Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (29 page)

Rhian found no accommodations that
night. Or the night after. Travelers being too rare so far from the Highway,
the taverns served cheap ale but had no rooms to rent; the cottars lodged their
own mules, so there were no liveries to hide in for a wink of sleep, and two
farmers slammed their doors in his face when he asked for room and board. They
even refused his offer to help with chores to pay for it. The people of
Brimlad, he gathered, had felt secure in their numbers, but those living on
isolated farms had lost their trust in strangers, if they’d ever had it.

 A budding hedge provided a roof
and a wall at his back, and the stiff loaves made adequate pillows. A frigid
gale woke him before dawn. Frost fell from the sky, and low clouds swept over
Thyrra’s silver crescent. He saw no sunrise this morning, just a dull fading
from black to gray. He started walking to keep from freezing to death. His
faded sleeveless shirt and sailcloth pants did little to protect him from the
icy wind. The clouds spat sporadic rain as though taunting him, urging him to
walk faster, find shelter before it was too late. He seemed to have passed
through the last village, however. The lanes became narrower, overgrown,
rutted. Did no one pass this way anymore?

The lane finally petered out at the
broken gate of a neglected sheepfold. A wooden fence ran perpendicular to the
lane, barring Rhian from going any farther. Despite the cold that numbed his
face, he laughed. His chosen path ended nowhere. He doubted the seal had dumped
him on a foreign shore just so he could turn back. He climbed over the fence
and trekked across open country. The Avidan River swirled past, brown and sandy
on his right. Rivers meant life. There had to be a farm ahead, a town, a sheep
shed,
something
. He only hoped he found it before the blood froze in his
veins.

Near what may have been noon, the
rain stopped taunting him and fell in earnest. Sheets of the coldest rain Rhian
had ever felt. He dumped the bread, stuffed a loaf in each pocket, and flung
the burlap bag across his shoulders like a cloak, but he was soon soaked
through. Even in the dark depths of the oyster beds he hadn’t felt this cold,
and he feared it might actually snow. “It’s in dire trouble I’ll be if I don’t
find a roof by nightfall,” he told the river. The river whispered back, but he
did not speak its language.

Ahead, the shadows of trees blocked
his way. A forest canopy was as good a roof as he was likely to find. He ran
toward the alders and andyrs, but the closer he came, the more he disliked the
look of the forest. It might have come straight out of a guilty man’s
nightmare. Murky darkness cloaked black, twisted trunks, and vines strangled bony
branches. A dank, swampy smell oozed from coiling mist, and thick briars spiked
with thorns tangled across his path, eager to draw blood. Rain pattered on
leaves that looked like the curled hands of dead men, and it was not the lively
sound of a natural rain, but a dreary thunking, as if even the rain wished it
landed elsewhere.
No reasoning man enters Avidan Wood, day or night
, the
old netter had said. This had to be the place. But how big could a forest be?
Maybe he could walk around it and find shelter on the way. Beneath the skeletal
trees, however, the ground looked enticingly dry.

Rhian eased through the briars,
carefully picking his shirt free when the thorns snagged it, and stumbled into
another world.

A hum tickled deep inside his ears,
and the nightmarish murk peeled away. Grand trees, straight and bright and as
broad as ships’ hulls, reared into the clouds. Nothing nightmarish about them
at all. The vines that looked like strangling serpents were just vines; they
drooped heavily under the weight of their spring burden of red blossoms. Even
though the twilight of the storm swaddled the wood, a pale green light
descended through the branches, and the leaves sparkled with rain. The scents
of damp earth and centuries of leaf litter, clean and crisp, swirled around
Rhian with every step. Talking seals and enchanted forests. If it weren’t for
the stinging cuts on his feet and the hunger in his belly, he’d tell himself he
was dreaming, sure to wake up to Shark’s nagging and his mother’s worried face.

He rounded up fallen branches, leaned
them against the base of a giant andyr, and piled armfuls of leaf litter on top
to keep out most of the rain. Climbing inside, he decided he’d be perfectly
snug if only he had a fire. He’d never made one without a flint striker, yet
this Thorn could supposedly make storms of fire by waving his arms about. What
would Rhian trade for such a skill? He shivered so hard his shoulders cramped.

Mounds of leaves, dragged into the
shelter with sweeps of his arms, warmed him enough that his feet started to
thaw out. The cuts and bruises shrieked. Ah, for a bottle of mother’s ointment
and her warm, caring hands. For an ale and a bowl of chowder and Vella’s steamy
bosom.

A light flickered through the
branches. A lantern? No, this light burned differently. Beams, like the sunrise
breaking through clouds, radiated from a dark center like the pupil of an eye.
An enormous eye, and it approached Rhian’s shelter.
Dragons and such
,
the netter said.
Evils!

Did it see him? He ducked down
deeper among the leaves.
Pass by, leave me be
. But the light stopped a
dozen feet from the shelter and stared at him. A second appeared in the ferns
beyond; a third in the branches overhead.

A twang, a whistle, and a thud, and
Rhian saw an arrow sprout from the ground between his feet. He scrambled from
his shelter, knocking half the branches down around him. Grabbing a hefty stick
on his way, he ran for the open meadow beyond the trees. Half a dozen lights
appeared ahead. Rhian swung his club, struck one of those eyes in the pupil. It
cried out with a voice more human than beast and winked out.

Searing pain lashed through Rhian’s
thigh. His leg refused to carry him farther. He tumbled into the briars. Thorns
clawed his face, his throat, his hands. Reaching for the pain in his leg, he
felt the shaft of an arrow, saw the black iron head, shiny with blood, sticking
out of the sailcloth pants.

The lights pounced. Hands he
couldn’t see flung him down on his belly, pinned his arms behind his back.
Angry voices spoke words he couldn’t understand. No continental accent this,
but a language he’d never heard before.

“Please,” Rhian grunted and spat
musty earth from his mouth. Could these glowing eyes understand him? The hostile
chatter ceased. “I meant no harm. I was freezing to death! Please!”

A pair of soft leather boots
approached, so lightly that they barely stirred the wet leaves. Rhian raised
his head to see his attacker, but a hand shoved his face to the ground. “Kulyah
lau, duínovë!” roared a voice.

Rhian tensed for the final blow.

The one who wore the boots crouched
nearby. A slender hand, shimmering as if made of moonlight, lowered a dagger in
front of Rhian’s eyes. “Your reason for trespassing had better be damn good,
duínovë, or I’m going to cut your throat.” A woman! Even angry, her voice fell
like silk on his ear. Lurching around, he nearly saw a face, but his shaggy
hair fell across his eyes and the hand pushed his head down again. “Well?”

“Please, I’m a stranger, all the
way from the islands. Sure I had no idea I was trespassing. I was just trying
to get warm. I’m Rhian, son of Ryrden, and I seek Thorn Kingshield.
Please.
”

The woman stood abruptly. Heated
whispers hissed like the icy wind among the trees. At last the woman snarled, “Bad
timing, avedra. Get him on his feet.”

The arrow sent blazing blades of pain
down to his toes and into his hip as strong arms dragged him from the ground.
The radiating lights were gone. A dozen warriors surrounded him, tall and grim
and armed with bows, swords, and daggers. Their skin shimmered like ivory
pearls; their ears tapered to points; their gestures flowed like wind and water.
Two of them had aquamarine eyes!
Them
. Is this who the seal meant? How
could a seal know of these creatures, and why send Rhian to find them?

The woman grabbed Rhian’s jaw in
fingers as strong as a crab’s claws. Her eyes were violet, cold, and fierce. Fair
hair with traces of sunset orange fell around a face more beautiful than any
he’d ever seen. Strange green marks snaked across her cheeks, along her chin,
and between her eyes.

“You
are
avedra, are you
not?”

Would the truth hurt or help? When
the woman’s eyes narrowed, he blurted, “I am.”

She released him, nodding as if his
admission were merely an annoyance, certainly not alarming or scandalous. “I am
Evriah, Captain of the Dranithion Rhithiel, and you will come with us.”

~~~~

The proud stag leaps into
the path of the arrow;

so the arrogant man.

—Elaran
proverb

T
he bridge was a bad idea. The Folly of
998, if not the folly of the century. Prince Valryk wasn’t the only Aralorri
who thought so, and ironically, many Fierans agreed with him, too. The pylons
and beams stretched a quarter mile across the Bryna, nearly complete. The bones
of what would be twin guardhouses stood at both ends, fleshing out a bit more
every day. The echo of masons’ hammers knocked back and forth across the water.
Lander, Lord Tírandon had invited the Black Falcon to inspect its progress—and to
lodge another complaint.

The king sent his son to deal with
Lander and the bridge.

The summer sun seared Valryk’s chain
armor until it was too hot to touch. The cerulean surcoat provided little
protection. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and down his chest,
soaking the padded undershirt. He’d be damned if he’d wear the helmet in this
heat, even if the sun freckled his face. He hoped for a cooling south wind, but
the leaves of the cottonwoods lay so still that they might have been painted on
that opaque blue sky. His courser flicked biting flies with his tail and
stomped irritably. Even the waters of the Bryna looked too warm to provide
relief. Across the river, the gray-green leaves of the Brambles baked to brown
crisps, which laid bare the finger-long thorns.

The drum towers of Athmar poked up through
the southern haze. Of all places to locate a bridge, why here? What were the
Falcon kings trying to prove? They were both fools if they believed the Brother
Realms would get along any better now than twenty years ago. The bridge only
made raiding across the border that much easier.

The night before Valryk’s arrival, a
shepherd from Midguard village reported his flock missing. The man’s son had
been gravely wounded trying to fend off the raiders. During the flight back
south, one of the Fierans fell from his horse, broke a leg. He swung from an
elm near the Aralorri end of the bridge. The heat and flies had already gotten
to the corpse.

Huddling in the shade of a scraggly
cottonwood, the prince’s guard and ten Falcon guardsmen took bets on how long
the body would hang before it rotted from the rope. Valryk held a perfumed
kerchief under his nose, mopped his neck, and considered what was to be done.

Captain Creag, commander of the Midguard
garrison, seemed oblivious to the stink. So did Lander, who asked, “I guess
it’s too much to hope that His Majesty will force the Fierans to give back our
sheep.”

“Of course it is,” Valryk replied. “The
king has all but retired from public duty. Yet he expects the rest of us to
carry on as it pleases him.”

The heat alone did not account for the
redness in Lander’s face. “I thought it pleased him to … how was the
proclamation phrased? … seek ‘immediate and complete retribution’ for raids
like this. The king wrote those words when you were but a boy, Highness. The
warning kept the Fierans in check for the most part, until now. This bridge will
be our undoing, mark me. The damnable historians ought to refer to it as the
War of the Bridges.” He spat.

“There’s nothing we can do about the
bridge, m’ lord,” Valryk said, “but we
can
seek immediate retribution.”

Lander and Creag stopped looking at the
bridge and slapped eyes on their prince.

Valryk swatted a blood-fat fly that
landed on his horse’s shoulder. “If the Fierans want the sheep so badly, they
can have them. I’ll give you the coin for new flocks myself. But what will the
Fierans do if they have neither fences nor barns to shelter their stolen
livestock?” Valryk jabbed a thumb back toward Midguard Tower. “Captain Creag,
gather your men, torches, and plenty of oil. Lead your men across that bridge
and burn every barn and sheep shed you encounter. Take rope to pull down the
fencing. Not one outbuilding is to be left standing, nor a single rail of
fence.”

“But, Highness,” Creag said, “the
raiders might have come from any number of villages.”

“Then pick one. One not too close to
Athmar but within its domain.”

Creag hammered a fist to his chest and
wheeled for the fort.

“People are not to be harmed. If it can
be helped. Let their efforts to rebuild keep them too busy to raid for a while.”

Lander’s grin was a nasty curl as he
gazed across the river. “Athmar is sure to seek retribution of its own.”

“Then repeat the measure,” Valryk
snapped. “And make sure your people are armed from now on, my lord. They are to
practice with pikes and bows daily. The women, too.” He leaned close to the man
and confided, “But if I hear that you returned the favor and stole back your
sheep with a few strays, I’ll order the torch set to
your
lands.”

Lander’s grin died a swift death.

Valryk cantered back through the gates
of Midguard. After a lukewarm bath, he climbed to the parapets and watched a
plume of smoke bloom on the southern horizon.

~~~~

W
ord of what happened reached Bramoran
before Valryk did. Crowds of townspeople hailed him like a conquering hero;
others scattered from his path, as if fearing his displeasure. Both reactions
took him by surprise, and neither felt completely unpleasant.

Would their opinion of him change if
they were made privy to the king’s tirade?

“You’re a hothead just like Lander! I
did not send you to Midguard to wreak havoc on the Fieran countryside.”

Valryk stood in the king’s private study
still wearing his armor over a layer of sweat and dust. He loathed this room.
It smelled of brandy and midnight trysts, parchment and ink and his father.
“You didn’t see what those Fierans did! That shepherd’s son will probably lose
his arm, if the wound doesn’t kill him first.”

Rhorek’s fist thundered atop the desk.
“I have seen it! I’ve seen it my whole life. And that my own son would return
wound for wound shames me. It shames me deeply, Valryk. You are confined to the
castle until I can patch things up with the White Falcon.”

Valryk nodded and grinned. “You do that.
You excel at patching over the problem.”

He retreated from the study only to run
into his mother outside the Audience Chamber. She pursued him all the way back
to his suite. “You know of his efforts to prevent another war. Why do you seek
to undermine years of toil?”

“If he cares so much for peace, he
should have built a wall, not a bridge. Given his life-long experience fighting
Fierans, you’d think he’d have learned not to trust them.”

“The bridge was a joint desire, the
first reached by the Falcon kings in a long time.”

“Yes, and did Father ask the White
Falcon why he wanted such a bridge? Arryk professes friendship, but bridges are
just as handy for invasions, Mother. Arryk’s people need to learn to stay on
their damned side of the river, not feel as if we’re inviting them to run
amok.”

“It is your duty to help keep the peace,
Valryk, to ensure it lasts long into your reign. Do you want war? Is that it?”
The grief in her eyes shamed him more than father’s temper.

“Of course not.” He knew better than to
speak his next thought:  the last thing he wanted was to give Kelyn an opportunity
to shine.

“Then you must be more careful.” She
continued to lecture him until she realized he was undressing to climb into the
bath. His chamberlain worked briskly and silently to set aside the armor and
sweat-stained underclothes. The queen departed in a flustered rush, “You make
your own legacy, my son. Every day, with every decision. Make sure it’s one
you’re proud of.”

Valryk stewed in the tub. Once he felt
sufficiently cleansed of the disgrace, he eased into a cool robe of summer silk
and ordered dinner brought up to him. “If I’m to be confined to the castle,” he
told his chamberlain, “I’m not leaving my rooms unless expressly ordered. Let
them forget I exist, if that’s what they want. Wine, lots of it. Mosegi. Bring
me a Fieran vintage and I’ll drown you in it.”

As soon as the servants left, Valryk
flung open the drapes and shutters, letting in a furnace blast of summer air.
He drew the sigil quickly. The magic prickled along the back of his hand like
needles. “Lasharia! Damn it, hurry up.”

Ever since that night two winters ago
when she’d become his lover, she hesitated to answer his call. Days, weeks
might pass before she appeared in their tower room, and more often than not she
behaved like a closed shell. But other times … ah, he lived for those other
times. Still, he suspected she answered his call only because she had promised
to and not because she wanted to. Why had she given herself to him if she knew
it would change everything? She never provided a convincing answer.

He waited for the servants to deliver
enough food and wine for a banquet, then swiped two bottles of Mosegi red and
descended into the tunnels. Valryk didn’t expect to see Lasharia tonight or
even the next, but he hadn’t restocked their cupboard in some time. So he was surprised
when he unlocked the door and found her pacing before the hearth, nervous as a
cat in a dog kennel.

“What took you so long?” she bit.

He laughed bitterly at the irony. “What
has you so ruffled?”

Lasharia relaxed her wringing hands,
raised her chin, and demanded, “Tell me what incited such an urgent, rude
summoning.”

Valryk wilted into his armchair. “I’m
almost nineteen, but I’ve just been slapped on the back of the hand for taking
some initiative.” He explained the rest quickly, preferring not to dwell on it.

In any case, Lasharia appeared to be
only half listening. She stared off at nothing, unspoken worry tightening her
face. Belatedly she said, “Your father has always been foolish, letting his
enemies walk all over him until the situation is out of hand. But this bridge
might serve us yet, Highness.”

Us?

“Endure your punishment with dignity and
be assured it won’t last forever.” A generic, hasty sort of encouragement. Her
glance darted toward him, then away again. “Valryk….” She started pacing again.

“What’s wrong?”

“This … this might be the last time.”

The thread between them, having grown
thinner and thinner over the last couple of years, despite his frantic attempts
to strengthen it, frayed a little more. Dread sank like a stone in his belly,
ached from his chest to his toes. “Last time for what?” Of course he knew the
answer.

“That I can come to you.”

Valryk surged to his feet. “No! Why?”
She had never threatened to stop seeing him before, not even after their
lovemaking or when she kept him waiting for weeks at a time.

She gulped hard, and Valryk couldn’t
tell if she was more fearful of his proximity or the of the words she spoke.
“Our war. It’s not going well. The Captain is becoming desperate. He says if we
don’t find help, we’ll lose everything. Our home, our freedom. We need allies.
He even suggested
human
allies to help us turn the tide. I advised him
against it. It’s unheard of. Involving humans, it goes against everything … but
more than that, I’m afraid for you. The foes we fight are more fierce than any
you’ve read about in your tomes of tactics.”

His hands gripped her shoulders, not
caring if he bruised her, only that she understand. “Lasharia, anything. I’ll
do anything to keep from losing you.”

She became very still then. Her arms
relaxed under his fingers. She breathed deeply, and the tension ebbed from her
face. It was the same relief he’d seen in his tailor when Valryk’s demands for
perfection finally turned into words of praise. Had Lasharia not realized how
he felt about her? Or had she accomplished something else entirely? Valryk
released her, and she sank onto the edge of her chair. “The Captain asked to
meet with you,” she whispered. “To discuss a proposal. In private. Here.”

If providing troops and supplies to a
people in need was what it took to keep her safe, very well. “Now, we’ll summon
him now.” He hurried to the high arrow loop where a shaft of sunlight speared
the Ixakan rug. “What’s his name?”

He started to draw the sigil, but
Lasharia grabbed his finger. “No one summons the Captain. Tonight. He’ll be
here tonight, when Forath is highest. I have to go. I’m sorry.” When she kissed
him, muttering her apology again, he got the feeling she was apologizing for
more than the brevity of the visit.

~~~~

T
hyrra set when the sunset still blazed
in the west; Forath rose from the Drakhans, bloody and arrogant, as his mate
retreated shyly from sight. The moons, so far asunder, warred. It was a time
when passions drove men mad. Valryk paced, fidgeted, and watched the warrior
moon creep up the darkening sky. When he couldn’t stand the waiting any longer,
he busied himself sharpening the sword his father had given him upon his
knighting this year at Assembly. Onyx and rough-cut sapphires picked out the
falcon set into the nut-shaped pommel. The sword had not yet earned a name, nor
had he decided on one. If Lasharia’s captain had anything to say about it, the
sword would have one sooner than Valryk had hoped.