Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (45 page)

“Did they? You shall have to tell
me sometime, over lots of wine, you understand. My daughter keeps too many
secrets, it seems. And how does a pearl fisher come under the tutelage of Thorn
Kingshield?”

Rhian’s smile was almost wistful. “
‘Twas a—” The blare of trumpets, far away on the outer wall, interrupted him. A
short while later, they blared again, closer, brazen, and the thinning sea of
Leanian blue parted. Carah climbed onto the fountain wall to see over the
bobbing, shifting heads. Heralds in green velvet rode through the inner gate
carrying banners twice as long as their horses. The white falcon flapped over
their heads.

“I can’t believe it!” Carah cried.
“They’re actually here.”

“Get down!” Rhian ordered.

She ignored him, pushed his hand
away, and enjoyed the parade. Twenty-five guards followed the heralds; their
white cloaks were so long that they billowed over their horses’ rumps. Silver
wings swept back from the sides of polished helms. The man commanding them waved
an arm over the heads of the onlookers. “Clear the way for the White Falcon!” The
guests, pages, and grooms who had poured from the castle to witness their
arrival scuttled from the clatter of hooves. But that was not far enough. The
vanguard split into two lines that trotted through the courtyard in a widening
wedge, clearing the people away from the steps of the keep. The riders in the
rear closed a circle barbed with sheathed swords. Into the empty space rode a
man on a white horse. Wearing neither a crown nor the device of his House, he
might’ve been just another highborn. Carah would have glanced past him if it
weren’t for the way he carried himself; some kind of unnamed grandeur set him
apart. Perhaps it was the offhanded confidence that came with the absolute certainty
of his authority.

For a moment, he owned that empty
circle in the middle of Bramoran.

A rearguard of twenty-five more
White Mantles followed him closely. Behind them, Fiera’s lords and ladies and
their heirs filed through the gate. Green boars, green primroses, green grapes,
red towers, white hazelnuts, purple leaves, and black gargoyles fluttered on
the wind. Carah’s excitement shrank before a rush of fear. The Fieran entourage
looked like a small army drawn up inside the gate, and she realized how near
disaster loomed. She’d heard all the tales, all the songs, all her life, but surely
they fell short of reality. She never imagined she would see the ancient enmity
directed at her, but there was it, plain on the stony faces drawn up across the
cobblestones. Scars earned fighting Aralorris branded many a cheek and brow. One
harsh word, one insulting gesture, and the warriors among them would as soon
cut her throat as look at her.

The White Falcon rode halfway up
the steps and dismounted. One of the Mantles led his horse away, and the king
stood a long while above the crowd, meticulously removing one riding glove,
then the next, apparently untouched by the silence reverberating in the
courtyard, the stares of hundreds of enrapt eyes. He tucked the gloves away and
took a slow, careful measure of the upturned faces, the surrounding walls lined
with sentries, any one of whom might hold a grudge and loose a single arrow.
Turning, slowly turning, his glance crossed over Carah standing higher than her
neighbors, and she thought that for a half a heartbeat the White Falcon’s eyes
arrested on her before moving on.

Deciding that it was better to go
unnoticed, she slid down from the wall to stand between Uncle Allaran and
Rhian.

The silver doors of the keep swung open
like a gaping mouth, and King Valryk emerged, surrounded by four Falcon Guards
in black. Every Aralorri in the courtyard dropped to a knee. Carah couldn’t see
a thing now but Leanian arses. To hell with it. She rose again and gawked with
the rest. The Falcon Crown gleamed golden upon Valryk’s brow, and a cerulean
cloak lined with ermine followed him down the steps with the weight and flow of
an avalanche. “Ah! Cousin!” He opened his arms as he approached the White
Falcon, clasped his shoulders, and kissed him on each cheek.

A good show. Was it genuine? Didn’t
matter. The courtyard erupted with cheers. The Fierans were decidedly quieter,
perhaps not yet warmed to their surroundings or ready to believe the gesture.
The Falcon kings exchanged pleasantries, their words drowned by the outcry,
then Valryk swept Arryk away into the keep. The White Mantles clung closely,
and the entourage of highborns followed. Not one of them lingered in the
courtyard to stroll or mingle.

As they passed, Uncle Allaran
pointed them out. “Mother’s bosom, look at that. Lady Athmar herself. Never
expected Drona to cross the Bryna without a sword drawn.” Carah saw only an old
woman at the end of his finger. Iron-gray, short-cropped hair curled around a square
face as hard and lined as a block of oak. She wore not a riding gown, as some
of the other ladies, but leathers and a studded doublet like a man. The sword
on her hip was plain for all to see. “A formidable wall she and her brother
were. Twins, you know, and they were loath to take prisoners. That young buck
beside her. That must be her nephew, Lord Ulmarr. He’s to inherit Athmar as
well. He was only two when we razed the place and your father lopped off his
father’s head—”

“
My
father?” Da had left
that detail out of the story.

“You don’t think he could afford to
be merciful all the time, do you?”

She didn’t guess so, but neither
could she imagine her father lopping off a man’s head. Lawbreakers in town,
poachers, and highwaymen were all hanged in the village square. Da condemned
them after a hearing, but he wasn’t the one who pulled the lever.

Uncle Allaran pointed out many more
notables, among them the new Lord Quelstorn who’d been granted his lands after
the old Lord Quelstorn was beheaded for supposedly plotting to murder Queen
Istra; Lord Johf, son of Lord Haezeldale and brother to one or another of
Shadryk’s queens; Lady Arwythe, maternal aunt of King Arryk; Lord Machara, some
distant cousin of the renowned and terrifying Warlord Goryth.

“I don’t see Brengarra’s banner,”
Carah said, hoping Laral would provide one familiar face. His daughter was a
sweet girl, if a bit silly in her constant search for a beautiful love song. Carah
had hoped for a companion to provide an excuse to avoid Maeret.

As soon as the last Fieran disappeared
inside, the Leanians and Aralorris in the courtyard succumbed to gossip and
excited babble. The roar was a tiresome flood in Carah’s ears. “Oh, where is
Uncle Thorn?” She drooped down onto the fountain wall. “I need a bath before
supper. Do you see him?”

Rhian made no attempt to hide his
frown of disapproval. “Have you been using Veil Sight?”

“My body aches enough without adding
a headache to it. If I got sick here—”

“Use the bloody Veil Sight. Sure I
taught you for a reason. The headaches will go away if you keep practicing, and
you would’ve seen Dathiel pass long before those trumpets raised a raucous over
nothing.”

Over nothing? Carah gritted her
teeth. She shouldn’t expect a pearl fisher to understand. “Tomorrow, after I’ve
rested.”

“Why did we bring you then? It’s
impossible you are.”

Uncle Allaran watched the exchange
with growing effrontery. That a commoner should speak to a lady in such a way.
He cleared his throat and with a firm hand led Rhian away from the fountain and
his grandniece. “While you wait for orders, tell me of the Islands.” It was a
tactful way of reminding the pearl fisher of his place, and while Carah was
grateful to her uncle, something in her felt sorry for Rhian, too. With half an
ear she listened to his answers to Allaran’s questions, then he began to
elaborate on the dangers of pearl diving. Son of the Sea… “The last time I
dived, there was a seal. It brought me here.” Carah glanced up at him, a peal
of incredulous laughter bubbling up until she saw that he was perfectly
serious. After that she found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, listening
for the foreign turn of his words, the way his voice rose at the ends of
sentences even though he wasn’t asking a question. Though he told his tales to
Allaran, he seemed to aim them at Carah. The cut of his eyes in her direction
was like a secret caress, and while he explained the self-debasement of selling
pearls to a man who never dived for them and could not appreciate them, Carah
heard inside her head,
This I inherited from my father. Is there no nobility
in it?

She whirled away from him and saw
that the courtyard was all but empty. Dusk settled inside the walls, and the orange
glow of sunset backlit the western towers. Enough was enough. “The banquet will
start without us, and I can’t dine with kings smelling of horse.” She was
halfway up the steps before Rhian caught her by the arm. Allaran followed more
slowly, puffing a bit.

“We’re to wait—”

“You wait!” she retorted. “
Men
.
All you have to do is scrub an armpit or two and you consider yourselves
presentable. I’ll deal with Uncle Thorn and proclaim your innocence.” She wrenched
her arm free and entered the castle. Once a steward learned her name, he led
her to the new wing. She supposed Rhian followed, though she refrained from glancing
back. Her room, on the top floor, was done up in lilac silk and even smelled of
lilacs. The sickly sweet perfume was overwhelming. Her trunk had been opened,
her gowns and robe hung in an armoire, and a maid was ironing them one by one. “Oh,
you dear thing,” Carah said. “Is my bath cold?”

The maid, a small, ginger-colored
woman, curtsied. “Water’s reheating now, m’ lady. Which gown will m’ lady wear
this evening?”

Carah chose the pale blue silk with
the long slender sleeves, though the idea of dressing for a dinner party after
riding all day was enough to make her groan. Spoiled, that’s what she was. If
the Assembly was ever held at Ilswythe again, she would show more sympathy to
the highborns who ended their days of travel with an all-night dance. No wonder
everyone was cranky during the talks.

The maid was in the middle of
tightening Carah’s stays when the chamber door crashed open. Carah shrieked,
which caused the maid to shriek, but Da standing on the threshold looked most
terrified of all. As soon as he saw Carah at the mirror, his fear turned to
rage.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for
you,” he began, anger restrained, then he glared at the maid and ordered her
out.

As soon as she fled through the
servants’ entrance, Thorn appeared amid a shimmering, dissolving curtain. He
shut and locked the door. “The first order I give you, you blithely disobey.
Why in all the Abyss do you suppose I hadn’t come for you yet?” His hands
gestured wildly. “There are wards set up all over the castle, Carah. Magical barriers
that humans can’t weave. I can only suspect who Valryk is in league with, and
this is not good.”

“Barriers? What kind of barriers?”
As she breathed in, the stays unraveled down her back. She had to tug the dress
up and hold it in place.

“The same kind that kept us from
gleaning information from the ogres we captured. They’re woven around the minds
of every member of Bramoran’s household, garrison, the Falcon Guard, all of
them. I passed Valryk in the corridor, and his mind was barred from me, too. In
other words, I can’t figure out what he’s planned or why or when, but it’s
something that someone fears might leak out ahead of time. What’s wrong with
rumor floating around, eh? And the fact that someone anticipated the presence
of avedrin and went to the pains of shielding all these minds has me doubly
worried. This
someone
has to be close and concentrating continually or
the wards would unravel, yet they remain as solid and deafening as an
earth-packed wall.”

“But who, Uncle—?”

“Elarion.”

“Here?”

Someone rapped on the door. Thorn
turned the lock. Rhian slipped in. “I could hear you bellowing in the corridor.
Mind yourself.”

Thorn wagged a finger. “You were
supposed to keep her outside.”

“I walked right over him,” Carah
said. “It wasn’t his doing. Now, may I recall my maid or will one of you
gentlemen finish her job for her?”

Looking sheepish, Thorn said, “Turn
around.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

He grinned. “I know how this
works.”

His brother made a sound of
disgust.

“I won’t ask how,” Carah said, grabbing
hold of the bedpost. With a giggle she added, “Or whom.”

“Ha, ha,” he replied drily. While
he pulled the stays taut he ordered, “Rhian, be useful. Go to the kitchens, the
stables, the armory, be charming, ask questions, see if you can get someone
talking. Make use of those eyes if you must, kiss a few girls, but learn
something.”

“Degrading assignment,” he said,
but even with her back turned Carah detected his insincerity. She tried not to
imagine him nuzzling the neck of her ginger-haired maid but failed. He slipped
out again.

Da was wearing a hole in the rug. “I’ll
ask Lissah. Surely she knows what’s going on.”

“And she might not be willing to
let you in on the secret.” Thorn tied off Carah’s stays. “Invite her back here
for a drink and a chat. I’d like to know if the ward is woven around her as
well.”

~~~~

K
elyn wound through the new
guest quarters to the ancient wings of the castle, feeling as if every maid and
valet he passed was watching him out of more than idle curiosity. Some of the
faces he recognized, but many more were new to these halls. Why the drastic change
in staff? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d stumbled into an enemy camp
and was trying desperately to look as if he belonged. Lissah would put an end
to it. Theirs had been a long, cold armistice, but the mere sight of her would
ease Kelyn’s mind.

At the end of a long corridor lit
by silver lamps loomed a pair of silver doors in which falcons swooped and
dived over distant mountains. A pair of Falcon Guards stood in front the doors
rather than flanked them, which meant the king was elsewhere. The Audience
Chamber where Rhorek had held court was to hold court no more. Valryk chose to
govern his people from a new room of cold, pristine stone lacking any hint of
history or legacy. The headquarters of the Falcon Guard had yet to be moved,
however. They remained behind the unassuming door to the left.

Kelyn knocked loudly. A stranger
opened the door, gave Kelyn a bland glance up and down, and asked, “Yes?”

“I am looking for Captain Lissah.”

“Ah, you’ve not-a heard,” he said
in a foreign accent. “Er, m’ lord. Just a moment.” The stranger shut the door
before Kelyn could demand answers. He had time to pace angrily across the
corridor and back again before the door opened. An pale man with wide
cheekbones and almond-shaped gray eyes filled the threshold.

“My Lord War Commander, I am
Captain Dashka. How may I help you?” His accent was as unfamiliar as his face.
He pronounced the ‘l’ far back on his tongue, as if he were on the verge of
gagging.

“Dashka? What kind of name is that,
man? Who are you?”

“My name is of the Valroi, and I
told you who I am.”

“Why would the king send to Valrosk
for a guard’s captain? He can’t find one of his own countrymen worthy enough? Where’s
Lissah?”

“My predecessor, you mean? Was that
her name? I heard she offended His Majesty and he dismissed her. Where she is
now, I cannot say.”

“Can’t you?” Kelyn heard his own
teeth grinding and clenched his jaw tight.

“His Majesty pays me handsomely to
do his will and keep him safe from any and all danger.” Those strange gray eyes
missed nothing. They were like tentacles that searched out Kelyn’s secrets. An
expert in the arts of interrogation, if Kelyn was any judge. “You are wise to
forebear weapons in these corridors, my lord. We wouldn’t want anyone to think
you meant to harm His Majesty’s guests. Now, is there a matter you might take
up with me?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Dashka crooked a finger and
two more Falcons emerged from the offices. Dark, southern men both, they too
were strangers. “The banquet is sure to begin soon. These good men will escort
you back to your quarters.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Captain. I
know my way around Bramoran better than you do.” Kelyn made an about-face and
started back the way he’d come. The footfalls of the two Guards kept time with
his own.

~~~~

C
arah drummed her fingers on
the vanity and fidgeted with her hair, not sure she liked what the maid had
done with it. Her empty belly grumbled. “It isn’t seemly for a lady to gobble
like a dog, Uncle Thorn, but that’s what I’ll end up doing if he doesn’t hurry.
Then I’ll get hot and be sick. Where
is
he?” She didn’t dare go down to
the banquet without her father to escort her. What would people say? They had
missed the first courses, she was sure of it.

Uncle Thorn had stationed himself
at the window and gazed down into the courtyard. “Rhian’s on his way back. Just
came out of the barracks.”

Less chance of him nuzzling
swan-like necks there. “Shall we go for the bread in our saddlebags?”

The door opened. Da gave them a
scathing glare, then peered back down the corridor. “You may leave now,
gentlemen!” he called, voice echoing under the vaulted ceiling. “I’ve arrived
without managing to stab anyone, as you can well see.”

Carah exchanged a worried frown
with her uncle.

Da slammed the door shut. “Trailed
like an accursed criminal!”

“Well?” asked Thorn, abandoning the
window.

“Lissah’s gone. There’s some
foreign bootlick in her place. Something about his eyes, scared the shit of me.
Mercenaries, can you believe it? Valryk is an idiot, hiring foreigners to guard
him. Apparently it’s his own people he fears.”

Carah had rarely seen her father so
distraught. Seeing it made her long for the safety of home.

Da raked hands through his hair as
he paced. “If anyone has hurt her…”

Uncle Thorn seemed to find it
difficult to look at his brother. “Did she never marry, have a family?”

“No.” The word sounded so forlorn.

Are Da and Lissah … lovers?

Thorn glanced around at her, as if
surprised she were old enough to catch on. His brain failed to bar the truth
from her.
Long ago. Before you were born.

That’s why she always looked
ready to flay him. I can’t imagine Da loving anyone but Mum.

Don’t try.
To
Kelyn he said, “Look, I’ll keep poking around. When your squire gets here,
you’d better go down. You’ll be missed.”

T
he new
King’s Hall was a cavernous monument in warm yellow-gray stone. It lacked the
shine and formal beauty of the old Audience Chamber, but had a more austere,
masculine ambiance. Chandeliers that looked like inverted fountains hung
heavily from robust rafters under high, echoing vaults. Soft music of flute and
harp descended from a gallery, and rows of lacquered tables filled the floor. Aralorris
and Evaronnans sat on one side, Fierans on the other. The Leanians were dispersed
among them. A diplomatic arrangement. The room sweltered with bodies and
gossip, laughter and restrained hostility. At the far end of the Hall the three
kings sat behind a raised table of richly carved white thellnyth wood, Ha’el to
Valryk’s left, Arryk to his right. They appeared to be conversing amiably.
Probably small talk about things that didn’t shape nations or start wars. The
sight of it eased Carah considerably.

At the end of the high table sat Ha’el’s
son, Prince Da’yn. He spooned something into his mouth with abandon. Both
father and son had the small eyes and round, fleshy cheeks of their
predecessor, King Bano’en. One hoped that their resemblance to swine would
lessen with the generations, but alas. It was an unseemly comparison for kings.
Aralorris blamed it on frequent inbreeding among the Leanian line. True to
form, Prince Da’yn was supposedly betrothed to his first cousin, the heiress of
Endhal. At fourteen, he already outweighed his father and seemed to care for
little but the next dish set in front of him. He had an older sister, Carah was
aware; she wondered if the princess was a match for her brother in size and
homeliness. Recently Mum mentioned that Princess Da’era might be a likely match
for Kethlyn. Carah pitied her brother.

As it turned out, representatives
of House Ilswythe weren’t the only ones late to supper. Drem, Lord Brimlad
helped his mother, the Princess Rilyth into the Hall. King Valryk’s great-aunt
leaned on an ivory-headed walking stick that wobbled in her feeble grasp. Drem
himself looked paler than usual. Though he was a year or two younger than Da,
he looked twenty years older, his features shrunken, his hair thin and white
from a life of suffering one illness after another.

What a trial, creeping along
behind the old princess, Carah thought, her belly rumbling, the scent of
delectable dishes wafting up her nose. The herald stationed at the door
announced the late arrivals; a page led Drem and his mother to their seats in
one direction and another showed Kelyn and Carah to theirs. Surveying the
tables, she decided the soup and salad courses had come and gone. Footmen were
bringing round trays of stuffed peppers and some kind of fish in an herby lemon
sauce.

“I don’t see Eliad, damn him,” Da
whispered, oblivious to the food. “I will not be responsible for his neglect,
even if he is my vassal.”

“Kethlyn’s not here either.” His
golden head ought to be shining among the crowd, but it wasn’t. She hoped her
brother wouldn’t earn the king’s wrath, too.

“Kelyn, here.” Uncle Allaran
stood and waved them over in the most un-genteel fashion. Most of the highborns
were too boisterous themselves to notice or care. Master Brugge had arrived and
sat across the table from him, still wearing dusty scalemail and shoveling
peppers into his mouth. Garrs, Lord Helwende occupied the chair next to the
dwarf and seemed half-drunk already. “I traded places with Lady Lunélion and
her family,” Allaran added, wrapping an arm around his nephew and giving him a
good jostle. “This way, we can carouse together. Like old times, eh?”

“Like old times? Oh, do tell.” Carah
planted a kiss on her great-uncle’s cheek. “I much prefer
your
company.
You have no idea how grateful—”

Her father cast her a glare that warned
her to be polite, so she found Maeret across the aisle and offered her a
friendly smile, even though it felt like pricking her mouth with needles to do
it.

Allaran’s daughter rose from the
table to kiss her cousins. Ni’avh, if Carah remembered, was the shy one of the
three. Though her little son resembled her, sharing her hazel eyes and light
brown curls, he seemed to be anything but timid. He clambered up on his chair
and frowned at Carah. “You must be Lassar,” she said.

“I’m four!” he declared, holding
up three fingers. His mother pried up his pinky.

“Is the food good?”

He nodded exuberantly, reached
for a half-eaten slice of buttered bread, and shoved it at Carah.

“Sit down, darling, like a
gentleman,” Ni’avh said.

“He’ll be a strong, brave knight
one day,” Allaran said, beaming at his grandson, and while he bragged about the
boy, Carah felt a touch on her elbow.

Rhian leaned close. There was
something oddly nervous in the way he lowered his chin and refused to look at
her.
A squire … how do I … what do I do?
I mean, I watched Jaedren,
but …

Carah nearly choked on a chuckle.
Pointing at the other squires ranged along the walls, she told him,
Just do
as they do.
Pain squeezed at her nape.
Stand back there until you’re
needed. Look disciplined, don’t slouch or lean against the wall. Anticipate our
needs. Keep the wine glasses half full unless we tell you otherwise, be ready
to pull out our chairs or push them in. Don’t touch anything with your hands
that goes into our mouths, use a napkin to hold those things, and don’t worry
about serving us food, we’ll choose the morsels we want when the footmen bring the
trays. But if we require anything else, we’ll let you know. Da or I will raise
a finger for you, so keep an eye out.

The thoughts came so fast that
Rhian responded with a wide-eyed gape.
Shit
, he replied and went to
stand against the wall just in time for Kelyn to pull out his chair. Rhian
rushed forward again and scooted it under him as he sat. Carah covered a giggle
behind her hand and let him do the same for her.

The food and wine were as
delectable as she had hoped. Lamb and porpoise and peahen followed the fish,
each accompanied by its own sauce and its own wine. Valryk hadn’t played the
hypocrite by serving Fieran white, which was admirable. The dessert wine ended
up being a sweet, sparkling blush from Dorél, which paired beautifully with
cream cakes and strawberry glaze. Too bad the talk wasn’t as refined. Seated
between her father and her uncle, Carah learned more than she cared to about
the last war as they traded memories with Garrs and Brugge. The drunker Garrs
got, the more he delighted in telling his neighbors how he lost the first two
fingers of his left hand. Every time he said “Fieran” he whispered the word
hoarsely. Little Lassar’s mouth made a wet pink ‘o’ as he stared at the maimed
hand and compared it to his own.

So far, little seemed different
from the Assembly at Ilswythe. It was good to be seated below with friends
instead of perched on the dais looking down at them as usual. Once, when Carah
glanced toward the high table, she saw all three kings staring her direction. The
White Falcon leaned close to the Black, who whispered at length to him. Perhaps
they spoke of her father, instead. The White Falcon had every reason to be
curious about Aralorr’s War Commander, after all. But when King Ha’el found her
staring back, he dipped his chin and raised his goblet in a silent toast to her.
They
were
discussing her! Carah returned the gesture shakily, then
turned her eyes toward her plate and kept them there.

Once dessert was cleared away,
the musicians struck a lively tune, inviting the highborns to drift away from
the tables and into the next room. A brilliant silver chandelier glistened
above an open floor elaborately patterned in half a dozen colors of Doreli
marble. Chairs and columns clung to the walls. At one end was a dais and three
gilded armchairs for the kings. Opposite them, under the three royal banners,
was a table piled with towers of cakes and fruit and candied flowers. Footmen
poured wine into chilled silver flutes. It was everything Carah thought a
ballroom should be, and such a glorious surprise after worrying that all the
fun would be excluded from the convention. “Da, dance with me.” She tugged his
hand.