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

by Ellyn, Court

  “I wept every time you left. I feared your ship would sink and I would be all alone.”

  The cold tips of his fingers brushed her cheek. “Had you known everything, my dear, you would’ve been more afraid for me still. My shorter journeys … often took me no farther … than the Pearl Islands.” Ruled by Prince Naovhan of Sinnoch, the Pearl Islands stretched along Evaronna’s coast. Besides Sýnnova and Rávalin, the two largest islands, the archipelago was hardly more than a scattering of jagged black sea stacks fit only for birds and seals. Many of the islands were no more than atolls of reef and sand, barely substantial enough to stand on.

  Several times during his reign, Prince Naovhan had ordered his mapmakers to survey and chart out his domain, but during the expeditions the cartographers met with bad ends. After a dozen drownings, poisonings, and vanishings, the prince had decided to leave the mysteries of the lesser isles to the pirates.

  “When I sailed to the Islands,” Harac continued, “I would anchor along the western atolls … raise my flags, along with a white banner, and in a day or two, my cousin’s ship … would appear from around some rock or other. He would come aboard my ship … or I his, and we would talk.”

  “Of what, Father?”

  “Of everything. Of nothing. Of our families, of worldly affairs. I learned from him … when Uncle Rhis died of old age nearly … a decade ago. But we never … talked of where his silver comes from, nor of how my sailors . . . hunt him and his ilk. Those things didn’t matter.”

  “Didn’t matter! Father, he’s a pirate. He plunders and murders—”

  “Is your vision so narrow, Rhoslyn?” Harac asked, silencing her outburst. “Yes, he earns his bread and wine by … largely dishonest means. But I know my cousin. He is Rehaan, captain of the Aurion, and he holds fiercely to his own code of honor.”

  “As do all thieves, Father—”

  “Rhoslyn!” He hadn’t raised his voice in over a year. Rhoslyn felt wretched for angering him, yet was pleased he still had the strength to shout. “Let me explain. Rehaan and I observe a certain agreement, a pact. Not exactly stated, but plain. He plunders my ships … only when my patrol has slackened in vigilance, to tell me … I have become vulnerable to pirates from Leania or Fiera or Dorél. In turn, I have ordered my ships … to never fire upon his.”

  “Isn’t that aiding and abetting, Father?”

  Harac chuckled, a wet raspy rattle in his throat. “It is a game we both need and appreciate. It allows us to continue our present and prosperous course, daughter. And in the end, he is family.”

  “So … how do we convince this Rehaan to enter an honest service?” Rhoslyn asked.

  “How else?”

  “Not Rhorek’s silver …”

  “Rhorek’s silver.”

  Rhoslyn jumped from her chair and paced wildly. “What if he just takes the money and runs?”

  “He may do just that,” Harac conceded, “though I doubt it. It’s a gamble I’m willing to risk.”

  “And who do we risk to take the silver to him?”

  “You, Duchess. I’m sending you.”

  ~~~~

  21

  “That imperious ass!” Lord Allaran paced the length of his suite, the plush Ixakan rugs padding the angry strike of his heels. He had accompanied Alovi and Etivva to Graynor. With breakfast, a steward had come to inform them that their audience with King Bano’en, scheduled for that morning, would be put off yet again. “A day and a half! He’s never kept me waiting this long, scheming elvish prick.”

  At a window that let in the cool sea wind, Alovi tried to imitate Ni’avh’s delicate hand with a needle. Her niece’s skill put her own to shame. The panel of linen and tangles of thread distracted Alovi while she waited on Bano’en’s leisure. She convinced herself to stay calm and patient and let Allaran be the one to make a scene. She was glad her brother had come along. Traveling with him and a few armed men of his garrison had made her feel safer, but Allaran’s colorful complaints could be trying.

  “He knows why we’re here,” Alovi said, picking at a knot with her needle. “He needs time to convince himself that refusing our request is morally sound.”

  “You think he’ll refuse us?”

  Alovi quirked an eyebrow.

  “So do I,” Allaran admitted, “damn his elvish hide.”

  Alovi cringed. “Please, Al. Mind your mouth.”

  “Oh. I apologize. When I’m away from my girls, I feel the leash loosen. Ha! But who can leash the notorious spite of Keth of Ilswythe, eh? My poor sister. You must tire of hearing …”

  Alovi dropped the needle and thread and put her face in her hand.

  “Sister? What is it?” He knelt beside her and took her hand away. “You used to tell me everything.”

  Alovi couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. She had lied to him; well, half-lied when she told him that Kieryn had gone to Windhaven for studies. The answer had only engendered more questions; she had seen them in Allaran’s eyes and Klari’s and Athna’s. Later, Etivva had asked, “Why did you not tell them the truth?” Shame had nipped at Alovi ever since. She looked down at her fingers. They were fidgeting with the thread. She forced them to be still and stammered, “It’s just … well. We found out … what we feared has turned out to be true. Kieryn is avedra.”

  Allaran sat back on his heels, mouth open but, for once, silent.

  “That’s why he’s in Evaronna,” she added, “to learn from another avedra there. He tells me he’s doing well, enjoying himself.”

  “Enjoying himself?” he exclaimed. “Alovi, doesn’t he know the risk he’s taking, the kind of life he’s chosen? Do you?”

  “Why do you think Keth and I denied the signs for so long? No one wants to see their child being hated or hunted or shunned. But Kieryn is what he is and there’s no hiding it now.”

  A frown weighed on Allaran’s brow. “Not our family, surely. Our books mention nothing of the Old Blood in our line. Keth, then?”

  Alovi rose abruptly and went to the window but barely saw the gray tide-torn sea. “You think everything written in a book is true? Who can know anything for certain? Some avedra in our line could very well have hidden his abilities with a ferocious sense of self-preservation.”

  “But not Kieryn.” Allaran sighed, sinking into Alovi’s chair.

  “I admire him for it,” she said, lifting her chin. “He went to Windhaven because he was afraid, because he would not live in fear—of himself or others. And whatever he learns, he will use for the good of us all.” She watched the white shullas wheel against a slate-colored sky and gather in the lines of a fat merchanter. Far beyond the ship, a thread of lightning speared the sea. “Do you remember the tale of the Dark Witch?” she asked. Allaran made a sound of incomprehension. “It was in that old book of children’s stories you gave to me when the twins were born. Our nannies read to us from it. The tale of the Dark Witch used to scare me. I took it for a fairytale, all this while. But I think it’s true. I think she was avedra. I wish I hadn’t remembered.”

  Allaran’s hands squeezed her shoulders. “You’re right. Whatever else he is, Kieryn is a good lad. And you’ve raised him to be a fine young man. You mustn’t worry yourself.”

  Alovi told herself she was being foolish and convinced herself to laugh. “I’ll have a few choice words for Uncle Bano’en myself if he doesn’t hurry along.”

  The king did not send for his niece and nephew until late afternoon. He greeted them as if they had come for nothing more urgent than tea. Queen Pa’ella, however, troubled herself less with masks; she gave her niece a touch-cheek kiss, then her green eyes darted to the left, signaling Alovi to look, be quick, and be silent. Across the Council Chamber, a door closed behind three men in fancy green cloaks. Shadryk, it seemed, was a step ahead of her. Probably several. Alovi prayed she could win her uncle’s favor before the Fierans did.

  Bano’en motioned his niece and nephew to a pair of chairs at the long council table. The king himself sat a
t the head with his queen at his left. Prince Ha’el, who was the same age as his cousins Kelyn and Kieryn, sat on his father’s right. Sadly, the prince resembled his father more than his mother. Bano’en and Ha’el peered from faces so fleshy that cheek and brow nearly crowded out their eyes. They were not necessarily fat so much as large and round, like prize boars. The voluptuous velvets of their doublets didn’t help matters. Queen Pa’ella, on the other hand, was clearly a daughter of Wyramor. The younger sister of Alovi’s father, Pa’ella had the sharp green eyes, heavy dark hair, and delicate features of all the Wyramor women. Enviably handsome at fifty, she was just beginning to gray at the temples. Sitting erect in the ornate chair, she adopted the distant, cool posture of an earth goddess about to receive an impossible prayer.

  “Tell us, niece,” Bano’en requested, “how go affairs at Ilswythe?”

  Alovi’s face heated. Bano’en could banter the rest of the day, then go rot in the Abyss for all she cared. She had come with definite needs and been ignored for two days; she’d be damned if she’d waste anymore time. “Ilswythe is at war, sire,” she stated flatly.

  “We are well aware of that, Alovi, but how does it fare?” He gave her a hard stare.

  Ill, she wanted to reply. But the king’s warning signs gave her pause. The Fieran ambassadors, she realized, may be just beyond the doors, listening. And the walls, with their elaborate molding, were likely as full of spy-holes as moth-plagued wool. With enthusiasm, she answered, “Well. Aralorr has never been stronger or more prosperous. King Rhorek and my lord husband are full of high hopes.”

  Bano’en nodded. “Good, good. We have always enjoyed our visits in the eastern country, brief and rare though they have been. The Drakhans are so lovely in the springtime. This summer—if we in the west become too hot—we shall have to pay Ilswythe a visit. Allaran, you will accompany us. We are so fond of your company, you know.”

  “And should the west become too cold in the winter,” Alovi asked, “will His Majesty journey south?”

  Bano’en stroked a thin line of beard tracing his jawbone—or where a jawbone should’ve been—and gave his niece a tight smile of approbation. Check, she thought, and forced the king to move. “Perhaps,” he said. Shrugged. “Perhaps we shall remain at Graynor altogether, no matter what the weather.”

  A steward entered the hall and with a bow he announced, “The Fieran embassy has departed, sire.”

  “Servants and all?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Bano’en waved a hand. “Very well. Carry on.” As soon as the steward departed, Pa’ella released a sigh of relief, and her slender hands let go of the arms of her chair. Ha’el looked as bored and royal as ever. Bano’en leaned onto the table and told Alovi, “I am sorry I’m unable send you aid at present.”

  “You refused the Fierans’ request as well?” she asked.

  “I did,” he replied. “This is not our fight, niece. If Shadryk wants to regain the whole of ancient Westervael, that is his affair—and yours. We want no part of it, unless—”

  “Is that his aim?” Alovi cried.

  “Shadryk’s ambassadors implied as much.”

  “Surely, Uncle, you see that if Shadryk gains Aralorr, he gains Evaronna as well. Even the hand of King Bhodryn the Great did not stretch so far.”

  “Leania would be surrounded,” Allaran put in. “If Shadryk is determined to conquer so much territory, what would stop him from taking Leania?”

  Bano’en held up a placating hand. “I have considered these possibilities. That is why I left myself an escape clause. Leania will remain in isolation unless, as I said, our relations with our southern neighbors become too hot. If Fiera should in any way infringe upon our rights as a neutral realm, then … perhaps. But I know Shadryk. That fop is far too cunning and wary to make such a blunder.”

  Allaran pondered aloud, “If Shadryk means to supplant Rhorek with himself, then he would’ve woven a more elaborate plan than simply planting assassins. He would’ve been planning this move for years. He would’ve secured allies. But if not in Leania, then where? Not from Mahkah, surely, the plains people have always kept to themselves. From as far away as Zhian perhaps? Now there’s a race of mercenaries.”

  Bano’en nodded thoughtfully. “Shadryk’s ambassadors seemed more eager to present gifts than to persuade us to fall in line behind the ‘Great Falcon.’ Oh, yes, he has secured allies, knowing better than to count on us. Without doubt, his men consumed our time with idle talk, with the intention of discovering where our loyalties lie. We led them in every direction and absolutely nowhere. When they heard you had arrived, Alovi, they redoubled their efforts to charm us. Their departure surprises me.”

  “Sire,” Alovi asked, “King Rhorek has sent no delegation to you?”

  “Letters,” Bano’en replied. “We could not reply because, in essence, the Fieran spies had invaded Graynor. We feared our replies would never reach Rhorek. And you, Alovi, will return to your king and his War Commander with the information we have given you?”

  “I’m not certain where they are, sire. But they need to know your mind.”

  Queen Pa’ella looked troubled. “You have not heard then?”

  “Heard, Aunt?”

  Pa’ella looked to the king, who waved a hand, granting her permission to continue. “A messenger arrived about noon, from Gethmar. The Princess Ki’eva, Shadryk’s sister, had arrived at Stonebrydge, apparently having escaped downriver on a barge.”

  “Escaped?”

  “Nathrachan is under siege.”

  Alovi’s head began to spin. “My son …”

  “Ki’eva is said to have reported troops from Lunélion and Locmar, not Ilswythe.”

  “You see?” Allaran consoled, laying a hand on his sister’s forearm. “Your family is safe.”

  She shook her head, but kept her thoughts to herself: No, my son and my husband are there. If Nathrachan is where the action is, there too is the War Commander. Finding her voice, she said, “So your final resolve, Uncle, is to wait.”

  “We have received neither of the combatant kings personally,” Bano’en declared. “We are careful not to consider it an insult, knowing how consumed they must be in planning yet another assault on one another.” His disgust concerning the inability of the two realms to live in peace was obvious. “But should we receive either Falcon King, along with a declaration of their need of us, then we might be willing to reconsider our present course.”

  “You told the Fierans this?” Bano’en’s vanity piqued Alovi’s anger anew. All he wanted was for Rhorek or Shadryk to come begging, and either would satisfy.

  To her surprise, Bano’en answered, “The Fieran delegation had no interest in such an offer from us. They believe their plan is infallible. They believe we would consider nothing but neutrality. All courses may be altered, given the right incentive. We will eagerly await an audience with the Falcon Kings. Likewise, we will keep an eye on Fieran activity, both on land and at sea. To that end, we rely on accurate reports from your daughter, Allaran. We will let concerned parties know of any change in our decision. Thank you for coming to see us, niece, nephew.” With a flourish of his puffy hand, he dismissed them both.

  ~~~~

  “There is hope, my lady,” Etivva said. “Your uncle did not deny you that.” She rode beside Alovi in Klari’s pretty little carriage, used when she was forced to leave her couch. Though the sky threatened rain, Alovi insisted the top be left down. She needed to breathe, she’d said, and to think. Allaran had convinced her that they waste no more time with appeals to their uncle, so they departed almost as soon as they’d been dismissed.

  Alovi reviewed the king’s words, making certain they insinuated what she hoped. As soon as she reached Wyramor, she would write Keth a letter, explaining the situation.

  Riding alongside the carriage, Allaran pointed out an approaching bank of purple clouds. He called to the seven guards flanking the highborns, “Let’s pick up the pace, men. We want to be well with
in the King’s Wood before the rain arrives. Ladies, I’m afraid we’ll be soaked before we reach the Crown’s Inn.”

  King Bano’en reserved the acreage of old-growth andyr for his private hunting grounds. Travelers could pass freely through the Wood and lodge themselves at the fine inn, but anyone caught taking game was promptly imprisoned.

  The carriage had no sooner entered the storm-ruffled trees than the guard in the van announced, “Large party rode this way recently, m’ lord.”

  “Poachers?” Allaran gave a quick slice of his hand and the driver stopped the carriage.

  “Could be, or highwaymen,” the guard answered.

  Alovi peered deep into the wood. Thick foliage strangled the trunks of the trees, and the low clouds made the shadows as dark as twilight. But for a rising wind, the wood was silent. Alovi told herself the birds and crickets had gone into hiding before the storm. But Allaran’s hand lay upon his sword haft, and he said, “Keep your eyes open, men. We’ll proceed with caution.”

  Rounding a bend, they encountered a man standing in the middle of the road. He wore a silver-trimmed green mantle, and he raised a gloved hand. “Stop, if you please.”

  The Wyramor guards looked at one another and snickered.

  “Bloody Fieran,” Allaran snarled.

  “I am La’od, King Shadryk’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. I wish to invite you to be the Great Falcon’s honored guests.”

  “Are you mad?” Allaran cried.

  “On the contrary, I would be mad to pass up this opportunity. Why, the lady-wife of the pigeonhawk’s War Commander. With what more valuable guest could I return to Brynduvh, aside from the pigeonhawk himself, of course?”

  “Even if you could get us as far as the Great Ford,” Allaran said, “any Leanian with sense would recognize our situation and refuse you passage.”

  “You’ve some sense yourself, m’ Lord Wyramor. Indeed, some of my men have gone to a small port west of here to secure us a boat ride south. So if you would be so cooperative as to follow us—and if you will remove your hand from your sword, sir—we may proceed to Brynduvh in a most friendly manner.”