Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (31 page)

As Valryk expected, no assassins were
found.

~~~~

K
ing Valryk’s coronation took place on
the first day of the year 999. There was not a noble house in Aralorr or
Evaronna who failed to attend. Some traveled all the way from Leania with King
Ha’el and a hundred wagons laden with gifts of friendship. Even King Arryk sent
gifts north, fine hunting hawks and a hundred crates of Fiera’s finest wine.
Too bad Valryk couldn’t trust the Fierans enough to drink it.

The throne room blazed with silks and
velvets. The banners and festoons ornamenting the walls hung limp in the heat
of so many bodies. But outside, snow drifted past the stained-glass windows.
Valryk made his way along the cerulean rug. A black velvet cloak trailed seven
feet behind him. It was a massive thing, heavy with beads, jewels, and sable.
Like an anchor, it slowed his stride to a majestic walk. To each side, lords
and ladies bowed deeply while still managing to gawk. A few, men and women
both, wept as he passed.

He had no trouble looking pensive. There
was still much to be done, and his thoughts crowded as close as the hot,
perfumed air. Near the dais, he glimpsed Kelyn, the Duchess of Liraness, and
their brood. Cousin Carah looked resplendent in a silver gown. Her blue eyes,
large and bold, lowered after everyone else’s. Beside her, Kethlyn was tall and
golden. The Old Blood shined in him. Knowing Lasharia and Lothiar allowed
Valryk to appreciate this heritage in his cousin. He attracted a sighing,
giggling entourage of girls at every Assembly. All Valryk had to do was tag
along to get his share of the attention.

Queen Briéllyn stood before her throne.
Father had commissioned it for her upon her own coronation. She would never sit
in it again. After today, her throne would be reserved for Valryk’s own queen,
whomever she might be. Beside it loomed the silver throne. Hunting falcons,
resting falcons, gliding falcons were entwined in the backrest.

Valryk kneeled upon the lowest step of
the dais.

A bald woman cloaked in white emerged
from the crowd. She climbed halfway up the steps and turned to address the
spectators. Valryk didn’t know who she was, some shaddra from the Valley of the
Faithful, summoned as soon as Father’s funeral fires went out. Today, this
stranger represented the Mother-Father, and the words echoing high against the
ceiling were the traditional chant that had been spoken over the kings of the
land for a thousand years. King Bhodryn was said to have written the chant
himself when he was crowned king of Westervael near the end of the Elf War.
Only the trained ear could understand the antiquated language now, but it had
something to do with honor and protection and service.

When the chant closed, Queen Briéllyn
descended the steps and lifted the Falcon Crown from a velvet cushion in the
shaddra’s outstretched hands. Onyx falcons flew about the band of gold.

Valryk’s belly twisted deliciously as
Mother lowered it upon his head, cold and heavy. Here it was at last, and
Lasharia was saved.

He stood and nearly stumbled under the
suctioning weight of the cape. One slow step at a time he climbed the dais,
turned, spread his arms, and lowered himself into the silver throne. A cry went
up, five hundred voices shouting his name. The roar washed over him like
victory and damnation all at once.

When the ceremony ended, Valryk signed
his first decrees with all the realm in attendance. The first lowered taxes by
five percent for the first year of his reign. The second allotted the crown a
modest allowance for building projects. Even as he scribbled his signature he
knew he ought to have requested a larger sum. Ah, well. A couple of favors in
the right pockets would win him more coin for what he had in mind. Before the
wax impressions had cooled, he rose and descended the dais. Now that the
formalities were over, his nerves settled and his belly reminded him that he
had neglected food since yesterday evening. Heads bowed as he passed back along
the aisle. He beckoned his cousin. “Kethlyn, attend me.”

Pleased to be singled out on this
momentous day, Kethlyn happily carried the train of the cloak as Valryk
retreated to a private suite where he could change and rest before the banquet.

Valryk eased out from under the weight
of the beaded velvet, sighed and stretched aching shoulders. “They say that’s
the cloak I will also wear upon my pyre. Hnh. Damn thing’s so heavy it will
snuff all flame. Ah, well. Another meaningless tradition soon to be expunged.”

Kethlyn handed the massive thing off to
the chamberlain, then at a sideboard filled a silver goblet. Valryk stared at
the cup and asked, “Was the wine from the decanter?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Pour it out. Open a new bottle, there
in the cupboard.”

Though a furrow of confusion marked
Kethlyn’s brow, he obeyed. “Shall I be your taster as well, sire?”

Valryk accepted the goblet and gulped.
The wine seeped into his limbs. Ah, that was better. “No, I have different
plans for you, cousin. Plans that I hope will be less perilous to your health.”

“I am grateful.”

Valryk set aside the goblet, lifted the
Falcon Crown from his head, and stared at his reflection in the mirror-shined
gold. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course, sire! I am your willing
confidante, as my father was to yours.”

Valryk answered with a smile, sank into
a plush armchair and motioned Kethlyn to another. “How many kitchens did we
raid, growing up?”

Kethlyn laughed. “Funny to think about
it now.”

“I’m only sorry I wasn’t permitted to
join in your War Games. Mother thought they might lead to injury.”

“Ha, I’d forgotten about the games. And
the queen was probably right. We earned more bruises and broken bones ambushing
each other than we did learning to stay in the saddle.”

Chamberlains and ministers fluttered
about, readying the king’s wardrobe, waiting to inform him of the week’s
dinners and councils and games. With a wave of his hand, Valryk dismissed them.
When he and his cousin were alone, he said, “There are bigger games afoot now.”

“Undoubtedly. For instance?” Kethlyn
leaned forward on his knees.

“Suspicions of treachery already abound.
Captain Lissah says my father was poisoned—”

“Sire!”

“—but that’s not to leave these walls.
Such news would only cause hysteria. Rumors say there’s someone who seeks to
wipe out Tallon’s dynasty, replace it with another. And your father’s name came
up.”

Kethlyn leapt from his chair. “My father
has no interest in the Falcon Crown!”

“Maybe someone wants it for him.”

“Outrageous.” Kethlyn paced. “Da loved
your father. He’s been inconsolable since Rhorek’s death. Even if the rumors
are true, Da would scoff at anyone who tried to put him on the throne.”

“Be that as it may, it’s in my best
interest, and the interests of Aralorr, that I surround myself with advisers I
can trust. Advisers of like mind. Advisers with fresh imagination and energy. I
want you to be one of them, cousin.”

Kethlyn gulped, sank into his chair. “What
can I say? I’m honored, sire.”

“There are so many changes in the offing.
I don’t know how I will manage them all.”

His cousin cast him a cocky grin. “With
the help of trustworthy, determined men like myself. Of course. And my father.
You can trust him, sire, you know you can.”

Valryk pushed himself laboriously
to his feet, cracked his stiff neck, poured himself another round. Just a little
more wine, to steady him. He filled Kethlyn’s goblet as well. Lowering it, he
asked, “You were born a bastard, weren’t you?”

 Kethlyn’s
hand stopped halfway to the goblet. Astonishment, terror, made two flat stones
of his eyes. “Where did you hear that?”

“Here and there. Years ago. I didn’t
realize it was a sore spot. Your king begs your pardon.”
Bull’s eye
,
Valryk thought and eased into the armchair.

“What matters is that he married my
mother and claimed me.” His voice was barely any voice at all. One of his hands
squeezed the arm of his chair as though it were all that anchored him from
fleeing.

“That doesn’t mean he’s really your da,
though, does it? You might still be a bastard.”

“I look too much like him for it not to
be so,” Kethlyn declared.

“People see what they want to see. And since
learning of the scandal, I wondered if you ever worried that your sister might
inherit everything, steal Windhaven from you?”

“Of course not.”

“She calls herself the Duke of Ilswythe,
doesn’t she?” Valryk chuckled. “Cheeky.”

“There’s no harm in it. Is there?”

“You would know. I hope. I mean I’ve
watched your parents with Carah. They seem to spoil her.
Do
they favor
her?”

Kethlyn breathed short and fast, even
while he continued to lie about his fears with a shake of his head. “I’m not a
bastard. Windhaven will be mine.”

Valryk felt wretched torturing him like
this, but it was the only way to be sure. “Oh, cousin, there’s nothing to stop
your mother from leaving Windhaven to her daughter. Our laws are full of
loopholes, and bastardy is the biggest one of all. No,
I
am the only
authority who can guarantee your inheritance.”

Kethlyn scowled like a prisoner defying
the jailor. “Are you threatening me?”

Valryk laid his head back on the deep
cushion and laughed. “Cousin, I am
guaranteeing
you.”

“In exchange for what?”

Shrewd
, Valryk thought.
I can’t tell
him everything
. He stood, laid a hand upon Kethlyn’s shoulder. “Your
silence, your listening ear, and your obedience.”

“You need not toss the circumstances of
my birth in my face to receive those things.”

“That’s what I hoped to hear.” He raised
his goblet. “To the kitchen raiders, partners in crime.”

Kethlyn raised his, warily, and they
drank to seal the pact.

~~~~

Woe to the Children of
Lethryn!

their land was flame,
their water

blood.

—
from
Chants of Fire
, by Byrn
the Blue

T
he spring equinox marked
the duchess’s return to Ilswythe and the festivities of the Greening Fair.
Carah spent the morning preening, in preparation for the evening’s dances. She
didn’t care much for the daytime events, which amounted to little more than
kempt-up cottars venturing out of their houses to trade the wares they’d spent
the winter fashioning. Children shrieked during leg races and barrel rolls, and
farmers competed over who tilled their muddy field the fastest. It was a way to
make a dull job more interesting, Carah supposed, and Da put up shiny new
ploughshares and traces for the prize.

Her interest lay in what happened
after dark. Bonfires dotted the hills and pipers played until dawn while the
people danced. Mum and Da let her attend the Greening dances on the stipulation
that she didn’t slip off with a commoner’s son. Eliad served as her faithful
chaperone and provided her a tireless dance partner. Though the village boys
and the men of the garrison ogled her all night, none dared ask to dance with
her. Eliad wouldn’t have let them anyway. He arrived from Drenéleth late last
night.

“Did you see his mistresses?” Carah
asked Esmi. Her handmaid pinned her dark curls into place. Each pin had a
mother-of-pearl flower fixed to it, making her hair looked like the night sky
studded with stars.

“Only a glimpse, m’ lady.”

 “I might’ve known one would be a
redhead. Eliad always had a soft spot for redheads. They were both pretty,
though. Good taste, don’t you think?”

“
Low
taste, since you asked.
The redhead happens to be a shepherd’s daughter.”

“Really?” Carah giggled. “How
delightful. I wonder if they’ll be down to luncheon.”

“I doubt it. Your father might not
mind, but they won’t be welcome at your mother’s table, I warrant.”

“Oh, poo. I’d hoped to have them
draw straws, see which gets to be Lady Drenéleth.”

Esmi’s deft fingers paused. “Don’t
you aggravate the situation. It’s unseemly bringing them here in the first
place.”

Carah snorted indelicately, and her
cheeks heated. “He couldn’t do without them, I suppose.”

“Incorrigible.” Esmi stepped back
for inspection.

Carah had stopped growing when she
stood over her mother by five inches. Her every step was an embodiment of poise
and grace. At eighteen, she prided herself on having become the envy of every
highborn lady and the desire of every male between the Glacier and the Galda.
Mother said she had become unbearably conceited and warned her not to flirt so much.
It was unladylike, and the duchess was one to know. So today Carah resolved to
ignore everyone who wasn’t family and play the humble maiden. The dress she’d
chosen was sensible in the lingering cold, the wool silk-soft and a gray so
pale that the merchant had called it silver. She dabbed on raspberry lip dye,
then dug into her jewelry box for her pearl earrings. Underneath them lay the
fairy pendant holding the blue pearl, the one Uncle Thorn had given her, the
one she swore never to take off. The sight of it induced an old ache of
longing. She locked the ache inside the box with the pendant and hurried
downstairs.

“What’s for dinner, Yris?” she
asked the steward in the Great Corridor. Master Yorin’s oldest daughter had
filled his shoes upon his passing.

“Dinner, m’lady?” Not much
flustered Yris; she’d been too well trained. But something made her fidgety,
absentminded.

“The meal after breakfast but
before tea?”

“Oh. Yes, m’ lady. Dinner.” She
giggled and added, “You won’t believe who’s come. Must tell the staff. Er, lamb
cutlets. Her Grace asked for you. In the solar. Pardons.” She bowed and hurried
off for the kitchens.

“But, Yris, who—?”

“They’re in the courtyard, m’
lady,” the steward called back, impatience echoing high in vaults.

Miffed at the steward’s vagueness,
Carah huffed off, determined to see for herself. The massive bronze doors stood
open to let in the fresh spring air; voices floated in with the breeze. One
belonged to her father. The other? Carah’s heart leapt into her throat. The
hope was unwelcome. She pressed it down with all her past disappointments and
emerged into the glaring sunlight.

There he stood in his blue robe, patting
dust from his sleeves and chatting with Da. Carah stared, while four years’
worth of nightmares of him vanishing and she searching, fruitlessly searching,
swept over her. But she was awake, and here he was, large as life. She laughed
in delight, forgetting her resentment, and ran down the steps. She flung her
arms about his neck, and he held her so tightly that she knew he’d missed her,
too. “You’re safe,” she sobbed. “We thought you were dead. Where have you been?
Why didn’t you write?”

“Darling girl,” Thorn muttered and
kissed her brow. Stepping away, he held her at arms’ length. “So fine. You make
me feel older than ever.”

To Carah, Thorn didn’t look old so
much as worn. He was thinner than she remembered. The lines had deepened around
his eyes and mouth, and not from laughter. The green marks on his eyelids,
which she had always found unspeakably enchanting, were gone. Bone-deep
weariness lurked in his eyes. He wore his hair shorter, at his shoulders rather
than his waist, and the four gold stripes edged toward silver. This above all
startled Carah. She had been so eager to grow up that she ignored the fact that
everyone else aged right along with her.

Over his robe he wore a sword-belt.
An elaborate hilt of twined leaves was nicked and battered. Carah had seen him
carry a sword on his saddle but never wear one.

“You
were
in trouble,
weren’t you!” she cried. “I knew it, I felt it.”

“Did you?” That seemed to please
him, but she couldn’t guess why. “It was nothing we couldn’t handle, love.” His
smile put her at ease. “We’ve come to put aside our troubles for a while.”

“You mean to stay?”

“If all goes well.”

Joy threatened to burst her heart.
“And it’s not even my birthday. I must find Mum and tell her. She’ll be so pleased.”

She ran for the door, but halfway
up the steps she stopped and cast a puzzled frown over her shoulder.

Off to the side, a silent figure
held the reins of two magnificent black horses.
We’ve come?
Carah thought
her uncle meant Saffron and himself. Who was this beardless youth who seemed to
find the cobblestones more interesting than the lord of the house or his
daughter? Dark, waist-length hair was pulled neatly back from a sun-darkened
face, and he too wore a sword over a robe of brownish-red velvet. Gold
embroidery curled along the hems. An avedra robe!

Carah descended the steps and
slowly approached the stranger. He raised his face and regarded her coolly with
stunning aquamarine eyes. Carah’s breath caught in her throat.

“Love,” said Thorn, “this is Rhian
son of Ryrden of the Pearl Islands, my apprentice. Well, hardly apprentice
anymore—”

“Your
apprentice
!”
Carah cried. Old anger erupted into her face. “I’ve been waiting
four years
for you to come back, all the while imagining you a pile of ash somewhere. But
when you finally show yourself, you tell me you’ve been prenticing someone
else! Just like that? Like it’s no great thing? It’s a wonder you bothered to
come back at all!”

Tears welling, she ran for the
keep, but her father seized her by the arm. “I will not suffer this
childishness, Carah,” he growled into her ear. “Apologize to our guest and to your
uncle.”

She wrenched her arm free. “No, Da.
He’s the one who can’t keep a promise.” She fled into the keep, leaving her
father to express whatever regrets he liked. This stabbing, sinking ache had
pierced her chest too often before; she swore she would never let herself feel
it again. But to no avail. She sobbed her way to the stairwell and heard her
mother’s voice calling from the solar.

“Dearest, what’s wrong?”

Carah whirled and jabbed a finger
toward the happy sunlight beyond the bronze doors. “Go outside and see for
yourself.”

Her mother blinked blankly. “Yris
told me your uncle returned. That should please you.”

Carah broke into a wail, ran to her
chamber, and slammed the door.

~~~~

K
elyn had no intention of
apologizing for his daughter, and he’d be damned if he’d suffer embarrassment
when the accusation rang true, even if Carah had expressed it inappropriately.
“She counted on you, brother. When you didn’t show up, Rhoslyn and I had to
nurse the wounds you inflicted. Your reason for breaking her heart had better
be a bloody good one.”

Weariness and sorrow creased
Thorn’s face. “Is war a good enough reason?”

Before Kelyn could ask what he
meant, Rhoslyn hurried onto the landing. Her hand flew to her chest. “Thorn,
you damnable fool! How are you? Come in and tell us everything.” She too must have
mistaken Rhian for a groom; her gaze darted past him, returned and stuck. “And
who is this?”

“Rhian, my apprentice,” said Thorn.

“Ah. So you’re what my daughter is
upset about.”

Kelyn glimpsed a touch of ice in Rhoslyn’s
eye as she glanced toward Thorn. She concealed it masterfully, however, as she
reached for Rhian’s arm. “No matter. I’m sure everything will be sorted out
soon enough. You must be tired.” She ushered them into the family’s favorite
parlor. Yris poured Doreli red into three goblets and brandy into a fourth. Kelyn
hadn’t drunk red wine by choice in over twenty years.

Settling on the edge of a settee,
Rhoslyn asked, “Have you been ill, Thorn?”

He sank into a fireside armchair
with a groan. “No, Your Grace, never ill. In fact, I’m in better shape now than
I ever was at twenty.” He leaned toward his brother and patted Kelyn’s belly.
“Unlike the lord of the house.”

Kelyn huffed indignantly and wagged
a finger. “I’ll have you know I’ve not had to let out my belt in a decade.”

Thorn grinned. “Looks like that
belt is pinching a bit to me.” He cast a wink toward Rhoslyn.

Kelyn set down his glass with a
sharp click. “Gone for four years and immediately he starts with the insults.
If we
were
still twenty, I’d take you down and make you beg for mercy.”

“Does that mean you can’t take me
down at forty, War Commander?”

Kelyn tensed for the spring.

“Boys!” cried Rhoslyn. “Take it outside.”

Thorn’s laughter was deep and easy,
as if he hadn’t had the opportunity for laughter in many, many days and
relished the feel of it. He stretched out his legs in leisurely fashion and took
the time to swill his wine. “Now that Carah thoroughly despises me, how is
Kethlyn?”

Rhoslyn beamed with pride. “I left
him in Windhaven. For the first time, he didn’t come back with me. He insisted.
I’m going my best not to worry about him. I have to admit, he is ready to take
over most of my responsibilities. Often all he requires is my signature on
official documents. I suppose I should be hurt to be reduced to nothing more
than a scrawl of ink, but I’m relieved actually. Let Kethlyn worry about
merchant squabbles and pirate hangings, and—”

Thorn interrupted with a snort of
laughter. “Hanging the kindred, are we?” He glanced at his apprentice.

All this while, Rhian had remained
as aloof as he’d been in the courtyard. He seemed content to tag along behind
his mentor, owning neither opinion nor passion about much of anything. He
reclined in the velvet chair in the corner, savoring the wine. At Thorn’s
comment, he glanced up and shifted uneasily.

“Thorn said you’re from the Pearl
Islands?” Kelyn asked.

Rhian cleared his throat. “Rávalin,
aye, m’ lord. My family were pearl fishers.”

Thorn tossed a pillow at him. “Not
going to claim kin after all?”

Rhian blushed, but he blinked as if
at a loss.

“Claim kin?” Rhoslyn leaned around
the arm of Kelyn’s chair to see the young avedra better.

“Sure,” Thorn answered for him.
“Rhian here is practically family.”

Rhian managed a narrow-eyed grin.
Kelyn suspected that their relationship wasn’t always roses. “ ‘Practically’
doesn’t make it so, Dathiel.”

“Please, I’d like to hear it,”
Rhoslyn prompted.

“So be it, Your Grace,” Rhian said.
“It happens that my Grandmother Raysa had a sister. And that sister happened to
marry the younger brother of a certain duke, and that is all.”

Rhoslyn’s hazel eyes brightened.
“The banished brother who turned pirate! His son was my cousin Rehaan, captain
of the
Aurion
!”

“My cousin as well, Your Grace.
Only on the low-down and dirty pirate side.”

Rhoslyn squirmed on the edge of the
settee. “Who could’ve guessed? And yet there’s something about your face that
reminds me of Rehaan. Did you know him at all?”

“I met him only once. All I
remember is that he wore red and he scared the shit outta me. Oh, pardons. I
don’t think I was even three. He’d returned to the Islands so Prince Naovhan could
pardon him. That was right before he sailed south for the last time.”

Rhoslyn saddened. “ ‘Down she dove
‘neath the indigo main’,” she muttered, quoting the old song.

Thorn stood abruptly. “Well, Your Grace,
I leave my apprentice in your care while I go wrestle my ugly brother to the
ground. Outside, of course.”

Kelyn took the hint. Time for
serious talk.

~~~~

A
top the eastern tower,
Thorn filled his lungs with the scent of home. Greening meadows and muddy
riverbanks, horses and sheep and kitchen smoke. Under these lingered hints of
cold, lichen-painted stone and the perfume from his mother’s garden. In all his
travels, there was nothing more familiar or comforting. He never meant to be
away so long.