Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (47 page)

“He commands you to shun the King’s
Hall tomorrow.”

She nodded in acquiescence and was
grateful to see her father returning across the Hall.

Valryk hurried back to the ballroom
before Kelyn rejoined them, obvious in his wish to avoid him further. “That was
… awkward,” Da said, watching him go. “Tullyk hardly knew what I was talking
about. What did the king say to you?”

Carah glanced between her father
and Rhian, feeling soiled somehow. “I need to speak with Uncle Thorn.”

From the balcony floated the
opening chords of “My Heart Longs,” the traditional closing song. They hurried
upstairs before the crowd of highborns caught up to them. As soon as they shut
the door to Carah’s room, a veil shimmered and dispersed. Thorn must have
followed them from the King’s Hall. “I heard what the king said. You’re right
to be wary.” As soon as they explained Valryk’s wishes to Kelyn, he argued with
his brother over what those wishes implied.

“Maybe he means to start a war,” Da
suggested. “Pick a fight.”

“A fight takes two, and I’ve read
Arryk’s thoughts. He’s not up for it. He hopes for peace as much as you do.” In
the end, Thorn had to shrug in surrender. “The point is, Valryk wants Carah
kept safe, which means this room in all Bramoran is a sanctuary. Kelyn, gather
your things. You’re not sleeping alone. We’ll camp out in here.”

“Camp out! All of you? In here?” Carah
groaned, desperate for quiet and space and a long hug with a pillow.

Even her da clenched his teeth
against a strident argument. “Sounds … cozy.”

Carah wasn’t about to give up her
bed. Da fluffed his pillow on the full-length settee, and Uncle Thorn stretched
out on the window seat. Rhian looked at home on the hearth rug. Long after Da
blew out the lamps, however, Carah heard sharp sniffles and soft rustlings that
told her none of them slept. The red moon dipped under the eaves and peered
through the window, casting her uncle’s shadow across the lilac bed. He wasn’t
pretending to sleep but kept watch through the window.

Forget it all
, Carah
instructed herself.
Sleep is what matters. Leave our troubles for tomorrow
.

The scent of blood, the grinding
and cracking of bone as fingers closed and squeezed. Corridors of stone, dark
with night and slick with wet. Water dripped from the ceiling, or was it blood?
Carah ran, breathless. Endless passages spiraled ahead and were lost in
engulfing darkness. With every turn lurked the certainty that a pair of eyes
knew exactly where she was, that a hunter followed, only steps behind.

A fire flared, a light gentle and soothing
in the dark. It warmed her from the inside out. She sank back into his embrace
and kisses peppered her throat. Here, terror could not reach her. Eyes amid the
dancing light. Aquamarine eyes. She was drowning in a hot sea, waters deep and
endless, and she was free. Forests of yellow kelp danced in the dark wet winds
under the sea, and schools of silver fish darted among the fronds, glistening
like coins tossed toward the sun. Below, treasures waited to be found. If she
swam deep enough, she might grasp a blue moon in her palm.

He waited for her on a sandy shore.
The wind swept his hair about his face as he gazed out to sea. The billows
rolled green and white, slow and silent. Thunder hammered in her chest; sand
grit between her toes. He didn’t know she had come, that she had found him at
last. She tried to run, but he remained far away on the windswept beach, sand
climbing higher and higher up his legs. If she cried out to him, the sand would
spit him out and together they would swim away. But she couldn’t remember his
name.

She woke in a strange bed that
smelled of lilacs. A fire crackled in the hearth. Logs shifted; embers wafted
up and out of sight. He lay on the hearth rug, propped up on one elbow, a lean
black silhouette. With a poker he jabbed at the embers. What spell had he cast
into the fire to make her dream such a dream? She watched him only a short
while before he turned his head as if to peer over his shoulder. The firelight
illumined his profile through the veil of his hair.

Carah rolled away, found the moon
had nearly set. All that remained was a bloody blister on the far roofs, and
that too sank out of sight. She laid awake, listening for Rhian’s every move,
every breath, every heartbeat. And as she’d dreaded, dawn came all too soon.

~~~~

P
ages made their rounds shortly
after dawn. The boys and girls recruited from the city’s well-to-do knocked on
one door after another, rousing highborns and announcing, “Breakfast is on its
way. All lords and ladies are to meet in the King’s Hall one hour before noon.
The King’s Hall, one hour before noon!”

“Hnh,
Valryk is generous,” Kelyn said, closing the door as the page moved on down the
corridor. True, talks and activities always resumed bright and early at the
Ilswythe Assembly.

“And
wise,” Thorn tossed in, knotting his sash about his waist. A silver moon, a
silver sunburst, and a silver lightning bolt winked at the ends of the tassels.
“Unrested men tend to have short tempers.”

“Like
us?”

“Will
you have trouble holding your tongue today, War Commander?”

Kelyn
let out a breath and sank heavily onto the settee. “I’ll have trouble holding
my eyes open, I fear.”

Near
the hearth, Rhian tugged on his boots, whipped his hair back into a leather cord
and ducked from the chamber without a word.

“Where’s
he going?”

Thorn
buckled his sword belt over the sash, despite the king’s orders. “I sent him to
the kitchens. The servants will bring up only two breakfast trays, after all,
and I’m famished. I was able to snatch only a morsel from the kitchens last
night.”

“The
ghost of Bramoran,” Carah said with a yawn. She sat against the headboard of
her bed, wishing these men would leave so she could cross the floor to the
privy in her bare feet. They were oblivious to a lady’s delicate needs,
however.

Her
uncle grinned. “The ghost of Bramoran has a gray cat.”

“That
cat died long ago,” Kelyn said, disturbed by the reminder. He cleared away the pillow
and blankets he’d stacked on the round dining table, readying it for the trays.

“Will
you
please
take your breakfast elsewhere?” Carah blurted. “Since Valryk
commanded me to stay here,
I
can go back to sleep—if you men will remove
yourselves.”

“You’re
coming down with us,” Thorn said.

“But
Valryk—”

“What
Valryk doesn’t know won’t hurt him, will it? You’re not staying here where we
can’t keep an eye on you. Don’t worry, you won’t be seen any more than I will.”

Her
plans for a peaceful, lazy morning dashed, she flung aside the bedcovers and
made for the privy closet; only then did they take a hint and bow out. The
ginger-haired maid brought a covered silver tray as Carah was sliding into her
riding leathers. No fine silk gowns today. She was going into the King’s Hall
in secret, as an avedra. The idea put a thrill in her belly. Once the maid
left, Carah donned her silver robe and carried her breakfast next door to her father’s
suite.

Da
was still in his dressing room, primping. Rhian lounged with his feet up,
sipping something hot from a porcelain cup that looked tiny and fragile in his
hands. He’d foregone the squire’s livery in favor of the studded black jerkin
and riding leathers. Her uncle tore into a ham cutlet at the table. “Anyone
have any dreams last night?”

Carah
fumbled her tray. The table caught it with a clatter. “Only the same one,” she
said, sliding into a chair. It was only half a lie. The dream
had
started
like the others.

“Sure
I didn’t sleep a damn wink,” Rhian said, not looking up from his tea.

“No
dragons?” Thorn asked, glancing between them.

“You
dreamed of dragons?” Carah thought that sounded lovely, like flying with
falcons.

“Only
one. It was soaring, calling …” After a moment he smiled and added, “Maybe it
was a dream of my own. That would be a nice change.”

Kelyn
finally joined them, bathed and trimmed and dressed smartly in black velvet
embroidered with silver stags. “Everyone ready?”

“You
haven’t eaten,” his brother said, gesturing at the covered tray.

“I
can’t. Too nervous.”

“Ogre
shit. How does it go, War Commander? Don’t look for the battle, wait till it
comes to you. Relax. Eat something. You have hours before you’re expected.”

In
the meantime, with her belly full, Carah curled up on the settee and slept
soundly at last. No dreams, no nightmares, just heavy black sleep. When she
woke, Uncle Thorn was gone. Da was leaning over her, a finger brushing her
cheek. “Do as they say, dearheart. Be careful.”

In
the corridor, voices echoed under the vaulted ceiling. Feet whispered past. Da
slipped out the door and joined the other highborns descending to the King’s
Hall. Carah heard him greet someone boisterously. The gruff, groaning reply
sounded like Garrs with a hangover.

A
teacup clattered onto a saucer and Rhian pushed himself to his feet. “All
right, here’s the plan. You and I are to slip into the Hall and stand well out
of the way and keep our eyes and ears open. Thorn will be there too, doing the
same.”

Carah
stretched and yawned and waited for more. “That’s it? Just stand there.”

“Aye,
and hope it will be a boring day. If it’s not, I’m to get you outta the Hall
and the castle altogether.”

“How?”

“Damned
if I know. Blast through a few gates, I guess.”

“Some
plan,” she groused, crossing her arms. Could he really blast open doors as
easily as saying it? “So we get to be invisible?”

“I’ll
maintain a veil, but it will have to be tight, so stay close. I know how much
that idea appeals to you.”

Heat
bloomed up from Carah’s chest and into her face. “Hnh!” she grunted, covering
for it as best she could.

“Listen,
will you? If you wander too far, you’ll appear where you weren’t before. But
more tricky still is staying out of people’s way. Some servant comes blundering
along and he’ll bump into something that shouldn’t be there. He screams,
‘Ghost,’ and mass panic ensues. Don’t laugh, I’ve seen it happen, so stay
alert.”

Carah
bit off her smirk. “Anything else?”

Rhian
sighed. “Sure I feel I’ve wasted too much breath already. One-two-three, go.
Thevril
.”

Nothing
happened. Carah raised her eyebrows waiting for the magic show.

With
a groan of forced patience, Rhian said, “Veil Sight. Then put out your hand.”

She
obeyed to humor him and was surprised to find a pulsing, vibrating bubble of
energy hemming them in. She raised a hand to touch it. Her fingers tingled
sharply and left shimmering purple ripples on the air.

“Satisfied?”
He grabbed her hand and tugged her unceremoniously for the door.

The
King’s Hall rumbled with milling highborns. They angled, maneuvered, bargained,
playing the game they knew best. The three kings and Prince Da’yn occupied the
high table under their towering banners. Valryk had foregone wearing his crown
today but still looked regal in a dark plum doublet and a heavy chain of silver
roses. Arryk scribbled vigorously on a sheet of parchment while King Ha’el
whispered heatedly with his son. Da’yn hunched back in his chair, sleepy and
disgruntled.

At
the lower tables, Princess Rilyth sat near the dais, according to her station.
Da sat across from her and spoke into a curved silver horn she raised to her
ear. She cackled a laugh at his quip or his charm or both.

Near
the head of the Fieran table sat a woman wearing a gown quartered white and
purple, with purple grape leaves on the white fields. Across from her lounged a
golden-haired man wearing white hazelnuts on green. Relatives of the White
Falcon, no doubt; Carah wished she knew their names and houses. She found Uncle
Allaran and Ni’avh looking uncomfortable at one of the Fieran tables. Leanians
may often act as peacekeepers, but to hear him tell it last night, Allaran had
enjoyed raising a sword against his southern neighbors, and the Fierans sitting
nearby appeared to know it. A good thing little Lassar had been left upstairs
with a nanny.

Footmen
rushed along the aisles, setting out ink, quills, and parchment. Squires filled
goblets with a pale morning wine. Only ten men from each royal guard stood
against the walls. They were interspersed, white black orange, white black
orange, all the way around the perimeter of the room, so that they couldn’t
function like three armies drawn up against each other.

It
was an odd feeling standing among so many people and going unnoticed. Lonely in
a way. Exciting in another. Rhian ushered Carah past Lord Rorin and his son,
both of whom wore billowing plumes on stiff, puffy silk hats. “Not a sound,” Rhian
whispered as they took up position under the gallery’s balcony. The reason for
silence was the Falcon Guardsman on their right and the White Mantle on their left.
At least the guards stood at attention, rather than shifting around and bumping
into avedrin.

Is
Uncle Thorn here?

Rhian
glowered in reply. He didn’t even bother with scathing thoughts. Taking the hint,
Carah breathed deeply, honed in on the buzzing, and focused her Veil Sight. Past
the bubble-thin wall of the veil, a galaxy of stars shifted dizzily, dancing,
twining. Carah wondered if Lord Tírandon would howl if she told him that his
azeth mingled with that of Lord Machara.

The
brightest of the lifelights shone against the far wall. Uncle Thorn crouched
between a Leanian guard in orange and another of the White Mantles. Surveying
the room, he glimpsed her waving exuberantly at him and his stern expression
broke into a chuckle.

At
last, Valryk stood and waved the assembly to order. The talk hushed and silk
rustled as the highborns claimed their seats. “We are the people of the
Northwest of the World,” he announced, voice ringing to the far corners of the
Hall. At a small table off to the side, three scribes in black robes recorded
every word. “For the first time in recent history, we join together in a Grand
Assembly. Not to resurrect old grievances and past hostilities, but to express
our desires for the future, to find avenues for trade and a path to mutual
peace and prosperity. Our fathers are renowned in bardsong for their raids,
their wars, their measures that ensured division. I wish to amend this. No, see
an end to it. There is no reason under the sun that we should continue to live
side by side as enemies, dreading the word ‘Fieran’ or ‘Aralorri’ while our
good friends the Leanians are torn between two sides of the same old squabble. Three
peoples, one purpose.” Applause rose from the tables. Some of the highborns
seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the notion; others clapped because they did
not want to be thought otherwise. Valryk’s voice quieted to a distant echo as
he concluded, “To heal the wounds of the past, we must be willing to do
whatever it takes, even if it hurts to cut away the rot.”

He
resumed his chair and took a keen interest in the tabletop. Carah couldn’t
decide if he looked weary or worried. He was well-practiced with his masks, but
they were unable to hide his uneasiness. On his left, King Ha’el deferred to
the White Falcon. Arryk pushed himself to his feet, eyes lingering on the notes
he’d made. Once he glanced up, however, he did not refer to them again.

“Three
peoples, one purpose,” he began thoughtfully. His voice was softer than
Valryk’s. Princess Rilyth raised her silver ear horn. “I admit, when I received
the Black Falcon’s invitation, part of me rejoiced while another part was
overcome with fear. Not fear of meeting my ancestral foe, but fear of failure. You
see, this,
this
outreach of friendship has long been my hope, long
before I first climbed the steps to assume the alabaster throne. My father
tried to force two realms to become one. He failed because he could not unify
their desires.” Unlike Valryk’s fine words, these were not rehearsed. They came
from the White Falcon’s heart. Still, not everyone was convinced. Rorin, Lord
Westport must have thought his oversized hat would hide his expression of
skepticism but Carah could see it from across the room. Lord Lander, seated next
to Da, refused to acknowledge the White Falcon at all, but stared toward the
great silver doors. Carah wanted to slap him. How could there be peace when
close-minded and prideful men like him held sway?

“Exclusion
of our neighbors weakens us, not strengthens,” Arryk was saying. “A rope is
strongest when made of three cords. A chair stands balanced on three legs. If
we can achieve this unity of purpose, we can turn the Northwest into a force
that can again influence the world as it did a thousand years ago under Bhodryn
the Great. The rest of the continent will look at us and say we are exemplary.

“What
is in the past, should remain there. It is the future we can shape. Down one
path lies bloodshed and the rising ashes of our brothers. Down the other lies friendship,
cooperation, and honor.” That hit the highborns in their guts. Even Lander
glanced around, he who was so prickly about his honor.

Arryk
sat and reached for his goblet. Carah swore she saw his hand trembling.

King
Ha’el didn’t bother rising. He leaned forward on his elbows and looked every
highborn in the eye, a twist of contempt on his pudgy mouth. “I am not a man of
dreams. My father was practical, so am I. I harbor no illusions that miracles
can be achieved in a day, a year, even a lifetime. What I find remarkable is
that we sit together in the same room and no one has died.” Dispersed chuckles
came from the lower tables. “This is but one day. An isolated event. But a
thousand years is made up of many days, one at a time. One day followed by
another and another without acts of hostility will one day amount to
generations of peace.