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

by Ellyn, Court

  “Do not put words in my mouth. The assassin was your man. I have the confession of his accomplices and of one who might have been blameless had your scheming not ruined her. Make your oath, aloud, before all these witnesses, or today’s meeting is for naught.”

  For a long while, the White Falcon sat in silence. No way he’ll speak the words, Kelyn thought. No way. And when he didn’t, there would be an end to talks and the opening of battle. He saw it in Goryth’s clenched jaw, in the slight shake of his head, urging his king against the bargain. Kelyn sorely missed his sword.

  Softly, Rhorek added, “There comes a time when the chance for a fresh start has passed. We still have time. Do we not?”

  Shadryk’s composed, arrogant mask crumbled a fragment at a time. For a moment, Kelyn saw his true face. It was a tired face, one torn by ambition and regret. He drew himself erect, looked Rhorek in the eye, and said, “You have my oath. Jilesse would be pleased. She has won the day.”

  Jilesse? The dead queen? The advisers at the Fieran table seemed as confounded as Kelyn was.

  “Sire, no,” said Goryth.

  “La’od,” Shadryk called. “Record it exactly as I have said it. And may you, Rhorek, live long, happy years as Black Falcon of Aralorr.” As if startled, Shadryk’s eyes snapped wide open, and he looked at his warlord. For an instant Kelyn feared Thorn was tampering with the miraculous decision, but a peek at the avedra revealed him frowning, listening, mouth open in astonishment at the thoughts he heard tumbling from Shadryk’s mind. Something had occurred to Shadryk that he hadn’t taken into account a moment ago. His mouth moved with a silent word. Goryth returned a repressed shrug, the matter beyond his control.

  Captain Jareg shifted forward, suspecting treachery.

  From the ranks of Falcons, Thorn demanded, “What about Bramoran, Your Majesty? Speak it. Or I will.”

  Shadryk’s glare skewered this guardsman who spoke out of place. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the one who killed the first assassin you sent to Bramoran.”

  “First assassin?” Rhorek demanded.

  Shadryk’s troubled frown became one of resignation. “You will want to send your fastest rider with a warning for your queen, though it may be too late.”

  “You godless bastard!” Rhorek exclaimed, rising and backing away from the thrones.

  Shadryk raised his chin. “Treachery was intended, but no longer. I gave you my word. Aralorr remains safely yours.”

  Rhorek seized Thorn’s shoulder. “What can be done?”

  The avedra whispered a few foreign words to the smear of lamplight at his left, then said, “It is done. You will know in a few moments, one way or the other.”

  “If they are dead, Shadryk,” Rhorek declared, “there will be no peace. I will not stop until your sons and everyone you hold dear lay dead at your feet. We will withdraw until I receive word.” He led his advisers and his Guard from the pavilion.

  ~~~~

  Yet another of Briéllyn’s mornings was occupied with tales of horror and loss. In Rhorek’s place, she met with shopkeepers, shepherds, farmers, and highborns from the riverland. Many had lost everything to Lady Athmar’s fierce attack across the river last summer, and they had suffered a lean, hungry winter. Now they were desperate for supplies to help them through another year. She gave what her treasurer said the crown could afford. Often it wasn’t enough, and she sent them away with promises of more, promises that she feared might be empty.

  The young heir of Hill Tower seemed nervous in her presence, bowing every few words. He’d introduced himself as the third son of Lord Hill. His two older brothers had been lost in last year’s fighting. “Burnt us out, she did, Your Majesty, fort and all, though you may know that. The Mounds provide us enough to rebuild, but the granaries …”

  Light flickered in Briéllyn’s eyes. She thought herself merely eye-sore, looking over yet another petition written in small, cramped letters, but the day was young yet. A girlish voice rang through the Audience Chamber, amplified as if through a horn: “Assassin! The babe!”

  The court rustled at the announcement, trying to find its source. Briéllyn dropped the petition, Lord Hill’s son forgotten, and ran from her throne. At the bottom of the dais, her queensguard, men from Rhyverdane, surrounded her and swept her out of the Audience Chamber. “My son!” she cried. Three men broke from the rest and ran for the nursery. The rest tried to rush her into a fortified inner room, but she broke away from them, slipped through a servant’s door, and raced through the narrow passageways to her suite. The queensguard thundered after her.

  The nursery, as she’d insisted, was next door to her own rooms. Among the toys that the prince was too young yet to play with, the nurse lay sprawled on the rug. Blood still spurted from the open gash across her throat. A man in the livery of a sentry whirled from the crib, a slim dagger in his fist dark with blood. Briéllyn ran at him, shrieking.

  “Saved me hours of trouble, you have,” said the assassin and lunged with the dagger.

  Briéllyn threw up her arm, glimpsed the blade emerge through her sleeve an inch past her elbow, and gasped at the fire ripping through her flesh.

  “Protect the queen!” cried her guards. They burst into the nursery, not from one door, but two. Escape cut off, the assassin lunged once more; Briéllyn scurried back from the blade, tripped on the nurse’s corpse, and fell. The guard rushed over her, and the assassin made a running leap through the fourth-story window. At the shattering of glass, the prince woke with a startled wail.

  ~~~~

  Rhorek paced under the ragged shade of war-torn trees. His Guard surrounded him, blades unsheathed and poised, a formidable barbed wall. Kelyn stood with the rest of the advisers, all them silent, waiting. Only Thorn took his ease, lounging on his elbows in the greening grass, helm tossed aside, ankles crossed. The tautness in his face alone betrayed his worry. After the sun had shifted nearly a fist’s width, he sat up suddenly, enrapt by a gleam of sunlight that gathered above him. He spoke some of those foreign words and scrambled to his feet. Rhorek crossed the circle in two steps and spun Thorn around. “Well?”

  “They live. Your queen is a brave fighter. She sustained some injuries but fought him off. She and your son are well.”

  “Injured! Damn him, I’ll have Shadryk’s head.”

  “Sire, you gave him your word as well. If they live, there will be peace. They live.”

  “His word means nothing.”

  “No, he meant it. He did not want to give his oath, but he did. He’s willing to give up everything he’s been fighting for, for a woman, and she no longer living. Do not trod that underfoot.”

  Slowly, Rhorek regained his composure, though it was a long time before he stopped shaking in outrage. At last, he nodded and requested, “Tell me everything.”

  ~~~~

  When the cheer of happiness went up from the ring of Rhorek’s guard, Shadryk lowered his brow into his fingers. Part of him had hoped the assassin had succeeded, leaving him no choice but to pursue his long-cherished vision. Jilesse would understand that. What madness had prompted him to give such an oath? It was as if she were there beside him, pleading, It’s not worth it. For a moment, he thought he was losing his sanity, so clearly did her voice ring in his head.

  The bottle of wine waited and the jeweled silver goblets, one with a drop of Ghost Root in the bottom. This morning, the vision that had woken him so early was that of Rhorek gasping for his final breath at his feet, of himself riding north to Bramoran to lay claim to the Falcon Crown. In an instant of honor, he listened to Jilesse and watched his dream wither. His body ached with its passing.

  “Sire,” Goryth began, cutting short his agitated circuit of the pavilion. “It’s not too late. Nothing has been signed.”

  “Silence!”

  At the adviser’s table, Lord Brengarra leaned forward on his knees looking like he’d learned of his son’s death only moments ago. Prince Saj’nal stretched cat-lithe muscles and grunted in disgu
st at his loss of glory. Lady Drona had been too angry to remain in her king’s presence and strode from the pavilion without a word.

  “But, sire, we’re far from defeated. You don’t have to give them anything!”

  “Tell me, Goryth, is a man’s word a flippant thing? Your word to me? Is that meaningless?”

  “You know it’s not.”

  “Then why should mine be?” He gestured at the table. “Sit down, all of you. They are coming.”

  ~~~~

  Half the Falcon Guard preceded Rhorek and his advisers into the pavilion. “Your three sons are fortunate that you failed, Shadryk,” he declared, approaching the two thrones.

  The White Falcon nodded, a slow, thoughtful gesture. Gone was the arrogant, cunning man who greeted them with overbearing pomp this morning. Whether by design or in true shame, he could not meet Rhorek’s eye, but glanced at the trodden ground between them. “Glad I am to hear it. A man needs his lady and his progeny to comfort him. I gave you my word, and I will honor it. La’od, draft the agreement. The lieutenant there will watch your hand for accuracy. In the meantime, Rhorek, we will drink to peace.” He hailed a servant near the entrance. “Bring the bottle to me unopened. Not the goblets. These are trusted.”

  “Pardon, sire,” said Jareg with a bow, “but our glasses were out of our sight for more than an hour.”

  Impatient flick of the fingers. “Fetch him a new one then.”

  Jareg went for a cup himself. While he was away, Lady Drona hurried back to the table, bowed an apology for being late. The servant brought the wine, and the White Falcon himself popped the cork. Unless Fiera brewed poisoned wine, there was no trick here. Jareg arrived with a battered wooden flagon, the kind all soldiers carried in their packs; this one likely came from his own bag, and was, therefore, safest.

  Shadryk poured and raised his glass. Defeat weighted his voice: “In the name of peace, I drink to you, Black Falcon.”

  “And I to you, White Falcon.” Rhorek peered into the wooden cup, hesitant, then gulped.

  Kelyn never thought it would happen. He still found it difficult to accept. A misgiving twinged in his belly. Like the morning he felt the arrow take flight. The one that ripped him away from Lissah, from Kieryn, from honor.

  Across the aisle, Lady Drona leapt the table, agile as a youth. “For Ulmarr!” she cried, dagger in hand.

  “Don’t!” Shadryk ordered, but she was heedless.

  Kelyn reached for her, but she dived past him, lunging for Rhorek. Jareg shoved him aside. Rhorek cried out, grabbing the gash across his ribs, and Jareg drove his fist into Drona’s face. Tough old wench that she was, she elbowed him in the eye and followed with the dagger. Jareg staggered back, the blade buried under his jaw. Kelyn smashed his chair over Drona’s shoulders. Only then did she fall, senseless.

  Prince Saj’nal roared with laughter and fled the pavilion. Goryth and Lord Brengarra flung their cloaks about the White Falcon and trundled him away. He fought every step. White Mantles covered his retreat, exchanging blows with Falcon Guardsmen like ruffians in a tavern. Kelyn swung the legs of his shattered chair as if they were a pair of swords, broke one Fieran’s nose and clubbed one over the head, all the while standing over Rhorek, who knelt beside his guards captain. Jareg’s blood pumped through his fingers.

  Another Fieran aimed a fist at Kelyn’s face, but mid-swing the man froze. His eyes widened, his mouth tried to suck air but couldn’t. Throughout the pavilion, White Mantles stood or lay in the grass as if stunned. Kelyn remembered well that paralyzing grip and found his brother standing against the green silk wall with his arms stretched wide, his body trembling. Through clenched teeth, he said, “War Commander, get them out.”

  Several Falcons whisked Rhorek from the pavilion. Uncle Allaran and Brugge hurried after them, weaving through the gasping White Mantles, their mouths open in awe.

  “Help me!” Lissah cried, trying to heft Jareg under the arms. Her brethren ran to aid her.

  In the entrance, Laral held the reins of three horses and gaped as the Falcons carried Jareg passed, masked in blood. “M’ lord!” he cried, looking for Kelyn among the unnerving forest of frozen men. Rhorek and the rest of the party thundered onto the highway.

  “Go!” Thorn ordered Kelyn.

  “I’m not leaving you here alone,” he said, taking Chaya’s reins.

  Thorn swore and backed slowly for the entrance. Holding so many under his sway was taking its toll. The mail hauberk jingled he shook so hard, and sweat poured from under the helm. The instant he was free of the pavilion, he dropped his arms, sagged and breathed, then swiped the blue’s reins from Laral and vaulted into the saddle. “Run!” he cried, and the three of them wheeled their mounts and raced after the others.

  Glancing back, Kelyn saw the White Mantles spilling from the pavilion. “They’ll give chase.”

  “Give me a minute,” Thorn barked. “I can’t do everything at once.” Topping a hill that overlooked the field, he reined in, grit his teeth, and a sheet of flame sprang up across the White Mantles’ path. “Hurry ahead,” he ordered. “I’ll hold it until they give up and ride for home.”

  Kelyn didn’t argue. He and Laral galloped east along the highway. The dust raised by the others ahead of them grew thin and wafted away into the hedgerows, revealing the whole party stopped amid the road. Waiting for him and Thorn to join them, Kelyn assumed, until he saw Rhorek doubled over in the ditch, retching violently.

  Uncle Allaran met Kelyn and Laral as they dismounted. He looked sick himself. “Best we can decide,” he whispered, “is that Drona’s blade was poisoned.”

  “Ah, Goddess,” Kelyn groaned, turning away. Drona’s absence made sense now; she had been looking for Shadryk’s means of treachery.

  “Captain Jareg?” asked Laral.

  “Poison or no poison,” said Allaran, “he had no chance. They stretched him out over there.” Lissah was kneeling over the body, while other Falcons stood in a circle around them, astonished.

  Rhorek crumpled up and rolled onto his back. A dozen guards ran to him, but what could they do?

  A distant clatter of hooves, and Thorn trotted over the brow of the hill in leisurely fashion. When he saw the knot of people, he spurred the blue to a gallop. Arriving in a cloud of dust, he bailed off the saddle and dived to his knees beside the king. Allaran assessed him of their suspicions. Thorn tore a wider hole in the king’s surcoat and slashed undershirt.

  Rhorek started to convulse. His hands and face clenched. “I can’t feel my fingers,” he muttered.

  “I know,” Thorn whispered, laying his palm to the gash across his ribs. Such a small wound, Kelyn saw, barely enough to bleed. “Lucky for you I’ve suffered the same. Try to stay awake.”

  “Can’t see.”

  “I know.” Gentle pity in the words. Thorn’s eyes closed, and again he began to tremble.

  “What’s he doing?” demanded a Falcon.

  Another snarled, “You knew about the poison, didn’t you, sorcerer! What treachery you up to?” The Guard was restless with grief and the inability to protect their charge, now that he was in gravest danger.

  Another edged in, preparing to draw, but Kelyn flung out an arm, stopping him. “Lissah!” he called.

  Her head snapped around, startled that Kelyn should speak to her after months of avoiding her.

  “Keep your men under control.”

  Unless she was blind, she couldn’t miss their nervousness, their anger, their desire to avenge the king. Squaring her shoulders, she ordered, “Falcons! Form squad.”

  Forty-nine men and women hustled into tight lines amid the highway, though curiosity overcame discipline, and heads craned to see the avedra hunched over the king.

  After a time, Thorn lifted his hand, examined a drop of yellowish liquid, nodded and dabbed it on his trousers, then pressed his hand to the wound again. His other lay flat over Rhorek’s chest, and he didn’t seem happy by what he felt there. The king’s breathing stopped and started in fi
ts, seized up with a strangled groan. “Don’t!” Thorn cried, frantic.

  At last, Rhorek breathed easier again, and Thorn sat back on his heels, more relaxed, but kept his hands in place. “Laral,” he said.

  The squire knelt close.

  “He will not be able to ride. Gather the other squires, go into the nearest village and steal a wagon and team.”

  “Steal!”

  “Do it! Allaran, Brugge, and a dozen Falcons will go with you. See it done.”

  “Me? Yes, sir.”

  Whether or not they agreed or liked the idea of following an avedra’s orders, they went without fuss. Until they returned with the wagon and four, Thorn stayed with Rhorek, keeping his heart going, as Kelyn later learned. The Guard hoisted the king into the bed and laid Jareg’s body alongside him. Sickening, looking at them both lying there. Only the sweat on Rhorek’s brow and the occasional twitch of a tortured muscle indicated that life remained in him. Thorn climbed into the wagon between them, applied his hands again.

  “Why didn’t you do what you did before, at Assembly,” Kelyn accused him, “that thing with the lightning? Jareg would be alive.”

  Thorn raised tired, dead eyes. “Because you were in the way.” Whether or not it was true, the riposte stung. Doubtless Thorn meant it to.

  Lissah laid her black cloak over Jareg, then Allaran cracked the reins and off sped the wagon. The rest of them, Guard, advisers, and squires, rode in tight formation around it, reaching Ulmarr shortly after dark. There, Kelyn apprised Lady Genna of the situation and within half an hour, her cavalry were leading the way back to Nathrachan.

  Halfway through the night, the retinue stopped to give the horses a rest, and to Kelyn’s surprise, Eliad pulled up alongside the wagon on that splendid black horse Thorn had brought with him. Fear nestled in his face. “P-pardon, m’ lord,” he said to Thorn. “She wouldn’t let nobody else near her. You’ll not blast me to pieces?”