Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (67 page)

The
next day she commissioned the bridge. It was an elaborate work in steel and
stone. Lampposts like giant arrows set ablaze stood sentry along the entire
quarter-mile stretch. A middle section raised to allow for the masts of Vonmora’s
merchant vessels. The boathouse that once accommodated Rygg and his oarsmen now
housed the winch. Kethlyn rang a bell, and the wardens waved a flag in the
window, indicating they had heard and were seeing to their task. A man upriver
and another downriver raised more flags, bidding any masted boats to haul in
their sails and wait. The raised section lowered slowly, but it was still
faster than riding the ferry.

Once across, Kethlyn charged up the
cliff-side road and through the palace gate. He had to rein in hard to avoid
trampling a cluster of squealing children. They ran past without seeming to
notice him, many of them pointing skyward, all of them smiling and sweaty.

“Pardons, Your Grace,” cried
Captain Drael, running from the gatehouse. He took the bridle of the warhorse
while Kethlyn dismounted.

“What is this?”

“Well, we seem to have a visitor.” Drael
pointed in the same direction as the children. Kethlyn shielded his eyes
against the late morning sun and found a falcon cutting an arc against the sky.
“It’s been circling the palace all morning. It settles on occasion. The
household children have made a game of trying to capture it. They haven’t come
within ten feet.”

The falcon alighted upon one of the
towers, shook the wind from her feathers. The children cried out, shoving and
stumbling over each other to be the first up the tower. They disappeared in the
stairwell, laughter and shouts tumbling down after them.

“One of ours?”

“Madam Hana says all His Grace’s
birds are accounted for.”

“Ah. Lost, then.” He started for
the palace steps. “Any couriers arrived?”

“I’m sorry, no, Your Grace.”

Damn. No more wars, indeed, yet
people were dying and castles were burning. He ordered luncheon brought up to
him, mostly in the hopes of avoiding Aunt Halayn, and resolved to write a
letter to Valryk, tactfully demanding some answers. No sooner had he dipped his
quill than he heard a scrabbling, thudding commotion at his window. He rose
from the desk, swept aside the drape, and found the falcon perched on his windowsill.
His fingers tapped the glass, but the bird sat there staring at him. “You’re a
befuddling one. Hana miscounted, didn’t she?” A blanket bundled around his hand
served for a glove. He opened the window slowly, expecting his attempt to fail
just as miserably as those of the children in the courtyard. But the falcon
beat her wings and stepped onto Kethlyn’s arm. He tried to stroke the silver
breast, but the yellow beak lowered and pinched his finger. The markings on her
chest were different, too. “I don’t think you
are
one of my birds.” He
met the falcon’s eye, and a jolt lashed down his spine, paralyzing him.

Kethlyn, nephew
, he heard.
The
convention was a disaster. Valryk used the King’s Hall as a slaughterhouse. Your
father requests your aid immediately. Bring Windhaven’s host to Drenéleth.
Avoid Ilswythe. Make haste.

The falcon screeched as the contact
severed. Several moments passed before Kethlyn’s head cleared enough to realize
she had flown away.

He sank onto the window ledge. Slaughterhouse?
Valryk’s doing? Unlikely.

Uncle Thorn was good at telling
stories. All prone to exaggeration if not outright fantasy. ‘Disaster’ and
‘slaughterhouse’ might mean merely that the Fierans hadn’t liked Valryk’s
attempts to persuade them toward peace and blows had been exchanged. A few
people might even have been killed, but fewer Fierans couldn’t hurt.

When the food arrived, he was too
confused to eat. Wine, that’s all he wanted. Yes, the wine would steady him,
help him puzzle this out. “Where have you been all these years? Beloved uncle.”
He carried his goblet to the window and glowered at the sun-glassed sea. The
ships, so far away, were black silhouettes amid the white glare. “You had
little enough to do with me growing up, why should I listen to you now? Jump when
you say jump? Hnh.”

But it was Father’s need, not Uncle
Thorn’s. And no mention of Mum.

The warning to avoid Ilswythe only
confirmed the other rumors he had heard, but it did not explain them. Why was
Da at Drenéleth and not at home defending Ilswythe?

Kethlyn nearly choked on his sip of
wine. Oh, dear Goddess, he had fled from Bramoran after Valryk told him and Mum
about his plans for the duchy, and then Valryk attacked Ilswythe, forcing Da to
flee again. Da was raising an army against the king! Over Kethlyn’s
inheritance? No, if that were the case, Da wouldn’t expect his traitor son to
lead a regiment to his aid.

Kethlyn slammed his goblet down on
the window ledge, splashing red wine across the glass. “Damn you, Uncle, for
your riddles!” Aye, the conundrum was a painful reminder. He didn’t have to
understand; he had only to obey. First rule of soldiering:  do as your
commander orders, no questions asked.

He scribbled a note to Captain Leng.
Windhaven’s regiment was to prepare to march. He returned to the courtyard,
surrounded by a maelstrom of anger. “Captain Drael! Sound assembly.”

A silver horn blared. Men tumbled
from the training yard, the barracks, the mess hall, and lined up in the
courtyard. Inspecting them on the brink of need, Kethlyn realized how fat and
sloppy his palace garrison was.

“Look sharp, men,” he called. “The
defense of Windhaven will soon be in your hands. Tomorrow I march east with my
army at the War Commander’s behest. You!” He shoved his letter at the nearest
man. “Mount up and deliver this to Captain Leng in the city barracks. See that
he acts upon it immediately.”

Drael leaned close. “Your Grace,
are we at war?”

“I don’t know.” Having no better
answer humiliated him. He retreated inside and shouted for his chamberlain. In
his suite, he had another glass of wine while servants laid out mail and plate
and surcoat. They took pieces away for polishing and ironing and brought them
back again to assemble them on an armor tree in his dressing room.

“What in all Lethryn is going on?”
Aunt Halayn stood on the threshold, hands knotted atop a silver-headed cane.
Even at eighty-something she didn’t really need it. People expected old women
to carry canes, so she did. Kethlyn decided she wielded it like a watchman
wields a club, in the event that her great-nephew needed a beating over the
head.

Kethlyn tried to look occupied
inspecting his sword. “I figured your spies might know. In the least, your
gossip ring.”

Halayn tilted her head and smiled
as sweetly as vinegar. “Your mother could be just as nasty at your age. She
soon learned to aim that nastiness at pirates and solicitors rather than family
who wanted the best for her. I assume you will too, but forgive me for not
liking you in the meantime.”

It was too bad that ‘liking’ had
nothing to do with duty. “Looks like I’ll be facing my father sooner than I
expected. That should make you happy.”

“I doubt my happiness really
concerns you.”

Kethlyn groaned. Mum had warned
him. Get Aunt on your bad side, and know no peace. “You’ll handle things here?”

She flapped a hand. “Oh, don’t mind
me. I’ve just taken care of things for years when the duchess—and duke—ride
away. But you won’t hear songs about poor Aunt Halayn who stayed behind to save
the day.”

Falling for her manipulation was
not on today’s schedule. “Then if you don’t mind, I have preparations to make.”

Halayn raised her nose and turned
for the door. “Dismissed like any other servant…” Her grumbling followed her
the length of the corridor.

Kethlyn ordered new shoes for his
warhorse and his sword carried to the armory for a lick at the whetstone, wrote
a couple of letters canceling appointments, then climbed to the watchtowers
where an oversized brass spyglass was mounted to the crenels. As a boy he had
watched the seals fighting for space on the sea stacks. Now, he peered across
the river and over the roofs of the city toward the barracks and the militia’s out-camps.
Tents lined the hillsides beneath the slopes of the mountains. Men smaller than
pewter soldiers ran to and fro, frantic. Leng had received his orders then. Good.
Tomorrow at dawn Kethlyn would cross the bridge, assemble the regiment in the
plaza as he had this morning, then lead them along their parade route through
town. Children would cheer; women would weep and wave kerchiefs and toss
petals, and Kethlyn would act like he knew what he was doing. All he had to do
was get the regiment safely to Drenéleth, then Da would tell him what to do
next. That was a comfort. Not having to decide for himself took a stone’s
weight of anxiety out of his belly. He swung the spyglass along the highway,
past the bridge and the winch house, and there saw the rider.

This was no casual traveler. A long
gray cloak flowed down the horse’s flanks, and though the day was warm and dry,
he wore a deep hood. Rather than continue along the highway into town, the
rider stopped on the bridge and rang the bell. A pair of watchmen emerged from
the winch house to question the stranger. A gloved finger pointed toward the
palace. He showed them a parcel. A letter! At last.

Kethlyn was too eager for news to
wait for a footman to bring it to him. By the time he returned to the
courtyard, the courier was approaching the gate. “Halt,” cried the sentry on
the wall. “Dismount and state your business.”

The courier obeyed. How tall he was
standing beside the gray racer. The small, swift horse looked too short to
accommodate him. “I bear tidings from His Majesty, the Black Falcon. For His
Grace.”

Kethlyn’s heart rose. This would
put his mind at ease, maybe answer a few questions.

The portcullis clanked upward. The
courier entered the deep shadow of the tunnel under the gatehouse but did not
emerge again. Kethlyn felt the man’s eyes on him even though he couldn’t see
them.

Captain Drael appeared from his
office in the base of the tower, glanced curiously between the courier and his
duke. “I’ll take it.”

The courier hung back, not liking
that idea. His answer was too soft for Kethlyn to hear, but he refrained from
passing the letter to the captain.

Drael swept a hand tersely toward
the palace. “Go, then. You don’t make His Grace come to you.”

“It’s no matter,” Kethlyn said,
approaching. “He’s traveled all the way from Bramoran. We can spare him a few
steps.” The shadows smelled of cool stone and moss. The courier’s face seemed
to shimmer inside the hood. Kethlyn snatched the letter, unable to conceal his
eagerness, and started to carry it back out into the sunlight but paused. “You
came by Ilswythe. Is it really under attack?”

“No longer, Your Grace.” The man’s
voice was too cultured and fine to belong to a courier. A bard, perhaps, but
not a courier.

“The matter is resolved?”

“Very nearly.”

“Was it Fierans?”

“I fear not.”

“The king’s soldiers, then. I knew
it.” What had Da done? “Do you know the cause behind it?”

The courier shrugged gracefully.
“His Majesty willed it. Other than that, I know not. It’s unwise for one such
as myself to wade in those deep waters. Forgive me.”

The letter would explain. He broke
the seal.

The courier bowed and mounted up
again.

“Is the king not expecting a
reply?”

The courier’s grin was wolfish.
“No.”

It wasn’t only Kethlyn’s hackles
that rose. With a snarl frozen on his face and a hand squeezing the pommel of
his sword, Captain Drael watched the courier until he reached the bridge.

Kethlyn opened the parchment and
read:

~To His Grace, Kethlyn, Duke of
Liraness,

Our hopes are dashed. Battle
broke out in my own Hall before I was aware. King Arryk and King Ha’el are dead,
and hundreds more with them. But do not fear. We will bring peace to the
Northwest. Move the armies of Vonmora and Brimlad to the Avidan and secure
Evaronna’s southern border. I have every reason to believe that Leania will
raise her sword against Aralorr. Westport is to send her ships to the mouth of
the Avidan in guard against Leania’s navy. Continue drilling Windhaven’s host
yourself and keep every eye open. The land is full of traitors.

Despite any rumor you may hear,
you are not to leave your post until you receive further orders from me. I have
every confidence in you, cousin.

~Valryk, the Black Falcon, and so
forth.

Leania! Not Fiera. The last thing
Kethlyn would have expected was Leania moving against her former ally. Ha’el
being slain at Bramoran explained Leania’s outrage, but if they attacked
Kethlyn’s border they would regret it.

He read the letter again and again,
and finally decided that it explained little more than Uncle Thorn’s summons.
Who had put the population of Mithlan to the sword? Surely not Aralorris. It
was just as hard to imagine Valryk’s troops attacking it so soon as it was
Fierans.

Nothing made sense.
Be a good
soldier and just do as you’re told
. But which order was he to follow?
Traitors. Traitors everywhere. “Oh, Da, whose side are you on?” If Valryk
considered Da a traitor, then taking Windhaven’s regiment to Drenéleth was the
worst thing Kethlyn could do. Besides, a king’s order outweighed his father’s,
didn’t it? And on the day of Valryk’s coronation, Kethlyn had promised him
obedience. He never expected it to be this hard.

“Is it ill news, Your Grace?” asked
Drael.

Kethlyn’s expression must’ve told
all. He smoothed his brow and said, “The preparations to march were only a
drill. Go into town and tell Captain Leng that I want a full report on how the
regiment handled it, and I want it first thing in the morning.”