Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (30 page)

Who were these fierce foes she had
mentioned? The only current war he knew of had something to do with the
dwarves. They had been fighting his entire life, so he no longer thought
anything of it. News came out of the mountains of yet another slaughter in some
subterranean town, and it was like eating oats again for breakfast, bland and soon
forgotten. Valryk always suspected that Lasharia’s people fought a second clan
of Elarion. He sat up straight, whetstone forgotten. Pieces clicked into place.
Every time he happened to glimpse what lay beyond the portals Lasharia used, he
saw stone, stone, stone, and Lasharia herself had mentioned fighting in narrow
tunnels. Why would Elarion fight dwarves? What grievance was there between
them? Perhaps the Captain would explain.

At last, Forath summited the
black-velvet sky. Valryk buckled on his sword, lit a lantern, and descended
into the tunnels. He hoped the Captain would not keep him waiting long. The
room in the tower felt more like a cell at night, and the slightest breeze
keened through the arrow loops, reminding Valryk of the ghost of the lady that
mother feared. He lit the candles on the sideboard and the lamps on the
mantelpiece and set out every goblet and glass he had purloined over the years,
dusted them, washed them if they needed it. The Captain might bring a full
entourage, after all, and a prince mustn’t embarrass himself by being
unprepared.

His ears pricked; he turned to face the
darkness cloaking the far corners of the cell. Had he heard the shuffle of a
footstep, the sway of a garment, the whisper of a sigh? Twice more he thought a
presence neared, but turning found himself alone. When next his nape tingled,
he determined not to turn but kept polishing the rim of his father’s favorite
silver cup.

A voice slid out of the dark. “Slanta,
Your Highness.”

Valryk whirled and dropped the cup. It
clattered across the floor and rolled to a stop near the toe of a shiny armored
boot. A dark gray cloak seemed to accentuate the Elari’s height and breadth of
shoulder. Inside a deep hood his face was shadow but for the pale curve of a
chin.

“I am the Captain. You have my gratitude
for agreeing to see me.” His voice was baritone silk.

“How long have you been here?” Valryk
demanded. There had been no warning like the dank, cool breeze that came with
the opening of Lasharia’s portals.

“Your ears did not deceive you. I wanted
to watch you. Lasharia told me much, but I wanted to see for myself.”

“Better we had met in daylight, if you
wanted to spy.”

“The darkness here is bright compared to
some.”

Valryk remembered his manners. “Shall I
pour you a drink, Captain?”

“Ah, yes. That is the polite way to go
about it. We have been fighting for so long that I nearly forgot the niceties.
Please.” He swept back the hood; his hair was nearly the silver of Thyrra’s
glow. A master’s hand had carved that face from alabaster and washed it with starlight.

Valryk offered him another of the king’s
goblets and gestured toward Lasharia’s armchair.

“Pardons, Highness, my armor does not
permit. But please …”

Valryk folded himself into his own
chair, careful not to sit on his sword. The captain eyed it, extended a slight
nod and grin. Valryk’s face heated; he hadn’t meant to imply that he lacked
trust in his guest and so realized he had worn it only to prove that he was a
big boy, too. Shadows covered his embarrassment and he was grateful for it.
“May I put a name to the face?” he asked.

Silence dripped past. Just as Valryk
began to regret he had asked, the Captain said, “I am Lothiar, and certain ears
must never hear that.”

Who among Valryk’s acquaintances would recognize
such a name or care if he spoke it? “Agreed. How can I help you?”

Lothiar let out a breath and lent back
against the sideboard. As tall and heavily armored as he was, his movements
were so graceful that his weight disturbed neither bottle nor glass. “Times are
changing, Highness, for all of us. Your kind and mine. We need to help each
other if we’re to survive.”

“My people are in danger as well?”

“You are allies of the dwarves, yes?”

Ah, here it came. “Of course.” He hadn’t
considered that he was an ally of Lasharia’s enemy. Did that change where they
stood, she and he? “They mine and mint our silver. Now our gold. Our
relationship is secure. As far as I know.” Rarely had he felt his exclusion
from his father’s affairs more keenly than now.

“The dwarves are cunning. They lulled my
people into trusting them as well, then they cut us off from all trade and
commerce. We went to war when our children began starving. Now our resources
are stretched so thin that we can’t hold much longer. If we surrender, we will
be slaughtered.”

“Then surrender is not an option,”
Valryk blurted. “It’s unacceptable.”

“If we retreat, we must flee deep into
the Drakhans, far from our homeland.”

And Lasharia would go with them. Did the
summons and her portal work over long distances? He couldn’t bear the thought
of her a fugitive in some unkind land too far away to be comforted.

“There are rumors that the dwarves mean
to extend their no-trade policy toward humans as well. And why not? The only
things they value are their veins of silver, their hoards of stones. Not
loyalty. Not when it comes to their wealth.”

Famous was the tale of how the dwarves
broke down Brynduvh’s walls to retrieve the gold that the White Falcon had
stolen from them. Fierce and relentless.

“I might have sought your father for
help,” Lothiar added, “but he isn’t the one. His is a vision of keeping the
peace, no matter the sacrifice. What he doesn’t know is that war is about to
sweep over him. He’s been looking in the wrong direction, Highness. East, not
south. That’s where the true threat lies.”

“What is it you need?” Valryk feared
that his answer must be “no.” He had no army to give. Nothing but coin, and
little enough of that was his. It wouldn’t be enough. He felt Lasharia receding
from him like a childhood memory.

This fact was obvious to the Captain as
well. His gaze was penetrating. “Let’s be honest. Your father has outlived his
era and his usefulness. As allies, you and I can give one another more than we
dreamed possible and accomplish far more than we can on our own.”

Valryk’s heart thudded painfully in the
base of his throat.

“The kings of Aralorr have always had
enemies,” Lothiar went on. “Once our place is secure, my men and I are at your
disposal. What if, one day, you were not just king of Aralorr, but emperor of
all the Northwest? And what warriors are the Mahkah-pi? You could rule from the
Glacier to the rivers of Zhian.”

Lothiar let the implications settle in
the cell while he turned to refill his goblet. Valryk felt the darkness open a
toothless mouth and swallow him whole. He didn’t know precisely when he leapt
from his chair, but he found himself pacing wildly.

“You’ve been living on survival,
Highness. We both have, for far too long.”

“All the Northwest, eh? That is quite a
promise from one who comes begging for help.”

“Beg?” The Captain’s eyebrows peaked. “I
have never begged for anything in all my long years. Of that you can be sure.
If you turn me down, I’ll seek aid elsewhere. I haven’t approached the White
Falcon yet. Or King Ha’el of Leania. Or your cousin, the future Duke of
Liraness. Might one of them be more apt to hear me?”

“The hell they will! I’ve not turned you
down. I only expect a man to keep his word.”

Lothiar grinned. “As do I.”

Once Valryk composed himself, he resumed
his chair as if it were a throne, and mimicking his parents, he stilled his
face to hide his thoughts and feelings. He did not dare look at the full
picture the Captain unfurled before him. He suspected the tapestry was already
complete, that his opinion about how it should look came too late. More, the
landscape it depicted was too dark, too frightening to acknowledge. Yet it
thrilled him.

Lothiar’s voice cut through the threads.
“We have many things still to accomplish and not much time left. Who among your
lords do you trust most?”

“Trust? None.”

Lothiar’s pale, shining head nodded.
“Wise for one so young. Regardless, you will need the help of a general.”

“Who is there besides the War
Commander?” Kelyn couldn’t be trusted with these plans. He would run to the
king, tongue flapping.

“Son of Ilswythe.” Lothiar spoke the
name like a snarl. “Traitors, all his breed. No, it must be someone else.”

“I had considered
his
son. You
said yourself you might approach Kethlyn …”

“Will he listen? Or is he of the same
ilk as his father?”

“If I consider anyone friend it’s
Kethlyn. But he has no practical experience. Perhaps Eliad would be more
suited. On the other hand, it’s unwise for me to keep an older brother too
close to the throne.”

“And what of your father? My people will
be ash and wind if they do not have aid soon. Lasharia, too. We cannot afford
delay.”

Shamed, Valryk snapped, “I cannot
promise you anything until I have sole rule.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Lothiar glanced aside, and the darkness
shifted. Lasharia emerged from the shadows. She must have been in the corner
the whole time, listening to every word. Moonlight gleamed redly in the black
enamel on her armor. Her face, as pale and luminous as star-glow on water,
gazed at him mournfully. He would lose her if his courage flagged now. If he failed
to take the first, most terrifying step of all …

~~~~

A
bout the time the trees began to turn
gold, King Rhorek fell ill. His physicians were unable to determine the cause of
the fever or prescribe a cure. The queen remained at his bedside, mopping his
brow herself and arguing with the physicians. Valryk visited the sweltering,
incense-clouded room several times a day, though he couldn’t stand to watch. He
must’ve been gray-faced enough to worry the physicians. They asked if he felt
ill, too. He did, but not for the reasons they feared. Watching his father
waste away a little more each day, groaning in pain, was too much. His death
should have been quick, not this slow agony. The king might be an idealistic,
willfully blind dotard, but he didn’t deserve an end like this. He had earned
his epithet “the Benevolent” for a reason. He only ever wanted the best for his
people.

As did Valryk.

He had a heated talk with the Captain.

The next morning, Queen Briéllyn woke
everyone in the royal wing with a wail that sundered the soul. Valryk wrapped
himself in his robe as he ran. Physicians flapped about the king’s suite like
panicked chickens. Captain Lissah and several Falcon Guardsmen clustered at the
foot of the bed, gawking and whispering. The queen sobbed into the bedding, an
arm flung across the king’s breathless chest.

“Mother?”

She flung herself around and buried her
face against her son’s belly. Her sorrow turned her arms into vices. The
embrace was enough to bruise. Valryk didn’t dare stop her. He hadn’t expected
such an outpouring from her. Had she loved him, really?

Valryk permitted himself only a glimpse at
the corpse. How gray and shrunken, eyes and jaw closed by some compassionate
doctor, no doubt. But tension still creased his face, and his fingers were
knotted about the sheet. In pain to the end. Valryk couldn’t afford to dwell on
it. It was over now. He was glad for that.

The rest would be easy.

“Your Highness?” Captain Lissah eased
toward the bedside. “Pardons, but a word.”

The other Falcons were gone. Boots
tramped outside in the corridor, coming and going; voices barked orders and
affirmations. Sounded like restrained panic.

Valryk left his mother in the care of
her handmaid and stepped aside with Lissah.

“We have reason to believe this wasn’t a
natural illness,” she whispered.

Valryk didn’t have to feign
astonishment. How could Lissah know? “What reasons?”

“The men on watch last night … they
claim they saw a robed figure in the corridor. They ordered him to halt, but he
didn’t. They pursued but found themselves in an empty room. They searched but
found nothing.”

“Disappeared into thin air?” Valryk
pressed on a sarcastic grin. “Do you know what this sounds like to me? Men
trying to shunt responsibility. Men who fell asleep on the job, perhaps?”

“I assure you, Highness, those men—”

“Yes, yes, they’ve never failed before.
But it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Sleeping guards who failed to
keep out an assassin, or guards who did the deed themselves and made up a story
to cover for it. Either way, you have murderers to root out. And if your
Falcons are telling the truth, you’d better find the culprit before he strikes
again. We wouldn’t want two kings dead inside a fortnight, would we?”

The lines around Lissah’s eyes smoothed
over as she donned a blank face. “No, Your Highness. Sire.” She bowed and
marched out quick.