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

by Ellyn, Court

  Aerdria grinned playfully. “Or perhaps they walk among us everyday. Look everyone in the eye, Kieryn, always, for you never know …”

  “Well, what of other things, less pleasant things, like the naenion? Were they always here, too?”

  “Bastards of the earth,” Zellel muttered. “The true corruption of Avë.”

  “Frankly, Kieryn,” Aerdria said, “the naenion are avedra-born.”

  “What?”

  “A couple of centuries after we Elarion arrived on Dwinóvia, the first naenion marched out of the west. In one of our Dark Tomes, a historian wrote that the ogres claimed one of mixed blood for their maker. Her name is recorded as Uthaya, of the first generation of avedrin. Apparently she had some score to settle, and deep within the rainforests of southern Mahkah, she raised an army by corrupting the life essence of toads and salamanders and other unfortunate, simple creatures.

  “Clearly, Uthaya’s army got out of hand. They bred, they spread. And it’s written that they eventually turned on their avedra mistress. Before the War, the naenion were our primary foe. They struck without remorse. We rooted them out when we came across their dens. For a time, humans banded with us against them. But that was in the First Days, before everything soured.”

  Kieryn remembered the drowned elk that he, Kelyn, and Rhoslyn had encountered and the terror in their horses when they returned to find it missing. “Ogres live wholly beyond the Veil?”

  “Now they do,” Aerdria replied. “They were slow to learn the advantage the Veil gave them. Until then, killing them was easy. The Veil is a measure of preservation for them, as it is for us.”

  “Yet they’re always there,” Kieryn pondered, looking at his three green stripes.

  “Humans and Elarion both learned to burn the dead, so they would not be stolen for … well, you know.”

  Sweet rolls and peaches revolted in Kieryn’s belly. He’d never considered the reason why the dead were burned; for him, and surely for the rest of humanity, burning was just the proper way to send bodies back to the elements: fire turned the body to earthen ash, air lifted the ash skyward where rain gathered it and returned it to earth. How much prettier was the traditional view than the truth.

  “Let this be a lesson to you,” Zellel said, shaking a crooked finger in Kieryn’s face. “Be careful what uses you put your gift to.”

  Aerdria jested, “We don’t need to worry about my nephew on that score, I think, Zellel. His stripes prove him on our side—for the nonce, at least.” She winked at him, then said, “I had a talk with Laniel this morning. He said you deserve a keldjeq of your own.”

  Kieryn snorted. “Laniel Falconeye is far too generous. I told him I am no warrior. I meant it. Kelyn is the true warrior.” Mentioning his brother brought his worries into the light again.

  “What troubles you?” Aerdria asked.

  Saffron fluttered around him and offered, “Send me, my Kieryn, and I will find how he fares.”

  “Ah, I see,” Aerdria said. “Or find out for yourself, in my pool.”

  “Zellel mentioned a scrying pool,” Kieryn said.

  “Come, then.”

  Above the Moon Hall lay another circular room. Instead of marble, the walls, floor, and ceiling had been overlain with alabaster. The stone’s translucent purity made solid surfaces lose their substantiality. In the center stretched a circular pool, ten feet in diameter. An alabaster banister ran around the rim. The water itself was only three inches deep. Neither ripple nor breath of air marred its surface, and it reflected the faces peering over the banister as sharply as any mirror.

  “This pool,” Aerdria cautioned, “shows us the truth of those we seek, without illusion or distortion. It is reliable in that way, though at times I’ve wished it had shown me different truths. You must steel yourself, Kieryn. If your brother no longer lives, the water will show you nothing.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Allow me prepare it for you.” She stretched her hands over the pool and chanted soft, musical words. The waters took on a luminescence, echoing the broken colors of an opal. When the words stilled, the waters appeared as calm and clear as before. “Speak the name of the one you seek, projecting your will with your voice.”

  Kieryn gripped the banister to calm the shaking in his hands. Daring the water to show him nothing, he said, “Kelyn, son of Keth.”

  The water stirred as if a soft wind blew across its surface. In the ripples, dark colors coalesced into a series of shapes, and Kieryn cried out when he recognized his brother sitting against an andyr-paneled wall with blankets wrapped haphazardly around his shoulders. His right leg was stretched out before him, wrapped in fresh linen. He must’ve just woken up, for his hair was a bloody mess for once in his life, and a languid yawn turned into a wry grin as Leshan of Tírandon knelt down beside him. They exchanged greetings, but apparently the pool was incapable of transmitting the sounds of their voices. Kieryn focused harder, and the words on Kelyn’s lips registered in Kieryn’s mind.

  It’s only what I deserve, he was saying. Lady Ulna and I now share the same scar.

  Does it feel any better? Leshan asked.

  Like hell. Kelyn shifted his injured leg, tried to bend his knee. Didn’t hurt till today really. Silverthorn’s wearing off.

  Kieryn chortled, “Well, ask the surgeon for more, you whining dog.”

  Kelyn glared at Leshan. You’ll whine like a dog when you get poked by a spear sometime.

  Kieryn slapped a hand over his mouth. Aerdria and Zellel exchanged a quiet glance.

  In the pool, Leshan sat back on his heels. Hold on, Kelyn. Where’d that come from? No one’s accusing you of whining.

  You just—ah, forget it.

  Aye, forget it, Leshan said. This’ll help—someone asked about you this morning.

  Who?

  One Lieutenant Lissah.

  Kelyn laughed without sound. She ask if I had gangrene yet?

  Something like that.

  If Kelyn could concern himself with women now, he’d recover to full measure in no time.

  Kieryn withdrew his concentration, the water stirred, and Kelyn’s image dissipated. “I didn’t know I could communicate with them,” he said.

  Aerdria’s dark eyebrow peaked. “Neither did I. Hmm. Interesting discovery. Would you like to look in on anyone else?”

  Kieryn gazed into the pool again and said, “Keth, son of Kynor, Lord Ilswythe.”

  The water shifted, and his father’s face materialized. Concentration creased his brow. A gloved knuckle tapped his lower lip. Eyes studied a map spread on a table. Nathrachan decimated. Karnedyr forced back, he pondered. Ulmarr will come for us next, unless we get on the move.

  The king came into view and leaned over the map. Attack Ulmarr, eh? His brain projected reluctance.

  Da must’ve detected it in Rhorek’s voice. If we proceed now with our offensive, we’ll have no major force at our back. Karnedyr may rally again to harry us, but we wiped out their knights—they’ll pose no lasting threat. The bridge is proceeding nicely—we’ll have it and Nathrachan’s lands to supply us. The longer we sit here, the greater our chance of losing our foothold. We also lose our momentum and our credibility as a force to fear.

  But taking Ulmarr as well, Keth, will make us seem bent on conquest.

  Shadryk is, Keth said. That explanation makes the most sense. He’s young, ambitious. He has three sons, you have none. He has one kingdom, while you, in effect, have two. They would divide nicely between his heirs, don’t you think? Shadryk doesn’t just want you dead, sire, what’s the purpose? No, he wants the Falcon Crown.

  Perturbed, Rhorek pondered, Brother Realms. United once again.

  If we’re right, we must not give him an inch.

  Kieryn studied his father’s face, a face that would be his in twenty years. Frowning eyes. Blue eyes without hint of gold or green. “Elvish eyes, Da,” Kieryn whispered.

  Keth blinked sharply, pinched the bridge of his nose.

>   Keth? Rhorek asked.

  The War Commander waved off the king’s concern. Headache.

  Kieryn drew back and sighed, needing a happier vision. He longed to speak Rhoslyn’s name, but Zellel’s presence forbade it. Instead, he said, “Alovi, Lady Ilswythe.” He expected to see the familiar rooms of home or his mother’s garden. But he saw a marsh studded with water-rotted trees and clumps of gray reeds, all swathed in dense mist. Alovi trudged through mud, her dress and cloak torn and heavy with grime, her hair tangled and matted, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion.

  “Oh, Kieryn, the Gloamheath,” Aerdria murmured.

  “Mother!” he cried to the image.

  Alovi paused in her relentless pull through the bog. She cast a frightened glance through the mists. I’m going mad, Etivva, she said. Kieryn’s heart thumped: Etivva there, too? His tutor came into view, features drawn and filthy. She stumbled with a wince. Alovi caught her, and they sank into the reeds. Etivva, I heard—

  “Mum, it’s me, Kieryn,” he called.

  Alovi pressed her temples.

  Etivva’s eyes squinted and scanned the gray marsh, the gray sky. I heard it, too, my lady.

  Kieryn focused all his mind on projecting his thoughts across the miles separating them. “Mother, I can see you, hear you, but I can’t explain how. Tell me what you’re doing in Leania.”

  As his voice grew strong in her mind, Alovi’s composure faltered. She put her face in her hands and her shoulders shook with sobs. Etivva held her close and answered, We sought an audience with Bano’en.

  Alovi freed herself from the shaddra, desperately searching the skies for some tangible image of her son. Tears left streaks in the filth on her cheeks. Kieryn, the Fierans were already there, seeking favor. They attacked us on our way back to Wyramor. They killed Allaran.

  “Did they hurt you?” he demanded, seeing the abrasion on her face.

  She shook her head wildly. But Etivva. They cut her and—

  Etivva pounced, grabbing for her lady’s shoulders. No, no, I told you it meant nothing. The words she spoke conveyed one thing; the thoughts locked in her mind conveyed another.

  Kieryn stifled a roar behind his hand. His fingers curled into fists. He would summon a storm of fire to avenge them, but how, where?

  Zellel gripped his arm. “Their injuries matter little now. They won’t survive long in the Gloamheath without aid.”

  “But what—?”

  “Send Saffron.”

  Kieryn couldn’t imagine how a fairy could ward off the dangers of the Heath, but he called into the waters, “Mother, Etivva, listen to me. I’m sending you help. I would come myself if I could. Don’t be afraid. Everything will be all right now. I promise.”

  Kieryn tore his mind from the pool and demanded of his guardian, “What will you do?”

  Saffron darted for the door. “Come and see.” Kieryn, Aerdria, and Zellel pursued her down the corridor, barely able to keep up. They emerged on a balcony that overlooked the falls. Saffron dove down into the spray, and when she flew out again a pair of horses followed. They were as white and effervescent as foam. They galloped up the wind of the falls and over the river’s southern bank and the houses and the markets, then crested the curtain wall and vanished into the trees of Avidanyth.

  ~~~~

  Two days later, Keth debated with Lady Maeret over the best means of advancing on Ulmarr. Maeret was a fierce commander in battle, but she hadn’t the foresight to be a brilliant tactician. Still, she was stubborn and found cause to argue, which served to help Keth outline his plan more clearly for the other commanders.

  Lord Locmar stood by listening, a finger hooked around his chin, and Rhorek sipped a rare Valroi brandy he’d found in Nathrachan’s cellars. The Black Falcon didn’t like the idea of conquering Fieran soil all the way to Brynduvh; he had hoped that, by now, Shadryk would’ve realized his error in rousing Aralorr’s wrath and called for a truce. No such luck. So Keth was grateful he sat quietly twirling his brandy and trusted his War Commander to do his job.

  “One of our biggest concerns,” Keth said, “are the Brambles. Scouts report that Lord Degan has let them grow up all around his fortress with only small breaks at the entrances. That’s why, Lady Maeret, I think infantry will serve us better. And we need more artillery, Athlem.”

  Lord Locmar came out of some deep reverie and nodded. “I’ve set my engineers to working on another catapult.”

  “Three more.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The door of the parlor opened, and a courier entered. He wore a dark blue mantel splashed with orange sunrays. A Leanian uniform.

  Rhorek set aside his brandy and stood. How long had he hoped for a reply from Bano’en? The courier bowed, but extended the letter to Keth. He cracked the wax seal and found the letter was signed by Allaran of Wyramor. The tale his brother-in-marriage told confused him at first. It couldn’t be true. Alovi in Leania … Fierans attacked … left me for dead … took her … search underway. Took her.

  Fury rose into Keth’s face. He made a fist around the parchment.

  With a wave of Rhorek’s hand, Maeret and Athlem departed. Keth passed him the rumpled letter. He read. “Oh, Keth, I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  “The little fool,” he muttered. How could she? Why?

  Rhorek mentioned something about finding the benefits in a bad situation. “Lord Wyramor mentions Bano’en’s outrage. For the Goddess’ sake, his kin were molested not a day’s ride from Graynor … Keth, are you listening?”

  It had been a long time since he’d felt this cold, murderous rage. The last time had been on a battlefield, the day his father was slain. He found himself halfway to the door with Rhorek’s arm barring his path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He didn’t know. “To look for her.”

  “Where? Brynduvh?”

  No, he could hardly ride to Brynduvh and put a dagger in Shadryk’s eye, could he? But why not?

  “Think, Keth. We’ll get Alovi back, but we’ll do it through negotiation.”

  “Negotiate!” Keth cried. “What if Shadryk demands what we cannot give? Is Alovi’s life a worthy trade for your crown?” He brushed the king aside, and descending to the courtyard, shouted for Laral. He found the boy on his heels, gray eyes apprehensive. “Saddle my horse. Ask no questions.” Laral ran for the stables.

  Atop the northern tower, a sentry called, “Sire! Riders.” The panic in his voice was unmistakable. Knights and archers began arming.

  “No, Goddess curse them,” Keth groaned. “Not now.”

  “How many?” Rhorek called up the tower.

  “Two.”

  The activity in the courtyard paused. Had they heard right? Surely the sentry meant two hundred.

  Keth ran up the tower steps with Rhorek and Laral close behind. Emerging on the battlement, they found the watchmen slack-jawed in wonder. On the Bryna’s northern bank, two horses as white as sea-spray, their eyes aglow with supernatural light, pawed the stony soil, then started across the surface of the swift gliding river.

  At Keth’s elbow, Laral gasped. “My lord!”

  “I see,” he said, though he couldn’t believe it. The carpenters working on the bridge cried out and fled into the shadow of the fortress, like chicks gathering under a hen’s wings.

  As if the horses atop the water weren’t astonishing enough, each bore a rider. One lay low against the horse’s neck, clinging to its frothy mane. The other pushed back a hood, and sunlight ignited a red fire within dark muddy curls.

  “By the Goddess, Keth,” Rhorek whispered. He had to be sharing his friend’s thought: Alovi was dead, and her ghost had found him.

  Laral tugged his arm, bringing him to his senses. He ran to the riverbank. The horses mounted the Fieran side. Men who had braved battle scattered from their path. Alovi searched the faces, found Keth among them and burst into tears. He believed she was alive and well only when she slid to the ground and flung her arms about his ne
ck. He pressed his face into her hair, smelled the musty stink of a swamp in it and thought it more beautiful than ever.

  He recognized Etivva on the second fay horse. She tried to dismount but grimaced and crumpled to the ground. Alovi ran to her. The shaddra’s face was flushed with fever, her ankle grotesquely swollen, her toes turned black.

  “Surgeon!” Keth cried and recruited a young infantryman to carry Etivva to the dining hall. Watching her go, Alovi tried to explain everything, but Keth shushed her. “I know,” he said.

  She raised a wind-burned face. “But how?”

  “Your brother wrote—”

  “Al! He’s not dead?”

  “No, no, convalescing at Graynor. He said you … oh, it doesn’t matter now. But what of these horses, Alovi?”

  Delivered of their charge, the fay creatures ambled down the riverbank and, entering the water, dissipated into the current, leaving nothing but foam. Alovi stared at the rushing water, a smile brightening her muddy face. “Kieryn sent them.”

  “Kieryn?”

  “I thought they would take us to Graynor, Wyramor at least, but the sun rose ahead of us this morning. They must’ve known where I wanted to be.”

  “Kieryn sent them …”

  Alovi edged away from him. She must’ve suspected he was angry at the blatant display of magic, but he said, “If my son were not avedra, I might’ve lost you.”

  ~~~~

  26

  The throwing knife somersaulted from Shadryk’s fingers. It struck the red dot in the center of the target. He spun and planted a second bare inches from the first. The War Room resounded with applause. In all, eight daggers clustered together. The White Falcon gave the nod, and Prince Arryk tugged them loose and ran them back to his father. His face was flushed with a fawning enthusiasm that his older brother never exhibited. Usually when the White Falcon practiced, Prince Nathryk played retriever, grumbling all the while and begging to throw the knives himself. Shadryk didn’t trust his heir with knives and let the boy whine until he got bored with whining. By now, Nathryk was halfway to Endarán, a ward of his grandmother and far away from his brothers.