Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (18 page)

“Dathiel, assist her.”

He opened his mouth to protest. How
could she, of all people, ask this of him? She knew how he felt about using his
abilities in so blatant and violating a fashion. The plea storming across his
face did not move her. Forbidden escape, he rose from the table without a word.

~~~~

L
ate the next day, Aerdria
called her council to the Moon Hall. For the first time, the Lady’s ten
bodyguards were not present. She occupied the dais alone. After their
questioning, the dardrion had been secured in the barracks and the dranithion
in an isolated tower. Commander Tíryus and a squad of his Regulars guarded the exits.
Yet how well could the Regs be trusted?

At the heart of the ancient palace,
the Moon Hall looked as effervescent and temporal as a cloud. Rows of chairs,
carved from white thellnyth wood ranged about the Lady’s throne in a crescent. Half
a hundred Elders from across the city occupied them as Captain Cheriam
presented her findings. The vaulted ceiling, lit by hovering orbs the size of
grapefruits, resounded with arguments over the disappearances.

Thorn sat in the back row, his head
throbbing from hours of listening to one frantic mind after another. The fay light
from the orbs stabbed his eyes. The silken voices of the Elders clanged like
brass pots in his ears. He pressed down an unease tickling the edge of his
thoughts, an unease that had nothing to do with Ruvion or Iryan or the Book of
Barriers. Throughout the autumn months, this same vague sense of dread had
surfaced whenever he used his avedra skills for a prolonged period of time, whether
listening to birdsong at dawn or holding onto the heat of a fire until the damp
wood in the campground caught for good. It set a nameless anxiety to twisting
in his belly. Worse, in his nightmares, he heard a voice crying his name, his
old name, the name of his childhood. Search as he might, he could not find the
source.

It cried out again in the bright
circle of the Moon Hall, and he pressed it down into the dark vault of his mind,
telling himself he was merely tired.

“Dathiel?” Aerdria’s question
rippled along the current of his thoughts, banishing the unease. “Tell me of
the dranithion. What did you learn?”

He forced his eyes to open and
endure the light. His voice sounded raw to his own ears. “All confirmed that
Wingfleet had not behaved like himself in some weeks. He wandered off by
himself more than usual. And he began hinting that he wouldn’t be captain
forever.”

“Meaning?”

“He approached one of two of his
troop about replacing him as captain.”

Aerdria turned that over, then
asked, “But none had answers?”

Thorn shook his head.

“And of original three dardrion? Those
who served under he-who-is-not-named. You confirm Cheriam’s report regarding
them?”

“I detected neither spite nor
thoughts of rebellion in them. Murienna, Branedyr, and Thrainor are true in
their loyalty to you. They will not abandon you.”

“And the Book of Barriers?”

“Ruvion did not confide in his
brethren. They knew nothing about it, though according to them Ruvion hadn’t
been acting normally either. Murienna must’ve suspected an ill wind. Her
thoughts raced with ‘I told him not to listen. I told him’.”

“Not to listen? Listen to what?”

Thorn exchanged a glance with
Cheriam. “It seems that one of the others, who abandoned his post years ago, has
been communicating with the dardrion.” And likely with soldiers of the Regs and
people throughout the city as well, but Thorn kept that to himself.

A rustle of outrage passed among
the Elders.

“Communicating in person?” Aerdria
demanded, breathless.

“Through magical means. Murienna
said she was approached six, seven, years ago—”

“By whom?”

“By Tréandyn,” supplied Cheriam.

“He was the first to leave,” said
Aerdria, troubled lavender eyes gazing at the floor as if her memories were
painted there. “The first after Lothiar and Maliel.” Did she realize she had
spoken his name? It must be ever in her thoughts. “What was the communication,
did Murienna say?”

“She had no wish to hide it, Lady,”
said Cheriam, “but confessed it freely. She described something like a window
that opened in the night. Through the window she saw a cloaked and hooded
figure who sounded like Tréandyn. He tried to convince her that a revolution
was coming and he needed generals.”

“Revolution,” Aerdria breathed. Her
eyes flicked toward Thorn. Yes, she remembered. Lothiar’s words.

“Until Ruvion left,” Cheriam went
on, “Murienna thought she was the only one who’d been approached. But today’s
events convinced her that Tréandyn had approached many more and convinced the
others to give up their post.”

“Tréandyn was never one for elegant
words,” Aerdria said. “Still, he was well-respected. They might follow him.
What kind of revolution did he describe?”

“None of our ten could answer that,
Lady.” Cheriam finally lowered her gaze and stepped away from the dais.

“They must be found,” said one of
the Elders.

In agreement, Aerdria asked, “Is
there no indication of where these traitors are gathering?”

Traitors. So she had already passed
judgment. Thorn was troubled but not surprised. Nothing to his knowledge had
ever struck such a heated chord in the Lady more than the betrayal of her own
Guard. She took it personally, but Thorn suspected their flight had little to
do with her.

“Could they have taken up residence
with societies of Elarion outside the Wood?” he asked. “The Miragi or the
Elarion of the Drakhans?”

This earned him peculiar stares
from the Elders, and he couldn’t decipher why. Aerdria graced him with a small,
tolerant smile. “Your studies are incomplete, love. We’ve not heard from either
of these enclaves since the war, a thousand years ago now. They were surely
annihilated. No, the traitors are isolated somewhere, in a windowless castle. A
cavern. Yes, it could’ve been a cavern, carved, not natural. Years ago, I saw Lasharia
fleeing north toward the Silver Mountains. We will begin our search there.
Elliora, go up to the barracks and bring Commander Tíryus.” The young squire at
the door hurried from the Hall.

While the Elders discussed the
logistics of a large-scale search outside the refuge of their Wood, Thorn gave
in to the insistent voice calling for him. The throbbing in his head ebbed a
fraction when he heeded it. He searched among familiar halls masked in gloom.
Doors. So many doors. Which led to the voice?

“Dathiel?” A hand touched his shoulder.
Waking with a start, he found Lyrienn sliding into the chair next to him. Her
golden curls were tucked behind delicately pointed ears, and concern clouded
her gray eyes. “You look ill.”

“The interrogation was taxing.
You?”

Lyrienn’s lovely mouth was pinched,
her hands fidgety. “All this … it scares me, and I don’t like being scared.”

“I didn’t think you
could
be
scared.”

A grin crept across her face; the
mischief in it was unmistakable. “We could help each feel better, you know.”

When Thorn fled to Avidan Wood in
the snow, grieving for Rhoslyn and determined to starve himself to death,
Lyrienn had helped him change his mind. For years afterward, neither spoke of
what happened between them. They hadn’t fallen in love; they were still not in
love. But at some point, hard to say when, after the Turning Festival four or
five winters ago, they had become lovers.

Her invitations usually came at the
oddest times and rarely failed to catch him by surprise. Thorn snorted but
failed to swallow an outburst of laughter. Aerdria and half the Elders turned
to glare at him, their debate silenced.

Lyrienn bit down hard on her lower
lip, and her pearlescent cheeks flushed.

Thorn eased out of his chair.
“Apologies, Lady, Council. I’ll just—” He jabbed a thumb at the door. When they
excused him and resumed their chatter, he whispered in Lyrienn’s ear, “After
dark. Bring mead.”

~~~~

K
ieryn! Where are
you? Such pain. Kieryn …
Doors lined the dark corridor. Yellow mist like
the breath of disease drifted down from a ceiling he couldn’t see. The voice
echoed ahead of him, behind him. The rooms were empty, he knew it without
having to open the doors. He ran down a staircase. No, he was climbing. Such an
arduous climb. At the end of the passage, a door he recognized. Wisps of incense
curled from under it like smoke from a funeral pyre.

Kieryn?
Now that he’d found the
right door, he feared to open it. A little boy’s sob clogged up his throat. He
put a hand on the latch and pushed the door open, even as he turned his eyes
away.
Help me.
The door slammed shut. In the instant before it closed,
he glimpsed her lying on a bed of the yellow fog. Who was she? He didn’t see
her face. Her hand, the shrunken hand of a corpse, reached for him. The door
slammed shut again and again and again.

He woke in a cold sweat, his heart
thundering in his ears. Lyrienn’s arm was flung across his ribs. She breathed
fitfully, as if through the contact of their skin she shared his nightmare. He
eased out from under her arm and padded out onto the balcony. Icy wind hurtled
up the tower. It stung his skin and tore away the fraying images of the
nightmare. Soon all that remained was a painful certainty.

Far below, the Avidan River split
the city in twain. Lamps burned golden to either side of the swirling water, their
light glittering upon the ripples and illuminating twisting paths between trees
carved of stone. The Elaran houses were hung with agate leaves that did not
shed for winter. They tinkled a soft music in the nightwind. Overhead, the sky
hung near, but the pulsing dome of the Veil dulled the light of the stars.

Warm hands laid his robe across his
bare shoulders. Lyrienn leaned on the balcony rail, snug inside a fur-lined
blanket. “You’re leaving.”

He nodded. “Something’s wrong. At
home. It isn’t Carah this time. Saffron would’ve told me. I should’ve gone
weeks ago, but I hoped the feeling would go away. It’s only grown more
insistent.”

Lyrienn turned to gaze northward
across the tops of the andyr trees, then up at the moons sliding slowly across
the field of stars. “There’s a ring around Thyrra. Rain’s coming. Maybe snow.
You’ll want to hurry.”

~~~~

T
he journey home, when
riding a human-bred horse, took two days, but Sarvana, the Black Song, carried
him through Ilswythe’s gate by the following afternoon. Exhausted, bruised, and
windlashed, Thorn dismounted in the courtyard to the bellows of sentries
announcing his arrival. Grooms led Sarvana away, and Thorn ran up the steps.
The keep’s great bronze doors opened, and Kelyn met him on the landing. His tunic
was wrinkled from days of wear, and his eyes looked bruised from lack of sleep.
“Why didn’t you come?” he demanded, voice ragged. “We were sure you’d come
before now.”

“Is it Carah? Rhoslyn?”

“Mother.”

He shoved past his brother and ran along
the Great Corridor and up the stairs, the terror of his nightmare surging
through him and setting his heart to pounding in his throat. He stopped outside
the door to Alovi’s rooms but couldn’t bring himself to open it. Ixakan incense
seeped under the door, smelling of sandalwood and cloves and ginger.

He extended his hand, but the door
opened without his touching it. A face peered out. Esmi. Mother’s handmaid. How
gray-faced and frayed she looked. She dipped her chin in a shallow curtsy that
revealed her weariness and stepped aside for him.

The shutters were drawn to keep out
the blinding winter sunlight. Scented smoke hung in a haze about two dim lamps.
Empty bottles cluttered a side table. The poppy wine left a white residue on
the glass. Mother lay in her wide bed, propped on a cloud of pillows. Her face
was as pale as the wisps of smoke rising from the censors, the fullness of her
features shrunken and sagging. She wore a frown even in sleep.

Someone rose from the bed as Thorn
approached. A rustle of stiff linen. Etivva’s cinnamon-brown hand on his arm.
‘Sorry’ cried out from her eyes, but she did not give it voice.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I do not know. I have seen the
like before, long ago, though it does not have a proper name. A blood disease.”

“When I was here for Carah’s
birthday, I saw a change in her.”

“She calls for you, mutters in her
sleep, but she would not let us send for you.”

“Why not?”

Etivva shrugged.

A whisper from the pillows. Mother
raised her hand, a pale skeletal thing.

Etivva and Esmi slipped quietly
into the corridor.

 Thorn clasped his mother’s hand and
sat beside her; it felt as fragile as a crumbling leaf. Bruises darkened her
fingers. Another marred the corner of her mouth. She smiled, and her teeth had
grown too big for her face. “I thought you were your father.” She barely had
strength enough to speak. “Both of you.” Kelyn stood in the doorway, a grieving
shadow. Mother beckoned for him, too. He hurried around the bed, sat on her
other side and managed an unsteady smile. She clenched their fingers with
fierce affection. Her green eyes, shrunken deep into the sockets, had turned
glassy from the pain and the poppy wine. “Can you fix it, Kieryn?” she asked.

Through the contact in their hands,
he focused on the illness coursing through her body. In his mind, the negative
energies looked like yellow and black sludge polluting her veins. It was
everywhere, rooted so deep he couldn’t find the source of it. He fell forward
and kissed her brow, her cheek, the stone in his throat not letting him speak.

“I didn’t think so,” she said.
“It’s all right, son.”