by Ellyn, Court
Arryk hadn’t complained once nor shown signs of discontent. While Shadryk cooled his throat with a watered-down sweet morning white, Arryk tucked the eight knives back into the belt. Conducting even this simple task, determination marked the boy’s brow.
“Do you want to try?” Shadryk asked, handing off his goblet.
Arryk’s green eyes widened and he shook his head.
Shadryk gave him a cool, silent glare and the princeling swallowed his fear. He took the knife Shadryk offered and held it by the tip of the blade as he’d seen his father do all morning. “Everybody’s watching,” he said.
“Everybody is always watching you, my son. Ignore them. Now, square your feet, no fancy stuff. Put your whole body into it, all your focus, until it becomes as easy as breathing. When your arm is almost level with the target, release, a flick of the wrist.”
Arryk bit down hard on his lip and flung the knife. It struck the lower edge of the target, and the courtiers and ministers applauded loudly. Arryk lifted an astonished smile, and Shadryk thought, Why weren’t you born first?
He lowered two more knives. Arryk took them gladly, his confidence up, and entertained the court while Shadryk went to the war table where the Warlord and his commanders tossed about tactics like dice. Molded of plaster and painted in natural colors, the table was a realistic, three-dimensional depiction of Fiera and the borderlands, from the Galda River, north to Tírandon and Lunélion, across the Barren Heights and the Gloamheath to the Leanian coast. An onyx falcon marked King Rhorek’s position at Nathrachan, pewter horses his cavalry, pewter men his infantry and archers. Half the Black Falcon’s force had yet to cross the Bryna. Tírandon was overrun with reinforcements, while Lord Lander and an army of dwarves secured the river forts. Shadryk’s commanders argued over whether Lander would lead an assault on Athmar, and Goryth was doing a fine job of deriding their stupidity.
Shadryk stopped them mid-argument. “I don’t care where they might attack. I called you here to discuss where we will attack. Once our allies begin arriving, you’d better be decided.” A pewter galleon off the western Mahkahan coast showed the approximate position of the Zhiani ships. The commanders had given Shadryk endless grief over his decision to bring in foreign mercenaries. But Shadryk preferred to spend large amounts of silver than waste the lives of his own soldiers, at least in the early fighting. The Zhianese were bred to war, a race of savages with bloodlust in their bones; let them take the brunt of the onslaught.
While Shadryk warned his commanders to stay on task, Cuinn, the old chamberlain, hobbled into the War Room. Oh, Goddess, what now? Only yesterday, the bent old man had brought word that Lord Mi’ach of Karnedyr had failed to retake Nathrachan. Shadryk’s reaction had been to tear Mi’ach’s letter into a dozen pieces and hold the pieces over a flame one by one. Early losses were to be expected, Shadryk had reminded himself, even preferred. What better way to rally his people? A sound battering early in the game would allow Fiera to be seen forever after as the unsuspecting victim of hostile invasions and, once Shadryk wore the Falcon Crown, the justifiable conqueror.
But Shadryk was growing impatient with defeat. Splaying his arms upon the war table, one hand near Lunélion, the other in the Gloamheath, he glared at the Master Chamberlain. “Let me guess, Rhorek has taken Ulmarr?”
Cuinn bowed as lowly as his spine allowed. “No, sire.”
“My sister is being ransomed for a million silvers?”
“No word of the princess, sire. But your Minister of Foreign Affairs is returned from Graynor.”
Dread nipped at Shadryk’s belly. He eased it by taking the knives from Arryk. The princeling had moved closer to the target as his arms grew tired. “Post,” the king ordered, and Arryk half-skipped, half-ran to his stool behind a small mantlet near the target.
The minister sauntered into the War Room with the dust of travel still on his boots. Shadryk flicked a knife; the courtiers applauded. Their hands were surely getting sore by now. “La’od,” the king greeted. “We expected you sooner.”
“Pray, forgive me, Your Majesty.”
Shadryk risked a glance at the man’s face. His forehead and cheeks above a waxed goatee were sunburned, and he looked pleased with himself.
“Tell me Bano’en wants no part in this war.”
La’od smiled, an expression that made his face more weasel-like. “Leania is wined and dined and satisfied to do nothing in our favor, nor that of the Aralorris.”
“Excellent,” Shadryk said and flicked a pair of knives at once. The court hallooed. La’od cast a grin about the chamber, nodding, as if the court were celebrating him.
Shadryk considered the interview over, but La’od went on, “I had thought to bring the Great Falcon another gift as well.”
A knife strayed to the left of the red dot. The courtiers clapped anyway, the fools. “Apply your hands elsewhere!” Shadryk ordered. The court began to disperse. “Goryth, stay. You, too, Arryk.” When the ceaseless chatter of the courtiers and the grumbling of the commanders dissipated down the corridors, Shadryk asked his minister, “Gift, what gift?”
La’od’s pride in his cunning was plain. “Just before we left Graynor, Lady Ilswythe arrived. Apparently, the Black Falcon sent her to speak with Bano’en on his behalf, as Bano’en is her uncle by marriage.”
Shadryk peaked an eyebrow.
“Bano’en refused her requests as well, have no fear, sire.”
“What gift, then?” he demanded, impatient with La’od’s game.
“The lady herself,” he announced, revealing his stroke of genius. “I invited her to accompany me here, but—”
“Stop. You ‘invited’ the Lady of Ilswythe to Brynduvh? As my guest.”
“Yes, sire.” La’od’s smug grin became brittle. “She would be here now if her escort hadn’t fought us tooth and nail.”
A tiny muscle twitched in Shadryk’s jaw. “You took it upon yourself, La’od, to secure hostages for me, is that what you mean?”
“Exactly, sire.”
“You tried to abduct the wife of Aralorr’s War Commander and the niece of King Bano’en on Leanian soil, La’od?”
The minister stammered now, resembling a fish out of water. “Hardly abduct, sire. But that is war, is it not?”
Shadryk’s arm snapped forward. La’od grabbed his right ear and sank to his knees. The dagger quivered in the wall behind him. “Still to the left,” Shadryk complained. Rivulets of blood trickled through La’od’s fingers. Behind the mantlet, the stool clattered onto its side as Arryk leapt up, gaping at the blood.
“Sire, please,” La’od hissed, trembling and dripping on the marble tile.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Shadryk asked. “You’ve made me, the Great Falcon, look like nothing more than a common highwayman. Or do you think Fiera must resort to tricks and insults to win this war? Do you think we haven’t the means to achieve victory without threatening the women of men like Keth of Ilswythe?”
La’od’s eyes had gone glassy with terror. “N-no, sire.”
Disgusted, Shadryk grabbed hold of the man’s goatee and hauled him to his feet. “You jeopardized everything you went to accomplish! Even a dog is not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds it. Bano’en had given us what we wanted! He may rule little more than marsh, ships, and sheep, but if he stands against us, he evens the odds for Aralorr. Evaronna’s ships are one thing, but Leania’s navy is quite another. If we cannot land our mercenaries and supply ourselves from the south, we are lost.”
Shadryk paced off his rage, caught sight of Arryk’s fearful eyes darting between his father and the whimpering minister. At the corner of the war table, Goryth sneered at the minister, his beefy hands flexing, ready to draw the greatsword on his back. Contention’s enormous moonstone gargoyle winked thirstily.
Shadryk spoke again only when he could control the anger in his voice. “Your folly forces me to write letters of apology, La’od. I must abase myself, not only to that ostentatious pi
g-faced king, but to my enemy as well. I must tell Bano’en and Rhorek that my minister acted without my blessing, on his own short-sighted whim. Perhaps I can yet make amends. And you, La’od …”
The fool’s legs nearly gave out. He staggered against the war table, knocking over a pewter horse.
“You, too, will have the chance to make amends. When our foreign guests arrive, you will welcome them off the ships and bring them to Brynduvh. Here, you will provide them every comfort they desire. Fail me in this, and you will never have the opportunity to fail me again. Now get out of my sight.”
La’od bowed his way out the door, puling and bleeding all the way.
Arryk gave an audible sigh. He’d worked his way to the edge of the war table. Up next to Goryth, the boy looked as small and fragile as the model soldiers. “Did you understand all that?” Shadryk asked him. Arryk gulped and bobbed his head.
Goryth tried not to look disappointed. “Why give him a second chance?” he grumbled. “I would’ve been glad to spare my king further anguish over the matter.”
Shadryk felt drawn and old suddenly. “You won’t ever fail me, will you, Goryth? I can’t afford to lose you.”
“I should cut out my own heart before I failed you, sire.”
Shadryk nodded, satisfied. “I shall not forget it.”
~~~~
Shadryk sank up to his chin in the mint-scented waters of the bath. An afternoon spent tailoring humble words of apology had left him feeling queasy and soiled. The steaming bath did much to cleanse away his disgust and eased the tension in his shoulders. He was well on his way to recuperating when an irate woman’s voice echoed beyond the doors: “I will see him!”
Shadryk grinned. This was a fortuitous turn, but he would never tell her that.
Princess Ki’eva hurtled through the doors, forcing squires and White Mantles aside. She looked like hell, as well she should. Her gown and cloak were rumpled with travel, her golden coif unbound about her face. Bags of sleeplessness weighted her eyes; rage contorted her mouth and stiffened graceful limbs.
“Fear doesn’t become you, sister,” he greeted.
Green eyes pinned him. “Fear? How dare you!”
“Dare I what?”
“I’ve been a fugitive for days, but not once did I hear that the White Falcon had sent a party to find his sister and bring her home. I was stuck on a dilapidated barge on that stinking river, then forced to ride halfway across Fiera, and here I find you luxuriating in your bath!”
“Luxuriating?”
“Did you give one thought to my welfare? Did you not worry that those Aralorri bastards might’ve killed me?”
Quiet and relaxation gone for good, Shadryk hoisted himself from the bath and advanced on his sister. She was modest and insulted enough to avert her eyes. He gripped her jaw with a force that startled her. “Angry or not, dear one, you’ve never spoken to me like this.”
“It’s your fault. You married me off to that imbecile. Putting up with Birél taught me bad habits.”
“So I see.” He released her and lowered his arms for the robe a squire held out for him.
“I’ve lost everything, Shad,” Ki’eva went on.
“Don’t tell me you regret your widowhood.”
“Don’t mock me, brother. It’s Nathrachan I regret losing, not Birél.” She sneered the name as if it were that of a species of vermin.
“I’m glad to hear it. I had counted on you, at least, to put up a more effectual fight.” He accepted a frosted glass of ice-cold white wine, sipped and sighed, taunting his bedraggled sister.
Ki’eva eyed the wine with longing, turned away and paced alongside the pool. “Birél told me nothing, Shadryk. By the time I learned of your warning, it was too late. I had to go behind his back to get anything accomplished. If I’d known earlier, you would still have Nathrachan, my word on it.”
Shadryk’s heart leapt. Who needed a queen when one had a sister like Ki’eva? Three years his junior, Ki’eva had never lied to him nor tried to deceive him. He’d come to rely on her subtle, crafty ways, her cold calculations, her intuition that allowed her to read people. She could tell Shadryk which vassal to be wary of long before the first inkling of disloyalty surfaced in the vassal’s heart. Growing up, they had been like two islands surrounded by a sea of chaos and danger, but as long as they stood firm, sheltering one another, they would not only survive, but triumph over the rest. Never was the metaphor more greatly proven than when Shadryk decided to move against his brothers. It had been Ki’eva’s idea to get rid of Le’oryk first, their sickly middle brother. That way, she’d said, the coup would never look obvious. Because of Le’oryk’s fondness for the poppy wine, no one questioned his apparent overdose.
Branyk’s hunting accident had been more difficult to execute. The elder prince had proven stubborn, and Shadryk feared Branyk would pull through. But at last he’d succumbed to exhaustion and the arrow in his lung. Through it all, Ki’eva had been silent and supportive and able to summon floods of tears when one brother, then a second, went to their pyres.
Ki’eva tossed aside her cloak and flung herself down upon the massaging couch, waving a hand at her throat; the warm humidity of the bath clung to her brow and the bridge of her nose.
Showing pity at last, Shadryk ordered the squire, “Another glass, for the princess.” Ki’eva gulped the wine gratefully, then pressed the chilled glass to her forehead, to her neck. Had Birél ever known what to do with her?
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “You don’t think Fiera ignores a threat to its princess? The people are outraged that anyone would attack the White Falcon’s own sister. Militias across the country are swelling. Conscriptions will be unnecessary. And all because your life was in danger.”
“Oh, Shad, please. Being described as a pawn is hardly flattering.”
“Pawn, nonsense. If Goryth is my right hand, you are my left.”
Her lip curled in a delicate sneer. “I’d rather not stand on the same pedestal as that animal.”
“My dear sister, no one but myself stands alongside you, and that’s not just flattery.”
Ki’eva seemed placated at last. Weariness drew down her shoulders and the taint of defeat hung about her like a noxious cloud.
“Get in,” Shadryk suggested, gesturing at the waters. “You need the bath more than I do.” Her face screwed up. “Don’t take that as an insult, Ki’eva. When you’re refreshed, join me for supper, and we’ll discuss your future.”
~~~~
She came to his table in gold brocade. Emeralds glistened at her throat and pearls in her hair. Her musky perfume was as intoxicating as the wine. Shadryk instructed the squires to give her the choice portions of every dish, and he filled her goblet himself.
Eyes cool green fire, she glared at him over the silver rim and accused, “You’re catering to me, brother. I’m more uneasy than ever.”
“I’m pampering you, beloved. You’ve suffered much.”
“Beware. Marriage to a nitwit did not dull my wits. If I’m not mistaken, you mean to sell me to the next fool. Goryth himself, perhaps?” She pushed away her plate of lamb, untouched.
“That would be a change for you. But don’t fret. Goryth has no intention of taking a wife. He worries a woman would soften his edges.”
“He could use a bit of softening.”
“On the contrary, he’d be less useful were his devotion divided.”
“To someone only slightly less repulsive then?”
Shadryk laughed. “No, no, if you marry again, it will be your choice.”
Ki’eva glowered suspiciously. Her mind churned like a well-oiled winepress. Where was the stone among the fruit?
“Truly, beloved! I need you here with me.”
“And?” she asked.
Shadryk smiled sweetly and reached for the flask to top off her goblet, but Ki’eva laid her palm over it. As if changing the subject, Shadryk asked, “Have you been to see your nephews?”
“Those t
hree monsters of yours? No, thank you.”
“My sons are not monsters.”
“Nathryk frightens me, Shad, and I don’t like to be frightened by anyone, much less a nine-year-old.”
“You should go visit them. I’ve dismissed another nurse and have yet to find a replacement—”
“Shadryk, no!”
“They like their aunt. You’ve a firm, commanding hand—”
“Don’t make me a nursemaid—”
“And you won’t have to put up with Nathryk. He’s gone to his mother’s people for squire training.”
“Shadryk, please.” She shoved back her chair and retreated onto the veranda.
He pursued her, prepared to make use of another tactic. Forath’s ruddy light spilled over the roofs of the castle and put a drop of fire into each of the pearls in her hair. “Love,” he said, whisking a stray curl from her eyes. She evaded his touch. Tenderness clearly a waste of time, Shadryk pinched her shoulders and spun her around. “Haven’t I always taken care of you? Given you everything you wanted? Yes, I gave you to a fool, but we both saw the need in it. Otherwise, I would’ve had a rebellion on my hands as soon as I took the throne. But I’ve always respected you, included you, confided in you. Have I not? And now that I need someone I trust to see to the upbringing of my sons, the heirs of my kingdom, you refuse me? I could simply order this of you, or exile you for disobedience, but you won’t force me to do either, will you?”
She dug her nails into his forearms until he released her. “You’re a monster just like them,” she cried.
Shadryk trailed her back to the table, where she drained her goblet in a single breath. She jerked the flask from a squire’s hand and refilled the goblet herself. Arryk and Bhodryk weren’t this difficult, were they? He had thought the reason she had no children of her own was distaste for Birél’s bed. But perhaps he was mistaken.
He dismissed the small crew of squires and butlers, lest they see the princess become drunk and violent. Ki’eva paid no attention to their hasty bows but drained the goblet again.