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

by Ellyn, Court

  A small division of dwarves played host to the new arrivals. They appeared to have arrived some days before and behaved as if the charred remains and piles of broken stone were their domain. Master Brugge directed the squires in setting up the king’s pavilion in the courtyard and a smaller one nearby for the War Commander. The rest of the soldiers made do with the war-pocked ground outside the remnants of the walls.

  The night promised to be fair, if a bit windy, so Thorn set himself up in the lee of the one remaining tower. He gathered firewood for himself and when no one was watching, he set it ablaze the avedra way. He hadn’t thought to bring flint and striker with him. What was the point?

  After plucking and breasting half a dozen quail he’d caught outside the lopsided barn, he skewered them over his fire, expecting to dine alone. As night settled in the courtyard, however, a tall, lanky youth emerged from the War Commander’s pavilion and paused, staring Thorn’s direction. He raised a hand in a tentative wave, then dashed back inside. Only after he’d disappeared did Thorn realize the youth had been Laral. He counted the years. Sixteen. Laral had to be sixteen. A few moments later, he reemerged, carrying a wine skin and goblet.

  “You follow orders well,” Thorn said as Laral approached.

  “M’ lord?”

  “The last time I saw you, I believe I ordered you to grow two feet taller.”

  The squire grinned, glanced down at his feet. “I think I, er, managed that and then some.”

  “What is this?” Thorn indicated the goblet.

  Laral cleared his throat. “From … Kelyn.”

  As he had suspected. “I require nothing from the War Commander, thanks.”

  “He’s different, ya know.”

  “If he sent you to tell me that, you can leave.”

  Laral squatted down near the fire, looking like he had a hundred questions warring on his tongue. He decided not to ask any of them. Thorn turned the quail, pierced one with his dagger, found it done, and tossed it to Laral. The squire plucked at the dark meat. “It isn’t wine, you know,” he said at last. “In the skin. It’s been forever since I seen him drink wine.”

  “You drink it then.” Thorn showed him the skin he’d brought from Linndun, the suede covering as richly embroidered as his robe. “I have plenty. You don’t need to look after me.”

  Laral nodded, troubled, then rose and started for the pavilions.

  Thorn stopped him. “How’s your brother?”

  “Better, I think. His plans for Tírandon will make it the grandest fortress in the northwest. That’s what he writes in his letters, anyway. He says Ruthan still has nightmares and visions, but she’s talking to everyone now. I hope it ends, m’ lord, soon. There must be many Ruthans out there, on both sides.”

  “No doubt you’re right, aurien.”

  Laral scowled at the sound of the foreign word, then hurried away, too polite to stick his nose where it might not be welcome.

  Foragers returned to camp with lambs slung over their shoulders. Thorn doubted these sheep had been properly purchased. Soon delectable aromas rose from the campfires, and the better portions were carried to the king’s pavilion. As Thorn finished off his last quail, a pair of dustless black boots halted on the far side of his fire. The woman’s face was as stern and suspicious as it had been long ago. He tossed the bones of the fowl into the flames and stood. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  “His Majesty requests you join him for dinner.”

  “Ah. Thank you.”

  Lissah’s right eye narrowed as she scrutinized him. What did she see? Surely not the skittish boy she’d met in Ilswythe’s corridor. Nor a copy of her former lover; Thorn had seen to that. He must’ve passed some unspoken test, for she extended a curt nod, then marched off, her pale braid wagging at him long after the rest of her had melded away into the night.

  As it happened, Thorn was not of a mind to share the king’s table. He’d come to keep Rhorek safe, not to socialize. He let the highborns feast in peace while he scrounged around in the weeds, sure he’d seen a weather-beaten ladder before the sun set. Finding it, he propped it against the tower and climbed to the turret; he could see for miles over the benighted hills. Campfires winked in the distance. Shadryk’s party. Satisfied that the Fierans were sticking to their camp and the Aralorris to theirs, he climbed down again. Best not keep the king waiting any longer. Rhorek was kind, after all, to extend the invitation. Lit from the inside, the royal pavilion glowed bright blue in the dark. Voices tumbled out. Thorn paused outside the flap.

  “… don’t trust him either. What’s he really up to?”

  Shadryk? Aye, they were wise to be cautious.

  A woman, likely Lady Genna, agreed. “Who’s to say he wasn’t down here all the while befriending one falcon too many? He could be leading us to our pyres.” Thorn almost chuckled. They were arguing about him.

  “He saved His Majesty’s life once, isn’t that right?” Had to be Uncle Allaran. “Why would he lead him into danger now?”

  “Loyalties can change. And he’s been unaccounted for, how long now?”

  “Now, now,” argued Rhorek. “Kieryn … Thorn, I mean, has my full trust.”

  “He scares me, sire,” said Genna. “Looks like he’s from the otherworld.”

  “It’s that elf blood,” said Captain Jareg.

  “Elves are myth,” Genna insisted.

  “So are avedras, eh?”

  “He’s here to help,” said Rhorek. “Of that I’m sure. Drink up now, you’ll need your sleep for tomorrow.”

  Silence. Thorn ducked into the pavilion and made for the wine service set up against the silk wall, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. Sheep bones and broken rounds of hard cheese littered the trestle tables. Once before he’d been late to a banquet. Some of these same highborns had stared at him then, too. They shuffled about, cleared throats, and buried their noses in goblets, while Thorn filled one of his own. It had been a long time since he’d tasted Doreli red. After savoring the complexity of Elaran wine, he thought this prized luxury rather dull. Ah, well. He sat back on the trestle table, determined to wait them out. How uncomfortable he made them. Funny, in a way. Was it his appearance? The fire hidden in his hands? The tales of evil mages they had brought with them from the nurseries? Or was it really because they suspected him of treachery? The thoughts they unwittingly flung his way told him they feared the fairytales far more than deceit.

  Kelyn reclined in a leather camp chair, trying to look casual about avoiding Thorn’s gaze. Brave War Commander. He’d been silent during the argument. Did he agree with Lady Genna or with Rhorek? Thorn decided it didn’t really matter. Trying to look older, perhaps, Kelyn had grown out his beard. Twenty must sound embarrassingly young for a commander of armies. That, or Kelyn was neglecting his appearance after all these years, Goddess forbid.

  Only Master Brugge approached the wine service. Peering up Thorn’s height, he slid his jasper-colored eyes left and right in conspiratorial fashion, then whispered, “Dorréahad arghel uhv ola.”

  The tradition Elaran blessing? “Why, Master Brugge, you surprise me.”

  The dwarf shrugged massive shoulders and let Thorn refill his goblet. “We do our fair bit o’ dealing with … them. They have to get their silver from somewhere, and all that precious stone they build with.”

  “Of course. I’ve still not learned all their secrets, it seems.”

  “Us, we want our gold back, and we’re here to make sure we’re heard on the morrow.”

  “Gold? I missed that episode, I suppose.”

  Rhorek approached, holding out a hand. “Thorn.”

  He took it with a bow of his head. “My apologies, sire, for causing a stir. It was not my intention.”

  The commanders shifted about the more, sure now that he had overheard them. Genna eased away, putting Allaran between them.

  “Nonsense,” Rhorek said. “We are eager to hear of your travels, and of how you mean to aid us tomorrow.”

  �
�Of my travels, I may not speak. I am under oath. Forgive me. Of the rest, I think you know, sire.”

  Rhorek’s brow pinched. “It wouldn’t do well for lightning bolts to start flying.”

  Thorn chuckled dryly. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Just listen for my voice and you’ll know if trouble is afoot.”

  “Ah. If you speak as loudly as you did on the road today, I’ll not miss it.”

  “Rest easy tonight, then.”

  “We will ensure His Majesty rests easy,” said Jareg, fists knotted on his hips. He reminded Thorn of a particularly stubborn ogre he’d fought last summer. The stink of jealousy rose as strongly from the Guards captain as had the stink of carrion.

  “I’ll need that uniform an hour before we set out,” Thorn told him. “And as much as I dislike the idea of leaving Sarvana behind, I’ll need the Falcon’s horse as well.”

  Jareg sucked his teeth, as if wishing he had the guts to take a bite from Thorn’s hide. He offered nothing more in response. Thorn set aside his wine. “If you will pardon me, sire, I have a watch to keep.”

  The unhappy tension disappointed the king. “Take your ease, rather. You must’ve ridden far. The Guard has the watch.”

  Thorn glanced past Jareg, at the Falcons standing at attention against the silk walls. “Doubtless the Guard is skilled. But their eyes are limited in the dark. Mine are not.” Hand over his heart, he bowed an exit.

  High atop the tower, he searched for lifelights approaching from the west but saw only those of Rhorek’s people, glowing like fallen stars. A pair of Falcons sauntered past, talking lowly. They glanced up the tower, found him looking down at them, and hurried on to their posts at the edge of camp, skirting a pile of broken stone. A shadow drifted across the rubble, darted out of sight. The Falcons did not detect it. Veil Sight revealed nothing. Something lurked beyond the broken fortifications, something neither human, Elaran, or ogre. When it did not appear again, he began to doubt himself. Had he seen the shadow of a tree or a cloud whisk across the ground? The sky was clear, the stars brilliant, the red crescent of the Warrior moon like a bloody scythe in the west. Thyrra had not yet risen, though her silver glow brightened the eastern horizon. He wasn’t mistaken then. A knot of fear settled in his belly. “Saffron?” The soft glow of her wings appeared at his shoulder. “If the rágazeth were on the loose again, would you know it?”

  “It hides out there,” she whispered. “I have been watching it for an hour now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I have warded you. It must detect this. Perhaps that’s why it does not approach.”

  “But Lothiar is dead. Aerdria saw him killed by ogres. How can the rágazeth have returned?”

  She had no explanation, only settled on his shoulder, her eyes trained on a shadow darker than the night.

  ~~~~

  Kelyn retired shortly after supper. The early start tomorrow provided ample excuse, but he was sure that everyone detected how heartsick he was. His squires passed knowing looks at each other but otherwise bit their tongues. While Eliad slapped road dust from Kelyn’s surcoat and Laral polished his saddle, Kelyn slouched on his bunk with his head in his hands, unable to clear his brother’s hostile gaze from his mind. Those eyes. There was no approaching a man with that look in his eyes.

  A gruff voice spoke at the flaps: “Commander?” Jareg peered in. “His Majesty will speak with you.”

  Kelyn gathered himself, started for the flaps, but Rhorek surprised him by coming to him instead. The two squires abandoned their tasks and ducked out.

  “Apologies, sire, I haven’t much to offer you. Pear cider?”

  Rhorek waved away the offer, leveling a glare that left no mistake about what he wanted to discuss. “Where’s he been all this while?”

  Though it was against propriety, Kelyn sank onto his bunk while the king remained standing. The strength seemed to have leaked out of his legs. “I don’t know. I have my suspicions, but I’m not sure.”

  “What happened between you? I want the truth, Kelyn. No more mysteries or evasions.”

  “But it has no bearing on our business—”

  “Now!” The Black Falcon had never raised his voice in Kelyn’s hearing, much less to Kelyn himself.

  “Sire, I….” Ah, Goddess, there was no saving face now. “I broke one of my vows. I failed to bring honor to myself and my kin.”

  “How?”

  “When I deserted, I was delirious, sire. I meant to ride home, but somehow I found myself at Windhaven. I told Kieryn … Thorn,” he amended acerbically, “I told him about Father, and he rode to Ilswythe to be with our mother and left me … in Rhoslyn’s care.”

  Rhorek’s eyes closed as he realized. “The child?”

  Kelyn managed the weakest of nods. He rose and tried to pace off the shame. “I kept waiting for the scandal to break, but she … she must never have told anyone the truth.”

  “She’s protecting you.”

  The suggestion felt like someone spit in his eye. “It is undeserved. All this while I’ve let Kieryn take the blame. There is no honor in me, sire, no courage—” The slap of Rhorek’s knuckles left a dull throb across Kelyn’s face. He staggered back, horrified at the anger in the king’s eyes.

  “Do not speak of yourself so. I have entrusted you with too much to have you cowering and groveling. Whether or not it was true once, you have proven yourself otherwise in my presence. If your brother can destroy that in you so easily, I must dismiss him.”

  “No. He will protect you better than we can.”

  “We shall see. The stranger he has become has yet to prove himself, and I fear he is volatile. That aside, we will continue as planned.” Rhorek inhaled, drew himself up. “Get some rest if you can. These matters of your brother will wait. I need you focused tomorrow.”

  “I have your pardon then?”

  “You need pardon from a man who knows too much about getting bastards? Never fear, Kelyn. I loved you yesterday. I will love you tomorrow.”

  “But not today?”

  Rhorek squeezed his shoulder, plastered on a taut grin. “We can’t have everything, can we.”

  ~~~~

  66

  The banners of Bramoran, the Falcon Guard, Ilswythe, Thyrvael, and Wyramor snapped overhead as Rhorek’s party cantered toward the Crossroads. So determined were the dwarves to be represented that Master Brugge had borrowed a squire’s racer and fought the animal for the first three miles till he learned to relax and just sit on the horse and hold on.

  Riding alongside the king, Kelyn harbored little optimism for the day. Part of the feeling was selfish, and he knew. How would it look if he were named War Commander just in time for the kings to establish peace? The other part of his lack of confidence resulted from an inchoate dread. His brother’s arrival didn’t bode well. Kelyn wasn’t the only one who had little trust in Shadryk’s word.

  Thorn rode Lestyr’s blue several paces ahead with the vanguard, recognizable by his height alone. Kelyn had watched him closely this morning. After Jareg delivered Lestyr’s hauberk, shoulder plates, and helm, Thorn held up the heavy mail, grimacing. If Kelyn knew his brother at all, he was wondering how he was supposed to move around in the damn thing. Taking pity, Kelyn asked Eliad to help him into the armor. The younger squire shook his head, looking like he might piss his pants. Laral smacked the boy upside the head. “It’s just Kieryn, no matter what he says his name is.” Eliad, however, hadn’t known Kieryn in the old days as Laral had, and would not be moved. Laral obliged, instead.

  While donning his own mail inside the tent, Kelyn heard Thorn chatting and laughing over his new garb with Laral, as if nothing had changed. The hauberk was too short in the sleeves, apparently. Lestyr’s mouth was large for the rest of him, after all. Kelyn pressed down an ache of longing, then let it rise again as a flush of anger. At himself, more than at Thorn. Focus, damn it! Thorn’s grudge was not the issue of the day.

  Halfway between Ulmarr and the Crossroads
, an enormous green pavilion bloomed in an open field. Squires were still in the process of securing the stakes. Well under a hundred White Mantles and soldiers organized themselves in parade-like formations, and Shadryk’s extraordinary white stallion was tethered in the scant shade of a broken andyr tree. Servants carrying silver trays heavy with goblets meandered through a small gathering of highborns, who were arrayed in their finest velvet.

  Kelyn huffed. “One would think they’d been invited to a damn picnic.”

  “You are your father’s son,” said Rhorek, gazing at the display. “Generous of Shadryk to meet us halfway.”

  “Aye,” said Kelyn dryly. “I wonder how many he left back at camp.”

  “Like we did?”

  “I bet half the Fieran army is lurking over those hills.”

  “Then let us hope the talks go well.” He urged Brandrith on.

  A delegation of three rode from the pavilion to greet them. The man in the fore appeared to be an official ambassador; his wide green-and-gold cloak fluttered like wings. Reining in, he raised a hand. “Welcome, Black Falcon! I am La’od, His Majesty’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. King Shadryk bids you welcome. I have the privilege of informing you that we within the pavilion are unarmed. His Majesty expects the same courtesy from you, or talks cannot proceed.”

  “What of them outside the pavilion?” Jareg demanded.

  La’od spared a glance for the Guards captain. “We have taken every precaution to keep the Falcon kings safe. But we are not foolish. Those who go in, do so unarmed, that is the stipulation.”

  Thorn sat Lestyr’s blue gelding slightly apart from the rest of the van. He met Rhorek’s eye, gave a nod. Volatile or not, it was clear that having Thorn’s abilities on hand filled Rhorek with confidence. He ordered, “My advisers and half the Guard, disarm.”