Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (62 page)

She agreed to retire only after
Arryk was settled. Astonishing, the fuss a king’s presence caused. One might
think the man was made of porcelain the way the servants worried over every
pillow and fold of blanket. Eliad’s household physician, an old highlander herb
master, had insisted he inspect the wound, despite Carah’s assurance that she
had already taken care of it. From under bushy gray eyebrows the man regarded
her as if she spoke as clearly and intelligently as a toad, then bent to
conduct the inspection anyway. “What’s the problem?” he asked, straightening.
He directed the question, not at Carah, but at Lady Drona who stood beside the
great wide bed with her arms crossed and her teeth bared at the bustling
servants. “There’s some bruising, but this scar must be from an old wound. I
was under the impression His Majesty was on death’s door.”

Carah raised her chin and narrowed
her eyes. “I’ll take that as your approval of my methods, doctor.”

“Yours—? As you say, lass. Did he
get hit on the head? What accounts for this unconsciousness?”

“Fairies.”

The herb master wagged a crooked
finger at her. “I’ll not have your mockery, young lady.”

“Saffron, are you here?” Veil Sight
alone revealed the fairy’s arrival, as sudden and graceful as a star’s
appearance at dusk. “Can you lift the sleep, please?” Saffron darted over the
bed and breathed another breath across the White Falcon. He stirred, groaned,
but did not wake. The physician, blind to the fairy’s presence, regarded Carah with
something close to hostility, then stooped to raise Arryk’s eyelids, count his
pulse.

“What do you have for the bruising?”
Carah asked when he stood back, shaking his head in wonderment. “Teach me to
make the poultice, then go away.”

The scent of herbs lingered in
Carah’s fingers; even the perfumed soap couldn’t disguise it. She liked it that
way. Someday soon she needed to learn herb lore. While the doctor showed her
how to measure out the dried leaves and oils from his bottles, the bath water had
arrived. Of course the White Falcon received the first batch. Eliad’s
mistresses accompanied the maids with the pails. Narra, the smith’s daughter,
was tall and lean and golden. She struck Carah as fiery and cocky as she took
command of the situation. “We’ll see to His Majesty’s bath.”

The other one, the shepherdess,
laid out towels near the hearth to warm them and spooned salts into the great
tub. Lyana was quiet and demure with a tumble of luxuriant auburn curls. She seemed
a little rounder about the middle than when she came to Ilswythe for the
Greening dances.

“And who are you?” Drona demanded. When
Narra explained, Lady Athmar bristled. “Ah, no you don’t. I’ll not let the
White Falcon be tended by two whores.”

Lyana gasped. Narra grinned like a
viper. “We’re skilled at handling the sons of kings. He’ll come to no harm at
our hands. We invite you to stay and see to it.”

Drona turned as red as a wound and
made for the door. “I’ll send in the Mantles.”

Carah didn’t wait long before
following her. By then, a tray with warm toasted bread, delicate meat pies, and
fruit compote arrived at her suite. She had a bottle of wine all to herself,
and soon a steaming tub of her own. She lingered until the bubbles dissolved
and her fingers were wrinkled, then climbed out and wrapped herself in the
ugliest green-and-gold brocade robe she had ever seen. One of Narra’s she
judged, but as tall as the smith’s daughter was, the robe was still too short
in the sleeves and hem.

The hour had grown late. Doors had
stopped opening and shutting. Voices had hushed. And those cloud-soft pillows
looked so enticing, but she had to check on Arryk one more time.

Soft lamps glowed the length of the
corridor. The Mantles straightened to attention when they heard her shut her
door. How tired they looked, serving every watch, waiting, worrying.

“Has that old codger toddled off to
bed?” Carah asked of the herb master.

Rance grinned, though his eyes
looked bruised. “He’s gone. He saw fit to give us all the stink-eye before he
left.”

Carah hushed a giggle under her
hand. “Did His Majesty wake up?”

“Aye, but he was still groggy.
Thought he was at home in Brynduvh. Kept asking for Rose and Daisy.”

“Who are Rose and Daisy?” Code
names for mistresses, perhaps?

Rance
caught the mischievous sparkle in her eye. “His dogs.” He opened the door for
her. The Mantle inside intercepted it, inspected Carah head to foot with a
glower, then repositioned himself against the wall. A fourth Mantle stood
across the suite before the row of windows. Moonlight bled across his white
shoulders. Cool darkness swallowed the rest of the chamber. The rich, musky perfume
of Ixakan incense lingered in the air with the scents of soap and herbs. Carah
paused beside the bureau to light another stick. The lazy coils of smoke rose
from the red ember and vanished in the dark. She used it to light a lamp and
turned the wick down low.

Someone
occupied the chair beside the bed. Drona, she suspected at first, but the legs
were too long and lean. Rhian woke with a start, vacated the chair in a hurry.
Carah crimped at the knees until the hem of the robe hit the floor. She hadn’t
minded the White Mantles seeing her ankles and toes; why should it bother her
if Rhian saw them?

He
cast her a half-grin.
You think I haven’t seen a woman’s ankles before? Women
who dive for pearls dive naked.

Carah
turned up her nose, deciding a lady would do well to ignore such a comment.
Aren’t
you supposed to be playing sentry?
What must the Mantles think of them, two
people gesturing at each other across a room and saying nothing?

Thorn
relieved me. I thought I might find you here.

They
hadn’t been alone since that night beside the lake. During the long ride north,
Carah caught Rhian looking at her once or twice, but not a word or thought did
he toss her direction. He even volunteered to scout ahead more than his share.
It was torture wondering if that moment by the lake meant anything to him, or
if Rhian had fallen victim to a madness under the moonlight. She busied herself
straightening the White Falcon’s blankets, tucking them about his feet.
Did
you want something?

To
look at you.

Carah
bit off a grin.
Well, stop it. We’re hardly alone.
The Mantles weren’t
blind. The last thing she wanted was a dose of scandal with her breakfast tea. Rhian
kept the bedpost between them. For that she was glad, else she might make a
fool of herself.

Why
isn’t he waking up?
Rhian asked.

Carah
shrugged.
How would you be if you’d died and had only me to bring you back?

Only
you?
The
emphasis he put on “only” implied something besides contempt.

How
shrunken and fragile Arryk looked in that great curtained bed. Not like a king
at all. Is this who she had danced with? And to think, how frightened she had
been. In the end, all men were breath and bones. Would she think the same when
he woke? “I hope Maeret made it home safely,” she whispered. Likely, she and
Drys traveled more quickly across country on foot than the wagon winding
through the foothills. Had she found her aunt’s morning star? Had she found
anything but ashes? And Ilswythe? Would Carah ever see home again? For the
first time she imagined it a wasted ruin, jumbles of rock and broken towers and
charred beams, and the sight of it was like a fist to her belly. She reached
for the bedpost. Rhian caught her by the arm.

“How
can anyone hate us so much?” she asked. “Someone wants us dead. Why? What have
we done? Weren’t we just living and doing? We did not merit this! But it
doesn’t matter. We’re going to be hunted and murdered anyway.” A cascade of terror
broke over her, half sobs, half panicked gasps. Rhian tried to cover her mouth
but couldn’t quell it.

“M’
lady
,” hissed the Mantle near the window.

“Here,
the sitting room,” Rhian said. Arms tight about Carah’s shoulders, he led her
into the adjoining parlor, sat her down on a settee, but she jumped up again,
paced, wringing her hands, calculating the distance between Drenéleth and
Bramoran. How long would it take Valryk to whittle down the possibilities and
send his soldiers north?

They’re
going to find us. No escape…

Rhian
stood in her path. His hands cupped her face. “I hope they do find us.” The
cold steel edge in his voice stilled Carah’s panic. A madwoman’s laughter
bubbled from her mouth, but her next breath shuddered with a sob. She pressed
her face into Rhian’s jerkin, and he held her while she wept.
I’m not a
monster after all
, she thought. No, the betrayal hurt like a thousand knives.

~~~~

T
horn tossed the second
falcon and watched it climb the pearl-colored sky. The sun would be hours yet
breaking over the mountains but already Thorn was exhausted. He squeezed the
back of his neck, rubbed his temples, pressed a knuckle into a throbbing eye.
Two messages down. Two dozen to go. What faster way to spread the truth about
Bramoran than on a falcon’s wing? Or so he thought, until he actually began. Catching
the birds was trial enough. The wild things fought his call, beak and talon.
When the falcons finally surrendered, spiraled down from the cliffs and
alighted upon his wrist, their frantic, darting minds had a hard time absorbing
the message he planted there. Then he had to get the landmarks just right, or
the birds might veer off course and fail to deliver the messages at all. He’d
hoped to be finished by breakfast. At this pace, the task would take him all
day.

He groaned, realizing he needed
help. And his apprentice needed another lesson. Rhian hadn’t learned this trick
yet.

Delectable aromas of frying sausage
and baking bread drifted into the garden. If Rhian learned quickly, he could
spend his youthful energy on the damn birds while Thorn enjoyed an egg and a
cup of tea. Shaking his head to clear it, he ventured back into the lodge.

Kelyn was already awake. At a long
table in the dining hall, he whispered with Etivva and looked a bit stupefied
as she explained something at length. They were so enrapt that Thorn managed to
snatch a thick slice of buttered toast off Kelyn’s plate before they noticed
his arrival.

“Oh, please, help yourself,” Kelyn
groused and shoved his plate toward his brother.

“No thanks.”

Etivva chuckled. “The War Commander
is appreciating the importance of old history lessons.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Kelyn said.
“He’s going to gloat.”

Thorn clapped his twin on the back,
laughing. “Being a little less Father’s ideal woulda paid off this time, eh?”

Kelyn winced. “Bitter?”

“Not at all. So which era are we
discussing?”

“The Elf War, of course,” Etivva
said.

“I wrote a book on that, you know. Want
to read it?”

“Oh, shut up,” Kelyn snapped. “Don’t
you have something better to do than pester me?”

“Pestering you is one of my chief
pleasures, and you know it. I’ve earned the right, too. I was up with the
birds, and I’ve been rallying your army for you.”

“What army?”

“Falcons are on their way to Laral
and Kethlyn. About to send more.” Thorn swiped a juicy sausage with crackled
skin and headed for the corridor. “Seen Rhian yet?”

“No. Wait, what did you tell my son?”

“Hnh, a kid stays up past midnight and
he thinks he can sleep the day away.”

“The sun’s not even up yet,” Kelyn
tossed after him.
“What did you tell them?”

Thorn hurried upstairs, munching
the sausage and licking his fingers all the way. Rhian’s room was on the second
floor, but it was empty, nor did his apprentice’s bed appear to have been slept
in. He passed Eliad and Lura and the White Mantle assigned to patrol the
grounds, but none had seen Rhian. A sinking feeling set in. Thorn paused in yet
another empty parlor decorated with antlers and hide-covered pillows, debating.
No, what an absurd notion. Carah and Rhian didn’t get along. She could barely
abide his presence. Then again, it was Rhian who helped her learn Veil Sight,
and
he protected her during the bloodletting at Bramoran. If those things didn’t
change a silly girl’s mind, nothing would. Cringing, Thorn about-faced and
headed up to the third floor.

He found her room empty, too, and the
corner of the bedclothes still turned down neatly for m’ lady. Damn it. Farther
along the corridor he asked the Mantles outside the king’s door, “Is my niece inside?”

“In there all night, m’ lord.”

Ah. Well, that was a relief. Fear
abated, Thorn tiptoed into the White Falcon’s suite. Lieutenant Rance stood at
the window. Funny to see the man reach for a sword that wasn’t there. “Asleep
on your feet, Lieutenant, or have I lost your trust?”

“Pardons, m’ lord,” he whispered,
raking Thorn head to foot. “I thought His Majesty was going to wake up a while
ago. But he was only talking in his sleep.” Rance’s hope was touching. “If you
need to speak to him, it will have to wait.”

“No, no, I’m looking for Carah.”
The chair beside the bed was empty.

Rance motioned toward the sitting
room. “Seems she had a scare last night.”

“A scare?”

“Breakdown.”

Ah, yes. Get the patient settled,
find a moment’s peace, and reality has a chance to set in. Thorn tiptoed to the
parlor, cursing the rustling of his robe. He peered around the lintel and found
them asleep on the settee, curled around each other. Carah lay snug in the crook
of Rhian’s arm, her head nestled on his chest, her knee drawn up over his
thigh.