Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  He was halfway to the stairwell when a soldier sprang up the steps and spotted him. “Where is the Lady?” Excitement made him as taut as a bowstring.

  “With Captain Cheriam. You may tell the council I didn’t hurt her. I swear.”

  Confusion muddied the soldier’s enthusiasm. “I’m not sent by the council. There’s a messenger at the gate. It’s Iryan Wingfleet.”

  ~~~~

  12

  Thorn climbed to the top of Linndun’s south gate and saw that Commander Tíryus and half a dozen Elders had arrived ahead of him. A cold satisfaction swelled in his chest. See for yourselves, he thought. Archers lined the ramparts, their white thelnyth bows drawn but aimed low in a relaxed posture. The Elders argued about the order Tíryus should give them. Loose arrows or wait.

  Far below, Iryan Wingfleet stood amid the flagged road, surrounded by the trees he had once fiercely protected. Only now, those from whom he had protected the Wood stood alongside him. Four heavily armored ogres accompanied him like a prince’s guard.

  “How did he reach the city unopposed?” one of the Elders asked.

  Tíryus turned to Thorn. “Was he at the siege of Haredi Tower?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “A diversion,” Tíryus muttered. “With the dranithion occupied, this traitor had free run of our Wood.”

  “Shoot him,” insisted the Elder.

  Tíryus gave no such order.

  Iryan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Where is Lady Aerdria?”

  “She will arrive presently,” Tíryus shouted back, then glared sideways at Thorn and added in a quiet growl, “I hope.”

  Thorn shrugged, accepting no responsibility for the Lady’s absence. Instead, he chuckled at the sight of the red scars disfiguring Iryan’s cheek and called down, “What happened to your face, Wingfleet?”

  “You would know, avedra.”

  “I was trying to sheer your head from your shoulders. Alas.”

  Tíryus snapped, “Must you antagonize him?”

  Thorn smirked but shut his mouth.

  The commander called, “Save your breath, traitor, until the Lady joins us. She may wish to hear you, but I do not.”

  Aerdria did not keep them waiting long. Holding her head high, she rustled onto the ramparts with Captain Cheriam in tow. She avoided Thorn’s glance and stopped at the crenels on the far side of Commander Tíryus.

  “He’s well within range,” Cheriam said, peering down. “One arrow and we could—”

  “I’m sure he knows that,” Aerdria said, then projected her voice over the wall, “Many years has it been, Iryan, since you left us. We have missed you.”

  “And I you, Lady.”

  Was he sincere? Thorn didn’t bother reading the Elari’s thoughts. His sentimentality, or the lack of it, mattered not one hair.

  “Will you not come inside the gate to speak with us?” Aerdria asked.

  “My business is best done from here. Forgive me.”

  “Then conduct your business,” Tíryus called, “and take these naenion away from our city.”

  “I am sent to implore our people to look favorably upon our cause and to entreat you, Commander, to join your army to ours.”

  Outrage prompted Tíryus to speak over Aerdria, “Look with favor upon traitors? Abandon the defense of our city, as you have done?”

  “Not abandon it,” Iryan replied. “Raise it up. In arms, in dignity.” To every ear on the wall, he cried, “Heed me! A new era is dawning. An era in which Elarion need not be victims of the past, but sculptors of the future. We have the means to carve out a new life for ourselves, far removed from a life of secrecy and cowering in the shadows.” His words smacked of Lothiar’s influence, no doubt about it. “When I dwelt among you, a Guardian of Avidanyth, it was my duty to protect you with tricks and illusions. Do you hear? Tricks! Illusions! Why? Why should your survival depend upon lies? Why are you content to live in hiding when we can walk in the open? Lothiar the Exiled has won that right for you. Will you continue to shrink behind Aerdria’s skirts? Or will you stride forth, bold and free? We have already won back what was ours! All you have to do is stand with us and help us hold it. We have every advantage. The victory will be ours.” Iryan pointed at Thorn. “Doubtless you have heard this avedra’s version of what happened at Bramor. He fills your ears with a slanted tale.”

  “Slanted?” Thorn exclaimed. “What is slanted about women, children, and unarmed warriors lured to their slaughter? Our loved ones rounded up and murdered like sheep trapped in a paddock!”

  Iryan twisted the question, slick as an eel, a talent that Thorn did not know the taciturn Elari possessed. “Have you forgotten your loved ones? Who remembers the name Elraevia? Yes, my own cousin and the last ambassador our Lady sent to the human war chiefs to treat for peace. Do you remember the reception they gave her? Lured and slaughtered, yes, she and her entire party. Not only did the humans fall on them ten to one, but they desecrated the bodies, hanging them on display outside their village. A boast! This I remember, for I reclaimed Elraevia’s body myself. Secretly in the night for fear of yet another trap.

  “Have you forgotten the firestorms that brigades of avedrin sent hurtling into the ranks of our soldiers? Or how the earth opened and swallowed them alive? Perhaps you remember storms of eagles called down from the mountains to rend our flesh? Or the vines in our own trees awakening to strangle us as we sought refuge? Your daughters were among these casualties, Tíryus. Have you forgotten them?”

  Thorn snuck a glance toward the commander. Eyelids tattooed red closed against the horror of memory.

  “Join us, for their sake! For justice long denied. And heed this, my brothers, we do not need you. Our numbers and our fighting power are enough to overwhelm the rest of our enemies. It is out of love and a desire for unity that I plead with you. We fight a winning battle. You might as well come celebrate with us.”

  It was a cocky statement. Yet Thorn feared it was all too true.

  “All we ask,” Iryan concluded, “as a gesture of goodwill, is that you turn over the avedrin you harbor. Captain Lothiar knows from personal experience that you have plenty of baernavë chains in your dungeon.”

  Every eye upon the palisade flicked toward Thorn, as did a maelstrom of frantic thoughts. He took a step back from the crenels, calculating how fast he could get Carah out of Linndun. Then he warned himself, Show no fear. Stand, or flee like a fawn before wolves. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “We will grant you a fortnight to decide and to deliver your answer—and the avedrin—to the gates of Bramor.” With that, Iryan bowed his head and withdrew from the gate. The ogres lumbered after him into the shadows under the trees.

  “Deliver or else what?” Tíryus muttered. He was no fool. He, too, had detected the threat hidden in the rousing speech.

  “Should we pursue him, sir?” asked one of the archers.

  Tíryus considered a moment, then shook his head.

  What about Dathiel? came the unspoken question.

  Thorn glared round at the archer and said, “Try it, yno.”

  The archer blanched and edged away.

  “My Lady?” Tíryus asked.

  Aerdria stood desolate against the crenels, staring at the space of road that Iryan had vacated, as if beneath the flagstones lurked a dark pit into which she was hurtling. “This is my fault,” she said. “I lost my hold on them. Now look what stray children do. If anyone harms the avedrin, Commander, swift punishment will follow. They are family. Never forget that. As for the rest … I must leave that to the council. I don’t know what’s best anymore.”

  Like a specter, she drifted from the ramparts.

  ~~~~

  Carah tried to maintain her doubts about Lyrienn, but doubt slowly slipped through her fingers like leaves. She seemed too good to be true. Uncle Thorn’s lover as not only appealing to the eye, she was gentle and generous and shared her brother’s low wit. “Ah, the wisdom of ages,” she said. “The Moo
n Hall reeks of its ghost. The Elders are behaving like panicked chickens. It’s unseemly, and I apologize.” Couldn’t something be wrong with her? Some irritating nervous habit? A defect? A vile temper? How was Carah to compete with these Elaran women?

  Lyrienn led Carah and Rhian to her own suite, high up in one of the spiraling towers. Fortunately, there was a lift that delivered them halfway, then graceful ramps guided them higher still. “The Lady’s rooms are on the floor above. We have the best view of the city.” She drew aside silk drapes. The last rays of sunset bathed the marble floor in vermillion light. Arching pillars separated the parlor from a sweeping balcony. Carah dared to peek over the rail. Her belly rose into her throat. Far below, birds wheeled over the palace’s gray slate rooftops and the frothing water of the falls. Clustering along the riverbank glistened the tops of the bejeweled trees where most of the Elarion lived. Beyond spread Avidan Wood. Even from so high up, the vast sea of treetops seemed endless, and perhaps that had been true, once.

  “Will you sit?” invited Lyrienn, showing her guests to a sitting area bathed in the soft glow of twilight. Carah sank down in a damask chair and sighed. The journey to Linndun had left her bruised and sore, and the furnishings in the guardhouse had been, well, soldierly. She was unspeakably grateful for the luxury of a well-cushioned chair.

  Lyrienn studied her intently. “How familiar you are.”

  “Did you know Aerdria’s sister?”

  The Elari shook her head. “She was gone long before I was born.”

  “A similarity to my uncle, then?”

  “No, it’s your voice. I am sure I’ve heard it before, but I can’t have, can I? Well, no matter.” Flustered steps carried her to a wine service. She poured something golden into three crystal glasses and delivered them on a silver tray. “Your uncle is prenticing you at last?”

  “Finally, yes.” Carah took a glass. The liqueur tasted like honey-glazed hazelnuts and autumn sunshine.

  “Andyr mead,” Lyrienn said.

  For a moment Carah lost herself to the delights of the drink, then remembered she ought to contribute more to the conversation. “Not that I’m any good.”

  Rhian grunted. “Don’t let her fool you, Lyrienn. She’s gifted.”

  Carah’s cheeks heated, from the mead or the compliment she wasn’t sure.

  “Have the two of you … trained closely, then?” Lyrienn aimed a poignant glance at Rhian.

  He shook a finger at her. “Don’t start prying.”

  Lyrienn laughed. “Whatever do you mean? Two lovely people like yourselves? How could you ignore each other?”

  “We won’t discuss it,” Rhian insisted. “Nothing will come of it.”

  She clucked her tongue. “What a shame.”

  Carah didn’t trust herself to look up from her glass. She could scarcely breathe. To speak so brashly about it! Perhaps Elarion were more open about such things. And Lyrienn was the first who hadn’t expressed outrage at the idea of a lady loving a pearl fisher. But, then, Lyrienn hadn’t known Rhian as a pearl fisher, had she? Only as an avedra. She seemed to understand class division as little as Elliona had.

  “Perhaps we should see to this bruise instead?” Some moments passed before Carah realized Lyrienn was speaking to her. She reached up and touched the tender spot on her forehead.

  “This is Falconeye’s doing. Or the ogre’s. I can’t decide which.”

  Lyrienn’s grin was rife with mischief. “I’ll have to tell my brother that he’s finally learned how to show a girl a good time.”

  Carah chuckled. “Poor Laniel.”

  “Hnh, he deserves it.” The jab was stated with affection.

  Carah squirmed uneasily, set her mead aside. “I’m … I’m sorry about the news we brought.”

  Lyrienn winced. “No, it’s better to know the truth.” She tried on a smile; it wavered. “Laniel and Lothiar couldn’t be more different. Though I’ve heard this wasn’t always the case. And, well, a brother who gives piggyback rides to his baby sister can’t be all bad. Can he?”

  Carah tried to reconcile memories of slaughter with images of Lyrienn as a little girl in ringlets bouncing on a cruel Laniel’s shoulders. Her imagination failed miserably. “My brother and I were always at each other’s throats. Now he’s thrown his lot in with Lothiar.” The strife between them was probably her own fault. And, now, she might never have the chance to make it right.

  Lyrienn reached for Carah’s hand. “Oh, my dear one. I’m sorry we share this heartbreak. It may be of small comfort, maybe none at all, but … Lothiar wouldn’t ally himself with a human. The Black Falcon or your brother. He’s using them, even if they don’t know it yet.”

  Carah flung herself from the chair and paced the length of the balcony. Suppressed sobs ached in her throat; she swallowed against the pain. She could write Kethlyn a letter, explaining things. Would he listen to the little sister who had endlessly tormented him? Probably not.

  Muffled grumbles came from the corridor. The door opened, and Thorn admitted himself. He looked none too happy.

  Lyrienn tilted her nose sky-high. “Were you rough with her?”

  “Yes,” he replied, frowning at the rug. “Honest. I was honest. More honest than she’s been with herself in twenty years.”

  Lyrienn strode to the sideboard, steps sharp and full of resentment. She poured Thorn a glass of mead, regardless.

  He held the glass but didn’t drink. There was more to say. “A messenger arrived and confirmed everything I told her.”

  Resentment withered. “What messenger?” Lyrienn glanced at the door, ready to dart down the tower.

  “Not your brother. Though he spoke for Lothiar. They attempt to rally the city against us. It’s in the hands of the Elders now.”

  “The Lady will sway them.”

  Thorn shook his head. “She’s retreated to her rooms.”

  Lyrienn glanced at the ceiling. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

  “Leave her be.”

  She wrung her hands. Her silken skirt swirled about her ankles as she paced the rug. “It won’t be long now. She’ll leave us before I’m ready. I’m sure of it.”

  Thorn smiled a peculiar, sad smile. “Rhoslyn said the same thing once.”

  “Mum did?” asked Carah.

  Thorn nodded. “But when everything fell on her shoulders, she did all right. You will too.”

  Lyrienn closed her eyes. Fear ebbed from her face.

  Carah asked, “You’re to follow in the Lady’s footsteps?”

  Sinking into her chair again, Lyrienn nodded. “In the beginning, I was just Aerdria’s companion. You call them ladies-in-waiting. But in the past ten years or so, she began preparing me. Nothing has been declared, but I’d be surprised if she left the care of her people to anyone else.”

  “Where does that leave you, Uncle Thorn?” Carah half-hoped Lyrienn’s ascension would leave him as cold and lonely as she found herself.

  “Is that any of your business?” he retorted, then heaved a breath. “It leaves me old and dead all too soon.”

  “It’s morbid you are, Dathiel,” Rhian said and tossed back his mead.

  Thorn’s grin carried bite. “But honest.”

  A shadow of grief crossed Lyrienn’s face as she gazed on Thorn, then she rose and pulled a bell rope. “For supper. I should see if Aerdria needs anything. Dine here, if you will. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Carah longed for a bath more than food, or so she thought until savory aromas arrived in silver tureens. Elarion set the food on a round dining table, then bustled out again. Even the Lady’s heir did not have footmen serving her? Equality was a strange thing. With a shrug, Carah helped herself to a sweet onion soup rich with butter and herbs. The broth eased the tension from her body. Thorn and Rhian joined her without a word to each other, or to her. Silence was probably safest.

  Before the avedrin finished the soup, Lyrienn returned. A sorrowful cloud hung about her like a cloak. Aerdria must have turned her away.
/>   Thorn ladled a bowl for her. Lyrienn smiled at him, appreciative, but ignored the food.

  “How long will it take the Elders to decide if they will help us?” Carah asked.

  Lyrienn shrugged. “Hours, months, years, who knows?”

  “Let’s talk of something less incendiary to my digestion,” Thorn suggested.

  Without missing a beat, Lyrienn asked, “Tell me, Carah, do you share your uncle’s love of lore?”

  Carah cleared her throat. “I wasn’t exactly an apt history pupil. I’m sure my tutor was ready to throttle me. The lore I loved was found only in the bedtime tales Uncle Thorn told me.”

  He burst out laughing. “Pity her, Lyrienn. I’m afraid I filled her head with tall tales about Laniel. It couldn’t be helped, really. He leaves himself ripe for plunder.”

  Amused, Lyrienn asked, “When you met him, did my brother live up to the legend?”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s never fought cloud giants or explored Azhdyria, as you claim, Uncle.”

  Lyrienn giggled behind her fingers. “Not yet, but he’s still young. So Dathiel has not infected you with his obsession of the Forbidden Land?”

  How odd it felt, talking about these things with a stranger. What would the ladies of the Riding Society think if she were to mention giants and lost continents over tea? Most likely they would blink blankly and pretend she hadn’t said a word, while silently labeling her mad. Yet here, in this glistening hidden city, legend twined intimately with fact until one looked much like the other. “He says no one knows much about the place, and that’s why he longs to go there. Am I right?”

  Thorn replied with a hint of a nod.

  Lyrienn’s fingers steepled under her chin. Her unwavering scrutiny seemed to pierce Carah straight through. “Do you prefer to dive into the unknown or run from it?”