Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (22 page)

“Stunning,” he said, taking her
hand. “And you are stunning in it.” So stunning he found her difficult to look
upon. Was this the little girl who begged him for bedtime tales? No longer, he
suspected.

A similar kind of consternation wrinkled
Kelyn’s brow.

“Watch over this one, brother,”
Thorn told him. “She’ll turn more heads than will make either of us
comfortable.”

Carah huffed, though her eyes
sparkled at the idea. “Don’t be silly, Uncle Thorn. You’re my only love.”

He laughed. “I won’t hold you to
that.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Kelyn
snapped and flicked a thumb at the door. “Go change out of that thing.”

Carah sashayed from the parlor giggling,
all too happy to prove to her elders that she wasn’t a child anymore, and
completely ignorant of the bittersweet ache it instilled in her uncle.

~~~~

I
f Aerdria didn’t know what
to do about the dark tidings, Thorn would look into the matter himself. Just as
the snows began to melt and flood the Avidan River, he set out from Linndun.
The newest rumors didn’t involve dwarves or Elarion, but humans. Wearing a
travel-stained hood to hide his green-rimmed eyes, he hiked from the budding
trees to a Leanian village west of Mithlan. The tavern was sure to be a fount
of information. He ordered a mug of cold beer and chose a greasy table at the
back of the room. The corner’s deep shadow allowed him to observe the premises
without drawing unwanted attention.

A central fire pit spilled ashes
onto scuffed planks, and a potbellied stove near the entrance warded off
drafts, drying boots and cloaks soaked by chill spring rain. Both the pit and
the stove smoked excessively, blackening the ceiling and creating a
low-hanging, pungent haze. Wobbly tables and chairs crowded the floor, and a polished
bar stretched half the length of the east wall. Patrons filled every chair,
mostly farmers waiting for the fields to dry. The stench of sweat and spilled
beer permeated the air. In a loft over the bar, a young minstrel in blue velvet
strummed his lute and sang loudly over the din, his voice striking the high
notes like a well-tuned instrument.

Voices struck Thorn’s ears, too
many to unravel. He listened with his mind instead. Thoughts and emotions
tumbled his way. Sorting through them took concentration. Massaging his temples,
he focused on one conversation at a time:

“Aye, she fairly kicked me out, she
did. Tol’ me to sleep in the sheep shed and you know what else …”

“… not as good a crop as last year …
nah, just a feelin’.”

“Plaster yer elbow to this table,
mate. I’ll beat ya this time …”

“
Tip ‘er up, take ‘er down, round
about, no more frown …
,” sang the minstrel with a growing chorus.

“Hey, mister, need more beer?” said
a voice in Thorn’s ear. He hauled in his awareness, and pain shrieked behind
his eyes. A girl stood over his table, dressed far too provocatively for her
age. She couldn’t have been older than Carah.

“Wha—beer? No,” he stammered,
glancing into his half-emptied mug.

“You sure?” the girl persisted,
sloshing a pitcher. “A gold piece’ll get you one o’ these, a room, and a bath.
An extra silver will get you an hour wi’ me sister.”

Her blabbing had given Thorn time
to gather his wits. He smiled politely inside his hood. “No, thank you, lady.”

“Lady, is it?” The girl grinned and
turned scarlet from her bosom to her ears. “You a gentleman then? Sound like
one enough. Wouldn’t know by the look o’ ya. No offense, mind.
Half
a
silver will get ya an hour with me, and I fill yer mug for free.”

Thorn fished inside his cloak and
pushed a silver coin across the table. “For yourself, to hide away. In exchange
for no more talk.”

She clamped crooked teeth over her
bottom lip and her hand over the coin, filled Thorn’s mug in thanks, and
scurried away.

The drinking song had ended with a
shout and another round of beer. The bard strummed a slow, melancholy chord on
his lute, and in aching strains, he sang:

From gray mists ran the eldritch
mare,

Seaspray white and eyes aglow

With fairy light and fire aflare

That told of Magics long ago.

On her back rode Lady Fair

O’er Gloamheath’s baleful bog

Where spirits groan in fetid air

Seeking her knight in starless
fog.

I shall find thee, love, near or
far

Though I search beyond sun and
star.

Her knight she found on river’s
side;

His embrace set her fears
aflight.

The mare of mist returned to
tides

Of Bryna’s flow and waters white.

I shall find thee, love, near or
far

Though I search beyond sun and
star.

Thorn’s mother, the heroine of a
ballad? Surely the bard in blue didn’t know of whom he sang. No, Thorn decided,
searching the young man’s mind. He had heard the story many years ago at
bedtime; his father was a soldier under Locmar’s banner and he had seen with
his own eyes the wondrous horses crossing the Bryna. The story was a fantasy to
the bard, one that enchanted him above all others. He’d composed the song
himself.

Thorn’s throat tightened, and he
swigged the last of his beer. Setting the mug aside, he waved to the bar wench
and lifted another silver coin. She eyed it greedily. “Change yer mind then?”

“Give this coin to the minstrel,
and tell him to sing that song again.”

Disappointed, she fisted the coin
and started to stomp off, but Thorn caught her by the sleeve. In his palm lay
another half-dozen coins. The girl’s eyes bulged. “Give this to him as well.
Tell him to take his lute and his song to Ilswythe in Aralorr and sing his
ballad for the lord of the house. If he performs well, his career is made. But
don’t
tell him who offered the advice. Do that for me and I’ll pay you the same.”

The girl snatched the coins and
hurried up the staircase over the bar. The bard searched the room frantically,
but the girl shook her head when he demanded to know the identity of his new
benefactor. He gave up and strummed his lute according to the request and sang
Alovi’s Ballad with renewed fervor.

Thorn resumed his task, noting that
most of the patrons had grown more passive and attentive during the first
performance of the melancholy tune. They seemed pleased to hear it again. Their
brawling and arm-wrestling had lowered to subdued rumbles, and the verses of
the song seemed to awaken a new thread of discussion:

“… no, his
grand
daughter,
His Lordship’s
grand
daughter. Just up and disappeared, she did. Lovely
thing, too. I saw her once at the fair. Blackest hair you ever seen. Just like
a raven’s wing. Lord Rhogan raised a party to find her, but we didn’t catch
hide nor hair of her. Blackest hair, too. Wasn’t likely no fay horses is what
carried her off though.”

Ah, this was more like it. Word of
the strange abduction had reached Avidanyth’s southern borders, and because of
the missing dwarves and vanishing Elarion, Thorn had been drawn by more than
petty curiosity.

He recalled the only time he had
met Rhogan of Mithlan. The Leanian lord had come to Nathrachan as part of
Kelyn’s plan for the last grand sweep against the Fierans. Rhogan’s uncannily
black hair and brilliant azeth had taken Thorn by surprise. Without doubt, the
Old Blood flowed in the highborn’s veins. Rhogan knew it, and he had seen that
Thorn knew it; he’d ducked his eyes in shame. If Rhogan was avedra, he had
never openly admitted it.

“Nah, the lady went out for a
ride,” the cottar added. “Of course she wasn’t alone. Ladies never go anywhere
alone, you know. Weak constitutions and all.”

“What’d her chaperone see?” asked
the companion.

The cottar drained his mug, slammed
it down again. “Nothing. The girl was there one minute, gone the next. And her
horse had been gutted. I found the tracks first, I did. Like bear tracks, they was.
And man’s. Never heard of men leashing bears to help ‘em abduct pretty ladies,
though.”

“Not highwaymen?”

“Highwaymen demand ransoms, man. Far
as I know, His Lordship’s received no such demand.”

“You followed these bears?”

“Bloody hell, no! Them tracks
didn’t lead
nowheres
. His Lordship nearly knocked me head off when I
tol’ him so. Tracks got to lead somewheres, says he. But, I swear upon the
Mother’s sweet bosom, the earth herself swallowed that girl and the bears, too.”

The truth was undeniable. The
disappearance of the dwarves and the abduction of Rhogan’s granddaughter were
connected after all. But what was the tie between a pair of iron merchants and
a highborn’s granddaughter?

The tavern door burst open,
smashing into the potbellied stove. A man caked in mud staggered inside. “Help
us!” he cried. “Aw, Mother, ‘elp us! Me boy. Me boy’s gone!”

The bartender dropped his polishing
rag, ran around the bar, and gripped the cottar by his shivering shoulders.
“Breathe, cousin. Have a dram and tell us what happened.”

“I don’t want no bloody dram, Del!
There’s no time. I sent him out last night. The heifers was raising a fuss,
waking up the whole ‘ouse, so I sent me boy to quiet ‘em. When the beasts shut
up, I rolled over and went back to sleep. But me boy … he wasn’t in bed when I
fetched him for the milkin’ this morning. The wife and I looked all day, even
into the marshes o’ the Heath. But he’s gone, and it’s me own fault. You gotta help
us.”

In moments, the bartender had
roused the outrage of his patrons. They divided into two parties and stormed
from the tavern. The room fell into abrupt quiet. Even the young bar wench had
been swept away by the excitement. In the loft, the bard slapped a wide-rimmed
blue hat atop his head, calmly packed his things and slung his lute over his
shoulder. With his audience gone, what was there for him to do but travel east
to Ilswythe and try his hand at more promising prospects?

Only one man remained in the great
room below. Could this be the bard’s unexpected benefactor? The cloaked figure
deep in the corner clutched his mug and watched the front door swinging in the cold,
damp wind. The bard decided to have a talk with the man, but by the time he
descended the narrow flight of stairs, the corner table was empty.

T
horn waited for the bard to
leave the tavern before he rose from the table. He placed an extra silver coin
under his mug, hoping the bar wench would find it and add it to the trove she’d
earned that evening. At the far end of the town’s only street, two dozen
torches weaved through the dark. Thorn would see these bear tracks for himself. 
“Saffron,” he whispered.

The fairy’s soft glow coalesced
near his shoulder.

“Any thoughts on the matter?”

“The boy was avedra,” Saffron said.

“You’re sure?”

“The boy’s guardian fled to Linndun
to report his kidnapping to the Lady.”

“Did the boy know he was avedra?”

“Of course not. Nor that he had a
guardian.”

Thorn leveled a vicious glare at
her. “Why didn’t the boy’s fairy save him?”

“We aren’t capable of fighting an
army single-handedly.” Her willowy arms gestured sharply in her defense. “A
small army is what that guardian was up against, I assure you, and deadly magic
besides. Lucky he was that he wasn’t stolen with the child.”

“How can anyone abduct a fairy?” The
fay could skip space in a blink of time. Surely it was impossible for someone
to close a fist about such a transient creature, like trying to capture wind or
sunlight. The idea was ludicrous, which made it that much more disturbing.

“That which limits your magic
limits ours, my Thorn. We are not invulnerable.”

“Limits my…? Ah, shit.” Shiny bars
across a window. Shiny shackles on ankles and wrists. Book of Barriers.
Baernavë chains. Pieces clicked into place. Thorn started up the muddy street,
pursuing the torches that bobbed away across a tilled field. He nodded
decisively. “Lord Rhogan isn’t avedra, but his granddaughter is, like this
missing boy.” His heart leapt into his throat. “Saffron, go to Carah. Under no
circumstances are you to leave her side. Alert Kelyn if danger comes within a
mile of her. Got it?”

“I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“No arguments, damn it. I’ll be
careful.”

Saffron’s tiny mouth pinched into a
tight, thin line. “You know what killed the cat, love.” She winked out and was
gone.

That summer, Thorn failed to return
home for Carah’s birthday.

~~~~

S
he waited for him all day.

In the morning she put on her new
birthday dress, securing stays around a womanish waist. She pinched her cheeks
and dabbed pink dye on her lips, and Esmi carefully shaped each natural curl
around her face and down her back. “So grown up,” the handmaid said with a
wistful sigh. When Grandmother Alovi died, Esmi had returned to her family in
town, but this winter Carah had argued that she needed a handmaid of her own.
Her nurse, Grieva, had gone off to raise other children; her old hands were
skilled in changing diapers but lacked the artistic flair a lady’s hair
required. The duchess’s handmaid, Lura, was present only half the year and
showed preference for Mother’s requests over Carah’s. Sharing no longer
sufficed.

Da rolled his eyes at Carah’s
insistence, but he finally sent the summons into town. Esmi was overjoyed that
the young Lady of Ilswythe remembered her and desired her experience over the
companionship of a younger maid.

At the moment, Esmi wore that
maternal, conspiratorial smile. “I noticed Lord Longmead’s son looking your way
at Assembly.”