Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  At the lower tables, Princess Rilyth sat near the dais, according to her station. Da sat across from her and spoke into a curved silver horn she raised to her ear. She cackled a laugh at his quip or his charm or both.

  Near the head of the Fieran table sat a woman wearing a gown quartered white and purple, with purple grape leaves on the white fields. Across from her lounged a golden-haired man wearing white hazelnuts on green. Relatives of the White Falcon, no doubt; Carah wished she knew their names and houses. She found Uncle Allaran and Ni’avh looking uncomfortable at one of the Fieran tables. Leanians may often act as peacekeepers, but to hear him tell it last night, Allaran had enjoyed raising a sword against his southern neighbors, and the Fierans sitting nearby appeared to know it. A good thing little Lassar had been left upstairs with a nanny.

  Footmen rushed along the aisles, setting out ink, quills, and parchment. Squires filled goblets with a pale morning wine. Only ten men from each royal guard stood against the walls. They were interspersed, white black orange, white black orange, all the way around the perimeter of the room, so that they couldn’t function like three armies drawn up against each other.

  It was an odd feeling standing among so many people and going unnoticed. Lonely in a way. Exciting in another. Rhian ushered Carah past Lord Rorin and his son, both of whom wore billowing plumes on stiff, puffy silk hats. “Not a sound,” Rhian whispered as they took up position under the gallery’s balcony. The reason for silence was the Falcon Guardsman on their right and the White Mantle on their left. At least the guards stood at attention, rather than shifting around and bumping into avedrin.

  Is Uncle Thorn here?

  Rhian glowered in reply. He didn’t even bother with scathing thoughts. Taking the hint, Carah breathed deeply, honed in on the buzzing, and focused her Veil Sight. Past the bubble-thin wall of the veil, a galaxy of stars shifted dizzily, dancing, twining. Carah wondered if Lord Tírandon would howl if she told him that his azeth mingled with that of Lord Machara.

  The brightest of the lifelights shone against the far wall. Uncle Thorn crouched between a Leanian guard in orange and another of the White Mantles. Surveying the room, he glimpsed her waving exuberantly at him and his stern expression broke into a chuckle.

  At last, Valryk stood and waved the assembly to order. The talk hushed and silk rustled as the highborns claimed their seats. “We are the people of the Northwest of the World,” he announced, voice ringing to the far corners of the Hall. At a small table off to the side, three scribes in black robes recorded every word. “For the first time in recent history, we join together in a Grand Assembly. Not to resurrect old grievances and past hostilities, but to express our desires for the future, to find avenues for trade and a path to mutual peace and prosperity. Our fathers are renowned in bardsong for their raids, their wars, their measures that ensured division. I wish to amend this. No, see an end to it. There is no reason under the sun that we should continue to live side by side as enemies, dreading the word ‘Fieran’ or ‘Aralorri’ while our good friends the Leanians are torn between two sides of the same old squabble. Three peoples, one purpose.” Applause rose from the tables. Some of the highborns seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the notion; others clapped because they did not want to be thought otherwise. Valryk’s voice quieted to a distant echo as he concluded, “To heal the wounds of the past, we must be willing to do whatever it takes, even if it hurts to cut away the rot.”

  He resumed his chair and took a keen interest in the tabletop. Carah couldn’t decide if he looked weary or worried. He was well-practiced with his masks, but they were unable to hide his uneasiness. On his left, King Ha’el deferred to the White Falcon. Arryk pushed himself to his feet, eyes lingering on the notes he’d made. Once he glanced up, however, he did not refer to them again.

  “Three peoples, one purpose,” he began thoughtfully. His voice was softer than Valryk’s. Princess Rilyth raised her silver ear horn. “I admit, when I received the Black Falcon’s invitation, part of me rejoiced while another part was overcome with fear. Not fear of meeting my ancestral foe, but fear of failure. You see, this, this outreach of friendship has long been my hope, long before I first climbed the steps to assume the alabaster throne. My father tried to force two realms to become one. He failed because he could not unify their desires.” Unlike Valryk’s fine words, these were not rehearsed. They came from the White Falcon’s heart. Still, not everyone was convinced. Rorin, Lord Westport must have thought his oversized hat would hide his expression of skepticism but Carah could see it from across the room. Lord Lander, seated next to Da, refused to acknowledge the White Falcon at all, but stared toward the great silver doors. Carah wanted to slap him. How could there be peace when close-minded and prideful men like him held sway?

  “Exclusion of our neighbors weakens us, not strengthens,” Arryk was saying. “A rope is strongest when made of three cords. A chair stands balanced on three legs. If we can achieve this unity of purpose, we can turn the Northwest into a force that can again influence the world as it did a thousand years ago under Bhodryn the Great. The rest of the continent will look at us and say we are exemplary.

  “What is in the past, should remain there. It is the future we can shape. Down one path lies bloodshed and the rising ashes of our brothers. Down the other lies friendship, cooperation, and honor.” That hit the highborns in their guts. Even Lander glanced around, he who was so prickly about his honor.

  Arryk sat and reached for his goblet. Carah swore she saw his hand trembling.

  King Ha’el didn’t bother rising. He leaned forward on his elbows and looked every highborn in the eye, a twist of contempt on his pudgy mouth. “I am not a man of dreams. My father was practical, so am I. I harbor no illusions that miracles can be achieved in a day, a year, even a lifetime. What I find remarkable is that we sit together in the same room and no one has died.” Dispersed chuckles came from the lower tables. “This is but one day. An isolated event. But a thousand years is made up of many days, one at a time. One day followed by another and another without acts of hostility will one day amount to generations of peace.

  “But it only takes one man to undo it.” He jabbed a finger and swept it from one side of the room to the other. “Do not be that man. The scribes are writing. The singers are watching. It will be infamy that you win. Not glory.”

  At his side, Valryk made a sharp sound, like a man with a garrote around his neck. His face drained to the color of the parchment laid out in front of him as if he were restraining the urge to vomit. The White Falcon reached out, but Valryk waved him back and caught his breath. “I’m all right. Merely … burdened … with the possibilities. Let us begin.”

  The highborns were permitted to argue over an agenda for a couple of hours before luncheon was served. By then, Carah’s feet and the small of her back throbbed and her belly rumbled emptily. How did the guardsmen do it? She looked from one to the next, and not one guard so much as shifted his weight to relieve discomfort.

  A parade of footmen entered, carrying tureens that gave off the scent of mushrooms, wine, and garlic; squires followed with trays of bread rounds, fruit, cheese, butter whipped with cinnamon, and vegetables carved into the shapes of flowers. Envious, Carah watched the highborns fall to. Her belly rumbled like a rockslide. With an elbow she nudged Rhian and pointed at a tray of bread loaves at the end of the nearest table.

  I can’t leave you here.

  We can go together. Left right left right.

  Rhian swallowed a chuckle at the idea of them walking in tandem and leaned languidly against the wall, disinclined to risk stumbling into a servant for the sake of Carah’s empty stomach.

  I’ll bet my maid took my lunch to my room. She’ll find me gone and tell Valryk. I’d best go up and eat, do you think?

  Stay put. You want to be avedra? Well, here you are.

  Thorn starves you half the time, does he? No excuse for escape left, Carah groaned and watched the courses disappear one after another. By th
e time the desserts arrived, she was so hungry and disgruntled that she merely rolled her eyes at the towers of cakes and swirls of sugar. Across the room, Thorn stifled a yawn and sipped from a goblet of wine he had managed to swipe.

  What were we so worried about? Carah complained. Unbalance, my sweet arse. The only thing unbalanced is that Fieran with the bridges on his surcoat. He’s so drunk he can barely sit up.

  Be glad we might’ve interpreted the nightmare wrong, Rhian scolded.

  As large as the Hall was, it had grown hot and stuffy; the meringues were collapsing in the moist heat. Pages discreetly made for the row of arched windows along the south wall and with long hooked poles tipped open the panes. The windows were far too high to provide a view of anything but the overcast sky, but soon the heat wafted out.

  Almost as soon as the Hall felt comfortable again, Valryk beckoned to a footman and pointed at the windows, whispering sharply. The pages promptly returned and closed the windows. The Black Falcon watched, frowning, until it was done, then he stood. The highborns who noticed pushed away their dessert plates and prepared for the next round of talks. But Valryk waved a hand at them, saying, “No, no, continue. It isn’t seemly for a king to piss in a cup.”

  Sweet wines made their rounds, and over the rims of their glasses the highborns resumed talk of trade measures as the natural course of conversation, but still Valryk did not return. “The fare was too rich for him,” joked one of the Fierans to his neighbor. “These Aralorris are accustomed to beer, mutton, and cabbage.”

  Carah grunted at the extent of the man’s wit and told Rhian, Well, it’s true.

  He surprised her with a bark of laughter. I’ll bet he’s eaten his share of— The thought broke off as he turned toward the silver doors, listening. Carah heard it, too. A sharp cadence like drums echoing, far away at first, barely heard under the chatter of the highborns. The rhythm grew, however, as its source approached. More people became aware of it, and conversations stilled. Now Carah could tell what it was. Feet. Marching feet. She leaned out as far as she dared, right up to the edge of the veil, and through the doors she saw the Falcon Guard marching up the corridor.

  At their head, their captain wore a helm with a flowing black horse-hair plume. Foreign bootlick, Da had called him. He was taller than most of his men and whip-thin. Without pause, he led the Guard through the silver doors, shouted an order, and the ranks split into four lines of ten at the foot of the tables. Soldiers of Bramoran’s garrison followed, wearing bright blue livery splashed with the black falcon. They filed in behind the Guard and stood at attention. The ten Falcons positioned throughout the Hall detached themselves from the wall and joined their brethren.

  The silver doors swung shut. Outside, a beam clanged heavily into place.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded King Ha’el. He was on his feet and flame-red with anger.

  Da was standing too, his expression feral, an unspoken promise to rip out throats.

  The highborns sitting nearest the ranks of soldiers cried out and fled their chairs. “Blood!” someone shouted. Dark smears splotched the silver falcons embroidered on the guards’ chests and dappled cerulean surcoats. Carah’s breath came short and fast. Whose blood? There must be some terrible misunderstanding. Had someone reported trouble? Everyone had been getting along.

  Avedra, Car, look! Rhian tugged her elbow and pointed at the Guard captain. Veil Sight revealed an azeth nearly as expansive as Thorn’s and surely as far-reaching and bright as her own. Hues of steel and fire danced among the light.

  Get her out of here. Now. Thorn swept an arm toward the kitchens door at the back of the Hall.

  He wasn’t the only one with the same idea. With a sharp command from their lieutenant, the White Mantles quick-marched toward the dais, surrounded their king, and ushered him for the side passage. The Leanians in orange did the same for Ha’el and his son.

  Hurry, Rhian urged, a hand pressing at the small of Carah’s back. But as they neared the side door, a handful of soldiers poured through, blocking the way. Ha’el shouldered free of his men and said, “We will summon the rest of our guards. We will not stand for this interruption or this insult!”

  The rest of the guards. Carah’s heart sank with certainty. While the highborns had been dining, the kings’ guards had been fighting and dying. Surely that’s where the blood came from. Captain Dashka said nothing to Ha’el. His attention snapped between Thorn and Rhian and Carah. He could see them!

  “Where is our host?” Ha’el cried. “Valryk would not permit this—” He stopped himself as he realized.

  “Aralorri treachery!” cried someone from the Fieran tables. Drona, Lady Athmar surged to her feet. Others took up the cry. Aralorris, facing them across the room, shouted in their defense.

  The cold shivery sound of a sword drawn from its sheath silenced the lot of them. Captain Dashka raised the sword and cried, “Attack!” The Falcon Guard and the garrison soldiers swept past him, swords naked. Dashka himself flung out a hand, loosing a jagged tongue of lightning at Uncle Thorn. Carah’s wail was lost among an ugly chorus of screams, but Thorn leapt aside. Rolling to his feet, he flung a bolt of his own. A swath of Falcons collapsed, convulsing.

  “Stay behind me!” Rhian’s grip was bruising as he shoved Carah up against the wall. Her fingers clutched the back of his jerkin and her entire body tingled as the energy swept through him and thundered from his palms. Subsonic waves crushed the chests of two Falcons. They had been charging past, making for the knot of White Mantles. Rhian’s veil was still intact or the Falcons might have charged him instead.

  Peering under his arm, Carah watched the soldiers swinging indiscriminately at the sheep trapped so neatly. Forks and fruit spears provided a sorry defense. Cousin Ni’avh, white-faced and open-mouthed, darted up the aisle to take refuge behind the royal guard, but a soldier seized her by the shoulder and drove his blade through her spine. Only feet away, Uncle Allaran shoved aside the Falcon he was pelting in the face and reached for his daughter as she fell. The blade dark with her blood silenced his cry of anguish.

  Carah pressed her face between Rhian’s shoulder blades, shrieking. The stench of blood filled her nose. It was happening! The nightmare was true. But there was no running through dark corridors. They couldn’t get out. Frantic, she looked for her father. Lords Lander and Davhin fought back to back, armed with little more than silver plates. Lady Genna and Drys of Zeldanor stood shoulder to shoulder, he crushing faces with wide broad fists, and she wielding a wine flagon like a mallet. Maeret, where was Maeret? Brugge stood atop a table, kicking soldiers in the gut and thumping heads with a black helmet he’d torn off a Falcon. Da ought to be close by, but Carah couldn’t find him.

  Old Princess Rilyth sat where she had all afternoon with her hands knotted around the head of her cane. She glared at the Falcon advancing up the aisle. Her son took a valiant stance in front of her and tried to shove the Falcon away, but the Falcon cut him down at his mother’s feet. She wore a curious smile as she looked up at the blade arcing toward her.

  Someone roared and flung the high table onto its side. Yes, there he was. Da fought on the dais, using a chair leg like a club. His shield was a silver platter, dented and curling around his forearm. Two Falcon Guardsmen hemmed him in, pressing him back and back toward the Leanian guard. Two of Ha’el’s men darted out to help him.

  Thorn worked his way toward his brother. He no longer troubled with the veil, and while he slashed with the singing elven blade, he carefully aimed bolts of fire past the highborns and into their attackers. “Saffron!” he shouted, voice nearly lost in the roar of steel and pleas and sobs. “Staff!” In moments, a yellow ball of light appeared overhead and dropped the staff into Thorn’s hands.

  Dashka aimed a firebolt high. Saffron disappeared in a shower of sparks.

  “Sword, Carah!” Rhian cried. Lightning screamed from one hand while he beckoned with the other. At his feet lay the sword of one of the soldiers he’d struck down
. Carah dived for it, saw a second lying under a chair nearby. She thrust the one, hilt first, into Rhian’s hand, then scrambled on hands and knees for the second. Her skin tingled as she left the veil behind.

  Rhian called after her, but by then she was on her feet and running, clutching the sword to her chest. “Da!” Somehow Kelyn recognized his child’s voice over the shrieks and shouts. Carah tossed the sword. The blade left a blooming red line between her thumb and forefinger. Awkward, the sword was so awkward, but it flew, wobbling, almost as far as the dais. Da caught it up before it finished clattering on the tile, and in his hands it became feather-light and a thing of deadly grace. Until now, Carah thought the name Swiftblade had been given to him out of fun. A child’s thought. He gutted a Falcon and beheaded a soldier of the garrison before she had time to blink. She spun away, missing the safety of the veil, but her foot slipped out from under her. She landed on her arse, legs twisted beneath her, and put her hand down in a warm puddle of blood. Lord Garrs’s eyes stared past her. The woman wearing the purple grape leaves lay nearby. Carah scrambled into the shadow under a table, drew up her knees and threw her hands over her ears. Blood ran in the grooves of the tiles, the heavy cooling pools swirling with spilled wine and the crumbs of crushed cakes.

  In the next aisle, four soldiers surrounded Brugge, dragged him from the table while he roared vows of revenge. Under the windows, Drys of Zeldanor had found a sword, too. And there was Maeret, on her knees beneath a far table, sobbing over her mother’s body. Lord Davhin stood over them, slashing with a sword of his own, the serenity in his face lost to desperation as two men pressed against him.