Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  “If what’s true?”

  “That Elarion lead naenion against them. Rhian must’ve spread word when he arrived.”

  A bridge that appeared to be made of glass and lace led them over the thundering waters of the river to the isle of the white palace. Towers spiraling like unicorn’s horns reached for the sky. Gardens cascaded from tier to tier. Fountains bloomed in marble courtyards. White silk banners graced with a silver crescent moon fluttered from turrets.

  Carah had never imagined such beauty. This was the place her uncle called home? No wonder she saw him so seldom.

  Thorn dismounted in a courtyard loud with the splashing of twin fountains. Carah hopped down after him. An Elari hurried from a side gate to take the gray’s reins. “Trouble, Dathiel?”

  He snorted a noncommittal reply, then hurried up a broad staircase. To each side of grand silver doors stood Elarion in blue surcoats and shiny plate armor. Blue stripes darkened their cheekbones.

  “Murienna,” Thorn said to one of them, “is Aerdria disposed to see us? We must call a council.”

  “Council has been called, Dathiel,” she replied, stony expression changing not a hair. “You’re late.”

  “Story of my life,” he grumbled, and Murienna opened the door for them. With a hand at the small of Carah’s back, Thorn escorted her quickly down a long, lofty corridor of silver-veined marble. Under the arched ceiling hovered softly glowing orbs, like rows of miniature moons.

  At the far end, two more guards blocked another pair of doors. Voices rose in argument on the other side. “Well done, Rhian,” Thorn muttered and didn’t bother waiting for permission before cracking open a door and slipping inside. He led Carah by the hand. The volume of the argument struck her in the face like a blast of hot wind. Though rows of elegant chairs lined the floor, few of them were occupied. The Elarion clustered in heated factions before a throne. Only she who filled it noticed Thorn’s arrival.

  A hand rose. The argument hushed. Scores of faces turned toward the entrance. Carah raised her chin, trying not to look battered and nervous. The woman started down the steps of the dais. The factions of Elders parted, creating an aisle for her. Thorn nudged Carah to meet the Lady halfway. A silver gown of silk and gossamer flowed after her like water and wind. Her hair, intricately plaited, rippled with hues of indigo and iron-black and cascaded over one shoulder. It was so long that it brushed her ankles. She reached out and grasped Carah’s hands. “You come to us at last, dear niece.” Her inspection failed to hide a curiosity that bordered on hunger. “When you entered that door, I thought my sister had returned. I see the differences now. Her eyes were the lavender of winter twilight. Yours are the sky of summer. How lovely you are. I am Aerdria, Lady of the Elarion and sister of your forebear, Amanthia. I bid you warmest welcome.” Fine lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and though she was as beautiful as a full moon on a clear night, her features had slackened ever so slightly, like a mortal woman easing past her prime. Thorn said the Elarion did not age; Carah attributed it to the great burdens that such a lady must have borne through the centuries.

  Enchanted, Carah almost forgot to mutter her thanks.

  “Do you play the harp?” the Lady asked.

  Carah cleared her throat, forced herself not to fidget, despite her embarrassment. “I have no musical talent whatsoever, Lady. I’m not even a very competent avedra. My uncle would tell you that my greatest gift lies in irritating others and insulting them whenever they tell me so.”

  Aerdria’s laughter chimed against the ceiling. “How delightful.” She escorted Carah though the aisle of curious faces. “I wish I had more time to make your acquaintance, my dear. But it seems you visit us during troubled times.” She paused near the first row of chairs. There, Rhian unfolded his arms lazily and pushed himself to his feet. The storm of arguments swirling around the Moon Hall seemed to have ruffled him not at all.

  “Dathiel, your apprentice has brought us dire news,” Aerdria said. “Bramoran has fallen, and an army of ogres marches on our doorstep. You confirm this?”

  “I do.” Thorn exchanged a weighty glance with Rhian and asked, “Did he tell you who leads them?”

  “We all know it is the dardrion who abandoned their post years ago.”

  A contemptuous grunt escaped Thorn’s throat. “Have you looked in your pool for them recently?”

  A frown pleated Aerdria’s brow. “What is this accusation I see in your face?”

  Thorn ground his teeth as he restrained a firestorm of rage. “Have you looked?”

  Aerdria’s confusion chilled as she composed a dignified mask. She deigned to respond to the demand. “Not in months.”

  “Try again. Look toward Bramor, Lady. Call upon the name of Lothiar.”

  The Elders rustled.

  “How dare you speak that name in my—!” Aerdria cried.

  “I will speak his name because it is so! Lothiar lives. It is to him the dardrion have rallied. It is he who commands the naenion and sends them to your door. It was he who plotted the murder of the highborns of the Northwest.”

  “You have no proof.” Aerdria breathed out the statement, her voice lost.

  “Don’t I?” roared Thorn. “I saw him!”

  Aerdria backed toward the dais, stopped only when her heel encountered the bottom step. Guards to each side of the throne shifted forward. Carah reached out to stop her uncle from pursuing their Lady, but Rhian caught her gently by the arm. Let it happen, he said. She bowed her head, unable to endure the sight of the Lady clutching the front of her gown with claw-like fingers. She was like a grand silver tree laid low with but a breath, revealing that its roots had rotted ages ago.

  Thorn rounded on the muttering Elders. “Lothiar means to eradicate humanity. My brother holds Ilswythe against a black tide. The meager army that gathers to him is doomed. He knows it. They know it. They cannot see the enemy marching on them. All they can do is stand and wait for axes to hew them down. Yet they gather, and valiantly. Long ago, long before the Damoth Duínovan shattered our trust in each other, human and Elari stood together against the naenion emerging from the swamps. It must be so again.”

  Carah was grateful she couldn’t understand the uproar that followed. None of the Elarion appeared to agree with him, and many might be cursing his bones to the Abyss. One waved his arms over them, bidding the council hear him. He was tall and terrible with red stripes marking his angular face like smears of blood.

  Rhian whispered in Carah’s ear, “Commander Tíryus. The Elaran version of your da, but less friendly.”

  Tíryus insisted he speak his own language in his own city, so Rhian interpreted for her, his whispers a breath against her ear.

  “I was there,” Tíryus began. “I was there when the first naenion emerged from the Mahkahan jungles. I marched from Dan Ora’as at Dorelia’s command, leading regiments of humans alongside our own. As you say, Dathiel, we bled and died on the same field, but I tell you, the attitude of men was different then. Duinóvion looked on us as guardians who taught them how to build cities and measure the heavens. When we went to war, we took the brunt of battle until the naenion were too exhausted to maintain their veil. But that age is past. Should we extend our hand to aid your people now, we will feel the same bite of thanklessness as when we helped Tallon two hundred years ago.”

  “You aided Tallon expecting praise?”

  “Of course not. Do not twist my words, avedra. We fought because our Wood was under threat. The Black Falcon believed the fears surrounding Avidanyth were groundless and ordered the destruction of our trees. We fought to remind this foolish king that Avidanyth stands protected. We fought because Tallon was a human to be trusted. One of few. He guaranteed us peace in his time, and he lived up to his word. But did our sacrifice win us friendship with the rest of his kind? No.

  “As for this invasion of naenion, we will repel them from our borders. If Lothiar the Exiled dares show his face, we will repel him too. But that is all.
My soldiers will not leave the safety of the trees. Why should they?”

  How small Thorn looked standing his ground against the cold wall of councilors, yet he jabbed an unflinching finger at the lot of them. “If you believe my brother’s fight does not concern you, you have allowed your comforts and your fears to delude you.” He turned a deaf ear to the irate surge of insults. The crowd thinned quickly as half the Elders stomped from the Moon Hall. To those who lingered, Thorn said, “Emilë fann oän. Hear me. Years ago, the Mother-Father warned me that this crisis approached. ‘The days to come will not be easy for any of my children,’ she said. Then earlier this spring she sent a dream to my apprentices and myself. ‘Navalav,’ she said. Unbalance. It is here. This is the time. If the Shaddra’hin are the scholars of the Balance, you Elarion are its keepers. Commander Tíryus, you say humanity once looked on you as guardians. Appreciated or not, you still hold that guard.”

  The Elders turned on each other. The uproar echoed against the lofty ceiling. The voices of the few who wished to reconsider their stance were quickly drowned out. Carah looked to Rhian, but he shook his head and rolled his eyes, not bothering to pick one argument among the many to interpret.

  A side door opened and a woman slipped in, confounded by the pandemonium. She approached, as graceful as a breeze. Golden curls tumbled past her waist. She took Rhian’s hand and greeted him with a hesitant smile. Her gray eyes sought answers.

  Thorn noted her arrival and abandoned the Elders to their debate.

  “Dathiel,” she said, “I heard my brother’s name spoken in the corridor. His name, Dathiel. What’s happened?” So this was Lyrienn. Carah swallowed a lump of jealousy. Was this woman worthy of her uncle?

  Thorn’s hands laid gently upon her shoulders, then he whispered at length in her ear.

  Heartbreak swept over Lyrienn’s face, contorted her beautiful mouth. “Are you sure? You’re sure?” Thorn did not defend himself as he had with Aerdria; the answer lay in his eyes. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew he wasn’t dead. I can’t explain it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Thorn said and drew her into a sheltering embrace. “But someone else has explaining to do.”

  At the foot of the dais, Lady Aerdria stood gripping the bodice of her gown as if she would claw the pain from her heart. She hadn’t moved or spoken since hearing the forbidden name.

  Lyrienn approached her, tried to lay an arm around her shoulders, but Aerdria jumped as if awakened from a nightmare. She threw out an arm, shoving Lyrienn aside, and ran from the Moon Hall.

  The Elders fell abruptly silent and watched her flee.

  Thorn raced after her. He would have his answers. One of her bodyguards ran down the dais to stop him, but a gesture of Thorn’s hand lifted the guard from his feet and sent him sprawling. Three others pursued him into the corridor.

  “Gently!” Lyrienn called after them.

  “Stop them, Rhian,” Carah said.

  He stayed where he was. “This shoulda happened years ago.”

  Lyrienn climbed the dais and turned to the council with desperate composure. “The Lady will return shortly. She has much to consider. As have you all. Haven’t you, Commander?”

  Tíryus clenched his jaw, reluctant, then bowed his head in agreement.

  “Master Aegulon, recall the other Elders. They cannot avoid this issue.” The arguments resumed hot and ugly.

  Releasing a shaky breath, Lyrienn rejoined Rhian and Carah. “Come with me, won’t you? We’ll be more comfortable elsewhere. And they will speak more freely if they need not worry about avedrin influencing their thoughts.”

  ~~~~

  Thorn caught up with Aerdria as she fled up a marble stairwell. He took the steps two at a time. “Please, Aunt!” he cried. His stride carried him ahead, and he put out his arms, forcing her to stop. She turned aside, head ducked.

  Captain Cheriam chased them to the bottom of the stair. “My Lady?”

  Aerdria waved her back. Cheriam released her sword hilt. The other dardrion who accompanied her fanned out, regardless.

  “Dathiel …,” Aerdria began, but she didn’t seem to know which sorrow to voice first.

  “Years ago, you told me you saw Lothiar slain.” Thorn’s whisper hissed under the vaulted corridor.

  She released a long, quivering breath and resumed her climb. “I would see for myself.”

  The scrying pool lay on the floor above the Moon Hall. Mirror-still waters filled a circular pool in the middle of an alabaster floor. Silver lamps cast a soft glow across translucent stone and shimmering water. Thorn had always been afraid of speaking too loudly here, lest the room dissipate like a thing made of clouds.

  Aerdria held her hands over the water and chanted the words of farseeing. The waters rippled with the broken, fiery colors of an opal, then lay quiet again. “Show me Lothiar, son of Danyth and Le’avhan.” The waters shifted. Dark shapes congealed in the ripples. White-blond hair whipped in the wind, tangling around a familiar face. Hardships unimaginable had weathered and hardened his features. Lothiar bared his teeth, and his ashen eyes blazed with rage. His arm reared back, then lashed forward, sending a whip cracking across an ogre’s back. Shreds of skin hung loose; blood streamed down the ogre’s thighs; the punishment had been going on for some time. The creature appeared to be chained to the crenels atop Bramoran’s outer wall. The green moor and purple evening sky stretched away beyond. Dozens of naenion clustered nearby, watching hungrily.

  Lothiar’s mouth moved, but the pool was incapable of transmitting sound. Thorn focused his Silent Speech; it was almost as effective as standing in the same room with someone. Thoughts and words were only a little harder to discern.

  Are you awake now? Lothiar demanded. The ogre’s head drooped. Who else was caught sleeping? The ogres who had eagerly watched their comrade bleed backed away. No one sleeps! You are sentries. Sentries keep watch. His finger jabbed toward the moor. We do not know who is coming. We will not be caught off guard. Anyone caught sleeping on duty will be hanged from the wall. Do you understand, you worthless shit-eaters? The ogres nodded; a few saluted. Their captain struck the sleeper in the face with the whip’s handle. Hang this fist-fucker!

  Several ogres jumped to obey. They unbound the offender’s arms and coiled the chains about his neck. The offender was too faint to fight them off. Over the wall he went.

  Lothiar tossed the whip down in contempt and strode off. That’s when Thorn saw hundreds of ogres lining the wall, eyes aimed out over the hills. Among them hunched the wooden frames of catapults, perhaps ballistae. Dozens of them. Most of the engines were yet unfinished. Ogres stooped over rope and timber with mallets swinging. Why so many? What offensive was Lothiar expecting? He had to know that the army rallying to Ilswythe didn’t merit this level of defense.

  On Thorn’s left, a sob rattled in Aerdria’s throat.

  “Are you satisfied?” Thorn demanded, turning away from the pool.

  The Lady watched the vision in the waters dissolve. Tears rolled down pallid, lusterless cheeks.

  Thorn was unmoved. “How could you not’ve known? You said, ‘They are dead. I saw them slain.’ How could you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t lie—”

  “What did you see?”

  Aerdria closed her eyes, remembering. “Maliel and the Exiled were in the Gloamheath. They ran from an ogre den. Ogres chased them out and caught them. Maliel was struck. Lothiar dived in to protect him.” A moment of silence drew out.

  “And?”

  “That’s all. I couldn’t stand to see any more.”

  “Couldn’t stand it? Aunt! You never sought them again, to see if what you feared is what happened?” Had Lothiar been killed, the waters would not have shown her a body or a resting place. They would have remained dark and still.

  Aerdria neither moved nor spoke but stared at the pool in bleak resignation. Ever since her bodyguard had begun abandoning her, she had withdrawn more and more, taking solace in solitude and spiced mead. All
in an attempt to hide from the truth. She must have suspected.

  Thorn grit his teeth. “All those years we spent running across the Northwest looking for the dardrion and the avedrin they abducted. You could’ve helped us stop them. You alone might’ve prevented the slaughter at Bramoran. And the massacres in every holding from the mountains to the sea! And let’s not mention the slaughter yet to come. Slaughter on all sides, Aerdria! If anyone has failed human and Elari alike, it is not I. You failed them, Lady. And I’m holding you responsible for everything Lothiar has accomplished.”

  Aerdria’s knees gave way. She slid down the railing and gripped the balusters like prison bars. Cheriam hurried from the door to help her up again. “You’re being unfair, Dathiel,” the captain exclaimed. “Lothiar is mad.”

  “Undoubtedly. And she let him escape.”

  Leaning against the guards captain, Aerdria’s head wobbled as if she might faint.

  Thorn had mopped up too much blood and burned too many bodies to feel pity for her. “You have one chance for redemption, Lady. Send the Regulars to aid my brother. Help us bring Lothiar to justice once and for all.”

  “She’s in no condition to make that decision,” Cheriam insisted. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Wait for what? Until there’s no one left to save? Convenient. Then you Elarion can toss up your hands and say ‘there was nothing we could do’.”

  “You may leave us!” Cheriam bellowed.

  Thorn bowed curtly and about-faced for the door. He saw her folly clearly now. Aerdria had thoroughly insulated her people and herself from the troubles of the outside world, but their protection became an excuse to hide. Thorn could only imagine the horrors she had witnessed during her long life, and for that he didn’t blame her for preferring blindness and solitude. It was her decision to remain blind despite the obvious signs of trouble that angered him. Her inaction had enabled the same atrocities to happen again.