Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times

by Azalea Dabill

  Kyrin moved past the bed with its smell of autumn-grass mattress and opened the wide shutter. Misting rain sprinkled the sill. How did one ride the wind and conquer anything from a cage? A hundred lengths across the roof of the hall, the south tower rose opposite hers.

  She wanted to sleep here, as Father said he had. To watch the sea as an Eagle sentry in her father’s tales of long ago—to catch the forest appearing beyond the wall, mysterious in the dawn.

  But grey hid Lord Fenwer’s out-wall. Beyond the approaching storm-veil, the cold waves of the North Sea thundered against the cliffs. The raging echoes shivered in her ears. Storm-wind scented with smoke, damp leaves, and the grass of the hills swept the grey mist away from yard, tower, and wall. The sudden cold vastness of grass and stone called to her. To see the Eagles who had passed so many seasons agone.

  She could almost catch a bit of red cloak—hear the shishing of swords from sheaths—see the eagle they carried as their standard. Lords of decision and battle, prey of their choices. The wind taunted her, a falcon imprisoned in her eyrie.

  1

  Pursued

  The snares of death. ~Psalm 18:5

  With a deep breath, Kyrin shook back her long hair. She had not thought to watch the sea from her god-father’s tower without Celine this leaf-fall. Falcons were true—but friends cut sharp as a treacherous blade. Lord Fenwer’s tower gave her a high eyrie from storm for the second time in two years.

  Another gust of wind batted shorter locks about her face. A chair creaked. Her mother padded across the stone behind her. Kyrin heard the sigh of a tunic dropped to the floor, the rustling of a dinner tunic donned. Rain spattered the window sill and misted on the floor, a breath of coolness wafting against her ankles.

  Father was not here to tickle her mother’s ear with a kiss and a low laugh on the morrow—to seal her freedom for a day in the woods, thick now with yellow-clad willow and birch and green pines. He could not tell Mother she would be safe outside Lord Fenwer’s stronghold despite the sea-mist and the cliffs, flying her hunters of the air. The sea-thunder boded ill. The moaning wind around the tower would batter any hawk or falcon to a bolt of wet feathers hurtling to ruin under the trees.

  “What do you think, Kyrin?”

  Kyrin started and turned, with a swift smile.

  Her mother’s tunic, the rich ochre of autumn, flowed to the tips of her doeskin shoes. The saffron sleeves of her over-tunic brushed her girdle, and from the braided linen swung the key of Cierheld. A beautiful, handspan-long, angular piece of iron.

  Kyrin stared at it grimly. Before many more sunrises she would hand her own key to a lord. And she had not yet found him.

  “Are you well?” Lady Willa sat, her crippled fingers gripping the arm of her chair, living wood curling about a tree-knot. She can be hard as a knot too, when she settles her mind on a thing. Her concern enfolded Kyrin with the warmth of fur in winter. She said I had until fifteen summers to choose. Kyrin shivered. Her mother’s grey gaze sharpened. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, Mother. You will bring honor to Father this night, and Calee’s tongue will wag in the kitchen—the sleeves are most becoming.” Kyrin moved to the bed and dropped her tunic, which smelled of Aart, around her feet. She dug for a clean one in her mother’s saddlebag. “Do not think of me, I’m well, truly. It was a long ride. But Lord Fenwer is as kind as ever.”

  She tugged at a strand of hair that had escaped the bonds of her leather circlet. Mother said her hair shone with glints of honey in the sun. It was not “drab as a draggled wren just in out of the rain”—as Myrna of Jornhold declared once, with a disdainful sniff.

  Kyrin’s fingers tightened. Wren or not, she had time to show Esther and Myrna that hunting a falcon was about swift beauty, about something of use in her hand, and something she could not name that rose inside her on their wings. Esther, the nearest stronghold first-daughter, would not laugh at her again. And Mother must never know what Esther whispered of her hill-blood.

  Everyone in the three strongholds knew Esther was the beauty among their first-daughters, with hair of gold and straw-flower eyes. Round faced Myrna was winsome in her ways, and cried over the rabbits that Kyrin’s hawk, Samson, hunted for the stew.

  But Kyrin of Cierheld was too small, with all the sharp angles of her blood, as apt to stumble into one with a scowl as to curtsey and smile.

  An orphan and the stronghold daughters’ companion, coltish, red-haired Celine was a born mimic—sure to find her place despite a rough beginning—if she stayed close to the others. So Aunt Medaen said. “High blood will call to blood.”

  As if old Medaen knows anything about high blood, or those of the blood of the hills—she followed Father from peasant to mercenary, and despised Lord Edsel until he repaid Father’s protection with Cierheld. Now the other lords look at Father and Edsel’s wall with suspicion. And Medaen can’t see past her long nose. She insists I ready myself for Lord Bergrin Jorn. That I guard his suit as I can against Lord Edsel.

  But Edsel makes me laugh. And he is as old as Father—and Lord Fenwer. With Edsel I am safe.

  Kyrin smothered a grin. Fenwer’s stone did ward me well. Old Medaen need not fear. I will not hand-fast any but a true lord. Though I have not found one.

  But Esther—she could not wait for the lords or their sons to seek her out when she came of age. She sought them with wile and wit, and always Kyrin was the one caught stumbling over her feet, or missing the proper greeting and conversation. Kyrin clenched her hands.

  Along with the usual bards’ songs and tales, the scops brought to Cierheld the rumor of short, slant-eyed master horsemen from the Steppes—archers without compare—who drove all before them on the far side of the world.

  Father would give a field for one of their bows. He said in battle their arrows fell like rain. Their horse-archers could strike a man’s spine at two hundred paces as his mount galloped, and topple him from the saddle.

  Capture by the Steppe barbarians might cure Esther. Hauling endless loads of dried horse dung to barbarian fires would bend her mind from the men’s glances she drew behind her at every feast. After she escaped, with due trouble, (for not knowing how to ride astride or anything useful) she would gather with Celine and Myrna in Kyrin’s room, and humbly ask Kyrin how she came to be so sensible. Kyrin smiled.

  Myrna would wring her hands and cry over Esther’s ordeal and take a cake from the platter on Kyrin’s table for comfort. Celine would listen wide-eyed, but soon beg Kyrin to show her how to fly Samson as she had promised.

  The tower shutter rattled. Esther was not here. Kyrin grimaced and fished her wrinkled tunic from the saddlebag. She would be a lady for her godfather tonight, though at her first guest-cup two seasons agone he’d caught her between a man’s bow and a curtsey. Following guest-cups and another leaf-fall had taught her better. She was no longer so awkward in manners, though Esther seemed able to make her stumble with one cool lift of an eyebrow.

  The pine-green tunic Kyrin held slid soft over her shoulders. Cut high above her breast, the soft wool fell to her ankles, secured by the girdle that held her pouch and Cierheld key, twin to her mother’s. She could shoot and ride better than many of the lords’ sons. She shook out her wide sleeves, edged with blue thread.

  No matter what Myrna said of her fitted sleeves, they made shooting a bow possible. No wind could swell them like blown glass, to startle her hawk or her falcon. She never told Myrna of her riding trews and running through the grass below her hunters of the air. She donned her trews alone, when she reached the friendly trees. She flopped back on the bed and twisted the beads of her necklace.

  The delicate carved fish of green-and-rose seashell leaped amid oak beads that she liked to think were peat-dark river bubbles. Her father’s gift for her fifteenth name-day went well with her green tunic. Kyrin sat up to slip off her shoes. Rain drummed on the slate roof and in the window.
<
br />   Mother would have something to say if the wet dampened her tunic—though she wanted the shutter open for the fresh air. She said storms made her feel alive.

  In the morning the sun might be shining. Who can tell? I will fly with Lord Fenwer’s falcons, high and far. Wind ripped the shutter around and slammed it against the outside wall.

  A winged shape hurtled past the sill with a shrill cry. Was it one of Lord Fenwer’s birds? Kyrin leaned out and twisted to stare up, blinking against the almost dark and the rain.

  “Kyrin, your tunic—”

  Again the call came—the harsh echo of a lone gull. Kyrin saw nothing but wind-blown rain.

  “Yes, mother.” She wiped her face and reached for the shutter. The wind pulled at it, and she struggled.

  Along the east side of the out-wall a small door opened onto the cliffs. It flapped in the wind, a crow’s wing. A torch bobbed through it. All else along the wall was dark.

  A shout came, far and distant. Flames licked up the side of the stables and grew swiftly, as if fed with invisible fuel more potent than wood. Pale-robed figures crossed the yard below in a rough line. The spikes on their pale mushroom-like helms glowed silver and red in the firelight. Kyrin caught her breath.

  None of Lord Fenwer’s men had spiked helms. Raiders from the far Steppes? Had her wicked wish for Esther called them? No, no bows shone among the silent rushing shapes, flickering in and out of shadow. They streamed toward the servants who carried splashing buckets and pans from the hall door.

  Kyrin gripped the sill, her breath frozen. Were they passing traders who had seen the fire? They would help, take the buckets in ready hands . . . The men drew a flickering line of swords, and the servants scattered—quail fleeing a falcon’s shadow.

  Lord Fenwer’s shouting armsmen poured down the steps, their ranks met and swelled by guards running from the wall. The gleaming line of swordsmen broke and surged to surround sudden knots of struggling, screaming men and women. The chair squawked behind Kyrin. Her mother’s grip hurt her shoulder.

  Lady Willa stared down a moment, her breath harsh. She spun toward the door. “Kyrin—we must get to Lord Fenwer!”

  She snatched Kyrin’s wool cloak from the pegs, tossed it to her, and slung her own about her shoulders.

  From another peg Kyrin grabbed a belt with the plain arm-length sword her mother wore. Father had stood at the edge of York on the tree-shadowed road, looking up at her mother on her horse. He held the sheathed sword in his outstretched hand. “At least take a blade. When one is needed, it is better you wield one.”

  Her mother wrapped her crippled hand around the leather-wrapped hilt with a blush and a smile, and Father released her bay’s bridle and waved as he turned to the bustling meet. York did not wait for sun or storm, and Lord Dain Cieri must need bargain for steel for weapons.

  Now a sword was needed, and Kyrin did not know how to swing it. She wordlessly held the blade out to her mother, who took it and jerked the belt tight under her cloak.

  The top of the stair was dark. Kyrin looked back at the tower door, streaming warm firelight. She should have grabbed the leather falcon leashes and hoods from their hook: they would make a stone-sling. But the roar of conflict grew, and she turned after her mother.

  They slipped past a guttering torch, staying close to the wall, away from the open side of the stair and the long drop. Lord Fenwer’s rooms lay at the far end of the hall below. A yell of triumph rang out. Kyrin faltered.

  Men at the foot of the stair held raised swords. One had a spear. They sprang up the steps, their mud-stained robes slapping their legs. Spikes gleamed above cloth-wrapped helms.

  Her mother dragged her to the side of the steps. “Jump!”

  They leaped, and the raiders gave a wordless shout. Feet stinging from impact, Kyrin scrambled up and plunged after her mother, who spun under the stairwell and through a small, lightless door. Kyrin ran blind, cold air wafting against her face. Behind her, curses echoed over the sound of slapping feet.

  Her mother pulled her on, her hand hot and damp. Kyrin reached out and brushed chill stone. The air was dusty and stale. She strained to hear over her thudding heart—were the men following unseen and unheard, like rats?

  Sometime later her mother thumped into something with a grunt. Kyrin groped around a bend after her. A red spark shone ahead, a baleful eye. Dim and jumbled, stones had collapsed on the floor below the red glow near the roof. Kyrin stopped. A torch; and men gathered behind the corner.

  The pool of light widened. Liquid voices echoed down the passage. Her mother clutched at her. Kyrin put her sleeve to her mouth to muffle the sudden rasping of her breath in her ears.

  The “shush” of her feet as they ran back sounded loud as Aart’s hooves. Caught between a burrowing badger and a hound. If only I had my bow. The pursuing light outlined a black, broken doorway ahead. If only it led far away . . . Kyrin peered in.

  Rough-hewn stone, the alcove was ten strides deep and fifteen long, an abandoned room. Her mother slipped in and ran her hands over the shadowed floor and up the walls. Kyrin did not see a crack in it big enough for a rabbit.

  Her mother yanked her inside and slid Kyrin’s hood around her face, her fingers chill. Kyrin put her arms around her, breathing in the familiar smell of wool cloak and chives and sweet herbs. “Mother, I can . . .”

  “Shhh, my little one. Quiet.” Lady Willa hugged her with fierce strength, touched her cheek with a feather-light finger, and pushed her back against the wall. Kyrin leaned down and fumbled at chunks of a broken wall-stone that nudged her heels. One piece scraped the other, sharp in her hands.

  Her mother drew her eating dagger from her girdle with her twisted hand and slid her sword free with the other. She swung it. The blade whispered, severing the gloom. She lifted her hood and shrugged her cloak around her, blotting out the faint shine of her weapons. She stepped to the shadowed side of the door. A foot scuffed without.

  Kyrin’s mouth dried. Be still, keep still. Father!

  Two men walked lightly past, glancing in. They passed from sight beyond the edge of the broken doorway. Six raiders shuffled by after the front guard, several with torches. Light fingered Kyrin. She glimpsed dark hands and eyes and sweating faces.

  Some of them wore helmets and some not. Their straight swords were as tall as her mother’s waist. Wide daggers with hooked blades were thrust through lengths of bright cloth they wore for belts. Leather and chain mail whispered. Their robes swirled about their feet, wafting sickly sweet perfume, mud, and sea-smell. Then they were past.

  She started forward but shrank back at a solitary footfall and the whisper of a dragging limb. In the dimness of the retreating torchlight a raider stumbled into the doorway with a grunt and braced himself, gripping his bloody ankle.

  Squinting in pain, he turned his head. Kyrin gripped her stones and pressed back as if she could sink into the wall. His eyes widened. He lurched up, pulling his blade from his sash.

  Kyrin’s mother slid her arms from under her cloak. The raider raised his sword. Kyrin drew back her rock, but her mother slid between, her blade up to block his, thrusting with her dagger.

  2

  Taken

  Let the sighing of the prisoner come before Thee. ~Psalm 79:11

  Kyrin’s mother straightened explosively from her crouch, and the raider fell before her slash-and-thrust with a yell. There were answering yells and thudding feet. Another raider sprang into the doorway. He crumpled with a cough, and her mother slid her sword loose from his belly. The wide doorway was empty. Voices cried out in rage. The torchlight bathed Kyrin in red-orange.

  “Back!” Fear hollowed her mother’s face—then it strengthened into stone. She nodded, acknowledging a command from someone who stood at her shoulder—in the sword-brother place that was empty. Then she glanced back at Kyrin and her stubborn mouth quirked. As when she had all to gain
, stealing out of Cierheld with her under old Medaen’s nose—both of them after woodland flowers with the dew on them.

  The raiders rushed. Her mother whipped about with a ringing yell, facing a storm of weapons. Kyrin twitched against the wall, driven by the skirling scream of metal on metal as blades met and parted. Smoke gathered, shadowing stark grimaces and the tangled dart of blades.

  Her mother spun, thrust to deflect an overhead blow, and countered, her blade darting in to strike a raider’s thigh. She never stopped moving. Kyrin dared not throw at the men struggling to flank her.

  Two of them squeezed around their fallen in the doorway. Her mother stabbed the first and slid around him, pulling her dagger across his stomach as she brought her sword up into the belly of a bull-like man behind him. A thin raider pushed through, jumping at her angled back. Kyrin threw a rock with all her might and hit his elbow. His weapon dropped from his slack fingers.

  Kyrin’s mother lost her dagger in his chest, then her sword was up, guarding. She moved back, reaching under her cloak. Her leg slid, buckled, and her sword arm swung wide. She thudded back into the wall beside Kyrin.

  Kyrin raised her last stone, shivering. With a harsh noise in the back of his throat, another raider swung his sword up two-handed. With a hoarse cry, Kyrin threw. Her rock took him in the neck and he staggered. His blade fell, but numbness held her, and his sword struck her mother. The blade grated free, across the wall, and tangled in Kyrin’s cloak at her throat. Her neck burned.

  The raider gurgled, dropped his sword, and grabbed his throat. Kyrin could not move. Her mother sucked in a choked breath and her sword clattered on the floor. She slid toward Kyrin, her hand twisted in her cloak at her breast. She wrapped her arm around her, pushing her down. Kyrin’s head knocked against the stone floor. Sweet-metal blood smell filled her nose.

  She must grab the sword—the sharp edge resting a hand-width from her eyes. Her mother’s hair fell across her in a smothering curtain. She groped for her shoulder; she could not breathe.