Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (4 page)

“Fast!”

“What new game is this?” Kelyn
asked.

Rhoslyn stopped spinning, winded
and flushed, and set Kethlyn down. At a year and three months, he ran
unsteadily across the rug, slammed into Kelyn’s knees and wrapped his arms
about those long legs as if they were trees. “Fwy, Da, fwy!”

Rhoslyn explained, “His nanny read
him a new story tonight, and now a dragon helps the brave knight fly.”

Kelyn smirked. “You’re the dragon,
I take it?”

Rhoslyn’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“You didn’t have to. It was all
over your face.”

Kelyn stooped and lifted his son.

“Anyway, he’s getting too heavy,”
she added. “You have a go.”

“Ah, no. It’s late. He should be
asleep.”

Rhoslyn grunted. “Don’t I know it?
The house was busy with last minute preparations, and dragon knight here heard
us all bumping around and decided it was time to wake up and play.”

“And you’re indulging him?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

“Fwy! Fwy!” Kethlyn pleaded,
tugging the front of Kelyn’s surcoat.

“Is that ‘fly’ or ‘fry’? A dragon
can make you do both.”

The toddler frowned in reply,
trying to puzzle out his da’s words.

“Don’t frustrate him. Just play.
Wear him out, for the Goddess’ sake.”

The knight was squealing happily
and the dragon was dizzy enough to need the back of a chair to stand up when
Lady Alovi hurried into the nursery and thrust a mug of steaming milk at
Rhoslyn. She saw her son filling the dragon’s role. “Oh, there you are,
dearest. Welcome home. How is Rhorek?” She planted a kiss on his cheek, but
didn’t give him time to answer before turning back to Rhoslyn. “I gather the
rocking didn’t work. Or is this interruption your fault, Kelyn?”

“Not mine!”

“Where’s Grieva?”

 Rhoslyn’s fist doubled on her hip.
“I sent her to bed. I don’t need her help to play dragon with my son.”

“Of course not, dear,” said Alovi, opening
her arms for her grandson. “I’ll take over. You must get your sleep.” Kelyn
handed Kethlyn to his mother and closed his eyes to make the room stop spinning.
“Besides, I won’t see him again until spring. He’ll be a different child by
then.”

Rhoslyn’s sigh was ragged with
anger. “Don’t the two of you collaborate against me.”

Alovi folded herself into the
rocker, one arm pinning Kethlyn to her chest, the other reaching for the milk.
“Wouldn’t hear of it.” If Kelyn was any judge, his mother’s retort wasn’t
completely guileless.

Upon her son’s marriage, Alovi
decided that having three rooms to herself was too much and gave the master
suite to Kelyn and his bride. The parlor separating the two boudoirs still
smelled of Alovi’s perfume, mingled with a hint of leather and brandy, redolent
of Lord Keth. Kelyn had ordered his father’s things moved out; too painful
seeing them gathering dust.

The arrangement still made him
uncomfortable, for other reasons. He and Rhoslyn got along well in a social
setting. They each knew their part, and they played it excessively well. But
behind closed doors, they never touched. It made for an awkward dance, staying
up late in the study when Rhoslyn complained of a headache and retired early,
or hurrying off to bed while Rhoslyn still had piles of letters to write. Any
excuse to avoid having no excuse. And why not, when intimacy with one another
had resulted in their deepest shame? The parlor separating their rooms might as
well be as wide as the Great Fire Sea.

While Kelyn soaked in the copper
tub, he listened to Rhoslyn relaying orders to her handmaid two rooms away. Was
her traveling gown laid out? Had Rajika received new shoes and her saddle
oiled? When the chatter fell silent, Kelyn found himself waiting for her to
speak again. Had she gone to bed without bothering with a word of farewell to
him? What time was she planning to wake? He wanted to see her off, but if he
didn’t know … he would have Eliad wake him in time. No, Eliad was notorious for
oversleeping.

To hell with it. He couldn’t soak
in peace like this. Grumbling, he climbed out of the tub, tied on his bathrobe,
warm from the stove, and ventured into the parlor. Rhoslyn’s door was still
cracked open and a lamp burned. She had redecorated Alovi’s former boudoir to
echo her rooms at Windhaven:  delicately carved rosewood furniture from Ixaka,
sheer drapes on the windows and bed, piles of silk pillows fashioned at
Vonmora. She sat at the vanity, pulling a silver brush through her heavy golden
hair. Eventually, she noticed him watching sullenly from the threshold.

“What do you want? Not another
fight, I hope. You’ve already stated your case.”

“What time will you be up?”

“An hour before dawn. I hope to reach
the Silver Stag before sundown, but I doubt we’ll make it. Gets dark so early
this time of year.”

Inspecting his fingernails, he
muttered, “The weather’s turning. Saw it on the way home.”

“Give it up, Kelyn.”

“Can’t I be worried—Your Grace?”

She slapped down the silver brush
as if it were a gauntlet and spun on the vanity stool to face him, eyebrows
raised, mouth hard and ready for war.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Her expression changed not one
hair, and it was Kelyn who glanced away. “It’s just that … well.” His gut writhed
as it hadn’t since that night on the riverbank when he awaited his first battle.
“I realized today that … that I’m in love with my wife.”

Rhoslyn leapt off the stool. “Oh,
that’s a low blow! Not even lies of that magnitude will convince me to stay.”

“Lie? To convince
you
? I
wouldn’t dare. Somehow I knew this is how you’d react. I should’ve kept it to
myself.”

Rhoslyn froze with some retort on
her mouth and her finger jabbing at him. Slowly, she lowered her hand, and
confusion worked its way across her face. “What, you actually mean it?”

He said nothing, just stewed and
squirmed in the doorway, face hot and teeth grinding. When he risked a glance
at Rhoslyn again, he caught her smiling a strange smile. It was much like the
one she wore when her son learned something new. “Well, it’s about time you
came to your senses.”

Eh? She expected this? Was that
arrogance on her part, or hope fulfilled? And just how long had she meant to
wait before giving up on him? Might her dedication to this marriage go beyond
duty? Kelyn decided it was better not to ask.

She approached him and raised a
tentative hand to trace the long, thin scar on his cheek. “Does this mean you prefer
to sleep in here?”

He grabbed her hand away from his
face. “Rhoz, that’s not why—”

“Well, I could order it of you. I
do outrank you and all, but I don’t expect I shall have to do that.” He hadn’t
seen this degree of mischief in her grin since the Assembly two years ago. It
was bound to get her into trouble.

He stammered for a response,
feeling stupid and relieved. But deciding there were no words left to be said,
he stepped in from the parlor and shut the door.

~~~~

H
e waited two weeks for her
to return, as lovesick and miserable as he’d ever been, hoping Windgate Pass
was closed. At last, a courier delivered a letter from Rhoslyn stating that she
and Kethlyn had arrived home safely, and so he set in for a long, lonely
winter. Along with his regular responsibilities and seeing that his people were
comfortable despite the cold, he traveled often to Longmead or to Thyrvael, to hunt
with Lord Morach or Master Brugge. Anything for a distraction. He avoided
Bramoran Royal unless the king summoned him. The last thing he wanted was for
Lissah to think him lonely and looking for company.

At the turning of the year, when
the villagers hung garlands of evergreen in the wooling shed for their dances, which
Lord Ilswythe was expected to attend, he sent an order to every hothouse in
Evaronna. He wished he could’ve seen Rhoslyn’s face when wagonloads of roses
arrived at her door. In response, he received a letter that said only, “I miss
you, too.”

He paid couriers well for taking
pains in delivering nothing more important than love notes. On the other hand,
he’d received enough bad news by courier to wonder if love notes might be the
most vital news of all.

As good as her word, Rhoslyn
returned in the spring only a day later than agreed. “It was the carriage’s
doing,” she complained as Laral helped her out. Mud caked the wheels and had
spattered as high as the windows. “My rider arrived safely and let you know
we’d be late?”

Kelyn barely had the chance to say
yes amid the flurry of porters and grooms crowding the courtyard.

Rhoslyn lifted Kethlyn down behind
her, despite an outburst from Grieva. “Let me! Your Grace,
really
.”

Alovi stood on hand to whisk up her
grandson. How he had grown. Kelyn’s heart ached to think what he’d missed.

Rhoslyn rattled on, “The mud was so
deep at Helwende, we had to stay an extra night, Goddess spare us, while the
driver dug the wheels free.”

“Why the carriage? You always ride.
The rain pester you that much? Is Rajika all right?”

The golden desert pony was tethered
behind the carriage, lathered and indignant.

“Rajika’s fine. We’re all fine.
Tired. I need food.”

“Supper’s ready, but I thought I
might have a kiss before you stuff your face.”

She laughed and didn’t fuss when he
tugged her hard against him. Goddess, she smelled lovely. He was drunk on her
already and he didn’t care if all the castle knew it. It was in the middle of
that embrace, however, that he felt something … not right between them.
Glancing down, he saw the roundness in her belly. “Mother’s mercy,” he
muttered.

“That was my thought,” she said. “Listen,
we’re going to work something out. That’s two for two. There’s no need for this
to happen every time we share rooms.”

The steps to the keep provided the nearest
seat; he didn’t know if he was about to laugh or faint.

And so, in the summer of 981, a
daughter was born to the Houses of Ilswythe and Liraness.

~~~~

Lord Ilswythe,

His Majesty
insisted I correspond on the matter with you as well, implying that you had
good standing with the Thyrvael dwarves and might understand how best to handle
the situation.

As you know,
trade with our Drakhan friends has all but ceased. Indeed, nearly all
communication with the eastern dwarves has become impossible. We believe the
trouble last fall, which resulted in my Uncle Degany’s death, is the cause, but
we are unable to ascertain even that much information. The last party we sent
to Ristencort returned without incident, but they reported that the
stone-fathers have barred their gates and opened them to neither plea nor
force. In other words, all attempts to treat for gold have been unsuccessful.
His Majesty seemed to take comfort only in the fact that if we cannot discuss
the gold trade with the dwarves, then neither can the Fierans nor peoples
farther afield.

Originally, we
suspected something reasonable, like infighting or war between the clans. Such
incidents are rare among the dwarves, but not unheard of, and if anything were
to incite rivalry, it would be an uneven distribution of gold. However, a few
weeks ago, when Zeldanor received a shipment of gravel from the higher
quarries, the team driver caused us to rethink our suspicions. He warned us to
avoid the high roads because the ‘bogginai’ had emerged from underground. When
plied upon to explain, the driver made a strange warding sign with his hand,
turned red with anger, and said, ‘It’s an evil darkness, that’s what, and we’ll
see to our own.’ He would not be pressed for more.

His Majesty,
therefore, implores you to approach the Thyrvael dwarves for further
information on the matter and correspond with him the moment you learn
anything.

Ever your
servant,

~Lord Hiller

Kelyn groaned over a scrap of
parchment, searching for the most diplomatic words to send to Master Brugge.
The foreman of the Thyrvael mines might not be an orator himself, but prying
into dwarven business could prove dicey. One wrong phrasing and Brugge might
find an insult lurking between the lines or, worse, interpret Kelyn’s motives
correctly. If Rhorek wanted the bloody gold so badly, why didn’t he write the
damned letters?

Kelyn had little head for words.
Encouraging troops to fight was one thing. He was moved by the moment, but when
he had to sit down and convey things delicately, the words bottled up in his
skull and refused to find their way to the quill. The ink on the tip dried
before he thought of the appropriate words and by the time he dipped it into
the pot again, the words had vanished. “Damn it. Yorin! What’s a better word
for ‘mystery’?”

From the study’s doorway he heard,
“Why not just ‘mystery,’ you walking lexicon?”

The letter forgotten, Kelyn fell
back in his chair and grinned unabashedly at his brother. Despite the insulting
greeting, Thorn grinned back. The otherworldly shimmer in his skin and the
luxurious dark blue velvet of his robe gave the impression that he’d fallen
from a midnight cloud when the moon was upon it. On the other hand, the dust of
a long journey coated his riding boots.

“Or you could try ‘enigma’,” he
added.

“That’s the one,” Kelyn said,
rising from behind the desk. “Now, what’s a
bogginai
, avedra?”

“A what?”

“You mean I know a word you don’t?”

“It’s all babble unless you know
the meaning.”

Kelyn chuckled. A year had passed
since he’d seen his twin from a sickbed at Lunélion, and nearly three since
Thorn Kingshield had graced the halls of Ilswythe. Kelyn hadn’t dared hope for
this day. Indeed, he had dreaded it, wondering if those strange turquoise eyes
might still harbor hostility or resentment. Quite the contrary. Thorn’s lowered
chin made him look downright contrite, and he was not able to meet Kelyn’s eye
for long. He seemed like his old shy, uncertain self. Perhaps he had feared how
warm a welcome he would receive. Kelyn held out his hand. “Thanks for the
rescue.”