by Ellyn, Court
Yes, Saffron said. He felt as if he swam through that buzzing void … no, was that buzzing void. Tiny crackles of light sparked around him, through him, hardly more noticeable than static in a woolen cloak. But Kieryn suspected the static had the potential to become a terrifying storm. What you feel, remember, so you can access it again. For when I release you, you’re on your own.
Release me? He tried to open his eyes, found they wouldn’t obey.
I’ve taken hold of you, Kieryn. Don’t be offended. I think Zellel will appreciate the help I’ve given you as much as you will. But be warned, when I let you go, the pain will set in. I’m sorry for that. Headaches will lessen as you gain control of your abilities.
He felt her back away and tug him along with her, from the buzzing hole to a state of quiescent sleep, and, finally to gentle wakefulness. He pried open his eyes. The light flickering in a pair of table lamps struck him as though they were the sun, and pain gripped his skull like steel talons. He rolled onto his belly, groaning, and wrapped his head in his arms. He was going to be sick.
“Breathe, love,” he heard near his ear. A real voice, spoken with a caress of breath.
“What did you do to him?” Zellel’s voice, leagues away.
“Something beyond your ability, avedra,” Saffron answered. “You may be able to destroy the world, Zellel, but you can’t know the depths of this extraordinary mind.”
“That’s why you chose him?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I don’t think he’ll be able to do more today.”
“Aye, we’ll let him rest.”
~~~~
13
Brynduvh’s Master Chamberlain crept into the bathing room on tiptoes. Morning light seeped through the windows and fell in green and gold patches on the water. Steam rose from the bath, turning the light milky, as if the sun rose over a swamp. The White Falcon drifted amid the milky light, lean warrior’s arms braced on the tiled rim of the pool, head on a damp silk pillow. He ignored the chamberlain’s presence until it became as bothersome as a snake in the water. Being surrounded by half a dozen White Mantles, armed and at attention against the marble walls, was infringement enough on a king’s bath. Only fitting that this wrinkled imp should trouble him, too.
Cuinn always walked on his toes for fear of rousing Shadryk’s anger, but he may as well have been a blundering Zhiani barbarian for all the good his silence did. Damn the fool, it wasn’t how loudly he stepped that vexed the White Falcon; it was every word that came out of his toothless mouth.
Shadryk grit his teeth and demanded, “What, for the Goddess’ sake?”
The chamberlain bowed. Shadryk didn’t have to see it to know it. “Forgive me, sire, but—”
“An hour, Cuinn, that’s all I asked for.”
“Yes, sire, but I thought it best to inform you of the rider we’ve received.”
Shadryk took a breath and slipped under the water. Ah, quiet. But the chamberlain was still there when he surfaced. “A messenger,” Cuinn went on, unperturbed by the king’s attempt to evade him. “From Aralorr.”
Shadryk pressed water from his eyes and glared up at the old man. “Aralorr?”
Cuinn nodded, disgustingly smug, his bushy eyebrows pressed high upon a bald brow.
“Then I forgive you.” Shadryk didn’t bother with the steps, but reached for the edge of the bath and hoisted himself from the water. His skin was pink and steaming. A squire met him with a white robe, draped it over the king’s shoulders. Shadryk wrung water from his hair; it was color of hemp when wet. Dry, it was the gold of a new coin. “An Aralorri, alive, in my realm?”
“Lady Drona’s garrison captured the man trying to sneak past Athmar and brought him to Brynduvh, and, yes, he’s largely unharmed.”
“So, the message, Cuinn.”
“Pardon, sire, but I haven’t got it. The rider wouldn’t give it up even when Lord Goryth threatened to break his fingers. Apparently the rider was instructed to put the message into no hand but yours. He’s taken the order quite literally, I’m afraid.”
A smile slowly overtook Shadryk’s face. Could this rider have brought him the answer to his prayers?
To receive this Aralorri, Shadryk chose a useless but gorgeous hauberk of silver rings, a plain white silk surcoat, and a silver belt studded with emeralds that sat low on narrow hips. He put emeralds on his earlobes, too, to turn the green of his eyes to fire. But he wore no crown. For a thousand years the White Falcons of Fiera had ruled crownless. The silk-buffed gold of his hair had to be enough. For now.
His court had gathered in the throne room, a lofty chamber of pale, rose-veined marble, as beautiful and cold as a virgin princess. The White Falcon’s throne was carved from a solid chunk of alabaster; pinioned wings formed the arms; a falcon’s onyx eyes peered severely over Shadryk’s head. Without troubling himself to explain, he dismissed the fawning courtiers, the scheming relations, the silent servants; only the White Mantles and the Warlord remained.
Goryth of Machara was a giant of a man, heavy of brow, mighty of arm, an aggressive tactician and unquestioning servant. In the days ahead, Shadryk would need Goryth’s terrifying brawn as much as his able and creative mind. More unquiet bull than man, he stood below the dais, on the king’s right hand, in battered armor. The black gargoyle of his house leered on the back of a floor-length white cloak.
Shadryk ordered one of the White Mantles to fetch the Aralorri.
A man in mud-splashed blue livery ventured up the green rug, predictably curious, amusingly awestruck. He must’ve expected, as Aralorris tended to expect, the residence of his traditional adversary to be something out of a nightmare—dark oppressive halls about which thunder rumbled like a ravenous belly; a fitting hall for a dark, oppressive tyrant who preferred the shadows of night in which to hatch his evil schemes, rather than the light of day in which he would forge his dreams.
Satisfaction bloomed in Shadryk’s breast as the Aralorri descended to a knee with his eyes riveted upon the royal person and his mouth ajar like a silly, suffocating fish. Putting on his most solicitous smile, Shadryk asked, “You have something for me?”
The man produced a crumpled, sweat-soiled bit of parchment. Could the future of the world come in so ugly and common a package?
Goryth stooped to take the letter, but Shadryk waved him back and descended the dais to take it himself. Goryth growled and curled a lip, daring the Aralorri to make a move. The rider laid the parchment in Shadryk’s upturned hand, careful to keep his trail-dusty glove from brushing the king’s immaculate fingers. A spread-winged falcon was pressed deeply into blue wax. Within arm’s reach of the Aralorri, Shadryk broke the seal and began to read.
The contents of the letter were not what he expected.
The man was still alive! He had signed the bloody letter himself!
“So the assassins failed, did they?” he asked the Aralorri.
The man stared up at him. Was he a simpleton, or was he horrified?
“They were caught and beheaded?” Shadryk reiterated, each syllable slow and sharp.
The rider surged to his feet, teeth bared, and Goryth took no chances. He shoved the Aralorri back, and the White Mantles advanced. “You admit to hiring the murderers?” the rider shouted. “You son of an elvish whore! You—” One of the White Mantles seized the man; another broke his jaw with a meaty crack.
Unruffled, Shadryk finished the letter while the Aralorri groaned and dripped blood down the front of his tabard. “Damn,” the White Falcon muttered, gathering the parchment into a ball. “A quiet coup would’ve been nice. The Aralorris divide and we dance in to take the prize, but now…. My lord Goryth, your job just got more difficult. The Aralorris remain united. Far more Fieran blood will be shed than we’d hoped.”
“The Aralorris are coming, then, sire?”
“They are.”
“We’re ready. We’ll summon our allies and crush them. You’ll have your crown.”
“I�
�ve as much right to that crown as I do to the alabaster throne, and Aralorr will soon remember it.”
“Madman!” shrieked the rider. The White Mantles wrestled him to the rug.
“Goryth, secure this man in irons until I’ve written my reply. Then send a courier east to Athmar, Ulmarr, and my sister at Nathrachan. The Aralorris have to strike through the Brambles first. Now, I must see to my sons. I prefer to be the one to tell—”
A shout from Goryth drowned the last of the king’s words. The Aralorri wrested free and lunged with a White Mantle’s dagger. Goryth reached over his shoulder and hauled free a massive two-handed greatsword. Contention, she was called, and she swept through the Aralorri’s outstretched arm as a hot knife through butter. Dagger and hand fell at Shadryk’s feet; blood spurted his white surcoat. The Aralorri dropped to his knees, clutched the remnant of his arm, and screamed through his teeth.
“Stupid,” Shadryk said. “You might’ve played the errand boy a while longer, but you’ve forced me to hang your head upon my bastions. On second thought, your head in a bag may be all the reply Rhorek needs. Goryth, see to it.”
The Warlord smirked and raised the greatsword. A fist-sized moonstone, carved in the likeness of a grinning gargoyle, gleamed in Contention’s pommel.
“Good Goddess, man!” cried the king. “Do it outside.”
Crestfallen, Goryth lowered the blade and bowed obeisance. The White Mantles dragged the man to his feet.
“Don’t let him bleed all the way down the Gallery, and get someone in here to clean up this mess.” Goryth could be rash at times—this wasn’t the first carpet he’d ruined—but in Shadryk’s opinion there was no one better to inspire men into a battle frenzy. He had seen the man’s capabilities for himself as a boy, during the last war with Aralorr.
He’d been but twelve years old, flattered beyond words that his father had chosen to take him, the youngest prince of his House, to the observation hill where they watched the battle together. Daeryk the Fifth had deemed it too risky to take along the Crown Prince. Branyk had been furious, and Le’oryk, the middle brother, had been too sick, as usual. Ki’eva, their sister, had thrown a fit when the White Falcon forbade her to go along for no other reason than that she was a girl. From the time she could walk, Ki’eva had followed Shadryk as closely as his shadow. On that day, Shadryk wasn’t sorry to have his father all to himself. It was the only time in his memory that his father had chosen him over his older brothers. At the time, Shadryk hadn’t realized that he’d been chosen because he was the expendable one.
The battle, a mile south of Lunélion, had been brief, a couple of hours at most, but it changed the way Shadryk looked at the world. When he saw men fall, screaming, holding in their guts, he tried not to be sick. When the Aralorri pikemen charged the observation hill, he tried not to feel fear. Twice Goryth of Machara pushed back the pikemen and finally led the king’s knights in a charge that routed the Aralorris halfway back to Bramoran, all the while wailing like a berserker from the Shadow Mounds. Goryth had been a young knight at the time, but a man large enough to make his warhorse look like a pony—and fearless enough to earn a prince’s worship.
More unforgettable were the White Falcon’s heartsick words. “Look at us, son,” he’d said. “Once, we were one people. Now just look at us.”
The long wall of Brynduvh’s Gallery told the tale. Shadryk had commissioned the painting upon his enthronement, and years later, the mural was still not complete. In the most brilliant color and most realistic perspective of which his artists were capable, a collage of scenes depicted events that began a thousand years before, when Fiera and Aralorr were one kingdom, united under a single banner.
King Bhodryn had been the most powerful ruler of ancient Westervael. Scholars called his reign the Age of Silver and Steel, because he had broadened his realm’s trade to include ports on every shore, while his kingdom’s armies were unmatched, its art unsurpassed, its learning and innovations sought, its favor coveted. Westervael had been the jewel of the western world.
On Shadryk’s mural, Bhodryn occupied the section of wall farthest from the throne room, where Fiera’s highborns began their procession during Assembly. The ancient king sat a thick-necked, prancing white stallion—as Shadryk did when surveying his troops. An emerald-green cloak billowed in the winds of prosperity, and upon his brow sat a golden crown inlayed with onyx falcons. A fanciful production, this. No one could know what Bhodryn the Great had looked like, so Shadryk took license in molding his ancestor as he wished. The mural was meant to produce a precise reaction in its observers, after all.
As was a common tale, Bhodryn’s heir had been ruined on the bounty of the age. Apparently, Finvar expected the same conditions of peace and wealth to continue during his reign without effort on his part. Little did he expect that his own family would bring about an era of war that had yet to see its end.
Finvar’s twin sons, Eliaur and Fiernen, fought for their father’s favor and fought each other over who would inherit the realm. Their father recognized too late the danger he’d allowed to fester, and in an attempt to prevent further feuding, Finvar named Eliaur his successor—despite the queen’s testimony that Fiernen had been born a full three minutes sooner. In a fit of rage, Fiernen strangled his father, and from a hiding place deep in the Drakhans, he sent assassins to kill Eliaur as well, but Eliaur eluded them all. At last, Fiernen invaded the southern half of the kingdom and claimed the land between the rivers Bryna and Galda for his own.
Determined to rule the whole of Westervael, Eliaur established himself at Bramor, the “falcon fortress,” and led a great host against his brother. But many houses cleaved to Fiernen as well. During those long years of war, the Bryna churned a muddy red, as if her banks had filled with blood; the land on both sides was burned and trampled, the battles so numerous that they could not all be named or remembered in song.
At last, when the brothers had grown old and their lands no longer recognizable, they agreed to meet and find some grounds upon which they might secure a measure of peace. The conference lasted many winter weeks, the brothers’ compromises as bitter and harsh as the icy winds. But in the end, they agreed: Eliaur was to keep the Falcon Crown, Fiernen the southern half of Westervael, but on the stipulation that Fiernen and his line would rule as subject-kings. The southern realm was to pay Eliaur an annual tribute of five hundred sheep and one hundred casks of wine, and Fiernen had to remove the black falcon from his seals and standards.
Fiernen named his kingdom after himself and refurbished a dilapidated elven keep on the southern slopes of the Shadow Mounds, hoping the rugged hills might shield him from incursions. Rising among Fiera’s richest vineyards, Brynduvh soon became the pride of the realm.
Eliaur returned to Bramor, renamed it Bramoran, which in the ancient tongue denoted it as the ‘royal falcon fortress,’ and called the northern lands Aralorr, or ‘favored jewel,’ because his father had chosen him.
Inevitably, the matters of the tribute, the falcon, and the title of subject-king worked to undermine the brothers’ hopes of peace. Some four hundred years after the twins tore Westervael asunder, Shadryk the First emerged from the chaos of war, and in a single contest of arms won freedom from the tribute, as well as the title of king in his own right. He also attempted to settle the matter of the falcon by changing its color from black to white.
The Gallery mural depicted all this, from Bhodryn on his stallion, to Finvar’s murder, the conference between the elderly twins, and Fiernen’s triumphant entry into a wide country of vineyards. But his brow was bare of the gold-and-onyx Falcon Crown.
Beyond these panels stretched a long chaotic section, in which bodies of warriors twisted around one another amid uplifted swords and bloodied horseflesh, dented armor and fallen banners, while above flew a white falcon, untamed, observing.
Shadryk the First rose from this field of blood and smoke to claim the white falcon upon his gauntlet. Further on, a panel told a far more recent tale:
a prince sat a pony beside a golden man upon a white stallion, and below their hill, Aralorris in blue fled toward the white towers of Lunélion, rising beyond a war-torn hill. Goryth had voiced astonishment when he found himself depicted among the melee.
Further on, and closest to the throne room’s tall silver doors, an empty space of white wall.
Shadryk knew what would fill it. A dozen sketches had been presented to him, but he hadn’t approved of any of them. Perhaps he was picky because the last panel had to be especially grand. It would depict himself, as golden as sunlight through white wine, sitting a white stallion, emerald-green cloak like an extension of his command over the land, a white falcon on one wrist, a black falcon on the other, and the Falcon Crown glinting on his brow.
Westervael restored.
One kingdom. One king.
A new spark of inspiration stuck him. He saw his three sons, the future of Westervael, gathered at his feet. No, better, his two youngest there, with his heir holding the stallion’s reins, eager to take hold of his destiny. Only, not too eager, Shadryk considered. Nathryk, though only nine, worried him with his militant exuberance. But perhaps a fighting spirit was precisely what the next Great Falcon of Westervael would need to keep a confounded populace in line.
~~~~
The princes’ rooms occupied the sunny south wing of the castle. Windows overlooked hills patchworked with vineyards and studded with villages and presshouses. This late in the morning the princes should be gathered in the nursery, heads bent over studies, but Shadryk heard the scuffle before he opened the door. Nathryk straddled Arryk. Their fists batted furiously but accomplished little damage. Three-year-old Bhodryk—named for the great king of old—stood to the side, eyes round and enrapt. One desk had been overturned, papers were scattered, ink spread into a carpet, and Nurse was nowhere in evidence.
