by Ellyn, Court
Hmm, perhaps she needed incentive. Plucking a handful of dewy white grapes from the centerpiece, Shadryk added, “Of course, I’ll require other things from you as well.”
“What other punishments can the White Falcon devise?” she asked. When Shadryk was silent, she glanced round at him. He was tiring quickly of handling her with kid gloves, but he had to be patient a little longer.
“I had thought to name you an adviser on my council. Though now I’m not sure.”
“Shadryk, don’t play games.” The stubborn lines had gone out of her face in an instant. So, little sister was ambitious, was she?
“Also, should the need arise,” he went on, “I mean, should I be required on the battlefield, I would need someone trustworthy to fill in as regent. And at times, I may require you to assume Jilesse’s throne beside me. It’s a shame it stands empty, and no one belongs there more than you do. In fact, I wouldn’t be the White Falcon if it weren’t for you, beloved.”
More than wine brought high color into Ki’eva’s cheeks. Her lack of resistance assured Shadryk that he’d won her. “But your first duty is to my sons. All that I ask is that you prevent them from becoming a pack of dogs. Nathryk’s absence will help you in that regard, I’m sure.”
Ki’eva snorted. “Men are wild dogs by nature, brother. This war wouldn’t exist, otherwise. Or any war, for that matter.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that.” Gently, he tilted up her face. Her eyes had grown groggy, and the wine made her skin feverish and dewy like the grapes. “Men may be dogs, but you, sister, purr like a cat until you pounce—”
“—and bury my fangs in the jugular,” she finished. “Make this worth my while, king.”
“Love them, but curb their unruly nature—”
“Perhaps I’ll make them cats.” Ki’eva grinned and rising onto her toes, kissed him with wine-flavored lips.
~~~~
27
Etivva thrashed on the narrow cot. As large as Nathrachan’s dining hall was, the number of casualties convalescing here filled most of the floor space. The orderlies had been kind; when they learned they had a civilian patient, and a female at that, they had set up screens to provide Etivva with privacy. She wasn’t lucid enough to care. The fever cast a flame deep in her cheeks; until it broke, Alovi wouldn’t rest. She’d spent the day going between Kelyn’s pallet and the shaddra’s cot, insisting that, yes, Kelyn was too injured to get up and, no, he couldn’t visit Etivva.
Alovi had nearly hyperventilated when Keth told her that her son, too, was a patient in the infirmary, but he’d assured her Kelyn would be back on the field in no time. “I suppose that ought to make me feel better,” she’d said, grinding her teeth, “but, hnh, selfish me.”
Etivva’s delirium had only deepened with the last dose of poppy wine. Alovi held her hand and tried to shush her, but to no avail. Her leg was elevated; the bandages about her ankle had begun to seep. The stink coming from the wound had worsened.
Only that morning a surgeon had pulled Alovi aside and said, “The gangrene will spread quickly, I’m afraid. This shaddra is in your employ?”
“She’s … she’s my friend,” Alovi replied. She hadn’t thought so before. As her sons’ tutor, Etivva hadn’t been considered a part of the family as much as a special member of the household. But now … Alovi wondered if this was the sort of bond soldiers felt: two strangers thrown into the thick of battle together, forced to depend on one another, protect one another, so that they walked off the field more than friends.
“I see,” the surgeon had said. “In that case, it’s best you let me treat her as soon as possible.”
“Treat her?”
When he nodded, he looked so grave. “If you wait till you return home, m’ lady, it may be too late. And all the best surgeons in Aralorr are here.”
In her horror, Alovi said, “Best? Yes, I’m sure. Aren’t you too tired from cutting up boys to tend to us?”
The surgeon let out a long, haggard sigh. With more patience than she deserved he said, “Lady, we’re just getting started.”
“Forgive me, captain.” Alovi could barely speak from the trembling in her chin, the ache of stifled sobs in her throat. “Can’t we wait until Etivva can decide? I … I can’t.”
“I understand. But if she’s not coherent by tonight, you’ll have to speak for her.”
Etivva slept all day and now seemed caught in some inescapable nightmare. Alovi had suffered nightmares, too. In them, she was running through the bogs, or trying to run, but the red eyes were getting closer. Fierans in green hoods had red eyes and wielded severed limbs like swords. She’d woken to find Keth sleeping beside her; his arm was her pillow. Though she realized she was safe, the terror stayed with her until the sky began to pale.
Perhaps the poppy wine was wearing off. Surely that’s why Etivva was restless. Should Alovi dribble more down her throat? The surgeon would come soon. He would know what to do.
“This is all my fault,” Alovi groaned. “What was I thinking?”
Standing behind her, Keth squeezed her shoulder. “The information you brought us is vital.”
“But not worth this.”
“Only time will tell, love.”
Etivva lurched violently and opened her eyes. She searched feverishly side to side, saw Keth standing over her and cried, “Do not go to Leania! Hill of stones … red! Red with fire!” She fell back to her pillow in a deep swoon.
Alovi stood and peered fearfully at Keth.
He seemed nonplussed. “It was a nightmare, Alovi. She heard us talking, that’s all. We’ve no cause to go to Leania. Our fight is here. Just a nightmare.”
She wanted to tell him, “Sure, and there are no ogres in the Gloamheath either.” But the surgeon arrived and forbade her the chance to argue. He checked the bandages about Etivva’s ankle, examined the color of the fluids and the flesh beneath, then sniffed the wound.
“We shouldn’t wait any longer,” he said.
“She was just awake,” Alovi cried. “Please wait …”
“She wasn’t aware,” Keth told the surgeon. “Do it before she is.” The hurt in his face told Alovi he knew what it was like, an amputation done when the patient is awake. Alovi sagged into him and sobbed as the surgeon called for orderlies to carry Etivva to the table.
~~~~
A couple of days later, Kelyn hobbled to the infirmary window. In the courtyard, Mother was saying a lengthy farewell to Da. Orderlies were packing blankets and pillows into a supply wagon to keep Etivva from joggling around too much. Her shortened leg was swaddled in clean, dry bandages. Kelyn’s heart ached at the sight of it. He was afraid to ask too many questions about what had happened in Leania. Mother didn’t want to talk about it. Not to him, at least. Laral had told him of the fay horses that had delivered Alovi and Etivva at the riverside. Kelyn wished he’d seen them for himself, because he couldn’t quite believe the squire’s frantic tale.
He waved through the window when the wagon started off, but Mother didn’t turn around. Just as well.
An hour or so later, while Kelyn choked down a bitter dose of silverthorn with breakfast, Eliad raced into the infirmary. The squire collided with a pair of orderlies, dodged an angry surgeon, slid on his knees and came to a stop at the foot of Kelyn’s pallet, panting. “We’re riding out!” he announced.
Lady Ulna’s red-headed niece wasn’t far behind. “The War Commander is calling everyone to arms,” Kalla told her aunt. Ulna had spent the morning exercising her leg by walking up and down the dining hall and had stopped long enough to share breakfast with Kelyn. She climbed to her feet unaided.
“Laral overheard the orders,” Eliad went on.
“When do we mobilize?” asked Kelyn.
“Within the next two hours.”
Lady Ulna was halfway to the door. Kalla hurried after her. The infirmary staff overheard and before the official order could arrive, the Head Surgeon ordered half the supplies packed into the hospital wagons.
<
br /> “Help me up,” Kelyn demanded. All he could see was his mother’s fear-filled eyes on the day she’d arrived at Nathrachan. The Fierans had hurt her, and they had cost Etivva her foot. Kelyn would be damned if he’d stay abed while there was vengeance to be had. Surely this was Da’s thinking as well, if he ordered an advance so soon after Mother’s departure.
Eliad was too short yet to make an effective crutch, so Kelyn hop-limped into the corridor while the squire ran for his sword and armor. Halfway to the courtyard, Kelyn passed the parlor reserved for knights and glimpsed someone still inside. Face pale, fair hair clinging to a sweaty brow, Leshan seemed rooted to the rug. He saw Kelyn in the doorway, ran to a wash basin and retched.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Kelyn asked.
Eliad called from the far end of the corridor and ran as fast as he could. The mail hauberk jingled over his shoulder, the helmet teetered on his head, and his arms were full with the rest.
“Are you sure about this, Kelyn?” asked Leshan, swiping his face on his sleeve.
“What’s there to be sure about? The Fierans are dogs who attack women, and I’m going to kill some. Help me into this.” The weight of the hauberk put more strain on his wound than he expected, but at least the falcon blade, hanging on his left side, wouldn’t collide with his injury. “Besides, I told you I wouldn’t leave you to fight alone.”
“Ah, that makes me feel so much better.”
Kelyn couldn’t tell if Leshan was sincere or not. He looked like he might vomit at any moment, or faint. “Stay close to me. You’ll be all right.”
“ ‘Course I will,” he replied and helped Kelyn to the courtyard.
Ranks of infantry filed out of the barracks; half of Vonmora’s archers marched with them. Most of the knights had already rallied to Lady Maeret’s banner beyond the gate. King Rhorek sat Brandrith amid the Falcon Guard. Was it wise for him to keep riding out with his War Commander? Keth was climbing into the saddle when he saw Kelyn hopping down the steps.
“Where in the Abyss do you think you’re going?” he bellowed, startling his warhorse. Laral fought to still the animal as Keth advanced on his son.
“Da, I can fight.”
“You can’t even stand on your own. How are you going to stay in the saddle? Eliad, take his sword. He’s going back to the infirmary.”
Kelyn’s fingers clenched the sword haft. Eliad stood by, helpless to obey.
“Son,” Keth pleaded, “I’m not coddling you. Where’s your common sense?”
“Ulna’s riding—”
“Ulna has recovered.”
Raising a stubborn chin, Kelyn conveyed to his father precisely what he meant to do as soon as the host departed.
With a lift of his eyebrows, Keth replied, Oh, really? He turned to Rhorek, who watched the exchange with interest. “Your Majesty, allow me to place this rash fool boy of mine under house arrest.”
The king nodded and Jareg ordered three Falcon Guards to surround Kelyn and his crutch. Astonished and humiliated, Kelyn conducted a quick search for Lieutenant Lissah, but he didn’t see her among the formation of black surcoats and stoic faces. He was glad, at least, of that.
“Leshan,” Keth added, “escort your comrade to a suitable, windowless chamber, then join us. Your horse will be waiting.”
Kelyn couldn’t believe this! Had he been a dragon, he would’ve breathed fire; instead, he cursed his father with his eyes and allowed Leshan to take him back into the keep.
Princess Ki’eva had housed less exalted guests in small, simply furnished rooms tucked into the keep’s interior. One of the Falcons lit a lamp, revealing a narrow bed, a couple of dusty tables and chairs, a cracked wash basin, a small bare hearth. Leshan helped Kelyn to an armchair, but Kelyn refused to sit.
“I’ll take that weapon off you,” said another Falcon.
Kelyn was in no mood to play games. He unbuckled the sword belt and thrust it into the man’s outstretched hand.
“Try to relax,” Leshan urged. “You’ll just do yourself more harm.”
Kelyn limped to the hearth for no other reason than to prove he could. Leshan shrugged and started for the door, but on the threshold he paused. The three Falcons filed past, then Leshan said, “I wish I could stay with you.”
Kelyn was surprised to find no trace of laughter in his foster-brother’s face. The fear in his eyes lent him the appearance of an elk snagged by an arrow. He hadn’t meant Kelyn to see it and ducked his head. “I’m not certain war agrees with me, that’s all. Training with you was one thing. Actually being on the field is quite another.”
Even while lying in the infirmary, Kelyn hadn’t permitted himself to dwell on the ugly visions of battle, nor had he asked himself, What if the spear had struck higher? It didn’t; that’s all that mattered. “It’s not what I expected either,” he admitted, hobbling toward his friend. “But you’ll do what you must. And you’ll make your family proud.”
Leshan had nothing more to say. He only shook his head as he closed the door softly.
Kelyn heard the Falcons take up position in the corridor. How long did Da mean to keep him here? Until a surgeon declared him fit to fight? Until Ulmarr was taken? A siege might last for weeks. He paced like a caged dune lion, inspecting every corner of his prison and every stick of furniture, which he swore he’d tear to splinters before the day wore out.
Eventually the door opened and Eliad crept in, uncertainty plain in his hazel eyes. Should he regard his lord with sympathy, fear, or parental admonishment? “Anything you need, m’ lord?”
“Aye, my bloody sword!” Kelyn pressed a fist to his thigh. All this obstinate limping about had excited needles of pain.
Eliad sighed. “Anything I can get you?”
Kelyn stripped off his surcoat and tossed it onto the floor. “Help me out of this mail. Make me useless, will they? Goddess rot their souls.”
Eliad laid the hauberk neatly over the back of the armchair and said, “I could bring you some wine. Might help you rest.”
Kelyn collapsed into the chair and winced. “How can I rest when my comrades are riding without me? They’ll be spilling their blood, and I’m … useless.”
“You’ll join them soon enough. Well, not spilling your blood, I hope, but you know what I mean. When I told my mother I’d never have what I wanted, being a bastard and all, she said, ‘Be patient,’ and here I am, a squire for Kelyn Swiftblade.”
Kelyn had to laugh. An eight-year-old was giving him a lesson in grace. “Fine, you win, I’ll be patient. In the meantime, bring me wine, lots of it. And none of that pale Fieran shit—uh, stuff.”
Eliad grinned and sprang from the room.
Kelyn propped his leg up on a footstool and tried to relax, but he was convinced his father’s host would come to ruin without him.
Intolerable hours seemed to pass before the door opened again and a woman’s voice asked, “How’s the prisoner?”
Lieutenant Lissah balanced a tray set with a bottle, a goblet, and a bread round. With her foot, she kicked the door shut.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kelyn bit.
“Well, that answers my question.” She set the tray on a small table beside his chair. She’d discarded her plate armor, and the black tunic was too severe for her slender face and pale hair. What might she look like in a white silk gown? No, white silk didn’t suit her at all. “Did Rhorek not ride out?” he added.
“You mean, why am I not with him?” she asked. “Thanks to you I’m on probation.”
“Thanks to me?” Kelyn threw back his head and laughed. “So who turned you in?”
She shrugged. “Soldiers talk. And now Jareg thinks I’m caving under the stress.”
“Are you?”
Ignoring the question, she brought a wooden chair to the far side of the table, filled the goblet, and sipped.
“Missing something?” Kelyn asked.
Helping herself to the bread as well, she replied, “Your squire brought only the
one cup. Besides, I thought you’d prefer the bottle. Isn’t that what pouters do, drink straight from the bottle?”
“Pouters and prisoners who aren’t given a choice.”
“If it’s like that, I’ll trade you.”
“Oh, no, keep it,” Kelyn said, swiping the bottle. “I’m a gentleman, after all.” He breathed in the wine’s aroma, then tilted up the bottle. Ah, Doreli red, velvet the color of blood, the scent of plums on a night wind.
“Gentlemen are overrated,” Lissah was saying. “Gentlemen mince around the heart of things. They smile when they’d rather throw a fit. I can’t stand that kind of hypocrisy.”
“So I’m either a hypocrite or not a gentleman? Which insult should I choose?”
Lissah grinned. “Whichever fits.”
Kelyn regarded her with suspicion. Where did this friendliness come from? He felt off balance. Was he on another battlefield? This time he couldn’t tell. She had invaded his cell to accuse him but spoke civilly, even wore a wry smile. He waited for her to toss the wine in his face. “Why are you here?”
“I thought you would like to chance to gloat. I’ll be shamed after this. Lose my authority with the other Falcons. They’ll have reason to doubt me now. My record is besmirched. All because of you.”
Kelyn set the wine aside, too ashamed to savor it. “Can I help? Maybe I could talk to Jareg—”
“And tell him what?”
“That I harassed you or something.”
Her goblet paused halfway to her mouth. “You would do that?”
“Well, I did, didn’t I? And now look—”
“No. You didn’t do anything I shouldn’t have been able to handle with grace. I should’ve been flattered actually, but … I was scared.” She let out a bitter laugh. “The lieutenant of the Falcon Guard scared of an eighteen-year-old boy.”
“I’ll be nineteen soon if that helps.”
She cast him a maternal glare, and he apologized for being facetious. “But why scared?”
She squirmed in her chair. “I’m hardly an innocent. I knew what thoughts were going round in your head. Some ladies might not mind being another in a long line, but I don’t play that game.”
