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

by Ellyn, Court

  The castellan seemed not to hear it, or perhaps he was so accustomed to the music and the voice that they no longer gave him pause. Ahead, a parlor door stood open, and the music certainly came from inside. The castellan stopped on the threshold. “I’ll be right here, Aralorri. Mind yourself.”

  The song rolled over him, piercing him deep inside. Peering into the parlor, he saw Bethyn in an armchair near the sunny window. A lute filled her lap, her fingers flew lightly over the strings, the sunlight spilled across her hair, and that exquisite voice rose from her sweet mouth.

  Return to me

  when the stars shine cold beyond the moons,

  and warm me, love, with a touch.

  Return to me …

  Laral feared to move lest she stop. What had he told Thorn? There would be no ‘she.’ He was in dire trouble now. Of all things, he wanted that voice filling his ears for the rest of his life.

  The sound of a throat clearing reminded Laral that he and Bethyn weren’t alone. The squat nurse’s broad red fists were balled on wide hips. Her eyes narrowed reproachfully. She’d seen the helpless way he looked at her charge, and he realized with a plunge of his heart that Bethyn’s voice would fill the ears of someone else. What were the chances that Lady Brengarra would be permitted to wed the son of an Aralorri sheep thief? He shouldn’t have come. He turned to leave.

  The song stopped abruptly. “Laral?” Setting aside the lute, Bethyn waved the nurse out. Lady Brighthill shuffled away with a viperish backward glare. “You’re very brave to come,” Bethyn said, cool, restrained. “I never expected to see you again.”

  Did that mean he was the only lovesick one? Swallow it, say what you came to say, then leave. But come to think of it, he hadn’t come to talk. He just wanted to look at her. What was he supposed to say? Kelyn would know. But Kelyn would order him to retreat fast, of that Laral was certain.

  “It’s unseemly to play a love song today,” Bethyn said. “But that’s the song my fingers wanted to play. It often happens that way.”

  “You’re very good,” Laral said to the rug between their feet.

  “Thank you. I’ve been playing since I was three.”

  “That doesn’t account for the voice.”

  “The king always asks me to sing when he visits.”

  The thought of that fox getting to enjoy Bethyn’s talent rankled him. “We follow the Black Falcon west, I guess you saw.”

  “Yes. Do you … do you think you’ll pass by Brengarra on your way home?”

  Laral shrugged. “I have to go where the War Commander goes. We may head north into Leania afterward.”

  “To deliver Prince Nathryk to Bano’en?”

  “I don’t know what will happen. Honest. If the White Falcon surrenders … look, I don’t want to talk about all the things that divide us. Not with you, Wren.”

  “What did you call me?”

  Laral gulped. Had he said that out loud? Hot in the face, he admitted, “You make me think of a wren.”

  Bethyn’s chin trembled. “My brother and my father called me ‘little bird.’ Wrens are songbirds, aren’t they?”

  He nodded, finding the name more fitting than ever. She smiled and fidgeted, and a blush crept up her throat. “You … you could write to me when you get to where you’re going. You don’t have to—”

  “I will.” Laral could barely stand it. He wanted to kiss that lovely mouth, but he didn’t know how to kiss a girl, really kiss a girl. “I’ll write, then in two years I’ll be eighteen and knighted. I’ll come back then. Unless you think that’s stupid.”

  Bethyn’s eyes blinked wide. “You mean, make an official call?”

  “If you don’t want me to, you can tell me later, in a letter.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want you to?” She shook her head, gathering her wits, and drifted past him, out of the sunlight. “Yes, much can happen in two years.”

  “Much will happen. But unless you tell me otherwise, I’ll come back. My oath on it.”

  She turned to gaze out a window, fingers toying absently with the tassels on the drapes, never still. “My brother promised he’d come back. I should learn not to hold soldiers to their word. It’s too difficult for them to keep it.”

  He joined her at the window so he could see her face. A delicate frown pinched her brow. “The only thing that will keep me away is my pyre.”

  The sorrow on her face ebbed away. “I will sing for you when you return.”

  ~~~~

  77

  Over. The word screamed inside Shadryk’s head as he rode west. He eeked every measure of speed from his horse. The White Mantles surrounded him, cloaks like storm clouds on the wind. The rest of his army had remained behind at Haezeldale under Lord Grevel’s command. “Buy me time,” Shadryk had told him.

  Grevel, grandfather to Shadryk’s youngest son, had been more optimistic. “We’ll stop them and send them fleeing back to the border, sire.”

  Maybe Grevel was right. Maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe Shadryk’s dream still stood a chance. When the boy commander lifted Goryth’s head from the river, he’d felt the grand vision shatter. Westervael, that which was and would never be again. Never had he felt such a flood of fear. He’d fled in blind panic. His troops had followed, giving up the ford. A blunder, his blunder, and he knew it well. Was there any chance he could piece everything back together?

  His Zhiani allies ran for the sea. His warlord was dead. Half his kingdom had fallen to the Aralorris. No, there was no recovery after that. Over. Over.

  He had to warn his sister, his sons. The Aralorris might have Nathryk, but they mustn’t get their hands on Arryk or Bhodryk.

  Halfway to Brynduvh, he saw black plumes of smoke rising from the horizon, and a band of people heading east. They came on foot or in top-heavy carts stuffed with furniture and food. Swerving aside, they made way for the king and his guard. A second band of travelers appeared over the next hill. “Stop,” Shadryk ordered, and the Mantles reined in. “Grandfather,” he called to an old man driving a wagon full of weeping women and children. “What village burns?”

  “No village, Your Majesty. Brynduvh.”

  “The castle?”

  “The city, sire. It’s them dwarves. They came out of nowhere. They’re ransacking the place.”

  The gold. They’re after the gold. Ki’eva was right. They would stop at nothing to get it back. “Have they breached the castle?”

  “I don’t know, sire.”

  Shadryk drove in his spurs. The stallion raced down the highway like a white bolt of lightning, but he feared he might still arrive too late. His innocent sons, in the hands of vengeful dwarves. The possibility didn’t bear thinking about. By the time, he reached the last hill above the city, the banners of smoke blotted out the westering sun, turning the light hazy orange. Surreal, like riding through a nightmare. The fires appeared to be thickest in the western quarters. People fled through the eastern and southern gates. Some wore helms and green-and-white livery over chain-mail. “The city guard,” Shadryk said. “Even they flee. I should’ve stayed. My presence would have bolstered them.”

  “Sire, you don’t know that,” said the Mantle on his right. “They might’ve turned on you and fled anyway, lot of cowards. Come, the tunnel is close.”

  Shadryk followed the guardsmen toward the pressing house as if they pulled him on a string. What was wrong with him? He felt empty inside, with neither will nor wits nor spirit. The tunnel wound through the earth, irrepressibly damp and dark. All fifty of them had to make do with two torches, and only the oldest of the Mantles had entered the tunnel before. Pitfalls and false corridors were meant to lead astray any who found the tunnel by accident or tried to sneak into the castle for sinister purposes. After half a mile of creeping through the dark, they surfaced through a hole in the floor of the royal stables. The Mantles insisted they scout out the situation before Shadryk emerged. If Brynduvh had fallen, they could turn around and seek refuge elsewhere, before the dwarves were aware o
f them.

  Waiting in the dark was unbearable. The stink of smoke wafted down the hole with the smell of hay and horseshit. At last, one of the Mantles dropped down the ladder and reported, “The gates have held, and some of the city guard remain. A few still man the battlements. They say the dwarves have barricaded themselves in the vintner’s quarter.”

  “That’s right below the western wall.”

  “Yes, the castellan believes the dwarves are digging under the castle. We can’t remain long.”

  Over. The bleak word weighed upon his shoulders like a cloak of mourning. Shadryk pulled himself up the ladder into the empty stall. “Take me to my family.”

  Three rows of Ki’eva’s personal guard stood outside the nursery door. They moved aside for him, and Ki’eva ran into his arms. “Oh, thank the Goddess,” she muttered.

  Arryk scrambled off his favorite reading couch and exclaimed, “The dwarves broke down the outer wall, Da! Did you see the fire?” His eyes were bright with exhilaration. He didn’t know his father had failed him.

  Bhodryk ran up to him and tugged his dusty surcoat. “I’m hungwy.” His nurse led him away with apologies.

  “Give him something to eat, damn it.” He breathed deeply to keep his fear from showing. “Why did no one send word that the dwarves were attacking?”

  “They arrived in the middle of the night, Shad,” said Ki’eva. Yes, she still wore her emerald-colored bedrobe, though the day was growing old. “They’d broken into the city by dawn, then those stunt-legged swine started burning everything. When was I supposed to send word?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We couldn’t have arrived in time anyway.” There was neither breath nor force left in his voice.

  “But you’re here now. Goryth will push them out or hang them from the walls.”

  “Goryth is dead. The army holds ground at Haezeldale. They don’t know Brynduvh is attacked. It would take a day for the message to reach them and at least two for them to arrive. By then … no, you have to leave now.”

  “Give them back their gold, Shad,” she pleaded. “Maybe they’ll be satisfied with that and leave us alone.”

  Gently he squeezed her shoulders. “Go change and gather your things.” How calm he sounded. No. Dead. He sounded dead. And so he was. Without his grand vision what was left? “Plain clothes. Garments for travel. Take all your jewelry. You may need it later.”

  “But where will we go?”

  “Éndaran.”

  She crowed indelicately. “Lady Eritha will not be welcoming. She doesn’t love you in the slightest.”

  “It’s the only choice, for the same reasons I sent Nathryk there. It’s out of the way. It’s not a threat, and it’s near the sea. If the Aralorris decide to pursue you, you can use the cranes to escape, hide in exile in Dorél or Heret.”

  She eased away from him, bewilderment creasing her tawny eyebrows. “It won’t come to that, will it? Mother’s mercy. You’re not thinking of staying?”

  “I’ll join you later. It’s not safe to travel together. The Aralorris will come looking for me, and I don’t want you or my sons captured with me.”

  “What happened, Da?” asked Arryk. The excitement in his green eyes had dwindled. He was too old now to hide the truth from him.

  Shadryk touched his freckled cheek. “It’s over, my son. The White Falcon wings are clipped. We are surrounded. The Black Falcon has won.”

  “No!” he insisted, tears brimming heavily. “We’ll keep fighting. You’ll see.”

  Shadryk gave him a nudge. “Gather your things. Then come to my suite, all of you.”

  At the large window in his private parlor, Shadryk peered down on his city. The fires were spreading. People small as ants ran panicking through the streets. Horses, dogs, highborns and commoners trampled one another in their desperation to escape the flames. Smoke as black and smothering as despair circled around the castle towers. The reality was so far removed from his dream that his eyes refused to accept what they saw.

  “Sire?” Cuinn’s voice crackled. With weariness? With grief? “The chest will accommodate no more.”

  “Good,” Shadryk said. “Lock it and give it to Her Highness when she arrives.” Ki’eva would have not only her own finery but his as well. Rings and brooches and baubles that he prayed would buy his sister and his sons safety. A new life if necessary.

  They arrived, the three of them, wearing their traveling clothes and brave faces. Unadorned though they were, there was no mistaking them for commoners. They would have to rely on their wits and the speed of their carriage.

  “Shadryk,” said his sister, “come with us. Eritha will hide you. No one needs to know where you are.”

  “I will not put you in danger, Ki’eva. The matter is closed.”

  She wouldn’t hear of it. “Brother, those dwarves could break in any minute. They will capture you. They will give you to Rhorek, and Goddess knows what he will do to you.”

  “If the worst happens—”

  She tried to turn away.

  “Listen to me! If the worst happens, you will act as regent until Nathryk comes of age. The Aralorris have him—”

  “What?”

  “You’ll be treating for peace with them. Give them whatever they want to keep him safe. Understand? Eighteen. Then he may inherit.”

  “Damn you, you’ve given up, haven’t you! Your precious dream may be dead, but you’re young, Shad. You can try again.”

  “No. Once is noble. Twice is madness. The people won’t die for it a second time, nor would I ask them to. I staked everything on it, and I lost. I don’t know anything else. Take the chest and go. You’ve tarried long enough.” He called to the captain of his guard. Lord Averill’s beard was as white as his cloak. Though he had served Shadryk’s father, Averill still moved like a young man. “You and the Mantles will accompany Her Highness and my sons to Éndaran. See them there safely.”

  “Leave you? Sire, we are sworn to protect you, even unto death.”

  “That’s why you’re leaving with the rest of the household. Enough blood has been shed for my folly. I will risk no more. An honor guard of four may stay. Let them volunteer.”

  “Me!” cried Arryk. His chin jutted in a show of bravery, and he crossed his arms, ready to take on the dwarves all at once.

  Shadryk’s heart swelled into his throat. He knelt before his son. “If you stay, who will protect your brother?” Bhodryk’s pudgy fingers clung to Arryk’s belt; he looked scared and so much like his mother that Shadryk’s breath caught in his throat. “You have to keep him safe, as you always have. And remember your stance. When you throw your knives, remember your stance.”

  Arryk nodded, chin starting to quiver, and he led Bhodryk out of the parlor.

  Ki’eva glared at her brother, face flushed and teeth grinding. “You could at least try, Shad. I used to envy you for your throne. But now that it’s mine, I hate you for it.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “Everything I love is in your care. Don’t fail me.”

  “As you failed us? No, I wouldn’t dare. I will beg and grovel and compromise, and I will never forgive you for tossing it all on me.” She whirled, snatched the chest from the old chamberlain, and hurried away. “Come, Your Highnesses, keep up!”

  The terrified nurse picked up Bhodryk and ran after Ki’eva. Amid the flutter of retreating white cloaks, Arryk looked back at his father. A wise boy; there was no lying to him. Da wouldn’t be following later.

  Shadryk raised a hand.

  Arryk waved back, jaw tight with unspoken arguments. Then he was marching away, unhurried, head high, in the middle of half a dozen Mantles. The sight of it was enough to tear Shadryk’s heart loose in his chest. He had to hold on a few minutes longer. Once his family was gone, he’d be all right.

  “Your bath is ready sire,” said Cuinn.

  “You may go,” he said, listening. The echo of his family’s footsteps retreated down one corridor; the
shouting of servants rose from the floor below. Breaking glass, more shouting. “I think they’re looting, Cuinn. Better get out while you can.”

  “Forgive me, sire, but I think I’ll stay. I’ve lived nowhere else.”

  “I’m the one who brought the bad news this time, aren’t I?”

  “It’s all well and good, sire. If it please you, I will put an end to their mischief and see them safely out. After that, I’ll be in my rooms, should you need me.”

  Once the old chamberlain shuffled away, Shadryk resumed listening. Yes, even the echo of the Mantles’ footsteps were gone now. Down the tunnel they would go and deep into the Shadow Mounds to safety. Ah, Goddess, let them get safely away.

  Four men remained. They had stationed themselves outside the doors of his suite. Who had elected to stay? Except for Captain Averill, these four men had been with the guard longest, having served King Daeryk before him. Faithful, with long lives behind them. Good.

  The bath was near scalding, as Shadryk preferred it. The late afternoon light, slanting green and gold through the windows, was muddied by the smoke. Steam rose off the great pool, and soon his skin turned pink. Floating in the hot water eased his muscles, but it could not wash away his failure or relieve the twisting in his belly. Anticipation, that’s what it was. No cure for that until the inevitable was upon him.

  He shaved carefully; risky, as servants had always done the job for him, but he managed without cutting himself. He groomed his nails and shined his hair, and took half an hour trying to decide which doublet to wear. Something dark; blood would show less. Finally he decided on quilted silk the color of leaves in summer. Intricate embroidery depicting intertwined falcons was done in gold thread. The sleeves were difficult to tie on by himself, but he managed that, too. His fingers shook only a little. He’d reserved his second best emerald ring from the chest he’d sent on with Ki’eva. Unless she had to spend them, he wanted his sons to have the best ones. He pinned on a silver brooch that Jilesse had given him upon their wedding, and a small silver hoop in each earlobe. Upon his belt he wore his fighting knives. Talon on the left. Raptor on the right. These ornaments he donned and no more, lest the jewel-hoarding dwarves take more than their gold as a prize.