Blood of the Falcon, Volume 1 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Kieryn looked to Rhoslyn for some sort consolation. Her offering was thin: “I warned you, remember,” she said, tugging his sleeve. “Didn’t think he’d be so unhappy about it, though. I thought he’d be pleased to have another avedra in the house.”

  He regarded her with no small measure of skepticism and followed her blindly to the kitchen.

  When Sadév arrived to announce that Kieryn’s rooms were ready, he found he’d been given a suite twice the size of his chamber at Ilswythe. The bed, whose posts and tester reached halfway to the coffered ceiling, spread almost as wide as the duke’s own bed, and was piled with silk pillows and down comforters. The panels of the ceiling had been molded with depictions of the huge ships Kieryn had seen moored beyond the pier, and covering one wall, a spectacular tapestry of a majestic galleon plunging through the waves of a tempestuous sea. From a break in the storm clouds peeked Forath’s bloody crescent. The red light of the warrior’s moon lent a sanguine fire to cloud, wave, and sail, portending doom upon the ship before it could reach a safe haven. But over the far horizon rose Thyrra’s silver glow, promising to bring calmer waters and safe passage.

  In the dressing room, Kieryn found a steaming bath in a copper tub. Perfumed oil in crystal bottles filled a silver tray, and towels smelling of sandalwood laid upon a warm stove. The hot water soothed away the knots and bruises of long riding, sleeping on strange beds, and fighting a collapsing mountain. He decided that eight days of adventure was all he could handle.

  He dozed, trying to forget Zellel’s unnerving glare and the duke’s feeble touch. On the edge of wakefulness, he heard, “Yes, isn’t he beautiful? It’s been so long. But Zellel—”

  He sat up, expecting a pair of maids coming to take his clothes to the wash or heat more water. But the doorway remained empty.

  Oh, Mother of all, he thought. Voices. Not again. What evil schemes would they reveal this time? He didn’t want to know. Taking a deep gulp of air, he slid under the water. Blessed silence. The liquid hum of the workings of his body engulfed in calm waters, perhaps like being in the womb again. But no voices. He opened his eyes, peered up at the ceiling painted with clouds and seagulls. A pair of golden shimmers hovered above the water. Wings! Kieryn surged upward, sloshed water onto the floor, breathed in too soon, and choked on scented bubbles. He saw no one. The only light came from a pair of lamps burning on each side of the mirror. Had to be a reflection, he decided, ignoring what sounded like a giggle receding on his left.

  He dried quickly, then hid himself under the pile of comforters like a child afraid of night monsters.

  ~~~~

  12

  The song of battle rang in Lieutenant Lissah’s ears. The barracks courtyard swarmed with knights shouting wages and taunts. The mounted hosts of Lord Lander and Princess Mazél had arrived shortly before dawn, and before breakfast could be served them, every knight spilled from the keep to make a jostling circle around a pair of fighters. One of them was that cocky son of the War Commander; the other, Lord Gyfan.

  Getting the better of Kelyn during his first night in the Tower must’ve been the highlight of Gyfan’s dull military career; over morning wine, Lissah had heard him make yet another wisecrack about taking Kelyn at dagger-point. Kelyn, now comfortably accommodated in a sizeable, clean, warm room of his own, with a squire and all the food he could stomach, had bared his teeth in Gyfan’s face and said he had a gift from the king that had yet to be tried. Gyfan had accepted the challenge and now sweated and grunted near the point of yielding.

  Lissah watched to make certain the contest didn’t get out of hand. She had heard that the kid couldn’t be bested, but she hadn’t believed it. Like the rest of the highborns at the Assembly, she had witnessed Lord Kieryn’s performance with a bow and his attack on the assassin, and now Lissah wondered if the same strange, magical blood also gave Kelyn some sort of preternatural ability with a blade. He seemed tireless, too quick to catch, and knew Gyfan’s next move before Gyfan knew it himself.

  “Outstanding, isn’t he?” Captain Jareg joined Lissah where she stood on the top step to the barracks. Her vantage point allowed her a view over the ring of knights. She grit her teeth, not about to agree.

  “He’s nothing if not arrogant, sir.”

  “Pride justified is hardly arrogance, Lieutenant.” Jareg’s red beard was as bright as a shined copper coin in the morning sunlight.

  “That is hardly pride he’s displaying, Captain.”

  “Why, I’d think you would approve of Kelyn for his skill, if not … other things.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Lieutenant, you amaze me. However hard I try, I can’t seem to squeeze an ounce of human feeling out of you.”

  Lissah remained unruffled. “Emotion obstructs duty, sir. And what, I’d like to know, do you expect me to feel for Lord Kelyn? Besides disdain, of course.”

  Jareg loosed a peal of laughter, earning himself a scathing glare, but he was long accustomed to Lissah’s truculent expressions. “Still sweltering over your loss to him on the racetrack, eh? His was a fair victory, Lieutenant.”

  She didn’t protest. No good would come of an attempt to explain how Kelyn had grinned at her in passing, or the tone in his voice as he’d ‘apologized,’ or how close to her he’d come—so close she could count the golden spokes around his pupils. She had suffered similar indignations all her life. Though the positions of squire and knight had been open to females for over two hundred years, men still seemed to think women with blades and spurs a laughing matter.

  Even Lissah’s father, who had encouraged her to become one of his squires, had tried to coddle her and safeguard her against the slightest bruise. Growing up at Tower Last, the westernmost river fort, she had learned early, as did all women living along the Bryna, the necessity of learning to defend oneself with dagger and pike. But when she expressed her desire to take up a sword, the men of her father’s garrison, their squires, and their sons, had felt it necessary to remind her that she was female. Boys challenged her to fist fights, which she rarely won. And though her father was commander of the fort, she was groped, teased, and propositioned more frequently than the kitchen maids. Yet when she appeared in a dress, the men laughed the harder. On several occasions she attempted to explain to her father how the garrison treated her, but he replied simply that soldiers test their comrades. “If you can’t handle it,” he’d said, “then choose something else.” When she was fifteen or sixteen, she realized her father was telling her that he had allowed the men’s bad behavior in the hopes that it would convince her to pursue the life of a lady. From then on, she stopped losing fist fights. She trained with her blade from sunup to sundown. She learned to ride better than any man of the garrison. She groped with the worst of them until she made grown men blush. The last time one of her “comrades” tried to drag her into the hayloft and show her her place, she bloodied her blade in his jugular. And when her father died after sustaining wounds during a Fieran cattle raid, she rode for Bramoran and never looked back. Her skill and cold determination quickly won her a knighthood and a place in the Falcon Guard.

  Life at court must’ve spoiled her if the taunts of an arrogant youth got under her skin. She ought, at least, try to be civil, she decided. But where Kelyn of Ilswythe was concerned, civility rode pillion to her short temper.

  ~~~~

  Amid the circle of cheering knights, the contest was more shield work and pommel blows than attempts to draw blood with blades. Still, Gyfan’s face looked as battered as a veteran’s shield and the knuckles of his sword hand were black and bloody. Kelyn might discover later that he owned a few bruises too, but he doubted it. “Too slow, noble knight,” he taunted, slamming the falcon blade into Gyfan’s shield. Gyfan grunted in pain and staggered to his knees. The spectators sent up a loud chorus, but the contest wasn’t over yet, not officially. Kelyn pressed the tip of his sword to the soft flesh under Gyfan’s chin. “You yield?”

  The knights fell silent.

  Sw
eat-thinned blood dripped into Gyfan’s eyes as he glared up the length of the blade and the arm holding it. He looked puzzled, exhausted. Kelyn thought he might rise enraged, but the reluctance in Gyfan’s face dissipated. “Of course, I bloody well yield.”

  The knights roared. Leshan sprang forward and leapt upon Kelyn, nearly knocking him over. “Ha, I’ve never seen you lose a fight yet, you son of a bitch. Maybe I should’ve warned him.”

  With the help of his comrades, Gyfan gained his feet while supporting a swelling wrist. He overheard Leshan’s words and replied, “Lessons are better learned with experience, and I’ll think twice before mocking Kelyn Swiftblade again.”

  Kelyn laughed at the nickname, unaware that it would follow him into the history pages.

  A subdued, monotone voice broke into the celebration: “My lord Kelyn?” The head steward stood at Kelyn’s side, supremely unamused. “His lordship, your father, summons you to him.” Dinél lifted a graceful hand toward the keep.

  Entering the castle’s chilled shadow, Kelyn found Captain Jareg high on the landing, grinning at him, and nearby, the frosty lieutenant. Her arm- and shin-guards were polished to a mirror shine, as were the tall black boots. Her fair hair was braided down her back, her face as forbidding as a wall of ice. Swiping the sweat from his forehead, Kelyn extended his friendliest smile. Her turn of the lips might’ve been that of a she-dragon baring its fangs. Kelyn started past, giving her up as hopeless after all, when she spoke: “How do you do it?”

  Kelyn thought surely she must’ve choked on that mouthful of pride. He refrained from taunting her, however, for the Captain of the Falcon Guard seemed as eager to hear his explanation. But Kelyn was at a loss.

  Perhaps thinking he didn’t understand her meaning, Lissah exhaled impatiently and added, “Do you have to the foresight avedrin are rumored to have?”

  “Foresight? I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “I can’t imagine I might lose. So I don’t.”

  She cast him a dubious frown. “One day you may be in for a surprise.”

  Nodding, he replied, “Surely that day will come, Lieutenant. But today wasn’t that day.” He bowed and continued on his way.

  Dinél directed him to the Audience Chamber, and upon entering, Kelyn felt his confidence dive into the pit of his stomach. Beside his father stood the king, Princess Mazél, and Lord Lander all in full battle harness. Spread upon Rhorek’s broad table lay a map of the borderlands.

  “Ah, Kelyn, come,” his father invited.

  Squaring his shoulders, he approached the table. Before he could complete a bow, Rhorek plunged in: “My lords tell me that the most effective course of getting this war underway is to take the fortress of Nathrachan, here.” He jabbed a finger at a dot on the map. The Fieran stronghold dominated the Bryna’s south bank, where the river emerged from the Brenlach. To the west of Nathrachan began the Brambles, miles of thorns cultivated by the Fierans along their northern border in guard against raids by their neighbors. Granted, raids still swept across the border—from both directions—but the parties were forced to pass through narrow openings in the thorn fields, and those were guarded on both sides of the river by watchtowers, river lords, and their garrisons.

  Barely a hundred years ago, an Aralorri king decided to invade Fiera where no brambles grew. The thick forests and rugged foothills between the Upper Bryna and the Ristbrooke, however, made the invasion just as difficult. Locmar and her rich lands fell to Aralorr after a long, costly siege. In retaliation, the Fierans built Nathrachan amid a sleepy fishing village. From there, her lords sent parties across the Brenlach in black skiffs with black sails to harry the new holders of Locmar’s mills and timber barges. The Timber War, as historians came to call the conflict, had continued on and off for the past century. The present Black Falcon, however, had discouraged Locmar from contributing to the ongoing violence. As a result, the Brenlach’s waters had been remarkably quiet in recent years.

  Rhorek asked, “How do you suggest we go about the attack, Kelyn?”

  Test time, was it? Suddenly queasy, Kelyn wished Rhorek had chosen to do this when they were alone, rather than surrounded by this particular audience. Besides being knowledgeable, these highborns had likely determined their course of action and waited to see if Kelyn’s solution agreed with theirs. He’d never felt so unprepared in his life. What if he made some huge tactical oversight, and those listening—especially the king—regarded him ever after as a shortsighted fool?

  He scrutinized the map. “Well, I must wonder why you’ve chosen Nathrachan instead of Brynduvh itself.”

  “You know why, son,” his father said.

  Yes, he did know. The royal castle lay in the middle of Fieran territory. Should Rhorek’s host attempt to rush inland, strike for Shadryk directly, the Fieran armies would cut off their route home and annihilate them. But Nathrachan would provide the perfect base from which Da’s host could reach deeper into Fiera. However, the undeniable, unchangeable presence of the Bryna presented a challenge. That bloody river made everything more difficult. And these veterans had already determined a way to overcome the obstacle. He himself would suggest—

  “Kelyn,” Rhorek broke into his musing, “don’t try to impress me. Just tell me your thoughts.”

  Very well. He looked the king square in the eye and began, “The river, sire. It’s too wide and strong to move an army across unless you’ve barges for transport, but by the time we’d reach the Fieran bank, the Nathrachan garrison would’ve detected us, and it’d be a bloody slaughter before we climbed ashore.”

  “Granted. So then what?”

  Kelyn stabbed a finger at the map. “Locmar. Athlem’s host moves across the Ristbrooke into Fiera. They make the day-long march around the Brenlach and attack Nathrachan on its unsuspecting southern side. While the Fierans are busy protecting their main gate, the rest of our force moves across the Bryna—ideally under cover of darkness. Of course, word of Athlem’s troops marching through Fiera would reach Nathrachan before Athlem does, which precludes any hope of a surprise assault and means heavy losses for Locmar … unless we join them quickly. Timing would have to be exact, I suppose.” Kelyn heard himself conclude on an uncertain note and winced.

  Princess Mazél made a gruff noise that might’ve been a grunt or a chuckle. Lander’s eyebrows sat high on his forehead. The expression was one of surprise, but surprise over Kelyn’s genius or his foolishness? Rhorek smiled kindly, but he always smiled kindly.

  Da was a statue with a finger at his mouth in a thoughtful manner. All he said was, “Thank you, son. You may go.”

  Protest would only prove him childish, so Kelyn saluted and departed, having no choice but to allow his elders to discuss him behind his back.

  ~~~~

  Kieryn crept along the corridor and peered into the library with the same dread as when he anticipated a scolding from his father. But at least his father couldn’t strike him dead with a lightning bolt. The room resonated the silence of emptiness. So the cranky old man hadn’t arrived yet. The dread seeped out of him. A quick glance at the shelves assured him that his own library easily surpassed the duke’s. The collection at Ilswythe had grown to such an extent that free-standing shelves had been brought in to accommodate the clutter of books and scrolls and took up much of the walking space. But here, only one long table and a few plush chairs broke up the central floor. Empty spaces of shelf were filled with costly Ixakan vases, ivory sculptures from Dovnya, an enameled dune lion with Doreli diamonds for eyes. Boxing in these ornate treasures, the duke’s books were hardly pressed for space. They stood in perfect order, without a speck of dust. Uncannily clean. Perhaps this madman Zellel spent his time just cleaning the books.

  Kieryn took a slow turn, examining the titles. As he suspected, he found mostly treatises on commerce, trade, law. Few dealt with the history and lore of Evaronna. Coming to the south end of the room, however, he encountered a collection written in letters he couldn’t decipher. The alphabet was sinuous, like coil
ed serpents and swans’ necks, a graceful chorus of curling lines and dots. Not one of the foreign manuscripts had seen a printer’s shop—all had been written by hand, yet the parchment was new.

  “Intrigued, are you?”

  Startled, Kieryn fumbled the book in his hand, failed to save it from falling page down on the floor. Zellel was seated at the table, glowering in disgust at the book’s crumpled pages. Kieryn had been engrossed, indeed, if he hadn’t heard the old avedra take a seat.

  Kieryn retrieved the book and asked, “What is it?”

  “Elaran,” Zellel barked.

  “From Heret?”

  “Elven, boy.”

  “Elves wrote these?” He tried to sound more skeptical than awed.

  “I did.” Zellel stood and leant on his staff, eyes hard and analyzing.

  When the old man’s scrutiny became too much to bear, Kieryn asked, “What do the books say?”

  Zellel waved a dismissive hand. “If you care that much, I’ll teach you Elaran, make it part of your training.” Before Kieryn could express his interest, Zellel added, “Whatever questions you have, ask them quickly, for today is the only day I’ll permit you to ask them aloud.”

  “Aloud?”

  “You’re about to begin your first lesson, the fundamental lesson: to hear the unspoken thoughts of men. At the same time you will be learning to use your avedra eyes, to see beyond the Veil.”

  “The Veil?”

  “The shield behind which all creatures of Magic dwell.” Zellel sounded impatient, as if Kieryn were a complete loss. “You think I snuck into the library behind you, quiet as a louse on an ogre’s arse? I was already here. Seated right here, waiting for His Laziness to climb out of bed. Walked right by me, you did, nearly stepped on my toe. Made it clear to me how out of touch you are with your instincts. Any avedra worth the name would’ve felt my presence, then used his Veil Sight to find me.”