The Lost Kestrel Found (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 6)

by Peter Wacht

  “Yes, I was born in the Highlands, but my mother came from Fal Carrach. When my father died, I traveled with her back to Ballinasloe.”

  “Then you recognize these.”

  Thomas held out his sword. The mark of the Kestrels flashed on the pommel, the distinctive script “Strength and courage lead to freedom” running along the blade. Placing the blade in the scabbard across his back, Thomas moved the wrist guard so that Kael could see the mark of the Kestrel clearly.

  “And now you know where we’re headed and why. We have three days to reach the Council. Can you help?”

  Kael bowed his head slightly, bringing his blade to his forehead, a sign of respect in the Highlands.

  “Yes, Lord Kestrel. I can and I will.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  Growing Concern

  Rodric sat upon his uncomfortable throne brooding, his left leg bouncing incessantly to release the nervous energy that danced behind his eyes. Those black eyes that every so often displayed a touch of insanity, and which now bore into Killeran. The Lord of Dunmoor stood there, head down, staring at the worn stone tiles.

  “It was him, my lord,” finished Lord Johin Killeran, reluctant to make this report but knowing he couldn’t avoid it. “With thousands upon thousands of Marchers. They outnumbered us at least five to one. Even with the dark creatures we didn’t stand a chance. And the flag, the same as that of Talyn Kestrel.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” replied Rodric Tessaril, his left leg now still, his eyes burning. He pounded his palms against the arms of his throne, the angry slap echoing in the deserted throne room. “You had ten years to eliminate the Marchers, and now you tell me thousands appeared out of the woods with you completely unaware of their existence. Where have these thousands of Marchers been for the last decade? Besides, Talyn Kestrel is dead!”

  “My lord, you know how difficult it’s been …”

  “Enough! How could it be that scoundrel?” demanded Rodric, spittle flying in his rage. “He jumped from the battlements. No one could have survived!”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” answered Killeran meekly, cowed by Rodric’s rage. “I don’t know how anyone could survive a fall from that height.”

  Rodric stewed, his anger boiling, the blood vessel in his forehead pulsing rhythmically as he tried and failed to control his rage.

  “We will deal with this later, Killeran,” whispered Rodric, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “Whether or not you speak the truth, nothing can be done right now. Not with a decade’s labor hanging in the balance. We must focus on that now. Despite your repeated failures, the Highlands can still be mine within the week.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

  Political Implications

  The Council of the Kingdoms occurred every two years, dating back to the time when Ollav Fola, the first High King, ruled all the Kingdoms as one. The monarchs of every Kingdom, or at least their representative, always attended, for the Council provided the perfect opportunity for the far-flung sovereign nations to manage trade and other issues. Moreover, during the Council at no time could a person raise a hand against another, no matter the cause, at least within Eamhain Mhacha itself. Thus, the environment proved more conducive to negotiation rather than conflict, something that the various kings and queens appreciated as they sought to address matters more directly rather than relying on time-consuming diplomatic negotiations. Of course, beyond the borders of the city proper, it was a different story, as some disputes inevitably were handled in a bloodier fashion. Duels hidden by the copses of trees that sprung up in the countryside surrounding Eamhain Mhacha were all too common.

  The rulers of the Kingdoms met in a massive circular chamber, the chairs set out in a semicircle, lords and ladies and lackeys standing around the room to assist if required, but more often than not they were there to watch and wait for the inevitable entertainment of the verbal clashes and histrionics that sometimes broke out between the participants. A chair on the end of the semicircle had sat open for almost ten years, representing the place of the lost Lord of the Highlands. But that would change after this Council, as one of two things would occur. Either a claimant would take the open chair or the chair would be removed, signifying that the High King officially assumed responsibility for the Highlands because there was no living, confirmed heir to the Kestrel line.

  Gregory, broad-shouldered King of Fal Carrach, stood talking with Sarelle, Queen of Benewyn, and Rendael, King of Kenmare. His black hair peppered with grey belied Gregory’s vigor, and there remained a glimmer of youth in his eye. The cause for that was likely Sarelle, thought Kaylie, who stood near her father listening to their conversation. Sarelle had made her intentions known to Gregory several times in the last few years, though for various reasons he had either been oblivious or unsure. Kaylie suspected that perhaps her father was beginning to understand. At the moment Sarelle stood almost on top of Gregory, but that didn’t seem to bother him at all. In fact, he appeared to enjoy the closeness.

  Kaylie attended the Council of the Kingdoms at her father’s request, as he hoped that watching and listening would help prepare her for when she needed to assume the throne of Fal Carrach. In the past, she would have viewed her participation in the event with boredom and disinterest, finding the often long and inconclusive discussions tedious. Her perspective had changed after having spoken with Thomas in Tinnakilly and spending so much time with Rya. Her experience with that mysterious woman and her own efforts to thwart the assassination attempt on her father’s life had changed her standpoint. She had begun to better understand the burdens and challenges her father juggled daily and deftly, and that she would need to do the same eventually or her Kingdom and her people would suffer.

  Nevertheless, despite her best efforts to concentrate and learn, thoughts of Thomas continually played through her mind. She had met him at the Eastern Festival, entranced by his skill with a bow, mesmerized by his brightly glowing green eyes and serious, calm demeanor. He seemed equally taken with her. Yes, she had been told she was beautiful many times, her long black hair and twinkling blue eyes capturing the attention of several suitors. Many a young man, particularly those similar to the privileged, grasping, and conniving Maddan Dinnegan and Ragin Tessaril, sought the pleasure of her company, and perhaps something more.

  Yet these boys appeared preoccupied by what she could offer them as heir to the throne of Fal Carrach more than anything else. Something that Maddan had just made abundantly clear, as he and his father had attempted to steal her Kingdom for themselves by eliminating her father and trying to push themselves into the Carlomin line through her forced marriage to Maddan. The thought of that recent incident infuriated her. She wanted justice but knew it would have to wait. Nevertheless, she had to acknowledge that she had benefited from the experience. It had given her greater confidence in herself and the belief that if a challenge or threat arose she would step forward rather than step back.

  Her thoughts returned to the green-eyed archer. Thomas had shown no interest in anything like that. He seemed focused solely on her and not on what she represented. In the short time they had spent together, she connected with him in a way she had not connected with anyone else before. He had explained what he saw as the value of learning to rule, the importance of observing both the words and actions of her father and the other monarchs, so that she could become more educated in governance and leadership from both the good and the bad decisions.

  So she came to the Council with a new perspective, hoping to glean as much from the happenings as she could so that she could use what she learned in the future. Yet despite doing her best to listen to all the conversation around her, her eyes inexorably drifted to the open seat that belonged rightfully to the Lord of the Highlands.

  Her father had pondered the destruction of the Crag and the loss of Talyn Kestrel, his best friend, ever since that formerly indestructible keep fell. Rodric claimed that a group of renegade Highlanders murdered Talyn and his son, Benlori
n. Gregory, Sarelle and a handful of other rulers didn’t believe him, guessing that Rodric had authorized the attack because his larger plans required control of the Highlands.

  Thus, when the grandson disappeared, as required by law Rodric appointed a regent to serve for ten years, until such time as the heir of the Highlands appeared. If, at the end of that time period a legitimate successor did not step forward, the High King would assume formal control of the Highlands.

  Gregory had met Thomas several times, noting the similarity to Talyn Kestrel. Rodric’s efforts to ensure the boy’s death when he put the boy on Trial during the Eastern Festival strengthened his belief that there may be more to the boy than met the eye. No matter what the boy did to survive the dangers and false charges Rodric set against him, the High King threw up another obstacle or offered another lie as he pursued the boy’s death. In the end, Thomas had leapt from the Tinnakilly battlements and Gregory had no way to confirm his suspicion that the boy was Talyn’s grandson.

  The additional burden his daughter carried as a result of that experience weighed heavily on Gregory in part because as a father he wanted to fix the problem, but he had no way to do so. However, despite an exhaustive search, Thomas’ body had never been found. So Gregory still carried some hope that the boy had survived and a claimant for the Highland throne would emerge before the Council ended, for Rodric had placed the most important business of this Council, the decision regarding the Highlands, on the last day.

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have to wait?” asked Gregory, shifting from side to side, his natural instincts as a warrior chafing at having to spend the bulk of the next few days stuck inside a stifling chamber with his peers.

  “You know how Rodric is, Gregory,” responded Sarelle, touching his arm and keeping her hand there, something he noticed immediately and secretly enjoyed. “He’ll want to make a grand entrance. He only has so many opportunities to impress us, so he has to make the most of them.”

  “I’d find a bear walking on his hind legs more impressive than Rodric,” muttered Gregory.

  “Quite so,” laughed Rendael gaily. “Have you noticed that no one stands for Inishmore?”

  All the other Kingdoms were represented except for the chiefs of the Clanwar Desert. At the beginning of the Councils a millennium in the past, these nomadic rulers had been invited to attend, though even Ollav Fola had failed to bring the Clanwar Desert under his control. In part because of the ferociousness of the desert tribes, but even more so the realization that conquering a desert wasted his resources and offered no real benefit. Since the chiefs of the desert clans never attended, the High King no longer sent invitations.

  Inishmore remained a regular concern for Rendael, as it shared a border with Kenmare. A king had once ruled Inishmore, yet his murder led to years of plotting and scheming by that Kingdom’s many lords and ladies seeking the throne, as there was no heir and no noble house was strong enough to hold the crown. To date, no one had held that cursed throne for more than a few months before another claimant, usually because of an unfortunate, suspicious, deadly accident, took control for a brief time. The instability in the Kingdom worried Rendael, forcing his soldiers to pay close attention to that shared border so that the murder and mayhem so common to Inishmore did not carry over into his own Kingdom.

  “The latest round of attempts for the throne have proven particularly deadly,” continued Rendael. “It appears that there are now two primary factions, one supporting a Lord Eshel, who my spies tell me is in Rodric’s pocket, and a Lady Colasa.”

  “That’s worrisome,” said Sarelle, who had a mind for intrigues and alliances. “But not unexpected. Rodric will seek to take advantage of any unrest or opportunity that comes his way.”

  “True, true,” said Rendael.

  “What worries me the most are the ones over there,” said Gregory, nodding across the chamber where Killeran, a Lord of Dunmoor but someone openly in Rodric’s service, spoke with Malachias, supposedly one of Rodric’s advisors.

  Both he and his daughter had cause to arrest Malachias, their memories and emotions still raw from the failed kidnapping Malachias had helped Dinnegan engineer. But nothing could be done about it now during the Council. It would have to wait until the Council’s close, but it would not be forgotten or forgiven. Gregory had sworn to himself that Malachias would pay for what he had done, but he also knew there was more to Malachias than met the eye. A darkness surrounded him, and it had nothing to do with his black cloak and garments. In watching the conversation for a moment, despite Killeran talking and gesturing vehemently, Gregory could tell that Malachias actually was the one in charge, but for whatever reason allowed Killeran to think he was an equal in the relationship. At least for now.

  “So what’s going on in the Highlands?” asked Rendael. “I’ve heard rumors of some kind of uprising. Perhaps that’s the cause of the little tiff that seems to have sprouted up between our two favorite people.”

  Rendael gestured to Malachias, who had decided he had had enough of Killeran’s haranguing and now dominated the conversation. His gestures and voice appeared controlled, yet his intensity was also evident, which left Killeran leaning away from him, almost cowering in fear, perhaps realizing it was never smart to poke a snake. Do it once too often and they tended to bite.

  Kaylie’s ears perked up at Rendael’s question, finally finding the conversation turning in a direction of immediate interest to her.

  “I don’t know for sure,” answered Gregory. “Rumors of the Lost Kestrel, of course. Some are saying that the Lost Kestrel and this Raptor, whomever he is, are one in the same.”

  Gregory suspected that Thomas may have been the Raptor. He had saved him and his daughter from Fearhounds, and his ability with a bow mirrored the stories of what this Raptor could do. But Gregory had no proof, so there was no cause for conjecture.

  “I do know there has been some fighting in the Highlands, though,” continued Gregory. “More than usual. And now signal fires dot the peaks of the Highlands and the sound of bagpipes drifts on the wind. A few of my scouts have tried to enter the Highlands in the last few weeks just to see if they can find out what’s going on. But every time they’ve tried to go across the border, a party of Marchers has met them, telling them to turn back. One scout told me that the Marchers he met even offered a message: ‘Tell the other Kingdoms to beware. The Highlands wake.’”

  “I take that as a positive sign,” said Sarelle. “In the past the only fighters in the Highlands were Killeran’s raiders. If the Marchers are attempting to reassert themselves and reclaim what is theirs, perhaps there’s hope for the Highlands after all.”

  “Perhaps,” said Rendael. “Though the sands pass through the hourglass, as they say. If the Marchers are going to do anything, they have only a few days left to do it. Rodric still has Killeran there as his regent?”

  “Not for much longer, most likely,” answered Sarelle. “The ten-year regency ends at this Council. If there isn’t a legitimate claimant for the Highland throne, Rodric can take it for himself. He won’t have a need for Killeran any longer.”

  “Well, he’s ruled the Highlands for the past ten years through Killeran,” said Rendael. “It’s just a change of appearances.”

  “Yes, but once he has the Highlands for his own, I think we will be in for even more difficult times,” said Gregory, his hand twisting around the pommel of his sword out of habit. “Fal Carrach in particular, as I assume that once Rodric has the Highlands, Loris of Dunmoor will increase his raids across the border we share. From that you can easily guess at Rodric’s next steps.”

  Sarelle and Rendael both nodded. Kaylie as well recognized the potential danger. They had all had to deal with Rodric’s increasing demands. Small at first, in some respects perhaps even inconsequential, but all designed to increase Armagh’s power at the other Kingdom’s expense.

  And after the injury sustained by his son, Ragin, Rodric had become more demanding and authoritarian
, essentially playing at Ollav Fola yet not wanting to recognize that each of the Kingdoms still remained independent. The stress of his son’s near death and permanent marking had eliminated what little patience the High King had had to begin with. Clearly, though over the centuries the position of the High King had lost much of its power and was now primarily viewed as a ceremonial position, Rodric had other ideas as he attempted to expand his reach whenever and wherever he could.

  If Rodric took the Highlands as permitted by the law, he could expand his power much more easily. He would charge Highlanders who failed to acknowledge him as their rightful ruler as criminals, and he could do whatever he deemed necessary to quell any resistance, while at the same time making use of the Highland mines to fill his treasury and use those riches to weaken or gain a foothold in the other Kingdoms.

  “What of this Lost Kestrel?” asked Rendael. “Gregory, you had mentioned him just a few minutes ago.”

  “Likely a myth,” said Sarelle. “Not too long ago, Gregory, Kaylie and I met someone who resembled the legend, but he’s gone now.”

  “Yes,” said Gregory with a heavy sigh, still angry at his inability to save the boy. “But there is something going on in the Highlands, more than just Marchers appearing at the border. I just don’t know for sure what might be happening.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sarelle.

  “The bagpipes.”

  “Bagpipes?” Sarelle repeated, not understanding.

  “Yes, the bagpipes. As I mentioned, I’ve heard the sound of bagpipes drifting down from the Highlands to Ballinasloe. I haven’t heard the bagpipes since the time of Talyn Kestrel.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rendael, who also had known and admired the former Lord of the Highlands. “Why would that be relevant?”

  “The call to war,” explained Gregory. “At least that’s what I interpret the notes to be. The Highlander call to war.”