Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Is that why he hides her?” Thorn asked. “Hnh, of course. Now, listen to me, both of you. Rhian, you too.”

  Someone called out to Kelyn, and he answered, waving, right over Uncle Thorn’s request.

  “We’ll dismount here, and I’ll take the Elaran horses back outside the walls. They mustn’t be seen in Valryk’s stables. Carah, you’re to stay outside in the grounds until your da and I have investigated things inside. Rhian will stay with you. You’re not to come inside the castle until I come get you myself. Understood?”

  “Yessir,” she said, careful not to glance toward his voice. She made a show of gawking at the Leanian entourage instead. She swung down from the saddle; blood rushed into her hips and knees, and she sighed, grateful.

  Rhian handed Dúindor’s reins to an invisible hand, and the Elaran black disappeared. In this press of people and horses no one noticed; even so, the pearl fisher rolled his eyes at what he must’ve interpreted as carelessness. A page ran to them and untied the trunks. Rhian helped the boy with the fancy knots.

  “Lord War Commander,” greeted Lander, nudging his way over to them. Brown and silver curls lay heavily upon his shoulders. The sharpening creases around his gray eyes made him look grouchier year by year. “Were you privy to this nonsense? It’s like you to support such a maneuver.”

  “Is it?” Da’s voice sounded wooden suddenly.

  Lander wagged a finger. “I’m not happy to share a table with Fierans, I assure you. The king had better not seat me near one or I shall be forced to insult his guests.”

  “Yes, no doubt it’s wise to forbid weapons in the King’s Hall.”

  Lord Tírandon didn’t like that remark one bit; he huffed and shrugged his way back through the crowd.

  “Right, I’ll go inside and look around. You’ll be all right out here?”

  Carah nodded, keenly aware of Rhian giving orders to the pageboy to be careful with the lady’s trunk. “I’m desperate for a walk. Maeret may pride herself on her calloused, rock-hard arse, but I don’t.”

  Laughing, Da pressed his way toward the keep and was soon lost in the sea of Leanian blue.

  Fingers gave Carah’s elbow a squeeze, and Rhian said in her ear, “Let’s find a corner where we won’t be trampled.” He carved a path through the jostling crowd and led her to the far side of a circular fountain; water jetted through the mouths of three rearing stallions. Rhian scrubbed his hands and neck, and while Carah stretched her shoulders she noted that even while Rhian splashed his face, his eyes were open and scanning the crowd, the windows, the rooflines.

  “Ha, look what I found,” exclaimed a man’s voice. “My most beautiful grandniece.”

  Uncle Allaran must’ve had the same notion of finding a quiet corner until the crowd cleared. He still had the strong shoulders and powerful stride of a young man, but his whitening hair and deepening jowls reminded Carah of how long it had been since she’d seen him. Since Grandmother Alovi’s death he had made the journey east only once. He blamed it on rheumatism, but everyone understood that Ilswythe had lost its charm for him, with his sister gone from her garden.

  “At least, I think you’re the Duke of Ilswythe.”

  Carah laughed and returned his embrace.

  “You’ve grown up these past ten years. Why would you want to do that?”

  “It couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. Is your family with you?”

  “Only Ni’avh and my grandson. They’re getting settled.” Had Cousin Athna traded her inheritance for the sea? Is that why he brought along his middle daughter? “Oh, you must see Lassar. He’s four, but bold and spirited, much like me.” Allaran’s eyes crinkled at that. “My youngest is looking after your Aunt Klari. Islinn begged us not to come without her, and Klari begged us not to come at all. But we must do as the king commands. The Black Falcon requested the presence of my heirs, and Ha’el insisted I be among his retinue. What’s a man to do?”

  “You’re not sorry you came.” Carah didn’t believe it for a minute.

  “Both Falcons under the same roof? I wouldn’t miss it, and what swordsman prefers to die in times of peace?”

  “My father fears it will end in war as well.”

  As much as Allaran seemed to dislike the idea of dying in an old man’s sickbed, he saddened at Carah’s statement. “Your father’s instincts rarely failed us before. But forgive me, you’re not alone.” His glance raked the livery Rhian wore and clung for a moment to those aquamarine eyes. “Not a suitor, is he?”

  Carah huffed. “Hardly. He’s a pearl fisher and avedra, an apprentice of Uncle Thorn. He’s in disguise as Da’s squire. Isn’t it exciting?”

  Rhian glared at her. Blabbermouth. You trust this man entirely, I hope. He was not gentle with the assault of words. Dizziness forced Carah to sit on the edge of the fountain.

  “A west coaster or an Islander?” Uncle Allaran was saying. “My eldest is fond of the Pearl Islands. Are you acquainted with Captain, Lady Athna of the Pirate’s Bane Two?”

  “Oh, she’s your daughter,” Rhian drawled, then followed with a dry chuckle. “Only by reputation, m’ lord. Wild stories came out of the war.”

  “Did they? You shall have to tell me sometime, over lots of wine, you understand. My daughter keeps too many secrets, it seems. And how does a pearl fisher come under the tutelage of Thorn Kingshield?”

  Rhian’s smile was almost wistful. “ ‘Twas a—” The blare of trumpets, far away on the outer wall, interrupted him. A short while later, they blared again, closer, brazen, and the thinning sea of Leanian blue parted. Carah climbed onto the fountain wall to see over the bobbing, shifting heads. Heralds in green velvet rode through the inner gate carrying banners twice as long as their horses. The white falcon flapped over their heads.

  “I can’t believe it!” Carah cried. “They’re actually here.”

  “Get down!” Rhian ordered.

  She ignored him, pushed his hand away, and enjoyed the parade. Twenty-five guards followed the heralds; their white cloaks were so long that they billowed over their horses’ rumps. Silver wings swept back from the sides of polished helms. The man commanding them waved an arm over the heads of the onlookers. “Clear the way for the White Falcon!” The guests, pages, and grooms who had poured from the castle to witness their arrival scuttled from the clatter of hooves. But that was not far enough. The vanguard split into two lines that trotted through the courtyard in a widening wedge, clearing the people away from the steps of the keep. The riders in the rear closed a circle barbed with sheathed swords. Into the empty space rode a man on a white horse. Wearing neither a crown nor the device of his House, he might’ve been just another highborn. Carah would have glanced past him if it weren’t for the way he carried himself; some kind of unnamed grandeur set him apart. Perhaps it was the offhanded confidence that came with the absolute certainty of his authority.

  For a moment, he owned that empty circle in the middle of Bramoran.

  A rearguard of twenty-five more White Mantles followed him closely. Behind them, Fiera’s lords and ladies and their heirs filed through the gate. Green boars, green primroses, green grapes, red towers, white hazelnuts, purple leaves, and black gargoyles fluttered on the wind. Carah’s excitement shrank before a rush of fear. The Fieran entourage looked like a small army drawn up inside the gate, and she realized how near disaster loomed. She’d heard all the tales, all the songs, all her life, but surely they fell short of reality. She never imagined she would see the ancient enmity directed at her, but there was it, plain on the stony faces drawn up across the cobblestones. Scars earned fighting Aralorris branded many a cheek and brow. One harsh word, one insulting gesture, and the warriors among them would as soon cut her throat as look at her.

  The White Falcon rode halfway up the steps and dismounted. One of the Mantles led his horse away, and the king stood a long while above the crowd, meticulously removing one riding glove, then the next, apparently untouched by the silence reverberating in the courtyard, the stare
s of hundreds of enrapt eyes. He tucked the gloves away and took a slow, careful measure of the upturned faces, the surrounding walls lined with sentries, any one of whom might hold a grudge and loose a single arrow. Turning, slowly turning, his glance crossed over Carah standing higher than her neighbors, and she thought that for a half a heartbeat the White Falcon’s eyes arrested on her before moving on.

  Deciding that it was better to go unnoticed, she slid down from the wall to stand between Uncle Allaran and Rhian.

  The silver doors of the keep swung open like a gaping mouth, and King Valryk emerged, surrounded by four Falcon Guards in black. Every Aralorri in the courtyard dropped to a knee. Carah couldn’t see a thing now but Leanian arses. To hell with it. She rose again and gawked with the rest. The Falcon Crown gleamed golden upon Valryk’s brow, and a cerulean cloak lined with ermine followed him down the steps with the weight and flow of an avalanche. “Ah! Cousin!” He opened his arms as he approached the White Falcon, clasped his shoulders, and kissed him on each cheek.

  A good show. Was it genuine? Didn’t matter. The courtyard erupted with cheers. The Fierans were decidedly quieter, perhaps not yet warmed to their surroundings or ready to believe the gesture. The Falcon kings exchanged pleasantries, their words drowned by the outcry, then Valryk swept Arryk away into the keep. The White Mantles clung closely, and the entourage of highborns followed. Not one of them lingered in the courtyard to stroll or mingle.

  As they passed, Uncle Allaran pointed them out. “Mother’s bosom, look at that. Lady Athmar herself. Never expected Drona to cross the Bryna without a sword drawn.” Carah saw only an old woman at the end of his finger. Iron-gray, short-cropped hair curled around a square face as hard and lined as a block of oak. She wore not a riding gown, as some of the other ladies, but leathers and a studded doublet like a man. The sword on her hip was plain for all to see. “A formidable wall she and her brother were. Twins, you know, and they were loath to take prisoners. That young buck beside her. That must be her nephew, Lord Ulmarr. He’s to inherit Athmar as well. He was only two when we razed the place and your father lopped off his father’s head—”

  “My father?” Da had left that detail out of the story.

  “You don’t think he could afford to be merciful all the time, do you?”

  She didn’t guess so, but neither could she imagine her father lopping off a man’s head. Lawbreakers in town, poachers, and highwaymen were all hanged in the village square. Da condemned them after a hearing, but he wasn’t the one who pulled the lever.

  Uncle Allaran pointed out many more notables, among them the new Lord Quelstorn who’d been granted his lands after the old Lord Quelstorn was beheaded for supposedly plotting to murder Queen Istra; Lord Johf, son of Lord Haezeldale and brother to one or another of Shadryk’s queens; Lady Arwythe, maternal aunt of King Arryk; Lord Machara, some distant cousin of the renowned and terrifying Warlord Goryth.

  “I don’t see Brengarra’s banner,” Carah said, hoping Laral would provide one familiar face. His daughter was a sweet girl, if a bit silly in her constant search for a beautiful love song. Carah had hoped for a companion to provide an excuse to avoid Maeret.

  As soon as the last Fieran disappeared inside, the Leanians and Aralorris in the courtyard succumbed to gossip and excited babble. The roar was a tiresome flood in Carah’s ears. “Oh, where is Uncle Thorn?” She drooped down onto the fountain wall. “I need a bath before supper. Do you see him?”

  Rhian made no attempt to hide his frown of disapproval. “Have you been using Veil Sight?”

  “My body aches enough without adding a headache to it. If I got sick here—”

  “Use the bloody Veil Sight. Sure I taught you for a reason. The headaches will go away if you keep practicing, and you would’ve seen Dathiel pass long before those trumpets raised a raucous over nothing.”

  Over nothing? Carah gritted her teeth. She shouldn’t expect a pearl fisher to understand. “Tomorrow, after I’ve rested.”

  “Why did we bring you then? It’s impossible you are.”

  Uncle Allaran watched the exchange with growing effrontery. That a commoner should speak to a lady in such a way. He cleared his throat and with a firm hand led Rhian away from the fountain and his grandniece. “While you wait for orders, tell me of the Islands.” It was a tactful way of reminding the pearl fisher of his place, and while Carah was grateful to her uncle, something in her felt sorry for Rhian, too. With half an ear she listened to his answers to Allaran’s questions, then he began to elaborate on the dangers of pearl diving. Son of the Sea… “The last time I dived, there was a seal. It brought me here.” Carah glanced up at him, a peal of incredulous laughter bubbling up until she saw that he was perfectly serious. After that she found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, listening for the foreign turn of his words, the way his voice rose at the ends of sentences even though he wasn’t asking a question. Though he told his tales to Allaran, he seemed to aim them at Carah. The cut of his eyes in her direction was like a secret caress, and while he explained the self-debasement of selling pearls to a man who never dived for them and could not appreciate them, Carah heard inside her head, This I inherited from my father. Is there no nobility in it?

  She whirled away from him and saw that the courtyard was all but empty. Dusk settled inside the walls, and the orange glow of sunset backlit the western towers. Enough was enough. “The banquet will start without us, and I can’t dine with kings smelling of horse.” She was halfway up the steps before Rhian caught her by the arm. Allaran followed more slowly, puffing a bit.

  “We’re to wait—”

  “You wait!” she retorted. “Men. All you have to do is scrub an armpit or two and you consider yourselves presentable. I’ll deal with Uncle Thorn and proclaim your innocence.” She wrenched her arm free and entered the castle. Once a steward learned her name, he led her to the new wing. She supposed Rhian followed, though she refrained from glancing back. Her room, on the top floor, was done up in lilac silk and even smelled of lilacs. The sickly sweet perfume was overwhelming. Her trunk had been opened, her gowns and robe hung in an armoire, and a maid was ironing them one by one. “Oh, you dear thing,” Carah said. “Is my bath cold?”

  The maid, a small, ginger-colored woman, curtsied. “Water’s reheating now, m’ lady. Which gown will m’ lady wear this evening?”

  Carah chose the pale blue silk with the long slender sleeves, though the idea of dressing for a dinner party after riding all day was enough to make her groan. Spoiled, that’s what she was. If the Assembly was ever held at Ilswythe again, she would show more sympathy to the highborns who ended their days of travel with an all-night dance. No wonder everyone was cranky during the talks.

  The maid was in the middle of tightening Carah’s stays when the chamber door crashed open. Carah shrieked, which caused the maid to shriek, but Da standing on the threshold looked most terrified of all. As soon as he saw Carah at the mirror, his fear turned to rage.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he began, anger restrained, then he glared at the maid and ordered her out.

  As soon as she fled through the servants’ entrance, Thorn appeared amid a shimmering, dissolving curtain. He shut and locked the door. “The first order I give you, you blithely disobey. Why in all the Abyss do you suppose I hadn’t come for you yet?” His hands gestured wildly. “There are wards set up all over the castle, Carah. Magical barriers that humans can’t weave. I can only suspect who Valryk is in league with, and this is not good.”

  “Barriers? What kind of barriers?” As she breathed in, the stays unraveled down her back. She had to tug the dress up and hold it in place.

  “The same kind that kept us from gleaning information from the ogres we captured. They’re woven around the minds of every member of Bramoran’s household, garrison, the Falcon Guard, all of them. I passed Valryk in the corridor, and his mind was barred from me, too. In other words, I can’t figure out what he’s planned or why or when, but it’s
something that someone fears might leak out ahead of time. What’s wrong with rumor floating around, eh? And the fact that someone anticipated the presence of avedrin and went to the pains of shielding all these minds has me doubly worried. This someone has to be close and concentrating continually or the wards would unravel, yet they remain as solid and deafening as an earth-packed wall.”

  “But who, Uncle—?”

  “Elarion.”

  “Here?”

  Someone rapped on the door. Thorn turned the lock. Rhian slipped in. “I could hear you bellowing in the corridor. Mind yourself.”

  Thorn wagged a finger. “You were supposed to keep her outside.”

  “I walked right over him,” Carah said. “It wasn’t his doing. Now, may I recall my maid or will one of you gentlemen finish her job for her?”

  Looking sheepish, Thorn said, “Turn around.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  He grinned. “I know how this works.”

  His brother made a sound of disgust.

  “I won’t ask how,” Carah said, grabbing hold of the bedpost. With a giggle she added, “Or whom.”

  “Ha, ha,” he replied drily. While he pulled the stays taut he ordered, “Rhian, be useful. Go to the kitchens, the stables, the armory, be charming, ask questions, see if you can get someone talking. Make use of those eyes if you must, kiss a few girls, but learn something.”

  “Degrading assignment,” he said, but even with her back turned Carah detected his insincerity. She tried not to imagine him nuzzling the neck of her ginger-haired maid but failed. He slipped out again.

  Da was wearing a hole in the rug. “I’ll ask Lissah. Surely she knows what’s going on.”

  “And she might not be willing to let you in on the secret.” Thorn tied off Carah’s stays. “Invite her back here for a drink and a chat. I’d like to know if the ward is woven around her as well.”

  ~~~~

  21