve kept a close eye on the war’s progress. I watched the gates of Tírandon burn and the counterattack on Bramoran.”

  “Did you see my father die?”

  A small shake of her head set a pair of pearls in her earlobes to quivering. “I missed the battle that day.”

  Disappointed, Thorn said, “Surely you didn’t summon me all the way back to tell me about Shadryk’s peace conference.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “King Rhorek is to meet him in a few days near the ruins of Ulmarr. More, your brother has accepted the commission as War Commander.”

  Thorn’s face flushed hot. His fists knotted on the table. Balance. Got to keep the balance. “I have no family outside the Wood.”

  Aerdria sighed. “Perhaps not. But it’s time for you to leave us.”

  He shoved himself back from the table. “Leave! Linndun is my home. You’re kicking me out?” Not you, Aunt, not you, he longed to cry, feeling betrayed anew.

  She laughed at the notion. “Never. You’ve made the choice that all avedrin must make: to dwell inside the Veil or outside it. You will always have a home here. But I’m telling you, you are needed out there.”

  “No, Aunt!” He paced, frantic. “I want no part of that war or the people fighting it.”

  “Thorn, I have seen the fear and the sorrow in your eyes. You have learned to hide them, but they have not diminished. They will never leave you in peace if you remain in hiding here. Too often our paths carry us where we do not wish to go, but—”

  He rounded on her. “I’ll hear no more about paths and roads! You and Saffron both. Trick is, I’ve got to choose to walk it, don’t I. And why send me now? It’s a peace conference, for the Goddess’ sake.”

  “The waters are honest. There are signs of deceit.”

  Thorn paused at that and cursed himself for caring. He glared out the window at Forath crouching bloody atop the trees.

  “Shadryk’s armies,” Aerdria went on, “do not appear to be preparing for peace.”

  “Perhaps they stand ready in case Rhorek refuses the terms.”

  “It was not Rhorek who wanted this war. Am I right?” When Thorn had no response, she added, “You will go for his sake, for this king you admire. He will need an avedra now.”

  “But it’s not my place to interfere.”

  “Make it your place.” The severity in her voice brought his glance around. She was standing at the corner of the table; he’d not heard her rise. With her hands folded and her chin raised, arguing with her felt as awkward as arguing with the Goddess. “You have these gifts, use them. Protect the Black Falcon, a descendant of Tallon, and you protect the Wood. You have a great test before you, make no mistake about that. And it has nothing to do with how deadly your bolts of lightning or how skilled your hands at healing.”

  With a sinking feeling, he understood her meaning. Thinking of the grandfather and grandson he’d attacked in the Wood, and of holding Kelyn by the throat, he feared he might cross the line without ever seeing it, or without caring that he did.

  She touched his shoulder, gently. “When you go, add ‘Kingshield’ to your chosen name.” In Elaran, “king shield,” or more correctly, “royal shield” with noun and adjective properly reversed, was kir ryn. Aerdria’s suggestion puzzled him. She explained, “You take them both with you, who you are and who you were. Be careful not to forget one in preference for the other.”

  ~~~~

  He lingered in the city a couple of days, turning it over, hoping Aerdria would change her mind, urge him to stay. She didn’t send for him again. He had a week to make it south to the Bryna, but he considered returning to Sheridath Tower until that week had passed. What could Aerdria do then but look at him with disappointment in those lavender eyes? That should prove to her that no one made decisions for him but himself.

  Angry at her, angry at himself for being too much a coward to choose, he stationed himself at the garden wall, overlooking the falls. They plunged to the rocks below, spitting up gray mist in the twilight. The roar rattled his bones, gave voice to his anger.

  “I thought you were afraid of that view.” Laniel approached from the palace at a languid pace, thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “When the worst has happened,” Thorn retorted, “there’s little left to fear.” It was a lie, of course; he still feared the falls. The headlong plunge, the power surging over the cliff. “What in hell are you doing here?”

  “Checking on you,” he said, joining him at the wall. “You didn’t send word. Wanted to make sure you made it all right.”

  “Aerdria send for you?”

  Laniel’s blank look of ignorance told Thorn she hadn’t. He’d come out of genuine concern. “My sister found me when I went into the palace looking for you. She says you’re leaving.”

  “Did she? I haven’t decided. Aerdria thinks I should.”

  “So do I.”

  Goddess, not you, too. Thorn hung his head.

  Laying a hand to his friend’s shoulder, Lani
el said, “Though the worst has happened, there are still things you fear to face.”

  Thorn shrugged out from under his hand.

  Laniel stood alongside him in silence while night overtook the gardens. At last he exhaled and said, “Why do we fear to do what is best for us? Look, I know what it is to lose a brother to betrayal. I can never take the place of your twin, but … whenever you have need of a brother, come to me. We’ll be in the trees, watching for your return.”

  Well, there was no escape now. Damn, he was a coward, and he hated himself for it. He managed a self-deprecating grin and gripped Laniel’s forearms in farewell. “Ta nethai,” he said, my brother, then trudged back to the palace to prepare.

  ~~~~

  “Your Grace, the carriage is ready. And …”

  Rhoslyn glanced up from one of Admiral Beryr’s reports. Her handmaid curtsied on the threshold. “And?”

  “And Lord Westport waits with it.”

  Rhoslyn sighed in disgust. “Of course he does. These are his ships, after all. He can’t send them south like a sensible man, but insists I anoint them first.” A common practice during peacetime but impractical during war. Lord Brimlad knew it and had Princess Rilyth anoint his ships in their home port, then hastened them off to Fieran waters. Not Rorin. The old tradition gave him every excuse to impose himself on her company. “Come, Lura, help me dress, and pin up my hair.”

  The handmaid laced her into a high-collared version of her state gown, then pulled Rhoslyn’s golden curls tight, binding them at her nape in stiff, matronly fashion. She didn’t bother with rouge or lip dye, even though this was to be a public appearance. Rorin’s presence mandated that she neglect any display of vanity. Doubtless he would look pretty enough for both of them.

  Rhoslyn stood from the gilt vanity and whirled to inspect herself. She’d had her furniture moved to her father’s suite, and ordered burned or sold those items that smelled of sickness, death, and memory. Now, sheer ivory silks draped the windows and bed, turning the rooms into an airy extension of the sunlight and seascape beyond the windows. She’d kept only the gilt vanity with its enormous mirror. It had been her mother’s. Rhosamund’s silver brushes and jeweled combs still occupied the drawers. Nearby hung the avedra staff that both Zellel and Kieryn had abandoned. Its crystal head caught the sunlight every afternoon and splintered it into rainbows across the ceiling. But now, in early morning, the orb was dark and deep as water.

  Satisfied that she looked drab and undesirable, Rhoslyn made for the corridor.

  “You won’t eat before you go?” Lura called after her.

  “No!” She hadn’t lost weight like she’d hoped but had been forced to let out her gowns a full two inches and have new corsets made. Aunt Halayn urged her to take long rides in the hills north of the palace and eat greens and nothing else. For once, Rhoslyn was in full agreement with her.

  Outside the door, Rhoslyn kicked a stuffed puppy dog from her path. Velveteen ears flopped on the tiles; one of them was chewed into a crunchy rumple. Its embroidered black eyes turned up at her forlornly. “Lura, get someone to clean up these messes. I don’t want Aunt Halayn tripping over them.”

  Upon her appearance in the courtyard, Rorin swept off his plumed hat and bowed with a ridiculous flourish. “How lovely you are, Your Grace.”

  Rhoslyn returned a sardonic bark of laughter. “I know, I know.” Her attempts at looking drab never worked. He’d compliment a cow if it had a title. She accepted Rorin’s offer to help her into the carriage. Rather than sit across from her, he shamelessly shared her seat and talked of frivolous nothings all the way down the cliffside road to the ferry and on into the city. Rhoslyn did not bother responding but looked out her window as if she were alone in the carriage. Goddess, but he was persistent. Did his spirit never flag? Rhoslyn decided he was half-mad with obsession.

  The palace guard had secured the wharf where the new brig was docked. Captain Drael helped Rhoslyn down. The people outside the barricade bowed as she passed. Taking the podium, she delivered a shorter version of the same old rousing speech. Doubtless her lack of enthusiasm was as contagious as a pox, for the cheers were halfhearted. How many times had they been obligated to cheer the embarking of new war galleons and brigs? Rorin still grinned and nodded like an idiot, his hand flicking, trying to encourage louder acclamation for his achievement. In the end, he handed Rhoslyn a bottle of the finest Doreli red, which she smashed upon the prow, saying, “I anoint you, the Mirage, servant of His Majesty, King Rhorek, the Black Falcon of Aralorr, and handmaid to Her Grace, the Duchess of Liraness. May the Mother-Father calm the waters before you and set the wind at your stern.” Red wine dripped like blood down the planks. Ships built during peacetime were anointed with white wine.

  Without lingering, Rhoslyn hoisted herself back into the carriage. Rorin stayed on her heels, helped himself in after her. “Finely spoken, Your Grace.”

  “Does your tongue never grow weary of empty flattery?”

  He simpered at her show of temper.

  “You realize it’s a precious waste of time bringing your ships to Windhaven? Next time, send them south without troubling me with this impractical ceremony. Beryr needs your ships. Your ships do not need a wine bath.”

  “But you are my lady luck. I’ve lost half as many ships as Erum has.”

  “It’s not a contest, Rorin, it’s a matter of men’s lives.”

  “Poo,” he said, flapping his hat across his lap. “The admiral hasn’t complained about the tardiness of my vessels, has he? They do their job, don’t they? But listen to me. I’m not here to quarrel with you, Your Grace.” He edged uncomfortably closer. Rhoslyn regretted not bringing Lura with her or waiting for Captain Drael to escort her home. Softly, he asked, “Has the winter given you time to reconsider my offer?”

  “I’ve slept since then. What offer was that?” She knew very well which offer he meant, but she’d be damned if she let him think it had been important enough to remember.

  He sat back, affronted. “My offer of marriage, of course.”

  “Oh, how generous of you.” Just before the snows buried the roads late last autumn, Rorin had arrived on the wharf in a new brig and presented his proposal in formal fashion, like any other business deal. He’d kissed her hand almost as an afterthought, and her skin had crawled.

  How to urge the driver to hurry along without sounding desperate?

  “Your Grace, please. Surely you’re not blind to how diligently I’ve pursued you.”

  “Life a wolf to a doe.”

  “Does that not prove my devotion to you, my adoration?” He finally seemed to drop the mask; he looked genuinely confounded, at a loss.

  “There shouldn’t be any question of your devotion, Rorin. That should be given unconditionally to your duchess. As for your adoration. It is either false or misplaced. Nor is it welcome. I’ve made it quite clear, no man will be duke over me.”

  “Yes, yes, you did. But as you can see, I’m still here. I’m the only one still here.”

  Rhoslyn’s heart sank. Too true. The one she wanted was hundreds of miles away, alive or dead, she didn’t know. Her fault. She’d driven him away. Rolled the wrong dice and lost. Don’t think about it. What good does it do, thinking about it?

  Rorin’s perfumed glove encircled her hand. She didn’t pull away. “Your Grace. Rhoslyn. I’m willing to help you erase any smudge on your good name—and that of your son. To help you begin anew, in good standing with your people.”

  Rankled, she slid free of his touch. “Did my people look displeased with me today?”

  “They know how to keep up appearances.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  He was deaf to that. “The rumors among them are vicious. I’ve heard them myself.”

  Shame swept through her like nausea. What would Father think? Single-handedly, she’d brought ridicule and doubt upon the office he’d given her. The young duchess, unable to control herself. The young duchess, a whore. Go up the hill, recei
ve special treatment at her hands. Every time she received tradesmen and ambassadors and highborn guests, a new rumor flared. None lasted long; for that she was grateful. But the persistent rumor, the one that hurt the most, involved Kieryn. The one who had never wronged her had earned a scoundrel’s reputation among the people of Windhaven. She had tried to set the rumor straight, but doing so only raised the question that led to every other rumor. If Kieryn wasn’t the father of the duchess’s bastard, then who was? A never-ending cycle. Aunt Halayn urged her to turn a deaf ear to the whispers, but that was no easy task.

  The carriage turned the last corner to the ferry.

  “Of course,” Rorin went on, with an air of caution, “I would happily call your boy my own.”

  Rhoslyn’s face heated. As sincere as Rorin sounded, as much as she dreaded living out her life alone, she knew that her moment of indiscretion was only another tool to him. A tool to help him climb a step higher. Not as high as he would’ve liked, but high enough. “Stop the carriage!” she shouted at the driver.

  “Your Grace—,” Rorin began.

  “You will not concern yourself with my son. He is mine, and mine alone.” She fought the latch on the door, scrambled free of the stifling space that reeked of Rorin’s perfume, and turned, flinging a hand up in front of his face. “Stay here.”

  He stopped half in, half out of the carriage, looking like he’d stubbed his toe.

  “You may remove yourself to Westport,” she added, “where your duties await you. Do not return to Windhaven unless I send for you personally.” She marched onto the ferry, teeth grinding.

  Rorin barked at her back, “If you’re waiting for him, you’re wasting your time. He’ll never come back and claim you. Or the child.”

  Of that, Rhoslyn had no doubt. She gripped the rail until her fingers throbbed. Don’t let these men see you cry. Don’t you dare. She raised her chin and watched the far bank approach. The carriage turned around with a jingle of horse harness, whisking Rorin away with it. For the briefest of moments, his going sent panic through her veins. She could call him back. Was living with a vain, pompous fool better than living the rest of her life alone? No, Rorin did not love her; he could never be a companion to her, only a headache. She’d thrown her companion away, with both hands.