Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (3 page)

Gehart’s horse collapsed, bugling
and bleeding from gaping wounds on its haunches. Gehart somersaulted, shook his
head as he tried to rise. The shimmers overtook him. He screamed once, then no
more.

“Mother’s mercy!” cried Daelryn,
peering back.

Degany unsheathed his sword,
slashed at the shimmers reaching out for him. Bright blood sprayed in an arc
from the end of the blade. A bellow of pain followed and some of the shimmers dropped
back. But there were so many; the shimmers filled the valley now, trampling the
dwarven corpses without care. His horse whinnied and rolled, legs cut to pieces,
and tossed him into a snowdrift. His brothers shouted for him, wheeled back
toward the shimmers to aid him. He kicked free of the snow, found his sword
still secure in his fist. The shimmers charged, all around him now, sunlight
through multi-faceted crystal, and inside he distinguished shapes, shapes dark
and monstrous. They loomed over him, taller than his brothers by far. They
leapt back from the reach of his sword.

“Be gone, whatever you are!” he
shouted, spinning and slashing. Bright blood, almost orange in color, splashed
the snow.

His brothers screamed. Surrounded
by shimmering, dancing columns, Daelryn was lifted off his mount, thrashed
around like a child’s doll and broken in half. Dastyr slashed at the shimmers
with a short sword and dirk, then his head was rolling and his body slipped
groundward.

Degany cried out in anguish and
tried to get to them. He ignored the searing pain that caught him between the
shoulder blades, but the sudden wetness leaking across his belly took the
strength out of him. He collapsed in the snow, holding his belly closed and
tasting blood.

Where was Wolf?
Ah, Goddess, let
him get away
. More screams echoed down the road.
Run, Wolf
.

The shimmers surged passed at last,
leaving him to silence and sorrow. His brothers. They bled out in the snow,
only feet away, and he bled out with them. Truva was going to have a fit. She’d
be grateful now, that he had made excuses to leave Drys behind.

Footsteps approached, so soft that
they barely crunched across the snow. Degany dared to look, but his vision was
going all funny. Through a dim, hazy tunnel he made out a pair of eyes as gray
as the winter sky, and just as cold.

~~~~

980
A.E. celebrated the twentieth year of the reign of King Rhorek, the Black
Falcon of Aralorr. Because of his leniency toward his enemies at the close of
the Last War between the Brother Realms, and for his generous contributions
given to the rebuilding of the kingdoms, he was thereafter called Rhorek the Benevolent.

—Chronicle of Kings

K
elyn found it difficult to
believe the messenger’s story, but the man had no reason to ride ninety miles
to lie. In dusty cloak and mud-spattered breaches, Lord Zeldanor’s nephew had
arrived in all haste. He sat at the king’s council table, exhausted and
desperate for the wine in his goblet.

“All of them?” asked Rhorek. When
young Hiller returned a tiny nod, the king paced wildly below the pair of silver
thrones perched on the dais. “Then how do you know? How does anyone know?”

“The dwarves found one of the party
alive, sire,” Hiller said. “My uncle’s squire. Wolf is what we called him. He
was Lord Whitewood’s youngest son. He told them what he knew before he died.”

“Could nothing be done for him?”
Always more concerned about the people than the news. It was one of the reasons
Rhorek’s people loved him. Kelyn had tried to nurture the same regard in
himself, but, as War Commander, he had learned he couldn’t afford to.

“His wounds were too grievous.”

“I thought the killing was done
with!” Rhorek’s voice echoed under the coffered ceiling. The peace conferences
had concluded a couple of months before, and they had exhausted everyone
involved. Though recovery for both sides was well underway, tallies of the dead
haunted the king. Kelyn knew only because Rhorek confided in him. In his
nightmares, he said, the numbers on long scrolls of parchment grew and grew.
Every time he looked, the number had changed and it was always higher than
before, higher than he could fathom. Were there so many people in all the
world? All of them dead. He walked onto the battlements over a blighted
landscape, and there was not a living soul in sight. Only ravens circling carpets
of corpses. Little doubt, Rhorek felt responsible for every soldier’s loss. He
always had, and Kelyn supposed the loss of the delegation he had sent east would
be no exception. “Are the dwarves sure it wasn’t Fierans?”

“Wolf said magic was involved,
sire.” Hiller was bearing up under the interrogation admirably. Kelyn knew only
too well what it was like being on the receiving end of Rhorek’s anguished
tirades. “Strange things, he said. Apparently, Uncle Diggs mentioned something
shimmering
,
sire.”

“Shimmering?”

“Of course, Wolf was near
delusional when he was interviewed. Invisible bears, he said.”

Rhorek sighed. “No more talk of
that. I will not have this brave boy’s dignity marred because of imaginings of
a feverish mind.”

“What if the squire wasn’t
delusional,” Kelyn said. The king stopped pacing at that. “It could be my
brother’s fault. A Fieran search for magical means of warfare, I mean.” The
horrors and wonders that occurred on the battlefield after Thorn Kingshield made
an appearance might make any army envious. Was it impossible to imagine that
Princess Ki’eva had hunted up an avedra for herself?

Rhorek leant heavily on the back of
a chair. “That doesn’t bear thinking about. The dwarves are investigating the
slaughter?”

Hiller nodded, running a finger
around the rim of his goblet and finding it too difficult to hold the king’s
intense gaze. “They have pledged their honor to find the culprits.”

“We cannot ask for more. Except
full reports from you, Hiller. Lord Zeldanor had an heir, didn’t he, a son?”

Kelyn shot a glance toward the
towering double doors where his two squires waited on hand. Young Eliad was
trying not to look at Laral, but curiosity got the better of him. Laral stared
at the floor, grief plain on his face. He and Drys had been fast friends since
the war began.

“Was he killed as well?” Rhorek
asked.

“No, sire,” said Hiller. “He’s
squire to Lord Gyfan at Blue Mountain. He’s been informed.”

Once Rhorek dismissed his guest and
his councilor, Kelyn started for his quarters with his squires in tow. Eliad,
at ten, got over the news easily and complained of a growling stomach, but Laral
was too worried to think about supper. “Drys is Lord Zeldanor now, isn’t he?”
he asked, keeping his voice low in the echoing corridor. “He’s just sixteen, it
isn’t right!”

“No, it isn’t,” Kelyn said,
remembering that day of fire and ice when his own father was slain. Pausing under
the light of stained-glass lamps, he set a firm hand on Laral’s shoulder. His
older squire had grown nearly as tall as himself and might outgrow him yet. “Go
write a letter of condolence. Better, go to him yourself. Drys probably needs a
friend right now.”

Laral seemed to think the idea of
abandoning his post a scandal. “But—”

“Eliad is more than capable of
seeing to my needs. Besides I’m a big boy and can handle most things by myself,
even if I never admit it to the likes of you. I was a squire once, too,
remember. We’ll manage just fine.”

Laral squirmed under the sarcasm.
“M’ lord … I won’t know what to say to him.”

“Of course you will. You lost your
mother and your brother. Stay as long as Drys needs you.”

A quiet presence joined them. Who
else needed to speak with him? Kelyn wasn’t in a gregarious mood.

“Eliad, go help him pack. Pack your
own things, too. We leave for home in the morning.” The squires hurried off for
the stairs, and Kelyn called after them, “Write to your father, Laral, let him
know where you’ll be. And don’t let Drys take off into the mountains looking
for vengeance, eh?”

He turned to find the Captain of
the Falcon Guard standing at his elbow. How cold and austere she looked in her
black surcoat. She had cut off her long pale braid; the heavy bob brushed her jawline.
“Bad business, that. His Majesty will sort it out.”

“I’m sure.”

“And you? Her Grace is returning to
Windhaven for winter, isn’t she? Taking the child with her?”

Kelyn’s heart sank. Had Lissah
mentioned it to sting him? Whatever her motives, they weren’t wholesome.
Stiffly, he said, “Yes.”

“Whatever will you do during those
long, cold nights without someone to warm your bed?”

Kelyn grit his teeth. “Get a bigger
bed warmer.”

“Hnh.”

“You’re fighting a one-sided
battle, Lissah,” he snapped, then moved off for the stairs. “Don’t force me to
resent you.”

“Resent
me
?” The indignant
cry shuddered down the length of the corridor. “Who’s running now, Kelyn?”

He paused, exhaled, and said, “Yes,
it’s wiser.”

She snickered. “Under her thumb
already, are you?”

Kelyn whirled, face hot, and
hurried back down the steps. “Do not mention Her Grace to me in this manner
again, or I will break your teeth as if you were a man.”

Lissah’s eyebrow peaked, and she
crossed her arms over the silver falcon on her chest. “Interesting.”

“
Interesting?
What did you
expect?”

“From you? Anything but fidelity.”
She turned and beat a retreat toward her offices. If she expected him to
follow, as in the old days, she found herself gravely disappointed.

~~~~

K
elyn rode through
Ilswythe’s gate, and a cerulean banner inched up the flagpole atop the keep’s
roof. Blazoned with a black spread-winged falcon wielding a sword in its talons,
the banner flapped grudgingly in the calm night air, as if the hour was too
late to bother with grand announcements of a lord’s return. Riding along behind
him, Eliad blinked heavily. Making the journey in one day was always hard on
youngsters, but Kelyn worried that Rhoslyn may have departed before he could
say his farewells.

Captain Maegeth descended the
gatehouse to hold his horse’s bridle. Tall, whip-thin, and hardened from
keeping the castle garrison in shape, she had never been able to shed a certain
feminine delicacy, at least in Kelyn’s eyes. Her short-cropped hair, as black
as the falcon on her chest, had started to turn silver at the temples. “All
quiet here, m’ lord,” she said. “How’s Bramoran?”

Kelyn snorted, dismounting. “Quiet
like a hail storm. Something nasty going on among the dwarves. Doesn’t look like
it will trouble us though. But the rest? Goddess! Families arguing over
pensions, village elders demanding reparations, soldiers complaining they
weren’t paid enough for their wounds. You’ve my thanks, Maegeth, for being content.”

“Well, a girl could use a raise now
and then.”

Kelyn glared, then caught her
mischievous half-grin.

“Under the circumstances,” she
added, “we’ll forego the matter till spring.”

“Hhn, so good of you, Captain.”

Eliad climbed down beside them,
groaned out a great yawn. The boy looked more like his father every day, but
the king paid his bastard son less than no mind. He took the horses and headed
for the stables, half asleep on his feet.

“Only good news,” Kelyn added, “is
that Queen Briéllyn is with child again. At least, Rhorek hinted as much. Best
keep it quiet.”

“About time Prince Valryk had a
sparring partner, eh?”

Kelyn chuckled at Maegeth’s idea of
sibling companionship. “He’s not even two years old, Captain.”

“I’m the third child of six, m’
lord. ‘Sparring partner’ is an apt way to put it.”

“As you say. I’m too tired to
argue. I’ll take your reports in the morning.” He started for the keep.

“Very good, sir. Oh, and Captain
Drael has arrived to escort Her Grace.”

Kelyn’s stomach lurched. This was
their first opportunity to try out their agreement. Rhoslyn had decided to live
at Ilswythe during the summer and return to Windhaven every winter. As Duchess
of Liraness, Rhoslyn could hardly abandon her people in order to be Lady
Ilswythe. In truth, she said, she ought not stay at Ilswythe at all, except for
brief visits, but she liked the place and couldn’t a duchess enjoy a summer
palace? All summer she had corresponded with her aunt concerning Windhaven’s
affairs, with Admiral Beryr about downsizing the navy, with Lord Davhin about
Vonmora’s silk production, and with Princess Rilyth and Lord Rorin about reestablishing
trade relations damaged during the war. She was anxious to see to these things
herself.

Before leaving for Bramoran last
week, Kelyn made the mistake of proposing that she leave Kethlyn at Ilswythe.
“I don’t like the idea of him traveling over Windgate Pass this late in the
year, Rhoz,” he’d said. “Snow may have already hidden the road.”

“Captain Drael will see us safely
across,” she argued.

“If the pass is closed, turn around
and come back immediately.”

“I’m not one of your soldiers that
you can order around. If the pass is snowed under, we’ll go on to Brimlad and
take a ship into Windy Coves. I’ll talk to Drael about it when he arrives.”

“Come back if the pass is closed,
please.”

The desperation Rhoslyn saw on his
face surprised her. “Is our going bothering you so much? I’d thought you’d
welcome the freedom.”

“I just want you both to be safe,
that’s all.”

She grew suspicious then. “Both,
nothing! You mean Kethlyn. I’m not leaving him here! He’ll govern Evaronna one
day. He must feel at home with his people.”

Kelyn had ridden to Bramoran still
steaming. After two years of war, he’d become accustomed to the continual
movement from one engagement to the next and the unending clamor of
discontented men and women. Keeping his mind supple, his reflexes primed had
been paramount. Coming home to sedentary, domestic routine had driven him mad
at first. The first summons to court had been a relief. So had the second and
the third. Now, well, he felt that he had run out of time to spend with his
son. And Rhoslyn.

In the Great Corridor, the lamps
were turned down. Kelyn stumbled over a stack of chests and trunks, stubbing his
toes and bruising his shins.

“Ah, pardons, m’ lord!” cried
Master Yorin, running from the guard room with a lamp. “We didn’t expect you
until tomorrow. These would have been well gone by then.”

“Yes, that’s why I hurried.”

The steward set the lamp on a side
table and took Kelyn’s cloak and gloves. “The journey proved no trouble then,
m’ lord?”

“Damn road gets longer every time.”

“I’ll order a bath for you.”

“Captain Drael was made
comfortable?”

“Yes, m’ lord. He retired some
hours ago. Early start and all that.”

“Yes … Her Grace is retired as
well?”

“Not yet. She is eager to be on her
way, kept us running all day, but there appears to be a debacle in the nursery.
That’s where you will find her, sir.”

“Debacle?”

“Well, nothing serious. Lord
Kethlyn is in top form, I assure you. He and, er, Captain Maegeth slipped a
barn lizard into my pocket this afternoon. Fine form, indeed.”

The report broke Kelyn’s glum mood;
he chuckled all the way to the stairs.

Yorin followed with the lamp.
“Certainly, laugh all you like, m’ lord. I remember when someone else had the
same notion.”

“That wasn’t me,” Kelyn said,
holding up his hands. “That was Kieryn, if I remember. Or maybe it was me. I
was certainly privy to the deed.” Yorin escorted him to the nursery, then
bustled off to order a bath. Kelyn pressed his ear to the door. Laughter and
squeals beyond. Since when was midnight playtime? He peeked inside.

In the middle of the bright Ixakan
rug, Rhoslyn spun, holding her son at arm’s length. Kethlyn’s chubby arms were stretched
to his sides as if they were wings. “Fast! Fast!”

“I can’t go faster,” Rhoslyn said,
breathless. “You’re breaking my arms.”