Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (66 page)

Laral
gave the towers one last long look, then swung his charger east again, the ache
of regret enough to choke him.

~~~~

“N
o more wars,” Kethlyn muttered to
himself. He rode a great gray brute of a warhorse before the ranks of
Windhaven’s troops. A thousand archers and pikemen stood at attention in the
plaza. They looked sharp in new uniforms dyed dark Evaronnan red, with the
great silver dome of the council forum towering behind them. Identical bows of
pale thelnyth wood peeked over their shoulders, and quivers full of
red-fletched arrows hung from their belts. Over their heads, a banner blazoned
with the silver arrow snapped in a brisk westerly hurtling off the sea, and the
morning sun shone in the mirror-like polish of their helms. Kethlyn reined in and
turned to their commander. “Captain Leng, have the quartermaster call on me
tomorrow.”

The
captain was as broad and solid as an oaken door. “Something amiss, Your Grace?”

“These
helms. Very fine. So fine that they are beacons on a hill. I don’t want
Evaronna’s archers spotted by an enemy before they can hit their mark.”

“Ah,
yes, Your Grace, of course. I will speak with Captain Fynds as soon as we are
dismissed.” A squire dogging Leng’s heels scratched a note on a tablet.

These
men and women had been training intensely for the past week, in case something
went amiss at the Convention. Three days ago, in compliance with Valryk’s
orders, Kethlyn sent summons to each of his holdings. Vonmora was to prepare
her archers. Westport and Brimlad their soldiers, sailors, and ships. The
smaller towns across the countryside and along the coast were to amass their
militias.
No more wars
, Valryk said.

Why,
then, was Kethlyn raising an army? “Let me see if these new uniforms have
improved their formation. Those men there.” He pointed at the company drawn up
on the far side of the plaza, to see if it had been positioned in the back
corner because it was weakest.

Captain
Leng barked orders. The archers of Blue Company turned sharply and began a
circuit of the plaza, shined black boots marching out a tight cadence. All but
one man. The young archer stood in place while the rest of his company wheeled
line by line around the great fountain. “What’s that man’s problem?” Kethlyn
demanded.

Leng’s
mouth tightened. “Branyr! Move your hide or I’ll flog it for you.”

The
archer raised his chin a fraction and double-timed it to catch up with his
company, but as he passed, he cast a sideward glare up at Kethlyn.

“Stop,”
he ordered.

The
archer obeyed, but instead of turning and saluting, he glared daggers past the
nose of the warhorse. Kethlyn realized too late that he should have ignored the
man entirely. His gut wrenched as he guessed why this man might despise him. “I
know you, don’t I?”

The
archer moved not one hair to acknowledge the question.

“Branyr,
damn it,” growled Leng. “I will have you for insubordination. Your duke has
addressed you.”

“He’s
not my duke,” the archer said.

Leng
called Blue Company to a halt, then beckoned sharply to his sergeants. Ten of
them hurried across the plaza to surround the archer. Kethlyn waved a hand
bidding them wait.

“Refresh
my memory, soldier.”

The
archer let out a deep breath of ‘all or nothing,’ then turned to answer him.
“Five years ago I begged for an audience with ‘Er Grace. My brother’s ship were
taken by pirates, and I pleaded for ‘er to do something to save him. Out of the
goodness of ‘er heart she sent three patrol ships to track down the ‘ole crew,
and they didn’t stop looking and fighting till they found him. My little brother
came home safe because of ‘er.”

“Yes,
I remember that incident.” Would it do any good to tell the man that it was
Kethlyn’s pleas that convinced his mother to send the patrol ships after what
looked like a hopeless cause?

“And
where is she? Where is ‘Er Grace? There ain’t been no funeral. Nor bells
tolling. Nor even secret smoke rising from the burning yard up at the palace.
Yet ‘ere you are calling yourself the duke. Where’s ‘er ashes, eh? If ‘Er Grace
died, why weren’t ‘er people told?” He raised his voice and waved his arms to
rally the rest of the regiment. “Where’s her ashes? Where’s her ashes?”

More
than a few voices scattered among the companies echoed the cry. The sergeants
pounced the archer. Two grabbed his arms; another seized him by the scruff. The
rest bared their swords, ready to make a pincushion out of him. “Usurper!” he
shouted. A hand smashed down over his mouth.

Hoping
he looked more calm than he felt, Kethlyn reached into his doublet and pulled
out a crisply folded parchment. “Can you read, Branyr?”

The
archer shook off the stifling hand. “I can manage. My lord.”

“Captain,
hold this up for Branyr’s convenience.”

Leng
took the parchment, opened it, and held it in front of the archer’s face.

“Aloud,
please,” Kethlyn ordered.

Through
fits and stutters and much squinting at the elegant script, Branyr started
bashfully: “By order of His Maj … Majesty, the Black Fal … con, King Valryk—”

“Louder,”
Kethlyn said. Could the rest of the soldiers in the plaza see him sweating?

Branyr
damn near shouted the rest. “—we he-hereby name Kethlyn, son of the H-houses
Liraness and ee-Ilswythe, Duke of all Eva-ronna, master of all her lands and
shores and all who dwell therein. Signed … I can’t read that.”

“By
the king.” Kethlyn lowered his hand, and Leng placed the parchment in it. “I am
duke by the king’s wishes,” he announced over the heads of every soldier and
civilian in the plaza, “not my mother’s, not mine. If you have issue with that,
take it up with the Black Falcon. Until the king changes his mind, we will all
do as we are told. Agreed?”

The
archer clenched his jaw and though he continued to glare defiantly, he said,
“Yes, sir. Your Grace.”

“Return
to your place.”

Leng
raised surprised eyes. The sergeants released their prisoner. Branyr snapped a
salute across his chest, then fled across the plaza to fill the hole he had
left in the phalanx.

No
more wars. Yet since breaking the seal on that parchment, Kethlyn felt as if
had fought one war after another. He still doubted if he had won the battle with
Aunt Halayn. “But your mother still lives!” she had cried, wizened voice
cracking. “She has never failed the king, not this one or the last one. What
justification does Valryk have?”

“He
doesn’t need justification, Aunt. He’s the king. If he wishes to surround
himself with people who share his trust and his vision, who are you to question
him?”

“Who,
indeed! I am his grandmother’s sister! We shall see about this. Oh, yes, we
will.” She stormed off as fast as her feeble legs could carry her and wrote a
letter addressed to Kethlyn’s mother. Of course, Kethlyn intercepted it and
tossed it into the fireplace. When Aunt Halayn found out, she accused him of
treachery. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew Valryk planned to oust her. How
long? How long had the two of you been scheming against her? Since Rhorek’s
burning, perhaps? Hnh, longer than that, I’ll wager.”

“That’s
a wager you would lose. And if I hear talk of it outside this room, I will know
who to blame.”

Her
hazel eyes narrowed, as sharply bladed as ever. “How hard did you try to talk
him out of it, I wonder. For your mother’s sake, of course. You wouldn’t dare
see her shamed before all her people, now would you? You love her too much. Or
so I always believed.”

He
did love her. That’s why he was scared. He still had the hardest battle to
fight. And that was facing Mum and Da.

The
king promised to break the news to them during the Convention. “I will take your
mother aside and explain this change in the watch. She won’t like it, but she’ll
get used to it. You’ll see.” Kethlyn knew Mum would be devastated. He waited
uneasily for a letter expressing her outrage. Part of him hoped, however, that
she would understand Valryk’s reasoning and accept it sooner rather than later.
The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, but the king had made up his mind.
Even Kethlyn’s protests hadn’t swayed him. Was Aunt Halayn right? Had he
protested long enough, loud enough?

The
decree crackled crisply inside his doublet. His inheritance guaranteed by this
slip of parchment. Not Carah’s. His. The bastard becomes a duke, and no one
could change it now.

He
endured the rest of the inspection, nodding at the parade of companies and
drills, but he was impatient to return to the palace. A letter might be
waiting. From Mum or from Valryk. Ten days since the Convention and not a word
from either of them. Why hadn’t the king written and told him how things had
gone?

He
shouldn’t be so selfish. Valryk had other concerns besides his cousin’s
premature succession. All Kethlyn knew was that Valryk’s spies had unearthed proof
that the White Falcon meant to finish what his father began and reunite ancient
Westervael. Valryk hoped to intercede with charm and grace and other generous
methods of persuasion before Arryk sent his troops across the Bryna. If he
could show the White Falcon how strong Aralorr was, in men, arms, and unity, then
maybe Arryk would rethink his hopes of conquest.

King
Ha’el was invited to act as mediator. A task a Leanian king was well suited
for. Had he performed it well?

Evaronna
was always the last place to receive news, and all Kethlyn heard was rumor. A
courier from Helwende said Mithlan had been attacked and not one soul was
spared. An envoy from Brimlad arrived only yesterday with the same report. And
this morning, traders from the east said Ilswythe Village was a pile of ashes.

Ilswythe
under attack? No, it was too farfetched to believe. If Fiera
had
declared war on her neighbors, how in the Mother’s name had the White Falcon’s
host managed to sweep as far north as the Avidan River in under ten days?
Impossible. Something else, then.
Think, damn it. You’re the War Commander’s
son. What is happening?

He
had heard accounts of how his father seemed to know what was coming long before
anyone else and was able to plan and parry, dodge and strike at the right
moment. Kethlyn decided he hadn’t inherited his father’s foresight. He only
knew that something was wrong, and he hoped he wasn’t in the middle of it.

“His
Grace is satisfied?” asked Captain Leng.

Kethlyn
realized he stared at the cobblestones. The regiment stood silent and at a
attention. “I … yes, Captain, very good,” he said, sitting up straight. “Cancel
all leave. The regiments are to train every day. Insubordinates are to be
hanged.”

Leng
saluted. “Even Branyr?”

Kethlyn
eyed the men and women of Blue Company. The archer’s defiance had provided him
an opportunity to explain things to the entire city. Hanging him now would be
counterproductive. “Next time.” He turned his charger and cantered from the
plaza. Household guards fell in behind him. A herald galloped ahead, wielding
the duke’s banner and clearing the way. Their route home took them along the crowded
quay. Even over the clatter of hooves Kethlyn heard angry shouts of people
clustering around the market stalls. They complained about the price of fish,
no doubt. When the moons warred over the waters, food was harder to come by,
and this particular lunar feud had lasted for months.

Thyrra’s
silver crescent slipped shyly over the roofs that dominated the eastern hills;
Forath was nowhere in evidence, and the tides couldn’t decide which way to
flow. It was a dangerous time for vessels to put out. Windy Coves was crowded
with ships and merchanters that dared not venture too close to shore. Cavalcades
of dinghies carried out supplies and returned with trade goods. Four war galleons
risked approaching the deep-water piers, and only because Kethlyn had ordered
them to. A minimal number of ships had to stand ready in case Fiera attacked by
sea. Waves pummeled the galleons, splashing white against their hulls, while
heavy-duty padding protected their dock-side planks. Cranes hoisted ballistae
onto their decks and fed crates of garrots down into their bellies. Tomorrow
Kethlyn was to return to town to give them his blessing as they embarked upon
their patrol.

The
quayside highway brought him and his escort to the bridge that spanned the
slow, lazy waters of the Liran. Kethlyn remembered when there was only a ferry to
carry people to the palace, but he had forgotten the name of the ferrymaster.
The way that giant of a man had been so brusque and snappish with his oarsmen,
then jovial and gentle with the duchess had scared Kethlyn witless when he was
a boy. Time and again he had begged his mother to have a proper bridge built,
but she refused, saying, “I won’t put Rygg out of work.” That was it! Rygg. All
he ever talked about was his service upon some pirate ship on the Big Water.
Kethlyn never understood why his mother should have such affection for him, a
mere ferrymaster and an admitted pirate. When he died, the duchess even gave
him an admiral’s burial at sea. “Why, Mum?” he had asked, watching the shrouded
body slip deeper and deeper beneath the waves. When it disappeared, she dabbed
her tears away and said, “Because he earned it.”