The Lost Kestrel Found (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 6)

by Peter Wacht

  “True,” answered Thomas, his green eyes burning brightly in the firelight, his voice strong and commanding. “But wanting and getting are two different things. The other Kingdoms have ignored our plight for almost a decade. It’s time to remind them of who we are. It’s time to remind them of what we can do. It’s time to show them the price they will pay if they attempt to tread on us once more.”

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  A Favor

  Thomas enjoyed the brisk wind that buffeted him as he walked on a narrow path toward one of the many small clearings that dotted the rough countryside surrounding the Crag. He knew all the secret glades situated around the Highland citadel, having spent many happy hours exploring them when he was younger. Work on the Highland stronghold had stopped for the day. They had made remarkable progress in just the last few weeks, all thanks to Coban. The moss, creeping vines and underbrush that had covered the massive keep had been cleared. Masons and stonecutters now worked to close the many massive holes that dotted the outer wall and had been used by the Ogren to enter the fortress almost a decade before. Once they repaired the outer curtain, they would turn their attention to rebuilding the towers.

  A smaller group of Marchers, thirty in all including Coban and Oso, made last-minute preparations for their journey. They planned on traveling lightly so that they could move fast, but they also knew that Rodric or the Shadow Lord would watch for them, waiting and hoping for the opportunity to stop them from reaching their objective, the Council of the Kingdoms at Eamhain Mhacha. Thus, the necessity to be prepared for anything.

  Thomas found a space on a large rock that jutted out over the valley encircling the Crag, presenting him with a view of the western Highlands. The sun sat at the very edge of the horizon, darkness about to fall across the land. He caught a glimpse of a large hawk winging its way toward the clearing. He closed his eyes for a moment so that the flash of blinding white light that he expected to his left wouldn’t affect his vision.

  “I’m glad to see you, Rynlin,” said Thomas. “I’ve missed you. I’ve had no one around to look over my shoulder to the point where I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “You know very well, Thomas, that I never …”

  Rynlin Keldragan, Thomas’ grandfather and member of the Sylvana, stopped in his tracks and stared at his grandson, seeing the smile playing across his face. He smiled as well, enjoying the fact that even though so much had changed in just a short time – Thomas becoming a Sylvan Warrior, then Lord of the Highlands, and all his associated travels and travails – some things, like his grandson’s constant teasing of him, had not.

  To Thomas’ eyes Rynlin hadn’t changed much in the months that had passed since they had last seen each other. The same dark hair and beard powdered with grey, the blue eyes similar to his own burning brightly in the rapidly descending darkness. That and his grandfather’s height, giving him a tall and imposing appearance, led most to describe his countenance as threatening, and at times frightening, something that Rynlin viewed as a compliment and took great pride in maintaining.

  “Congratulations on becoming the Highland Lord. Your grandmother and I are both very proud of you.”

  Rynlin settled on to the stone next to Thomas, patting his grandson on the knee with pride.

  “Thank you.” Thomas flushed from the praise. Rynlin rarely gave compliments. “But that’s not why you came here.”

  “How did you know?” asked Rynlin.

  “I felt you coming through my necklace,” replied Thomas, fingering the silver chain and amulet, which depicted the horn of a unicorn. “I could tell there was more on your mind, that it wasn’t just a visit to catch up.”

  Rynlin sighed, not surprised that his grandson could sense his concern.

  “When do you leave for Eamhain Mhacha?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be careful?”

  “Of course, Rynlin. I don’t want Rya to get angry with me.”

  Rynlin chuckled, knowing the truth of Thomas’ words. When Thomas was growing up, any injury he obtained made his grandmother angry. That anger was, to a certain extent, directed toward Thomas, yet she also reserved a portion of it for Rynlin, as if he could protect Thomas from himself every second of the day. Though barely five feet tall, his wife carried herself like a queen, her inner fire dominating the space around her. That was one of the reasons why even after all the years they had been together, he loved her as much, if not more, than when he first set eyes on her.

  “A sensible concern,” said Rynlin.

  “What did you really want to talk to me about?”

  “I just wanted to share a story.”

  Thomas settled on the stone, finding a comfortable position. Rynlin’s stories could go on for a long time. His grandfather always sought to teach a lesson through each one, and then if he believed it necessary he would repeat himself just to make sure that you remembered the moral of the story. Thomas had no doubt such would be the case now.

  “Have I ever told you the story of Icarus?” asked Rynlin. He didn’t give Thomas time to answer, knowing that he probably had but not caring and continuing anyway. “As a boy he spent all of his time staring up at the sky, looking at the sun, believing it was a god traveling across the heavens in his chariot every day. He wanted to do the same, to be the sun god. But he had no godly power and no flying chariot. So what was he to do?”

  Thomas would have answered, remembering the story and exactly where he had been when Rynlin first told it to him. They had been sitting on the sand at Shark Cove, a small inlet at the Isle of Mist, watching the huge fins of the Great Sharks cut through the waves where the sea floor dropped away into the quiet, dark abyss of the ocean. Thomas recognized that the story was as much for his grandfather as it was for him. So he kept his mouth shut, wanting to give his grandfather his moment.

  “A smart boy, very industrious, Icarus built himself wings and soon he flew the skies much like the sun god. But Icarus didn’t realize that the arrogance of youth can often lead to mistakes, which sometimes turn deadly. He flew too close to the sun god as it moved across the sky, and the wax holding his wings together began to melt. It was only a matter of time before Icarus plummeted to his death.”

  “And you’re worried that I’m about to do the same?” asked Thomas. “When have you ever known me to get a big head and allow arrogance to get in the way of what needs to be done?”

  “Never,” replied Rynlin. “I just want to make sure you don’t have your head in the clouds. That you understand the challenges of the situation and the consequences of failure.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Thomas, grateful for his grandfather’s concern. “I’m well aware of how things will turn out if we don’t succeed.”

  “I figured you did. But as your grandfather I’m allowed to worry. And to help alleviate my worry, I told you that story, so I guess it was more for me than for you. Now that I feel better, I’ll be heading off. Rya’s expecting me in the Northern Steppes.”

  “Before you go, can I beg a favor?”

  “Of course, Thomas. Anything.”

  “I’ve reorganized the Marchers so that we can fight not only against the reivers, but also the dark creatures that keep trying to sneak into the northern Highlands. Since you, Rya, and I’m assuming several other Sylvan Warriors are watching the passes coming out of the Charnel Mountains on to the Northern Steppes, I was hoping that when you locate any dark creatures, you’ll warn the Marchers protecting the northern border. Nestor has responsibility for the north, and Beluil and his wolfpacks are helping as well, but I’m sure they would appreciate any assistance you and any other Sylvan Warriors with you could provide.”

  “We’d be happy to, Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Rynlin. And thank you for coming here. I do appreciate it.”

  Thomas rose from the stone and hugged his grandfather, who was somewhat taken aback by his grandson’s display of affection but also was pleased by it. Traditionally, a sto
ic approach was expected in the family, but Rynlin gladly hugged him back.

  “Beware, Thomas. You have a great many enemies now who would like nothing more than a chance to stick a blade in your back.”

  “I’m aware, Rynlin. Thank you for the warning. But as Rya likes to say, ‘You must do what you must do.’” Thomas sighed, kicking at a rock, needing some kind of release from the stress that had been building up within him. “This is something that I must do. The fate of the Highlands depends on it. So I expect treachery. And I’ll be ready. In fact, I might even have a few of my own surprises ready.”

  Rynlin smiled wickedly as he stepped farther to the edge of the rock.

  “That’s good to hear, Thomas. Though I would expect nothing less.”

  In a flash of blinding white light, Rynlin disappeared. Thomas made out in the darkness a large hawk pulling itself higher into the sky heading north toward the Steppes and the Charnel Mountains. He watched his grandfather until he was no more than a speck in the sky, then he turned and walked briskly back down the path. He still had things to do, and he wanted to speak with Coban and Oso one more time about the route they’d selected.

  If everything went well, they would reach the walls of Eamhain Mhacha with none of their enemies the wiser. But he knew from experience that even the best laid plans never matched reality.

  CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

  A Proposition

  The sun dipped toward the western horizon, turning the calm waters of the Heartland Lake a bright gold. A gentle breeze swept in, cooling the warmth of the day as the moon began its ascent.

  Maddan Dinnegan stood on the terrace of the small house in Mooralyn, a town just to the northwest of Eamhain Mhacha and close to where the Crescent River began its long journey to the Winter Sea. The son of the richest man in the Kingdoms was oblivious to the beauty of the evening. His world had been turned upside down, he and his father’s plans destroyed. At this very moment, he should have sat on the throne of Fal Carrach. Yet here he stood, living on a small farm at the edge of the backwater village, he and his father the supposed guests of the High King. Maddan scoffed at the thought. The soldiers tasked with protecting them from any retribution by the King of Fal Carrach actually seemed more intent on keeping them where they were more than anything else.

  All because of that cursed woman and Kaylie Carlomin. He had grown up with the princess of Fal Carrach by design, his father wanting to ensure that their family had a clear path to political power to match their untold riches. But now it was all gone. He had seen Kaylie as pliable, someone he could turn to his purposes. But he had failed. Her streak of independence had somehow given her the wherewithal to sniff out the assassination plot his father had so carefully orchestrated.

  Where had she learned to use magic? That unexpected and unwanted discovery had almost cost him his life. She had almost gutted him with a flying letter opener. And who was that blasted woman? He had never laid eyes on her before, yet there was a power in her that he had never sensed in anyone else. Not just in her bearing, but she had fought Malachias and his Dark Magic to a stalemate, forcing him to flee. The thought of that cadaverous warlock sent a shiver down Maddan’s spine. There was something so unsettling about that man, so terrifying, almost inhuman, that secretly he was pleased to be out of that creature’s presence. But if gaining the throne of Fal Carrach meant tying himself to that spiteful, frightening ghoul, he would do so gladly.

  Maddan shook his head in frustration, wanting to scream in rage. All for naught. King Gregory lived, declaring him and his father traitors and sentencing them to death. Their holdings in Fal Carrach – their lands, their businesses, their industries, their sources of income – all had been taken by the crown. Leaving them here, on a small farm in a different Kingdom with few allies and limited resources.

  True, his father had squirreled away some of their wealth, protecting against a day such as this. But it didn’t compare to all that they had lost. And now his father, once the richest man in the Kingdoms, a man who had almost gained control of the legendary wealth of the Highlands, had been reduced to a beggar. In fact, his father had left earlier in the day, hat in hand, to meet with the High King and seek his indulgence for their continued stay here. Maddan had never been so humiliated. Grabbing a small branch that had fallen from the tree above him, he swung it viciously again and again at the shrubs by the terrace, needing to release some of the anger that boiled up within him.

  The sight of an arriving coach drawn by eight horses, black to match the falling night, stopped his attack on the bushes and pulled him from his depressing, unbalanced thoughts. But it did not give him the energy to leave his place on the terrace, a malaise having settled within him after his and his father’s failure. Instead, he simply waited, curious about who had the ability to get by their supposed protectors so easily but unwilling to exert the energy to find out.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Corelia Tessaril, Princess of Armagh, daughter of the High King, swept out the doors opening on to the terrace. Her long, blonde hair caught the very last glimmers of light before night settled over them completely. She stood there for a moment in silence, the fire in the small house’s kitchen shining through the windows and giving them just enough illumination to see each other dimly.

  Maddan simply stared, once again taken by Corelia’s beauty. Perhaps Kaylie had been the wrong match, the wrong path to power. Perhaps … He let the thought burn to ashes before he pursued it further. Yes, the Princess of Armagh was beautiful. But also cunning, determined, untrustworthy and dangerous. Definitely not characteristics he was looking for in a bride. Besides, the wealth he could have offered her no longer existed. And if he for some strange reason did marry Corelia, he knew in his heart that she would overshadow and potentially dominate him, something that could never be permitted.

  “How are you enjoying your new surroundings, Maddan? Comparable to your other homes?”

  Corelia smirked, clearly seeking to irritate him. Much to his dismay, it was working. The anger that always seemed to be just below the surface because of all that had happened during the last few weeks bubbled up once again. The Princess of Armagh had a unique ability to know exactly what to say or do to get under someone’s skin.

  “Princess.” He bit back the sharp retort that passed through his mind, knowing that he needed to stay within her good graces if he and his father were to extricate themselves from this current predicament. “A pleasure to see you this evening.”

  Corelia’s expression changed to a pout, which in Maddan’s opinion made her all the more attractive. She was disappointed at not being able to incite the reaction she sought.

  “I see you’re not going to be any fun tonight, Maddan.”

  “You can speak of fun at a time like this?” asked Maddan. He tried to speak in a strong, confident voice, but the words came out more like a whine, his simmering anger threatening to overtake him.

  “Then let me be direct. I assume you still have dreams of ruling Fal Carrach?”

  Maddan stared at her in shock, not expecting her candor or the topic of discussion. But for some reason, he couldn’t lie.

  “I do, Princess.”

  Corelia nodded. “I expected as much. Your father is speaking with mine right now, seeking some accommodation. Some other way to gain control of Fal Carrach.”

  “I know. But what could we possibly do now? Gregory lives and is likely wary of another assassination attempt.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” replied Corelia, watching Maddan intently. “But there are always multiple paths to achieve a goal.”

  She had assessed him the second she had stepped out onto the terrace. Arrogant. Conceited. Spoiled. Soft. And someone desperately craving power. Something she understood quite intimately and could use to her advantage.

  “Of course, Princess, but what other paths might there be?”

  “What do you truly want, Maddan?” asked Corelia, ignoring his question.

  Maddan stared
at Corelia, thinking, wondering if he should reveal what was truly going through his mind. He decided he had nothing to lose.

  “I want Kaylie Carlomin,” replied Maddan, his voice strident and his eyes burning with a feverish light. “I’ve wanted her since we were children. She belongs to me. She should be mine.”

  “And what if that could still be arranged, Maddan? What if you could still have Fal Carrach and Kaylie Carlomin?” Why he would be so obsessed by the somewhat skittish daughter of Fal Carrach’s king, Corelia didn’t know. Kaylie clearly didn’t compare to her. But so be it. There was no explanation for some people’s tastes.

  Maddan stared at Corelia sharply, knowing that there was more to this conversation than met the eye.

  “What do you want, Corelia?”

  “So you do have some of your father in you after all,” Corelia chuckled. “What I want is none of your concern. Now a final time. What if I could give you Fal Carrach and Kaylie Carlomin?”

  Maddan tried to resist the offer, knowing the danger of accepting, knowing that there would be hidden strings attached that could strangle him at some point in the future. But he couldn’t resist.

  “Then I would do whatever you wanted.”

  Corelia smiled. She expected that this was going to be easy, but she never thought it would be this easy.

  “I thought as much. Maddan, I have a proposition for you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  Irritation

  Lord Chertney, wearing his traditional black silk that barely stirred with the breeze, cursed under his breath as he surveyed the Inland Sea, a large body of water that separated Dunmoor from Fal Carrach and was shaped like a funnel in which the southern section tightened near Tinnakilly before opening up again as it flowed down to Stormy Bay. The Shadow Lord knew that the Highland upstart still lived, telling Chertney that he could feel the boy like a splinter under his skin. The Shadow Lord also made clear that he tired of that prickly feeling and wanted the splinter removed once and for all.