Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (64 page)

Thorn let out a breath, feeling the
need to breathe for both of them. “If I had acted sooner, more might have gotten
out.”

Arryk drew himself up, raised his
chin a fraction. Was this the wrong answer? Thorn suspected that his response,
whatever it was, mattered not at all. At last Arryk seemed to gather some resolve
and turned to face his guest. Green eyes pinned Thorn and conducted a cold,
fierce scrutiny, like razors hoping for a slip and a taste of blood. Thorn
remembered those eyes. Looking at them was like looking at a ghost. He tried to
hold the gaze but failed. Unexpected, being disarmed so easily.

Arryk’s glance didn’t waver. “You’re
not what I expected.”

Thorn’s mouth was dry as dust. “I
hear that often lately, sire. People seem to expect sparks of lightning dancing
about my fingertips, a steed breathing fire, and a storm spinning in my wake.
But I’m the same awkward scholar I ever was.”

“Is that so?”

“I am sorry that I offend Your
Majesty.”

“If you offend me, it is not
because you lack sparks of lightning, Thorn Kingshield.” He turned away
abruptly, strode for the breakfast table, and poured himself a cup of tea with
the aggression of a lance striking a shield. His hands trembled, and the clattering
of the silver and porcelain sounded like accusations. He poured a second cup
and gestured for his guest to take a seat. Thorn dared not refuse, though he
could’ve done with something stronger. He eased into the chair across from the
White Falcon, helped himself to the milk, stirred, sipped, and grimaced.
Lukewarm and bitter. He should have tossed the bird sooner. He would have hot
tea to ease his headache at least.

Arryk watched him coolly over the
rim of his own cup, but did not drink. “Tell me about my father.”

The request came so suddenly that
Thorn half-choked. He threw his arm over his mouth until he recovered. He
might’ve known. Yes, Arryk had every reason to loathe his guest. “Tell you
what, sire? You knew him better than I.”

“Undoubtedly. But I wasn’t there
when he died.” He set aside his cup. “What if I told you I put Ghost Root in
that tea.”

A chill slithered across Thorn’s
shoulders and down into his gut. He eyed the contents of his cup, remembering a
battle in an alleyway, little knives pricking his shoulder, pain like shards of
steel paralyzing his muscles, Zellel whispering in his ear, and sudden
blindness before oblivion. He remembered carefully selecting a vial of purple
crystal, too.

In one great gulp he swallowed the
rest of the tea. “Then I would say, ‘well-deserved’.”

“The accounts are true, then.”

“Well, that depends on who’s
telling them, doesn’t it?” Thorn was sure he had been mercilessly vilified
south of the Bryna.

“I’ll hear your side.” Arryk’s eyes
narrowed, as if daring Thorn to forbid him the details.

“Gracious of you. But is this
something you need to hear right now?”

“I’ve waited twenty years to hear
it, and I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Thorn leaned back in the chair,
releasing a heavy breath. “He had abandoned the field. Wasn’t really anything
else he could do by then. His warlord was dead, his city invaded by vengeful
dwarves. Brynduvh’s defenders were fleeing the walls. It was only a matter of
hours before the dwarves broke into the palace, a matter of days before
Rhorek’s armies arrived. I reached him first. I offered him a gift, and he
chose to accept it. He was grateful in that stage of the game to still have a
choice, though you may not believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Come, come, sire, you don’t think
his enemies would have allowed him to live? The dwarves had broken in. It was
all I could do to convince them to wait until I’d spoken with your father.”

“Was it the dwarves who mutilated
him?”

Thorn took offense to that. “That
was a clean cut. And it was done at your father’s request. I don’t go around
cutting off heads. I was sick after, though that will not comfort you. I was
honor-bound to carry out the wishes of a dying man, and so I did,
everything
he wished.”

If the White Falcon hadn’t been
pale before, he certainly was now, though his cheeks looked flushed. Was it
fever or rage? “I will not believe you did him a kindness.”

Thorn nodded, mournful. “It was to
you that I did the unkindness, sire, not him. We both lost our fathers to that
war, and I am sorry for it.”

Too unsettled to sit still, Arryk
shoved back his chair and returned to the window. Etiquette bid Thorn rise as
well. He stood quietly behind his chair while Arryk waded through the
information. “Your tale makes no sense, Kingshield. You helped an enemy escape
the hands of your own king, your own brother’s armies? You’re either a traitor
or a liar.”

“If those are my choices, then I
must choose traitor.”

That struck the White Falcon off
guard. He whirled and demanded, “Why? Why offer my father this choice? He might
have been set free. He might have joined us at Éndaran. We might have sailed to
Dorél to live happily in exile.”

This was not a king speaking, but a
brokenhearted little boy. “Yes, so many other futures that could have been and
never will be. I offered him the poison because his dream had shattered around
him, and all he had left was his dignity. Should I have let the dwarves strip
him of that as well? I knew that pain, sire. I fled the field, too, and tried
to die, but there was no one to help me. He appreciated having someone there at
the end who understood him.”

Arryk sank onto the window seat,
the certainty draining out of him.

“I told you I carried out all your
father’s wishes, but that’s not true. He feared I would chase you down, your
aunt and your brothers, and have done with the lot of you, but I swore to him
that you would not be harmed, not by my hand or the hand of any Aralorri.
‘Trust’ was the word he used. ‘I must trust you with them,’ he said. So you
see? I have failed in my promise to him, after all. At least my niece was able
to save you.”

“I owe her a great debt.”

“Continue to be a wise and generous
king, and the debt will be paid.”

“Continue? Am I wise? Am I
generous? I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Every man doubts, sire. Even your
father. He said he feared his sons would remember him as a failure. Is that so?”

Arryk considered, making a long
study of the rug under his feet, then shook his head.

“Good.” Thorn drifted to the
window, peered out over the palisade toward the broad river valley and the tumbling
cataracts of the Avidan. “I told him I would remember him as a man of vision.
And so he was.”

How would the scribes and bards
remember King Arryk? As the man who lost his kingdom to the mysterious realms
beyond? Or as the king who won it back again? He sat quietly brooding for so
long that Thorn wondered if he ought to take the silence for dismissal. “I lost
his knives,” he said at last. All the hostility was gone. “His fighting knives,
Raptor and Talon. They’re in my suite at Bramoran.”

“We’ll get them back. Yes, we’ll
take back many things.” Somewhere along that glistening blade of water lay
Ilswythe’s gates. Thorn meant to wait for the return of the falcons before
setting out. “Is there anyone in particular you wish me to notify?”

Arryk pushed himself to his feet as
though his joints had turned to stone. “Birds, you said? But you don’t have
birds from Brynduvh, I’ll warrant. You’ll have to send a rider.”

“Contradicting kings is never a
good idea, I’m told.”

“Really? I’ll not send for the
headsman if you’re honest with me.”

Thorn chuckled. “It involves avedra
mind work, sire. I’m using wild falcons, for fleetness, to carry messages all
over the northwest. Takes all my concentration, and I’m not sure it will work,
but if we’re to act quickly this is our only option.”

Skepticism crept back into Arryk’s eyes.
“This is how you sent for Laral? Can you attach a handwritten letter to one of
these falcons?”

“At risk to my face, perhaps.”

“Have the Lady Carah on hand, then.”
Arryk went to the writing desk against the far wall and dug out a sheet of thin
courier paper. “Lord Éndaran needs to know that I’m alive and well. Rance, too.
His wife and children will be sick with worry.” He wrote no more than the
greeting before he paused. “It may be too late. I left Raed specific
instructions. If he did not receive three letters written in my hand, he was to
cross the Bryna in full force. I was able to write only one of those letters.”

Thorn hurried to the desk. “Your
host started marshaling before you left Fiera?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“This is wonderful! My brother will
be relieved to hear it.” Thorn decided not to tell the White Falcon that
Brynduvh was under attack, or that soldiers across Fiera were occupied
defending lesser holdings as well. The boy had enough to think about.

“If your troops try to cross the new
bridge at Athmar, they’ll be massacred,” he said, pacing and thinking aloud. “Maybe
they’ll steer clear when they see the town in ashes.”

“Ashes,
Athmar
?”

“Mmm. All ancient elven holdings
were attacked on the same day. Athmar was one of them. I haven’t told Drona or
her nephew. Point is, we’ll have to get word to your host to avoid the obvious
byways and fords, just as I’ve ordered Laral. Ferries. They’ll have to use
ferries to cross. Briar Tower, the river fort. We’ll have them camp at Briar.”
Arryk dipped his quill, scratched a note on the thin paper. “I’ll send Briar’s commander
a bird explaining that this is the War Commander’s wish. Hopefully that will
deter any bloodshed between Fieran and Aralorri, and a regiment will be on hand
the moment we’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m not sure even
Kelyn knows. But we’ll think of something.” He felt giddy. Any resistance they
gathered was bound to be crushed, but he felt drunk all the same.

He found Arryk watching him from
the corner of his eye. “You’re not what I expected, Thorn Kingshield. Not at
all.”

~~~~

“W
ait, Andy, wait!” Laral shouted,
lowering the blunt end of the training sword. “What did I tell you?”

Andryn
wore a padded gambeson, gloves, and a helmet with a cage that protected his
face. It was too big for his head. He had to tilt his head back to see under
the visor. After a moment of confusion, he winced and recited, “To stay on my
toes. Don’t stand like a stick.”

“Aye,
stay loose in the knees. A motionless knight is a dead knight. Dance, son.
Never let them catch you. Again.”

The
bailey of Brengarra echoed with the clacks of the wooden swords. Andryn hopped
and shuffled around the pivot of his father, a scowl of determination
scrunching his flushed face. They occupied a small sandy arena in the shade of
the wall. Sedrik leaned on the wooden fence, freckled face smirking at the
youngster while waiting for his foster lord to send him for gear or reinforcements.
Haldred, two years older and almost ready for knighthood, trained with the
garrison in the yard. An atmosphere of purpose punctuated the drills this
morning, and no wonder. Everyone was scared.

People
poured in from every direction. Terrified townsfolk carried strange and
disturbing news. Those who traveled along the north road claimed the town of
Athmar burned, that a new banner fluttered from the castle towers in place of
Drona’s green boar. Those who fled from the Crossroads or even as far away as
Arwythe said the same. Towns burned; banners hung with skulls flew in town
squares. People arriving from the west said Brynduvh itself was surrounded by
some mysterious evil. Everyone who approached the gates died. The king’s banner
still flew, but townsfolk fled the surrounding villages in droves. Voices,
gruff and ugly, spoke in unknown languages out of thin air. Drums and roars
were enough to frighten the spirit right out of a man. When Haezeldale had
taken in all the people it could accommodate, the castellan sent them on to
Brengarra.

Not
a single man, woman, or child among the hundreds could say who attacked these
cities. How could a fortress fall and the enemy never be seen?

“Foul
magics. They been set loose,” said an old cobbler from Brynduvh. Laral had toured
the tent city springing up along the Thunderwater. Fear, uncertainty marked
every face he saw. “People learned real quick not to approach them gates, lest
they wanted to explode in great gouts of blood. I seen it myself. One my ‘prentices,
stubborn dolt, had a sweetheart. Wouldn’t be parted from her, he said. Well,
he’s parted from her now and from his head, too. It’s a curse, I tell you, m’
lord. What did the king do to turn these evils loose on us?”

The
rumor mill had rarely been so productive. Laral heard talk that the ghost of
the king’s brother had returned from the Abyss, though the rumormongers
couldn’t decide exactly
which
brother sought vengeance on them or for
what great sin. He heard that the White Falcon had become paranoid and dabbled
in black magic. Before he fled his own city, Arryk had enacted a guarding spell
to keep out assassins and invaders, only he hadn’t considered his own people.
And he heard that, no, it was the Lord Chancellor who had cast the spell in an
attempt to usurp the throne. “And it’ll work, too,” said a broom-maker without
a tooth left in her mouth. “His Majesty will return in all his pomp and glory,
ride straight into that invisible scythe, and he’ll die like the rest of us.
He’s got a wolf’s face, that Lord Éndaran. It’s his doing, I tell ya.”

The
enigma tainted Laral’s sleep and his waking hours, too. Night after night, he
dreamed of a room full of people drowning in blood. He pounded at the doors,
tugged with meager strength, but the doors refused to open and let the people
escape. Arryk was locked in there, he knew, and Laral couldn’t save him. He
woke gasping, as if he were the one drowning.

He
sent a courier to Brynduvh with a letter for Lord Raed, asking what was
happening, but no answer returned. Laral had no choice but to assume these
refugees told the truth and that he had sent a good rider to his death. He
found himself watching the highway, hoping for a glimpse of Arryk’s party. Had
the Convention failed or not? It was supposed to have taken place ten days ago.
Plenty of time for the king to return.

In
accordance with Arryk’s wishes, Laral had sent word across Brengarra’s domain,
rallying the militias from each town. They were to stand ready in case the
Convention failed. Laral thought he knew what that would look like. He never
expected tales of magic and foreign banners.

Then,
three days ago, he sent the militias an actual summons. Each town was to send
half its men to the castle. He remembered Kelyn mentioning “a feeling” he would
get before battle began, long before anyone knew there would be a fight on that
particular day. Laral learned to trust Kelyn’s feelings, just as he trusted
Ruthan’s premonitions. He didn’t know if this nervous knot in his gut was the
same kind of thing, or if it was the result of his common sense reading the
signs, but he had every suspicion that his militia was about to come in handy. Men
and their sons arrived from across Brengarra’s lands wearing plain gray tabards
and wielding long ash-wood pikes. He ordered them to position their camps to
each side of the ford. Just in case.

All
the distractions, all the uncertainty, caused him to be shorter with his son
than he intended, nor could he focus properly. Andryn snuck around his father’s
flank and landed a blow behind his knee. The boy celebrated by throwing his
arms into the air. “Ha, hamstrung!”

Laral’s
sword thumped Andryn’s helm, knocking him sideways. “Hamstrung doesn’t mean
dead.”

“Aw,
c’mon, Da.” His breathing had become a labored wheeze.

Laral
tossed his sword into the sand and said, “I need a rest, son. You’re wearing me
out.” He sent Sedrik for a bucket of water.

“Was
that better …
wheeze
… weaving?” Andryn asked, tugging off his helmet.
Hope made his eyes sparkle.

Laral
ruffled his sweaty hair. “So much better that you made me dizzy.”

“This
is a better kind of dancing than practicing minuets with Lesha in the parlor.”

“You’ll
be glad you learned that kind of dancing too, when a lady catches your eye.”

Andryn
made a gagging sound. “I doubt it.”

They
perched on the rails of the fence and when Sedrik returned, they shared the
water from a ladle.

“Should
I take over, m’ lord?” Sed asked.

Leave
it to a kid to miss Laral’s real reason for quitting. “Not today.”

“Yes,”
Andryn said between heaving breaths.

“
No
.”

Andy
slumped in disappointment, accepted the ladle for another drink. His right hand
still clutched the training sword. Laral suspected he would sleep with the
thing if his mum let him. Andy had gotten into trouble twice for carrying it to
the supper table. He frowned at the blunt wooden edge. “When can I have a real
sword, Da?”

“You
know well the answer to that. When you’re eighteen and knighted.”

“That’s
forever away.”

“And
you’ll spend all those years learning how to use it. Else you’ll go cutting off
your own foot. Lord Andryn Limp-Along, that’s what they’d call you.”

His
son laughed at that.

“Go
with Sed and put away your gear.”

Andryn
hopped down from the rail, scooped up his helm and Laral’s practice sword and
started for the armory with the older squire.

Laral
called after him, “What does a knight never neglect?”

“Cleanliness
of sword, armor, horse, self,” Andy called back, bobbing his head with each
item on the list. “In that ord—” He shied from a sudden ruffle of feathers. A
falcon swooped over his head and careened toward Laral, yellow talons wide
open. The bird landed on the rail not two feet away from him.

“Da!”

He
raised a hand for silence. Master Eurgen must have left the mews doors open
again. Brengarra’s old falconer was growing noticeably senile. “Give me your
glove.”

Andryn
crept closer, tongue stabbing the corner of his mouth and padded glove outstretched.
Laral slid it on, while the falcon situated her wings over her back and shook
the wind of flight from her breast feathers. She cocked her head, and one large
black eye boldly regarded the man, the boy, and the youth gathering close.

The
glove was too snug for Laral’s hand and probably too thin to keep out the
barbed talons. He reached out to coax the bird onto his fist and locked eyes
with her. He couldn’t turn away. Deep inside his skull he heard the words:
Laral,
a message from Thorn Kingshield, your friend. Disaster has struck the
Convention of Kings. Your father has been slain and many others besides. The
Northwest is under attack. The War Commander needs you. Bring half your
garrison and half your militia to Drenéleth. Avoid bridges and roads, villages
and fortresses. Keep to open country and do not delay.

The
falcon broke her stare, screeched an ear-splitting note, and pumped her wings
desperately to get away. Laral watched her sail over the ivy-bearded gatehouse,
as dazed as if a great fist had landed a blow on his chin.

Andryn
shook his arm. “Da! Did you hear? What are we to do?”

Even
Sedrik appeared to have heard the message. He stood gaping at his foster lord.

My
father, dead
…
The haze gradually cleared from Laral’s head. “Andy, come help me with my
armor. Sed, saddle my horse, then keep saddling them. Get Hal and men from the
garrison to help you.” The older squire sped off for the stables. Laral
bellowed across the yard, “Captain Nors!” Soldiers kept bashing their sparring
partners, but their commander stopped his inspection to acknowledge Laral.
“Have the men line up and count off, one-two, one-two. The ones ride with me,
the twos stay here.”

“Ride
where, sir? Have you heard from the king?”

“Send
the twos into town to round up the militia, and have them count off the same
way. They’re to be ready to march in two hours.” He started for the keep, but paused
sharply on the steps. What was he
doing
? A mysterious message claimed Kelyn
needed him, and he so easily tossed aside his vow to Arryk? Did this summons
comply with Arryk’s wishes? Did Kelyn call him to take up arms against Fiera?
Was Arryk dead, and by whose hand? Oh, Goddess spare him, this was it. The
choice he had dreaded all his knighted life.

“Da?
You look sick again.” Andryn stood on the steps, watching him apprehensively.
“Do you want me fetch your armor?”

Laral
wrapped an arm tight around his son’s shoulders and they entered the keep
together. “Go find your mum.”

Bethyn
heard Andy’s version of things by the time she joined Laral in their chambers.
She took one look at the gray surcoat and mail hauberk lying across the bed and
demanded, “Is this absurd story true?”

“Mum,
I
told
you—” Andy said.

Bethyn
ignored him. Tears sprang into large, frightened eyes as she advanced on Laral.
He stopped shoving wool socks into a satchel and stood to face her. “You’re
leaving because a bird told you to?”

“Thorn
Kingshield told me to. I’ve not heard from him in twenty years, Wren. It
is
absurd.
It’s too absurd not to be true.” He edged around her, tossed the satchel on the
foot of the bed, and ordered, “Andy, undershirts, a wool blanket.” He felt
Bethyn glaring at his back. Pretending to ignore it, he tugged off the
sweat-stained jerkin he always wore in the training yard and retrieved an
undershirt of soft black wool from his son.

“What’s
this, Da?” Andryn asked, lifting a small cloth doll from the satchel. It wore
the blue surcoat of an Aralorri knight and flopped limply in his hand.

“That’s
a protection charm. Put it back.” Poor Ruthan. The falcon hadn’t mentioned her.
Was she dead, too?

Over
the black undershirt he put on a quilted doublet and had Andryn lace it closed
down each side.

“Like
this?” the boy asked.

“That’s
fine,” Laral said, all the while watching Bethyn from the corner of his eye. She
wiped a tear angrily off her face and hugged her arms over her chest; the fingers
of her left hand kneaded her right arm as if it were the neck of a lute. Never
still, those fingers. He often wondered if she thought in music. If so, she was
playing a call to arms in her head while she rallied choice words like staccato
notes. Her eyes settled on the yellow lightning bolt blazing across the front
of the surcoat, and her shoulders slumped in a sign of surrender.

Her
fingers traced the embroidery. “I remember my father and brother riding out in
a hurry like this. I was so young and stupid that I was excited about it.”

“It
is
exciting, Mum!” Andryn cried.

She
chose not to tell her son that both her father and her brother came back to her
as ashes in tiny leather pouches. “I suppose, with everything else that’s
happening, we’d be foolish to laugh off this bird. But, Laral … who are you
riding off to fight for?”

 Tenderly
he brushed a tangled lock of silk-soft brown hair off her neck. “I’m not sure.
That bird was damned vague. I’m not turning my back on Arryk. I’ll find him
first, whether he’s dead or alive, then I’ll know what to do. If Kelyn can’t
understand that, well.... I have to be able to come home to you, Wren.”