Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (60 page)

“You
won’t … hurt him. Will you?”

His
sister had asked him that once concerning a certain avedra. He’d told her no,
but afterward he sent an assassin and a rágazeth. Had he reason to lie to
Lasharia? He hoped not. “No more than necessary. He’s not your plaything, Lieutenant.
Let it go. Busy yourself organizing the na’in camps.”

Paggon
Ironfist sat outside the cell door, meticulously sharpening a four-inch-wide
serrated greatsword. Each tine received his patient attention with a slender
file. His massive shoulders straightened and his eyes blinked dully at
Lothiar’s approach. “You didn’t use that on him, did you?” Lothiar asked as
Paggon slid away the sword.

“Dis
naeni want to, but Lot’iar be angry. King squeal, hurt dis naeni ear. All day.
All night. Him quiet now.”

Yes,
Lothiar heard only silence beyond the iron-banded door. “The key.”

Paggon
fished inside his breastplate and lifted the delicate chain with one thick
finger.

“The
chamber is prepared below. If the Black Falcon feels stubborn, I’ll summon you.
Until then, stay out here.”

Inside
the cell Lothiar found Valryk slumped in his armchair before a cold hearth,
asleep. His boots lay in front of the door, likely some of the items he had
used to beat on it. One of the dining chairs appeared to be another; the frame
was cracked and twisted, and two of the legs had broken off. On the table, beside
platters of food, awaited the sheets of parchment, an inkpot and quill, and the
royal seal. These remained untouched. Lothiar didn’t mind; he hadn’t told the
king what to write yet, but they gave him something to think about.

Lothiar
nudged him with his toe. Valryk stirred, groaning, then woke like a spark from
a flint. “You!” He flung himself out of the armchair, shook the grogginess from
his head. The rich plum-colored doublet was badly rumpled; the chain of silver
roses laid askew on his shoulders, and coppery fuzz grew on his chin. “It’s
about time, Goddess curse you. I’m starving. That beast of yours brought me
stale bread and sour wine, but I dared not touch it after he did.”

“Oh?
You’re not hungry enough then.” Lothiar inspected the bread in question and
tore a chunk from its heart. He hadn’t eaten this morning either.

“I
want leg of lamb and proper Doreli wine. What happened to my wine store?” He
gestured at the sideboard. The doors to the cupboards stood open, displaying
empty racks.

Lothiar
set the bread aside. It was a trifle stale. “You won’t be entertaining in here
anymore. I had the wine taken back to the cellar.”

Valryk
jabbed a finger. “You had no right.”

“Ah,
yes. Rights and fairness. The expectations of children. This is war, and you
are my prisoner. I have every right to treat you as I see fit. And so far, I
have granted you luxuries, comforts, freedom from pain and darkness. But these
things can be taken away.”

“Is
this what you call luxury and comfort?”

“There
may come a time, emperor, when you beg for a cell like this.”

“Unlikely.
And stop calling me that. You never meant to keep your word. I may have to
endure this cell, but I will not listen to mockery.”

“Certainly,
Your Majesty. Let us not argue over matters of perspective, but rather talk
about your options.” Lothiar pulled out the one remaining chair at the table
and gestured for Valryk to fill it.

He
glared at Lothiar a long while, cursing him without muttering a word, before
giving in.

“Now,
your cousin the duke will send summons to his militias in a few days, and he
needs to know what to do with them. Wine?” Lothiar squirted some of the thin
red wine from the skin into the horn cup on the table. All the silver chalices
and bejeweled goblets had been removed.

Valryk
ignored the offer but clenched his fists to each side of his neglected plate.

“The
Evaronnan army is our reserve, sire. They will be useful against Leania’s
rebels.”

“
Your
reserve.”

Lothiar
sipped from the cup. “Yes. Mine.”

“Kethlyn
won’t fight for you.”

“He
will if you tell him to.”

Valryk
chuckled. “ ‘If’ is a vital word. Let me out of here, and we’ll see about your
letter. You won’t get a thing from me unless you give me what I want, and what
I want is to be in my own chambers with frequent visits from Lasharia and her
harp. That’s not so much.”

“Lasharia
spoke with me moments before I came to see you. She said she wished you would
stop summoning her.”

“I
won’t. Not until she comes.”

“She
won’t help you escape, Your Majesty. Or would
you
seduce
her
now,
in hopes of convincing her? I told you the truth when I said she was sick of
you. She is happy that her assignment is over. So you see? These are poor terms.
A stronger negotiation is this one: write the letter and I will permit you to
keep your skin, your teeth, your bones, all unbroken.” Lothiar smiled
oh-so-sweetly.

Valryk
swallowed, turning a fraction grayer so that the red freckles across his nose
stood out. The cogs in his head whirled. “Look, I’ll pay you!”

“For
what?” Lothiar crossed his arms. The offer bordered on insult. Who did this dwínovë
think he was talking to?

“For
freedom, of course. I’ll ransom myself. You don’t need me. You have those magic
doors. You can communicate with Kethlyn yourself, anytime you want.”

So
the Black Falcon tosses his own cousin under the horse’s hooves, does he? Remarkable
gallantry. Lothiar leaned heavily on the table. “If I should agree, with what
will you pay me? You think I don’t know your treasury is almost empty? You
spent it all building that new wing.” He pointed at the high, narrow window. “Didn’t
you smell the smoke yesterday? That was your coin turning to ash. You have
nothing left to bribe me with. Write the letter.”

Valryk
looked down at the broken loaf of bread. “I can’t.”

“Of
course you can. You don’t even have to think what to say. It’s only a matter of
dictation.”

“No.”

Lothiar
pushed himself back from the table. “I told you once that I have never begged
for anything in my life. That means I ask only so many times.” He nudged the
inkwell closer to the king. “Dip the quill and write what I tell you to write.”

Valryk
folded his hands in his lap, a smug little grin settling on his mouth. “Write
it yourself.”

Nodding,
Lothiar leaned in and whispered, “Remember, when you think about how much you hate
me, remember that you chose this.
You
chose this.”

Valryk
reared back to spit in his face, but Lothiar turned for the door. Paggon opened
it at his knocking. “Fetch him and follow me.”

On
the bottom floor of the prison tower, next door to the warden’s former
headquarters, lay what used to be the torture chamber. Rhorek the Benevolent
had ordered all the devices destroyed, but one didn’t need racks and iron
maidens to make a man hurt. Paggon tossed the king onto a dusty table and bound
him to it with thick rope across his chest, thighs, and ankles.

“You
can’t be serious!” Valryk roared.

Lothiar
struck a spark over a torch and used it to light the coals in a small brazier
he had found in the guards’ barracks. Red flames cast lurid light on damp stone
walls, rusted chains, broken planks, and wheels whose purpose was now forgotten.
A pair of meat hooks still swung from the ceiling.

Valryk
squirmed inside the ropes. “It’s just a letter! You can’t mean to do this.”

“It’s
a matter of obedience, sire. As long as you withhold what I need from you, you
feel the pain. Understand? It’s simple, and it’s up to you how long it lasts.”
He jabbed a flatiron into the coals, but he expected Valryk to capitulate
before the iron turned red. “Paggon, listen to me.”

Blood-colored
eyes stopped watching Valryk struggle. His grin waned, and he granted Lothiar
his attention.

“You
are a clever na’in, but I do not expect you to know how writing works. For the
little king to write our letter, he needs the use of his hands and the arms
attached to them. You cannot harm those, understood?”

Paggon
studied the human while scrubbing his nose with a scabby knuckle.

“His
feet, though, his legs, his knees, you can do what you want with those. But,
Paggon, do not get too enthusiastic. If you should kill him, I will be very,
very angry with you.”

“Dis
naeni make Lot’iar happy.”

Lothiar
double-checked the tension on the ropes, then leaned over the king. “Paggon has
never disappointed me, but there’s always a first time.”

Sweat
streamed down Valryk’s brow, into his hair. His shouts had diminished into
whimpers. “Tell Kethlyn yourself. Please. Order him to do whatever you want.
You don’t need me!”

“See
you in a bit.” Lothiar patted his shoulder, then started for the door.

Valryk
remembered his defiance. “Coward! Stay and do it yourself!”

“Like
you stayed and murdered your people with your own hand? What was your excuse to
leave them to their fate? Ah, yes. I’ll think I’ll do the same. Paggon, gently
now.”

Funny
, Lothiar thought as he
positioned himself in front of the bottomless hole in the warden’s privy,
the
screams of a king sound just like the screams of an elf
.

~~~~

T
hat night, he was finally able to
retire. The most pressing matters had been resolved. The ogre regiments were
settled in separate camps, and their bellies were full. A handful of humans
from the city guard had been dragged from the dungeons and dealt out to the
clans with several hundred horses, sheep, and dogs. Each Elaran lieutenant had
received his orders. Through the marsh water in the basin, Lothiar ordered
Tréandyn and Elyandir to squeeze harder those gates that would not crack. Now
that Ilswythe had fallen, Solandyr was to send half of his Red Axe ogres to
Tírandon and lend a little help to Broke Blade. Ruvion reported capturing an
avedra boy who had been hiding within Ilswythe’s walls. And King Valryk had
written his letter, a little shaky in the hand to be sure, but true to
Lothiar’s wishes. In gratitude, Lothiar wrapped the king’s blistered, oozing
feet himself and gifted him with a bottle of Doreli red laced with poppy wine.

One
of the grunts Lothiar recruited from the Regs rode north with the letter. Da’ith
had been all too eager for Lothiar to remove the red marks from his eyes and
cheekbones when he left Linndun all those years ago. “Following Captain
Tíryus’s orders is a waste of time,” Da’ith had claimed. “What is the point of
training to be a soldier if one never gets to fight? I tried joining the
Dranithion but none of their captains would have me. ‘We defend,’ they said.”
Da’ith spat, telling Lothiar what he thought of that philosophy.

The
youngster ought to be riding past Ilswythe about now with the king’s letter
tucked into his satchel, and Lothiar had the rest of the night to himself.

He
had reserved the king’s suite. The falcon device was everywhere. Embroidered on
the hems of the bedclothes, drapes, and towels. Woven into tapestries,
upholstery, and rugs. Etched into silver combs and mirrors and cologne bottles.
Inlaid with onyx in silver sconces and candelabra. Molded into the ceiling
coffers, even into bars of soap that the Black Falcon apparently never used
more than once.

The
repetition of the poor bird screamed of ego, but the spacious, decadent luxury of
the rooms suited Lothiar just fine. After sleeping in caves and tunnels for
more than twenty years, the rugs felt like sponges under his toes, the feather
mattress like clouds, and how
clean
everything smelled.

He
removed only his sword belt before he stretched out across the wide, soft bed.
Not even the bath steaming in the tiled pool enticed him. Baths could wait. It
was sleep he needed. Two Storm Mount ogres were stationed outside his door to
ensure that he got it. If only his mind stopped spinning with the next task at
hand, and the next, and the next. Lock it away for tomorrow. Ah, yes, there it
was, that warm, snug cocoon. He drifted away in it.

“Azhdyr…”

His
eyes sprang open. “No!” he cried, smashing his hands over his ears. “Leave me
be!”

Azhdyyyyyr
…

He
scrambled off the bed, spun, searching the shadows. “Who the hell are you? Let
me sleep. Please!”

Azhdyr,
I bring words
.

A
silver light grew where no lamp shone. Thyrra herself seemed to have climbed
down from the sky and rolled into the chamber on her pregnant belly. A woman
stood inside it—or, no, was it a youth? Yes, a youth, tall and willowy. Folds
of a silver robe fell in soft, watery ripples, covering even his toes and his
hands. Inside a deep hood, his face appeared to be as silver as his garments,
and his eyes shone with many colors, like opals.