Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  “No shame in it,” he said, then felt half an eejit for it. Who was he to offer consolation to a king?

  Arryk cast him a half-grin. “Is it difficult?”

  Where should he settle his eyes? “Is what difficult? Sire.”

  “Turning water into ice as if you were winter itself.”

  Rhian chuckled at that. “Not anymore. Though at first, Dathiel despaired of me learning anything.”

  Arryk motioned toward the river. “Lady Carah is learning to do what you did?”

  Rhian caught a certain tender note in the White Falcon’s voice. When a silence drew out a hair too long, Arryk turned to look at him. Rhian smoothed the glare off his face. He shrugged, but the gesture came off petulant. “Time will tell. She’s the most stubborn person I know.”

  “Aye,” said Arryk, smiling with obvious approval.

  Rhian had to turn away fast; he feared he would not be able to mask the sinking in his belly. The pain of it nearly ripped a groan from him. All the White Falcon had to do was crook a finger, and the delight of his eye might be granted to him. How much more appropriate for the Lady Carah to wed a king than a pearl fisher?

  “Blood is an interesting thing,” Arryk pondered, watching Carah wade through the water and apparently oblivious to the wound he’d opened. “Yours gives you gifts. Mine gives me a frightfully uncomfortable chair. Could’ve been the other way around, don’t you think?”

  “I do not believe fate is so kind.”

  The White Falcon studied Rhian for a long moment, perhaps trying to decide if insult was intended. He shrugged it off. “So you think it’s my destiny that others eat off my plate before I do?”

  Rhian clenched his teeth. “I think having enough for two to eat off a single plate is a blessing. Sire.”

  Arryk’s laughter carried a chill. He leaned on the crenel as if he feared neither heights nor falling nor death itself. “Perspective. Good advisers provide perspective. Laral does that for me. Now you.”

  “Is that what I did?”

  “Let me pay in kind. A knighthood would solve your little dilemma.” His finger flicked toward the river, where Carah and her uncle now knelt on the bank. Fire flooded Rhian’s face. Was there anything the White Falcon didn’t notice? Did he want Carah for himself or not? He stepped close and said in Rhian’s ear, “Even commoners who serve well on the field have been known to earn knighthoods.” Arryk concluded with a look that managed to be both haughty and conspiratorial, then he sauntered off along the wall, his guard and his adviser on tow. Laral extended a nod in greeting, but Rhian was too confused to return it until they were long past.

  He leaned heavily upon the crenel and wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. Highborns were fickle. Everyone in Sandy Cape knew that, so Rhian knew better than to place much hope in the White Falcon’s notion. In a week’s time, the king would be too busy with other matters to recall giving encouragement to a pearl fisher.

  Just do your job, he scolded himself, and return to your own kind as soon as you can.

  The stationary light on the far hills was gone. But others approached from the northeast. He noticed them just as the dranithi in the tower alerted him. “Yes, I see,” he replied, counting two dozen lifelights descending from the foothills. Humans by the dim glow. Though near the lead, one azeth was bright enough to belong to an Elari, possibly an avedra. An horn sounded. Drills ceased; faces rose; on the training field, Eliad ordered soldiers to form ranks.

  Rhian cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Azhien! Duinóvion baiven lanor gohn er kathio.” The dranithi nocked an arrow and stalked through the grasses toward the line of strangers he couldn’t yet see. Thorn grabbed Carah from the reeds and they darted back toward the castle. Inside the walls, soldiers, dwarves, and artisans flocked to the battlements to see the latest threat. Eventually Thorn squeezed in beside Rhian. Carah was not with him. He’d likely sent her inside.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet. Did Eliad send a hunting party that way?”

  “Ach, probably. Excitement over nothing.” Thorn squinted. “They run in single-file like highlanders, and they’re headed this way, no mistake. We might eat well tonight.” He waved his arms to disperse the crowd. “There’s no danger! Move along.”

  The highlanders trotted at a steady pace toward the knee-deep waters above the cataracts. They did not break their stride so much as half a step as they splashed across. Azhien met them on the other side, his elbow cocked as he advanced on them with his bow drawn.

  “This could end bad,” Rhian said. “His duínovan is not fluent. Should I go?”

  Thorn held up a stilling hand. “Elaran instinct is good. If Azhien attacks, there’s likely better reason than obstacles in language. Just wait.”

  The Elari lowered his bow and for some moments conversed with the humans, arms gesticulating toward the fortress in ways that crossed language barriers. At last, Azhien turned and led them across the meadow and the archery range. The soldiers drawn up there broke ranks and followed them, curiosity winning out.

  “What do they carry?” Rhian asked.

  A long pole stretched between two of the highlanders in the rear, the ends propped over their shoulders. A dozen objects swung from it.

  “Ducks? Geese?” Thorn hazarded.

  Azhien raced ahead of the highlanders. When he reached the base of the hill he called up the wall, “Kulyanen naenioned.”

  Thorn grunted in surprise. Rhian’s glance clung to the bright azeth approaching.

  ~~~~

  19

  Kelyn swallowed a groan of annoyance when the doors to the Great Hall opened and Eliad slipped in. After lunch, he’d given his commanders explicit orders to go drill, go nap, anything, so he could think in peace.

  Eliad knew his liege lord well enough to interpret the expression on his face. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I know, Kelyn, I know. You said you wouldn’t leave the Hall until you settled our campaign, but … well, you might want to come see this.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I haven’t even told you what it is.”

  “I don’t care what it is, Eliad. Not now.” He was so close to envisioning the solution, to laying out his army’s trajectory. On paper, he had the supplies figured for a long campaign; in his head he knew which troops to deploy as foragers, which as scouts, which as reserve, and which would charge into the fray. Given Thorn’s reports, he knew the sectors of countryside where ogres congregated and those they ignored. Half-a-dozen paths were sketched on his maps. But he couldn’t see the first step. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t like it. The answer was shrouded in silver light. When he chanced to sleep, the light appeared to him in his dreams. It wanted to lead him over a familiar landscape onto a wide plain, but Kelyn was afraid to follow. The issue was one of gates. Lives of thousands depended on him being right, and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to trust their lives to a dream. Even a persistent dream.

  Kelyn ignored Eliad and bent over his maps, his sheaves of calculations, speculations, and notes, but Eliad didn’t get the hint. “Kelyn, these highlanders have come all the way from the Middle Range. It will be an insult to turn them away. Besides, they come bearing gifts ‘for His Lordship.’ It’s not a gift you want them to bring inside. Trust me. You have to come.”

  Teeth on edge, it was all Kelyn could do to keep his voice down. “I can’t be bothered with your people, Eliad. You take care of it.”

  “They’re not my people. They’re a different kindred entirely. It won’t take a moment. And you look like you could use a breather.”

  Vowing to feed Eliad to the ogres later, Kelyn followed him into the late afternoon sunshine. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard, surrounding twenty or more highlanders who stood in two straight lines. They were fierce, hairy, muddy, and tall and, surprisingly, at attention. Or something resembling it. The cloaks pinned across their shoulders were red, gray, and black. Eliad’s people wore blue and gr
ay. Kelyn thought he recognized the weave but couldn’t place it. These highlanders came from outside his domain. What business did they have with him?

  He saw the gift held aloft by two men at the back of their formation. Swinging from their ears, the ogres’ heads had bled out long ago. Pale gray skin sagged. Tongues drooped between yellow tusks. Flies swarmed.

  “Lord Ilswythe?” The man in the fore had nothing delicate about him: hard hands, angular shoulders, a bushy beard like copper-and-silver wire, a honed hatchet on his belt, and a voice that would echo across mountain valleys. His question was nearly a bellow.

  “I am he.”

  The Redbeard gestured sharply. The two men carried the pole forward and laid the heads at Kelyn’s feet. “We bring these bogles as a sign of our allegiance,” the Redbeard said. “Word travels. My brothers, sons, and cousins would fight for you. If you will not have us, we will fight anyway. We owe it to our kin, them these bastards slew.”

  “And you are?”

  “I am Haim son of Fenn son of Kall Stonearm.”

  Kelyn nodded, considering the offer. “We welcome more warriors, but answer me this. You took these … bogles … unawares?”

  “Aye, just before dawn it were. We tracked ‘em to their camp. Their trails are not hard to follow.”

  Kelyn had no doubt the highlander was an honest man. Haim’s honor likely demanded he tell the truth, as unvarnished as possible. But Kelyn glanced at his brother, who stood off to the side, leaning on his staff in a successful effort to look intimidatingly avedra. Thorn returned the glance and tilted his head, urging Kelyn to prod a little more. So Kelyn clarified his question: “But how did you see them? They were not hidden from you?”

  “We couldna see them,” Haim said. “We only helped nick the heads. It was my cousin slew ‘em.” Haim turned to search the lines of his comrades, but couldn’t find the man.

  “He’s there,” Thorn said; a small nod of his staff indicated the gatehouse. In the deep shadow beneath the portcullis, a figure leaned a shoulder against the stone. Thorn must have been keeping a wary eye on him all along.

  Kelyn beckoned. “Will you not step forward and let me commend you to your face?”

  The stranger straightened as if startled by the request. Of course, every eye in the courtyard was now aimed at him. Some moments passed before he emerged from the shadow of the tunnel. He strode boldly across the courtyard, holding Kelyn’s gaze with unflinching intensity. He was no older than twenty-five. Red yarn bound thin braids to each side of his stern face, but the rest of his dark hair fell loose and tangled to his shoulders.

  Something about his approach reminded Kelyn of a thunderstorm barreling down on him. The set of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, his stride itself. It was like watching Thorn at that age. Or himself.

  Kelyn’s stomach sank. He cursed under his breath, and glanced at his brother. Thorn had seen it too. His face was a brittle mask hiding sudden panic. He tried to meet Kelyn’s eye and failed.

  The effort of finding his voice felt like lifting a mountain with a shovel. “You … killed all these ogres by yourself? That’s quite a feat.”

  The young man’s shoulder moved. It might’ve been a shrug, or he might have been adjusting the cloak on his back. “I picked ‘em off, one at a time. Arrows, mostly.”

  “You can see the ogres at all times?”

  He nodded curtly, a single dip of the chin. “Sometimes they’re just dim lights.” His glower flicked toward Thorn, raked him up and down.

  Kelyn had the impression that this young man approved of not one soul nor one stone his eyes fell upon. In spite of himself, he gulped. His throated clicked it was so dry. Could anyone else see how unsettled he was? “Your name?”

  “Alyster.”

  Just Alyster. Those familiar with highlander ways would find it conspicuous that he’d not added the names of his forebears to his own, as Haim son of Fenn son of Kall had done. His older red-bearded cousin glanced toward him at the omission, but said nothing.

  Kelyn let out a breath; he’d been holding it longer than he realized. “Very well. Come inside. We’ll speak of it.” He did not wait for the young man to refuse but about-faced and ascended the steps to the keep. Thorn started to accompany him. Kelyn stopped him. “Get Haim son of Fenn and his men settled.” He held Thorn’s glance like a fist clutching a throat. I don’t want to hear one bloody word from you. He flung the demand like a knife spinning end over end.

  Thorn couldn’t help but catch it. “Yessir,” he said, bowing and backing away.

  Once in the Great Corridor, Kelyn heard Rhoslyn’s laughter tumbling from the front parlor. Carah’s excited voice followed. Feigning a calm he didn’t feel, Kelyn stuck his head into the parlor and said, “Ladies? Stay here for a bit. That’s an order, soldier.”

  “Yes, Da,” Carah replied. They regarded him in confounded silence as he closed the parlor door.

  He was halfway down the corridor when he turned to find that Alyster had barely made it past the entryway. He gawked at the high, arched ceiling, mouth open a little, hands lax at his sides. Kelyn tried to see the keep from a stranger’s perspective. The place was a wreck, but even Ilswythe at its worst must be mightily more impressive than the cottage where this cowherd had grown up. At least, Kelyn hoped the boy had grown up in something more substantial than a hovel.

  Alyster looked down and found he was keeping His Lordship waiting. Clearing the wonderment from his face, he picked up the pace, affecting a cocky, self-assured stride, but it wasn’t long before his eyes began wandering again.

  On the long, arduous journey across the Great Hall, Kelyn thought, You have got to be kidding. Of all the brilliant timing. I’m cursed. The Mother has cursed me, there’s no other explanation. He ducked into his study and held the door open for his guest. Once Alyster was inside, Kelyn abruptly shut the door, startling him. He wore a hatchet on each hip, a dagger in a wide baldric across his chest, and a quiver of arrows on his belt. Kelyn was keenly conscious of Solandyr’s sword hanging above the mantel. Could he have it in hand fast enough? “Is fighting ogres the real reason you’ve come?” he asked, easing into the chair behind his desk. “Or did you have something like vengeance in mind?”

  Resentment clouded Alyster’s face. “I don’t know you well enough to want to kill you. But I am here for vengeance. The bogles attacked our village.”

  The tension in Kelyn’s belly eased a fraction. He waved his guest to a chair opposite, but Alyster examined his feet. He was wet to the knees. Mud caked homemade shoes. “I winna ruin your fine rug.” He remained standing near the door.

  “You’ve been trained in the ways of the avedrin?”

  “The what? Fae-men like him, you mean?” A tilt of his head indicated Thorn. “No.”

  “As a warrior then?”

  “All our men train their sons to fight. My uncles trained me. Our kindred wages war against others. We know of Lord Drenéleth. We don’t get on well with the kindred living on his lands. Carousers and lechers, the lot. But mostly, I had to learn quick to defend mysel’.”

  “And why was that?” Don’t bother being curious, he warned himself. But it was too late to withdraw the question and kick the boy out.

  Alyster’s grin was fierce. “Nobody likes a bastard.”

  Kelyn made sure his glare was cold and unwavering. “I don’t give a shit about the rug, but I do mind bad manners. Sit. Down.”

  Hospitality was a sacred thing among the highlanders. To be a poor host was a crime; to be an ungrateful guest was a disgrace. The grin collapsed, and Alyster eased into the room as if he expected the floor to give way beneath him. When he was seated, Kelyn said, “Tell me about the ogres. They make war on the mountain people as well?” Any information about enemy activity was bound to be useful.

  Alyster seemed to find it hard to meet Kelyn’s eye all of a sudden. Shame, maybe. Or maybe he hadn’t expected Lord Ilswythe to find his words worth heeding. He started with a shrug. “We a’ways known t
he bogles was real, no matter what people down here said. We knew to avoid caves and to leave goat carcasses, to appease ‘em. But sacrifices didna he’p us this year. We never thought the bastards would turn on us. The raids started wi’ the snowmelt. This village or that farm would be found empty. No rhyme or reason why they attacked this town and not that one. Several weeks we feared we’d be next. Then we were. When it came time for me to take the herds to the high valleys, I left a hatchet wi’ my mother…” He paused; the fierce grin returned. “Aren’t you curious? My grandfather kicked her out. We lived with her uncle. He had three sons, all older than me. They had more fist than brain. But we took care of each other, Mother and me, best we could.”

  A silence drew out. Alyster seemed to be waiting for a particular kind of reaction, like a man skilled at plucking out fingernails waits for a scream. Or a confession. Kelyn merely laced his fingers and rested his chin on his knuckles, daring the boy to look him square in the face and keep plucking. He didn’t.

  “From the high valley, it was easy to see the smoke. I left the herd to the wolves and ran back. By the time I got home, the bogles was gone. My uncle and his sons was dead and half the village with ‘em. The other half were gone. Taken.”

  “Haim son of Fenn?” Kelyn asked. “How is he not among the dead?”

  “He and his kin live down the valley. That’s where I ran to next, to see if the bogles had got them too. They hadn’t touched the place, but when I tol’ my cousins what happened, they grabbed their hatchets and off we went. We tracked the bogles for three days. That’s when we came across the pile o’ bones. Every scrap of meat stripped off, and nearby a pile o’ clothes. A pair of fine lowland shoes I’d bought for the lass I’s courtin’. And my mother’s green dress. It was woven with wee yellow flowers. She liked green. Her eyes were green, you know.”

  Kelyn’s steady gaze lowered a fraction. He hadn’t remembered the color of her eyes, if he’d ever noticed at all. The infamous groom’s daughter. Her father came looking for work when Kelyn was fourteen or fifteen. He’d known enough about livestock to earn a job in Lord Keth’s stables. It wasn’t long before the daughter he’d brought with him caught Kelyn’s fickle eye. Aye, her father had worn a red, gray, and black cloak until he’d earned enough to pay for proper livery in Ilswythe’s colors—and he wore it again when he returned the livery and drove away with his daughter. Lord Keth had been furious because Kelyn had cost him a good worker. Lady Alovi had expressed outrage that her son could be so unchivalrous. Kieryn was horrified that Kelyn thought the conquest worth bragging about. Her father sent her away in disgrace! The words echoed up from the black depths of unwanted memories. All Lord Keth told his sons was that the stablehand had returned to his people. Kelyn had never inquired who his people were. He hadn’t cared one jot.