Fury of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga 5)

by Ellyn, Court

  Lieutenant Andrilor had occupied the top of a short roster of names put forward for Tíryus’s position. Lyrienn did not know him well, but as Tíryus’s top aide, Andrilor’s list of service was long and varied, and the reverence the soldiers afforded him appeared to be genuine.

  During the ceremony, Lyrienn had thought him … a trifle arrogant. Funny to think what Dathiel would say to that. Are not all Elarion arrogant? They seem to think their noses prefer a view of the sky.

  She couldn’t argue. But the sense of entitlement in Andrilor’s bearing had offended her. Perhaps she merely preferred Dathiel’s humility—when it had occasion to surface. Andrilor is young, Lyrienn told herself, and the mantle he now wears is heavy. He will learn…

  The rusty stains of sunset dwindled to purple. The swallows returned to their nests under the tower’s eaves. They bickered beneath her toes as fitfully as the Elders. Stars glittered, unimpeded by tree or veil. No longer haloed through the pulsing net of avë, their light was sharp, pronged, cold, like blades.

  The first time Lyrienn saw them spread naked and brilliant above her, the smoke from the Tower of the Keepers still lay heavy across the city. She had stared transfixed for half the night. The sight had wrenched tears from her. “Lothiar has given us the stars,” she’d whispered, then glanced aside to see if anyone had heard. That’s when she’d seen that the streets below were full of stargazers.

  Was awe of the heavens enough for Lothiar to win them?

  In the dining room behind her, the slither of steel being drawn. Lyrienn turned.

  Murienna advanced, sword naked.

  Treachery. Lyrienn had time to taste the word on her tongue before she saw the break in the air, the sparking frame, the face peering out.

  Murienna put herself between the window and her Lady. “Step foot onto this floor, Exiled, and the streets will ring with cheers at news of your death.”

  Lothiar sighed with exaggerated boredom. “Do dismiss your valiant guardian, sister.”

  If it were not for his melodious voice, the same voice that had sung children’s cantas to Lyrienn at bedtime, she might not have recognized him. Twenty years of exile, of war, of untold hardship had deprived him of sumptuousness, even leeched the luster from his skin.

  The view was disorienting. Though the crackling window was eye-level with Lyrienn, Lothiar appeared to be gazing down at her. His chin nearly touched his chest, and his pale hair fell forward across emaciated cheeks.

  Had he stopped eating? Flesh stretched taut over cheekbones. Was he sleeping? Shadows bruised bloodshot eyes. An animal hunger crouched inside them, a feline wariness. It was the look of a beast being poked through the bars of a cage. Such a creature was apt to strike at whomever stood within range of its claws.

  “Murienna stays,” Lyrienn said. “I would have a witness to what passes between us. And I am not so foolish as to be alone with you, brother. Is that why you’ve come? To murder me too? To sit yourself on the Lady’s throne?”

  He cringed, stung by her suspicions. “Baby sister. My darling one. Do not force it upon me, as Aerdria did. I could not bear it.”

  Lyrienn replied with a sour grin. “Then stay your blade and spare your conscience. If you have one.”

  “I did not desire Aerdria’s death!” he roared. “I wept over her. But our people used her as a shield. An ineffectual one. They will try to do the same to you.”

  “And I will shield them. As long as I am able.”

  Lothiar sat away from the lens through which he peered, smiling at her. It was a smile of admonition. She realized she had stomped her foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Breathing deep, she relaxed her stance and raised her chin.

  “Will leadership suit you, I wonder,” he asked, “as it has suited me?”

  “Time will tell.”

  He leaned forward, coming close, until Lyrienn could no longer see the coffered ceiling above him. “Heed me, sister. You must be prepared to do what Aerdria did not.”

  Yes. Yes, she must. The safety and the dignity of her people lay like twin weights upon her shoulders. When she closed her eyes, tears rolled heavy. “I admire you, Lothiar, for seeing our yoke, for hating it, for wanting freedom for our people. But I cannot follow you down this road. I have seen a better way. A dragon showed me.”

  “Dragon? What dragon?”

  If she explained the vision to him, could she sway him? If Lothiar knew of the Gatekeepers and the promise of what may come from over the sea, might he disperse his ogre horde? Was it too late? “Silver light, so beautiful—”

  “Rashén? Is that his name? Rashén Varél is a liar, Lyrienn!” His shout shook the window. The face in the window rippled, a reflection on water. “He’s a prankster. He is playing us against one another.”

  So, then. His ears were closed to the truth. Lyrienn swallowed hard, banishing the ache of unshed tears from her throat. “You have set yourself against me.”

  “Do not make up your mind so quickly. You may come to regret it.”

  She offered him a smile, tender, final. “I love you, nethai. Nothing you do will change that.” She turned from the window, strode across the dining hall, and opened the double doors. At her word, the Dardra poured in. She gestured at the window.

  At sight of their enemy among them, Captain Cheriam ordered the dardrion to form a wall, barricading their Lady. Swords sang bright notes as they touched open air. It was for naught. Lothiar snarled, and the window vanished.

  “I refused him,” Lyrienn said, “as Aerdria did. Best be prepared.”

  “I will recruit sentries from among the Regulars,” said Captain Cheriam. “Not one corner of the palace will go unmonitored.”

  Determined to remain calm, Lyrienn at last sat down to dinner. The broth had grown cold; a thin film of grease floated among slices of mushroom and scallion. She dipped the bread anyway. “I think it wise to wear my belt of throwing knives from now on.” She nodded at Murienna; the guard strode into the next room to fetch them. “And every morning, I will train with you in the yard, Captain, sword and bow. Thrainor, go to the library and fetch me the manuals explaining the tactics of Commander Tíryus and Kelyn Swiftblade. My brother is right. I must be prepared to do what Aerdria did not.”

  ~

  The next morning, the Moon Hall echoed with argument. Factions of Elders faced one another across the aisles, trying to exceed each other in volume and reason. Lyrienn’s head throbbed, and it wasn’t yet noon.

  Her shoulders ached, too. She had made good her word and met Captain Cheriam in the training yard at dawn. Her belt of throwing knives pinched at her waist. A broad silk sash concealed the row of little blades. Determined to ignore the discomforts and look the part of the Lady, she held her shoulders straight and her chin aloft.

  If only she had thought to bring cotton to stuff into her ears.

  After years of sitting unobtrusively in the apse, waiting for the Lady to require something of her, Lyrienn was accustomed to the tedium, the tension, the round-and-round, the lack of decision. Only now, eyes looked to her for resolution.

  “Now that the Wood is half of what it was,” cried an Elder for change, “why waste resources rebuilding the Tower of the Keepers? What good will the veil do us now? The truth has been exposed. Outsiders know the Wood’s true face.”

  “Humans are short-lived!” retorted an Elder from across the aisle. “They will forget. If our dranithion act decisively in dealing with outsiders, as they once did, the Wood’s fearsome reputation may yet be reestablished.”

  “Have you stepped outside and seen the sky? Are we sure we want to sacrifice—”

  “Stars? Stars for safety? Any day. Yes. Absolutely.”

  Another of the Elders stepped into the aisle, raised hands for calm. “We saw this with Tallon. Do you not remember? Aerdria sent forth our Regulars to aid the human king. When it was over, Tallon let us fade into memory. We can reclaim our isolation. As soon as Lothiar’s war is ended, the humans will no longer require our aid and w
e will withdraw into the Wood again, inside our veil as we have always done. Goddess willing, in a few generations the duinóvion will speak of us only as legend. Perhaps, then, we can return to the way things were.”

  Upon the throne, Lyrienn made a soft sound, a doleful laugh barely breathed. It was enough to silence the debate and turn every head. “As we have always done…,” she echoed. “A falsehood. We once lived in the open, among duinóvion, and there was peace.”

  “Times change,” blurted one of the Elders.

  “Except here,” the Lady said. “The Council does not permit times to change. This is precisely why my brother is fighting. The wisdom of our Elders would not permit change when it was needed. Lothiar is right to despise living in fear.”

  The domed ceiling reverberated with uproar.

  “We must protect our families!”

  “The Lady sanctions the actions of the Exiled?”

  Lyrienn surged to her feet and bellowed over the sea of scandalized faces, “If our only strength lies in deception, what strength have we? We will find a way. But Dathiel, too, is right. Things cannot return to the way they were. When the time is right, we will forge a new peace, but I would be remiss if I led you back into the shadows.”

  The uproar redoubled. Lyrienn’s fists clenched in the folds of her skirts. From them she drew force into her voice, like drawing water from a well. “I will not be a shield for you! Neither can our trees. Lothiar has proven that. Whatever the aftermath of this war looks like, we will not hide from it.”

  “The Lady would expose us to slaughter?”

  She raised a hand, stamped down her anger. “On this, we will argue no further. Not today. We will rebuild the Tower of the Keepers, as we must.”

  The Elders who preferred immutability relaxed at that. Nods. Whispers.

  “Until the illusions are in place,” Lyrienn added, “we must defend the Wood with steel. Where is Commander Andrilor?”

  Attending the Council was an unhappy part of his new duty, but Lyrienn did not see him among the searching faces. Vexed, she waved a hand. “Send for him. He must’ve forgotten the time.”

  She didn’t believe it for an instant. One as disciplined as Andrilor did not forget.

  While she stretched aching muscles and a numb backside with a slow stroll among the Elders, she let the conversations surrounding her distract her from worry. The young page was taking her slow time in returning with the commander. How long did it take a child to run across a bridge and deliver a summons, anyway? Lyrienn envisioned the barracks overrun with ogres. Battle spilling into the streets. Lothiar climbing the dais, here in this hall, and claiming the throne for his own.

  Lyrienn found herself wringing her hands. She lowered them, clutched the sides of her skirt to keep them still.

  When the doors opened, she almost sighed in relief.

  Commander Andrilor strode into the Hall, flanked by two Regs. Impressive, he was. Armor polished to an immaculate shine, hair the silver-white of the lady moon plaited elaborately down his back. One need not see him in armor, however, to know he was a warrior to his bones. No gesture was wasted, no movement unintentional. Even his eyes. They did not dart or lose focus and wander aimlessly with thought. They settled with deliberate care. They settled on the Elders he passed, now on Lyrienn. He offered her a sheepish dip of his head. “My apologies, Lady, Councilors.” His voice was resonant bronze. “Not a promising first impression, I’m afraid.” The colors of midnight resided in his eyes. The red markings of his office rimmed them like blood tears. Indeed, how sorrowful he looked, as if this small breach of conduct were his deepest regret.

  “You have many new responsibilities, Commander,” Lyrienn said. “No harm done. Your lieutenants may wait outside. We must discuss the defense of our southern border.” Even as she spoke, she perceived the barrier rising between them. The resistance. Andrilor’s deliberate glance lowered to the floor. He did not dismiss his soldiers.

  While Lyrienn puzzled him out, she pretended not to notice, but started for the dais. Half the Dardra stood behind the silver throne; the other half ranged among the marble pillars and guarded the doors. She met Captain Cheriam’s eye. The captain returned a miniscule nod.

  “The discussion of our defense,” Andrilor said, “must come at a later time.”

  Worry rustled among the Elders. What had happened? Were the ogres advancing? Had the fires ignited in the northern wood?

  Stopping at the foot of the dais, Lyrienn turned and found the commander only an arm’s length away. “Must it? To delay would be—”

  Softly, as if wishing they were alone, he said, “I’ve spoken with your brother.”

  She did not need to ask which brother.

  “Unless you stand at his side, I’m afraid your reign will be brief.”

  Fear, cold and complete, sank into Lyrienn’s stomach, down into her legs. Blood thundered in her ears.

  The Elders who stood close enough to hear the threat backed away. Whispers surged and feet shuffled for the doors. Brave councilors. Valiant defenders of the city.

  The dardrion on the dais laid hands to hilts. “Commander,” Cheriam called, “step away.”

  Andrilor eased back a step, raised a hand to indicate that only words were exchanged.

  Behind her skirts, Lyrienn’s fingers fluttered with the order to stand down. For violence to escalate inside the palace, among unarmed councilors, their families … no, better to play this cautiously.

  “Did he … did my brother visit you last night?” Neither she nor the dardrion had told a soul that Lothiar had tried to woo his little sister the evening before.

  “He did,” Andrilor said, as if honesty made up for his betrayal. “Several days ago as well, before … Aerdria. Before Tíryus. Your brother did not reveal his plans for our predecessors to me, but he told me to be ready. Last night, he … he laid things out clearly.”

  “Clear, indeed. You, the commander of all the army following a captain’s orders.”

  “I feel I must. For now.”

  “With what did he bribe you?”

  Andrilor frowned, perhaps the first unintentional expression she had seen him make. “He promised me nothing. He didn’t need to.”

  The side doors opened, not for retreating Elders but for soldiers pushing their way in, soldiers wearing the red keldjeq on their arms.

  “Stop where you are!” Cheriam shouted, steel ringing free.

  Andrilor’s glance told them to do as she ordered.

  “Have all the Regulars sided with Lothiar?” Lyrienn trembled so severely that her mouth barely formed the question.

  “They will do as they’re told.” With a gesture graceful enough to put a dancer to shame, he showed Lyrienn the door. “You are to come with me.”

  Her feet felt rooted to the marble. “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She swallowed, found her throat dry as ash. Hands flat to her belly. Fingers touching silk, and beneath that, steel.

  Cheriam swept her arm between the two of them. “The Lady is going nowhere with you.”

  Andrilor opened his mouth to issue an order to his soldiers.

  “I will go,” Lyrienn said, placing a hand on Cheriam’s arm. “I will speak in private with the commander. Perhaps we can reach a compromise.” Seeing Andrilor’s astonishment she added, “Yes, Commander. You have the advantage. I am willing to reach an agreement.”

  “Hold the Elders here until we return,” he ordered. The Regs saluted. Andrilor bowed his head and let the Lady precede him along the aisle.

  Stationed at the main doors, two dardrion crossed swords before a squad of soldiers. The Regs shouted to be let in; Elders shouted to be let out. The two guards demanded silence. One spark would set this tinder aflame.

  This is not the way, Lyrienn thought. The dragon promised me. A journey over a far sea, a gate, a homeland we have forgotten. And somehow Carah was bound up in it all. If Lothiar killed her, did the promise unravel? Did the “better way�
�� cease to be? Indeed.

  Halfway down the aisle, Lyrienn hooked her toe around the leg of a chair and sent it careening back into Andrilor’s knees. He reached for her, shouting some order. Lyrienn whirled. One knife skittered off his breastplate. The other planted in the base of his throat.

  A backhand of his armored fist caught her under the chin. Her teeth slammed shut. Blood flooded her mouth. The floor caught her hard. Chairs scattered.

  Through a reeling haze, Lyrienn watched Cheriam, Branedyr, and Thrainor leap upon the commander. But he was a dancer with a sword. He spun free. Trails of red fanned across the air.

  Then he was gone.

  Streaks of red as Regulars rushed in. Red stripes, red uniforms, red spatter on white stone. Dardrion fought back to back, circling Lyrienn to keep the Regs from surrounding her. Someone was missing. Thrainor. Yes, there. Crumpled on the floor beside her. She tried to crawl to him, reach for the sword clutched in his lifeless fingers. The floor tilted under her; her arms buckled.

  Hands seized her, turned her. A stranger’s blood-spattered face filled her vision. Red stripes under the blood. The Reg’s voice a tinny roar. “Lady! Get up. Getting you out of here.”

  “No!” she shouted, “Cheriam!”

  The Reg shook her. “I’m on your side! Look.”

  Lyrienn blinked through the haze. The Moon Hall righted. Throughout the room, Reg fought Reg. Brothers in arms. Sharing bunk houses, mess halls, and training yards suddenly meant nothing. Wearing the same uniform, the same facial stripes. How could they tell friend from enemy? Barricades of chairs. The silver throne spilled on its side. One faction overpowered the other, but which? Swords clattered on the floor; hands rose; loyalties were declared. A handful retreated through the main doors, presumably following their commander.

  Lyrienn spat blood and part of her inner cheek as the soldier hoisted her to her feet.

  “Release her!” Cheriam demanded.

  The soldier did as ordered, hands high and empty.

  The Dardra circled tight.

  “With me,” Lyrienn ordered the soldier. “Explain.”

  The Dardra whisked her up to her chambers. The steel clash of battle rang in the corridors. Cries for physicians echoed. A healer followed Lyrienn up the tower; the rest hurried downstairs to tend to the wounded.