Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (37 page)

“Unbalance,” said Carah and Rhian
together. Frantic, Carah reached down the table, seized her uncle’s sleeve.

Thorn finished the last letter of
the word he’d written on the slate. “Naválav. Unbalance.”

“What’s happening?” Carah sobbed.

Thorn clutched her fingers, absently
caressed them with his thumb while he pondered, walking the dream again. “The
castle was Bramoran Royal. Come with me.”

~~~~

K
elyn inspected the circle
of unsettled faces. “You’re telling me that all four of you had the same dream?
You’re sure it’s not some avedra mental confusion, what with all the training
going on? An exchange of fears? A … a …” He gestured wildly, as if his hands
could explain his doubts better than inept words.

He and Rhoslyn had been reviewing
the ledgers with Madam Yris, trying to decide how to make up for the wasted
expenses. The duchess’s study was a large, sunny room, luxuriant with thick
rugs and a carved mahogany desk from Ixaka. Rhoslyn leaned away from the
avedrin as if they stank of the contents of a stableboy’s wheelbarrow.

“If this was merely an exchange of
ideas, you’d think this would have happened to me before,” argued Thorn. “I
have never experienced anything like this.”

“No, it’s too incredible. There has
to be—”

“Da, it’s true!” Carah stood behind
Jaedren, her hands resting protectively on his shoulders. “Jaedren told me
exactly what I saw, and I hadn’t mentioned having nightmares. We all know I
can’t read minds. How could I have had Jaedren’s nightmare otherwise?”

Rhoslyn sank into her desk chair.
“What does it mean?”

“It means you’re not going to the
Assembly, Your Grace,” Thorn replied.

“How can I not—?”

“You
will
not.”

Rhoslyn’s mouth clacked shut. She
exchanged a glance of astonishment with Kelyn.

“Look, brother, we can’t just—”

“No, you look. Danger is coming
from Bramoran. Or
will
come. That day at Tor Roth, almost twenty years
ago, the Mother-Father warned me something terrible was coming. This unbalance
and everything that follows it … this is it.”

“What unbalance, damn it?” Kelyn
never had patience for abstracts.

“In the three points of the
Triangle.”

“Oh, Goddess…”

“Listen, curse you. There’s Divine,
Flesh, and Magic, right?” He ticked the three off on his fingers. “One of the
last two is trying to undermine the others, and the Mother is not pleased. Long
ago, Flesh tried to eradicate Magic. Now it may be the other way around. Thus,
the disappearance of the avedrin and the emergence of the naenion. She told me
the avedrin exist to protect this balance. We’re of both Flesh and Magic, we
are a balance of sorts, maybe even the fulcrum upon which the scales will tip.
It makes sense.”

“If only.”

Thorn heaved a sigh. “Point is, I’m
going to Bramoran with you. So is Rhian. He can act as your squire. No one need
see me at all. I’ll poke around, find what I can find, while Rhian watches your
back.”

Jaedren tugged Thorn’s sleeve. “But
I’m his squire.”

“You’re staying here, son. That’s
an order. You have Her Grace to look after.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged.

“You’re not thinking of forbidding
me from going,” Carah said. “If Rhian gets to go, I get to go.”

“Certainly not!” cried Rhoslyn, out
of her chair in an instant.

“It’s not a matter of who
gets
to go,” Thorn said. “And you’re no use to us, Carah, a burden even. You can
neither see nor hear potential danger and so protect yourself.”

Carah’s fists knotted at her sides
as she fought to hold back tears of shame. “Despite locked doors, barred
windows, and armed guards, I will follow you to Bramoran. The Goddess sent me
the dream as well. If you’re compelled to go, so am I.”

“This is not a competition, Carah!
It’s about your safety.”

“If I learn Veil Sight and Silent
Speech between now and then, I have earned my right to go. Take me as your
apprentice, not as your niece. Or will you force me to defy you?”

Neither Kelyn nor Rhoslyn spoke up.
Perhaps they expected Thorn to refuse her. Deep grief struggled across his
face. “That you would defy me when I have fought all these years to keep you
safe…. You’re a fool, Carah. Fools plunge ahead without listening to reason. Very
well. If you learn, you can go.”

~~~~

C
arah and Esmi dug inside
the chests of fabric. An avedra who knew how to see and listen earned a robe.
Carah had to get one started if she wanted it to be ready before the
convention. “What about this nice, sturdy blue fustian?” Esmi shook out a
length of fabric. “Lots of wear in it.”

Carah wrinkled her nose. “No, it
looks too much like Uncle Thorn’s. And fustian is too plain. It might do for
Jaedren. You know how hard boys are on clothes. But he said he’ll wait till he’s
knighted before he has one made.” Carah almost grinned at the idea of little
Jaedren wearing a rich avedra robe while shoveling out the lord’s stables.

“The rose-colored crepe then?” Esmi
draped the crinkled silk across her shoulder, looking hopeful.

“That was Mum’s ball gown last
year.” Carah stopped rifling among the ribbon, beads, and gewgaws and sat back
on her heels. “Do you think I’m a fool, Esmi?”

Her handmaid went as still as the
mannequins standing the corner. “Beg your pardon?”

“You know, the kind who plunges
headlong without thinking, the kind that heeds no advice?”

“Isn’t for me to say, m’ lady.” Her
evasive eyes said plenty.

Who else thought her a fool? Did
Da? Eliad? What about the ladies of the riding society? Did they whisper about
her foolishness as soon as she left the stables? Was she as useless to them? As
great a burden? How cruel to learn of her faults from Uncle Thorn’s mouth. She
slammed the lid of the trimmings box. “This is a mistake. Why am I bothering?
No one wants to me to go. Maybe I should do as Uncle Thorn says and hide with
everyone else. But I
know
I’m supposed to be there.”

“What difference will your presence
make?” Esmi spoke with tenderness, even if her common sense stung.

“I don’t know.” Carah made a study
of her powerless, fireless hands while her handmaid moved on to the next chest.
“How much is left up to us, and how much isn’t?”

“That’s a big question, isn’t it?”
Esmi tried to make light of it, and Carah could tell she was desperate to
change the subject. “Ah, here it is. How about this?” She lifted the remnants
of the silver velvet that Thorn gave her years ago. Her silver gown remained
Carah’s favorite, even if she never wore it anymore; ladies of means didn’t
wear the same gown more than two seasons in a row.

She pressed her lips together in a
poor excuse for a smile. “Of course. Is there enough left?”

“Well, a robe isn’t a ball gown.
We’ll let your seamstress decide.”

Carah usually went to the tailor’s
shop in town for her fittings, but given Thorn’s warnings that she wasn’t to
leave the fortress without an escort, the seamstress came to her. The woman
sighed, caressing the fabric as if it were a memory of lost love. “I remember
this. Has to be the finest silk ever to come from Vonmora looms. I’ll not be
sorry to work with it again.”

Smiling and nodding politely, Carah
kept the truth to herself. There would be no end to the questions if she let it
slip that the silk was Elaran. “But is there enough?” She showed the seamstress
the sketch of the robe she had in mind, and the woman studied it and measured
out the fabric between her nose and fingertips.

“Not quite enough. But if we alternate
the velvet with a few panels of the crepe, oh, it will shimmer like falling
water.”

And so it did. Two weeks later, the
seamstress returned with Carah’s avedra robe, a stunning creation with bright
silver embroidery, wide sleeves, even a hood that would protect a lady’s hair
from the rain. Uncle Thorn’s robes never had a hood. The seamstress boasted
that she employed two girls for the sash alone. It glistened with clear glass
beads and white seed pearls.

The ensemble shined and rippled
with light—on the mannequin in the corner of Carah’s dressing room. She stared
at it longingly. That evening when her mother asked if the robe was finished,
Carah invited her parents to come see it.

Kelyn inspected it hood to hem, his
mouth slightly ajar. “I’m penniless now, aren’t I?”

Rhoslyn jabbed him with her elbow.
“It’s lovely, dearheart. Far lovelier than I had imagined.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

Carah ducked her eyes. “I haven’t
earned it.” Every morning and every afternoon, she sat at the table in the
library, no closer to hearing Uncle Thorn’s thoughts than were the stones of
the walls and the books on the shelves. And her uncle had grown cool toward
her, obviously disinclined to aid her progress.

Da cupped her face and kissed her
forehead. “You’ll earn it. Don’t get discouraged. If you fall off a horse, you
climb back on, right?”

“I haven’t even made it into the
saddle yet, Da. The horse is this big--,” she spread her arms wide, then
pinched her thumb and forefinger together, “—and I’m this small, and no one
will provide me a stepping stool.”

Kelyn’s strategic mind went to
work. “Climb up the back. Grab onto the tail and haul yourself up. You’re like
to get shat on, but you’ll make it.”

That won a laugh from her.

“But if it doesn’t happen before
the convention, you won’t hear us crying about it.”

“I know, Da. But I can’t shake this
certainty that there’s something important I have to do there. I don’t even
want
to go now. Not if that nightmare is going to come true.” Lifting a sleeve of
her robe, she forced a gracious smile. “It will probably turn out to be
nothing.”

“Aye,” Rhoslyn said, heading out
the door. “Just three spoiled kings coming to blows over trade agreements.”

Kelyn reminded them, “Wars have
started over less.”

~~~~

A
rryk was dressed and finished
with breakfast before the sun broke through the palace windows. A long journey
with an uncertain end awaited him, and he hadn’t slept more than a couple of
hours. A chandelier burned brightly over the table, and the first glow of a
clear dawn dispelled the darkness, but the light failed to ease the White
Falcon’s concerns.

King Valryk’s letter laid near his
plate, and he read it for the hundredth time, trying to eek some deeper meaning
from the astonishing invitation. The costly silver ink glistened like the tears
of stars in the growing light. The Black Falcon had signed it himself, a large
bold signature. There was much to be gleaned about a man’s temperament from his
signature. A black silk ribbon trailed from a glob of blue wax as wide as
Arryk’s hand. The crowned, spread-winged falcon was pressed into it. He read, “…
discuss trade relations and consider paths of mutual prosperity….” Over and
over again. The letter gave him nothing more.

It boded ill. All his advisers said
so, and Arryk’s instinct told him they were right. The Black Falcon may be as
idealistic as his father had been, but the fierce pride of the three
northwestern realms were like to blunt the effectiveness of the talks he
proposed. And then there was the age-old enmity to consider. Idealism may allow
a young man to forget the bloodshed between his forefathers, but the reality
was that many a veteran scarred by war would be in attendance, and old foes
were unlikely to sit amiably across a table from one another. If this
Convention did not result in war, Arryk would eat his boots.

“Raudry!” he called, rising from
the table. A footman pulled his chair away. Three full-grown mastiffs rose with
him. “No, stay,” he ordered them. Daisy, Rose, and Woodbine lay down again,
panting and complacent. From Fang’s last litter, the three mastiffs followed
Arryk everywhere, even laid at the foot of the throne where they intimidated lying
courtiers. He longed to take them north, his faithful guardians, but seeing to
the comforts of three massive dogs was a concern he didn’t need.

His squire rushed into the
breakfast room.

“My cloak and gloves.”

Raudry acknowledged the order and
bowed out again. Cousin Rance’s only son among a passel of daughters, the boy was
named after his father’s twin brother who had died during the war. Arryk loved him
dearly, but sometimes those black eyes in that fair face reminded him too
keenly of Nathryk. He was just as determined as Nathryk to become a great
swordsman, too, but at least Raudry knew how to laugh and to love and to serve.

He ran back with the mink-lined
cloak on his arm and handed off the fine eel skin gloves. They were too
delicate to use when riding, but Arryk was to take a carriage most of the way;
the weather had been too unpredictable to risk his horse slipping in the mud.

“My things have been carried out?”

“Yes, sire. And Grandfather is
waiting to have a word with you.”

Had he forgotten anything? Arryk
patted himself down. In his breast pocket was his kerchief and the letter he’d
promised to give to Laral’s daughter. What else? “Ah, my knives.”

Raudry gasped and ran for the
lacquered case. The boy was supposed to anticipate such needs, but he’d only
been a squire for three months and still had much to learn. He managed an
expression of calm dignity as he opened the case and poised it high for Arryk’s
convenience. Raptor and Talon winked a cold greeting. His father’s twin
fighting knives were plain and sensible, but for the chunks of white onyx,
carved into claws curled for the kill, adorning the pommels.

Upon Arryk’s enthronement, he’d
received all the things his father left behind. The knives had been among the chests
his chamberlains brought him. How bittersweet, looking through rings and
brooches that his father had worn. Arryk remembered some of them and where Father
had worn them. The finest jewels Shadryk had sent with his sister and his sons,
to help them buy safety from their enemies, but those things that remained were
the things Shadryk had worn the most. Each scar in a ring’s band, each nick in
the blade of a throwing knife brought him close again.

Arryk belted Raptor and Talon over
his doublet. He did not have his father’s skill with fighting knives; he lacked
the cold killer instinct, but he’d bested Laral many a time, and Laral had been
trained by Kelyn Swiftblade, so Arryk had occasion to feel smug.

Shouts rose from the courtyard; a
horse trumpeted angrily; wheels clattered on the stones. Time to go. “You’re
dismissed,” Arryk told his squire, pinning the cloak with a silver and emerald
brooch. “Go get some breakfast.” The boy bowed and sprang off. “Say goodbye to
your father,” Arryk called after him. “And obey your grandda!”

All the shouting brought a moan
from the bedchamber. Arryk tiptoed through the breakfast parlor and peeked at
the bed. Strawberry curls spilled across a pillow, glistening like threads of
spun gold in the sunlight. A bare arm pulled the blankets higher, and she
rolled away from the bright windows, frowning. Otherwise, she didn’t wake to
kiss her king farewell. No matter. The sentiments would have been false anyway.
And Lady Annessa’s eyes were always full of a plea that Arryk couldn’t grant. She’d
been Istra’s handmaid. When the queen died, Annessa had mourned almost as
deeply as Arryk had. She was sweet and generous and obliging, kept his bed warm
and provided brief distractions, but she was not his confidante nor his protector
nor his friend. He did not allow it, though she seemed to keep hoping. Part of
him didn’t trust her anymore. Had she known the real reason behind Istra’s
illness? In those first days, when everything was filtered through a red rage,
he’d been a hair’s breadth away from sending her to the headsman’s block with
the rest. He still wasn’t sure if sparing her had been the right decision. Or
taking her into his bed.

While the sun eased along the curve
of her hip, he watched her sleep, hating her. For years now he’d harbored a
gently smoldering resentment for everything she knew, everything she hadn’t
known until it was too late, everything she represented by lying there. Better
not to wake her, else she might see how much she offended him and start crying.
When he returned to Brynduvh, he would send her away. Kinder to them both.

Arryk left without a sound.

Sunlight spilled blindingly across
the pale sandstone walls surrounding the courtyard and blazed upon the silver
helms and long white cloaks of the royal guard. Squires and grooms led horses
from the stables. The smell of excitement set the animals to prancing and
whickering and tossing their heads. They were a matched set, specifically
chosen for coloring and temperament from the best stock Fiera could produce: 
each was coppery red with four white socks, a thick neck, and a small head,
tall and fleet and agile. Green barding trimmed in white satin and blazoned
with the white falcon cascaded over their hindquarters, while shiny plate armor
guarded their chests and adorned their faces.

Upon Arryk’s appearance, Captain
Moray ordered the White Mantles to attention. Their milling, grumbling, and
laughing ceased; the sharp ring of their boot heels echoed inside the walls as
they marched into ranks. Twenty-five formed a vanguard in front of the carriage
and twenty-five made up a rearguard behind it. As soon as the grooms brought
each man’s horse, the Mantles mounted as one.

At their head sat Arryk’s
brother-in-marriage. As the ranking lieutenant, Rance would take command of the
Mantles as soon as they left the city. His father, Lord Raed, stood in the
shade under the portico, watching the preparations in somber silence. Shortly
after Arryk wed Istra, he named Raed his chancellor. And last year he’d become
Lord Éndaran as well, when his mother died. The pull between Éndaran and
Brynduvh weighed heavily upon him, but because Raed was one of few trustworthy men,
replacing him remained low on Arryk’s list of priorities.

A chain of linked silver falcons
was all the adornment Raed permitted himself. He did not wear the bright colors
and latest fashions popular at court, but preferred iron-studded leather in
black or brown or gray. He was here to take care of the king’s business, not
prance around like a peacock. If fops and children were intimidated by his appearance,
all the better for the king.

He waited for the White Falcon to
acknowledge him, then approached.

“A fine day to embark upon this
folly,” Arryk said, glancing at the cloudless sky.

“I will not contradict you, sire.” Raed’s
opinion about the Black Falcon’s invitation had rung loudest in the council
chamber, and he was far from being the only one who believed trouble loomed.
Yet however brazenly the councilors denounced the hand of friendship King
Valryk offered, Arryk’s question consistently silenced them: “What happens if I
don’t go?”

That was no way to demonstrate his
desire for peace.

“Are you sure you won’t travel with
the full company?” Raed asked.

Arryk sighed. They had discussed
this the night before. It was too early in the morning and too late in the
preparations to lose his patience with a man whose only desire was his  safety.

“My mind will rest easier if you
allow me to accompany you. Why not leave Lady Athmar in charge of Fiera’s
defense?”

“Because I do not love Lady Athmar,
Uncle,” Arryk replied. Risking Rance was bad enough. “And there’s no one I
trust more with Fiera’s safekeeping.” In truth, Raed was Nathryk’s uncle, not
Arryk’s, but during his years living at Éndaran it had become natural to think
of him as family, and because of Istra, Arryk had the privilege of regarding
him as a father.

As for the rest of his escort, Arryk’s
decision was easy. The Black Falcon’s guard numbered fifty, so he too would
surround himself with fifty Mantles. No more, but no less. “Rance will not
leave my side, nor Laral. And I doubt Lady Athmar will stray more than two feet
away. If every one of the Mantles stayed behind, I’d wager on her if it comes
to a fight.” Arryk knew better than to hope for a chuckle from Raed. “Stop
worrying. They won’t let me come to harm.”

Raed was not convinced. He cleared
his throat, uneasy. “If I may, sire?” Was this hesitation from the man who had
not shrunk from the task of arguing against the king’s decision to travel
north?

Arryk waved him on.

“Be careful you do not put your
full trust in Laral during the convention—”

“But he’s my—”

“Your dearest friend, I know. But
he’s still Aralorri, deep down, and a man on his own turf is like to feel the
tug of different loyalties.”

Arryk saw the sense in his
chancellor’s words, though it pained him. “I will keep your advice close to
heart.”

Satisfied, Raed escorted the king
to his carriage. It was a newfangled contraption with steel coils made to
absorb the worst of the jolts. Dark green velvet cushions padded the seat and
lined the walls. If the rains hadn’t rutted the roads too badly, Arryk might
arrive in Aralorr with only a few bumps and bruises. His magnificent white
charger was tethered to the boot. Arryk paused to stroke the soft gray muzzle.
Weather permitting or not, he would ride into Bramoran rather than hide in a
carriage and allow the Aralorris to imagine that a monster lurked inside, or a
coward. He was not the showman his father had been, but this was the occasion
to fake it.

“I will send a letter upon my
arrival,” he said, “another when the convention concludes, and another when we
make our departure. They will contain private matters that outsiders who may
wish to forge correspondence from me will not know. If you do not receive these
letters, you may assume the worst has happened. Then and only then do you have
my permission to cross the Bryna with aid.”

“Understood, sire.”

“You speak with my mouth in my
absence.”

Raed snapped a formal bow and
opened the carriage door for him.

Arryk wanted to shake him and say,
“I grew up in your house with your children! I married your daughter! Treat me
as a son, not a king!” But this would only fluster a man who armored himself in
protocol. Instead, Arryk clapped him on the shoulder and climbed into the
carriage. Some considerate and overly exuberant soul had doused the inside with
perfumes. He would arrive at Bramoran stinking of roses and myrrh.

“Tell the driver I will stop at the
garden on the way.” He didn’t have to specify which garden. The heralds blasted
a pair of silver horns, and the king’s retinue rumbled through the gate.

The streets of Brynduvh curled and
sloped over one hill and the next, passed through markets smelling of frying
bread and smoked meat, sheep manure and gutters and sweat. Throngs of people
scattered to the wayside. Many of them cheered as the White Falcon passed, and
they’d not even been paid to. The sight of it warmed him. He tossed out a
handful of silver coins so that they did not forget that he valued them.

Beyond the city’s east gate lay
Istra’s Haven, or just “the garden.” When first Arryk returned to Brynduvh as
the White Falcon, he insisted that he and those dearest to him continue their
picnics and their hunts in the countryside. His mastiffs needed a place to run,
and he needed a sanctuary where the chirping of birds instead of the squawking
of advisers spiced the air. He’d purchased the forest and the surrounding hills
from Lord Haethrid for wine, horses, and silver, but it was worth it. How Istra
loved bringing her falcons to the reed pond to hunt the ducks. They roasted the
fowl right there on the banks, he and she and Rance. Laral sometimes, too. It
was during one of these outings that Arryk took Laral’s advice and asked Istra
to be his queen. She balked at first, like a dove fleeing before a great black whirlwind.
But when she considered the other candidates, she wrinkled her nose and decided
no one would keep Arryk’s interests closer to heart than she.