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

by Ellyn, Court

  “Yield!” Nathryk shouted.

  “Never,” Arryk grunted and swung another fist, only to have it swatted away. “Get off!”

  “Admit I had it first!”

  Shadryk slammed the door, and the battle became an immediate rout. The combatants scrambled off the floor, and the wide-eyed spectator dived into his miniature desk chair. The king assumed the same stance he used when forced to admonish his courtiers, but he was amazed to see how little effect this posture had on his children. Of his three sons, Bhodryk alone had inherited his father’s coloring. Though Arryk’s eyes were green as well, his dark hair was his mother’s. Nathryk was dark all around, though his skin was very fair, almost monotone; his cheeks lacked even the flush that should’ve resulted from the scuffle.

  Nathryk marched across the rug, pounded his fist to his chest, and cried, “Stand and salute, you swine, for the Great Falcon is arrived!” Arryk scowled at his older brother, then up at his father. Little Bhodryk slid off his chair and tried to imitate his eldest sibling by pressing a chubby fist—the left rather than the right—over his tummy.

  Shadryk had to look at the spilled ink to keep his mouth in a hard, unhappy line. “Been watching the soldiers drill again, son?”

  Nathryk relaxed his stance not in the slightest and replied, “My duty as Crown Prince, sire.”

  “Does your royal duty include beating up your brothers?”

  Nathryk’s mouth popped open again, closed, and finally he declared, “I didn’t hurt him—yet!”

  Arryk’s lower lip was swollen, and his green eyes fairly screamed a plea.

  “Indeed … ,” the king muttered and slid into the nurse’s rocking chair. Even this early in the year, the light glaring through the tall panes turned the nursery into an oven. The damp curls clinging to the boys’ brows attested to the heat of both the sun and the perpetual war between them. Their adolescence wasn’t going to be pretty.

  If yet another nurse failed to do her duty and propagate peace between them, then the king himself must deign to do it. “Come here, all of you,” he ordered. The princes collected around him; Bhodryk dangled from the arms of the chair like a monkey and peered through the rungs. “What was the fight about?”

  Nathryk and Arryk started shouting at once, voices shrill enough to shatter crystal.

  Shadryk lifted a hand. Their mouths clacked shut. “Bhodryk,” he invited, leaning over the arm, “can you tell me what happened?” The details might be jumbled from a three-year-old, but they would be the truth.

  He stopped pretending to be a monkey and pointed at a carved wooden horse. It was painted white, of course, with soft gray socks and muzzle. “I wanted it. Nafwyk took it fwom me.”

  “I had it first, you little—”

  “You left it lying!” Arryk cried desperately. According to one nurse and the next, Arryk was often forced to defend his younger brother and earned many a bloody nose for his trouble. Shadryk couldn’t understand Nathryk’s hostility, but he understood perfectly well why study time had turned into play time. Finding a new caretaker for his sons was a distraction that Shadryk could ill afford.

  He silenced their bickering. This felt uncannily similar to holding court with squabbling merchants and highborns. “Bhodryk, bring me the horse,” he commanded.

  Delighted to please, Bhodryk passed the disputed item over to the king, and Shadryk slipped it under his arm to be taken away for execution.

  “That’s not fair,” Nathryk shouted, tears undermining his princely dignity. He cast a hateful eye on Bhodryk, then on Arryk, who ducked his face and shifted half a step away.

  The exchange told Shadryk more than any nurse ever could. He ordered, “You boys stand aside.” Arryk took Bhodryk by the hand and led him back to their desks. Nathryk aimed that hateful glare on his father, and a certainty seized the king by the throat: Nathryk would have to be watched. A little older and he might prove a danger to Shadryk himself—and perhaps to Westervael. A fighting spirit would be useful, a violent tyrant would not. Either of his younger sons might be more appropriate for the throne. Arryk was too passive, perhaps. Bhodryk was too young to judge. Admittedly, Bhodryk was the king’s favorite, and perhaps Nathryk had sensed this from the beginning.

  Perhaps he had sensed, too, Shadryk’s preference for a woman other than his mother. Shadryk had not chosen Shaerys of Endarán. She quickly proved herself a scheming viper who made the mistake of overlooking the fact that her husband, and not she, would be king of Fiera. As soon as Shadryk got a healthy child from her, he’d seen to her tasteful disappearance. The search for the missing princess had briefly spurred the realm into a frenzy, and Fiera had nearly gone to war with the Mahkahan tribes over the matter, for somehow the blame for the princess’s disappearance had fallen on their shoulders. In the end, however, war proved too drastic a step, and Shadryk was astonished by how quickly the populace forgot the scandal and how soon the highborns tired of playing hero to the damsel in distress.

  Once Shadryk inherited, he’d chosen his queen very carefully. Alastra of Arwythe had been the most capable of women, but she also knew her place. Both childbirth and the delicate art of being the king’s eyes and ears came as easily as breathing to her. But she dealt Shadryk the first real shock of his life when she was thrown from her palfrey and died of a broken neck.

  Nearly two years passed before his advisers were able to urge him to seek another queen, though he hadn’t understood why he needed one. He had two healthy heirs. When he saw Jilesse of Haezeldale, however, Shadryk needed no further urging. Bhodryk’s mother had been fair and soft-spoken, a goddess of charm and goodness. She must’ve built a dozen orphanages across Fiera during her short months on the throne. Certainly she would’ve been the generous sort of queen who would’ve appealed to conquered Aralorris. But Jilesse had also been as fragile as a snowflake in late spring. She never recovered from the birth of her son. She languished for weeks, feverish and fitful with pain, until she finally wasted away, speaking of “her children,” the thousands of orphans whom she had given a home. When Shadryk allowed himself to think on her, he sometimes wondered if it was best that she died before she learned of his plans for Aralorr and the orphans that those plans would leave behind. Would Jilesse have understood his need to fulfill this vision? Would Shadryk have been content with Fiera alone had she lived? Goddess, had he known how absolutely he would love her, he would have hanged every one of his advisers.

  How much of this could Nathryk detect? Had one nurse or another talked too freely? Or was Shadryk himself so transparent? When Bhodryk laughed … oh, Jilesse lived in the child’s laughter.

  Nathryk, on the other hand. Had Shadryk ever heard his heir laugh?

  “Son,” he began, “why can’t you be gentle with your brothers?”

  Nathryk’s jaw jutted in an obstinate manner. Clearly this was the wrong approach.

  “Prince Nathryk,” the king said, “as a commander to his host, I order you to be gentle with your brothers.”

  The boy tucked in his jaw and looked at the floor.

  “For your own benefit, be good to them,” Shadryk urged. “Give them every reason to be loyal to you, not to fear you. They may be smaller than you right now, but that will change. They’ll—”

  “No, it won’t.”

  Sitting quietly in the morning sunshine, Arryk practiced reading aloud from one of Bhodryk’s storybooks, and the latter listened, pressing knuckles into his eyes. The heat had made him sleepy. Perhaps they were aware that somewhere in the world there were dangerous people, but did they suspect that danger lurked within their own nursery? Had Shadryk’s brothers suspected?

  Shadryk gripped his eldest by the arms. “Nathryk, listen to me. You’ve no reason to harm them. Your place upon the throne is assured. Mine wasn’t. You understand?” He’d only ever discussed this matter with Ki’eva, and only because she was thick in the plot with him. The sudden deaths of two princes had given rise to a rash of rumors and speculation; perhaps, after all these
years, the rumors had fallen on Nathryk’s ear and, perhaps, he had come to think the same necessity applied to him. “Kinship is the strongest tie we have. It makes us who we are. To this day, I regret the harm I ordered upon my older brothers. They were fools, but I wronged them. Do I make myself clear?”

  Nathryk’s dull expression might’ve been acquiescence or complete disregard. He said, “There’s blood on your clothes.”

  Shadryk released the boy with a sigh and beckoned to the others. He lifted Bhodryk onto his lap, pushed the doomed horse behind his back, and said, “Remember the war that I told you was coming?”

  Three heads bobbed.

  “Well, it’s here.”

  “In our castle?” cried Nathryk. “Is that where the blood came from?”

  Arryk ogled the rusty-purple spots, and Bhodryk tried to pluck them off the silk.

  “No, no, not in Brynduvh,” their father assured them. “There’s no fear of that. But the wicked Black Falcon has declared war on us, and we must rise to meet the challenge.”

  “Me, too?” Nathryk asked, eyes bright with hope. “I’m old enough to begin my squirehood. Will you take me with you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. A king’s duty in times of war is not as glorious as you might think. I must send letters and ambassadors to potential allies and deploy others to do my fighting for me—those more able and expendable.”

  “Well, what about one of them, can’t I be a squire to one of them?” Nathryk clearly failed to understand the meaning of ‘expendable.’ “What about the Warlord? You’ll send him to fight, won’t you?”

  The boy’s whining abraded Shadryk’s patience, but the king was well-practiced in maintaining a calm, level voice. “I need Goryth here with me, to command our defense. Besides, Goryth has more than enough squires to see to his needs.”

  While Nathryk whined some protest, hoping his will would outlast his father’s, Shadryk reconsidered the idea. Nathryk’s absence would ensure his brothers’ safety. “But,” he said, interrupting Nathryk’s argument, “I have given thought to the matter.” Aye, about two seconds’ worth. “I think I’ll send you to Endarán for training.”

  “Endarán?” squeaked the prince, outraged. “But that’s as far from Aralorr as you can get.”

  “Precisely,” Shadryk replied with a taut grin. “Do you think I’d send the Crown Prince into harm’s way? My father did not, and neither shall I. Besides, your mother’s people are at Endarán, and they’ll make sure you receive the best training possible. You’re free to stay here, of course, and continue your regular studies with—”

  “No! I’ll go.”

  The tension ebbed from Shadryk’s body, just as it did when he got his way with his advisers and vassals. He set Bhodryk on his feet and said, “Now, if there is nothing further, I have a war to win. Kiss your da good luck.”

  Nathryk didn’t budge. Arryk smiled, delighted, and obeyed, then made way for Bhodryk, who smacked a very wet kiss on the king’s cheek.

  When Nathryk still refused to comply, Shadryk resorted to an expression that dared his son to displease him. The boy caved. He crossed to his father’s left and brushed a kiss on the cheek his brothers hadn’t touched. Shadryk felt no warmth in the contact and saw none in his son’s dark eyes. For an instant, Shadryk reveled in the image of his heir standing in a wide field, where a line of cavalry charged over his fragile body.

  ~~~~

  14

  With a vengeance, Alovi attacked the weeds choking out her violets. Though the exertions of her labor brought sweat streaming into her eyes, they were unable to make her forget her worries. Had Kieryn found his way to Windhaven by now? He hadn’t taken his warmest cloak; he’d be cold in the mountains. Where was Kelyn? Was Keth watching out for him? No. Kelyn didn’t need his father watching out for him anymore. It was too soon for him to have reached Fiera; that was a relief. Maybe the one she ought to be worried about was Keth. He might believe he was still as young and fit as he was twenty years ago.

  Sitting back on her heels to dab the sweat from her face, she found Esmi approaching across the garden, her dark hair coifed back tightly, her pleasant round face taut with urgency. Entering the shade of the andyr tree, she announced, “A letter has arrived for you, my lady.”

  Alovi brushed loam onto her apron, grabbed the letter from her handmaid, and smiled. Kelyn’s handwriting was always hurried, careless. Just as she broke the seal, Esmi gasped, “M’ lady, look!” A white bird with black-tipped wings and a long, hooked beak landed near the weed pile, barely three feet away. “Mother of All,” Alovi whispered, “it’s a shulla.”

  “A what?”

  “A seabird. When I was a little girl, Father liked to take Allaran and me to the shore, and I loved watching the shullas wheeling and diving for fish. But this one …” How had it come to be so far inland? Why did it not fear her? Neither gesture nor speech startled it away. The white head tilted, and black, beady eyes regarded Alovi with persistent purpose. At last, she noticed the tube tied to the spindly leg. She had never heard of a shulla being trained as a messenger; Keth’s birds were pigeons. Perhaps it had gone astray? While Alovi loosed the ties, the bird remained still, but once its burden had been delivered, the shulla squawked and took wing, as skittish as any wild bird.

  Inside the tube, Alovi found a letter from her other son. Addressed to both her and Etivva, Kieryn’s letter described in wonderful detail the avedra Zellel, Harac’s frailty, the beauty of Windhaven, and the duke’s impressive array of ships. His account of Silent Speech and the encounter with Saffron read more like fiction, but he continually reminded her, “this really happened.” Though his discoveries disturbed Alovi, she tried to absorb them with an open mind, and Kieryn’s excitement was more than a little contagious. He concluded by explaining—with a nearly audible sigh—how much he still had to learn. Nor did he know when Zellel might permit him to return home, but he assured his mother and his tutor that he was happy and wished them well. The letter was dated but yesterday. Could a shulla fly so far, so fast?

  Kelyn’s letter was far more brief:

  Mother—

  Da reminded me to write to you before we set off though I am not to tell you where we are going just in case this letter is intercepted by some fieran spy. King Rhorek placed me under da’s command—though I resented this at first, I am glad now that da has me to look out for him.

  Helwende’s troops arrived yesterday under Geris and Garrs and everyone is talking about Lord Galts fat yellow belly. He could not trouble himself to accompany his own men even as far as Bramoran. Lord Kassen on the other hand arrived with over 200 dwarves. His foreman Brugge commands them. No one expected Kassen to succeed in convincing the dwarves to come and we cheered them when they arrived. Only this morning a rider from Vonmora announced that Lord Davhin will be here by nightfall …

  Yes, the long lines of Galt’s infantry, Kassen’s dwarves, and Vonmora’s archers had all crossed the Avidan at Ilswythe Ford. They had camped below the fortress, the commanders had paid their respects to her, then the armies had departed, rattling away down the Highway. The veterans went with the determination that they were still strong enough to best a Fieran as they had two decades before; the young, eager to prove they were as brave and fierce as the veterans they worshipped. Watching them from the Front Gatehouse, Alovi had wept.

  Kelyn went on:

  Rhorek sent letters to Leania trying to convince King Bano’en to join us, but he has received no reply that I’m aware of. Our own host should be large enough to convince the Fierans to leave us alone but we would all feel safer knowing the Leanians were on our side.

  I hope you will not worry too much for da and me. We will look out for each other. Promise.

  Will write again as soon as we achieve our objective.

  —With my love,

  Kelyn

  “Is it bad news?” Esmi asked, touching her lady’s shoulder.

  Alovi felt the heartache contorting her face. “He urges
me not to worry. Precious idiot.” The concerns undermining Kelyn’s confidence were plain, even if he himself would never admit to them. The Black Falcon’s army might be sufficient to achieve its objectives for a while, but Alovi wasn’t blind; she’d seen the maps. Fiera was a larger realm with a larger population to fill its ranks. The Evaronnans barely began to close that number gap for Aralorr. Surely an alliance with Leania would see the balance tip in Rhorek’s favor. The ancient loathing between his neighbors had always been a troublesome matter to King Bano’en and his forebears. Sometimes Leania had sided with Aralorr, sometimes with Fiera, but more often, Leania’s kings chose to distance themselves from the fighting, close their borders, increase overseas trade to compensate for lack of goods normally provided by their neighbors. Just like a turtle pulling head, feet, and tail into its shell, and Alovi couldn’t blame them one bit.

  When King Daeryk had crossed the Bryna with his army twenty years ago, the Fierans might’ve gained a solid foothold within Aralorr, but Leania’s neutrality meant that neither side could win the upper hand. In the end, Keth’s father had ordered a massive push that culminated in the Battle of the Bryna. The engagement had been Kynor’s last and saw the death of Rhorek’s father as well. Fiera might’ve claimed victory had not Keth taken up his father’s helm and led a final assault that forced the Fierans back across the river. Aralorr had won her peace, but at the cost of both her War Commander and her king.

  Alovi well remembered Rhorek’s coronation a few weeks later. Bano’en had crawled out of his shell long enough to attend. He’d offered his condolences for Rhorek’s loss, then gifted the young king with several wagonloads of wool fabric as soft as silk and one thousand sheep. Rhorek returned a gracious round of gratitude. Keth stood aside, staring hard at the tile floor and biting his tongue. Alovi had taken her cue from him and choked on the choice words she had for her Uncle Bano’en and all her people. In truth, Bano’en had been neither wrong nor right to refrain from aiding Aralorr. Was it his fault that his neighbors were unable to coexist peaceably?