Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (39 page)

Laral groaned. “You troubled
yourself for nothing. My apologies.”

“You see?” Bethyn said, undeterred.
“Secretly he knows I’m right, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.”

Arryk tugged off a fine pair of
eel-skin gloves and let the steward take his mink-lined cloak. Andryn brought
him a chair and positioned it on the other side of the footstool. The White
Falcon made himself at home, stretching out his legs and soaking up the heat
from the fire. “Your lady is wise. You’re too ill to risk it.”

Laral resented that smug jump in Wren’s
eyebrows. “But, sire, this is the perfect opportunity. Why now of all times
must I be indisposed? I fail you at the most critical moment.”

“What
are
you going on
about?”

“The bridge! My duty. Ambassador
from the other side. Everything I promised to do for relations between Aralorr
and Fiera. Now is the time, and I’m stuck here because some bloody doctor mentioned
the word ‘pneumonia’.” He threw a forearm across his mouth and coughed up
enough slime to gag a slug.

Arryk crossed his arms. An emerald
ring winked in the firelight. “You’re not very convincing. Besides, the journey
will be more peaceful if Lady Drona isn’t having to stare at your ugly Aralorri
face the whole way.”

Lesha gasped and turned up her
nose. “Lady Athmar is uncouth.”

“Keep your opinions of your elders
to yourself, my dear,” Bethyn warned behind the warmest of smiles and waved the
children out.

“She
is
uncouth,” Arryk said
as Lesha and Andryn bowed from the Hall, “but her sword arm is still able, and
Rance won’t leave my side. That, I promise you.”

Laral swore bitterly under his
breath. “And here I had worked up all the right things to say to my father.”
The last time he saw Lord Lander was at his wedding to Wren. Father brooded the
entire time and proved himself all too eager to flee back to his side of the
bridge as soon as the ceremony was over. He didn’t bother kissing his new
daughter’s cheek, nor had he even presented himself to her properly. Laral had
to point him out to her from across the crowd. Humiliating. The last he saw of
Lord Lander was his back and his horse’s arse cantering north again.

He remained so bitter about Laral’s
choice of a bride that he forbade Ruthan to cross the river for a visit, even
when Lesha was born. Of course, Ruthan was only twelve at the time. Years
later, she finally worked up the courage to sneak away during the week Father spent
at Ilswythe for the Assembly. By taking the new bridge at Athmar, she was able
to stay at Brengarra for three whole days before she had to hurry home again.
She claimed that Father never knew she was away. Always a bit vacant-eyed,
Ruthan had grown into a strange, otherworldly sort of woman, quiet and tender
in her affections toward her niece and nephews. They adored her as much as
Laral did. She had never married, and apparently Lord Lander, knowing that she
wasn’t quite … right … had never insisted. Laral supposed that, by now, Father
was feeling a little panicky about the future of Tírandon. He had hoped to take
the opportunity this week to mend the breach between them.

“Ah,” Arryk said. “That
is
your noblest reason for going, but even that won’t work. I won’t lose my
dearest friend to his carelessness. Understand? So blame
me
if you must.
You have your orders.”

The White Falcon had spoken.

Grudgingly Laral nodded. “But I insist
you stop by on your return and tell me everything that happened, everything
that was said, every insult and blow.”

Arryk chuckled. “I shall be your
most faithful informant.”

Master Arvold delivered a wine
service, and Bethyn poured for the king and herself. Laral was already
half-drunk from the physician’s mysterious elixir. Arryk sipped the crisp
winter white and grew somber. “You know my misgivings. I wouldn’t be going
myself if I felt I had a choice.”

“Of course, you have a choice,
Arryk.”

“Do I? Imagine, a war because I
didn’t attend Valryk’s party.”

“On the bright side, you’ll be the
first Fieran king to see the inside of Bramoran in an elf’s years. At least
this one will go down in the history books.”

“Yes, but in what way? I’ve gotten
too used to the throne. I don’t like this feeling of powerlessness.”

“Just do your part to keep the
peace and you’ll put the rest to shame.”

That seemed to ease Arryk a little.
He relaxed into the wine. More than once he’d told Laral that he cherished his
time at Brengarra because in these halls rest wrapped warm arms around him.

Master Arvold sniffed to announce
his return and proclaimed, “His Majesty’s bath is prepared.”

“Ah, glorious luxuries.” Arryk
heaved himself out of the chair. “I feel like I’ve been trammeled under a
parade of horses. Improved carriages, indeed. We’ll talk again tonight, if
you’re up to it.”

Laral doubted he’d be able to speak
at all by suppertime but bowed his head in acquiescence and watched the king
go. On the threshold Arryk paused, patted his chest, and fished an envelope
from inside his doublet. “Where’s Lesha?” he asked the steward.

She poked her golden head around
the doorpost. Of course, she and Andryn had been listening in the corridor,
nosey little snipes.

Laral wasn’t so sick that he missed
the sparkle ignite in Lesha’s eyes or the way they clung to the envelope. Her
fingers twined into a knot, then snatched the letter and concealed it in the
folds of her skirts. Arryk whispered something that sounded suspiciously like,
“…knew he’d steal you from me…” and “…walking on air, last I saw…” Giggles and
blushes and eyes cutting Laral’s direction, and Lesha tried to slip away, but
her father was having none of it.

“Hey!” he barked, raw throat making
him sound more menacing than a rockslide.

“Don’t excite yourself,” Bethyn
warned him.

Lesha’s face went as straight as a
brick wall, and the White Falcon condemned her to her fate. “Good luck, lady.”

As soon as Arryk’s footsteps
receded Laral jabbed a finger for his daughter to present herself, front and
center. Andryn skipped ahead of his big sister. “Lesha’s got a love letter,
love letter,” he chanted.

“Oh, shut up, Andy Pansy.”

“Give it to me,” Laral demanded,
holding out his hand.

“What?” Lesha secured the letter
behind her back.

“He won’t read it,” her mother
consoled.

“The hell I won’t!”

“Dearest,” Wren said, “I won’t
allow it. My foot is firmly down on this one. Neither did I allow anyone to
read
your
letters to me. Not even Lady Brighthill. Have some wine.”

“I don’t want any damn wine. If I’m
too sick to go with Arryk tomorrow, I’m too sick to put up with this horseshit.
Tell me who he is.
Now
.”

Lesha twisted side to side. “Oh,
Da, you remember him. You met him at this year’s Turning Festival. He’s the
king’s first cousin on his mother’s side, and one of his courtiers.” Her nose
lifted high, as if this was recommendation enough.

“What’s his bloody
name
.”

“Tarsyn, Father. He’s from
Ca’yndale.”

Laral sneezed into his kerchief. “I
don’t recall any Tarsyn.”

“Ah,” Bethyn said, “is he the young
man I saw you dance with at the last banquet?”

Andryn snorted, making a poor
attempt to keep his laughter to himself.

“The dark one,” Bethyn went on,
“with the strange-looking sword?”

“
Him
?” Laral roared, the
reference to the sword jogging his memory. “That fop who can’t say who his
father is?”

“Da!” exclaimed Lesha.

“I’m not the one causing the
scandal here. He’s a bastard or he isn’t, and I’ll be damned if—” A coughing
attack put a stop to the threat before he could voice it.

Lesha took the opportunity. “He
knows who his mother is, and she is the sister of a queen. If the family was
good enough for Shadryk, it should be good enough for you.”

Defiance? From his sweet little
girl? “Can you believe this?” Laral choked out. “Wren, did you encourage it?”

“I haven’t encouraged anything.
First I’ve heard of it.” Her eyes warned him to speak softly. The matter was
better discussed between them in private.

But Laral hoped to beat her to the punch.
“Just because I was married on a bridge doesn’t mean I have to tolerate
everything.”

Bethyn cleared her throat. “Lesha,
your lute. Play something nice, eh? It will make everyone feel better.”

Sulking, Lesha tucked the letter
inside her bodice and grabbed the instrument off the table. The opening notes
of Alovi’s Ballad leapt from her fingers. Three years before, Brengarra opened
its doors to a young minstrel who claimed to have come from the courts at
Graynor and Bramoran. Byrn the Blue was on his way to try his hand before the
White Falcon. Indeed, in his pocket he carried commendations from King Ha’el,
the Black Falcon, Lord Ilswythe, and half a dozen more. Lord Allaran of Wyramor
acted as his official patron, however, because unknowingly the bard wrote his
first song about Wyramor’s beloved sister. He asked only for stories in
exchange for his songs, stories he could set to music and turn into legend. The
story of Wren’s imprisonment and her marriage to a foreign lord upon a bridge
had dazzled his imagination. By the next morning, he was counting out the
syllables of a new song.

Lesha adored his ballad about Lady
Alovi so much that she’d begged the bard to teach it to her before he left. She
sang it now with a voice as sweet and clear as her mother’s. “I shall seek
thee, love, near and far, though I search beyond sun and star…”

Laral grunted in disgust, certain
his daughter imagined herself in Lady Alovi’s shoes, searching through the
mists of adversity for her forbidden love. “You’re right, Wren, I’m too sick to
handle this.”

“You need more elixir?” she asked.

“I’ll get it!” Andryn piped and
raced from the Lord’s Hall. He took so long in returning that Bethyn started
huffing and glancing at the bell rope. She rose from the king’s chair to give
it a ring, but paused as Andryn crossed the threshold. On a tray he brought the
elixir in a blue glass bottle, along with a bowl of steaming broth and little
squares of twice-baked bread that Cook always had on hand for him when he was
bedridden. He had to go slowly, with his tongue sticking out, or the broth might
slosh over the side. A squire’s task. Laral and Bethyn exchanged a pained
expression.

“You didn’t have to trouble
yourself, son,” Bethyn said as Andy set the tray over his da’s knees.

“Soup was almost ready anyway,” he
said, flinging out the linen napkin. “I just had to rush the cooks a little.”

Laral’s chuckle ended with a cough.
Andryn held the tray still; when the spasm passed, he popped the cork off the
blue bottle and measured out a spoonful. “Smells like shit, Da.”

“Andy!” his mother scolded.

Laral had to grab the tray again
because his laughter and coughing threatened to overturn the whole thing.
Goddess, his head was going to burst like a melon on training day. “Tastes like
it, too,” he said and shuddered through three spoonfuls.

Satisfied that he’d done his duty,
Andryn sat back on the arm of his mother’s chair. “I wish we coulda gone to
Bramoran, Da. I kinda miss Jaedren.”

Laral knew what followed next. He
drank the broth straight from the bowl, hoping the plea wouldn’t come, but it
did.

“I was hardly sick at all this
winter, Da. I think I’m strong enough to go to Ilswythe now.”

Bethyn laid her hands on her son’s
shoulders. “Andy, now’s not the time for this.”

“But when?” He shrugged out from
under her touch. “And don’t say ‘Maybe next year.’ It’s almost too late to
start. I can be a squire. I can go away like Jaedren. I can do it, really!”

Laral heaved a long rattling sigh.
Over Andryn’s head, Bethyn chewed her lip in a frightened sort of way. Their
usual excuse didn’t suffice anymore. For years they had told Andryn that they
were training him to be a peacetime lord, one who they hoped would not need a
sword in hand. Then why bother training Jaedren? he’d asked. Because peace is
fragile, they’d answered. “Then I need to know warfare, too,” was his reply.
Studies on paper did little to placate him. It was his body that was ill, not
his spirit. How to tell a boy that he had to behave like an invalid?

Melancholy notes rose from Lesha’s
lute. “
The mare of mist returned to tides of Bryna’s flow and waters white
.”

Andryn wanted to be part of the
tales, too. Shifting uneasily, Laral asked, “What if … what if I made you one
of
my
squires? Would that suit you?” He had two already. Haldred came
from Gildancove; his uncles had agreed to foster him out at Brengarra as a
statement of his disgrace. The boy wanted to be a knight rather than a ship’s
captain, and for the men in his family that was a scandal of the highest order.
Sedrik was one of the king’s cousins from Arwythe and had come under Laral’s
tutelage at Arryk’s recommendation. Both squires were more than able, so he
didn’t need a third.

Andryn went limp in the spine.
“But, Da, I would still be
here
.”

“Kelyn trained his own son. And
Kelyn was trained by his father. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. It’s just not the same.”

“Well, that’s the deal. Take it or
leave it.” While Andryn weighed his options, Laral added, “If you agree, you’ll
have to listen to Sed and Hal. And muck out the stables. I practically lived in
the stables when I was at Ilswythe. As we speak, your brother is either
performing the same book studies you are or he’s scraping horseshit off Kelyn’s
boots. Nothing more glorious than that.”

“But he’s learning swordsmanship,
too, right?” Andryn pressed.

“Your brother is only nine. I doubt
it.”