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

by Ellyn, Court

  Exhausted as he must’ve been, Thorn managed a chuckle. “I’m not angry at you, lad.”

  Eliad grinned, swiped dust off his face. “She’s the fastest horse I ever seen, even faster than Brandrith there.”

  “That’s because she’s a magic horse.” He brushed a finger over his lips.

  Listening in, Kelyn was sure the secret won Eliad over for good. He wouldn’t fear the avedra anymore.

  “Is … is my da gonna live?”

  “Your da?” Thorn hadn’t cared to learn much about the people Kelyn traveled with these days. He glanced at Jareg on his left, then at Rhorek on his right. “Ah. I think so. But there’s only so much I can do. He’ll be sick a while.” At least he no longer felt the need to apply his hands and do whatever it was he’d been doing.

  Eliad nodded gravely, and when the wagon started moving again, he and Sarvana stayed alongside, the boy gazing down at his father’s gray, restless face. Faithful child, despite his father’s relative indifference.

  Kelyn rode along behind, and on the long, dark stretches of highway, he found himself wondering if Rhoslyn had had a girl or a boy. He didn’t even know that much. Why should he care, now of all times? Glancing into the wagon, he saw the glimmer of his brother’s eyes staring at him.

  ~~~~

  67

  Near dawn, exhausted, furious, and dusty, Shadryk rode through Brengarra’s gate with Goryth at his side. Guarding the ford over the Thunderwater, the fortress rose in a series of bulky, ivy-shrouded towers. Behind her impressive bastions rose Tor Roth, a fist of a mountain that heaved up from the eastern edge of the Shadow Mounds. Clouds rumbling with thunder perpetually ringed its fluted, vertical walls. So terrifying were the legends surrounding the tor that it had earned a place as the sigil of House Brengarra. The black mountain crossed with a yellow lightning bolt flapped from the gatehouse towers.

  During the War of the Brothers, Brengarra had been King Fiernen’s first royal residence, but when peace was agreed upon, he’d given it to one of his most faithful thanes and moved his court to the glimmering new palace at Brynduvh. Lord Jaeron was a direct descendent of that thane. He and his forefathers could boast that because of their uncompromising loyalty, they had retained their estate longer than any other family in Fiera.

  True to that renown, Jaeron had mustered his militias from surrounding villages in response to the call that Shadryk had sent out a few weeks ago. Infantry, archers, and cavalry camped inside the old bailey. Goryth had not planned his massive offensive for nothing.

  Odd. When Shadryk set out for the conference, there had been no chance of changing his mind and agreeing to actual peace, yet he had sworn. So odd. Did Drona’s foolish move negate his oath? Would Rhorek attack now anyway? Best to wait and see.

  Inside Brengarra’s entry hall, servants scurried to prepare a royal suite. A girl in a heavy dressing robe appeared at the bottom of the stairs, large brown eyes wide at the king’s early return, long brown hair mussed from sleep. No older than fifteen, she curtsied lowly at Shadryk’s approach. “Your father should arrive shortly, Bethyn. He and the White Mantles cover our flight.”

  “Oh, Your Majesty,” she cried, “the Black Falcon would not agree to peace?” A delicate, small thing was Jaeron’s daughter, but she was quickly gaining a reputation for her clear, sweet voice and skill with a lute. When she was of age, Shadryk meant to send for her. He didn’t need another queen or anymore heirs, but she might provide gentle entertainment.

  “We agreed. Yet, sadly, I fear the treachery came from our side.”

  Bethyn frowned, unable to comprehend that possibility. So innocent.

  “You will see Drona punished?” asked Goryth.

  Bethyn edged away from the warlord. He frightened children and didn’t seem to mind.

  “Now is not the time to discuss such things,” Shadryk said and brushed a finger across Bethyn’s cheek. The fear in her face waned.

  “I had hoped my brother would be avenged,” she said. “He promised me he would come home, but Father brought back a pouch of ashes instead. I sewed that pouch for him. Embroidered little bluebirds on it. We joked about him fitting inside. Oh, I hate them. I hate the Aralorris. I hope you kill them all, Your Majesty.”

  No Jilesse, this. “Who then would I rule?”

  The clatter of hooves echoed in the courtyard. Voices shouted.

  “Father!” Bethyn cried, running for the great bronze doors.

  Lord Jaeron entered and swept her up as though she were still five years old. “Ah, little bird, don’t cry.”

  “Did you fight them? Are you hurt?”

  “Only bruises. Aralorris have hard fists.”

  Bethyn sobbed on his shoulder.

  A pair of White Mantles entered behind him and bowed before Shadryk. “Sire, we have … tidings … to report.”

  “Say on, but be brief. I need a bath.” His teeth kept chewing on dust from the highway, and he could feel it gritting between his fingers.

  The Mantles looked at each other, uncertain how to proceed.

  Shadryk tried to help them out. “How many of you are dead?”

  “None. We might’ve all been slain, but …”

  The other took up the note, “They paralyzed us, then fled.”

  “Paralyzed?”

  “Yes, sire. Helpless to fight. Helpless to flee. When the Aralorris were gone, the paralysis lifted and, um …”

  “We gave chase.”

  “But there was fire.”

  “Fire?”

  “Yes, sire. A wall of it sprang up across the highway, blocking our pursuit.”

  Shadryk choked back the urge to growl at them. “Doubtless the Aralorris laid that trap, in case of such an event.”

  “Pardon, sire, but I don’t think so. We decided to give up the chase, follow you instead. When I turned back, the fires were as high as ever, then were suddenly gone. Fires wane slowly. They do not vanish. It was sorcery, I tell you.”

  “You’ve lost your senses, man.” Shadryk started up the stairs.

  “But the paralysis!” cried the other Mantle. “All of us, all at once, the same thing. What else could it be?”

  Shadryk paused, considering the conviction in their faces … Jilesse’s voice, ringing so clearly in his head, pleading with him … the immediacy with which Rhorek learned that his queen and heir were safe. “What nonsense,” he whispered, yet he recalled the tales his nurse used to read to him, the gilded paintings of sorcerers with fire springing from their fingertips and wild winds in their hair. What had those sorcerers called themselves? In the tales, they were kin to elves and walked the twilight between the magic world and the human world. What were they called, damn it?

  “Jaeron, where is your library?”

  He approached with his daughter. Bethyn had dried her face and said, “I will show you, sire.”

  ~~~~

  Daylight poured through the library window, and Shadryk’s temper seethed. His fist landed atop the copy of fairytales. “He berates me for treachery?”

  Jaeron and Goryth lowered their eyes in the face of their king’s wrath.

  “That mouthy guard was no mere guard. Rhorek brought an avedra to the conference.” He flipped open the book to the image of a king sitting on a throne. From the shadows, a sorcerer with bright, mad eyes whispered in his ear.

  Jaeron tried to act as a voice of reason. “This is no proof, sire. These stories are—”

  “Stories? My Mantles have either all gone mad or they speak the truth. An avedra stopped them from running Rhorek down. Two years ago someone killed my assassin. The news I received was ludicrous, I thought. Tales trumped up to mock me. But they were not. And yesterday, he was whispering inside my head. It wasn’t memory of Jilesse, but an agent of my enemy spying on my thoughts and putting in his own.” He’d never felt more violated or insulted.

  “You still gave your word,” said Jaeron with longing. “Peace and no more attempts on Rhorek’s life.”

  “Do you want
to avenge your son or not?”

  “I want to preserve what I still have. But I will fight if you command it.”

  “Bring me paper and ink. Rhorek will hear of this. No, wait. A bath first. I must clear my head, think. Damn him, he will regret this.”

  ~~~~

  Kelyn wrapped on the door of the king’s suite. Thorn answered it, peeking out as if Kelyn were any other messenger. “I have a letter for him.”

  “He just got to sleep. After a night of nausea.” He didn’t budge from the threshold.

  “It’s from Shadryk,” Kelyn insisted, waving the sealed parcel. “I need to know if hostilities will resume.”

  “Then read it.” He started to close the door.

  Kelyn thrust his boot against the doorjamb. “Move aside.”

  Thorn pushed open the door and swept an inviting arm, though his eyes remained cool. Lord Birél’s former suite still featured stags’ horns on the walls and Nathrachan’s green and white striped furnishings. Gently, Kelyn jostled the king’s shoulder. How gray in the face he was, clammy and haggard. “Are you sure he’ll recover?”

  “Takes time.” Thorn stood at the foot of the bed, grave and mussed after a long night nursing a sick man.

  Uncertain, Kelyn said, “You … you said you’d suffered the same.”

  Barest of shrugs. “Made a few enemies after I left home.” His rich robe was laid aside, and Kelyn was not surprised to see that underneath he wore a linen shirt and riding leathers. The sleeves he’d rolled up, and Kelyn counted not three green stripes on his forearms, but numerous ones.

  “Ogres don’t use poisoned blades,” Thorn said, seeing the direction of his gaze. “They’re not that smart. Goddess help us if they were.”

  Rhorek roused at the sound of their voices. “Keth…,” he muttered.

  “It’s Kelyn,” he said, kneeling beside the bed. “There’s a letter from the White Falcon. Permit me to open it?”

  A tired lift of a finger was all Rhorek managed in reply.

  Kelyn broke the green wax, skimmed the words, winced, then read aloud:

  ~To His Majesty, the Black Falcon of Aralorr and Evaronna,

  With all due respect, because of the hasty dissolution of our conference, I find it necessary to conclude our discussion through correspondence. The information you imparted left me with little doubt about your assessment of my character and sense of honor, but step down from your lofty seat and let us discuss your own. Good King Rhorek, who wishes to be known for his pursuit of peace, brings among us a sorcerer for the primary purpose of tampering with my thoughts and decisions? How dare the word ‘treachery’ pass your lips in any accusation against me. Did you honestly think I had not powers of deduction enough to figure out the nature of your deceit?

  As the oath I spoke was not given of my own free will, you may consider it not spoken at all. Prepare yourself, worthy Falcon. Another battle season is upon us.

  ~The White Falcon, Shadryk, King of Fiera

  Thorn did not attempt to swallow his laughter.

  Kelyn failed to see any humor in Shadryk’s accusation or the results that would come of it. “It’s not true, is it?”

  “What does it matter? The man convicts himself with his own words. He’s a fool.” Thorn at last had the grace to look sheepish. “The peace was doomed if I didn’t ‘tamper,’ as he put it. He was toying with the idea of either telling the truth and resuming battle right then and there, or lie, and serve Rhorek a poisoned goblet of wine, which was his original plan.

  “The fact that he’d already dispatched an assassin to Bramoran had not entered his mind until after he swore. If he hadn’t remembered, even I couldn’t have known to send Saffron, and we’d have a dead queen and a dead prince on our hands. That was a lucky break. My choice was not a difficult one, War Commander, and I am not sorry for it.”

  “But you said Shadryk meant it.”

  “He did. Once he was convinced it was the right thing to do. It would’ve worked, at least until the papers were signed. By then it would’ve been too late to take it back and save his good name. But that Lady Athmar had to succumb to stupidity.”

  Rhorek rumbled laughter and croaked, “If only your attempt had worked…”

  Kelyn wanted to throttle his brother for it, but the king lauded him. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be in the council room with the maps.”

  ~~~~

  That evening, Rhorek sent for Lissah. The reek of funeral fire lingered in her clothes, in her hair. She was unaware of a streak of ashes upon her cheek. The small leather pouch she held out had been lovingly embroidered with leaping deer and a chasing hound. Rhorek took it from her, saying, “I will draft a letter to his wife.”

  “Are you feeling up to it, sire?” she asked. “I’ll write it if not.”

  “No, the news needs to come from me.” His stomach threatened to turn when he spoke, and he’d been sitting up too long, but the task had to be done. “I won’t congratulate you on your promotion, Captain, seeing how you stepped into it. That would be in bad taste, I think. He was among the best of us. But I’m confident you will fill his shoes admirably.”

  “I will try, Your Majesty,” she said with a lift of her chin.

  “Yes, well, we all carry the mistakes of our youth. Trick is not to be burdened by them.”

  Her eyes flicked in Thorn’s direction, and she was barely able to suppress a snarl. Thorn noted her disapproval of him as Kelyn’s twin and promptly turned his attention to the herbs he was grinding. “I am not burdened, sire. Never fear.”

  “Glad I am to hear it. You are dismissed, Captain.”

  She saluted, about-faced, and departed.

  “I will miss Jareg,” he said to the door and tugged a fur-lined blanket tighter about his shoulders. “Lissah might’ve blossomed if she’d continued to allow herself to be human, but she’ll grow cold and humorless, I think. Jareg liked to laugh.”

  Thorn had nothing to say; he hadn’t known the man personally. He carefully measured the herbs into a bottle, added strong liquor and vinegar and shook it up. Pouring the tonic into a glass, he handed it to the king. “Drink it all.”

  “I can’t afford to sleep. I’ve letters to write.”

  “It won’t make you sleep. It will cleanse the liver. An Elaran remedy.”

  “A what? Oh, never mind.” He gagged down the stuff, then asked Thorn to help him to the desk in the sitting room. His legs were still shaky from the convulsions. Made him feel like a doddering invalid, curse Drona to the Abyss. “I should write Madame King, too. Briéllyn needs to be aware that Shadryk may send more assassins. Do you think it wise if I move them, my wife and son?”

  Thorn scooted the chair under him, tucked the blanket snug about his legs. “Not to Rhyverdane.”

  “No, you’re right. That would be the next place Shadryk would look for them.”

  “My mother would welcome them, I suppose.”

  “No, I don’t want to put Lady Alovi in danger. What of Thyrvael? The dwarves, now, there’s a formidable guard.”

  “Thyrvael may lack luxury, however.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You’ve never met my Briéllyn, have you?” Rhorek chuckled. “Thyrvael, it is then.”

  ~~~~

  Brugge stomped into the council room on hobnailed boots. “Have we another wall to breach, War Commander?”

  “Eventually, aye,” Kelyn said. He beckoned to Eliad, who cleared away the breakfast things. The boy yawned as he headed off for the kitchens; the sun was barely up. Kelyn hadn’t slept a wink. He never could when strategies plagued his brain. “But first, a less comfortable task for you. Check out the map here. Now, you’re the first to hear my idea, so keep it quiet.”

  “My lips are stone, sir.”

  “Thorn’s reconnaissance, however he’s managing it, tells us that Shadryk’s troops stand ready. Makes sense since he never meant to agree to peace.”

  Brugge snarled, “He’s the rat in the tunnel.”

  “The Warlord must have
some offense in the works, which means we’ve got to act quickly and mobilize our own. I’ll write letters today, summoning the other commanders from the border, but you’ve got to be on the move by the time they arrive.”

  “You’re sending us to Brynduvh,” he guessed, a glitter in his eye.

  “I hope so, Master Brugge, but in a very roundabout way. Look here. We’ll resume our push against Fieran resistance in the east and north. I mean to move troops as secretly as possible to the south, until they reach the bridges at Southyn and Ca’yndale. To complete our stranglehold on Fiera, those bridges have to come down.”

  “We can bust stone bridges in a day, Commander.”

  “That’s for Garrs.”

  The dwarf harrumphed, looking puzzled.

  “That leaves only the west. I thought surely, by now, Bano’en’s commander would land troops on the coast or send word that doing so was in the plans, but I think he’s content to hold his border and that’s all. So we’re going to beat him to it.”

  “We?” Brugge echoed flatly. “Me and my men, land on the … the coast?” His face flushed flame-red behind his black-and-silver beard. “Abyss take ya! We don’t do ships!”

  This was the kind of resistance Kelyn expected. “You don’t ride horses either.”

  “That was an emergency!”

  “So is this!”

  “No,” Brugge said emphatically.

  Kelyn nodded. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to get on a ship either. But once you land on the coast, Brynduvh is only a day’s march away. And consider this: whoever gets to Brynduvh first gets the gold. I’m sending you to retrieve what belongs to you, under the condition that you wreak havoc along the way.”

  The rumble of laughter started low in Brugge’s gut and rose like nearing thunder. “You’re a wily one, sure enough, Tall Man. It will take some convincing, but, damn me, we’ll do it.”

  ~~~~

  Lander arrived from Midguard, determined to inflict madness on everyone with his continual demands for details concerning the disastrous meeting with Shadryk and the nature of Rhorek’s illness. He wasn’t happy with the straight answer Kelyn gave him, feeling that he wasn’t being told everything. True, Kelyn couldn’t explain how Thorn had learned so quickly that Briéllyn and Valryk had escaped the assassin, though he felt a fairy was involved. Lander just rolled his eyes at that. And so Kelyn was ready to pour hot wax into his ears by the time Lord Rhogan and Lady Va’eth arrived from Tower Last three days later.