Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  SONS OF THE FALCON

  The Falcons Saga, Book 2

  By Court Ellyn

  Sons of the Falcon © 2013 by Court Ellyn

  Book design and cover design by Court Ellyn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Part One: YEARS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Part Two: The Bloodletting

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Appendix A: Character Index

  Appendix B: Elaran Glossary, Abridged

  Maps and Elaran Glossary are available at www.courtellyn.com to enhance your reading experience.

  Part One:

  YEARS

  1

  In the year 980 A.E., the last war between the Falcon Kings ended. With the death of Shadryk III, his sister, the Princess Ki’eva, assumed the regency of Fiera; in the fall, her nephew died.

  —Chronicle of Kings

  Blood trickled from Prince Arryk’s nose and into his mouth. A familiar taste. A familiar shame. He ducked a flying fist and wrapped his arms around his head. He should have seen it coming, but he dared hope that his brother had changed.

  Nathryk had arrived at Éndaran only this morning. It was his first visit since becoming the ward of the Leanian king. ‘Hostage,’ that’s what everyone at the castle preferred to call it. All day long, he avoided his younger brothers, preferring instead to nap off his journey and play with the hounds in the yard. Six Leanian guards accompanied him wherever he went, even to the middens. Their orange surcoats blazed; their shiny crested helms had not one speck of dust on them. Seeing them made Arryk feel better. Even Nathryk dared not attack his brothers with those armed men close by.

  But as soon as their nanny tucked the princes into bed and left them to their sweet dreams, Arryk felt his covers flung back. A hand seized him by the arm and another by the hair and dragged him to his feet. Nathryk’s fist pelted him in the face before he woke enough to know what was happening. Arryk curled up in a ball, felt the blood drip free and splatter his knees.

  “You think I don’t know?” Nathryk shrieked, looming over him. “You’re talking about me, all of you. The whole time I’m at Graynor with that fat pig of a king. Tell me what you say! Tell me. Tell me!” A fist landed in Arryk’s ribs with each ‘tell me.’ In truth, no one at Éndaran mentioned Prince Nathryk. Maybe in passing whispers, but Arryk wasn’t privy to them. He tried not to think about his older brother at all. “Do you laugh at me? Do you? Tell me!”

  The shouting woke Bhodryk. Though only five, he bailed out of bed, nightshirt tangled around his legs, and fell into Nathryk, fists swinging. “Stop it!” He didn’t care that his brother was the Crown Prince. Bhodryk hit him anyway, though his blows were as effective as a snowflake trying to quench a bonfire.

  Nathryk shoved his youngest brother aside and reared back a leg, but Arryk caught him by the ankle before the kick landed in Bhodryk’s ribs. Nathryk tumbled to his knees, gasped and rolled over to inspect patches of skin missing from each shin. He grit his teeth and lunged into Arryk. The breath burst from his lungs and his tummy cramped up. He rolled up tight, trying to breathe while Nathryk’s toes hammered him, ribs, thighs, ribs, thighs. “What does Grandmother say about me? She’s my grandmother! You don’t belong here. What does she say?”

  “Highness!” A quick glimpse showed Nanny standing on the threshold with a lamp. Her mouth hung open. Her empty hand reached toward one prince, then another.

  The barrage lifted. Arryk dragged himself onto his knees, wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve. Nanny had both arms around Nathryk’s chest, dragging him away. She was young and strong, and though he kicked, her grip held tight.

  “He made me fall,” Nathryk cried. “Let me go, cunt! I’ll have your head. You can’t do this to me.”

  “Calm down, Highness,” Nanny pleaded. “What would your grandmother say?”

  Nathryk stopped flailing. When Nanny set him on his feet, he rounded on her. “Don’t tell her. If you tell her I’ll kill you in your sleep. You think I’m lying? Who the hell are you anyway? Don’t you know anything? Touch me again and you die.”

  Nanny’s face paled to the color of her nightgown.

  Nathryk glanced at his brothers, snorted contemptuously. “I’m too old for the fucking nursery. Go set me up a room of my own.”

  “A-after you, Highness.” Scared as she was, she refused to leave Nathryk alone with his brothers. For that, Arryk adored her. He could never be so brave.

  As soon as they left, Arryk ran to the basin on the vanity and threw up. All over again. It was the same nightmare all over again. He’d been so grateful when Father sent Nathryk away from Brynduvh. The terror had stopped. “Only a fortnight,” he told himself. “He’ll be here only a fortnight.” Two weeks in the fall, two in the spring, that’s all the treaties allowed for Fiera’s Crown Prince to step foot on his own soil until he was eighteen. Arryk could survive that. He just had to duck his head and keep quiet.

  How to convince Bhodryk to do the same? The older Bhodryk got, the more fiery and stubborn he became. How long could Arryk protect him from Nathryk’s blows?

  He had promised his father. “Keep him safe,” Father said the last time Arryk saw him. They were fleeing Brynduvh because the Aralorris were coming, but Father stayed behind. He tried to look brave, but Arryk could tell he was scared. And sad.

  Nanny returned a short time later carrying her little box of remedies, necessary accoutrements when raising two rambunctious boys. She cleaned the dried blood from Arryk’s face. It had rolled into his ear and his hair. He liked her better than all the other nannies he’d had. Nathryk had run most of them off, or Father had found their ability to keep the peace between his sons lacking and dismissed them. “I don’t think it’s broken,” she said, pressing a cool damp cloth to his nose. “But you might have a black eye in the morning. What was it about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “Really! I told you what he’s like, but you didn’t believe me, did you? You didn’t do anything and he said he’d kill you. He hates everybody.”

  She swallowed hard and dug around in her box. After a long stiff silence she said, “I believe you now. Here, drink this, then lie down.” Arryk choked down a spoonful of bitter silverthorn solution, then Nanny laid a compress of witch hazel and silverthorn powder on his bruised ribs. “Bhodryk, are you hurt?”

  He rocked in Nanny’s chair so hard that his head bounced against the backrest. It felt like flying, he always said. The rocking paused, and Bhodryk shook his head.

  “Then into bed with you.” She tucked them both in again, then made herself a pallet
on the floor between them. Arryk was so grateful he wanted to hug her. She finally understood that there really were monsters in the closet.

  ~~~~

  The next day, Eritha, Lady Éndaran decreed that the three princes were to spend their energy out of doors before they drove her to madness. She was not a soft-spoken lady, nor was she known for her gentleness or tenderness. She took enjoyment in ordering the princes to sit up straight, mind their forks and napkins, study harder but don’t read so much that their eyes suffered. Do this, do that, and nary a word of praise. Bhodryk shrugged her off, but Arryk was terrified of her. He was glad she refused to join the picnic. He could eat his cold chicken however he liked.

  Picnics were a regular occurrence at Éndaran, and one of Arryk’s joys. The Great Fire Sea stretched to the western horizon; endless poppy-strewn hills and neatly tended vineyards rolled away south. Atop the cliffs the sky was so close that he felt he could jump up and catch it. Having spent nearly all of his life inside the palace at Brynduvh, open spaces like these made Arryk feel like a falcon on the wing.

  But not today. Today, dread crouched heavily on his shoulders. It didn’t let him take flight.

  His nose throbbed whenever he forgot about the bruises and raised a hand to itch it. And Nanny was right. When he woke up this morning, he found a purple half-moon under his left eye. His cheek was so swollen that he could see it without straining. At breakfast, Lady Eritha asked him what happened. When her son, Lord Raed arrived at table, he asked the same thing. So did his son and daughter. Arryk told them, “Sword practice.” Not one of them was fooled, however. Though his lie sounded more convincing each time he told it, their glances slid toward Nathryk.

  A fortnight. They only had to put up with Nathryk for a fortnight. And if possible, avoid him altogether. That’s what Lady Eritha did. She shut herself in her chambers, descending for mealtimes only, for decency’s sake, and she spared not one word for her own grandson.

  Arryk darted ahead of Nanny and the armed guards, but Nathryk’s complaints pursued him loud and clear. “Princes don’t walk! How far must we go? We should’ve brought horses. If Captain Bartran had come, he would’ve brought the hounds. A hunt is better than sitting around staring at each other while we eat cold food.”

  Nathryk was going to ruin the day yet. Arryk was sure of it. But he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t in the mood for another bloody nose.

  Three hundred feet below the cliffs, the ocean thundered. Clouds of gulls and shullas wheeled, screaming. Soon, they dampened Nathryk’s grumbling. Arryk kept running, hopping from one stone to the next, arms out as if they were wings. The bruises on his thighs throbbed with each step, but falcons ignored pain. The Tempest Peninsula curved ahead, far out to sea, and on the edge of sight, the lighthouse on Tempest Rock glinted like a hope for happiness. If he thought he could get away with it, Arryk would keep running until he reached the lighthouse. Nathryk wouldn’t follow him that far, not without a horse to carry him.

  He wished his brother could spend his fortnight at Brynduvh instead. Arryk hadn’t understood why Nathryk had to come to Éndaran until Rance and Istra explained to him. It was part of the deal with Aralorr and Leania, in exchange for peace. As a hostage, Nathryk ensured that Fiera’s armies stayed on their side of the Bryna. Brynduvh was off limits because the royal seat was well-fortified, and the Princess Regent might decide to sequester her nephew rather than give him back into King Bano’en’s custody.

  “Wait for me!” cried Bhodryk.

  Arryk groaned but slowed down so his little brother could catch up. He reached out a hand, but Bhodryk raced past, aiming straight for the cliff’s edge, green eyes raised toward the wheeling birds. “Stop!” Arryk cried, catching Bhodryk’s sleeve and hauling him back. “Dummy, you have to look where you’re going.”

  Bhodryk scowled as if caution were worse than useless and tugged his arm free. “I want to see!” Last time, Istra had let them crawl on their bellies until they could see over the cliff’s edge where they watched the shullas diving for fish.

  But not this time. “Highnesses, come away from the cliff!” she called, beckoning sharply. A dignified fourteen, Istra hung back with Nanny and the guards, carrying the basket of food. She was a full-fledged squire and wore riding leathers and a dagger belt. In Arryk’s opinion, the dagger didn’t suit her at all. She wasn’t like Éndaran’s other female soldiers. Her bones were fine and her hair long and silk-shined and golden. Only her hands proved that the dagger wasn’t for show. Calluses lined her fingers; Arryk noticed that last week when Lady Eritha paired them up for dancing lessons in the parlor. “Every prince must master the Imperial,” she claimed. Bhodryk had giggled behind a pillow. Arryk blushed the entire time, even though Istra had been all business and polite instruction. He had danced with his Aunt Ki’eva once, with all the court watching; he hadn’t felt embarrassed then, but quite smug. What was the difference?

  Arryk blushed again as Istra hurried toward them with the picnic basket bouncing against her leg. Bhodryk crossed his arms and pouted. “Take my hand,” Istra insisted. “We’re almost there.” The grassy hill crowned with wind-lashed trees rose ahead.

  The party was catching up, so close now that Arryk saw his older brother’s mouth tighten. Nathryk jogged to catch up, shoved Istra aside, and said, “You don’t have to do what my cousin says, Bhodryk. She’s not the bloody regent.”

  Arryk grabbed Bhodryk’s hand and tried to whisk him back into Nanny’s shadow, but Nathryk’s fingers clenched down on his shoulder. Arryk whirled, fists doubled, but with everyone watching, Nathryk drew back. “What’s wrong with you? Let him go. What are you, a tyrant? He can do whatever he wants.”

  “See?” Bhodryk declared, jerking his hand free.

  “You want to see the birds?” Nathryk asked.

  Bhodryk nodded exuberantly and pointed farther along the cliffs. “They have a nest over there. I’ll show you.”

  “No!” Arryk cried, not liking the grin that turned the corner of Nathryk’s mouth. “We should stay here with the others.”

  Nanny caught up. “I wish you would, Highness,” she said in her firmest voice. “Let’s eat something.”

  Nathryk ignored her as if she were less than a puff of wind. “You’re pathetic, Arryk. If you were Father’s heir, the Aralorris wouldn’t think twice about invading again.” He took Bhodryk’s hand with uncustomary gentleness. “Show me the nest.” Bhodryk sprang away. “And you’re not invited, coward,” Nathryk called over his shoulder. “Stay here with the women.”

  Arryk’s face heated. He wanted to crumple into a heap and die when he saw that Istra had heard and was looking at him. She lowered her eyes and put on a sympathetic smile. “Come, Highness. Will you carry the basket? It’s getting awfully heavy.” She pressed at what appeared to be a stitch in her side, even though the walk from the castle had been slow and tedious.

  Her effort failed to lift his spirits, but he took the basket anyway. It was heavy; he had to carry it with both hands, and the hill felt steeper than usual. Istra saw him struggling and helped him carry half the weight, which humiliated him the more. A coward and a weakling.

  Nanny climbed the hill last, reluctant to let Nathryk and Bhodryk go off by themselves. True, the Leanian guards followed their hostage, but would they intercede fast enough to prevent Bhodryk a black eye? Didn’t make sense, Nathryk’s sudden wish to accommodate the baby brother he’d always despised. Arryk suspected that Nathryk meant it as another blow in the face. One no one else would notice.

  “You have a birthday in a couple of weeks, don’t you?” asked Istra.

  If she was trying to distract him, it wasn’t working. Arryk kept an eye on his brothers.

  “How old will you be?”

  “Nine.” He set the basket down under the twisted trees and watched Bhodryk drop onto his belly as Istra had shown him. He squirmed toward the cliffs, infantry-style, and pointed over the edge. Nathryk walked right up to the cliffs, bold as you please, and peered down
at the nests. “I hope he’s gone by then,” Arryk added. “Or he’ll ruin it, like he ruins everything.”

  Istra had no comment for that. Very diplomatic of her. She helped Nanny fling out a quilted blanket. “Grandmother hopes to get you something nice. Thought about what gifts you want?”

  “My father back,” he muttered into the wind. For a couple of weeks after fleeing Brynduvh, he kept watching the gates for his father’s arrival. No one had the courage or courtesy to tell him the truth. Then everyone started calling Aunt Ki’eva the Princess Regent. In a cloud of urgency and anger, she had departed the safety of Éndaran to attend the peace talks. Arryk remembered sitting in Lady Eritha’s dark moldy library, hunched over a math lesson when the certainty overcame him. Istra sat across the table, tutoring him while Master Graidyn, in solemn black robes, helped Bhodryk learn to spell in a sunny corner. The numbers on Arryk’s slate blurred under sudden tears and he tried to swallow his sorrow, afraid of what the Éndaran household might think of a sobbing prince. Istra saw anyway and asked him what was wrong. “He’s dead, isn’t he? The Aralorris killed him.” Istra glanced at Master Graidyn, but the tutor was absorbed with his younger pupil. When she turned back, tears clouded her own eyes. She nodded. Arryk was grateful for the honesty, even while he sobbed, math lessons spoiled for the day.

  Salt-scented wind battered the hilltop, swirling Nanny’s skirts and tangling the curls about Istra’s scarred face. After an awkward silence, she suggested, “You’re ready for your own pony, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” He sat down on the blanket to keep the gusts from whipping it away, and hugged his knees close to his chest. Nanny pulled jars of butter, fruit, and custard from the wicker basket, along with smoked chicken wrapped in wax paper.

  “My father said he would take you on as squire, too, if you’re interested.” Istra unsheathed her dagger and grabbed the loaf of bread. “That’s a nice present, eh?”