Fury of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga 5)

by Ellyn, Court

  Despite the humiliating confession of Alyster’s testimony, Kethlyn realized that his mother had angled the questioning in his favor. If she had foregone a trial, his peers, these vengeful victims of Lothiar’s scheme, might never have heard definitively that Kethlyn no longer acted as an ally of their enemy.

  Regardless, one accusation remained.

  The duchess lifted the stained, dog-eared parchment. “I have here a royal edict, written and signed by King Valryk, and given to His Lordship in the winter of this year. It bears the king’s seal, but I ask that Her Majesty please verify the handwriting.”

  Briéllyn stood, peered over the lip of the table at the sprawling signature and nodded.

  Rhoslyn read the edict aloud: “We hereby name Kethlyn, son of the Houses of Liraness and Ilswythe, Duke of all Evaronna, master of all her lands and shores and all who dwell therein.” She laid the parchment aside. “The War Commander was correct in bringing this to me with the reminder that if Valryk was within his rights, he can lawfully replace me or any highborn with anyone he chooses. That is not to say that he may rightfully murder highborns to achieve this. But, as we well know, removing one highborn who displeases his sovereign and installing another has been done frequently in the history of the realms of the Northwest.

  “I spent the morning searching Tírandon’s library for a document I remembered reading when I was a child. For the prisoner’s sake, I hoped I had misremembered.” Rhoslyn gestured to the young squire waiting behind the dais. “Bryden, the book.”

  The boy trudged up the steps, lugging a tome in both arms. The golden silk cover was frayed and discolored. When he flopped it onto the table in front of the duchess, a dust cloud puffed up.

  Rhoslyn opened it to a pre-marked page. “As we all know, Evaronna was once an autonomous realm with kings of her own. For decades, the kings of Aralorr sought to absorb Evaronna into itself in order to gain access to her ports, but it was only after a hard-fought rebellion that Tallon made the two one.

  “I read here an excerpt from the Treaty of Unification, signed by King Tallon the Unifier and his brother, whom he had named First Duke of Liraness: ‘The dukes are hereby bound by a vow of allegiance and fealty to the kings of Aralorr for all time. In return, the kings of Aralorr guarantee that the line of dukes in Liraness will rule Evaronna unhindered and unmolested, so far as they abstain from revolt or coup against the crown. Likewise, the kings of Aralorr vow that at no time will they seek to supplant the dukes of Liraness with themselves or with new governors according to impulse, whim, or caprice, so far as the dukes abstain from revolt or coup against the crown. Should the kings of Aralorr commit such a violation, the dukes of Liraness reserve the right to sunder the Unification and thereby rule themselves’.”

  Kethlyn let out a breath. Did anyone else hear the unsteadiness in it? With every ounce of willpower he kept his face perfectly still. Look at no one. Look at the floor.

  The great book thumped closed. “This law is only two hundred years old,” Rhoslyn said. “Whether or not Valryk was aware of it, he broke it. If his plan had been carried out perfectly, who would be left to protest? I would be dead, and so would all of you. So in the end, this piece of paper,” she raised the royal edict, “is worth less than the ink it was written with, and I believe Valryk knew it. Lastly, whether or not the prisoner was aware of this law, he was complicit in the breaking of it. He himself has testified to that.”

  Kethlyn couldn’t help it. He raised his eyes and looked at his mother. To his surprise, she gazed back. Her eyes were not filled with spite, as he’d feared, but with the pain of betrayal, the exhaustion of the burden he had forced upon her.

  “The prisoner may speak in his own defense,” she said.

  Kethlyn had been standing stoically silent for so long that finding words was as difficult as hauling himself out of a warm bath into the winter wind. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, making the chains clink fitfully. The air in the Hall was so taut that he could flick it with a fingernail.

  In her intent, longing gaze it was clear that the duchess hoped his statement would be so profound that it would exonerate him.

  “I have no defense, Your Grace. I took your throne from you knowingly, willingly. I am a traitor to my mother, whom I love. I believed the lies Valryk told me. I believed what I wanted to believe. I never suspected he would try to have you murdered. In that I had no part, but I was a fool not to see it. I must live with that guilt, however long you permit it. Do with me what you will. That is all.”

  With that, he broke the gaze he had yearned for and looked at the floor. Now to wait. He determined to make not one sound, not one expression, whatever her ruling.

  With barely any voice at all, Mum said, “Look what you’ve given me to do. Court will reconvene shortly.” Her chair scraped roughly back.

  The Hall resounded with a collective sigh as the spectators remembered to breathe. They murmured disappointment that they must endure yet another delay.

  “Just get it over with!” Kethlyn cried. His decision for silence had lasted all of half a minute.

  His mother whirled to face him.

  “I know what I’ve done, and I know what it deserves.”

  His father surged to his feet. “Kethlyn, don’t.”

  From among the shifting, energized crowd, Laral pressed free and stood before the box. “Your Grace, wait. Before you deliberate, may I propose an option you may not have considered?”

  Rhoslyn regarded him suspiciously. She waved a hand for him to proceed.

  Laral addressed her as if he spoke to a volatile spark of lightning, or a well-armed thief who had broken into his house. “You could pardon him, Your Grace, that is your right, but I fear he would not survive long among these vengeful souls. You could imprison him for the rest of his life. You could have done with it, as he says, and mount his head on a spike. But there is this, too. Your Grace may let the Goddess decide.”

  “Laral, what are you doing?” hissed Eliad.

  “We can fight about it later,” Laral whispered, “but I’ll win.”

  Desperate to understand, Rhoslyn returned to her chair. “Go on.”

  Laral bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace. Thing is, if Kethlyn is released—”

  A violent outburst reverberated against the ceiling.

  “If Kethlyn is released,” Laral bellowed over the voices, “he will lead his men into battle.” He aimed a poignant look at the duchess.

  Kethlyn’s heart hammered as he saw what Laral was proposing.

  Rhoslyn rapped the mallet furiously until the protest dwindled.

  Laral laid out the rest as neat as an offering. “If he is slain on the field, justice is done, and Your Grace’s hands are clean. If he survives, issue him a pardon for valiant services rendered.”

  Da gripped the edge of the table. “Rhoz…”

  She cast him a withering look, and his hand slipped away. Slowly, she rose. “I will return shortly. Etivva? With me.”

  The shaddra hadn’t expected to be needed. She scrambled out of her chair beside Kelyn and hobbled quickly after the duchess.

  ‘Shortly’ drew out over an hour, two hours. Twilight eased across the windows, darkening the diamonds of colored glass. The highborns milled, restless, mouths full of discontent and gossip. The Miraji soldiers held Kethlyn in a small anteroom just off the Great Hall. He curled up on a cushioned bench, dragging his chains with him, and for a few minutes he escaped inside the cocoon of sleep.

  He woke to someone joggling his shoulder. One of the soldiers motioned him out the door. Kethlyn blinked the haze from his head and made his way back to the Hall. The highborns had preceded him; the chairs were full; voices were subdued. Lamps had been lit along the walls, and two chandeliers overhead. The dancing flames only added to the sweltering heat.

  As soon as Kethlyn stepped into the box, the duchess entered from a side door. She marched up the dais, claimed her seat, and knocked the mallet twice on the table. All whisp
ers died.

  “The ruling of the duchess’s court is final,” she said. “There will be no appeal. I will hear no arguments. Of the crime of conspiracy to commit murder, I find the prisoner innocent at this time, due to insufficient evidence. Of the crime of high treason, I have no choice but to find the prisoner guilty as charged. I, Rhoslyn, the Duchess of Liraness, do turn you over into the Mother-Father’s hands, to be dealt with as she sees fit.

  “But hear this! The War Commander will not spare his son from action on the field in an attempt to hide him from the Mother-Father’s judgment, but will deploy him as he would any other soldier. Am I clear?”

  Da steeled his expression and nodded tersely.

  The duchess continued, “And let no individual here raise a hand against the prisoner in an attempt to decide on the Mother-Father’s behalf. If the prisoner comes to harm in any place but the battlefield, I will visit your vengeance upon you tenfold. His life is in the hands of the Goddess alone.” The mallet came down.

  The highborns’ wrath erupted. The duchess retreated from the Hall. A Miraji guard plied a key, and the chains fell away. Kethlyn stood in the box, stunned. In a way, this ruling was worse than a short walk to the block; it provided no resolution. He was still waiting for judgment. Everyone was still waiting. We’re all guilty, he thought. One way or another we’re all bound for the pyre. Still, he would live another day. Maybe, just maybe, he could prove himself yet.

  He searched the broiling crowd and met Laral’s eye. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do it for you.” Laral cast half a glance toward Kelyn before letting himself out.

  Da slouched forward in his chair, his face in his hands, the strain of the day and its release overwhelming him at last. Kethlyn stepped out of the box and went to him.

  ~~~~

  23

  Lyrienn occupied the Lady’s silver throne, waiting for the traitor’s response. Orbs hovering near a domed ceiling emitted cold light; the light illumined white marble walls and the crown of the prisoner’s bowed head.

  That morning, Iryan Wingfleet had been escorted into the Moon Hall so the Elders could question him. He was a poor sight to behold. His shoulder, arm, and ankle were bound in splints, broken beneath the weight of a dying horse. Bruises from battle and scars from avedra lightning misshaped his face. The sharp scent of healing salves wafted among tiers of chairs. Pain, poppy wine, defeat, something sapped the light from his eyes.

  “Tell us!” cried one of the Elders. “Does Lothiar mean to destroy our city?”

  “Did he voice plans to burn the rest of the Wood?”

  “Who told him Linndun’s wall had a weakness?”

  The same questions over and over. Hour after hour. The Elders took turns, circling the prisoner, poking at his wounds. Enough to incite sparks of pain, though not enough to inflict further injury.

  Iryan bore the prodding fingers and the interrogation in stoic silence. He had uttered not a word since the guards sat him down before Lyrienn’s throne. Glacier blue eyes stared at the floor, sometimes settling as high as Lyrienn’s toes, but no higher. He dismissed the latest round of questions with a curt exhale, nothing so animated as a sigh.

  The Elder retreated, exasperated. Another stepped forward to continue the barrage.

  Lyrienn raised a hand. The Elder stepped back and closed his mouth.

  “Do you miss walking the trees?” Lyrienn asked, smiling wistfully at the prisoner.

  After a moment, Iryan realized she directed the question at him. “Very much, Lady.”

  The Elders murmured displeasure that this pointless question should, at last, entice him to speak.

  “And your view? Do you like it?”

  “Not at all, Lady.” His cell, a room high in a south-facing tower, looked out over the ashen wasteland, as Dathiel had suggested. The windows were broad, the new bars slender, hardly hampering the vista.

  “You wielded the torch yourself, didn’t you.”

  Iryan nodded but once.

  “There, he admits it!” cried one of the Elders. “Let us hang him from the trees he destroyed.”

  “We are not humans,” argued another.

  “Besides,” said a third, “there is no precedent concerning one of our own destroying the Wood.”

  A small gesture from Lyrienn ended the debate. “There will be no hanging.” She gathered her skirts and stood. “Such a breach of trust. Do the trees know, I wonder, that it was their guardian who destroyed them? It matters not. I’m sorry for you, Wingfleet. Your servitude to my brother, the slaying of the trees, the loss of your pride … all for nothing.” She turned to his guards, two Regs wearing the red keldjeq. “When he is able to stand on his own, make sure his cell is stripped bare. We want him to live long enough to see his efforts undone. Rest assured, Iryan, you will see the Wood renewed, though it take a thousand years.”

  How sweetly she said it, but the prisoner caught her meaning in full. His sentence was not one of hope, but of torment. He closed his eyes in despair as the guards raised him up and hauled him away.

  “We were not finished with our interrogation, Lady,” one of the Elders protested.

  “Do you think tapping bruises will induce one like Wingfleet to talk?” she retorted. “There is no point questioning him again unless you are prepared to go the full measure. Until then, do not waste my time. I have a city to rebuild.”

  “The Lady condones torture?” they cried. This was not the first time Lyrienn’s manner or words had shocked her council. She had yet to learn how to employ Aerdria’s gentle diplomacy, her cajoling ways, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  She ignored the question and strode from the Moon Hall. The ten soldiers in her Dardra marched along behind her, feet whispering softly on the marble. In tight file, they escorted her up the lifts and winding ramps to her quarters. She had kept her old rooms. Aerdria’s had been enshrined and locked away. At least for the present. After having lived there for a millennium, Aerdria’s presence was infused into the walls, the tapestries, the furniture. Until time caused that presence to fade, Lyrienn could not live happily there.

  Captain Cheriam opened the door to the main room and gestured for one of her lieutenants to precede the Lady inside. “Murienna, you’re on watch tonight.”

  After Aerdria was murdered in the locked privacy of her own chamber, the Dardra redoubled their efforts to keep the new Lady secure. Lyrienn was not left alone for more time than it took to visit the latrine. The three women serving in her guard would soon run themselves ragged accompanying her at all hours.

  Murienna inspected every cupboard and closet before waving Lyrienn inside. Then she positioned herself staunchly beside the entrance, shoulders back, mouth screwed shut, eyes and ears open to every stray breeze that fluttered past the windows.

  Captain Cheriam and the rest saluted, then closed the doors. Soft shuffles as they lined up in the corridor.

  The golden light of sunset spilled across the balcony and skittered across the dining table. There were ten chairs, but only one place set.

  Lyrienn considered ordering a hasty banquet in the formal dining hall downstairs, but who would attend? The Elders? Bickering, discontented Elders who dined on fear and sipped the bitter draught of anxiety. And the Dardra had little opportunity for idle conversation, and were humorless besides. For them, chatter and laughter were a breach of decorum. She needed to choose a companion soon, someone convivial to keep her company.

  She ignored her supper and wandered onto the balcony. Her rooms faced west, affording her a view of the Avidan River pumping like an artery through the heart of the city. Beyond the wall, the river meandered, bisecting the Wood. The two halves of the forest told a tale of ruin and salvation. The northern half was largely untouched, the river too wide to permit the fires to cross. But the southern half … Lyrienn could barely bring her eyes to gaze upon it.

  The city smelled different. Before, the wind would sift through miles of trees to reach her tower, carrying with
it a green, vibrant aroma. Now the wind smelled of dust, dry and sterile. And though the days were hot, the wind wheezed through the ash-blight with a barren, wintry voice.

  She could rebuild a wall, but it would take centuries—or an avedra—to heal the trees.

  For that, and for other reasons, she missed Dathiel. He might be temperamental or aloof, but his conversation was unsurpassed. His antics, even when they led to trouble, did not give her time to become bored.

  Hnh. Boredom, she feared, was a luxury of the past.

  When last she saw Dathiel, he was mad with grief. Wild-eyed, restless, the air simmering around him, crackling and stewing with unspent storm. Unapproachable.

  Poor Carah. What did Lothiar plan for her? If his goal was to break Dathiel, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Is there nothing I can do? Lyrienn thought of the Elders, talking, talking, and her slender hope crumbled. Her people took their sweet time because they had too much of it. They guarded their isolation because it was comfortable. It sickened her to imagine Lothiar’s ogres scything through rows of brave, desperate humans while companies of Regulars returned to idleness in the barracks.

  “The ogres might return at any time,” the Elders argued. They were right. The protection of her people must be Lyrienn’s primary concern. But not her only concern.

  Yesterday she had installed the Regulars’ new commander. Tíryus’s assassination had astonished the city. Ogres, here? had been the common outburst. If two naenion could enter the barracks and slay such a strong warrior as Tíryus, what hope was there if Lothiar snuck a full company into the walls?

  Elarion had long memories. They remembered when Lothiar set the rágazeth loose among them. Knowing the lengths to which he would go gave rise to fear, like fetid water rising through a sewer grate. The night-watch doubled their numbers. Light orbs were installed in shadowed alleys and dark corners of storehouses. Children were whisked indoors at twilight. Even now, with sunset fading, Lyrienn saw lights flaring across the city where no light had been needed before.