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

by Ellyn, Court

  Yes, the sooner the better. That’s what she was thinking, Nathryk knew it. “I just turned twelve. I don’t need you to tuck me in. Go away and leave me alone.” He climbed onto the window seat and stared out at the dusk. The faintest trace of pink still bloodied the horizon.

  Elgia’s skirts rustled as she curtsied and left.

  He climbed into bed when it suited him, and it didn’t suit him until the stars were bright outside his window. A short while later, he woke up crying. He’d been screaming I’m sorry! But no one listened. When he realized where he was, he got angry with himself. Like hell he was sorry. Let them be sorry. He climbed out of bed, looked at the sky to see if dawn approached, but the night seemed young yet, the sky nearly as black as the sea. A red sliver of moon appeared over the eaves. Below, he heard voices, the creak of a winch. The cranes were working tonight. Indeed, if he squinted, he glimpsed the silhouette of a galleon rocking below the cliffs. All her lanterns were doused, her sails lowered. She might be a bit of driftwood bobbing in silence out there.

  Unless Nathryk’s eyes deceived him, this ship wasn’t the only one lurking in the dark. He’d never seen more than one ship at a time anchored below the cranes, but tonight he counted at least three. Maybe those orders Father sent had something to do with it. This year’s battle season promised to be fierce. And he would be stuck at Brynduvh. He’d given up the dream of being a squire, and after the Warlord’s blunder led Leania into the fighting, Nathryk decided that Goryth didn’t deserve him as a squire anyway. But what of a ship’s captain? Maybe Nathryk could be taken on as cabin boy. In the least as a passenger and observer. He was their crown prince, after all. They couldn’t very well throw him overboard.

  He dressed in a hurry. His travel clothes were somber black doublet and trousers and an undershirt of wool so fine it felt as soft as silk. Tugging on his boots, he considered how he might sneak out of the castle. The cloak and hood had worked last time, and that in broad daylight, but the gate had been open. The gate was never open at night, as far as he knew. The tunnels might lead him out, but he hadn’t learned which tunnel led to the cliffs. Had to be the window. The drop was only twenty feet or so. He tied a few knots in his bed sheets and shimmied down, dropped the last ten feet, landed with barely a grunt. He pulled up his hood, smashed himself against the mossy stone wall and edged toward the voices. The indelicate bass had to be Bartran. The rest were gruff half-whispers that Nathryk didn’t try to identify.

  Shadowy figures clomped about in the dark. They didn’t dare light torches or lanterns, lest they be seen through an enemy’s spyglass. Crates as tall as Nathryk himself were stacked near the edge of the cliff. The great arms of the cranes lowered, as long as the necks of dragons in storybooks. They rose again, platforms empty and swinging. Nathryk felt about, trying to open one of the crates, but they were nailed shut.

  “Look, we’re doing all we can,” Captain Bartran was saying. “With the new offensive coming, we have to divide our supplies among all these ships.”

  “Our deal,” said a sailor in a green and gold coat, “was you supply this amount of food stuffs to the Talon.”

  “Our deal changed the moment we received our orders from the White Falcon. Now you get to share like a big boy. You got a problem, you take it up with him. That’s all you’re getting this trip. Now get back on your boat before we have to get nasty.”

  The sailor swore, cursing Bartran for a deal-breaker, and climbed onto the platform with the rest of his mates. The crane lowered them out of sight. When it rose again, it carried half a dozen new men. The officer read off their list of needs, while Bartran and soldiers of the garrison separated the items from the stacks of supplies. Nathryk ducked into the narrow darkness between crates as men ambled past, lifted boxes and hauled them off. Feverishly now, Nathryk sought a place to conceal himself. Finally, a chest half as long as himself lacked a padlock. Inside, he found small wooden boxes marked ‘silverthorn,’ bottles of poppy wine, and rolls of linen bandages. He pulled out the bottles two at a time, so they didn’t clink, and tucked them between a pair of crates. Then half the boxes of silverthorn. When he’d made enough room, he folded himself inside, pulled his cloak tight around him and lowered the lid. His stomach climbed into his throat, he was so giddy over his clever escape.

  He’d almost drifted off to sleep when he felt the chest sway. Muffled voices grumbled, “Damn. Medical supplies, you say? My arse.”

  “That chest,” said Bartran. “Yes, that one. Wait!”

  Nathryk clenched his eyes shut, as if that would keep Bartran from finding him.

  “Some bloody fool didn’t latch the thing. Precious cargo, that. Fine, carry on.”

  Shit! Locked in. Should he cry out? Not yet. Wait till he was on the ship and away from Bartran. Medical supplies would surely be opened first. He wouldn’t have long to remain cramped up in here. The sailors set down the chest. Bumps and shudders followed, then the order, “Tie it down. Snug now. Last time we lost half to the sea.”

  When the creaking of the crane and the swaying of the platform started, Nathryk tried not to think about five hundred feet of nothing beneath him and a dark plunge into the breakers. The crash of waves against rocks grew louder, and over that, new voices. “Careful, there. One at a time.”

  A long interlude of shuffling feet, curses, and grunts followed before Nathryk felt the chest lifted again. This time someone carried it by a single handle, for he was tipped up on his head. He feared his neck would snap. “Stupid sod!” he shouted, but no one answered. At last he was righted again, and the plash of oars commenced, a steady rhythm that went on longer than Nathryk could stand. If he cried out now, the men rowing the boat could turn around and drop him right back into Bartran’s custody. Had to be patient, wait for signs that the ship was far away from Éndaran. Bump, shift, the swaying of being lifted by another crane, more voices. “That the medical chest? Good. When we find the Shadow, we’ll deliver it.”

  “If we find it, you mean.”

  “He’s out there somewhere. Put it in the hold with the rest.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  The Shadow? Admiral Madon’s ship? Yes, serving the Admiral would suit Nathryk just fine, even if he was a drunkard. He only hoped this ship, whichever she was, found the Admiral soon. Nathryk’s legs were starting to cramp.

  ~~~~

  65

  “Whatever you do,” Kelyn said, “keep the guard close. Don’t even go for a piss by yourself.” He rode beside the king. The highway between Nathrachan and the ruins of Ulmarr had never seemed longer or more perilous. Kelyn took note of a hundred places where danger might lurk, places he’d not noticed before. Chaya tossed his head, pranced sideways, feeling his case of nerves.

  Rhorek sighed. “My friend, since we began preparations last night, you’ve said that at least three times.”

  “Have I? Apologies, sire. Just not sure about all this. Shadryk is more snake than falcon.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Rhorek put in.

  “His arrangements, for instance. Neutral ground, my arse. The Crossroads are anything but neutral ground. The town could be occupied by his troops by the time we get there.”

  “The town is all but ash, Kelyn. It won’t hide much.”

  “And Athmar and Brengarra are merely a day’s ride for Shadryk, but we haven’t got a refuge for two.”

  “You’ve made that clear as well.”

  “Have I? Apologies, sire.” After a few moments, he added, “Shadryk has resources we haven’t scratched yet. He could keep fighting for years. He started this fight in the first place, and now he’s ready to surrender?”

  “Not surrender. Talk. During the last war, my father met with his father three or four times to discuss terms. Daeryk must’ve thought he’d won when he learned my father was slain.

  “We don’t want to give Shadryk a similar moment of triumph, sire. Prince Valryk is hardly ready to sit the throne.”

  “Kelyn, you’re going to have to relax. By the t
ime we get to the Crossroads, you’ll have me so nervous I won’t be able to think straight, much less bargain for a decent peace. I’m liable to give Shadryk all the land north of the Bryna and not realize I’ve said so until it’s too late. Relax.”

  “Yes, sire.” He took a deep breath. Yes, he felt better. But to make sure, he added, “Just keep the Guard close.”

  “If they were any closer, Kelyn, they’d be inside my skin.”

  Half the Falcon Guard, under Lieutenant Lissah, rode some forty yards ahead of the king, scrutinizing the hills and fields to each side of the highway. Kelyn turned in the saddle. Captain Jareg rode barely a horse-length behind. He’d overheard Kelyn’s worries and rolled his eyes. The rest of the Guard followed in tight formation.

  It felt strange, not riding with them. When Kelyn accepted Rhorek’s commission as War Commander, he’d returned the black surcoat and taken up his old blue one, along with his father’s red-plumed helm. He couldn’t quite bring himself to wear the helmet, however; it was buckled to his saddle instead.

  Behind the Guard rode Uncle Allaran, twenty Leanian knights, and twelve knights under Ilswythe’s banner. Lady Genna brought up the rear, leading one hundred cavalrymen from Lunélion. These would stay behind at Ulmarr, cover Rhorek’s rear and stand ready if things went awry. Shadryk’s letter had insisted, ‘The White Falcon will attend the conference with no more than one hundred personnel in his party. The Black Falcon is advised to do likewise, lest his arrival be viewed as hostile.’

  Kelyn didn’t like it one bit.

  Late in the afternoon, Rhorek’s escort neared the ragged grove of andyr, birch, and cottonwood that stood between Nathrachan and Ulmarr. The trees nearest the road had been hewn down to forbid cover to ambush parties, but Kelyn still felt it a prime hiding place for archers. The Fieran militias who had caused trouble for Aralorr’s supply lines had found ample cover here last summer, after all. Pale green had started to bud from gray limbs. The sun cast long shadows toward the approaching retinue. Lissah tossed up a fist. The vanguard halted. Several Falcons pointed up the road and into the trees. Captain Jareg and the rest of the Guard hurried forward to surround Rhorek, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust. Lissah wheeled, cantered back with the message, “A rider, sire.”

  “One alone?” asked Rhorek.

  “Appears so, but …”

  “Likely one of Shadryk’s scouts,” Jareg said, “sent to report our progress or our numbers.”

  “Doesn’t look like a scout,” said Lissah. “At least, well, I’m not sure.”

  Her confusion intrigued Kelyn and the king both. Rhorek gave the motion, put spurs to Brandrith, and cantered ahead. Kelyn and Jareg flanked him closely. Lissah dogged their heels, returning to her post at the head of the van. Indeed, a rider, backlit by the afternoon sun, occupied the crest of a tree-bearded hill. The horse, tall and fine-boned, stood athwart the highway, pawing the ground restlessly. So black was the animal’s hide that it appeared to swallow the sunlight. Silver filigree flashed along the bridle, and silver tassels quivered from the reins in a manner foreign to soldiers. Few highborns of the northwest ornamented their horse harness in such a gaudy way, either.

  “I think it’s a woman,” Jareg said as they rode closer. A strong breeze from the south lifted the rider’s waist-length gold-brown hair and ruffled the hem of a gown. No, it was a robe, open in the front to allow the rider to sit astride the magnificent horse. That robe was dark blue, richly embroidered with silver thread.

  Kelyn had seen a similar robe before. His heart sank into his gut; his limbs turned to jelly. “I think it’s my brother.” What had happened to his voice? The measly whisper he’d managed was hardly worthy of the battlefield. It was the whisper of the nauseous, of the soldier who feared the foe he was about to face.

  “Are you sure?” Rhorek asked. “How can you—?”

  “I’d know my twin anywhere.” He wanted to stop, turn Chaya around, hide among the scores of faces to the rear, but Rhorek picked up the pace now, and Kelyn had no choice but to keep up.

  The rider stood his ground, glanced in leisurely fashion up the highway toward Ulmarr and back along the ranks of approaching Aralorris, waiting. Waiting for a king to enter his presence. Ten feet from the rider, Rhorek reined in, and Kelyn frowned, no longer sure this stranger was his brother after all. By some art, his face and hands shimmered with a pearlescent glow. The wild lion’s mane was meticulously groomed, shined, and smoothed back from his face by an intricate silver brooch. His eyes barely looked human, rimmed in dark green, which turned the blue irises to an unnatural turquoise. Cold and hard were those eyes as they took a measure of King Rhorek, Captain Jareg, and the long line of cavalry that drew to a stop behind them. He appeared not to see Kelyn at all, though he must surely have recognized the red-plumed helm on his saddle.

  Rhorek grinned quizzically and began, “Kieryn, welcome—”

  “Thorn,” he said flatly. “Thorn Kingshield, your servant, sire.” Bowing his head, he pressed his palm over his heart, and the onyx ring flashed a black fire in the sun. “The powers that be seem to think you may need the aid of an avedra. I would lend that aid, if it please you.” The straight, hard line of his mouth made him look anything but happy about his offer.

  Maybe he hasn’t come to kill me, after all, thought Kelyn.

  The avedra’s eyes snapped toward him, pinning him at last. There was only hostility there, the hateful glare of an enemy.

  “Should I be grateful to these powers?” asked Rhorek.

  “Grateful or not—” Thorn’s mount tossed her head and sidestepped irritably. “Mithilë!” The horse quieted, but raked the road with a hoof. Rhorek’s stallion laid his ears back flat and whickered, tugging against the reins. “Pardons, sire. Brandrith is … somewhat offended.”

  “Is he? More importantly, should I be offended … Thorn?” He didn’t need to elaborate. Every subject of Aralorr was made aware of the realm’s sumptuary laws.

  “She was a gift, sire.”

  “From whom?” Rhorek sounded more riled by the moment. “Not from one of my subjects, surely. They wouldn’t dare. A Leanian friend, then? A Fieran adversary?”

  Kelyn expected his brother to blush at the accusation and stammer some apology, but he remained as cool as the blood of the dead. “From one bound by no king’s law,” he answered. Brandrith chomped at air, and the strange horse sidled angrily. With the filly’s every movement, a necklace of sorts clattered against her chest. Kelyn thought the long yellowed baubles might be the tusks of wild boars. Thorn patted her neck and commanded, “Mithilë! Na kile’l duínoved lanithrun echtiv ola.”

  The strange words rolled off his tongue with the ease of a brook over stones. The horse grew still at last, but turned her head away from the king’s moody stallion.

  “You have been to foreign lands, then?” Rhorek’s curiosity was bulging at the seams.

  “I never left Aralorr,” Thorn said.

  Rhorek wagged a finger. “I don’t like this mystery, young man.”

  Thorn measured the faces of the Falcons gathered nearby, many of whom laid hands to sword hilts. He let out a sigh, as if burdened by childish requests, then locked eyes with the king. Rhorek reeled in the saddle. Kelyn reached for him, but a blade of pain stabbed him behind his own eyes, and he heard, Sarvana is elven, from a Lady more fair than the face of Thyrra, and that is my secret. The voice and the pain passed. Rhorek recovered his balance and stared at Thorn in wonderment. Kelyn suspected that Thorn had used a gentler touch when placing the message into Rhorek’s mind than into his own.

  The avedra’s explanation proved sufficient; Rhorek dropped the matter. As if the argument had never happened, Thorn resumed, “Grateful or not, I would be your shield during the conference. Shadryk and his party set up camp at the Crossroads this morning. They look well-armed.”

  “You made it all the way from the Crossroads today?” asked Rhorek.

  Thorn offered no explanation for that. “I can warn you if
Shadryk’s words are less than sincere.”

  Rhorek took a long, hard measure of this man and said, “You were my shield once before.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. You may accompany us.”

  “Your Guard will stand near you tomorrow?”

  Rhorek cast Kelyn a sidelong glance and grinned. “Of course.”

  “I need to be one of them. Shadryk might balk if he knows you have a mind-reading avedra at the table with you. But it’s imperative that I be within sight of you both.”

  “Jareg?”

  The Guards captain nodded. “Loudmouth Lestyr pissed me off again this morning. You can wear his uniform.”

  “Good,” said Rhorek. “We can talk further once we reach Ulmarr.” He extended his hand. “The shield goes before.”

  Thorn bowed his head and wheeled the black filly with nary a touch. The last ten miles to the ruins he seemed to be everywhere at once, crisscrossing the highway, riding up from the rear, appearing from around farmsteads. When a flock of sparrows suddenly took wing from an apple orchard, he stopped the column abruptly. Investigation turned up a scrawny tabby cat instead of assassins. He motioned the column onward but stayed behind to poke around a lopsided barn. Despite his lingering, he managed to arrive at Ulmarr ahead of the king. Chilled Kelyn’s blood, watching this stranger who’d once been his brother dismount beneath the last tower and unsheathe a long staff from a saddle harness. The crystal orb flashed with rainbows and sparks of lightning at his touch. Thorn made it clear to everyone that he no longer intended to hide what he was, their discomfort in his presence be damned.

  ~~~~

  The rough voices of humans grated against Thorn’s ears. He hadn’t expected their company to feel so alien. Their gestures and mannerisms differed enough from those of Elarion that he soon missed the Wood with a deep ache. Before he left Ilswythe, he’d hated the disregard of his peers; odd to see that disregard turned to suspicion and fear. Saffron had warned him long ago to expect this sort of reception. She’d not been mistaken. In truth, Thorn was not sorry the humans kept their distance. He’d never had much to say to their kind anyway.