Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)
Page 6
Rhian was descending the steps that led down from the battlements. He might’ve greeted her properly at the gatehouse, but he waited until now when she was sweaty and muddy and puffy with sobbing? She dried her cheeks on her sleeves and stomped away. The path led her to the base of the andyr tree. In a posture of agony, the burned branches clawed at the evening sky.
The crunch of gravel announced Rhian’s cautious pursuit. He joined her under the branches and leaned to peek at her face. His hand rose, but it stopped short of touching her. “Sure it’s a great blow, all this.”
Her fingers caressed the blackened bones of the grand sentinel. “I suppose the Elarion were just as angry with us when we tore down their stones and built our walls with them. It doesn’t make me love them more or fear them less.”
“You must not judge them all the same.”
“And the ogres?”
“I don’t know about them. They always try to take a bite outta my hide before I can invite them to tea.”
Under different circumstances, Carah might’ve thought that worth a giggle, but not today. “Uncle Thorn said he’s going to Avidan Wood. Do you know why?”
“He’s not mentioned it to me.”
Of course not. Enigmatic son of a bitch. “And where’ve you been?”
“Dathiel stationed me at the main gatehouse, to watch for enemies coming from Bramoran. He … saw us at Drenéleth.”
“That night in the king’s parlor?” Horror heated Carah’s face. “How?”
“We overslept, that’s how. Sure he’s trying to keep me too busy to find a moment alone with you.”
They’d only been sleeping. What harm was there in that? She had been upset, hysterical really, and Rhian had offered a shoulder to cry on. Was that so terrible? Carah cast a furtive glance toward the library windows. They appeared to be black and empty.
“But he has to let his guard down sometime,” Rhian added, smirking. “Besides, dinner bell rang.”
She’d been working too feverishly to notice the hour. A faint blush still tinged the underbellies of the clouds. “I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. There’s work to be done.”
“Hnh, by whom? Not me, surely. Uncle Thorn won’t teach me anything useful.”
“How can you say that? After everything he’s taught you already? You can see danger coming from miles away, you can heal—”
“He won’t teach me to fight, and that’s what matters.”
“We need fighters, aye, but the fighters need—”
“I don’t suppose you’ll teach me either.”
He stepped away with a burdened sigh. “At risk to the flesh and bones I hold so dear, no, I will not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you want it too bad. It would be corrupting to your soul, Car.” Though he spoke with tenderness, his words were another slap to her face. “You heard what Dathiel said, didn’t you? One avedra is capable of destroying this planet with but a whisper. We must be careful of our intentions. To develop our skills for the wrong reasons might be dooming to us all.” He lowered his gaze. “And I couldn’t bear it if you ended up on a dark path you never meant to take.”
“But…,” she persisted, helpless, “but you fight.”
“Because I have to. The skills for crushing skulls came all too natural to me, and it’s a frightening thing, that is. Car, you’re a healer.”
She spun away.
“You have a beautiful gift, and you take it for granted.”
Kharah, has work to do. Playtime is over. So many years ago, the Mother-Father spoke those words to her, but Carah didn’t want to heal. She wanted to see the last ogre burned to ash on the wind. She wanted to wield the fire herself. She felt it inside her, writhing, growling, desperate to break free—and scar the world.
She wilted against the andyr, pressed her cheek to the ashen bark as if it were a matron’s bosom. Under her skin, she felt the great tree struggling. Heat-torn veins, water and sap failing to find a path, like blood through a broken body. Only in the deepest core did it still flow.
“It’s alive,” she whispered. “What words do I need to say?”
“You don’t need any words.”
Carah closed her eyes and delved down through the charcoal, into vein and root and earth. Sluggish, cool energies rippled through her, the passing of decades, centuries, an age, the memory of nut, sapling, matriarch. Her body grew rigid, began to shake. Yes, here, here in the crackling void with the tree, here where she flew with falcons and called out to a dying king, she nudged the broken channels back into place. So different than working with flesh. There was no awareness to help her. She had to do most of the mending herself. Only when the water began to flow again through repaired veins did the tree take over.
Sweat dripped into her eyes when she opened them. She found herself sitting on the ground among the tangled roots, her hands pressed to the trunk. Her cheek burned, scraped raw from sliding or falling along the bark. Rhian knelt beside her, a hand out to steady her. She raised a quivering arm and pointed at the lowest branch. There, two buds had sprouted and unfurled. Tiny leaves, shiny and moist, like the wings of a new-hatched butterfly.
Rhian smiled, awestruck.
“She’s not ready to give up,” Carah said, as weary as if she had birthed the leaves herself.
“What an avedra you are. You could heal more than mere men. You could heal worlds.”
He thought as highly of her as that? She couldn’t even conjure a candle flame. Her legs shook as she tried to stand. Rhian drew her up by an elbow. “So I’m a healer,” she said, dry and bitter. But Thorn had promised to teach her the elements. What she did with them was her decision. “Hurry. We’ll miss supper.”
Usually when Ilswythe hosted this many guests, supper was given in the Great Hall, but for some reason, everyone had been crammed into the family dining room. The table was actually two smaller tables set end to end, but there were plenty of chairs for everyone, mismatched though they were. The White Falcon occupied one end; the War Commander, the other.
All eyes turned for the door when Carah and Rhian entered. The pearl fisher strode unabashed to the chair between Aisley and Rhoslyn, bowed smartly for Arryk, then as he sat, he turned a narrow eye on Thorn.
Carah didn’t try to hear the harsh words passing between them. She dipped the knee. “Apologies, Your Majesty. Mum, Da.” She slid into the chair between Eliad and her uncle.
“Where were you? We called,” Rhoslyn said.
“The garden. I wasn’t in a fit state, I’m sorry.” She’d taken the time to wash the soot, earth, and blood from her face and hands, but that didn’t make the puffiness in her eyes go away. Mum didn’t press. One of Eliad’s footmen set a bowl of boiled wheat in front of her. Carah stared at it. Was this all they had?
“We saved you a chicken leg, too,” Eliad said, nudging her with his elbow. Four chicken carcasses lay on platters amid the table. Most of the meat had been torn off and divided. Chicken, the food of commoners. There appeared to be seasoning on the crackling skins and in the wheat, but neither dwarves nor highlanders were known for their cuisine. Perhaps Eliad’s cook had found a way to make the food palatable. “We dine like the kings of old,” he added, too gleeful to suit Carah. “It’s still the highlander way. You don’t approve?”
She failed to reply fast enough. Her father jabbed his fork at her. “If she doesn’t, she can catch something herself, and skin it and cook it too.”
“No, Da, it’s fine.” The last thing she wanted was to make him feel more embarrassed than he already did. “Really, it’s fine.” She even managed a smile for him.
Eliad dragged the nearest platter closer and forked the chicken leg onto her plate. She considered her own fork, then picked up the leg with her fingers, tore the meat off with her teeth, said “Huzzah,” and tossed the bone over her shoulder.
Her mother gasped.
Eliad clapped her on the back.
Arryk fell back in his chair an
d laughed so hard he nearly choked. One of his mastiffs heaved herself to her feet and snatched up the bone.
At least they had wine. Even ogres and their Elaran commander hadn’t wished to destroy the contents of the wine cellars. The rich old red took the edge off Carah’s nerves.
Mum set aside her glass and said, “Kelyn told me you mean to leave us for a while.”
Thorn glanced up from his bowl of wheat. “Yes, I must talk with friends if I’m to appeal for an ally. It will not be pleasant. There will be a great deal of pride-swallowing, I’m sure.”
Lord Mithlan leaned forward and peered down the length of the table. “What are the chances of success?” His black hair reflected the candlelight like an oil slick.
“I can’t predict that, Rhogan, I’m sorry,” Thorn said.
“When do you leave?” asked Rhoslyn. Worry pinched her eyebrows.
“I had hoped for the end of the week, but with everyone settled, there’s no reason we can’t leave tomorrow.”
“We? Rhian goes with you? Don’t we need someone with eyes?”
“We won’t be gone long, Your Grace, and I hope to take Carah, too.”
Her heart leapt. “Me? You mean it? Even after…?”
“I’d made up my mind before our argument this afternoon.” Silently he added, Lady Aerdria will be disappointed if I don’t bring you.
Giddy, she asked, “Will Laniel Falconeye be there?” One of Carah’s favorite childhood memories was of cuddling up with her uncle as he regaled her with tales of Falconeye fighting dragons and battling storm gods.
Thorn shook his head. “We won’t be passing through his sector, so we’ll probably miss him this time.”
Carah glowered at him. “You just made him up, didn’t you?”
He chuckled. “You tell me. Haven’t we a dragon or two to slay?”
~~~~
5
Early the next morning, Thorn saddled his Elaran black. Záradel raked the cobbles with her hooves. She felt the urgency in Thorn’s touch. He was eager to be gone, eager to return. With good news, he hoped. His mission was twofold. Not only did he mean to beg the Elarion to aid his brother, but he needed to dig up information. While he had shoveled the bones of ogres into the bonfire, an idea had struck him like a fist to the chin. It had troubled him incessantly in the days since. He even dreamt about it. Thousands of toads and slimy swamp things hopped and slithered about his feet, clung to clammy stone walls, fell from the ceiling. Like an army, they tried to swarm over him. He only had to stomp a foot to crush dozens of them. He waded through the rancid tide of amphibians, laughing. Oh, if only…
He was mad to hope that such a feat could be accomplished. How powerful did an avedra have to be to change living creatures into something new? How powerful did an avedra have to be to change them back? He hoped it wasn’t a matter of power, but one of will, one of need.
His hands ached as he buckled Záradel's bridle into place. How he’d abused his hands over the years. The onyx ring that King Rhorek had given him in his youth glimmered darkly in the morning twilight. His fingers had thickened over the past twenty years, and now the only way to remove the ring was to remove the finger on which it rode. Did his hands have the skill to do what he imagined? Imagination, will, execution. Isn’t that all it took? No, he needed information. He needed to know how Uthaya had done it.
“You forgot this.” Rhian entered the stable yard, carrying Thorn’s staff.
“Oh, thanks.” He took it and shoved it into the leather sheath tied to his saddle.
“In a hurry, are ya?”
“Don’t try to be stupid. Of course, we are. The duchess was right. They need our eyes. The sooner we’re back, the sooner I’ll relax. In fact, I might leave you here after all.”
“No chance. If you…,” are taking Carah, was the thought, “…end up in a pinch, you might need me, though I don’t expect you to admit it.”
“Nor would I. Where is she, by the way?”
“Who? Her Highness, you mean? She just woke up, apparently. That’s what her mum says.”
“Just? Damn it. We should be gone by now. Go shake her.” Rhian’s face brightened a fraction. “No, wait, I’ll go. Saddle her horse.”
Thorn was halfway across the courtyard when the dwarves in the towers raised the alarm. “A rider approaches,” called a sentry.
“A scout?” Thorn asked. Nothing would delay a journey like an ogre assault.
“Courier,” the sentry replied.
Thorn gave the nod, and the sortie gate squealed open. A mud-spattered man leading a sweat-lathered horse hobbled in. The mud was so thick that it took Thorn a moment to recognize the dark red livery of Evaronna. The silver arrow of Windhaven slashed across his chest. “I carry a message for Thorn Kingshield. Is he here? Please tell me he’s here.”
“I’m Kingshield.”
“Thank the Goddess,” he grumbled and fished inside a pouch on his belt. “Woulda saved me days had I known you weren’t at Drenéleth no more.” He drew himself to attention and extended a letter with a disgruntled half-bow. “From His Grace.”
Thorn’s hand stopped halfway to the parcel. “What did…? ‘His Lordship,’ you mean.”
“No, sir. His Grace.”
Thorn snatched the letter. What did this rube know about proper styles? Or perhaps there was a misunderstanding. If Kethlyn had heard about the slaughter at Bramoran, he might have assumed his mother was dead. Had Thorn mentioned her in the message he’d sent through the falcon? He couldn’t recall. He broke the ducal seal and found a single line of elegant script. He read it again and again, trying to eek a different meaning from it:
My place is here, by king’s command.
~KdL
“Will you be sending a reply, m’ lord?” asked the courier. “Or can I take my rest?”
“To the barracks with you. Get out of sight.” A glance at the keep’s windows showed him that neither Kelyn nor Rhoslyn had seen the messenger. How was Thorn to tell them?
He found his brother in the Great Hall plotting with Laral, Drona, and Dagni. The three of them were bent over a battered map of the Northwest. The finger-darkened leather had been found torn in half, but the dwarves had stitched it back together.
“Thing is,” Dagni was saying, “we’re accustomed to fighting them in tunnels, not open ground.”
The discussion trailed off as Thorn approached. Kelyn cast him half a glance. “I thought you’d gone.”
Thorn pressed on a wooden smile for the sake of the other highborns. “I need a word, War Commander. Where’s the duchess?”
Kelyn dusted his hands, as if planning a campaign were dirty business, and stepped down from the dais. “In the larder, I think, helping Rorin organize the foodstuff. Funny, when Valryk moved the Assembly to Bramoran, he left us with crates and barrels of extra food. If I had known I’d bought it to feed ogres… Now there’s barely enough to last the week.”
“Good thing the highlanders brought their cattle, then.” Thorn’s optimism had a hollow ring to it.
“Aye. What’s troubling you?”
Thorn lowered his voice. “Can we go to your study? Her Grace, too. I have news.”
A row of claw marks scarred the top of Kelyn’s desk. He had told Dagni not to bother filling them or staining over them; he meant to leave them just as they were, as a reminder that security was merely illusion.
Rhoslyn swept into the study, drying her hands on a towel. “That Rorin,” she sighed. “He’s so deferential that I can barely get an honest opinion out of him. ‘Whatever you think best, Your Grace.’ I think he lost all gumption when his son … well, never mind.” She saw the somberness in Thorn’s face and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Thorn turned to Kelyn, hoping he would answer Rhoslyn’s question, but grief seemed to have paralyzed him. He stared out the window and across the bailey at nothing. He had insisted on seeing the letter before Rhoslyn arrived, and Thorn would have given anything to have not seen the heartbreak wash o
ver his brother’s face.
So it was left up to Thorn. How to say it? “There’s a letter, your grace. From Kethlyn.”
Rhoslyn’s face started to brighten, but the light quickly went out. “Is he on his way? Is Windhaven under attack? Is he wounded?” Her fingers gestured frantically, so Thorn handed her the folded parchment.
“This is all?” Rhoslyn turned the letter over and over, hoping for more. “But he doesn’t say…” She went to Kelyn for an explanation, saw the despair on his face, and insisted, “No, Kethlyn can’t have known what would happen at Bramoran. He would’ve been there if I hadn’t told him to stay at Windhaven this spring.”
The truth burned like a flatiron laid to Thorn’s heart. “Did you tell him, your grace, or did he convince you to let him stay? When I arrived here a few weeks ago, you said Kethlyn wouldn’t come back with you. He insisted he stay. Is that the way it was?”
Rhoslyn shook her head vehemently, even while the certainty in her face crumpled. She sank into a chair and covered an irrepressible sob with her hand.
One last bit of evidence, then Thorn could shut his mouth and leave them alone with their sorrow. “The courier styled Kethlyn ‘His Grace.’ I argued, but the man insisted.”
“How could he…?” Kelyn said, with merely a ghost of a voice. He turned from the window, pleading, as if Thorn had the power to change the past. “We loved him. We told him, we showed him. How could he want us dead? This isn’t the son I know. No, I can’t believe it.” But he did. All the pieces led to the same conclusion, and the War Commander could not strategize them away. But he still voiced hope. “We can send the courier back with a reply, demanding an explanation.”
“No.” Rhoslyn drew herself up, face as gray and blank as stone. She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her bodice.
“But, Rhoz, if you write to him—”
“No. My son threw his lot in with Valryk. I have no son. A dead man sits on my throne.”
~~~~
Carah was wolfing down breakfast in the kitchens when she heard the news. She had to hurry; her uncle was probably tapping his foot by now. The row of ovens lit the room, emitting intense heat and the scent of baking bread. She had always enjoyed snatching a bite to eat and a bit of gossip here first thing in the morning. Nelda had let her be taste-tester from the time Carah was old enough to sneak downstairs by herself. She missed Nelda’s brusque commands and quick swats with a wooden spoon that convinced the maids to stop chatting. We may be able to reclaim something, but it will be colored differently, her uncle had said. Even breakfast in the kitchen. The servants from Drenéleth buzzed around her, different faces, different voices, different gossip.