Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (63 page)

Kelyn is going to kill me.

Rance must have detected Thorn’s
panic. He started toward the parlor, but Thorn threw an arm across the doorway
and waved the lieutenant away, though he’d probably already seen. He watched
his niece and his apprentice a long while, wondering what to say, what to do.
How beautiful they were, the lady and the pearl fisher. Beautiful and
impossible. Anger flared in Thorn’s face. How could Rhian drop his guard and
let this happen? He knew better! Didn’t he? Had Thorn? He was all too familiar with
the anguish that came with loving whom he could never have.

His anger ebbed. He did not envy
them the heartache to come.

He laid a hand to Rhian’s shoulder.
Wake up, eejit.

Rhian woke with a start, throwing a
forearm across his face, as if he expected a dragon bearing down on him. Or a
father.

Dathiel, look, I’m sorry—

Oh, please. Get up, I need your
help.

Rhian relaxed a fraction and tried
to untangle himself, but Carah moaned and wrapped an arm around his neck.

Oh, that’s a tough place to be
,
Thorn scoffed.
And stop grinning about it. I’m about to give you so much
work you won’t be able to
think
‘romance.’ We’ll discuss this later.

~~~~

A
vast, grinding hunger woke
Arryk from a nightmare. He had been clawing his way through Brynduvh’s
corridors, seeking his throne room. A flutter of wings overhead filled him with
terror. Pain pricked his side and a long smear of blood stained the floor
behind him. If he could just reach his throne, he would be safe, but the throne
room was missing. This wasn’t the right corridor at all. He was lost. How could
he be lost in his own palace? Wait, there were the doors, yes, crawl a little
faster. He was on his feet now and pushed the doors open to find a feast laid
out on half a dozen tables. Candles lit the room golden. He was so hungry. He
reached for the platters of food, trying to decide what to eat first, the
choice was vital, but he woke before he decided between wild suckling pig or
fried peacock tongues.

He tried to open his eyes. They
were matted shut. His arm weighed a hundred stone; it took him a couple of
tries before his muscles obeyed and he was able to raise a hand and scrub his
lashes. The other arm wouldn’t respond at all; it seemed to be pinned down.

When his eyes opened, he saw
nothing familiar. A ceiling of lacquered heartwood planks. Rough-hewn posts of
a strange bed hung with fringed tapestries. A chandelier of elk antlers twined
with wrought iron candleholders. None of the candles were lit. Sunlight glared
through shuttered windows on his left, when they should be on his right. A
guttural echo of sawing and hammering. A young woman in a bedside chair. She laid
with her head and arms on the bed, fast asleep. Dark brown curls pooled down
her back, dripped across her face. One of her hands curled around Arryk’s
forearm. So that’s why he couldn’t lift it. How absurd. He might have laughed
if he weren’t so confused. Where the hell was he?

His leaden arm flopped down across
his belly. Pain lashed through him, and he remembered. Nathryk had stabbed him.
No, that wasn’t right. Nathryk was dead. Fluttering wings. Falcons. Falcons had
stabbed him. He groaned at the memory of a dining hall awash in blood.

The girl bolted upright, blinked at
him and smiled. Goddess’ mercy, her eyes were exquisite, blue like the sun
through a sapphire and framed by black lashes. Exquisite and familiar. She
leaned close. “You’re really and truly awake?”

Arryk’s voice proved as stubborn as
his arm. He tried to answer, but nothing more than a grunt came out.

The girl rose and hurried off. At the
door, she whispered to the White Mantle stationed there. Gantley? What was he
doing standing watch
inside
the room? His yellow-bearded face looked
haggard, but at the girl’s report he turned that rare gap-toothed smile toward
the bed. “But don’t let that herb master in here,” the girl said more
forcefully.

Gantley bowed an exit.

“I’ve sent him to tell Rance.” The
girl paused at the windows to open one of the shutters before returning to the
bedside chair. She moved lithe and quick in snug riding leathers and a white
lace-up shirt. “He’s been so worried. But he had to get sleep sometime. He was
practically dead on his feet. He’ll be sorry he missed you waking up.”

How did this stranger know Rance,
and so well that she called him by name?

“Wait,” Arryk croaked. “You … it
was
you
. You were there. We danced.”

The girl nodded and raised her
chin. “Carah of the Swiftblade, Your Majesty.”

“Ah, that’s right. The War
Commander’s daughter.” The Imperial, yes. A gesture of peace. Or so he had
hoped.

“I wondered how much you’d
remember.”

“I remember jumping into a moat. I
remember fearing I was going to bleed to death. Nothing after that. I passed
out?”

The girl hesitated, fingers
fidgeting, mouth trying to shape the right words. “Well, not exactly, sire. But
everything’s all right now and—”

Arryk’s hand lashed out, caught her
by the wrist. She gasped and went rigid with fear. “I’m an invalid. Not a child
or a dotard.”

 After he released her it took her
some moments to recover. That casual familiarity in the touch of her eyes vanished.
He would feel sorry for it later, but right now he needed answers. She cleared
her throat and said, “You died, sire. And then—”

“Died?” He struggled to sit up, but
his right side screamed a protest. He fell back into the pile of sweaty pillows.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I
brought you back. I’m avedra. Healing is my gift.”

Died?
It was all too much.
He stared up at the knots in the ceiling and pressed a hand to the ache in his
side. He remembered the wound, the dark blood seeping through his fingers, the
desperate hope that it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

“Is it hurting, sire?” Carah asked.
“I can get you poppy wine.”

Arryk shook his head, dared to peek
under the covers. There wasn’t a stitch of binding around the wound, though the
sheets smelled strongly of ointments. A two-inch-long purple scar was surrounded
by ugly bruises. Such a puncture ought to take weeks and weeks to heal, if a man
survived it at all. “How long was I out?”

She grimaced. “Seven days? Well,
you see, we made sure you slept the whole journey, for the pain. We arrived only
yesterday.”

He peeked again, poked the scar
with his finger. “Seven days, but it’s already healed.”

Carah smiled smugly. “We still have
some work to do. You had a low fever this morning, which means there’s still a
bit of infection, and we’ll have those bruises gone in a couple of days. Seems
I’m waging war against a sour old herbalist who insists his way is best.”

He laid back, staring at her,
dumbfounded. “Avedra…. You weren’t kidding.” The cobwebs were clearing from his
head nicely now. “Six days journey, so where…?” A small sweep of his hand took
in the whole room.

“This is Drenéleth, sire. It’s a small
holding on the edge of my father’s lands, near the northern border of Aralorr.”

Dread made him lightheaded all over
again. “Am I a prisoner?”

“Oh, no, no, sire. We’re all of us
in hiding here. Eliad’s people are hurrying to fortify it. That’s the hammering
you hear. Valryk is my cousin, you know, but it didn’t matter. He tried to kill
all of us.” How lost she looked, how soulful those large blue eyes, as she
gazed back at the horror.

“How many of my people got out?”

When she looked up at him, a tear
rolled down her cheek. “Five Mantles, Lady Athmar, her nephew, and my uncle
mentioned a Lord Haezeldale.”

“Johf, yes, good.” Bhodryk’s
maternal uncle. Arryk waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “That’s all?”

She nodded feebly.

Arryk turned away, covered his face
with his hand. He was going to sob and be sick at the same time, and this
lovely girl was going to see. He heard her get up and pour water into a cup.
She lifted his hand, put the cup into it, then pried herself between him and
the pillows to help him sit up. It wasn’t water in the cup, but golden liquor. Good
girl. Arryk gulped it, but the warm feeling spreading through his veins didn’t
fill the gaping hole that the truth inflicted. “I led them to Bramoran. They
told me … Uncle Raed begged me not to come. Thank the Mother Laral was safe at
home.”

Carah pried herself free again,
stacked more pillows behind his back and took the empty cup back to the
sideboard. “Laral spoke of little but you when he visited last autumn. He said
he wished you could come elk hunting here. Ironic, don’t you think? He should arrive
soon. My uncle sent for him this morning.”

Yes, that was a comfort. Visions of
bloodshed rushed in. Had he seen his aunt, Lady Arwythe, fall? Or was that a
false memory? King Ha’el had rolled off the dais with a gout of blood spewing
from his throat. He remembered that well enough. Thunderclaps, founts of white
fire and bodies being hurled through the air. Just like in the accounts of
Father’s war.

“Your uncle,” he said. “The War
Commander’s brother? Thorn Kingshield. He was at Bramoran, too?”

Carah nodded, sank into the chair.
She was smiling affectionately at mention of him. Of course she would. Maybe
she didn’t know of the things he had done. And if she did? Thorn Kingshield had
done those things to Fierans, so what did it matter? “We couldn’t have escaped
without him,” she said.

“I shall have to thank him.” Arryk
decided the statement sounded hollow, so he changed the subject. “And you. I’m
indebted.”

“Yes, you are.” It wasn’t the
response a lady was supposed to offer. “I hope saving your life buys your
friendship, and not only for myself.”

Maybe she wasn’t as naïve as he had
suspected. After Bramoran how could she be? “I’ll have another drink, if you
don’t mind.”

She hopped up, eager to please. Her
gestures, her stride were as graceful as a dancer’s. She ought not wear those
riding leathers. Didn’t she know the effect those legs might have on a man? If Arryk
weren’t so distraught over the loss of his people, he might indulge his eyes,
but he was too upset to care.

She approached with the cup. “Last
one. You need water and food.”

Though hunger had wakened him,
sorrow filled his belly now. And old resentment. Kingshield under this very
roof. “Tell me, is it true you avedrin can hear unspoken words?” He glanced up
at her, suspicion unmasked. “When we danced were you spying on my mind?”

A blush flared in her cheeks. He
might as well have called her a two-copper whore as scandalized as she looked. “I
didn’t dare! It’s frightening enough to know what’s going on in a regular man’s
mind. I have no desire to know what’s happening in a king’s.”

Arryk coughed out a chuckle, dry
and bitter. “You would probably be disappointed.”

She crossed her arms. “You mean, a
king thinks like any other man?”

“All too often.” His belly
complained loudly.

Carah’s eyebrows darted up. “He
hungers, too.” She reached for the bell rope.

Voices filled the corridor,
arguments, pleas. It was a relief to hear Rance barking orders.

“Shall I leave you alone with
them?” Carah asked, hurrying for the door. “Don’t tire yourself, sire. I’ll
return with a tray or two.”

He raised a hand before she flung
open the door, bidding her wait. “Afterward, I’ll have an audience with your
uncle.” Arryk hoped he was up for it. He wanted to look into the eyes of the
man who killed his father.

~~~~

T
he mood of the upper floor
had changed markedly. The two Mantles outside the king’s door stopped Thorn as
he approached, raised his arms for him and patted him down. Pockets and sleeves,
boot cuffs and hair, their fingers probed them all. “Dagger and sword, sir,”
commanded the one named Haekym. He was a grizzled old knight who seemed to
enjoy knocking Thorn about a bit.

“You want my hands as well?” Thorn
asked, but the Mantles didn’t think that was funny. Back to being typical
humorless sentinels now that the boss was watching, eh? Thorn unbuckled his
sword belt and handed it off to Dirk, a pup of a soldier with big apprehensive
eyes. Thorn had a couple more japes in mind, like ‘Lady Drona gave you some
tips, didn’t she?’ and ‘To think, yesterday we were such good friends,’ but he
decided to keep them to himself. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. There were
still plenty of falcons to subdue and send off.

Haekym opened the door. Putting on
his most formal face, Thorn stepped in and heard voices in the adjoining parlor.
The White Falcon was arguing with his lieutenant. “No! … speak with him alone. …
Because I have to know. Stand watch over there, then, but don’t interfere.”

Rance straightened as Thorn
entered, cast him an awkward half-grin and backed from the parlor. Arryk stood
at the windows watching the highlanders plant another stake on the lawn. Gruff
shouts from the laborers, the bellows of oxen, and the thunk of axes drifted
through the window with a cool afternoon breeze. The palisade might be finished
as early as tomorrow. Clans were pouring from the mountain valleys with their
cattle and weapons. The river plain between the lodge and the Avidan ford filled
with their tents, campfires, and makeshift paddocks. Thorn had decided that the
highlanders responded so well to Eliad because he was as rowdy and
free-spirited as they. He caroused with them, hunted with them, drank with
them, and thought highly of their daughters. When he called for them, they
hadn’t hesitated.

Thorn doubted the White Falcon had
summoned him to discuss the locals, however. One of Eliad’s robes fit the king
well, this one with a collar of lush beaver fur. Ought Thorn consider it an
insult that the king didn’t turn to greet him? “It would please me for you not
to read my mind,” Arryk said instead.

Earned his disfavor already, and
Thorn hadn’t even had time to bow. He supposed he shouldn’t expect the White
Falcon to be in a generous mood. Carah explained to him how Arryk reacted when
he heard about the death toll. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Doing so would go
against my principles anyway.”

“Would it?” Skepticism oozed from
the question. “I sent for you half an hour ago.”

Thorn had to strain to hear the
softly spoken words. Something dangerous in that quiet voice. “I was busy with
a bird, sire. I cannot simply break the connection. I rushed it, though. The
message will likely go astray.”

“Message?”

“For my aunt at Wyramor, telling
her that her husband, daughter, and grandson are dead.”

“Your family, Wyramor, yes...” After
a long silence, Arryk said, “You may approach.”

Eating glass sounded like a better
idea. Drawing near the window, Thorn saw that Arryk wasn’t watching the
builders after all. His eyes clung to some indistinct place between the windowpane
and his guest. Every muscle was taut, and hostility pulsed from him like a
heartbeat. How still he stood, listening, sensing, gauging. Thorn conducted a
quick inspection himself, to make sure the king’s hands were empty. “The Lady
Carah says I have you to thank for our escape,” he said, words clipped.