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

by Ellyn, Court

  Reluctantly, Kelyn unbuckled his sword belt, passed the falcon blade to Laral, who rode up from the rear on his racer. Only the older squires had been permitted to accompany the party; Eliad waited back at Ulmarr with Lady Genna’s forces.

  Satisfied, La’od escorted the Black Falcon’s party across the field. The armed half of the Guard, Allaran’s knights and Ilswythe’s, formed up outside the pavilion in a tense sort of face-off with the Fieran retinue. Laral and the other squires gathered horses. “Lady Ulna,” said Kelyn, “you’re in charge out here. Stay sharp.” She saluted, and Kelyn cleaved himself to the king’s side. Jareg and Lissah inspected the pavilion, then motioned the all-clear.

  Sunlight through the green silk set the grand space to glowing; lamps of frosted white glass hanging from the tent poles pushed back the shadows. A pair of tables sat parallel to one another. Fieran highborns lined one; the other waited to accommodate the Aralorris. At the far end, two thrones stood side by side. Equal in beauty, they were old, surely as old as the split between the realms and likely used during the talks between the brothers who had divided Westervael, whatever their names were. One was of pale wood, aged to gold and upholstered in new white velvet; the other was dark andyr cushioned in black. From the former rose the White Falcon.

  Kelyn had imagined him completely differently. This vigorous young man showed grace and gleam where Rhorek was clunky and dull. Resplendent he was in white leather armor and a green, ermine-lined cloak that trailed from one shoulder. An emerald the size of a thumbnail swung from his earlobe, caressing his jaw. He opened his arms and smiled as though he welcomed long lost kin, even kissed Rhorek’s cheeks. Aye, he was more snake than falcon, all right. Cunning and fierce. “I commend you, worthy Falcon,” he began, “for agreeing to talk peace with us. Certainly, you feel as we do, that the strife between our realms has gone on long enough? Fiera would see an end to it.”

  From the ranks of guardsmen, Jareg said between his teeth, “Maybe Fiera shouldn’t have started it.”

  Shadryk latched onto the accusation, while masterfully tossing it away: “Which side did what when is a debate we will avoid. These things are in the past. We have the future peace of our lands to consider. Grudges will be our undoing. Please, Rhorek, sit with me.”

  Rhorek muttered his thanks and folded himself into the black throne, refusing to put on a performance. He was all business and no politics. Jareg stood staunchly at his side, while Thorn stood a quarter of the way down the line of Falcons, easily within Rhorek’s line of sight.

  When Shadryk resumed his throne, his advisers at the tables resumed their seats as well. At the Aralorri table, Kelyn insisted on the corner nearest the kings. Uncle Allaran took the chair next to him and Brugge farther down, while Lissah sat at the far end, quill and parchment ready to note the proceedings. Glancing across the aisle, Kelyn found the Warlord Goryth snarling at him. His right hand did a poor job of hiding the stump of his left arm. So the rumors had substance. Kelyn grinned openly. Goryth’s lip curled into something other than a smile.

  The White Falcon must’ve seen the exchange and covered gracefully for it by beginning introductions. “Rhorek, you know well Lord Machara. His Illustrious Highness, the Prince Saj’nal …” The prince sat apart from the rest, on a sort of miniature throne. He didn’t bother looking up to be recognized. With his leg tossed across the arm, he picked at his fingernails in bored fashion and popped grapes into his mouth. How the hell were Fierans getting grapes this time of year? “… Jaeron, Lord Brengarra, and Drona, Lady Athmar.”

  Jaeron’s quiet, sedate manner reminded Kelyn much of Davhin of Vonmora. He knew little of the man’s reputation, but his son had proven himself a staunch fighter before he was slain at Ulmarr. Drona, on the other hand, was her old incomparable self. Her heated glare at the Black Falcon threatened to confirm Kelyn’s worries. There was no desire for peace in her heart, no doubt about it.

  Shadryk chuckled. “I believe my friend Goryth is disappointed that Lord Lander has not accompanied you.”

  “Lord Tírandon was sure to write of his disappointment when he learned I had not invited him,” Rhorek replied. “It would not do for too many heated foes to gather under one roof.”

  “Wise, worthy Falcon.”

  Rhorek raised a hand. “May I present Brugge, Master Thyrvael, representative of our dwarven allies? Allaran, Lord Wyramor, representative for King Bano’en. And Kelyn, Lord Ilswythe, my War Commander.”

  “Ah. Indeed? Is he not young to command armies?” A smirk, a slide of green eyes toward Goryth. The Warlord growled and glanced away. So, Kelyn had been a matter of discussion, had he? Should he feel flattered?

  “He was trained by the best,” Rhorek said.

  “Training and experience do not often go hand in hand.”

  Nothing like being talked about as if one isn’t present. Kelyn stilled himself from squirming and muttered his thanks when a servant set a crystal goblet in front of him. It wasn’t filled with wine, however, but water filtered through silk and flavored with curls of orange rind and … “Uncle, are those rose petals?” he whispered.

  Allaran sipped and leaned closer. “I believe so. Not bad, really. Looks like we’ll be sober by the end of the day.”

  Right. Grapes, oranges, and rose petals. In early spring. Shadryk was getting shipments from somewhere. Overland, likely. Hmm, if things didn’t work out today, Kelyn foresaw a bit of bridge burning in the near future.

  Jareg assumed possession of Rhorek’s glass, sipped, swiped the rim with a kerchief from his own pocket, inspected the cloth for signs of tampering, then gave it to the king with a bow.

  The talking got underway. Because Shadryk had called the conference, it was Rhorek’s right to open discussions. He consulted a scroll from his pocket. “The matter of territory and damages. We have no interest in keeping anything that belongs to Fiera. Forthwith, we will return Nathrachan to you.”

  “Ah,” said Shadryk. “Gracious. My sister came to me in tears when it was taken. Poor dear. She will rejoice to have it back.”

  “But we insist the bridge remains, guarded on the north end by Aralorris, on the south by Fierans, as in the manner of the bridge across Galantryn in the west.”

  Shadryk scribbled on a scroll of his own. “This bridge, I fear, may be cause for contention in the future. But I see no reason that we should not attempt to bind our two countries with a bridge. Speaking of contention, my warlord wants his sword back.”

  “His sword,” Rhorek glanced between the White Falcon and Lord Machara as if wondering whether he ought to take them seriously.

  “Aye, that which Lord Tírandon acquired from him. Bit of a sore spot, that.”

  “Ah, easily remedied.”

  Shadryk chuckled. “Perhaps.”

  “Swords?” cried Drona from the end of the table. “We are concerned with swords? What of Ulmarr!” Shadryk raised a quieting hand, but she ignored him. “My brother’s estate lies in ruin. My scouts saw your dwarves shipping the stone across the river. We want it back, every stone. If you will not return them, my brother’s heirs demand reparation so they can rebuild. And what of Karnedyr, for that matter? It too is in a woeful state after … the previous Lord Ilswythe ordered it razed.”

  “Control your grief, lady,” Shadryk warned.

  Drona bowed her head and retreated into her chair.

  Rhorek’s attention remained on the scroll, but he said, “Karnedyr and Ulmarr, yes. And what of Tírandon, Lunélion, and Bramoran? Also, let us not neglect the villages razed on both sides of the Bryna. The people of Fiera and Aralorr both mourn because of our marauding armies. Those debts can be counted up later.” He glanced up at Drona. “So to the point, my lady. Fiera has lost two of its strongholds. Three of mine have been damaged. If we, the White Falcon and I, agreed to exchange funds for the rebuilding of these fortresses, what good would that do? The actions would cancel one another. Am I correct, Shadryk?”

  The White Falcon considered a moment, flicked
his fingers decisively. “Correct. I’ll provide for mine, you for yours. No, Drona, we do not need reparations from Aralorr.”

  “But I do need my horses,” Rhorek put in.

  That caught Shadryk unawares. “Horses?”

  “The blues stolen from Bramoran, the ancient breed bred for the Black Falcon’s guard.”

  “Ah.” Shadryk scribbled a line or two and said, “Highness.”

  Saj’nal straightened in his throne, feigning one of his worshipful smiles. “This cannot be done, O Falcon. Not easily. Shall I compromise my honor and make empty promises? The blues, great king, I gave as trophies. Well-earned trophies. To the Queen Osaya.”

  “Send them back,” Rhorek ordered coolly.

  “It is my mother’s prerogative, O King. It is best to wait till I am king, then you may have whatever you want from the fourth son of Osaya. Even then, it will be difficult. Shipping horses by sea is treacherous. Your pirates blast us out of the waters. And the Mahkah-pi force us to pay enormous tolls to herd them over the Long Plain.”

  “Are the Mahkah-pi so organized these days? If they give you trouble, as you claim, use some of the gold Shadryk paid you.”

  Shadryk’s face went rock hard. His eyes betrayed him for an instant as he glanced down the table at Brugge. The dwarf’s fist knotted around his glass as if it were a club. Kelyn didn’t expect him to hold his tongue, but he did so admirably.

  The White Falcon’s advisers whispered among themselves, shaking their heads. They appeared to know nothing of any gold.

  “That, too, I send to my queen,” blurted Saj’nal, “as the best of sons.”

  “Highness,” said Rhorek, “regardless of how you manage it, I will have my property back, alive and unharmed. See it done, or there is no peace between Zhian and Aralorr. Tell your mother you have earned her a new powerful foe and let her decide if she will make amends for your thievery.”

  “You will have them back!” Saj’nal bellowed, throwing his bundle of grapes on the ground. “Girl-son of two women! Scorpion!”

  Goryth swiveled in his chair and with that stump of an arm, struck the princeling across the belly. “Shut your hole! Remember your vow, or I’ll …”

  Vow? What vow? Not to antagonize the enemy needlessly, perhaps? Something more? Pretending to whisper to his uncle, Kelyn glanced around at Thorn. Yes, his attention was hard upon the prince and the warlord. What thoughts did they unwittingly reveal?

  Saj’nal puffed up like a viper, then dropped onto his throne.

  “My apologies, Rhorek,” said the White Falcon, mouth hard with anger. “The Zhianese have no manners.”

  “If His Highness thinks we take offense at his childish outburst, he is gravely mistaken. Perhaps his temper would be allayed if he received his men who have languished in Bramoran’s dungeons for over a year now?”

  “Yes!” Saj’nal said, fingers tapping the arm of his throne irritably.

  “You shall have them, as soon as I learn that you have left Fiera and the service of His Majesty.”

  “That may be sooner than you think!” shouted the prince.

  A cool glance from the White Falcon proved more effective than the warlord’s thumping stump of an arm. Saj’nal pressed himself deeper into his throne and locked his jaw shut. Clearly, there was no love lost between the mercenary and his employer.

  “If we reach an agreement, Highness,” Rhorek told Saj’nal, “there should be no reason why you should not start for home tomorrow. Am I right?” He cast a smile at Shadryk, for the first time engaging in a game of his own. Yes, put that desire into a mercenary’s head and watch it grow.

  “Precisely,” said Shadryk, tautly.

  “Believe me,” added Rhorek, “we have no desire to keep the foreigners in our prison any longer than we have to. They eat too much.”

  That won him what appeared to be a genuine laugh from the White Falcon. “Don’t they though? I can’t say I’m sorry to have afflicted them on you.”

  Rhorek looked at the pouting Saj’nal in dry contempt. “Nor am I sorry you brought them into your house.”

  Shadryk’s response was brisk. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  Rhorek’s grin in Kelyn’s direction was subtle. “Right. While it’s fresh on the table, let us talk of this gold.”

  “What of it?” Shadryk’s words were clipped.

  “The dwarves of the Drakhan Mountains claim a band of Fieran soldiers attacked them and stole it. Their cousins of the Silver Mountains are here to make certain their property is returned to them.” He indicated Brugge. The dwarf raised narrow jasper eyes.

  “No, no, no, I know nothing of the kind,” Shadryk said. “This gold, I was informed, was found in the mountains between the Ristbrooke and the Galda. My territory. Therefore, my gold. The delegation I sent into the mountains was ordered to trade for it. I’m very much aware that lives were lost on both sides. Regrettable. We do not desire war with the dwarves, but if they refuse to give Fiera what belongs to her, we must take it by force.”

  “Belongs to you?” Brugge shoved back his chair, overturning his glass of scented water. Goryth, too, started to rise, but Shadryk waved him down. “Never has anything we baerdwin mined belonged to humans.”

  “You say all our coin, silver or otherwise, belongs to you?”

  “Damn right, it does! Until we choose to give it to you. We mine it, we mint it, we ship it. And where we ship it depends on treaties, as you know very well. There is no treaty in effect that addresses any gold whatsoever.”

  “Shall we draw one up, then? Here and now?”

  “Too late, king. You took before you asked. I’m here to reclaim what you stole, that’s all.”

  Shadryk restrained his anger with far more aplomb than did his Zhiani ally. He let his advisers take offense for him instead. “Dare you call the White Falcon a thief?” demanded Drona.

  “I do,” said Brugge.

  “A pleasure making you shorter still,” snarled the warlord.

  “Master Thyrvael,” said Rhorek, “you have made your point.”

  The dwarf resumed his seat.

  Kelyn cleared his throat. “Your Majesties, if I may?”

  Rhorek gave him the floor; Shadryk made no objection.

  Kelyn stood and addressed the thrones. “Our Lady Drona is perhaps best aware of the effectiveness of dwarvish khorzai. They brought low the towers of Ulmarr, to her brother’s end. The obstinacy of the dwarves is, perhaps, not common knowledge so far south. Once they have set their feet on a course, there is little to deter them. At present, their course is to reclaim the gold they deem theirs. Despite what we may decide here today concerning the matter, in the end, the dwarves swear allegiance to themselves alone. If their gold is not returned to them, there’s nothing we can do to keep them from marching on Brynduvh to get it back. It may be in the White Falcon’s best interest to comply with their wishes.” He bowed and resumed his seat.

  “You speak well, Lord Ilswythe,” said Shadryk. “Pity you are not Fieran.”

  Idiot. The voice grated inside Kelyn’s head. Keep your mouth shut. Fell under his gaze, competition if his plan succeeds. Now he means to see you dead. Fine strategy, War Commander.

  Peering over his shoulder, Kelyn saw Thorn shake his head and sigh as if at the simplest of dimwits.

  “What plan?” he whispered. Luckily, his question was lost under Shadryk’s brazen attempt to garner favor with the dwarves. What have you heard? he tossed toward his brother, but Thorn kept the rest of his secrets to himself.

  “We should talk more of this,” Shadryk was saying with an inviting light in his eye, “your elders and myself. I must meet with Leania’s king and Evaronna’s duchess to work out an accord with them. Why should I not also meet with the dwarven elders? We could reach an agreement that would benefit us both. What prosperity for the Northwest.”

  “Aye, indeed,” said Brugge. “Until that time, we’ll have our gold in safe keeping.”

  “Of course, Fiera will see it done. I
will need hostages, in the meantime. Seven of your finest sons, to ensure Fiera’s interests.”

  Brugge grimaced as if the White Falcon had grown a beak and talons. “Our stone mothers would never agree to send their sons into your care.”

  “Master Thyrvael, one cannot expect to receive unless one gives.”

  Rhorek waved a hand between them. “He will consider your offer. Won’t you, Master Brugge?”

  The dwarf grunted and nodded, as if the concession was as painful as unconditional surrender.

  Shadryk assigned his Minister of Foreign Affairs to work out the details of exchange with the dwarf. “In the meantime, Rhorek,” he went on, “I expect your ships to depart my waters within a fortnight.”

  “My ships, aye. The Leanians will see to their own affairs. Allaran?”

  “Bano’en has not made his intentions known to me, Your Majesties. But he wanted nothing to do with this war in the first place, you will recall.” Uncle Allaran cast a sneer at Goryth, whose only reaction was sliding his stubby forearm from the tabletop and hiding it in his lap. “My wager is that my exalted kinsman will welcome the opportunity to recall his ships. Though I do advise you to meet with him as soon as possible. Bano’en takes offense to anything he deems a snub.”

  “Of course. I intend to meet with him within the week. My letters are sealed. They only await my return to Brynduvh to see them off.” Talks like these could go on for days. Shadryk seemed unreasonably confident that they would conclude quickly. “Any other items?” He searched his list, came up empty.

  Rhorek said, “One last request. No more attempts on my life.”

  Shadryk leaned back in his throne as if the demand were a scandal. Rhorek was not taken in.

  “I want your oath on it. See to that, worthy Falcon, and I will do everything in my power to see that there is peace between our realms while I reign. If one must expect to give to receive, then there is nothing more noble or more generous that I could give you.”

  Shadryk considered, eyes sly. “You assume that the assassin I heard about was hired by me. You do not think highly of my character.”