Blood of the Falcon, Volume 2 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “How grateful?” Angrev demanded.

  Athna shrugged a shoulder. Her ribbons of office glittered like red gold. “Show him favor by bringing your prisoners to him, and he’ll be bound to show you favor in return. Wise, if you intend to deal arms to his fleet.”

  Angrev’s lip curled. “She’s got an extra die up her sleeve, Cap’n.”

  “True,” she admitted. “Bano’en might pay more for me and Wyllan than that whole lot of Fierans, but it’s worth a try. And I doubt we’ll regret being quit of one another, Angrev.”

  “She got a point there, sir,” he called over his shoulder.

  Rehaan crooked a finger at her. She joined him on the quarterdeck. He whispered, “You filling me full of shit?”

  “You’ve done that for yourself.” What she couldn’t say aloud with so many ears present was that she was offering him a way out of his rash decision to abandon his contract. He had to see it on his own. Please, see it. If he didn’t understand now, maybe he would later. “Extra coin, that’s all,” she lied, “and a winter free of my company.”

  He leant on the rail that overlooked the ship’s waist and called, “You men up for extra coin?”

  “Aye!” exclaimed the crew.

  “Boatswain, get those men on board and secure them in the hold. Angrev, fly Evaronna’s banner from shroud and mast, all of them. The last thing we want is the eyes in Graynor mistaking who we are. The rest of you, get us turned around, bear east-northeast. If the Goddess is good, we’ll be dividing a chest of silver three nights hence.”

  ~~~~

  56

  When word arrived at Éndaran that King Bano’en had declared war on Fiera, Lady Eritha dutifully marshaled her militia from the surrounding manors. Anticipating their march north on the morrow, knights and squires crowded the courtyard, preparing horses and harness, honing weapons, and oiling armor. Prince Nathryk strolled through the press on inspection, as he had inspected his father’s guard when they gathered for parade. The commoners drilled with pikes and traded rabbits and piglets for winter shoes beyond the gatehouse, but Nathryk didn’t bother with them. He earned nods from a few knights who recognized him. The rest ignored him. He didn’t mind. Better that they be dedicated to Fiera’s defense than distracted by his presence.

  Pausing at a brazier to warm his hands, he calculated which knight was in greatest need of a squire. The youngest ones, likely, though their inexperience in battle did not appeal to him. He’d decided never to pardon the warlord for neglecting to ask him to be one of his squires. Riding north with Goryth, slipping across the Leanian border and into Aralorr, scaring the shit out of those Aralorri peasants would have pleased Nathryk well. A knight as great as Goryth couldn’t have too many squires, surely, and what greater honor for Goryth than taking his prince along? No such request ever arrived. Perhaps Nathryk should have sought the favor of the strange Zhiani prince instead. With all his colorful silk costume, jewelry, and eye paint, he made Nathryk think of some exotic bird. He didn’t have any squires, only those slaves who might as well be girls. Much good may they do him on the field. But both Goryth and Saj’nal were long gone, and Nathryk seemed to have been forgotten.

  Éndaran grew up from the sea cliffs, an ancient, ugly, smelly pile of jagged towers and twisted walls. So far, his grandmother’s fortress had escaped the attention of the Evaronnan warships. It had no port of its own and sat too high atop the cliffs for the ballistae to reach. The White Falcon had been wise to send his heir here; Éndaran had seen no action at all. The only bit of intrigue Nathryk experienced were the cranes that Grandmother had ordered built atop the western walls. Deep in the night, Fieran ships slipped their jolly boats up against the cliffs, and the cranes lowered goods and men down to the sea. After watching the boats slide secretly back into the darkness a couple of times, however, Nathryk lost interest. In the end, the place remained a cold, gray labyrinth of a prison. He’d often wondered about his mother’s people, but seeing the decrepit halls where they lived, and feeling their hard, indifferent regard, he decided they were a grave disappointment. One of these knights might provide him escape.

  “Hey, boy!” A rag stinking of oil slapped him upside the head. The great boar of a knight who wielded it flung Nathryk around by the shoulder. “This ain’t your fire! Where do you belong? Get about your work.”

  “Hands off, you lout!” Nathryk shouted.

  “Lout, is it? I’ll whip some courtesy into your head, boy. Who’s your foster-lord?”

  “I haven’t one. I am Prince Nathryk, heir to the alabaster throne, fool.”

  The knight choked on his anger and backed away with a bow. “Pardons, Highness.”

  “Stop. Who are you?”

  “Greston, sire. Of Stormgate.”

  “You will take me north with you, as your squire.”

  The knight grunted, looking pained, as if a boulder had dropped from the sky and pinned him to the ground. “I can’t do that, Highness. Your lady grandmother warned us not to, and I’ve got all the squires I need. Pardons.” He retreated fast into the crowd of horses and men.

  “To hell with my grandmother’s orders!” Nathryk shouted after him. “You refuse your prince? Coward! Come back here. When I’m king, I’ll remember you, Greston of Stormgate!”

  Threats proved futile. Lord Stormgate disappeared, and everyone near the brazier edged away, fearful of Nathryk’s attention. “Bloody lot of cowards,” he muttered and moved on, his enthusiasm for inspecting his father’s army rusting fast.

  Trudging back to the keep, he crossed paths with his cousin. Istra was a blond, chubby thing of twelve. On the practice field she was often paired with Nathryk; an insult, really, that the castellan should underestimate Nathryk’s skill enough to pair him with a girl. She was leading her father’s horse toward the paddock for shoeing when she saw him coming and stopped cold, startling the warhorse.

  “Where’s your da, Chubs? I have business with him.”

  Istra turned red and avoided Nathryk’s eye by soothing the flighty animal. “I don’t know.”

  “You lie. Did he tell you to say that?”

  “No! If he had, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

  Nathryk pinched the soft underside of her arm. She squealed and jerked her arm free. The warhorse reared, pulling the halter from Istra’s grasp. She stumbled away from the flailing hooves, the horse fled through a crowd of stable hands, and Nathryk doubled over with laughter. “Uncle Raed shoulda known better than trust you with a warhorse, Chubs.”

  Istra choked back angry words and angry tears and ran after the animal.

  Nathryk finally found his uncle descending the steps of the keep. He was a lean, sour-looking man, a man of iron and few soft words. His twin sons were much the same; though at sixteen, Rance and Raudry still preferred their childish pranks. They had learned early that Nathryk was no one to toy with. During his first couple of days at Éndaran, they had tried to show him his place by slapping him around with their training swords. He didn’t break into tears as they expected. He’d gone into a fury instead, grabbing a sword for himself and bruising their arses as they fled from him, though he was half their size. Their attempts at vexing him since had been feeble and infantile, like tossing cockroaches onto his dinner plate. After they learned what it was like to wear Nathryk’s dinner and everyone else’s besides, they gave up altogether. They avoided him now.

  Rance scowled when he saw Nathryk climbing the steps to speak with them. Raudry whispered something about checking the supply wagons and beat a retreat wide around Nathryk and away into the courtyard.

  “Uncle Raed,” Nathryk began, “I’ve heard that Grandmother ordered these plow-pushers to stay away from me.”

  “If by ‘plow-pushers’ you mean knights, Highness, yes, she did. Lady Eritha sees your inability to take instruction and finds you unfit for squirehood.”

  “Unfit! What does that old woman know about squires and knights? Nothing!”

  Uncle Raed replied with a grin as he
slid his hands into a pair of worn leather gloves. Rance’s scowl roamed about the walls and courtyard, but didn’t dare land on Nathryk. He decided that, in truth, their indifference was thinly masked scorn.

  “I’m your prince,” he declared. “My word outranks my grandmother’s.”

  “Perhaps,” said Raed. “But it does not outrank the king’s. At Éndaran you will stay.”

  “I demand you take me as your squire!”

  Raed’s gaze turned to steel. He descended the steps like a man reminding them of their station, and Nathryk’s feet betrayed his fear by backing down a step or two. “That attitude is precisely why I have no need of you,” Raed said, jabbing a finger in Nathryk’s face. “I need obedient squires, not spoiled princes making a muck of things on the field. You have studies at this hour. Get to them.” He turned his back on his prince and made for the stables. Rance hurried after him, offering not so much as a nod in passing.

  Watching them walk away, Nathryk promised himself, “I will remember your disrespect. One day….”

  In the drafty library upstairs, Master Graidyn went on and on about the history of Fiera’s laws, while Nathryk fumed. What good was being a prince if no one obeyed him? How could he become a great warrior-king when no one let him near a battlefield?

  “Your answer, Highness,” requested Graidyn, standing over him, mouth tight, eyes receptive. “Did you even hear the question?”

  “Bugger your question.”

  Graidyn sighed and asked it again anyway. “Why did your grandfather feel it necessary to place tolls on the southern bridges?”

  When Nathryk glowered in silence, Graidyn concluded, “You didn’t read the material I assigned you yesterday, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not important, that’s why not.”

  “Not important?” Graidyn sputtered. “How will you rule if you do not understand the laws of the land?”

  “With a sword, that’s how! I will place tolls on all Fiera’s bridges, not just the southern ones. I will need lots and lots of money to feed my armies, because somebody will have to keep the Aralorris in line.”

  Why did this answer not impress Graidyn? He said only, “Ah,” and shook his head. Windy old fool, that’s what he was, unable to appreciate strength.

  “There’s a reason you’re a teacher and not a soldier, Master Graidyn. It’s a waste of breath trying to explain these things to you. Milksop.” He hurled the inkpot, and black ink splattered the front of the master’s robes.

  Graidyn’s face flushed with angry color. He was impressed now, oh, yes. “That kind of behavior does not become a prince.”

  Nathryk swept the books off the table. “I can behave however I want!”

  “Is that what you think? I pity you, Highness. One day you will learn that men will not be ruled by fear. Great your suffering will be then. You are dismissed.”

  “You’re going to tell Grandmother, aren’t you!”

  Graidyn tried to save the robe by dabbing up the ink with a kerchief. “No, Highness. She already knows what you are.”

  Nathryk stamped from the library, unspoken curses filling his mouth. He spent the afternoon sitting at a window that overlooked the courtyard, watching the knights conclude their preparations. As evening came on, they crowded around the braziers, laughing and grumbling, while squires turned spits and poured wine. Soon the aroma of roasting meat wafted through the window. After they marched, Nathryk would be stuck with tired old Graidyn, crabby old Grandmother, and dull, chubby Istra. At first, it made him feel better that Istra wasn’t allowed to ride north either. Then it riled him that he was considered fit company only for old women and little girls. A vase that likely had stood sentry in that parlor for a century fell victim to his wrath. The little pieces of Ixakan porcelain scattered at his feet. He kicked them and stomped them as if they were the bones of the fools holding him here.

  The housekeeper came running at the crash, skirts hitched high. Seeing Nathryk panting among the ruins of the vase, she dropped her skirts and dipped with a curtsy. Her eyes clung to the shards; a twitch of a frown was all the display of grief she allowed. “Supper soon, Highness,” she said levelly. “Her Ladyship is expecting you.”

  Nathryk raised his nose. He had half a mind to tell Grandmother to stuff supper down her throat. Then decided that breaking the vase and disrupting studies were probably all the show of spite he could afford in one day. Lady Eritha had threatened to lock him in his rooms if he persisted in being difficult. She had the gall to do it, too.

  Uncle Raed and his twins feasted outside with the knights that evening, so only Grandmother and Istra sat at the dining table when Nathryk arrived. They hadn’t waited for him. Bowls of soup steamed under their noses.

  “I heard you made a nuisance of yourself in the yard today,” said Lady Eritha.

  Nathryk glared at Istra but otherwise ignored the comment; he stuffed a napkin into his lap and hunched over his bowl of soup. It stunk like boiled cabbage. He didn’t feel like eating anyway. “I broke a vase, too, Grandmother. It was an accident. I ran into it and knocked it off. I’m sorry.” Best beat the housekeeper to it, get his word in first. Surely Grandmother would believe him over a servant.

  Lady Eritha’s eyes were black and penetrating. “Sorry, are you? I wonder.” Easy for Nathryk to see where he got his long, skinny bones and colorless complexion. Grandmother was as spare and pale as a skeleton with black glossy hair piled on her head. She resumed eating, every gesture, every line of her posture disciplined to perfection.

  Begrudgingly, Nathryk fisted his spoon and made himself eat. It wasn’t long before Grandmother raised a critical eye. “Sit up straight, Nathryk.”

  “I’ll sit however I like.”

  “A fine king you’ll make with a hump in your back.”

  A hump? He sat up straighter. Across the table, Istra, too, pulled her shoulders back a fraction.

  “And your spoon is not a spade. We do not shovel our food into our mouths.”

  Nathryk plunked his spoon into the soup bowl and waved it away. A butler whisked off with the bowl. “Better take Istra’s, too,” Nathryk called. The butler returned and did as he was told. Good boy. Istra folded her hands in her lap and stared at the tablecloth. “Yes, that’s wise,” Nathryk said. “Enough for you today, Chubs.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Grandmother demanded.

  “Well, look at her. She’s fat as a pig.”

  Eritha’s fists doubled to each side of her soup bowl. “And you? You’re a spider. Just like your mother. What poison seeps through my womb, that I should have such rotten offspring. Istra, you may go. Tell Cook to deliver the rest of your supper to your room.”

  “I’m not hungry, Grandmother.” Her throat sounded tight around the words.

  “Go and do as I say. Eat it all. You need your health.”

  Istra sped through a curtsy and fled the dining hall.

  “From this day forward, Highness, when you are at table, you will not speak. Understood?”

  “How dare—?”

  Eritha held up a hand. “Not one word. You have a vile tongue, and listening to you has a detrimental effect on my appetite. Wicked child. It was all I could do to curb your mother’s taste for cruelty. I thought I’d weeded it out of her, made her fit for a king. Your father clearly thought otherwise. Oh, yes. You think I don’t know the truth? He got rid of her because he couldn’t stand her either. If you’re not careful, you’ll turn out as spiteful as she did, and who will want you around then?”

  “It doesn’t matter if people want me around or not. I’ll be their king anyway.” He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, smug that he had won the argument.

  “Will you?” Eritha asked. “Much can happen to a boy before he’s grown.”

  Nathryk gulped. “You wouldn’t hurt me! You wouldn’t dare. My father would have your head.”

  “No, I won’t. But you’re well on your way to making a horde of enemi
es. If you’re wise, you’ll heed my advice. If not, we’ll let fate deal with you. And fate does have its way.” She waved a hand. “You, too, may go. I’d rather dine alone than listen to your insolence.”

  Nathryk’s rooms occupied the west side of the castle, overlooking the Great Fire Sea. But for a mossy lip of rock ten yards wide, the drop from his window was a breathtaking five hundred feet. He couldn’t see the surf bursting against the rocks below, but he could hear it. Leaning on the window ledge, the night icy against his face, he watched arcs of fire streak up from the horizon. Leagues away, a pair of ships and hundreds of men fought in the gulfs of darkness. A couple weeks before, Nathryk had seen a dozen or more wargalleons sailing north below the cliffs. Their banners were the dark red of Evaronna. A few days later, he heard that the port of Brathnach had been razed. If Nathryk were king, the first thing he would’ve done was replace Admiral Madon, despite the stories of bravery people told about him.

  But he was not a king. Until tonight, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might never be king. Much can happen to a boy… He glanced over his shoulder, heard the maid rustling around in the dressing room as she drew his bath, then he backed away from the window. Much can happen…

  “Elgia!” he called. “Come lock this window. Hurry.”

  The maid bustled in, shut the diamond panes, and secured the lock. Chaffing her hands, she said, “Cold night, this, Highness. I’ll build up your fire while you bathe. Best get in while it’s hot.”

  “You nearly scalded me last time,” he complained.

  “I’ll add a pitcher of cold water, shall I?”

  “See that you do.” Nathryk tossed his clothes on the floor, and Elgia swept them up.

  Climbing into the copper tub a stinging inch at a time, Nathryk asked, “Why are you a servant?”

  The question dumbfounded the woman. At last, she shrugged and said, “Not fit for much else, I guess.”