Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (14 page)

Lady Éndaran, her family, and her
household poured from the keep to attend their arrival. Arryk’s three sworn protectors
stood near him, Istra on his left, Rance on his right, and Master Graidyn
quietly behind, but the fear in his belly refused to wane. It curdled and
clawed, and Arryk longed to run and hide in the tunnels hidden deep in the
castle. Just like a mole, powerless and defenseless, he chided himself.

The carriage door opened and Aunt
Ki’eva climbed out, anger tightening her face. “—will not discuss it now,” she
was saying and followed the statement with a groan and a stretch. Wrinkles
latticed her maroon travel skirts. Her tidy little hat sat slightly askew atop
her golden coif. Though Éndaran maintained its share of roads, they were still
hard on the traveler.

Ki’eva disregarded a sharp argument
coming from inside the carriage and started for the keep. Lady Éndaran curtsied
deeply and whisked the Princess Regent inside, promising an immediate bath and
rest. That Eritha did not wait to greet her grandson was a slight lost on no
one. Life was bound to get tense and ugly. Istra traded an apprehensive glance
with her father. Lord Raed, as grim as the walls of his fortress, smoothed his
expression with masterful control.

At last, Nathryk emerged from the
carriage, one languid, begrudging movement after another: a leg in supple
slate-gray leather and knee-high riding boots, then a hand cocooned in a
broad-cuffed embroidered glove. Finally a cloak lined in silver fox fur. It
draped heavily over an exquisite velvet doublet upon which hunting scenes were
picked out in silver thread. An undershirt of water-soft pale gray silk was
visible through the doublet’s slashed sleeves. Nathryk’s sleek, sword-straight
black hair spilled like glossy lacquer over his shoulders, and upon his head he
wore a simple silver circlet mounted with a moonstone. On what else was a
prince to spend his allowance but the best tailors in Graynor? Still, these
were not proper travel garments, Arryk noted. Nathryk had expected a different kind
of entrance into Fiera. Despite his certain disappointment, he remained cool
and composed, taking the time to remove one glove a finger at a time and tuck
it neatly into his belt. With his gloved hand he untied a splendid warhorse
from behind the carriage and beckoned to a stable boy. The stallion snorted and
raked the cobbles. His shoes sent sparks fleeing into the damp air.

“He’s a Roreshan racer,” Nathryk
told the boy, handing over the reins. “Be gentle with him. Turn your back on
him at your own peril, however. He’s a biter.”

Was this the Nathryk whom Arryk
knew? Someone who took the time and care to warn a servant? Or was there
another purpose hidden in the warning?

Though Arryk saw no sign of it, Nathryk
had to be fuming. How could he not, with his long-cherished plan delayed a
little longer? But unlike the temperamental child, he had learned to mask his
emotions and his contempt. How much more dangerous he was now. Would Arryk see
the fight coming or would he suddenly find himself sprawled flat on his back
and tasting blood? He thought of the daggers secured in their hiding places and
prayed Nathryk had grown past the need to subjugate his little brother.

Nathryk’s glance slid around the
courtyard, then lifting his pale face, he spared the gloomy towers and mossy
keep a disparaging glare. “Nothing has changed.”

With honed cat-like grace, he
started for the keep.

Arryk found himself staring over Nathryk’s
head at the gatehouse towers, hoping his brother’s attention would pass him by.
It was a vain hope. And why shouldn’t it be? Nathryk’s brothers had always been
his favorite playthings. Beside him, Istra and Rance bowed their heads, and
Arryk felt Istra’s elbow nudge him in the ribs. He remembered to bow. Nathryk’s
boots faced him squarely as he climbed the steps. The fur cloak swayed side to
side, revealing flashes of the slim longsword on his left hip and a dagger on
his right. The boots stopped two steps down, and Nathryk snickered. Arryk
didn’t need to look up to know the expression on his brother’s face; it would
be the same arrogant, mocking smirk he saw in his nightmares. His face broke
out in a cold sweat, and his stomach threatened to turn.

The boots climbed one more step. A
spicy cologne wafted up Arryk’s nose as Nathryk leaned close and whispered, “Still
quivering are we?”

Arryk’s brain went blank. What to
say? What to do? He thought of nothing at all. He was just a panicking mass of
frozen impotence.
Don’t let him do this to you
… Istra’s words echoed
loud and clear. Arryk bowed his head again, this time in shame.

Nathryk’s gloved hand, the one he
used on the horse, slid between Arryk and Istra, and as if she were a drape, he
swept her aside and continued on. “Uncle Raed, you’re looking older. Come, tell
me of Fiera. You’ll be honest, won’t you?” And off he went, satisfied that the pecking
order was still in place.

“I
don’t suppose you could
take your meals in your rooms,” said Rance dryly. He paced the length of
Arryk’s solar, window to door and back again, hands clenching and opening.

“For three months?” Arryk asked. “He
might take that as a slight.”

“Grandmother says that what she’ll
do. She may change her mind in a week or so, but I doubt it. She’s a determined
ol’ bitch, even if it means her head ends up on a spike.” Rance had the black-haired,
black-eyed look of the rest of the Éndaran clan, but his face was ruddy and capable
of expressing joy for the hunt and a flask of mead. His laughter often rang
loudest in the dining hall. Arryk once heard that Rance was living life twice
as happily, twice as tragically, twice as lustily, to make up for the twin
brother who lived not at all.

“Lady Eritha needs to learn caution,”
Arryk said. He sat on the rug with Fang, ruffling her ears. “Unless she means
to sail on the same ship with me. Do you think I ought to leave sooner?”

“Are you asking me or the dog?”

Arryk glanced up and found Rance standing
over him with his arms crossed. “Maybe I should sail to Heret instead of Dorél.
What do you think? It’s farther.”

Rance’s arms fell to his sides, and
he sank onto the settee. “You will do as you think best, my prince, and I will
mourn the loss of another brother.”

Brother? Is this what a brother should
be like? Someone who watched your back and took you hunting and filled your
goblet with wine rather than poison? Arryk marveled at the revelation. “Maybe exile
won’t last forever.”

Rance replied with a doleful turn
of the lips. As long as Nathryk lived, Arryk’s next breath was not worth
betting on.

A shout echoed down the corridor,
“You!”

A copper bucket clattered to the
floor.

Arryk’s spine stiffened. Fang felt
his mood change, and her hackles bristled. She padded for the door.

The hapless maid who had dropped
the bucket must have tried to flee, for Nathryk demanded, “Come back here, you
little cunt. Is the Princess Regent still in her rooms?”

Fang’s muzzle wrinkled up as she
displayed her teeth. The name might fit after all! Arryk followed her to the
door with Rance on his heels. Outside, a door opened and slammed shut again.
Rance peeked out. Finding the corridor empty of everything but the forgotten
bath bucket, he tiptoed to the princess’s suite and pressed his ear to the
door. After a moment, he waved Arryk to do the same.

More afraid of getting caught than
missing a row, Arryk hesitated, squirming on his threshold, but when Rance’s
eyebrows darted up at something he overheard, curiosity got the better of him.
Arryk laid his ear lightly against his aunt’s door.

“—couldn’t wait until I summoned
you?” Ki’eva was saying.

“Summon
me
? You’ve got airs,
woman. No, we will discuss it now.” Nathryk’s voice receded deeper into the
room.

“There’s really no point,” said
Ki’eva. “Your shame has spread everywhere. Everyone in  Brynduvh is talking
about how you—”

“Rumors. Spread by my enemies to
undo me. But that’s not what I meant.”

“What then?”

“My enthronement, Aunt.”

“Did I miscalculate? Or did you
turn eighteen when I wasn’t looking?”

“Don’t mock me.”

A hiss at Arryk’s back scared him
half out of his skin. Even Rance reached for his dagger. But it was only Istra,
mouth open and eyes wide as if eavesdropping were a scandal. “What are you two
doing
?”

Rance waved his younger sister to
silence. Not about to be left out, she pressed herself between the two of them
and her ear to the door.

Aunt Ki’eva sounded weary. “Even if
Bano’en can’t live up to his end of the deal, we will live up to ours.”

“The ‘deal’ was to ensure Fiera
didn’t incite another war, Aunt,” Nathryk said, every word clipped with his
attempt to restrain his anger, “and Bano’en must be satisfied or he wouldn’t
have released me.”

“He released you because you were intolerable.
More than that! Because you spent his money and whored in his palace and raped
his people. He was not discreet in his letter, Nathryk.”

Istra’s jaw dropped open. “It’s
true,” she mouthed.

“You believe
him
over me?”
Nathryk went on.

“Any day of the year. Bano’en has
proved himself faithful until now. You have yet to prove yourself worthy of the
throne at all. Your father’s wishes—”

“Fuck my father’s wishes!” The
bellow thundered against the door. “He is bone and ash, and Fiera lacks a king
these five long years.”

“It isn’t Fiera you care about—unless
Bano’en was able to instill better character in you after all, but I see no
sign of that.”

“You resist because you’ve come to
love the throne yourself! You would take it from me!”

“No, you fool of a child.” Ki’eva’s
anger manifested as half-purr, half-hiss. “I will give you the bloody throne
upon your eighteenth birthday, as I promised your father, and not a day sooner.
You are dismissed.”

Rance grabbed his sister’s arm and
Arryk’s, too, and hauled them back across the corridor. They were safely hidden
inside Arryk’s vestibule when Nathryk flung open the princess’s door, turned on
the threshold and shouted for all to hear, “The throne is mine by right!
Neither you nor anyone else will take it from me.” The irate click of his boot
heels receded fast. If Father, seated upon the alabaster throne, had shone as
brightly and severely as the dawn, Nathryk would be as stunning and dangerous
as a storm.

~~~~

C
old autumn rain delayed
Princess Ki’eva’s departure, which pleased Nathryk; the rain gave him time to
try to talk some sense into her. Each audience was brief and bitter, however,
no matter how charming and self-controlled he was when the conversation began.
She refused to listen to reason.

Much can happen to a boy before
he’s grown
. His grandmother had told him that once, long ago. He hadn’t
anticipated usurpation by his aunt. Faithless slut.

Who else was in on the scheme?
Every bloody soul at court and here at Éndaran, he’d wager. He always knew his
own family despised him, Grandmother foremost among them. She had hers coming.
They all did. Their heads would ornament Brynduvh’s gates within the week of
his enthronement. Grandmother and Uncle Raed and Rance and Chubs. The nickname
no longer fit Cousin Istra. Not for some years now. Was she still a virgin? Not
the way she carried herself. No, she’d likely fucked every man in the garrison.
Ruined. But Nathryk had learned not to care about that. She would be sweet
enough when her time came.

So would Arryk, stupid boy.
Nathryk’s investigation through his little brother’s rooms had been brief but
fruitful. Because of those hidden daggers, the dungeons of Brynduvh would ring
with Arryk’s screams.

O
n the third day the rain
swept south. That afternoon at tea, Aunt Ki’eva stood at the window watching the
sunlight catch in the water that dripped from the eaves and announced, “I’ll be
leaving for Brynduvh first thing in the morning.”

She refused Nathryk an audience.

He cloistered himself in his rooms,
tossing back one tumbler of liquor after another. The fat old valet his
grandmother had assigned to him bustled about, folding Nathryk’s clothes into
the oversized trunk he’d brought from Graynor. “Leave out my travel cloak and
my riding boots. I’ll wear this to supper.”

Imprison him here, would she? Damn
thieving whore. Traitor! He’d spent his entire life yearning for escape from
one place or another. He wouldn’t stand for it any longer. He had his Roreshan
stallion, his parting gift from Bano’en; he could ride anywhere he wanted, and
Aunt Ki’eva had heard the last plea he would ever voice. It was time for him to
command.

He kept his emotions bound up tight
inside. He mustn’t let his temper spoil it for him. Calm and confident with the
liquor coursing through his veins, he strode down the corridor to his aunt’s
suite. Her handmaid and a pair of footmen carried out a trunk and other items
that the princess wouldn’t need in the morning. They bowed at his approach,
then hurried off, leaving the door open.

“Aunt?” he asked, slipping in and
closing the door.

Ki’eva peered from her dressing
room and sighed impatiently. “Give up, Nathryk. I won’t hear you anymore. I’m
bored with the entire argument. You’re insane to pursue it.” She wore a dinner
gown of dark gold silk and ivory lace. Though she stood at the vanity to put on
her earrings, she didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

“I’ve ordered my things to be
packed,” he told her, falling into a plush chair and flinging a leg over the
arm. Beyond the windows, sunset painted the sea brass and indigo. Ragged purple
clouds, all that remained of the rain, dwindled on the horizon.

“Oh?” she asked stiffly. Her eyes
darted toward him in the mirror as she reached for a perfume bottle. “And where
are you going?”