Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  “Aunt! The towers are too dangerous for you to climb.” Perhaps her handmaid had helped her, but the woman was nowhere in evidence.

  She didn’t so much as flinch at his outburst. Kethlyn knew her hearing had not diminished, despite her eighty-some years. The old bitch was ignoring him.

  It wouldn’t do to shove her aside. With a huff he said, “Do you mind?”

  Halayn kept the spyglass to herself, but she deigned to reply. “Soldiers have spread across the city. They’re arresting people left and right. Oh! That man won’t get up again, I’d bet my ruby ring on it.” She stood as straight as her rounded shoulders permitted and cast him a haughty smirk, one that made him feel far smaller than her five-foot-four. “Will you arrest me, too?”

  “Should I?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve asked the same question they are asking. Your mother lives, so how is it that we have a duke in residence?”

  Would she never give up? “I’ve told you. I’ve told them!” His hand flicked toward the burning city. “The king named—”

  “Yes. Most effective.”

  “I won’t stand for your mockery!”

  “You won’t need to.” Her haughtiness cooled like a cinder going out. Deep sorrow filled hazel eyes. “All the trouble we went to, your mother, your father, me, everyone who knew. All to protect you from scandal, give you a decent name! And you stumble into something far worse on your own. I rue the day you were born.” Bastard, bastard! her scorn screamed. “I will go to my chambers, and live and die there. Goddess willing, I won’t have long to wait. You won’t see me again.”

  Halayn shuffled past him and out along the yellow wall. She left her cane behind. Kethlyn snatched it up and called for her, but she had gone deaf again.

  He hadn’t the heart to observe Leng’s progress after that. He retreated to his rooms and locked the doors. Bastard. From the corridor, his chamberlain informed him that his mother’s garden-side chambers had been converted for him and were awaiting his approval. The idea of moving into them no longer appealed to him. “I’ll sleep in here tonight,” he replied through the door. Bastard. Bastard. He didn’t emerge for Drael who requested orders for the palace garrison. Nor did he admit servants with food or bathwater or messages from his troubled people. He wriggled out of his armor and muddy underclothes, and filled a goblet from the first bottle of wine his hand found in the sideboard.

  With the odors of sweat, horse, and smoke clinging to him like shame, he sat on his balcony and watched the ashes of his city rise. The sky darkened while he drained the bottle to the dregs. Leng failed to quench the fires by nightfall. An angry red glow contended with the red light of Forath as he rose above the gleam of the Liran River. His bloody face was as accusatory as Aunt Halayn’s. Bastard. Terrible soldier. Worse duke.

  He’d been so desperate to hold onto his birthright that he threw it away with both hands. “Bastard,” he muttered into the goblet. “Stupid fucking bastard.”

  To the east, beyond the rail of his balcony, beyond the turrets of the gatehouse, stretched the long road to Ilswythe and Bramoran. He wondered who would send the swordsman first. Lothiar or his mother?

  ~~~~

  21

  Laral buckled the helm on Arryk’s head, gave it a knock with his knuckles for luck, and offered a hand to help him into the saddle. Haldred held the bridle until the king situated himself. “I miss Highflight,” Arryk said as he accepted a shield from Hal. “These cavalry horses are so … small.” The king’s fine white stallion had been lost to Bramoran. What Lothiar might’ve done with it was anyone’s guess.

  “They’re faster though,” Laral said, backing away from the tilting course. Be careful, he wanted to add. A thousand times be careful. But he kept his mouth shut. They had spent the morning sparring with blunt swords in a corner of the bailey. Laral’s knuckles throbbed where Arryk’s edge had laid them open. The White Falcon didn’t apologize. “It’s because you’re being too gentle. You won’t fight me, damn it. You haven’t dealt me a real bruise yet.” That’s when Laral suggested the tilting course.

  His morning was free because Kelyn no longer sought his aid, or the aid of any of his commanders for that matter. They had offered all the opinions he needed, apparently, helpful or otherwise. The Great Hall was off limits, and for two days no one but the duchess and a handful of kitchen staff had clapped eyes on the War Commander.

  Arryk seemed pleased to have his friend all to himself. Inside the visor, his eyes crinkled with a grin. He drew a sword, and his borrowed horse tore off at a gallop. Amid the course, an eight-foot-tall dummy taunted him with a wooden club and leather shield. Lady Maeret had bashed the original dummy to shreds with her morning star, so Eliad and Drys had built a new one from potato sacks. Soldiers worked on building several more. Straw filled the vital areas, but horse manure would reward those whose aim was off. Atop the spike they had set a green gourd in place of an ogre’s head.

  Arryk’s sword set loose a cascade of straw. He turned the horse hard and charged again. The sword arced level. The top of the gourd toppled off the spike. Seeds flew. He reined in beside Laral and Hal. Juice from the gourd ran white down the blade.

  “Well done, sire,” cried the squire. “I didn’t do half so well. My sleeve still smells of horseshit.”

  Arryk tugged off the helm. He frowned, skeptical. “I don’t suppose an ogre will stand still for me.”

  Laral sputtered. “You’re not thinking of actually fighting!”

  The White Falcon handed Haldred the helm and shield, and dismounted. “Thinking. But I doubt Moray will permit it. Funny, that. I could order him to stand aside, and he would. But I know he’s right.”

  Relieved, Laral put the helm back on the rack with the rest of the training equipment. Most of the soldiers had retired to the barracks for mess. Despite the high, hot sun, Arryk preferred to wait till they left the field, so he could train in relative privacy. With an oiled rag, he cleaned the juice from the blade, then handed it off to Hal.

  “I’m not well enough anyway,” he confided. “My fever came back in the night. I had to pay Lady Carah a visit.”

  “Sire, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  “Before I agreed to spar with you. You can’t take risks. You’re not expendable.”

  “And you are?” He waved away the argument. “Oh, Laral, stop fretting like my mother. I’m fine. I’m in no pain.” His hand pressed at his side. “Mostly.” He selected a wooden greatsword from the rack. “C’mon. Stand on the mound over there. You get to be the ogre, since you’re nearly as tall as one anyway.”

  Laral was trying to think of a polite way to tell his king that he was foolish to rush things, when commotion stirred the sentries atop the wall. A horn blasted. Arryk tossed aside the training sword, and Laral hurried him up the hill and through the gatehouse. The trouble didn’t appear to be ogres, at any rate. In the courtyard, a crowd of people surrounded a wagon drawn by two fly-bitten mules. A highlander in a blue and gray cloak drove it. Drys climbed the wheel and hopped into the back. The driver was complaining to anyone who would listen: “… that’s all he says. ‘My lord, my lord.’ He’s daft, I tell ya. I asked him which lord, but he didna say. Damned if I know. So I brung him to let you lords sort it out.”

  Drys’s head popped up over the side of the wagon; he grabbed the nearest gawking onlooker and ordered, “Find Lord Brengarra.”

  What did he have to do with it? wondered Laral. “Drys, I’m here!” he called over the crowd.

  A path cleared. Arryk and Haldred hung back as Laral pressed through the people to the wagon’s side. At first, all he saw were two feet, bruised and bloodied, as if the man had danced in a briar patch. Drys lowered a hand and hoisted Laral into the wagon. The shrunken figure wore a torn gray doublet with the black mountain and yellow lightning bolt embroidered on the shoulder. A moment passed before Laral recognized the hollow, gray face. “Arvold! Goddess’ breath, what are you doing here?”

/>   “Found him near dead at Drenéleth’s gate, Your Lordship,” said the driver.

  When the steward recognized Laral hovering over him, a tension eased from his wasted face. The skin around his eyes sagged. There wasn’t much substance left to him. A breath in the wrong direction might blow him away. “M’ lord, Mother’s grace, at last.”

  “Arvold, what happened? Where is Wren?”

  The steward’s grip was fierce on Laral’s hand, his eyes bright and glassy. “Lost my way. So many times. Only sun and stars to show me … but the sky is vast, and you are only one man, my lord. I failed them. I fear I’m late, so late, it may be too late.” His face crumpled with pain; his fingers clenched the front of his doublet. A strangled gasp squeezed from his throat.

  “Where are they?” Laral demanded.

  On the edge of a sigh, Arvold said, “Taken. East for the mountains.”

  This nightmare had troubled Laral many times, only it was a falcon that told him his family was gone. Or Wren herself, though that was impossible. When he realized this wasn’t another nightmare, Laral flushed hot, head to heel. The agony hit him all at once, as if he’d been thrown under a horse’s hooves. A moment later he felt nothing at all. Someone seemed to have reached inside his chest and torn out his heart.

  He didn’t remember jumping from the wagon or crossing the courtyard or entering the keep. All he saw was Andy standing in Brengarra’s stable yard, hands limp at his sides, heartbreak vast on his small face as Laral rode away without him. The next he knew, he was shoving socks and blankets into his bags. Something kept the undershirts from lying flat. He lifted out the small Aralorri knight that his sister had made for him years ago. For luck, Ruthan told him. He tucked it back into the bottom of the satchel and made doubly sure Lesha’s kerchief was secure inside the bracer hugging his forearm. For luck. Aye, he needed a double portion.

  Feet pounded down the corridor, stuttered to a stop outside his door. “My lord, what do you think you’re doing?” Haldred’s big calloused hands tried to take the satchel away. “You can’t just leave!”

  Laral tugged the satchel one way and shoved his squire the other.

  “At least take me with you!” the boy cried.

  How can you leave without me? Andy’s gray eyes had welled with tears he was too proud to let fall. I’m indispensable. Tell me the truth! You’re leaving me because you think I’m a weakling!

  I left you because I wanted you to be safe. Safe. Oh, Goddess, forgive me. It was all he could do to keep breathing.

  “No, Hal,” he said, voice raw. “Kelyn needs a trained squire. Serve him. That’s an order.”

  “But, sir—!”

  Laral rounded on him. “You don’t understand. I’ve lost all of them, Hal. Jaedren and now the rest of them. They’re my life, they’re everything! I will return with them, or I won’t return at all. You haven’t even found your life yet. Don’t die for mine.”

  “But I’m sworn, sir.”

  “You swore to do what I say!”

  The boy wilted a bit. Over his shoulder, Laral saw Arryk standing on the threshold. He started shaking his head before the king uttered a word. “Don’t. I will defy you.”

  Arryk laid a hand on his shoulder. “If it were Istra, only the Abyss itself would stop me. But don’t go alone.”

  Kalla emerged from the corridor. “We’ll find them, Laral.”

  Drys shouldered past her, shaking a fist. “And we’ll tear apart the bastards that took ‘em.”

  Arryk smiled and added, “I’ll look after Hal. And do … do try to come back.”

  ~~~~

  The beating of the old man’s heart grew more faint by the hour. Under Carah’s palm it felt like sand slipping through her fingers.

  Back away, love. Uncle Thorn’s voice resonated on the edge of her mind.

  No! Try again. She pressed deeper, urging, Beat with me. For a while, the old man’s heart picked up a quicker tempo, stronger, but it faded fast, throwing off the rhythm of the song. Don’t give up. A sob burst from her mouth, though she barely heard it with her physical ears. The old man made no response. He thought of nothing; neither did he reply to her thoughts as King Arryk had.

  It’s time, love. Back away.

  To release him, to let him go when she could save him … she’d never forgive herself.

  There! The rhythm grew steady again. Slow, soft. Pulling her… Tha-thump, tha … thump.

  Carah! Don’t go down with him! Let go!

  The panic in Thorn’s cry startled her. She tore her awareness free, lifted her hands from the old man’s chest, and sucked down a gulp of air. Black fog cleared from her eyes. Sweat trickled down her temples. She found herself staring at Thorn’s fingers gripping her wrist. His knuckles were white. Fear nestled in his eyes. He took a steadying breath. “You cannot save them all, love.” He sat on the far side of the bed, where he had helped Carah minister to her newest patient. Once the steward had been carried from the wagon and settled in Laral’s rooms, he asked the same questions over and over. “Did I tell him? Has he saved the boy?”

  Thorn was gentle in repeating the answers. “Laral left this afternoon. Laral is on his way to find them. Not yet, but he will.” Over and over again, infinitely patient.

  Master Arvold had accepted a sip of broth from Carah’s hand, then slipped into senseless sleep. An hour or so later, he’d shuddered with a spasm and here she had sat ever since, coaxing, persuading, arguing, demanding that he live. But part of his heart refused to respond. How to wake it up again? Night darkened the windows now, and the corridors had grown still. She suspected that dawn lingered just beyond the horizon.

  “I don’t understand why he doesn’t listen. Doesn’t he care?”

  Thorn’s smile was tender. “You’re so young, so strong. How can you hope to understand a soul so tired and ready for rest? It is not an evil thing to let him go. More evil to force him to stay long after he’s ready.”

  She flung herself from the chair, unable sit beside the dying man another moment. Out on the wall a sentry’s lantern drifted, a dull orange pulse in the blackness. Thorn joined her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Goddess willing, you won’t understand for another sixty or seventy years. That’s my prayer for you, dearheart.”

  She pressed her face against his neck and sobbed for a dying man she never knew.

  ~~~~

  22

  A matter of gates. Kelyn stepped back from the maps and sheaves of notes spread across the high table. Night stretched out beyond the cracked windows of the Great Hall. Dawn seemed a long time in coming. Half a dozen lamps served double-duty as paperweights. The far reaches of the hall were lost in darkness. On paper, everything was laid out, troops and supplies and auxiliaries tallied, operations and raids meant to weaken Lothiar’s hold on Bramoran. It was all a matter of gates. Whose would break first? The gates of Bramoran were strong. The gates of Ilswythe were not. They withstood a three-day siege admirably, but Lothiar had yet to send his full force, and he would. That, Kelyn did not doubt.

  His entire campaign hinged on having a solid refuge from which to send his troops. He could not spare men for an offensive if their every waking moment was spent shoring up Ilswythe’s defenses. Thyrvael was a mighty fortress, set on the side of the Silver Mountains, like a jewel in a crown. He considered moving his people there, but didn’t relish the idea of having his back to a wall, and ogres were native to deep mountain tunnels. They understood warfare in narrow spaces underground. Kelyn did not.

  So he made do with Ilswythe. Everything was lined out. And none of it good. He had too few avedrin, too few Elarion, too few knights, next to no siege equipment, too many untried civilians in militia uniforms wielding sticks, too many highlanders who preferred to decide for themselves which orders to follow. Maybe he was underestimating them. Probably not. Time on the field would tell.

  With the heels of his hands he tried to rub the throb from his temples. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, had eaten too lit
tle, and now his skull felt lined with wool. Rhoslyn had urged him to rest. She alone would not be kept from the Great Hall. On occasion Kelyn would glance up and find her sitting among the low tables, watching him. “Eat something,” she would insist. “Rest.” He never knew how long she’d been sitting there, nor when she left again.

  She was wise, but the situation was urgent. He didn’t have time for rest. Not yet. “Run through it again,” he told himself, pacing beside the table. “You’ve missed something.” His thoughts were so muddled that speaking aloud was the only way they made sense. It was an elaborate chess match. If Lothiar moved here, then Kelyn had to move there. But if Lothiar didn’t, then Kelyn was free to shift focus here. Then Lothiar would respond … how? Kelyn picked up a quill and scratched out more possibilities and countermeasures. Then he remembered he’d already thought of that. And wrote it down a day ago. “Circles, damn it. Stop! Just move. Force Lothiar’s hand. Do the unexpected.” Why was making the initial move so hard? Because you’re missing something. Surely once the stone started bouncing it would keep rolling by itself, but dislodging it was the hard part.

  Light flared in the corner of his eye. The far corners of the Great Hall took shape. A highlander with a lamp, he assumed, bringing him breakfast at Rhoslyn’s insistence. He glanced at the windows. Still dark. The light spread with sudden brilliance. The lamps on the table were feeble in comparison. Kelyn whirled, fearing gouts of fire roaring up from the kitchens. But the light was silver, not red.