Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (23 page)

Carah’s nose wrinkled. Chass of
Longmead, the scrawny, pimple-riddled squire of Lord Tírandon, had little hope
of winning her heart. “Let him stare. The Longmeads are slow-witted and uncouth
and wholly unappealing.”

Esmi’s thin, penciled eyebrows
darted up at the snobbish display. “And what does appeal to Lady Carah?”

Her face flared; excitement
fluttered in her belly. “Sleek, mysterious, brooding.” Her excitement dulled
even as she voiced the secret buried in her heart. It sounded silly aloud. “But
the brooding is only pouting if there’s no brain behind it.”

Did Esmi agree? Carah couldn’t tell
by her schooled expression reflected in the mirror. She deftly pinned another
curl into place. “Sounds like someone I know.”

“Exactly. If I can’t find someone
like Uncle Thorn, I shan’t marry at all.”

“Hnh, we’ll see what your da has to
say about that.”

“Da doesn’t like to talk about it.”

That brought a tender smile to
Esmi’s face. “You’ll always be his little girl.”

“That’s why I’ll find someone on my
own and not trouble him with it.”

Her handmaid squeezed her
shoulders. “Silly girl.”

Carah waited in the front parlor
with her mother. The aromas of her birthday feast rose from the kitchens and
set her belly to grumbling. Why hadn’t Uncle Thorn arrived already? He usually
rode through the night to be here by mid-morning. The shadows of the curtain
wall lay shallow on the ground. The hour candle on the mantel read noon. Carah
flung herself into an armchair and watched her mother skim through a few
missives that Aunt Halayn had sent. She even tried reading from a book of collected
bard songs. Ever since Byrn the Blue arrived from Leania with a song about
Grandmother Alovi, Carah had been fascinated with this way of telling stories.
Etivva had pointed her to a shelf in the library lined with books filled with
recorded oral histories. Her favorite so far was a song about an Evaronnan
knight and the blacksmith’s daughter he loved. The stories were supposed to be
true, but Carah wasn’t fooled. If the highborn and the commoner ended up
together, she’d know the bard who wrote it was lying. That kind of thing didn’t
happen, not really.

After a while, the rhymes began to
ring like dripping water in her ears. She slapped down the book and paced
between her chair and the window. Across the courtyard, the portcullis was
raised; villagers poured in and out. There was even a peddler’s wagon parked
beneath the towers. Women from the household and the village flocked to the
vibrant ribbons and shiny cauldrons swinging from the sides. But no Uncle
Thorn.

She trudged back to the armchair,
dropped into it as heavily as if her bottom were made of bricks. A shout from
the courtyard brought her to her feet again. But it was only the peddler
chasing a ferret that a stableboy had loosed from its cage. On any other day
the sight of the old man leaping after his pet would drag peals of laughter
from her, but today, his fruitless chase and the laughter of the onlookers made
her want to cry.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

Her mother heaved a sigh. “Oh, for
the Mother’s sake, Carah. He’ll be here. Find something to
do
, will
you?”

In the manner of a summer tempest,
Carah stormed from the keep. The chase for the ferret carried the peddler and a
dozen shrieking children across her path. She ignored them all and hurried up
the steps to the gatehouse battlement. She willed her uncle to be there, riding
across the ford at that very minute. But she saw only villagers. Men scythed
down swaths of golden winter wheat while their women followed behind, tying the
wheat into fat sheaves that stood on end like gilded soldiers. Dogs posted along
the fencerows barked to keep the crows away. The mill’s great wheel turned,
grinding flour from yesterday’s harvest. Farther out, sheep leapt before their
shepherds and drifted through the lush, green meadows. Cutting though it all,
the King’s Highway quivered in the midsummer heat, long and empty.

“M’ lady, come back under the
awning,” Captain Maegeth called from the turret. “You’ll get a sunburn on that
pretty nose.”

During the summer months, the
garrison raised canvas awnings atop both gatehouses to keep their chainmail
cooler and to hide brief dozes from their commanders. The stone bench beneath
the awning sat too low to provide Carah a view of the land below. She paced
from her seat to the crenels in the same regular cycle as in the parlor.
Captain Maegeth, however, was less easily irritated than the duchess and put
the anxious girl out of mind.

“He finally forgot you, did he?”

Carah whirled from the crenels and
found her brother topping the wall-side steps. Oh, that arrogant grin! She
returned a savage glare. “Drown in the Abyss, Kethlyn. He’s merely late.”

Sweat dripped down his face, ran in
rivulets down his bare shoulders. Hours of training in the sun every day had
darkened his skin, and his golden hair was burnished like a coin. It clung to
his face in wet tendrils. The women of the household, garrison, and village may
swoon in his wake, but Carah clenched her fists, preparing for a brawl.
Doubtless he had made a point to find her when he learned their uncle hadn’t
arrived yet.

His laughter reeked of derision.
“Late? Ha! He finally realized you’re no more special than I am.” How often had
Carah thrown that in his face, that she was special, gifted by the Goddess?

She returned to the stone bench,
refusing to rise to the bait. Primly smoothing her skirts against the wind, she
said, “Brother, go away and pop the pimple of your ego.”

“
My
ego? Hnh.” He plastered
on a nasty grin and patted her cheek none too gently. “Poor Carah. Welcome to
the land of reality. We lowly, mediocre folk greet you.” He fled down the steps
before her palm struck its target.

Chasing him as far as the top of
the stair she cried, “Jackass! Bastard!”

That stung him, all right. He
paused mid-stride and raised a wounded glare. Of all the names she called him,
the latter always infuriated him most, though it hardly seemed the worst to
her.

Lifting his chin in a cool dismissal,
he retreated into the keep.

From the awning, Captain Maegeth
clucked her tongue. “Such language, m’ lady.”

“I don’t care,” she retorted, but
that wasn’t true. She regretted her choice of insults. She should’ve swallowed
it like a lady and slipped that smelly ferret into his underwear drawer
instead.

T
hat evening, Nelda herself
set the feast upon the family dining table, claiming that this roast peahen was
her masterpiece, but she claimed that every year. Carah’s chair was empty. So
was Thorn’s. “Where are they?” Kelyn asked, smoothing his napkin in his lap.

Kethlyn grinned behind his goblet.
It was the kind of grin that suggested successful revenge.

Rhoslyn glared at her son. He tried
to look contrite. Nervously tapping her fork on the tabletop, she said, “Well,
Thorn never….” She concluded with a shrug.

“He’s not here?” Kelyn demanded,
angry and terrified at once. The day’s routines had stolen away the time, and he
had assumed by early afternoon that Thorn had arrived and that his niece
whisked him off without giving him the chance to say hello. “And Carah?”

Guileless, Kethlyn said, “Main
gatehouse battlement, last I saw her.”

Kelyn took the steps two at a time.
At the top, Captain Maegeth greeted him with a worried crease between her black
eyebrows. She pressed a finger to her lips and jutted her chin toward the
awning. Carah lay curled on the bench, fast asleep. Dried tears streaked the
powder on her face, and the wind had whipped her carefully curled hair into a
tangled mess. Kelyn knelt beside her and unstrung a curl from her lashes.
“Dearheart?”

She woke with a start, and for an
instant her face brightened, then she realized the face backlit by the lavender
sky was not the one she’d hoped for. She flung her arms around her da’s neck
and cried, “He didn’t come!”

“Maybe he lost track of the days.
He could be here tomorrow instead.”

Sniffling, she shook her head. “I
know he didn’t forget me. Something’s wrong.”

Kelyn’s thoughts exactly, but he
dared not tell her that. He set her away, and the dejection on her face broke
his heart. Better to sit beside her so he didn’t have to see it. Wrapping an
arm around her shoulders, he said, “Were he ill or injured he would’ve sent us
word. Maybe he finally got to go on that voyage he’s mentioned. The one to that
forbidden place.”

“Azhdyria?” She smeared a cheek.
When the stories of Laniel Falconeye and dragons had become too fanciful for
Carah’s maturing taste, Thorn began telling her of the mysteries of the Land of
Exiles. He longed to see the misty cliffs with his own eyes and confessed to
his niece that he had dreamt of sailing there since he first learned of it.

The explanation didn’t convince
her. “No, he would’ve come to tell us in person. That’s how important Azhdyria
is to him. He wouldn’t have left without bragging about it.”

Kelyn hugged her close, painfully
aware that his daughter was right. Something had happened, good or bad, and his
brother was in the middle of it.

C
arah had one consolation.
Uncle Thorn would surely come next year. He didn’t dare miss two birthdays in a
row. Besides, when she turned sixteen, he was to begin her training, which
meant he would stay at Ilswythe for
many
days, not just the usual week.
She decided that made up for his absence this year, and she forgave his
negligence.

But when her sixteenth birthday
came and went without his arrival, Carah refused to forgive him. No message of
explanation or apology ever arrived. After patching up a second broken heart,
she stopped expecting him altogether.

Thorn Kingshield seemed to have
vanished from the realm of man.

~~~~

“Every effort is being made to
find our missing loved ones. Until these crimes are at an end, no man, woman,
or child is permitted out of doors after sunset upon penalty of imprisonment.”

—by decree of the Black Falcon,
996. A.E.

P
rince Valryk poised the sword over his
head, glared at the War Commander, and lunged. Steel sang. Shields crashed.
Valryk grunted, taking Kelyn’s pommel on the side of his helmet. He clenched
his teeth against the ringing in his ears and with a swipe of his shield sent
the Commander reeling. But Kelyn kept his guard up and fended off a furious
assault. Valryk roared in frustration.

“Good,” Kelyn said and lowered his
weapon. “But rein in your anger. Mistakes follow emotion.”

Valryk tossed the practice sword into the
grass and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “I can’t get past
your guard.”

“That’s why I’m still alive, Highness.”
People whispered it was the Old Blood that gave the War Commander his edge.
That alone provided Valryk some consolation. He both dreaded and anticipated
Kelyn’s arrival at court every winter, because the real training began. All
spring and summer, he trained with squires and Captain Tullyk and Captain
Lissah who seemed to be afraid to bruise their prince’s knuckles or knock him
on his arse. Not so the War Commander.

“Am I as fast as Kethlyn?” He knew
better than to hope he’d ever be as quick of hand as the Swiftblade.

“No. But you have better control, and
when your emotions aren’t getting the better of you, you fight smarter than he
does. Let’s try again. Look for an opening.”

“You don’t have any openings.”

“Make one.”

Valryk tried for an hour and was bested
for an hour. He had to yield six times, and each time sooner than the last. It
was humiliating, but the War Commander didn’t train just anyone these days.

Kelyn finally called a halt and
collapsed hard on his duff. “One thing’s for sure, Highness. I no longer have
the advantage of youth.”

“Let’s keep going then. I’ll wear you
down eventually.” Sweat stung his eyes.

Kelyn held out his practice sword. “I
yield.”

Valryk wasn’t amused. He helped the old
man off the ground, and they started for the armory. A thin layer of snow clung
to the shade beneath the walls. Across the training ground, a squad of
twenty-five men gathered around Captain Tullyk. The garrison commander leaned
heavily on a silver-headed cane, but his broad shoulders and muscled arms were
at odds with signs of weakness.

“What are they doing?” Valryk asked. “I
reserved the training grounds for myself this morning.”

“A briefing, I believe,” Kelyn said,
holding the armory door open. “In response to your father’s decree. The king
feels the city watch is understaffed, given the new curfew.”

“How would he know?” When was the last
time the king had toured Bramoran’s streets and mingled with the people?
Must’ve been during the Turning Festival a year ago. Since then the duty of
‘being seen’ had been delegated to Valryk. “Make a presence,” his Mother
coached him. “Look aloof but amiable. Bless the babies when their mothers lift
them toward you. Lay hands upon the wounded but not the diseased. No matter how
badly they smell, don’t let your face show it.” Not only did he relished the
responsibility, he was thrilled that Mother let him ride outside the castle
walls. Of course, during these tours his bodyguards and half the Falcon Guard
accompanied him, looking duly intimidating. The waving crowds and worshipful
stares pleased him. The demands for the return of missing friends moved him.
The last time he rode into town, only a week ago, the mob gathered immediately,
pressing closer than usual. Not one of those faces wore a smile. “Where are
they?” demanded an ink-stained man in a printer’s apron. “Where’s my Jannie?”
called a lady in pearls. “When will these fiends be hanged?” cried an old man
shaking his fist.

Nearly a dozen citizens between the ages
three and seventy had vanished from the city and the surrounding hamlets.
Neither track nor body had been found. Once the crowd started shouting,
Valryk’s bodyguards feared a riot. They urged him to return to the castle, but
he raised his hands instead and the crowd grew still. All their hopes rode on
his words. “His Majesty is using all his resources to find your friends and
family. We are deeply grieved and deeply concerned, and we will not stop
searching until they are found.”

A great muddled roar of questions
followed, and Valryk had no choice but to return to the castle.

The next morning two men were found
beaten to death and hanging by their ankles from lampposts outside the castle
gate. Notes scribbled with the word “kidnapper” were shoved into their mouths.
The men were only vagrants, but someone must’ve feared they were skulking
around with sinister intent. Or maybe a grieving father just needed someone to
blame.

King Rhorek issued the curfew the
following day.

“It’s
my
job to tour the city and
hear the people’s complaints,” Valryk said, squinting against the winter
sunlight. The cool air might feel good on his sweaty face if he weren’t so
irritated. “Why wasn’t I told the watch was understaffed?”

“Trouble you with such a detail?” Kelyn
asked.

“Someone troubled my father with it. Why
not me?”

“It’s no matter, Highness.” Trying to
placate him. Just like a child.

“I disagree.” Valryk tossed down his
practice equipment and started toward the briefing. Kelyn followed half a step
behind, even though Valryk hadn’t invited him. Valryk walked faster to put
distance between them.

The garrison soldiers saw him coming and
snapped to attention. Captain Tullyk’s instructions trailed off. “Your
Highness. You do us a great honor.” He was a man scarred by experience. His
left hand was wrinkled and splotched from Dragon fire, and he’d earned his limp
during the Battle of Bramoran when the Warlord Goryth sacked the city. Just a
sergeant in the garrison at the time, he’d languished with the other prisoners,
lucky to have not been hanged from the walls like so many of his comrades. The
wound in his knee had festered for weeks and had never healed properly.

“These men are to assist the watch
tonight?” Valryk looked them over. Among those in the first line, one man’s
surcoat boasted a wine stain and another hadn’t polished his boots in some
time. “Are these your best, Captain?”

“These volunteered.”

The evasion lacked subtlety. “Send this
man and this man back to the barracks. Replace them.”

“Highness—” Kelyn began, but Valryk
raised a hand, silencing him.

Tullyk looked over the sullied soldiers
and nodded. The two men saluted and double-timed it from the grounds. Valryk
always thought Tullyk was a bit of a slouch himself. Maybe he’d get the hint.

“How badly is the watch undermanned?”

Tullyk nervously tapped his foot with
the end of his cane. “I’m hoping to build up enough personnel to patrol the
surrounding villages as well as the city, Your Highness. But that will take new
recruits.”

“Then get them. Surely it won’t be
difficult, what with the people demanding these kidnappers be found.”

“It’s a matter of funds, Your Highness.”

“Funds or lives, hmm.” He’d have to
speak to Mother about it; Father’s ears were closed to his son’s voice.
“Tullyk, your prince cares about these matters. Keep me informed.”

One corner of the captain’s mouth twitched
with a surprised grin. “Yessir.”

A squire in royal livery raced across
the muddy grounds. Valryk recognized him as Barrin, the son of Lord Westport. A
snooty boy of twelve, he was constantly vying for his prince’s favor and seemed
to think he deserved it. Some scheme of his maneuvering father, no doubt.
Valryk prepared himself for an earful of empty praise. Wearing an obsequious
grin, Barrin bowed, but then turned to Kelyn. “Lord Ilswythe, the king requires
your presence.”

“Oh, beg pardon, Highness, excuse me.
Tullyk.” Kelyn followed the squire up the steps and into the castle.

Watching them go, Valryk felt himself
grinding his teeth. He thought he’d learned to accept Father’s preference,
steeled his heart toward feelings of resentment, but the matter of the city
watch opened a raw wound.

“As long as you’re interested,
Highness,” Tullyk was saying, “how about giving us an official inspection? See
if the rest of these men please you.”

“They don’t,” he said, turning away from
the castle. “They could stand to be sharper, don’t you think? You, too,
Captain. I want these men marching the perimeter, quick-time and singing,
‘March On, Soldier of Fortune.’ The first man out of step gets replaced.”

Eyes shifted his direction. The apples
of Tullyk’s cheeks reddened above his yellow beard.

“I’m not bluffing, Captain. There are
people disappearing out there. Lazy soldiers means lazy vigilance. Get them
moving!”

Tullyk gave the order, though his
battlefield voice had faded to a ghost of itself. The soldiers started running,
hugging the outer wall, holding tight formation. The singing lacked enthusiasm.

“Louder!” Valryk called. “The king can’t
hear you.” He was grinding his teeth again. A couple of the men bellowed the
next verse, on beat but off key, and the rest followed suit.

“That man, do you see?” Valryk pointed
to one of the soldiers in the rear. He had an unmistakable paunch hanging over
his belt, and he was falling behind. “Unacceptable, Captain. Get rid of him.”

Tullyk called for the man by name, gave
him the thumb.

“Keep going!” Valryk shouted over the
chorus. Fists on his hips, he turned slowly, following their progress.
“Louder!”

“Highness!” barked a voice in outrage.
Kelyn hurried across the grounds. “Tullyk, stop them.”

“Prince’s orders, m’ lord,” said the
captain, eyes darting between the two of them.

Valryk crossed his arms. “These men are
inadequate.”

“You would fix that by shaming them?”

“Yes.”

A muscle twitched in Kelyn’s jaw and his
eyes narrowed as if he were weighing both sides of a dare, then he turned and
shouted, “Halt, men, halt!”

The running and singing stopped, and the
men doubled over, gasping and hacking.

Kelyn waved a hand. “Dismissed! Tullyk,
you too. I’ll speak with you later.”

Tullyk led his men toward the barracks.
Several of them cast confused or sullen glances back toward their prince.

Valryk rounded on the War Commander. “I
thought you of all people would be offended by lax practices. Those men are—”

Kelyn cut him short. “Those men are your
city’s best defense, Highness.”

“Best? Did you see them?”

“If you’re displeased, take it up with
Tullyk—in private. Whipping them into shape is his job, not mine and not yours.
If you force a man to relinquish his dignity or his honor, you commit a crime
against him. Both are more important than his life.”

Valryk raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?
I’ll remember that. And you remember this, Lord Ilswythe. My father may require
your words of wisdom, but do not lavish them upon me unless I extend the same
invitation.”

For an instant Valryk read astonishment
in Kelyn’s eyes, just before he lowered them.

Satisfied, Valryk stalked off, face
burning.

In his rooms, he ordered a hot bath. He
needed some time alone with Lasharia. He hadn’t seen her in ten days. Without
her, he knotted up inside and his mood slid down the middens. After he scrubbed
away the sweat and humiliation, he selected a soft tunic of dark silver-gray
velvet and sent his chamberlain scurrying from his presence. “I’m going to take
a long nap,” he told the two bodyguards at his door. “If I’m disturbed before
supper, I’m sending you both to Fort Last.”

“The queen is expecting you for tea in
less than an hour,” one reminded him.

“I really don’t care, Yusten. What’s she
going to do? Disown me?”

The bodyguards bowed in understanding
and Valryk shut the door. Alone at last, he pushed the drapes away from the
windows. Early afternoon sunlight caressed his face like a balm. He’d come to
cherish the feel of it because it meant time with her.

He drew the four-pointed star, whispered
her name, then plumped his pillows and fell into them to wait. Lasharia knew
better than to join him in his rooms. Not long after they met, they had almost
been caught. That was four years ago now, the same night he learned what she
was and why secrecy mattered. He’d been whining about something or other, and
Lasharia sat with him on his hearthrug looking elegant in a white gown. The
cozy firelight splashed her face and hands and made them shimmer. It was some
time before Valryk realized she looked irritated, too. Did she no longer wish
to hear about his troubles? Maybe he’d voiced the same complaints once too
often. Father this, Mother that, duty, duty, duty. “Didn’t you ever feel that
way?” he’d asked. “I know you did, you wanted to be a musician.”