Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (48 page)

“But
it only takes one man to undo it.” He jabbed a finger and swept it from one side
of the room to the other. “Do not be that man. The scribes are writing. The singers
are watching. It will be infamy that you win. Not glory.”

At
his side, Valryk made a sharp sound, like a man with a garrote around his neck.
His face drained to the color of the parchment laid out in front of him as if
he were restraining the urge to vomit. The White Falcon reached out, but Valryk
waved him back and caught his breath. “I’m all right. Merely … burdened … with
the possibilities. Let us begin.”

The
highborns were permitted to argue over an agenda for a couple of hours before luncheon
was served. By then, Carah’s feet and the small of her back throbbed and her
belly rumbled emptily. How did the guardsmen do it? She looked from one to the
next, and not one guard so much as shifted his weight to relieve discomfort.

A
parade of footmen entered, carrying tureens that gave off the scent of mushrooms,
wine, and garlic; squires followed with trays of bread rounds, fruit, cheese,
butter whipped with cinnamon, and vegetables carved into the shapes of flowers.
Envious, Carah watched the highborns fall to. Her belly rumbled like a
rockslide. With an elbow she nudged Rhian and pointed at a tray of bread loaves
at the end of the nearest table.

I
can’t leave you here.

We
can go together. Left right left right.

Rhian
swallowed a chuckle at the idea of them walking in tandem and leaned languidly
against the wall, disinclined to risk stumbling into a servant for the sake of
Carah’s empty stomach.

I’ll
bet my maid took my lunch to my room. She’ll find me gone and tell Valryk. I’d
best go up and eat, do you think?

Stay
put. You want to be avedra? Well, here you are.

Thorn
starves you half the time, does he?
No
excuse for escape left, Carah groaned and watched the courses disappear one
after another. By the time the desserts arrived, she was so hungry and disgruntled
that she merely rolled her eyes at the towers of cakes and swirls of sugar. Across
the room, Thorn stifled a yawn and sipped from a goblet of wine he had managed
to swipe.

What
were we so worried about?
Carah complained.
Unbalance, my sweet arse. The only thing unbalanced is
that Fieran with the bridges on his surcoat. He’s so drunk he can barely sit
up.

Be
glad we might’ve interpreted the nightmare wrong
, Rhian scolded.

As
large as the Hall was, it had grown hot and stuffy; the meringues were collapsing
in the moist heat. Pages discreetly made for the row of arched windows along
the south wall and with long hooked poles tipped open the panes. The windows
were far too high to provide a view of anything but the overcast sky, but soon
the heat wafted out.

Almost
as soon as the Hall felt comfortable again, Valryk beckoned to a footman and
pointed at the windows, whispering sharply. The pages promptly returned and
closed the windows. The Black Falcon watched, frowning, until it was done, then
he stood. The highborns who noticed pushed away their dessert plates and
prepared for the next round of talks. But Valryk waved a hand at them, saying,
“No, no, continue. It isn’t seemly for a king to piss in a cup.”

Sweet
wines made their rounds, and over the rims of their glasses the highborns
resumed talk of trade measures as the natural course of conversation, but still
Valryk did not return. “The fare was too rich for him,” joked one of the
Fierans to his neighbor. “These Aralorris are accustomed to beer, mutton, and
cabbage.”

Carah
grunted at the extent of the man’s wit and told Rhian,
Well, it’s true
.

He
surprised her with a bark of laughter.
I’ll bet he’s eaten his share of
—
The thought broke off as he turned toward the silver doors, listening. Carah
heard it, too. A sharp cadence like drums echoing, far away at first, barely
heard under the chatter of the highborns. The rhythm grew, however, as its
source approached. More people became aware of it, and conversations stilled.
Now Carah could tell what it was. Feet. Marching feet. She leaned out as far as
she dared, right up to the edge of the veil, and through the doors she saw the
Falcon Guard marching up the corridor.

At
their head, their captain wore a helm with a flowing black horse-hair plume.
Foreign bootlick, Da had called him. He was taller than most of his men and
whip-thin. Without pause, he led the Guard through the silver doors, shouted an
order, and the ranks split into four lines of ten at the foot of the tables. Soldiers
of Bramoran’s garrison followed, wearing bright blue livery splashed with the
black falcon. They filed in behind the Guard and stood at attention. The ten
Falcons positioned throughout the Hall detached themselves from the wall and
joined their brethren.

The
silver doors swung shut. Outside, a beam clanged heavily into place.

“What
is the meaning of this?” demanded King Ha’el. He was on his feet and flame-red
with anger.

Da
was standing too, his expression feral, an unspoken promise to rip out throats.

The
highborns sitting nearest the ranks of soldiers cried out and fled their chairs.
“Blood!” someone shouted. Dark smears splotched the silver falcons embroidered
on the guards’ chests and dappled cerulean surcoats. Carah’s breath came short
and fast.
Whose blood?
There must be some terrible misunderstanding. Had
someone reported trouble? Everyone had been getting along.

Avedra,
Car, look!
Rhian
tugged her elbow and pointed at the Guard captain. Veil Sight revealed an azeth
nearly as expansive as Thorn’s and surely as far-reaching and bright as her
own. Hues of steel and fire danced among the light.

Get
her out of here. Now.
Thorn swept an arm toward the kitchens door at the back of the Hall.

He
wasn’t the only one with the same idea. With a sharp command from their
lieutenant, the White Mantles quick-marched toward the dais, surrounded their
king, and ushered him for the side passage. The Leanians in orange did the same
for Ha’el and his son.

Hurry
, Rhian urged, a hand pressing at
the small of Carah’s back. But as they neared the side door, a handful of
soldiers poured through, blocking the way. Ha’el shouldered free of his men and
said, “We will summon the rest of our guards. We will not stand for this
interruption or this insult!”

The
rest of the guards. Carah’s heart sank with certainty. While the highborns had
been dining, the kings’ guards had been fighting and dying. Surely that’s where
the blood came from. Captain Dashka said nothing to Ha’el. His attention
snapped between Thorn and Rhian and Carah. He could see them!

“Where
is our host?” Ha’el cried. “Valryk would not permit this—” He stopped himself
as he realized.

“Aralorri
treachery!” cried someone from the Fieran tables. Drona, Lady Athmar surged to
her feet. Others took up the cry. Aralorris, facing them across the room,
shouted in their defense.

The
cold shivery sound of a sword drawn from its sheath silenced the lot of them.
Captain Dashka raised the sword and cried, “Attack!” The Falcon Guard and the
garrison soldiers swept past him, swords naked. Dashka himself flung out a hand,
loosing a jagged tongue of lightning at Uncle Thorn. Carah’s wail was lost
among an ugly chorus of screams, but Thorn leapt aside. Rolling to his feet, he
flung a bolt of his own. A swath of Falcons collapsed, convulsing.

“Stay
behind me!” Rhian’s grip was bruising as he shoved Carah up against the wall. Her
fingers clutched the back of his jerkin and her entire body tingled as the
energy swept through him and thundered from his palms. Subsonic waves crushed
the chests of two Falcons. They had been charging past, making for the knot of
White Mantles. Rhian’s veil was still intact or the Falcons might have charged
him instead.

Peering
under his arm, Carah watched the soldiers swinging indiscriminately at the
sheep trapped so neatly. Forks and fruit spears provided a sorry defense. Cousin
Ni’avh, white-faced and open-mouthed, darted up the aisle to take refuge behind
the royal guard, but a soldier seized her by the shoulder and drove his blade
through her spine. Only feet away, Uncle Allaran shoved aside the Falcon he was
pelting in the face and reached for his daughter as she fell. The blade dark
with her blood silenced his cry of anguish.

Carah
pressed her face between Rhian’s shoulder blades, shrieking. The stench of
blood filled her nose. It was happening! The nightmare was true. But there was
no running through dark corridors. They couldn’t get out. Frantic, she looked
for her father. Lords Lander and Davhin fought back to back, armed with little
more than silver plates. Lady Genna and Drys of Zeldanor stood shoulder to
shoulder, he crushing faces with wide broad fists, and she wielding a wine
flagon like a mallet. Maeret, where was Maeret? Brugge stood atop a table,
kicking soldiers in the gut and thumping heads with a black helmet he’d torn
off a Falcon. Da ought to be close by, but Carah couldn’t find him.

Old
Princess Rilyth sat where she had all afternoon with her hands knotted around
the head of her cane. She glared at the Falcon advancing up the aisle. Her son
took a valiant stance in front of her and tried to shove the Falcon away, but
the Falcon cut him down at his mother’s feet. She wore a curious smile as she
looked up at the blade arcing toward her.

Someone
roared and flung the high table onto its side. Yes, there he was. Da fought on
the dais, using a chair leg like a club. His shield was a silver platter,
dented and curling around his forearm. Two Falcon Guardsmen hemmed him in,
pressing him back and back toward the Leanian guard. Two of Ha’el’s men darted
out to help him.

Thorn
worked his way toward his brother. He no longer troubled with the veil, and while
he slashed with the singing elven blade, he carefully aimed bolts of fire past
the highborns and into their attackers. “Saffron!” he shouted, voice nearly
lost in the roar of steel and pleas and sobs. “Staff!” In moments, a yellow
ball of light appeared overhead and dropped the staff into Thorn’s hands.

Dashka
aimed a firebolt high. Saffron disappeared in a shower of sparks.

“Sword,
Carah!” Rhian cried. Lightning screamed from one hand while he beckoned with
the other. At his feet lay the sword of one of the soldiers he’d struck down.
Carah dived for it, saw a second lying under a chair nearby. She thrust the
one, hilt first, into Rhian’s hand, then scrambled on hands and knees for the
second. Her skin tingled as she left the veil behind.

Rhian
called after her, but by then she was on her feet and running, clutching the
sword to her chest. “Da!” Somehow Kelyn recognized his child’s voice over the shrieks
and shouts. Carah tossed the sword. The blade left a blooming red line between
her thumb and forefinger. Awkward, the sword was so awkward, but it flew,
wobbling, almost as far as the dais. Da caught it up before it finished
clattering on the tile, and in his hands it became feather-light and a thing of
deadly grace. Until now, Carah thought the name Swiftblade had been given to
him out of fun. A child’s thought. He gutted a Falcon and beheaded a soldier of
the garrison before she had time to blink. She spun away, missing the safety of
the veil, but her foot slipped out from under her. She landed on her arse, legs
twisted beneath her, and put her hand down in a warm puddle of blood. Lord
Garrs’s eyes stared past her. The woman wearing the purple grape leaves lay
nearby. Carah scrambled into the shadow under a table, drew up her knees and
threw her hands over her ears. Blood ran in the grooves of the tiles, the heavy
cooling pools swirling with spilled wine and the crumbs of crushed cakes.

In
the next aisle, four soldiers surrounded Brugge, dragged him from the table
while he roared vows of revenge. Under the windows, Drys of Zeldanor had found
a sword, too. And there was Maeret, on her knees beneath a far table, sobbing
over her mother’s body. Lord Davhin stood over them, slashing with a sword of
his own, the serenity in his face lost to desperation as two men pressed
against him.

Carah
clamped her eyes shut and waited for the blow that would add her blood to the
rest.

A
hand seized her by the wrist, dragged her from under the table. “No!” she
shrieked and lashed out, pelting with fists and feet, then heard in her head,
Carah,
it’s me!
Uncle Thorn hauled her toward the dais. His free hand put a bolt
through a man’s back, and Kelyn leapt back as the corpse toppled. Thorn grabbed
his brother, too, and shouted for Rhian. “Cover me!”

Glancing
back, Carah saw Rhian high on the tables, leaping the gaps between them and tossing
spheres of raw energy as he went. Soldiers and highborns were flung apart by
the blasts. He took up position before the overturned table, while Thorn shoved
his brother and his niece behind it. His staff lay on the floor near Prince
Da’yn’s body. Leanian guards and Falcons lay in heaps around him. Thorn swept
up the staff and pointed the crystal orb at the wall beneath the royal banners.
Sparks crackled around the dragon’s claws and unleashed with a thunder-crack.
Stone, mortar, and earth exploded outward. Dust fell in a choking cloud. Gray
sky greeted them. Yes, Valryk had built his new wing right up to the inner
wall. Merchants’ houses and city streets were a welcome sight. But beyond that,
two hundred yards away, loomed the outer curtain. Carah despaired, realizing
they were still trapped. How long could they hide in the city before soldiers
sniffed them out?