The Hawk and the Falcon

by Benjamin Corman

  When she awoke it was morning, another stark, clear, day. Bright, but unremarkable. It was chilly, so she put her cloak on once again, and moved up to where Halster sat beside the driver.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Did you manage some rest?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll rest when we’re there and safe.”

  Safe. A funny word. She did not feel it had much place in their future. At least not in the near term. But she nodded and smiled, and he did the same in return. No need to bring her worries to everyone around her.

  They stopped long enough to cook bacon and the serving women proved their worth by managing to fashion biscuits with what little supplies and crude instruments they had and had obtained before departing the port. The food was, once again, nothing short of miraculous. And then they were on their way.

  Within a few hours another town came into view, squat buildings of plaster and thatched roofs, nestled into rolling hills of dirt and scattered grass. A castle of earthen bricks rose above it, comprised of three towers set in a triangular shape, and connected by walls reaching almost as high, beside which wings of at least two stories extended from the main crenellations on each side.

  Alaina’s heart caught in her throat at the sight. The time was drawing near, confrontation with her brother’s killers nearly upon her. Her bravery faltered in that moment, and she suddenly felt small, alone. She thought to tell Halster Brighton to order the carts to stop, to turn around, but instead found the inside of her lip with her teeth, and bit down, hard. In that moment of pain, she steeled her resolve.

  She leaned forward, staring off at the towers in the distance, growing larger and larger by the moment. “Make haste,” she said. Halster looked to her, raised his bushy white eyebrows in question. But she said no more, and so he turned and nodded to the driver, who cracked the reins, and launched the cart forward.

  Alaina did her best to smooth the fabric of her dark blue dress. It had once been a lovely affair, dramatic she thought really, with sleeves that came to a point past her knuckles, a bodice cut low, but done up with crisscrossing black ribbon, cinched high on the waist, but with a flowing hem that went to her toes, and a slit up the right side, exposing a lighter shade of blue below, and all about embroidered scrollwork in yellow and red. Yes, it had once been lovely, but the voyage across the Kaspen had not been gentle on any of her garments, and this rumpled mess she had pulled on before entering the town proper, was the best she could salvage from the wardrobe she brought.

  Some of the serving women had attempted to help her, with steam from their pots, and what irons they had, but the miracle of their cooking could not be extended to the ravaging of her clothing. So now she sat, upon the back of a horse borrowed from one of the cartmen, making her way through the town gates, wrinkled and salt stained. She almost wished now that she had kept at least one dress in a sorted state, but that was the clear thinking of today, not the heaving, rain-drenched mindset of their journey. It was not the way she wanted to make her entrance, but there was little to be done about it, and she did not want to delay any further.

  Halster Brighton rode to the right and slightly behind her, holding aloft a banner of blue bearing the silver falcon of House Lyle. He looked little better in clothing, but he sat upright and proud, baring teeth in a tight smile at the townsfolk who came out to gawk at their motley procession. The servants followed behind on foot, with the carts, still laden with their baggage, coming up in the rear.

  It wasn’t long before they were passing the squat buildings of the town, housing the familiar sights and sounds of shops and vegetable stands, blacksmiths, and tanners, and coopers, and were heading out into the grassy fields beyond. They followed the winding dirt road that led up to Cragsmoor Keep, a castle so named for the heaving brownstone that jutted from the earth, upon which it sat. There was a time Alaina would have thought any new keep an adventure to explore, but now it looked only a dreary and frightening place. Banners of yellow whipped in the winds from atop crenellations, bearing the black hawk of House Casterlin, the wings of the birds thereon tipped up slightly above the mid-point, but below the higher-reaching wings of her own falcon crest.

  They were met at the gates by a regiment of guardsmen in dark plate, wearing yellow surcoats with black hawks at the breast, tall poleaxes in hand. No fanfare for certain, nor any members of the Duke’s house forthcoming to greet them. So, they dismounted, and Alaina exchanged a furtive, questioning, glance with Halster, who only shrugged, and then he and the others followed the guards inside, Alaina at their lead.

  Dim hallways with narrow, rectangular-cut windows, allowed only thin streams of light in, though iron sconces were set with flickering torches at regular intervals. Even for an eastern keep it seemed dreary, until Alaina noticed they occasionally passed wider halls, and realized they were being led through side passages, likely designed for the servants. She cleared her throat loudly, and looked ahead to those leading her, but if they had heard, they made no indication. Finally, they came to a pair of wide-set doors, made of wide darkwood planks, banded and studded with iron. The doors opened, and as she moved forward with Halster, the guards stepped back and between her and the rest of her retinue, forming a wall of steel and poleaxe.

  Alaina’s skin prickled and she raised a hand, intent on objecting, but then the doors were closing, and she found herself turning and following Halster Brighton ahead. At the least, he did not seem concerned, though for herself, being surrounded by fewer and fewer folk from Lyle made her nervous.

  Ahead the keep’s audience chamber loomed. A high vaulted ceiling mired in gloom, walls bearing those same thin-cut windows, a sandstone floor upon which rows of benches sat, bearing now only a dozen or so people, and at the fore, a dais raised two steps in height. Three lacquered chairs rested on the dais, the center one of which sat higher than its counterparts to each side, and on those chairs – likely the people responsible for her brother’s murder, and perhaps her father’s death as well.

  To the left sat an aged woman, gray hair pulled into a bun atop her head, dressed in a dark gown, golden circlet on her head, a chain of gold and rubies laying over the wrinkled creases in the skin of her neck and breast. On her lap sat a dark, gray cat, it’s yellow eyes as wide as saucers, it demeaner tense, like that of one who wanted to bolt as far away from this place as possible but could not bring itself to do it. Then again, perhaps Alaina was placing her own feelings upon the poor creature, but nonetheless, a light, wrinkled hand resting upon it’s back from the woman was enough to keep it in place, so too, did the glare of Blanche Casterlin, wife of the late Duke Leyton Casterlin, cause Alaina to pause in her tracks.

  To the right sat a woman perhaps ten years Alaina’s senior, attired in black and yellow, with dark hair, and a pale complexion. Her nose was wide, and her eyes set a bit too far apart. Those dark eyes appeared to have little spark in them, and so Alaina knew assuredly that this was Anne Casterlin, Blanche’s only daughter.

  This left the high chair in the center, atop which sat the lord of the house. A man older than Anne by a fair bit, barrel-chested, with thin legs and arms. He wore a doublet of dark yellow, and a satin cloak of black. His head was bald, but dark whiskers went from beside his ears to his chin. What Alaina knew of his appearance was accurate, and so she knew this was Blanche’s only son, and Anne’s older brother, Lord Stans Wallace, Duke of Casterlin.

  Alaina’s heart fluttered at the sight of the trio, feeling again so much alone, though at the least, there were other women in attendance, so that brought some minor comfort. Certainly, they would be cordial, but seeing the family of the second-most powerful house in Hyrel arrayed before, the scheming, power-hungry family that she knew them to be, made her blood run cold.

  A curly-haired boy dressed in ruffled velvet stepped out from beside her and raised his head toward the dais. “Lord Halster Brighton, escorting the Lady Alaina of Lyle, sister to the Prince Regent Byron of Lyle. We welcome you to the
court of Duke Stans Wallace of Casterlin.”

  Alaina stepped forward and curtseyed slightly. “Daughter to the King of Hyrel,” she added.

  “The King is dead,” Blanche Casterlin said, her thing lips moving up in one corner into what Alaina thought was the slyest of smiles. “And buried, as I understand it.”

  Alaina nodded, and bowed her head slightly. “As it were, yes, my brother Byron to be crowned soon, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Blanche, not breaking the stare she was leveling Alaina’s way.

  Stans Wallace grunted, shifted his bulk in his chair. “Welcome my lady,” he said, carefully enunciating each word, but with little emotion in his voice. “We are glad to have you here. At Cragsmoor.”

  “My pleasure, m’lord,” she said, with another slight bow of her head. “I am glad to be here and look forward to partaking of the bounty this land has to offer.”

  Anne Casterlin snorted at that, but when Blanche turned and glared at her, she quickly dashed her smile away behind a hand., casting her eyes downward. “Little more to see than hills of dust, I’m afraid,” the younger lady mumbled softly.

  “Yes, m’lady,” Alaina responded, smoothing the dress in front of her nervously. “Well, each place has its own merits, in its own way.”

  “Suit yourself,” replied Anne with a shrug, biting on the nail of one of her hands. Blanche shot her another sideways glance, and again Anne shrunk.

  “Well, my lady,” Stans Wallace broke in, “I am sure you are weary from the road. My guards will see you to the chambers set aside for you.”

  “And there will be accommodations for Lord Brighton and my servants, as well?” Alaina asked.

  “Yes, well, yes,” Stans Wallace managed, nodding somehow awkwardly.

  Alaina furrowed her brow and squinted at the three arranged on the dais, but had little time to think, before the guards were again ushering her onward, out of the room. She glanced over her shoulder before she crossed the threshold, and saw son and mother, heads together, whispering something between themselves. Anne had leaned in as well, and chuckled lightly, a move that earned her glares from both of her other family members.

  Again, the guards led her and Halster through the dim hallways of the keep, dimmer now as the sun was setting in the sky. They took a large set of stone stairs upward before winding around again in to what she discerned was the eastern wing of the keep. Halster was let off at a small door, which a guard pushed open for him, before the other guardsmen were moving again, Alaina following reluctantly in tow. She was seen to a thick wooden door a dozen paces away, which the guard opened to reveal a small, low-ceilinged trio of rooms. A small antechamber, a bedroom, and a washroom, could be seen, assuredly simple, but perhaps that was the custom in the east.

  She stepped inside to inspect the accommodations, but only made it a few steps before she heard the door slam shut behind her, banging loudly in its stone frame. She spun around and was about to scoff indignantly, when she heard the scraping of metal on metal as a key turned and the door was locked shut.

  Alaina hurried over to the door and pulled on the iron ring that served as handle. When it didn’t budge, she banged her fist against the wooden boards, producing only a dull thud. “What in the name of Rook—”

  “It’s like that every night,” a small voice said, from a chair in the corner of the antechamber. Alaina turned and saw a young woman, round face framed by long, black hair. She was dressed in the dark dress and light apron of a scullery maid, though she sat her chair with little poise. “Even before you came.”

  “You mean to tell me they lock the rooms every evening?”

  The young woman only nodded.

  Chapter Eight

  MARTIN

  The tavern keep, a short, balding man of middle years, filled the pewter tankard again with ale, froth and foam spilling over the brim, and onto the well-worn wood bar top that ran from one end of the stone-walled room to the other. Martin Krye picked it up and tipped it back, gulping the ale down in quick succession, before slamming the metal cup back onto the wooden counter, and letting out a satisfied sigh, wiping the back of the sleeve across his mouth.

  Ciaran Smythe sat on a stool to his right, taking greater care and time with his own mug of ale. “The sun has but just reached its full height in the sky,” the curly-haired man said, “and you’re like to be drunk soon.”

  “Aye,” said Martin. “If I’m lucky.” He looked at his outstretched hands before him. They were fair, none too calloused, cleaner than most one would encounter in Durett. His great grandfather had raised hogs. His grandfather was a butcher, and his mother worked the shop with him. His father had not stayed around long, so mostly he remembered his grandfather. The old man’s hands were large, scarred, rough. Butcher’s hands. Are these the hands of a butcher? He asked himself this often. Have I done any better than my grandfather? My mother? Are these, despite everything, but butcher’s hands? No, still no, I think not.

  Roald Casterlin sat on his left, facing outward into the tavern dining hall. He was, as he often did, intently picking at his nails with a knife. But he did look up for a moment, before returning to his work, and then said, “He’s coming.”

  “Again?” Martin asked, turning to him, his surprise genuine.

  Roald nodded.

  Gorett’s cousin was proving to be a larger problem than Gorett himself, both in size and in hassle. The man stood a head taller than his kin and was two stone heavier to boot, with orange hair and a long mustache. Martin had given him the slip twice already, and now, it appeared, he was at it again.

  Without turning Martin picked up his tankard and held it toward the tavern keep nodding to its empty state. The tavern keep filled it again, and then Martin proceeded to upend it and gulp it down faster than the last time. Again, he slammed it down on the bar and signed, and then he turned to head from the place. But instead he found himself bumping into the barrel chest of Gorret’s cousin, who had been much faster than he had anticipated. He might as well have walked straight into a wall; the man was so thick and well-muscled.

  He had a shaved head and a gold earring in each ear, with a few days’ worth of black stubble peppering his upper lip and chin. Yellow and crooked teeth were bared as he growled at Martin and raised a meaty fist back.

  Martin ducked under the coming blow and sprinted around the giant, before bolting across the tavern hall and out the wooden door at the entrance. He looked left and then right as he came onto the dirt roads of Durett, and then took off down one street, as good as any other, weaving and winding his way between men, women, and horses, all the while glancing over his shoulder for his pursuer. He took hard corners around the edges of white plaster buildings, framed in dark wooden beams, and ducked under carts laden with barrels, or hay, or all manner of other wares.

  Gorett’s cousin ended up in front of him again somehow and knocked him to the ground with one sharp blow to his jaw. Martin hit the earth and saw stars, before managing to get up on his hands and knees. “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstand—”

  Meaty hands grabbed him by the shirt, picked him up, and threw him into the wall of a building. And into the wall he went too, the plaster cracking and crumbling with the force of his weight. When Martin tried to move, he fell to the dirt again, covered in dust and fragments of plaster, which also fell to the ground in large chunks. He groaned in pain trying again to raise himself with one hand, while the other clutched the side that had just impacted the wall. “Really, there must be some way—”

  A kick to the ribs, through the hand he had held there. Agony, searing, sharp, burning. A punch to the face again, this time causing the world to go black. When he managed to open his eyes his vision was blurred, but as his sight began to clear he saw that by some luck the town guards had arrived, dressed in chain and kettle helms, iron spears in hand. They were pulling Gorett’s beast of a cousin back, a mistake Martin was assuredly glad for, but one which he knew the guards were going to re
gret. Now the giant was pulling the spears from their hands, and knocking them about the heads with the thick, ashwood hafts.

  Martin almost felt bad for the poor guardsmen attempting to keep the peace, but he thought not long on it, and decided instead to lumber to his feet, and hobble off down an alley between two shops, as fast as he could manage.

  An hour later he found himself seated in another tavern, the sun growing dark in the sky, a roaring fire in the hearth. Roald and Ciaran had joined up with him again, and he was downing another tankard of ale to dull the pain. His face was a mess, and his side, which he still favored with the hand that wasn’t on his ale, was covered in a mass of dark, ugly, bruises.

  Across the way he saw two men enter, one with dark hair, the other light. Nothing to remark upon about them, except for the colors they wore. The dogfinch of House Kardiff marked their tunics. What are these men doing in Hake’s part of town? Martin spat. The two men seemed to notice, looked up, and found him glaring at them. They didn’t seem interested in a fight as they quickly looked away again and ordered two mugs of ale from a passing servant. They were soon well in their cups, while Martin’s blood only grew hotter.

  The face of Aldrin Lorring forced its way into his thoughts then. The larger boy was grinning with yellow teeth, thick hangs grabbed his tunic, and shoved his head into a barrel of dark water, holding him there until his lungs almost gave out, before finally giving into his flailing and releasing him.

  “What are they doing here?” Martin demanded. “Why does no one stop this?”

  “Hake says to leave them be,” Ciaran replied. “Their shish houses, their palaces, are popping up everywhere. Even in our territory. Their fleet of ships grows larger every day. Bigger now than the merchant Fazzil Suk’s, they say. Still, Hake says not to act. To wait. Bigger things are coming. He’s even said to leave the widow be, as well. No trouble.”