Blood of the Falcon, Volume 1 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Oh, sorry, m’ lord,” Laral said, habitual politeness intact despite his new array of bruises.

  “You gonna apologize … to every Fieran sheep-thief, too?” asked Kelyn, gasping.

  Kieryn chuckled. “You’re having a run of bad luck, brother. Rudely molested by a woman and bested by a pupil.”

  “Just wait … till I catch my breath, scholar.”

  Kieryn laughed the louder, and Kelyn kicked grass clippings at him. The jibe was a safe one: Kelyn was confident in his ability to win any female who pleased his eye, and everyone was confident in his ability with a blade. He had bested every swordsman in Ilswythe’s garrison, including Captain Maegeth, and many from garrisons across Aralorr and Evaronna. When it came to a contest of arms, Kieryn never wagered against his brother.

  He tried to envy Kelyn’s martial excellence—and for a time had tried to achieve the same, to please their father more than to compete with Kelyn—but Kieryn hadn’t the slightest interest in war unless it raged across his history pages. A lack of martial acumen was considered especially shameful in the son of Aralorr’s War Commander. His ‘shortcoming,’ as even Kieryn deemed it, had driven a deep wedge between father and son.

  Da had only to enter a room, and Kieryn’s gut would tighten. At present, the Lord Keth stood atop the northern wall, bristling like a mad dog. He bellowed, “No, no, no, you sons of an elven whore!”

  A hush spread across the bailey. Twins, servants, and soldiers gave him their undivided attention. Who had roused His Lordship’s temper this time? He shouted at someone outside the walls. “I told you, you fools, the pavilion goes over here! Close to the wall. The sun won’t shine on it here.”

  Relieved that their lord’s wrath was aimed elsewhere, the household continued with its duties, though at a sharper pace. Kieryn sat hard on the freshly clipped lawn, enthusiasm gone. The knot in his belly refused to relax. “Every year, the same damn thing.”

  “He’s not usually this short with the people,” Kelyn argued, watching their father’s stride lengthen and shorten, change direction and stop. Apparently the men charged with setting up the spectator’s pavilion made the mistake of dragging the canvas up the hill, for Keth roared, “Tear it and I’ll hang your hides from the battlements.”

  Laral’s gray eyes widened. “Would he really?”

  “No,” Kelyn assured. “But I’ll bet the threat got them moving.”

  “He’s worried about the king?” asked the squire.

  “Must be.”

  Despite Keth’s unspoken fears, Kieryn failed to summon sympathy for his father. “This wouldn’t happen if Rhorek held the Assembly at Bramoran. Da could tell him it’s too much trouble.”

  “I’m surprised at you,” Kelyn said. “You, the All-Knowing Historian, ought to appreciate tradition. The Assembly has been held at Ilswythe for Goddess knows how long.”

  “History, brother, is all about the breaking of tradition, and this tradition only gives Da an annual apoplexy.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Choke on your book words! If Rhorek held the Assembly someplace else, you’d have to leave your library behind.”

  Yes, the five-day-long Assembly was a tedious, uncomfortable affair, and as soon as the formalities were observed he was quick to retreat into his books. But Kelyn’s threat didn’t faze him. He leant back on his elbows. The spring sun heated the crown of his head deliciously. “Here’s some more ‘book words’ for you. Bramoran boasts a library of prodigious proportion, which would amply suffice.”

  “Laral, does he ever make you feel stupid?”

  Laral nodded.

  “So you don’t know what apox . . . apopel . . .”

  “Apoplexy,” Kieryn supplied.

  “. . . means either?”

  “Afraid not, m’ lord.”

  “Good,” Kelyn said, reassured that he wasn’t more ignorant than a fourteen-year-old. “You’re dismissed.” He extended his practice sword, hilt first. “Polish them properly and put them away. Because a knight never neglects … ?”

  “Cleanliness of weapon, armor, horse, and self. In that order, sir.”

  “Excellent. Go.”

  Laral battled his way to the armory, a sword in each hand and phantom foes to every side. The tradition of sending one’s sons and daughters to be fostered as squires under another lord’s roof was an old one, and one which Keth had adamantly broken concerning his own sons. The Lady Alovi had tried to convince him otherwise, hoping to send Kelyn, at least, to her brother at Wyramor, but Keth had argued, “That man married his cousin and has too many daughters, not the best place to nurture my boys.” Seeing the kind of youth Kelyn had grown into, Kieryn agreed that Da had chosen wisely; Kelyn had inflicted scandal enough upon his family without involving pretty highborn cousins. So when Alovi had run through the list of highborn houses, none of whom, for one reason or another, were appropriate caretakers of the War Commander’s children, she’d given up the fight, and in the end had been only too happy to watch her sons grow up.

  Laral finally won his way into the armory, and Kelyn asked his brother, “So what does ‘apoplexy’ mean?”

  Kieryn turned his face to the sun and laughed. “Not gonna tell you.”

  Kelyn kicked him in the thigh. “You like to make me feel stupid.”

  “Whatever fits.” Kieryn swung a leg, hooked his brother’s ankle and pulled his foot from under him. Kelyn staggered to the ground and stared agape.

  “You prick of a cowardly elf.”

  Kieryn roared at that one, rocked himself to his feet, and lowered a hand. “If I’m an elf’s prick, so are you.”

  Kelyn ignored the proffered hand, but sprang forward, flung his arms around his brother’s waist and flung him back onto the lawn. The eighteen-year-olds looked more like eight-year-olds, a tangle of arms and legs, flying hair, laughter and squalls. Kieryn thought for one exhilarating moment that he’d pinned Kelyn down, but the latter twisted, and before Kieryn could shout ‘surrender,’ he found his mouth full of grass clippings.

  “You yield to my might?” Kelyn demanded, pressing an arm into Kieryn’s nape.

  Kieryn was about to shout a wholehearted ‘Yes’ when his left eye, the one without the grass in it, spotted the Lady Alovi approaching from the gardens. One dark, fire-and-ash-threaded braid hung maiden-like over her shoulder; a second trailed down her back, swinging against her silk skirt. Her mouth was pinched tight, drawing on full cheeks.

  “Mother’s coming,” Kieryn grunted, and the pressure of Kelyn’s arm let up. They jumped to their feet and tried to brush away incriminating grass and wrinkles.

  Alovi drew up before them, green eyes conducting a severe scrutiny. On the wall, the Lord Keth bellowed another round of curses. “You see the state your father is in?” she asked.

  Kelyn snorted with repressed laughter. “Hear it, you mean.”

  Alovi’s eyebrow shot up, and Kelyn bit his lip. Though she was as petite and dainty as a butterfly, this woman didn’t need a sword to command anyone. She brushed the clippings from her sons’ shoulders and pulled it from their hair. Kieryn heated with a blush and glanced at the nearest servants. A scullion dragged a goose by the neck, and though she lowered her eyes, she was grinning.

  “Mother, we’re not little boys,” he scolded.

  “You behave like boys, I treat you like boys,” she retorted, brushing off his back and giving him a sound slap on the rear. Kieryn’s face might as well have been on fire, and Kelyn could no longer stifle his laughter.

  Alovi grabbed her sons’ elbows and pulled them close. “On a serious note, if you please. All is not well. Your father is especially on edge, so I must ask you not to contribute to the chaos. For his sake, hmm?”

  “What happened last night?” asked Kieryn.

  Alovi released them and folded her hands primly. “You were there?”

  Kelyn replied, “The lieutenant wasn’t exactly solicitous. How’s that for a book word?”
/>   Kieryn’s congratulations were thin.

  “What did she tell you?” their mother asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “It was the king, wasn’t it?” asked Kelyn.

  Alovi’s stiff silence too closely resembled that of the lieutenant. “His Majesty paid us an unexpected call last night—”

  “Mother!”

  “He was well enough to ride out again early this morning. Likely most of his entourage never knew he was away. They’ll arrive tomorrow as scheduled. Do we have an understanding?” The twins exchanged a glance but said nothing. Alovi took it for acquiescence. “Good. Then, Kelyn, start getting cleaned up for dinner. I know how long it takes you to primp. Kieryn, you need to help Etivva straighten the library. I popped my head in this morning, and you’ve not done as I asked. After dinner, your brother and I will help you plan your wardrobe.”

  Kieryn grimaced, opened his mouth …

  “No arguments,” she ordered. “I’m going to try to calm down your father. Wish me luck.”

  Kelyn glowered after her. “Everybody knows but us.”

  “Nobody knows but Mum and Da. And that’s the way they want to keep it.”

  Sulking, the twins started for the keep. Kelyn said, “Looks like Mother’s not going to let you repeat last year’s offense.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “How could you forget? At Opening Banquet you showed up in your white linen shirt and riding leathers. That’s all you ever wear.”

  “What’s comfortable works,” Kieryn defended. “And I resent you and Mother always thinking you need to take care of me.”

  “Riding leathers, Kieryn?”

  He glanced down his lanky height at the white linen shirt, now grass-stained, and brown riding leathers. Kelyn looked dashing, despite his morning exertions, in a form-fitting tunic of lightweight wool, dark blue and finely embroidered with silver thread. A matching silk ribbon tied his hair off his sweaty face. The twins’ preferences in attire were only their more obvious differences. By now Kelyn’s shoulders were broader from the weight of sword and shield, and in strong light, Kieryn’s hair was a shade paler and shot with gold. His eyes were several shades of blue, but Kelyn’s irises were brightened by tawny sunbursts. Once upon a time, the Ilswythe twins had made use of their sameness to play pranks on their family, but soon enough their differences had become more important, for no boy likes to be measured against another. Kelyn couldn’t hide his love of the crowd, his need for the adoring smiles and flirtatious exchange, any more than Kieryn could suppress his desire for solitude and quiet reflection and food of words. Still, the twins found amusing the case of double-vision they seemed to inflict upon strangers.

  They swung around the bulk of the Great Hall. Its ancient gray stones and stained-glass windows glistened in the morning sun, and Yorin ordered his underlings to return their washing accouterments to the storage rooms below the watchtowers. There, cook’s assistants hurried up from grain stores and meat houses, and dodged the boys with swinging mops and awkward ladders.

  As their mother had mandated, the twins adopted an air of remoteness from the general confusion. Settling on a topic that was unlikely to incite another contest of strength or wits, Kieryn commented, “Laral’s improving. His father will be proud when he arrives.” Lander of Tírandon would foster his sons under no one less than the War Commander himself. His oldest, Leshan, had successfully completed Keth’s rigorous training and been sent home last fall. Keth expected him to return to Ilswythe among Rhorek’s court, to be knighted on the last day of the Assembly.

  Kelyn replied with a vague, “Mm hmm.”

  When Kieryn paused on the flagged path, Kelyn paused as well, mindlessly. Following his brother’s gaze, Kieryn found a laundry maid wending her way from the well to the Hall. “By the Mother, Kelyn! Is there one female who fails to catch your eye?”

  Kelyn shook his head, again vaguely. “There is little in this world more beautiful or alluring than a laundry maid.”

  Kieryn looked to the heavens. “Oh, Ana …”

  “No, really. Look.” Kelyn pointed, following the girl’s progress with his finger. “See the way her spine bends against her burden, and her arm out straight, balancing the basket on her hip.”

  “You shagged her yet?” Kieryn asked, caustic. “Oh, no, wait, of course you haven’t, or you wouldn’t be interested anymore.”

  “She’s shy. But she’ll come around.”

  “Like the groom’s daughter?”

  Kelyn cast him a wounded frown. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” He hastened for the dark confines of the Hall.

  Kieryn pursued. “Her father sent her away in disgrace, Kelyn.”

  “What was I supposed to do, marry her? She was a groom’s daughter.”

  “Which was a perfect reason for you to keep your pants on and your hands to yourself.”

  Kelyn flung open the nearest door and strode down a narrow passage, his boot heels echoing sharply under the vaulted ceiling. He conducted a left turn into the cavernous Great Corridor with military precision. Kieryn matched him pace for pace. Lamps of Harenian stained glass extended graceful necks from the gray walls and winked like red-and-blue eyes, aware and accusing.

  Kelyn riposted at last, though poutishly, “What would you know about it anyway, O Great Lord of the Library, who never even looks at women?”

  The insult bounced off him. “Ha! I know more than you think I know.”

  Kelyn’s foot seemed to catch on the bottom step of the main stair. He searched his brother’s face. “Liar. Who was she?”

  Kieryn put a finger to his lips. “I’m a man of honor. I know what the word ‘discretion’ means.” Feeling rather smug now himself, he fled up the stairs.

  Kelyn caught up by taking the steps two at a time. “C’mon, you have to tell me.”

  Kieryn only laughed.

  At his chamber door, Kelyn called after him, “Hypocrite! I probably had her first, you know.”

  Kieryn called over his shoulder, “If you had, she didn’t mention it.”

  “She probably thought you were me.”

  Kieryn grinned. “I made sure she knew the difference.” He turned into the library and closed the doors against further inquiry. Lowering his forehead onto his fingers, he listened to Kelyn’s footsteps recede, quick-paced and heated. How could he have lowered himself to engage in such a petty, childish argument? There were more important things to worry about than trying to compete with Kelyn’s nightly escapades. What had happened to Aralorr’s beloved king? Kieryn supposed he had run through every reliable option of learning the truth. Even his mother had refused to confide in him. Now he’d have to wait until the Assembly began.

  ~~~~

  2

  The day the king’s entourage was to arrive, Kieryn woke late. He saw the sunlight pouring over the southeastern towers outside his window and swore. He slid into his riding leathers, grabbed a clean linen shirt, and shrugged into it as he ran, barefoot, across the corridor to the library.

  Etivva sat at the central table. She raised her shaved head at Kieryn’s hasty entrance and gave him a reproachful grin.

  “I know, I know,” he said.

  “I will stay up late,” Etivva quoted him in her heavy outlander accent. “I will get it clean.”

  “I did stay up late.” He scooped a pile of books off the floor to sort them.

  “Then what happened, my lord?”

  “You know what happened. What always happens. I get to sorting them, then I get to reading them, then I forget about everything else. Now I’m in trouble. I’ve only an hour or so before everyone arrives, and I still have to dress and I can’t remember which tunic Kelyn said I should wear.”

  “Let me guess. You lied to your mother last night?”

  “I had to, Etivva. She wanted the library straightened by supper, and when she asked if the job was done, Goddess, Da was sitting right beside her, and he would’ve yelled at me the way he yelled
at everyone else yesterday.”

  “See what shirking your responsibility has led to? Cowardice and deceit.” Born to the nomadic Damarri tribe in Harena, the Land of the Sun, Etivva’s complexion was the color of cinnamon, her eyes almond-shaped. On her left cheekbone a pair of scars resembled crescent moons. Her father had made the mark with his dagger upon Etivva’s naming, to brand her as his salable goods. Her right cheek was unblemished, but had Etivva remained in the desert, another man’s mark would’ve attested to the exchange of ownership.

  Her shaved head and plain linen robes denoted her as a member of the Shaddra’hin, a monastic order of men and women who studied the manner and mystery of Ana-Forah, Maker of All Light, the physical light of the celestial bodies, the spiritual light of the soul, the intellectual light of the mind. A shaddra rarely left the Valley of the Faithful, high in the Drakhan Mountains, but occasionally a request for a tutor or spiritual adviser found its way to the lofty communes.

  Etivva had more or less successfully tutored the War Commander’s incorrigible twin sons, but it had been for Kieryn’s sake that Lady Alovi had insisted the shaddra be sent for. Kieryn had been different from other children. His parents hadn’t known how to handle him. They said he had talked to himself. They said he had whistled like a bird and claimed the birds answered him. Kieryn himself didn’t remember doing any of these things, and his mother excused his oddities as coming from an active mind incessantly bored with the limited lessons his nannies provided.

  Her duty to the twins now completed, Etivva might’ve returned to the Valley, but both Kieryn and his mother had insisted she remain at Ilswythe. The twins would one day have children of their own—legitimate ones—who would need an accomplished teacher. Keth’s squires benefited from her teaching skills as well, which saved Alovi the trouble of instilling in other women’s children a knowledge of numbers and letters. And more important, to Kieryn at least, was Etivva’s ability to talk with him: debates on history, philosophy, theology flowed between them like quicksilver rolled in a vial. Da and Kelyn were intelligent men, but all they cared for was swordplay and horseflesh—well, concerning Kelyn, womanflesh—which hardly made them competent philosophers. And though Alovi enjoyed hearing of Kieryn’s intellectual discoveries, she rarely contributed much in return. Etivva’s presence had become as necessary to Kieryn as bread and water, even if the tutor still acted as a second mother to him.