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

by Ellyn, Court

  That slapped the wind out of him. “My shameful reputation caused all this?”

  “That and the fact that I lost a horse race. I really wanted that sword. But I think Rhorek had it made especially for you. And when my king rigs a race, what can I do about it?”

  A king’s favor, a lady’s regard. Did he deserve either of these things?

  When he was silent after her own attempt at good humor, she came to the point. “In the Whitewood you asked if I had found anyone to spend my winnings on. I’m still looking. It’s unbelievably difficult to find honesty, faithfulness, and honor all in one man. Does that describe you?”

  The words stung. Kelyn decided he was on a battlefield, all right, and Lissah had all the weapons. Damn, but he thought she was the vulnerable one. So many people lately expecting him to be a man of integrity: Kieryn, Rhorek, Leshan, now Lissah. But Kelyn was learning that he didn’t know what that meant. “It scares me to death to think I took a vow I’m not qualified for.”

  “Does it? Morach said you jumped off your horse to protect your friend. Took a pike in the leg for him.”

  She was finding cause to praise him now? Goddess, it was too much. He wagered he could dispel any small illusion she had: “I disobeyed orders,” he said, unable to look at her. “I led my comrades into danger, all for my own glory. And somewhere in the mountains there’s a girl. They say she’s raising my child. You were right to run the other way.” He took a long swig from the bottle.

  “Looks like I ran the wrong way this time.” She watched him in a poignant manner that dared him not to look at her. He couldn’t. “Not sure that was wise. But I’ve done many foolish things lately, and it’s good we come to an understanding before someone gets hurt. Am I right?” she prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. You’re only interested in conquest, and that doesn’t interest me. So I should go. My caving to pressure isn’t the only rumor going around.” She set aside the goblet and rose.

  “What if … ,” he began, finger running fast around the mouth of the bottle. “What if I wasn’t?”

  Lissah’s eyebrow jumped high, revealing her doubt. “Just interested in conquest, you mean? But you’re so young. Why rush it?”

  “Because I’ve had enough of disgrace.” He set the bottle down hard for emphasis and at last met her eye.

  “They why look my direction? I’m hardly typical as per your record.”

  “I have to have a reason?” he cried. “Might as well ask my brother why he falls for a duchess or why the Great Fire Sea runs after the moons.”

  “Hmm, poetry.”

  “Hell, lady, you talk too much.” He grabbed the bottle and gulped. The musical note the wine sang when it fell deep into the bottle pleased his ear. Lieutenant Lissah would make him a drunkard yet.

  She laughed. “I could always pull a blade on you instead. But that would be unfair in your present condition.”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “No, just showing you your options.”

  “I thought you said you were going.” Could he sound any more like a petulant brat?

  Lissah flipped the wooden chair around and sat in it backwards, forearms draped over the back. “Should I?” She stared deep into her goblet as if the answer lurked there.

  “No.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed, and she looked like her old contentious self. After a long, hot glare she said, “If you make this vow to me, don’t fail. I’m liable to kill you if you do.”

  Had she never found anyone she could trust? Did Kelyn trust himself? He reached across the table, curled one finger around one of hers. It felt like bringing worlds together.

  ~~~~

  The next morning, battle reports arrived. Kelyn received them at the door from one of Da’s couriers, then limped back to bed. Having hidden under blankets and pillows at the knock on the door, Lissah now peeked out and saw his long face. She sat up, holding the white linen to her bosom. The color suited her after all. “Bad?” she asked.

  Wishing for another dose of silverthorn, Kelyn eased himself down beside her and leant back against the headboard. “The troops from Karnedyr met them halfway. Apparently Lord Mi’ach was planning on joining his men with Ulmarr’s. The encounter was a surprise for both sides. Mi’ach was slain and his troops were routed. Lady Maeret led her cavalry south to raze Karnedyr off the map. And my da and Rhorek continued on to Ulmarr. They’ve set up camp outside the walls to prepare for a siege. We’re to join them there.”

  “There’s a big ‘but’ coming,” Lissah said.

  “But Lord Athlem is dead. He and his infantry were caught against the Brambles and slaughtered nearly to a man. A company of Thyrvael dwarves is to be brought from Tírandon to replace them. And … ,” he hesitated, watching her closely, “Rhorek came under attack. Captain Jareg was injured and some of the Guard killed.”

  “Who?” she cried. Kelyn named three slain, two gravely wounded. Lissah rolled away from him and gathered herself into a ball. “I should’ve been there …”

  Kelyn longed to see her face, to see if she wept. “I’m glad you weren’t,” he said. “If you’d gone, you might’ve been killed instead.”

  “It’s my duty to die for my king.”

  “Yes, but I never would’ve had the chance to tell you—”

  “Don’t.” She flung herself out of bed and started gathering her clothes. “Love isn’t real. Don’t force it to be.”

  “Not real?”

  “This dalliance,” she snapped, “this tryst, whatever you want to call it … it means nothing in the end.”

  Kelyn felt as if the floor dropped out from under him. “So who was in this for conquest?”

  Lissah’s fingers paused on the ties of her trousers.

  “You decided to go on the offense, is that it?” Kelyn added with a sardonic laugh, “so you wouldn’t be the one hurt. I see. Well done.”

  It seemed to take Lissah an inordinately long time to get into her undershirt and surcoat, and she said nothing in her defense.

  “And here I was thinking how nice it was to have you still here in the morning.”

  “It was nice,” she whispered, then started for the door. “But now isn’t the time to talk about it. I have to see to our preparations to leave.”

  “You’re running again,” he called after her.

  Hand on the door latch, she said, “I know where to find you.”

  ~~~~

  28

  Rhoslyn gripped the rail of her father’s flagship and breathed deeply of the salt-laden wind to soothe her stomach. The endless rocking of the billows had gradually worked its way into her bones; her organs seemed to slosh and roll with every scend and fall of the prow. The first couple of days out from shore, Rhoslyn had exhausted herself trying to gain her sea legs; as the duke’s daughter, she couldn’t look a fool by tumbling from one side of the deck to the other. Though she had learned to manage a fairly graceful stride, she’d decided it was best to stand still and breathe. How many days and nights had she fought the seasickness? By sheer force of will, she had vomited once and no more. At this point, she didn’t care whether her bloody pirate cousin showed himself or not. She longed for solid ground. How much longer must she wait?

  The Lady Rhosamen had set out from Windy Coves early one morning, just after Forath had set. The tides were predicted to be calmer then, but going had been slow. The sea rocked with little predictable pattern. Even seasoned sailors looked like they had broken into the grog barrels as they teetered from one deck to the next; the ship tilted away from their feet one instant and jammed their knees into their hips the next. The creaking and groaning of the planks was enough to make Rhoslyn fear the ship would break apart any moment. Had her father ever been foolish enough to sail when the moons were separated? Rhoslyn doubted he had taken the danger into account when he sent her off on her mission.

  Now, the Lady Rhosamen was anchored off the western edge of an island known to the crew merely as ‘the rendezv
ous.’ The duke’s banner, the silver arrow upon a blood-red field, snapped above the white flag of peace, but only the odd fishing boat or merchanter out of Sýnnova had sailed past.

  “Feeling better, my lady?” Admiral Beryr joined her upon the quarterdeck. The wind ruffled his silver side-whiskers like sea-foam.

  “This is hopeless,” she breathed, afraid that expelling a louder voice would turn her stomach. “I can’t stand it another day. Nothing has changed but the tide and the direction of … of breakfast.” The thought of food sent her over the verge. She threw herself against the gunwale and retched until she was sure her corset would burst. Beryr offered a kerchief, but Rhoslyn had her own.

  “It will pass,” he consoled. “Look to land. It may help you keep your equilibrium.” He pointed off starboard, at three sea stacks that barely fit the definition of ‘land.’ The rendezvous was little more than wave-beaten rocks that had gathered sand to them like dragons pulling hoards of gold under their bellies. Those thin yellow strips of sand and towers of black rock remained at constant angles against a backdrop of high white clouds. Slim comfort for Rhoslyn’s belly, but after an hour or so of staring at that immovable horizon, the waves of nausea waned. Beryr explained that the stacks were larger than they looked; the sea, he said, had gouged deep caverns into them and created calm coves, making these particular islands a cunning refuge for sea-thieves.

  “You said they’d know we were here,” Rhoslyn said.

  “They know. Those isles are as rife with spyglasses as with grains of sand.”

  “We’ll wait only one more day, Admiral,” she said. “Then we’re hoisting anchor and—”

  “Sails, ho! Off starboard bow!” The sailor’s voice descended from the masthead. Rhoslyn scanned the isles off the prow.

  “To the ballistae, men,” Beryr ordered.

  “A brig, Admiral,” the watchman called. “She’s the one.”

  Rhoslyn’s stomach turned for a new reason. What if Father was wrong about his cousin? What if he attacked as soon as he learned the duke wasn’t aboard? The taut sails and bowsprit of a vessel soon careened from behind one of the sea stacks. Smaller and narrower than the duke’s galleon, the brig had two masts instead of three. Only half her sails were unfurled; she cut through the waves at a cautious speed.

  Admiral Beryr drew out a silver spyglass. “That’s the Aurion, all right. Be on your guard, men! My lady, I beg you, go below until we learn their intentions.”

  Any pirate worth the name would see how high the duke’s ship floated and conclude that her hold carried no profit—unless the heiress herself was taken into account. With her sails bound tightly and her anchor buried in the seafloor, the Lady Rhosamen was as vulnerable as an oyster on the beach. Her ballistae were armed and aimed out the portholes, true, but she could hardly maneuver to escape the Aurion’s missiles.

  Rhoslyn wanted nothing more than to comply with the admiral’s request, but she said, “His Grace bid me stand on deck. And to wave. He said his cousin might pass us by if he failed to see me.”

  “Yes, I know well your father’s habit, my lady, but—”

  “Besides, if I go down into that heaving cabin, I won’t be able to come out again.”

  The Aurion tacked into the wind, rounded a sandy shoal, and furled her remaining sails. She coasted into the waters between the shore and the flagship and dropped anchor. Swallowing bile, Rhoslyn stepped to the rail and raised the white silk kerchief. Only a blind man would miss her, high on the quarterdeck, vivid in her garnet state gown. Sailors flocked to the Aurion’s rail, and Rhoslyn was sure she heard whistles and laughter. A figure in a faded green coat sent the men scattering. Through his hands, he called across wind and water, “Where is the duke?”

  Admiral Beryr called back, “His daughter comes in his stead.”

  Catcalls and whistles resounded louder than ever.

  “Barbarians,” Beryr muttered.

  Rhoslyn warned him, “Under no circumstances is anyone aboard this ship to show rudeness or hostility, Admiral.”

  “And risk a cut throat? Certainly not, m’ lady.” He gestured with his chin. “Here they come.”

  A jolly boat slid down the Aurion’s side, and four men climbed down a rope ladder. One was the man in the green coat, another wore red. The other two, in rough canvas shirts and trousers, plied a pair of oars. About halfway to the flagship, they reversed oars, and the boat paused. Standing in the prow, the man in the red coat called, “Harac is dead then?”

  “Not dead,” Rhoslyn answered. “Ill some months now. I have words from him.”

  The man consulted with the oarsmen, and they proceeded to bring the jolly into the galleon’s shadow. Beryr ordered the ladder lowered, and only the man in the red coat ascended. The others rowed the jolly back to the middling water and waited. The man accepted no one’s help in climbing to the deck, and once aboard he greeted Beryr with a shallow bow of the head.

  “Captain,” Beryr returned with a terse nod.

  Rhoslyn observed Captain Rehaan with no small measure of awe. She had expected her cousin to be ill-clad, toothless, and diseased. But he was easily six feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, exaggerated by the cut of his ostentatious red coat. Beneath it, he wore a shirt of spotless white silk and black breaches tucked into tall boots that folded down to his knees. A ruby glittered on one hand, a sapphire on the other, and a loop of rare gold in his ear. A vainly trimmed moustache and goatee ornamented his weathered face, and his black hair was secured in a red silk ribbon. Somewhat disappointed, Rhoslyn decided he probably had all his teeth, too.

  Grinning shamelessly back at her, Rehaan said, “Well, well. It’s a fool I am. Harac often spoke of you, and sure I imagined a babe in a cradle. You look like Aunt Halayn.” His accent was heavy, his way with words that of the Islanders. Though Rhoslyn’s people considered that manner of speech low and uncultivated, the aura Rehaan exuded was almost imperious.

  “When did you ever lay eyes on her?” Rhoslyn asked, trying not to feel like a babe who belonged in a cradle.

  “I haven’t spent all my life aboard a ship, cousin. Not that I let her see me, oh, no. But let’s not trifle. You have words?”

  The admiral escorted Rhoslyn and the pirate-king to the duke’s cabin on the deck below. Rhoslyn’s handmaid, as sick as Rhoslyn herself, had opened the windows to air the room and was tidying up the breakfast table when they entered. The ten-by-fifteen-foot space contained all the lush comfort of a palace parlor: rich andyr furniture, deep maroon velvet and lustrous crepe, polished silver accents, diamond-paned windows, and in the lamps, carvings, and embroidery the motif of Evaronna’s arrow.

  “Lura,” Rhoslyn said, “the wine service is all we’ll require.”

  The handmaid set the silver tray on the long table, curtsied, then fled with the breakfast things.

  “Admiral, leave us as well.”

  Beryr looked round at the pirate-king and said, “I’ll not be far. And the Salamanders are at the door.” In red and silver-gray uniforms, a pair of the seafaring soldiers stood at attention, curved cutlasses poised at their shoulders. They saluted as the admiral withdrew.

  Rehaan made himself at home. Sitting at the head of the duke’s table, he propped up his feet and locked his arms over his chest. Well-dressed he may be, but well-mannered he was not.

  Rhoslyn chose to ignore the offense and poured Doreli red into a pair of silver goblets. The pirate-king watched her every move. Uneasy, Rhoslyn cleared her throat and said, “I appreciate your willingness to respond, Captain.” She set a goblet down beside his boot heel. Rehaan glared at it, then aimed that glare at Rhoslyn. He suspected her of treachery! The realization brought a swell of laughter into her throat, but she choked it down, exchanged the goblets and sipped. Only then did Rehaan partake of the wine.

  “Now, it’s words or wine you’ve brought from the duke?”

  Rhoslyn set aside her goblet. “A proposition.”

  Rehaan’s eyes narrowed. “I d
on’t owe him anything.”

  “He’s aware of that. You leave his ships unmolested—for the most part—and he forbids the Lord Admiral to hunt you down. No debts on either side, and it’s all in the family. But His Grace is willing to risk that arrangement by asking a favor of you.”

  “And why should I be willing to risk it by accepting?”

  “My father believes you’re a man of honor, that there’s something in you worthy of trust.”

  Laughter brought Rehaan to his feet. “An appeal to honor, is it? Is Evaronna in so dire a danger that she would hang her hopes on a pirate’s honor? Honor I’ve never claimed to own, I might add.”

  “Perhaps not. But you’ve demonstrated it to him nonetheless.”

  Sobering, he leant on the high back of the chair and considered Rhoslyn carefully. “Your poise surprises me. Though it shouldn’t, I guess. Tell me, have you ever, for one moment, lost your head?”

  “Of course, I have,” she replied, trying to recall when she’d made the greatest fool of herself and wondering what, under the Mother, this had to do with the business at hand.

  “No,” Rehaan decided, “I don’t think you have. This poise, it’s not your own. It’s been ingrained you, but sure it’s not yours. How will you manage, I wonder, when that poise fails you?”

  Like a rabbit under the gaze of a hawk, Rhoslyn felt her heart hammering. “Captain, may we please—?”

  “All right,” he said, folding himself into the chair. “Speak your words, I’ll hear them.”

  When her heart slowed, Rhoslyn recited the proposal as she’d rehearsed it between waves of nausea. “As part of Aralorr, Evaronna is under obligation to send King Rhorek her archers and her ships. Within weeks, our ships are to sail south and set up a blockade inside Galdan Bay, to halter Fieran trade and, perhaps, to land infantry on the coast.”

  Rehaan chuckled. “Are these your big ideas?”

  If he was attempting to rouse her temper, she was determined to see him fail. “I am being open with you, Captain Rehaan. Please, do not mock me.”