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

by Ellyn, Court

  Laral shrugged. “Across the river, probably. Or in town.”

  “That barn is no place to die,” she muttered, looking ill.

  Lanterns on tent poles glowed against blue silk, announcing the king’s pavilion. A handful of Falcons stood guard outside the flaps. One was Captain Lissah. “What’s this, Laral?” she asked, scrutinizing the disheveled girl in his shadow.

  “Lord Jaeron’s daughter. She desires an audience with His Majesty.”

  Lissah considered, the planes of her face sharp and daunting. “Girl or not, I must still consider you a threat. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Bethyn.

  “I’ll announce you, but I make no promises.” Aside to Laral, she whispered, “Rhorek just received the royal brat.” With a weary sigh, she ducked inside the pavilion.

  Waiting in the pool of lamplight, Bethyn’s small frame shook. “You cold?” Laral asked, reaching for the onyx falcon brooch securing his cloak. Bethyn shook her head. Maybe she was lying; maybe she was scared instead. Laral unpinned his cloak anyway and draped it snugly around her shoulders. The hem dragged the ground.

  Lissah emerged. “He’ll see you. But keep your distance. I’ll be watching.”

  Inside the pavilion, clouds of moths danced about the hanging lanterns. Squires busily set up a trestle table and chairs and laid out wooden trenchers and cutlery. Rhorek’s back was turned to the flaps; with his fists propped on his hips inside his cloak, he looked as broad as a castle gate.

  “I want to go home, you lecher!” cried his guest. Nathryk slouched in a camp chair, arms crossed, lip pouting. His two Leanian guards flanked him, trying to stare straight ahead but looking greatly disgruntled with their task.

  “What can I tell you, Highness? Until a peace is negotiated, you belong to me. You would be wise to accept that fact, mind your manners, and we’ll get along fine. If not, you can dine with the pigs in the barn. You decide.”

  Nathryk glared, but said nothing.

  Rhorek turned, acknowledging the newcomers. Bethyn dipped in a long, deep curtsy. Over her shoulder, Lissah introduced her in formal fashion. The king stooped and lifted her by the hand. “None of that, my dear, none of that. The day has been too long and hard for all of us. What would you have of me?”

  Startled, Bethyn stepped back as if she might flutter out through the flaps, but Lissah stood there, blocking the way. Her hands retreated inside Laral’s cloak and clutched it tight to her throat. Her large brown eyes were wide and blank; doubtless she’d forgotten what she came to say. Laral hurt for her.

  Nathryk took up the silence. “Your stupid father failed to hold the line. That’s the rumor. And now Goryth is dead. You’re a disgrace, you and your father both. I’ll have your lands revoked.”

  “That’s the Crown Prince!” Bethyn declared. “Here? How? What will you do with him? Is it true what he says?”

  “Do not listen to him, m’ lady,” said Rhorek softly. “Your father fought bravely and we won’t soon forget the beating he gave us.”

  “I must find him,” Bethyn muttered, eyes on the king’s knees.

  “He may have retreated toward Haezeldale with the rest. Or he may have gotten into the castle, where you should be. And I believe the Fieran surgeons have set up their hospital in town. He may be there.”

  “That’s what I wanted to say, sire.” She straightened her shoulders and met his eye. “I must ask that you see to the protection and gentle treatment of my people. I have seen horrible things today, how enemies treat each other without regard for who they are as people. In return, I offer our town hall to you for your wounded. A dusty barn won’t serve. I can’t open Brengarra’s gates to you, you understand, but the town hall is large enough to accommodate. I will invite ours there as well, however. If your people can’t stomach the presence of Fierans, then …”

  “Don’t offer them anything!” Nathryk shouted.

  Setting gentle hands on Bethyn’s shoulders, Rhorek kissed her forehead. So much for keeping him a safe distance from the Fieran threat. “Lady, your graciousness is astounding. We accept your offer.”

  Nathryk leant forward in the camp chair, hands squeezing the wooden arms. “She’s my subject, not yours! She has to do what I say.”

  Rhorek turned and stood over the princeling. “There is a decency that cannot be taught, Highness. This lady has it, but you? I doubt you ever will, and all the suffering in the world will only twist you the more. I pity Bano’en who must try to teach it to you. As for myself, I will not waste more breath on you.” He waved a hand, and the Leanian guards promptly removed Nathryk from the camp chair.

  “Traitor!” he hissed at Bethyn as they marched him past.

  Over Bethyn’s head, Rhorek said, “Captain, inform the surgeons that we now have cleaner accommodations in town.” Lissah bowed out. “Laral, what do you mean to do with our guest?”

  “I’d hoped to help her find her father, sire. I must look for Leshan as well.”

  “You’ll find your brother outside the barn. He has quite a story to tell.”

  The relief that flooded through Laral felt like sunshine after a storm.

  “If you head toward town, take lanterns and be careful. There are still plenty of dangers to be met.”

  Outside the pavilion, Laral handed one of the lanterns to Bethyn and they started along the highway. “He’s not what I expected,” she muttered with a glance back at the pavilion.

  “Neither was Shadryk,” Laral said. “Fear and enmity paint a false-colored picture. I read that once. Somewhere.” In a flash of lantern light, he caught her grinning. Mother’s mercy, she was laughing at him.

  “As they did of Tírandon,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re not what I expected either, Laral. I heard that men of Tírandon are bloodthirsty thieves and cattle beaters.”

  It felt good to laugh. “Well, we do steal sheep. My father does anyway, he’s very proud of it. Me? I’ve never been on a raid, so I can’t claim the honor.”

  “You mean, you will? One day?”

  He shrugged.

  Bethyn propped a fist on her hip and glared at him. “They’re our sheep!”

  “Check their ears. Likely they’ve been marked a dozen times from both sides, so who’s to say whose they are?”

  That idea made her uncomfortable. She tugged his cloak snug about her throat and hurried on down the highway. Orderlies were still bringing wounded up the hill. Bethyn stopped them, introduced herself, and invited them to turn around and deliver the groaning men and women to the town hall. She led the way.

  The large, open floor space of the town hall had been first choice for the Fieran surgeons as well. Lamps burned between green and yellow stained-glass windows. In happier times, harvest dances would be held here, weddings, and feasts. Now, the stink of blood and sweat cloyed under the rafters. Bedrolls lined the walls. Soldiers and knights lay sleeping, groaning, exchanging stories, laughing. Nurses knelt with water skins and thimble-sized cups of poppy wine. Others dumped basins of blood-hued water out the windows. Cries came from the back rooms, where the surgeons must have taken the cases that required immediate attention. Edging around smears of blood on the floor, Bethyn approached the orderly who appeared to be in charge. “Make room,” she told him. “The Aralorris are on their way.”

  “I beg pardon?” he asked, wiping his hands on a green apron.

  “I have invited King Rhorek to send his wounded here, where they will be better cared for.”

  “Damn me, you didn’t! Uninvite them.”

  “This is the best place to put them, and so we shall.”

  “Why don’t you give them the keys to the castle while you’re at it?”

  Laral expected this girl who had cowed before Rhorek to cower to this man’s anger, but she squared her feet, raised her chin, and suddenly looked six feet tall. “Upon my father’s honor, sir, this will happen. Make room.”

  “Of all the stupid …” The man p
aced the aisle between rows of patients. “We haven’t got that much room.”

  “Overflow will go next door.”

  “The merchants’ guildhall? Good luck getting them to open their doors to the likes of Aralorris.” He squinted at Laral, recognized the black and cerulean livery of an Aralorri squire and swore acridly. “You’d think these bastards owned the bloody country! Fine, bring them in. But I warn you—”

  “No, I warn you,” Bethyn said, jabbing a finger at his face. “Men will be treated as men, not as Aralorri or Fieran. If I hear that men died because of lack of attention, I will blame you personally, and I will see you banished. You think I haven’t got the White Falcon’s ear?”

  The orderly shifted feet, measured Bethyn from the corner of his eye, as if trying to decide if she was bluffing. Laral bought every word; eventually, so did the orderly. “Damn me. Worse cases in here. The mild ones can go next door.”

  Bethyn clenched her hands behind her back and made a quick inspection of the rows of wounded. “Is my father here?”

  “No, m’ lady,” said the orderly, remembering his manners. “He’s probably in the castle, safe and out of the way. You ought to be there with him.”

  With an about-face, Bethyn headed back out into the night. Laral scrambled to keep up. “Do you think my father would’ve abandoned Brengarra to go with the king?” she asked, glancing up the towers. They were stark black silhouettes against the stars. Moonlight glinted off the helms of sentries walking the walls.

  “The orderly was right, you know,” said Laral. “You should be inside. If anything happened to you … after everything else, I mean.” Before he could embarrass himself, he added, “Ask the sentries. I’ll search at the ford.”

  Most of the bodies still lay where they had fallen. Laral picked his way through the corpses, lantern lifted high. In the small ring of light, cerulean, green, and gray uniforms blended together. Not having witnessed the fighting, he had little idea where to start looking. The gray surcoats of Brengarra cavalry were clustered close to the castle gate, yet more lay near the river. So many men and women, tangled like a grotesque sculpture too large to be seen all at once. It had to be examined piece by piece. His need compelled him to look at their faces. The pain and fear frozen on some of them mingled with expressions of restfulness. How would he know Lord Jaeron if he found him? He’d only seen the man from a distance. Taking a gray cloak from a fallen Brengarra knight, Laral covered his Ilswythe livery and searched for someone who might know. Orderlies from both sides trolled through the bodies, looking for survivors. A shaddra had even appeared from somewhere, a village temple to the Mother-Father, perhaps, and knelt beside one corpse and the next, murmuring prayers. His linen robe was blood-stained, his shaved head as pale as Thyrra in the lamplight.

  Near the ford, a roving band of soldiers chased villagers away to keep them from looting. Four of the soldiers wore the hazelnuts of Haezeldale infantry. Two were knights of Brengarra. “I’m looking for Lord Jaeron,” Laral called across twenty yards of strewn bodies. He didn’t dare approach them.

  One of the knights pointed back the way Laral had come. “We laid him over there. Near his banner.”

  Uphill from the ford, between the castle wall and the riverbank, an honor guard of knights in gray surcoats surrounded their fallen lord. Easy to pass them in the dark. They had laid the banner over him, the black mountain and yellow lightning bolt on gray. Laral’s direct approach caught their attention. “Who the hell are you? Stay back.”

  “Lady Bethyn asked me to find him.”

  “Well, you have. Get.”

  Laral stood his ground. “I think Lord Jaeron’s daughter would like to have the pouch for his ashes.”

  “Why doesn’t she come herself?”

  “She’s asking for him inside. Now, you can go tell her, or let me do it.” He held out his hand, palm up.

  One of the knights knelt beside the body, lifted the banner and dug around inside his lord’s surcoat. Rising, he placed the pouch in Laral’s palm. Carefully embroidered with the house sigil, the gray leather was wrinkled and worn after being carried in a breast pocket for decades.

  “Let’s go,” said the knight. “You better be telling the truth, lad, or I’ll gut you myself.”

  Halfway back to the gate, Laral saw a lantern swinging his direction. Bethyn was picking her way through the bodies, a horrified grimace on her face. When she saw Laral approaching, she stopped and said, “They didn’t believe me when I told them who I was. They wouldn’t let me in.” She recognized the sigil on the knight’s gray surcoat, and for an instant she broke into a smile, but the face inside the helm wasn’t her father’s.

  Laral held out the pouch. “Is this it?”

  Frowning, she raised her lantern. One long glance, and she dropped the lantern in the grass and backed away, mouth open and full of ragged sobs. She stumbled over corpses, turning, turning, arms clenched about her head. Laral shoved his lantern into the knight’s hands and went after her. She sagged against him, so small in his arms. What was he doing? Was it right to comfort a Fieran? Shouldn’t he be pleased that Lord Jaeron was dead?

  The muffled sobs against his tabard turned into a shriek of agony, and Bethyn’s fists struck him in the chest. “It’s your fault!” she screamed, shoving him away. “Your fault.” She tossed off his cloak and shuffled away toward the castle towers. The darkness soon swallowed her.

  “Go with her,” Laral said to the knight, heart aching as though her blame were a blade. “Don’t let anyone hurt her.” Retrieving his cloak from the blood-stained grass, he felt an utter fool. Only when she was long gone did he realize he still held Jaeron’s ash pouch. He couldn’t bring himself to chase her down and give it back, but tucked it into his trousers pocket and slouched off toward the lights spilling from the guildhall.

  “Where have you been?” Kelyn asked. He sat on a tabletop while an orderly stitched up a long gash across his arm and chest.

  “Quarter of an inch, m’ lord,” said the orderly, carefully minding his needle and thread. “Quarter of an inch and the blade would’ve opened the bone to the marrow and you’d be dead inside a week.”

  Kelyn grunted as the needle went in. “I’ve been dead, thanks.”

  Eliad stood on hand, wincing and holding the linen bandages and spool of thread. The guildhall was fancier than the town hall next door. Silver leaf ornamented plastered ceilings above carved andyr pillars. A chandelier swung in the sweat-hazed air. Fierans occupied one side, Aralorris the other; they did their best to ignore the presence of enemies. An hour ago, these men and women were trying to slay each other. Now? They just wanted food, rest, and an end of pain.

  “Well?” Kelyn asked, cross.

  Laral didn’t feel like explaining. His misery must’ve been plain on his face, because Kelyn didn’t pursue it. “You didn’t see Thorn out there, did you? We could use him in here. He’s probably still sleeping, the lazy-arsed cur.”

  “Sleeping?” Laral asked. “How could he sleep?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Kelyn offered a dry chuckle. “Everyone is talking about it. I died today. Really.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s true!” Eliad piped. “I saw it. And Thorn saved him.”

  Kelyn let Eliad tell the story, that by now seemed to have adopted a regular formula. Once a bard got his hands on it, the whole countryside would be singing of demon rain, the Mother’s bright bosom, and Thorn Kingshield.

  The account reminded Laral to search for his own brother. Peering over Kelyn’s shoulder, he found Leshan lying on a cot in the center aisle. Eyes closed, he frowned against lashes of pain. Red and purple bruises blotched his arms, face and chest, but Laral saw no open wounds. The bandages wrapped tight about his ribs were clean and dry.

  “You had me scared,” Laral said, kneeling beside the cot. Only feet away, a Fieran youth knelt beside a Fieran officer who told his story with big gestures of his arms. The two looked alike. Strange to think that Fi
erans might not be the cold, cruel brigands Laral grew up believing them to be.

  Leshan opened an eye. The other was swollen shut. “Goryth is dead. That’s all that matters.”

  “You fought the warlord?”

  “Shh. You’ll start a riot, and I’ll be the one they string up.” Leshan’s breathing came in shallow puffs. “I’m not out of the woods yet. Surgeon says I have so many … busted ribs that I won’t be able to breathe properly for days. Pneumonia. Please, Goddess, don’t let me die of pneumonia.”

  “You’re not going to die. Thorn will help when he shows up. Then we’ll get you home. Ruthan will be happy to see you.”

  Leshan stared up at the silver-laced ceiling, frowning, puzzled. “She’s never wrong, Laral.”

  “Maybe what she saw was your fight against the warlord, or something that happens years down the road.”

  Leshan smiled, raised a hand and squeezed his little brother’s shoulder. “You’re right. Don’t worry about it. See to your duties.”

  Until the orderly finished stitching up Kelyn, Laral helped deliver watered-down wine and boiled oats to famished soldiers. Some of the Fierans didn’t care that their food was delivered by an Aralorri’s hand; others swiped their bowls from his grasp, glaring. Some spat as he passed.

  In the meantime, King Rhorek arrived, accompanied by Captain Lissah and three other Falcons. He spoke encouragement to the surgeons, orderlies, and nurses, Fieran and Aralorri both. “I praise you,” he said as they gathered around him, “for swallowing your prejudice and seeing to the good care of these men and women. It is grievous that rivers and wars define who we are. No river divides us tonight. Let that be on your hearts as you serve with open hands.”

  Sitting against the wall, a Fieran called, “Go back to your side of the river!”