Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (56 page)

The
stink of blood and shit had started to sicken him, but Lothiar didn’t trust his
ogres enough to leave them alone with such a fresh and delectable smorgasbord.
He turned the high table upright and made himself comfortable in one of the
thrones. Here he could keep an eye on them, tend to a headache, and consider a
different kind of war than he had anticipated.

Though
the White Falcon and both Sons of Ilswythe had escaped, Lothiar didn’t expect
the humans to offer much of a fight. They would try, no doubt, but what could
they do? The strongest of their walls would soon belong to the Elarion, leaving
them no refuge, no arms, no granaries. Lothiar suspected it would be a matter
of sniffing out their hiding places, flushing them like quail, and netting them
in.

A
breath whispered against his cheek.
Azhdyyyyyr
…, it sighed. Lothiar
turned, saw nothing. The back of his neck tingled as though fingers had brushed
him there. This wasn’t the first time he had felt that touch tonight or heard
that word. After rousing from his swoon, he had sat with a cold, damp cloth
pressed to a throbbing headache, and that word whispered past.
Azhdyr.
Exile.

Perhaps
maintaining wards over so many minds for so many days had taken an unexpected
toll. His efforts had exhausted him physically, and doubtless, mentally as
well. He suspected the voice would fade, given time, along with this unnerving
feeling of a presence at his shoulder.

Warding
the servants’ minds hadn’t really been necessary, but he feared the Doreli
mercenaries might talk and rumor spread among the household; servants were
notorious rumormongers, after all. Valryk had commanded them to keep a still
tongue, but minds racing with suspicions and fears were another matter. Iryan
Wingfleet had relieved Lothiar on occasion, taking up the warding chant, so
that he might eat and drink, but after an hour or so Lothiar took over again.
Too much. The strain had been too much. Lothiar finally lost count of time and
may have lost himself entirely to the spell had not Iryan shaken him and announced,
“It’s done.” The instant the chant died on Lothiar’s tongue, the room with its
dim firelight and draped windows turned black and he felt himself hit the
floor. Undignified, fainting like that. Worse, his hours of unconsciousness had
given the Sons of Ilswythe a detrimental head start; neither had his sleep been
peaceful. He wished he could remember the damnable nightmare he’d had. The
words had been terrifying but important.

“Captain?”
Lasharia stood at his right hand. “The townsfolk have been gathered in the
Green.”

“Good.
At dawn, escort them out the gate. Not the men of fighting age, though. They stay
here.”

“We
separated them, sir, according to your orders.”

“Ah,
yes, that’s right.” He was more exhausted than he realized if he couldn’t
remember orders he’d given and orders he hadn’t. Or maybe the reek in the Hall
was clogging his ability to think. He pushed himself to his feet, seeking a
current of fresh air.

“And
Tullyk?” Lasharia asked.

Lothiar
stepped through the breach in the wall. Ah, here was a brisk, cold nightwind.
He breathed deeply. His head cleared. “We’ll keep the garrison captain and a
hundred of his men in the dungeons. They’re not the best ransom, but they might
serve if needed. The rest of the soldiers are to provide fodder for the ogres.
Don’t tell the naenion that, though. They’re liable to get excited. The humans
will be a treat given at my discretion.”

“Yessir.”

Lothiar
studied her. Her expression was a disciplined, emotionless blank. He’d worried
often over the years that she had grown too close to her lover and her prey,
but somehow she managed to maintain her focus and her allegiance. Lothiar had
too few loyal soldiers to lose them to passion and heartbreak.

“Amanthia,”
he whispered. That’s who he had seen in his nightmare. The sudden vision of her
weeping blood tears shook him. He reached for the broken wall.

“Sir?”

Heartbreak
… in his nightmare the pain of it ached afresh, though she had been gone for a
thousand years. What had she said to him? Turning away, he ordered gruffly, “You’re
dismissed.”

Lasharia
saluted and descended the dais, paused, turned. “Dashka has returned, sir. Shall
I—?”

“You
have your orders.”

Lasharia
about-faced and departed. Lothiar let the avedra linger in the doorway while he
gathered his wits. Twenty years since dreams of Amanthia had troubled him. But
dreams of her didn’t feel like regular dreams. She was so close and tangible
that when he woke he expected to feel her breath on his face.

He
beckoned to the avedra. “Did you deploy your hunters?”

Dashka
approached sharply, perhaps hoping Lothiar might overlook his blunder in
letting the Sons of Ilswythe escape. “I did, sir. A dozen Dragon Claw ogres. Wingfleet
leads them, as you commanded.”

“A
dozen? Is that all?” Lothiar glanced over the swaths of dead mercenaries and
the size of the hole in the wall. “One might suspect you want Dathiel to escape
a second time.”

“Sir?”
Fear crouched in his gray eyes. Sweat slicked his upper lip.

Lothiar
extended an inviting hand. “Let’s talk, Dashka. Somewhere that does not stink
of dead human.”

As
they strode from the King’s Hall, Fogrim dragged another body from the ballroom.
He carried a second in the curl of his great arm. The child looked tiny in his
grasp. “Cap?” he asked. “Dis naeni eat jus’ dis little one?”

Lothiar
paused to glare at the ogre. Fogrim’s eyes weren’t small and red and vacant
like those of most ogres. His were green, the pupils slit top to bottom, and
cold. Lothiar suspected that the avedra woman who had fashioned the naenion in
the deeps of time had experimented with water dragons as well as toads. “Have I
ever given you a child to eat?”

“Baerdwin
babes—”

“Enough.
Put it with the rest, Fogrim. After I light the pyre, we’ll feast. You on
horse, me on … something else. I won’t be long.”

“Plenty
of children eaten in the pit, sir,” Dashka said as they left the King’s Hall
behind. The avedra was one to know. He had languished, chained to the wall, for
some months before he accepted Lothiar’s offer of escape. Perhaps he hoped to convince
Lothiar to order a stop to it.

“But
we’re not in the pit, Dashka, for which I’m sure you’re thankful. What the Fire
Spear ogres do is their business. As long as they don’t kill my avedrin
prematurely, or satisfy their hunger when I’m visiting, they’re welcome to
whatever cuts of meat suit them.”

Several
doors down from the King’s Hall was a parlor meant to accommodate men exhausted
from talks and dances and diplomatic masks. Lothiar liked this room. He had set
it aside, ordering his ogres to leave its furnishings alone. Lamps burned dimly
on lacquered tables. Chessboards occupied pedestals before two magnificent
hearths. Untended fires dwindled to red embers. Crystal decanters glittered
darkly on the sideboard. The scent of woodfire mingled with that of brandy and
leather and rest. “Pour yourself something,” Lothiar invited.

Crystal
sang against crystal as the avedra poured himself a brandy. His hands trembled.

Lothiar
grinned, accepting a glass from the avedra. The brandy was achingly sweet. He longed
to sink into a cool, deep leather armchair and stretch out his legs and let the
brandy do its work, but the weight and stiffness of his armor forbade it, and
sleep had to wait. Too much still to do. “Do you think our emperor is of a
strong will?” he asked.

“He
will write your letter, Captain.”

“You’re
so confident?”

“You
can convince a man to do anything.”

“Can
I? I’m not so sure. I haven’t had much luck with you.”

“Sir?”

“Cap,”
said Fogrim, ducking through the door. “All dem sweetmeats been moved now.”

“Well
done.” Lothiar waved the ogre to join them. Watching the ogre trying to ease
his way through the furniture without oversetting anything was like watching a
hound at a tea party. Eventually the wagging tail knocked over a cup or two. “Fogrim,
did you know that there are still hundreds of avedrin we haven’t found yet?”

“Hundred
‘vedri in de pit, Cap.”

“Yes,
but there are more.”

“Dat’iel?”

“Besides
him. And do you know who knows where these avedrin are hiding?”

Fogrim
shook his head. The dwarf’s beard wagged behind him.

“Our
friend Dashka here. He knows. But he won’t tell me.”

“Dis
naeni pull off dis ‘vedri arm. He squeal for Cap.”

“Yes,
but avedrin need their hands, you know.”

“
‘Vedri need dem ears?”

“I
don’t think so.”

Fogrim’s
fingers started for Dashka’s ear, but the avedra raised both hands in a
placating gesture. “Captain, please. You would be wise to forget the school.
They are an enclave of trained avedrin. Leave them alone.”

“Protecting
them is fruitless.”

“I’m
protecting
you
.”

That
gave Lothiar pause. “Why, Dashka, that warms my heart. But if I could read your
mind, I fear I would detect a lie. I’ll take my chances. The school really does
exist, then?”

The
avedra grit his teeth. “Yes.”

Lothiar
poured the man another drink. “Is it in Dorél?”

“Yes.”

“Is
it near the ruins of Dan Ora’as?”

“Yes.”

“Underground?”

“Yes.”

“Good.
Very good. My ogres are good at sniffing out things underground.”

Dashka’s
eyes closed as shame swept in.

“Don’t
worry, it won’t trouble you for long. Guilt fades. Come, we have a funeral pyre
to light.”

Dashka
seemed unable to follow. He stood holding his drink in a boneless hand. “You’ll
kill me anyway. One day.”

“Will
I? My brother, of all people, told me something once. He said I should have
given the avedrin living in Linndun the chance to fight alongside us instead of
having them all assassinated. My brother is a fool, but he was right. If all those
avedrin had joined their strength to ours, we might have gained the upper hand.
Our history might be drastically different. Remain loyal, dwínovë, and you have
no need to fear my blade.”

~~~~

T
he wine wagon left deep ruts
across the hillsides. Even the narrow cart lanes had turned to mud in the
recent rain, and though the wagon rumbled faster along the roadway, a child
could track it. Carah sat in the back beside the sleeping king and watched the
signs of their flight stretch out behind them. Someone was sure to come after
them.

Da
and Drys had taken turns driving the wagon through the night and the following
day. They didn’t dare stop as long as the four drays had strength to keep
going. None dared hope that Valryk would let them escape without pursuit. Eyes
remained open and on the horizon.

Sunset
turned the low clouds crimson. Plumes of black smoke dotted the horizon. “Maybe
the commons found out what happened to us,” Lord Westport proposed earlier in
the day. “Maybe there’s rebellion.”

“Unless
your king is doubly mad and burns his own villages,” Drona argued. “And why
not? He murdered his own lords. Why not the people, too?”

Either
explanation sufficed, but Carah hoped Rorin was right.

After
a brief consultation on their first night out from Bramoran, the party decided
to make for Longmead. Drona had argued with that too, preferring to head south
to the Bryna. Longmead wasn’t far, so it won the vote. It was a small holding,
Da said, but well-fortified. Lord Morach would take them in. He might bellow at
the sight of Fierans seeking refuge in his hall, but he was a loyal soldier and
a good friend. He would do as his War Commander asked.

Carah
hoped to see the walls of the holdfast by noon, but the wagon was slow and
cumbrous. It would take the party another day to reach Longmead, and that day
waned quickly. Tomorrow morning, Da promised. Carah hoped so.

Drys
turned on the bench and announced, “We’ll camp in those trees.” Everyone perked
up and turned to look. A small lake glistened vermillion and violet in the
fading light. Thick stands of alder and andyr clung to its northern bank.

Carah
sighed. She would exchange her pinky finger for a bath. Every one of them
reeked of sewage, and the White Falcon burned with fever. Undoubtedly, septic
water from the moat had washed into the wound. But removing infection was
beyond her skill, nor did she know how to deaden Arryk’s pain. The jostling of
the wagon didn’t help; Carah feared his wound might break open again. He
groaned and slept, groaned and slept.

Aisley
rebounded, however. The wagon stopped once so she could throw up in a hedgerow,
but after that her eyes brightened and her color improved. She let Carah stitch
up the gash on her scalp and complained to her grandfather that she was hungry.
They were all hungry, Rhogan said, and Aisley complained no more.

Maeret
brooded, looking angrier by the mile. Drona and the White Mantles kept watch in
all directions. Rorin stared at nothing, haunted over the death of his son.
Carah, too. Barrin was her first dance partner of the evening, then Garrs’s shy
nephew, then Master Brugge. All of them dead now. All but the White Falcon.

As
soon as the wagon settled deep in the trees, Drys and Rhogan unhitched the drays
and led them to the lakeside for water. Drona argued with Lieutenant Rance
about unloading the king or not. Carah decided for them. “The ground is wet
from the rain, and the less we move him, the less we risk opening the wound.
He’ll stay in the wagon.” The lieutenant posted two Mantles to watch the king and
ordered the other two to patrol the clearing. As dusk settled, their white
armor glistened ghost-like among the trees.

“We
can manage water from the lake,” said Rhogan, returning with his pair of drays,
“but what do we do for food? We must eat something.” His granddaughter eyed him
hopefully.

“There’s
like to be a village or farm along the lakeside,” Kelyn said. “After dark we
can—”

“Steal?”
Drona supplied. “The honorable War Commander?”

“Unless
you’d rather walk up to an inn and ask for bread, Fieran. But I guarantee you,
Valryk sent his men to warn every town within thirty miles of Bramoran that
we’re wanted by the crown and no one will help us. Besides, it’s called
‘foraging,’ lady.”

“Aye,
you’re good at that.”

Kelyn
clenched his teeth.

How
dare anyone speak that way to Da! Carah glared at the old bat, but Drona paid
her no mind.

“Well,
at least we won’t go cold tonight,” said Rorin, stooping for branches. He
carried a stack under one arm.

“No!”
cried Kelyn and Drona together.

Rorin
stared at them, startled.

“A
fire is too easy to spot,” Kelyn explained. “We’ll have to make do without it.”

The
man looked shattered and let the firewood fall at his feet.

Kelyn
took pity. “Once it’s dark, Rorin, you and Drys will venture out and find us
something to eat.”

“Me?”
asked Lord Westport, voice thick.

Kelyn
nodded. “It will keep you warm. Just be quiet about it, and do as Drys says.”

Lord
Zeldanor chuckled. “He’s calling me a good forager, and I was too. Me and Laral
and Kalla and the rest. We were just squires then. Robbed Brengarra blind
before Laral married it’s lady. Hnh. As long as you’re not calling me short, m’
lord Commander, we’ll get along fine.”

“Short?
I hadn’t noticed.” Kelyn turned away to hide his grin and beckoned his
daughter. Lowly he said, “Take Maeret and Aisley around the bend where you can
wash up. Get them moving, keep them busy. We mustn’t give in to despair.”

“But
His Majesty—”

“He
has plenty of attentive guards. He can spare you for a while.”

“But
if he—”

Her
father gave her an insistent nudge. “Go.”

Carah
grudgingly led the girls along the bank. When they had hiked out of sight of
the camp, they stripped down and washed the filth from their skin, their hair,
their clothes. As her father suggested, she tried to find pleasant
conversation, but Maeret soaked in silence, then with grinding teeth scrubbed
her dress on a stone as if Valryk’s face were embroidered on it. Carah had to
be careful with her robe. It was ruined nonetheless, the silver satin stained
with someone’s blood, a hole in the skirt where the quarrel had missed her leg
by a hair. Aisley proved to be sweet and soft-spoken, a girl of sixteen who
actually
liked
to embroider. “I can’t sit still that long,” Carah
confessed, watching Maeret from the corner of her eye. “And my threads are
always knotting—”

Maeret
leapt up, a stone in each fist, and with a shriek she tossed them with all her
strength. They sailed out into the lake. “Not both of them! It isn’t fair!”

Carah
rushed to her, wrapped her up tight. “Shh,” she insisted, but Maeret couldn’t
quell her sobs. Of all people to have an outburst, Maeret was the last Carah
expected.

“I
can’t be lady of Lunélion and Vonmora both. I
need
them.”

Over
Maeret’s shoulder, Aisley’s eyes were dark and round, her hands opening and
closing in helplessness, and soon she was weeping too. Carah couldn’t muster a
single tear.
Am I a monster? I can’t feel a thing. Uncle Thorn, where are
you?

By
the time they’d had their cry-out, the stars had unfurled. The red Blood Star
and the Huntsman, whose arrow pointed the way north, dimmed as Forath rose full
over the peaks of the Drakhans. The girls wrung out their clothes, but they
would be cold and wet most of the night. Carah got warm enough trying to squeak
into wet riding leathers. “And Longmead is closer than we think,” she said,
encouraging them. “We’ll have a hot meal tomorrow, and proper baths with soap,
and a crackling fire at Lord Morach’s hearth. We can survive one more night.”

Maeret’s
fingers paused in the side stays of her gown. “I used to care about such petty things.
Dues for the Society. Rumors. I saw Lord Lander struck down. He
was
protecting Lady Lanwyk though.”

A
long, mournful note rippled across the lake. Wolves. Carah shivered at the
sound. “We’d best hurry back.”

The
men were arguing when the ladies stumbled back into the clearing. Carah made
out who was who by their voices alone. “I’m not striking out in the dark with
those wolves out there,” declared one of them. Had to be Lord Westport. “What
if they’re as hungry as I am?”

“I
don’t need some blundering merchant getting me caught anyway,” Drys retorted.
“Stay here if it suits you.”

“Rorin,
buck up,” Kelyn tossed in.

“I’ll
go,” said Lord Mithlan, mild but firm.

“No,
Grandda,” said Aisley, clutching his arm.

Oh,
for the Mother’s sake, Carah thought and peered into the wagon.
Her
duty
was clear at least. All she could see in the dark was the dim glow of Arryk’s
white silk shirt, the pallor of his skin; her fingers had to do the work. His face
was warmer than ever. His body shook with chills. “Goddess, help me,” she
whispered.

One
of the drays whickered. Another tugged at its tether and stomped nervously.

The
argument hushed. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. An owl shrieked and
swooped away, a black specter against the face of the moon. Twigs crackled on
Carah’s left, and moonlight slid like a drop of blood on the edge of the sword
in Da’s hand. Past the clearing, along the path that brought them into the
wood, leaves rustled.

“It’s
those wolves,” Rorin hissed.

“Valryk’s
men,” Daxon snarled.

“It’s
my fault,” whispered Maeret. “I screamed. I made splashes.”

“Shh,”
Kelyn said. Turning to Carah he asked, “The fairy wards?”

With
Veil Sight she looked for Saffron’s golden light or Zephyr’s white. She saw
neither. But the trees were backlit by two brilliant azethion. The dray
whickered again, and a horse far away replied. Carah broke into delighted
laughter, startling the others. “Uncle Thorn!” She ran toward the azethion.

A
small sphere of pale blue light flared at Thorn’s shoulder and lit his way to
her. He swept her up and kissed her face. “Thank the Mother we find you safe,”
he said. The fear and relief in his embrace nearly crushed her, but she didn’t
mind. She held him just as tight.

“I
thought … I thought,” she said but couldn’t finish. He wasn’t. That’s all that
mattered. Over his shoulder, she saw Rhian holding the reins of the two Elaran
blacks. The faint blue light turned the color of his eyes to a pale,
otherworldly gray; they took anchor on Carah’s face, and she recognized
something intense and perilous in them that she had no name for. She dared to wonder
if it might be longing. Breaking away from her uncle she asked them, “Are you
hurt?”

“Nothing
we can’t heal ourselves,” Thorn answered.

“Rhian?”

“No,”
he said and stopped staring at her. But in the shadow between them, his fingers
found her hand and squeezed it hard.

“He’s
shaken, is all,” Thorn said, and Carah snatched her hand free. “We both are.
Never fought our own kind before.”

“It
has nothing to do with that bloody avedra.” Rhian turned away abruptly and
fussed inside a saddlebag.

“He’ll
be all right,” Thorn whispered in Carah’s ear. “Just needs to be left alone. Brother!”
He gripped Da’s hand as if the party had gathered for nothing more distressing
than a picnic.

“What
took you so damned long?” asked Kelyn.

Thorn
chuckled. “I had no intention of jumping into a city’s worth of sewage.”

“You
son of a bitch.”

“You,
too. Who escaped with you?” Thorn greeted those who cared to be greeted. Lady
Drona retreated toward the wagon, wanting less than nothing to do with the
avedrin. The White Mantles stood at attention beside the wagon. “In truth, we’re
late because we helped a few others escape.”

“Who?”
Kelyn demanded. “We saw no one else.”

“They
scattered into the city, got lost dodging crossbow quarrels, they said. The
daughter of Lord Endhal was one of them, surrounded by a pair of King Ha’el’s
guards. She was supposed to marry the prince, you know. Lord Haezeldale and
Garrs’s nephew were the others.”

“Gheryn’s
alive?” Carah cried. Another of her dance partners had survived then, thank the
Goddess. She hated to think that her touch had been a curse.

“We
wrapped them inside the veil and snuck them out a postern gate. They were
determined to strike west for the Blythewater. I told them it was a long shot.”

“Why
a long shot?” Lord Rhogan asked. “Is it rebellion as Rorin supposed?”

“If
you want to call it that,” Thorn said. “But not by your kind.”

Before
he could satisfy them with answers, Rhian brought his saddlebags into the
gathering and lifted out loaves of bread, even a wineskin. The highborns
rejoiced. Carah decided to eat later. She tugged her uncle’s hand instead.
“Please, you have to help me. I don’t know what else to do.”

The
small globe of blue light followed them across the clearing. Thorn grimaced
when he saw the White Falcon lying in the back of the wagon. The lieutenant, it
seemed, had tossed his great white cloak over the king in lieu of a blanket.
Arryk shook anyway, and was just as pale as the velvet.