Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Thorn had known of this, too. Kelyn read the sorrow, the helplessness on his face.

  Carah turned to her uncle. “But you can get Jaedren back. It’s not so long ago. You can find him.”

  He wrapped an arm around her, led her on toward the lodge. “You have other concerns. Tend to your patient.”

  That was ‘no.’ Carah realized it because she stopped insisting. Kelyn watched them climb the steps onto the veranda and disappear in the warm pool of lamplight. Horror sank cold fingers inside him. “How do I tell Laral?”

  ~~~~

  Carah soaked in a tub of steaming hot water. The knots and bruises inflicted by the jolting wagon eased slowly away. Nothing compared to being clean and warm again. The copper tub was long enough to let her stretch out, and deep enough that even her shoulders stayed warm under the water. Bubbles smelling of exotic fruit fizzled under her chin. She had but to raise an arm over the side to find her wine glass, and a fire of scented wood crackled in the hearth. She always liked coming to Drenéleth, but after surviving the last week she learned to appreciate luxury. The life she took for granted might be snatched away in an instant.

  She agreed to retire only after Arryk was settled. Astonishing, the fuss a king’s presence caused. One might think the man was made of porcelain the way the servants worried over every pillow and fold of blanket. Eliad’s household physician, an old highlander herb master, had insisted he inspect the wound, despite Carah’s assurance that she had already taken care of it. From under bushy gray eyebrows the man regarded her as if she spoke as clearly and intelligently as a toad, then bent to conduct the inspection anyway. “What’s the problem?” he asked, straightening. He directed the question, not at Carah, but at Lady Drona who stood beside the great wide bed with her arms crossed and her teeth bared at the bustling servants. “There’s some bruising, but this scar must be from an old wound. I was under the impression His Majesty was on death’s door.”

  Carah raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll take that as your approval of my methods, doctor.”

  “Yours—? As you say, lass. Did he get hit on the head? What accounts for this unconsciousness?”

  “Fairies.”

  The herb master wagged a crooked finger at her. “I’ll not have your mockery, young lady.”

  “Saffron, are you here?” Veil Sight alone revealed the fairy’s arrival, as sudden and graceful as a star’s appearance at dusk. “Can you lift the sleep, please?” Saffron darted over the bed and breathed another breath across the White Falcon. He stirred, groaned, but did not wake. The physician, blind to the fairy’s presence, regarded Carah with something close to hostility, then stooped to raise Arryk’s eyelids, count his pulse.

  “What do you have for the bruising?” Carah asked when he stood back, shaking his head in wonderment. “Teach me to make the poultice, then go away.”

  The scent of herbs lingered in Carah’s fingers; even the perfumed soap couldn’t disguise it. She liked it that way. Someday soon she needed to learn herb lore. While the doctor showed her how to measure out the dried leaves and oils from his bottles, the bath water had arrived. Of course the White Falcon received the first batch. Eliad’s mistresses accompanied the maids with the pails. Narra, the smith’s daughter, was tall and lean and golden. She struck Carah as fiery and cocky as she took command of the situation. “We’ll see to His Majesty’s bath.”

  The other one, the shepherdess, laid out towels near the hearth to warm them and spooned salts into the great tub. Lyana was quiet and demure with a tumble of luxuriant auburn curls. She seemed a little rounder about the middle than when she came to Ilswythe for the Greening dances.

  “And who are you?” Drona demanded. When Narra explained, Lady Athmar bristled. “Ah, no you don’t. I’ll not let the White Falcon be tended by two whores.”

  Lyana gasped. Narra grinned like a viper. “We’re skilled at handling the sons of kings. He’ll come to no harm at our hands. We invite you to stay and see to it.”

  Drona turned as red as a wound and made for the door. “I’ll send in the Mantles.”

  Carah didn’t wait long before following her. By then, a tray with warm toasted bread, delicate meat pies, and fruit compote arrived at her suite. She had a bottle of wine all to herself, and soon a steaming tub of her own. She lingered until the bubbles dissolved and her fingers were wrinkled, then climbed out and wrapped herself in the ugliest green-and-gold brocade robe she had ever seen. One of Narra’s she judged, but as tall as the smith’s daughter was, the robe was still too short in the sleeves and hem.

  The hour had grown late. Doors had stopped opening and shutting. Voices had hushed. And those cloud-soft pillows looked so enticing, but she had to check on Arryk one more time.

  Soft lamps glowed the length of the corridor. The Mantles straightened to attention when they heard her shut her door. How tired they looked, serving every watch, waiting, worrying.

  “Has that old codger toddled off to bed?” Carah asked of the herb master.

  Rance grinned, though his eyes looked bruised. “He’s gone. He saw fit to give us all the stink-eye before he left.”

  Carah hushed a giggle under her hand. “Did His Majesty wake up?”

  “Aye, but he was still groggy. Thought he was at home in Brynduvh. Kept asking for Rose and Daisy.”

  “Who are Rose and Daisy?” Code names for mistresses, perhaps?

  Rance caught the mischievous sparkle in her eye. “His dogs.” He opened the door for her. The Mantle inside intercepted it, inspected Carah head to foot with a glower, then repositioned himself against the wall. A fourth Mantle stood across the suite before the row of windows. Moonlight bled across his white shoulders. Cool darkness swallowed the rest of the chamber. The rich, musky perfume of Ixakan incense lingered in the air with the scents of soap and herbs. Carah paused beside the bureau to light another stick. The lazy coils of smoke rose from the red ember and vanished in the dark. She used it to light a lamp and turned the wick down low.

  Someone occupied the chair beside the bed. Drona, she suspected at first, but the legs were too long and lean. Rhian woke with a start, vacated the chair in a hurry. Carah crimped at the knees until the hem of the robe hit the floor. She hadn’t minded the White Mantles seeing her ankles and toes; why should it bother her if Rhian saw them?

  He cast her a half-grin. You think I haven’t seen a woman’s ankles before? Women who dive for pearls dive naked.

  Carah turned up her nose, deciding a lady would do well to ignore such a comment. Aren’t you supposed to be playing sentry? What must the Mantles think of them, two people gesturing at each other across a room and saying nothing?

  Thorn relieved me. I thought I might find you here.

  They hadn’t been alone since that night beside the lake. During the long ride north, Carah caught Rhian looking at her once or twice, but not a word or thought did he toss her direction. He even volunteered to scout ahead more than his share. It was torture wondering if that moment by the lake meant anything to him, or if Rhian had fallen victim to a madness under the moonlight. She busied herself straightening the White Falcon’s blankets, tucking them about his feet. Did you want something?

  To look at you.

  Carah bit off a grin. Well, stop it. We’re hardly alone. The Mantles weren’t blind. The last thing she wanted was a dose of scandal with her breakfast tea. Rhian kept the bedpost between them. For that she was glad, else she might make a fool of herself.

  Why isn’t he waking up? Rhian asked.

  Carah shrugged. How would you be if you’d died and had only me to bring you back?

  Only you? The emphasis he put on “only” implied something besides contempt.

  How shrunken and fragile Arryk looked in that great curtained bed. Not like a king at all. Is this who she had danced with? And to think, how frightened she had been. In the end, all men were breath and bones. Would she think the same when he woke? “I hope Maeret made it home safely,” she whispered. Likely, she
and Drys traveled more quickly across country on foot than the wagon winding through the foothills. Had she found her aunt’s morning star? Had she found anything but ashes? And Ilswythe? Would Carah ever see home again? For the first time she imagined it a wasted ruin, jumbles of rock and broken towers and charred beams, and the sight of it was like a fist to her belly. She reached for the bedpost. Rhian caught her by the arm.

  “How can anyone hate us so much?” she asked. “Someone wants us dead. Why? What have we done? Weren’t we just living and doing? We did not merit this! But it doesn’t matter. We’re going to be hunted and murdered anyway.” A cascade of terror broke over her, half sobs, half panicked gasps. Rhian tried to cover her mouth but couldn’t quell it.

  “M’ lady,” hissed the Mantle near the window.

  “Here, the sitting room,” Rhian said. Arms tight about Carah’s shoulders, he led her into the adjoining parlor, sat her down on a settee, but she jumped up again, paced, wringing her hands, calculating the distance between Drenéleth and Bramoran. How long would it take Valryk to whittle down the possibilities and send his soldiers north?

  They’re going to find us. No escape…

  Rhian stood in her path. His hands cupped her face. “I hope they do find us.” The cold steel edge in his voice stilled Carah’s panic. A madwoman’s laughter bubbled from her mouth, but her next breath shuddered with a sob. She pressed her face into Rhian’s jerkin, and he held her while she wept. I’m not a monster after all, she thought. No, the betrayal hurt like a thousand knives.

  ~~~~

  Thorn tossed the second falcon and watched it climb the pearl-colored sky. The sun would be hours yet breaking over the mountains but already Thorn was exhausted. He squeezed the back of his neck, rubbed his temples, pressed a knuckle into a throbbing eye. Two messages down. Two dozen to go. What faster way to spread the truth about Bramoran than on a falcon’s wing? Or so he thought, until he actually began. Catching the birds was trial enough. The wild things fought his call, beak and talon. When the falcons finally surrendered, spiraled down from the cliffs and alighted upon his wrist, their frantic, darting minds had a hard time absorbing the message he planted there. Then he had to get the landmarks just right, or the birds might veer off course and fail to deliver the messages at all. He’d hoped to be finished by breakfast. At this pace, the task would take him all day.

  He groaned, realizing he needed help. And his apprentice needed another lesson. Rhian hadn’t learned this trick yet.

  Delectable aromas of frying sausage and baking bread drifted into the garden. If Rhian learned quickly, he could spend his youthful energy on the damn birds while Thorn enjoyed an egg and a cup of tea. Shaking his head to clear it, he ventured back into the lodge.

  Kelyn was already awake. At a long table in the dining hall, he whispered with Etivva and looked a bit stupefied as she explained something at length. They were so enrapt that Thorn managed to snatch a thick slice of buttered toast off Kelyn’s plate before they noticed his arrival.

  “Oh, please, help yourself,” Kelyn groused and shoved his plate toward his brother.

  “No thanks.”

  Etivva chuckled. “The War Commander is appreciating the importance of old history lessons.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Kelyn said. “He’s going to gloat.”

  Thorn clapped his twin on the back, laughing. “Being a little less Father’s ideal woulda paid off this time, eh?”

  Kelyn winced. “Bitter?”

  “Not at all. So which era are we discussing?”

  “The Elf War, of course,” Etivva said.

  “I wrote a book on that, you know. Want to read it?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Kelyn snapped. “Don’t you have something better to do than pester me?”

  “Pestering you is one of my chief pleasures, and you know it. I’ve earned the right, too. I was up with the birds, and I’ve been rallying your army for you.”

  “What army?”

  “Falcons are on their way to Laral and Kethlyn. About to send more.” Thorn swiped a juicy sausage with crackled skin and headed for the corridor. “Seen Rhian yet?”

  “No. Wait, what did you tell my son?”

  “Hnh, a kid stays up past midnight and he thinks he can sleep the day away.”

  “The sun’s not even up yet,” Kelyn tossed after him. “What did you tell them?”

  Thorn hurried upstairs, munching the sausage and licking his fingers all the way. Rhian’s room was on the second floor, but it was empty, nor did his apprentice’s bed appear to have been slept in. He passed Eliad and Lura and the White Mantle assigned to patrol the grounds, but none had seen Rhian. A sinking feeling set in. Thorn paused in yet another empty parlor decorated with antlers and hide-covered pillows, debating. No, what an absurd notion. Carah and Rhian didn’t get along. She could barely abide his presence. Then again, it was Rhian who helped her learn Veil Sight, and he protected her during the bloodletting at Bramoran. If those things didn’t change a silly girl’s mind, nothing would. Cringing, Thorn about-faced and headed up to the third floor.

  He found her room empty, too, and the corner of the bedclothes still turned down neatly for m’ lady. Damn it. Farther along the corridor he asked the Mantles outside the king’s door, “Is my niece inside?”

  “In there all night, m’ lord.”

  Ah. Well, that was a relief. Fear abated, Thorn tiptoed into the White Falcon’s suite. Lieutenant Rance stood at the window. Funny to see the man reach for a sword that wasn’t there. “Asleep on your feet, Lieutenant, or have I lost your trust?”

  “Pardons, m’ lord,” he whispered, raking Thorn head to foot. “I thought His Majesty was going to wake up a while ago. But he was only talking in his sleep.” Rance’s hope was touching. “If you need to speak to him, it will have to wait.”

  “No, no, I’m looking for Carah.” The chair beside the bed was empty.

  Rance motioned toward the sitting room. “Seems she had a scare last night.”

  “A scare?”

  “Breakdown.”

  Ah, yes. Get the patient settled, find a moment’s peace, and reality has a chance to set in. Thorn tiptoed to the parlor, cursing the rustling of his robe. He peered around the lintel and found them asleep on the settee, curled around each other. Carah lay snug in the crook of Rhian’s arm, her head nestled on his chest, her knee drawn up over his thigh.

  Kelyn is going to kill me.

  Rance must have detected Thorn’s panic. He started toward the parlor, but Thorn threw an arm across the doorway and waved the lieutenant away, though he’d probably already seen. He watched his niece and his apprentice a long while, wondering what to say, what to do. How beautiful they were, the lady and the pearl fisher. Beautiful and impossible. Anger flared in Thorn’s face. How could Rhian drop his guard and let this happen? He knew better! Didn’t he? Had Thorn? He was all too familiar with the anguish that came with loving whom he could never have.

  His anger ebbed. He did not envy them the heartache to come.

  He laid a hand to Rhian’s shoulder. Wake up, eejit.

  Rhian woke with a start, throwing a forearm across his face, as if he expected a dragon bearing down on him. Or a father.

  Dathiel, look, I’m sorry—

  Oh, please. Get up, I need your help.

  Rhian relaxed a fraction and tried to untangle himself, but Carah moaned and wrapped an arm around his neck.

  Oh, that’s a tough place to be, Thorn scoffed. And stop grinning about it. I’m about to give you so much work you won’t be able to think ‘romance.’ We’ll discuss this later.

  ~~~~

  29

  A vast, grinding hunger woke Arryk from a nightmare. He had been clawing his way through Brynduvh’s corridors, seeking his throne room. A flutter of wings overhead filled him with terror. Pain pricked his side and a long smear of blood stained the floor behind him. If he could just reach his throne, he would be safe, but the throne room was missing. This wasn’t the right cor
ridor at all. He was lost. How could he be lost in his own palace? Wait, there were the doors, yes, crawl a little faster. He was on his feet now and pushed the doors open to find a feast laid out on half a dozen tables. Candles lit the room golden. He was so hungry. He reached for the platters of food, trying to decide what to eat first, the choice was vital, but he woke before he decided between wild suckling pig or fried peacock tongues.

  He tried to open his eyes. They were matted shut. His arm weighed a hundred stone; it took him a couple of tries before his muscles obeyed and he was able to raise a hand and scrub his lashes. The other arm wouldn’t respond at all; it seemed to be pinned down.

  When his eyes opened, he saw nothing familiar. A ceiling of lacquered heartwood planks. Rough-hewn posts of a strange bed hung with fringed tapestries. A chandelier of elk antlers twined with wrought iron candleholders. None of the candles were lit. Sunlight glared through shuttered windows on his left, when they should be on his right. A guttural echo of sawing and hammering. A young woman in a bedside chair. She laid with her head and arms on the bed, fast asleep. Dark brown curls pooled down her back, dripped across her face. One of her hands curled around Arryk’s forearm. So that’s why he couldn’t lift it. How absurd. He might have laughed if he weren’t so confused. Where the hell was he?

  His leaden arm flopped down across his belly. Pain lashed through him, and he remembered. Nathryk had stabbed him. No, that wasn’t right. Nathryk was dead. Fluttering wings. Falcons. Falcons had stabbed him. He groaned at the memory of a dining hall awash in blood.

  The girl bolted upright, blinked at him and smiled. Goddess’ mercy, her eyes were exquisite, blue like the sun through a sapphire and framed by black lashes. Exquisite and familiar. She leaned close. “You’re really and truly awake?”

  Arryk’s voice proved as stubborn as his arm. He tried to answer, but nothing more than a grunt came out.

  The girl rose and hurried off. At the door, she whispered to the White Mantle stationed there. Gantley? What was he doing standing watch inside the room? His yellow-bearded face looked haggard, but at the girl’s report he turned that rare gap-toothed smile toward the bed. “But don’t let that herb master in here,” the girl said more forcefully.