Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (46 page)

“No, absolutely not. Find someone
your own age.”

Fingers tapped her shoulder. It
was Lord Westport’s son, Barrin. He was sixteen, snobbier than a princeling, and
wore hats as gaudy as his father’s, but Carah didn’t care. She curtsied and let
him whisk her off. Only when the dance was half over did others join them. Why
the hesitation? Goddess forbid a Fieran bump into an Aralorri.

Gheryn, Garrs’s nephew and heir, claimed
Carah next, though he was so shy he kept staring at his toes.

Carah had to wave off the next
invitation from Laral’s friend, Lord Zeldanor, for a chance to breathe. She’d
eaten too much, as she feared. The wine didn’t help but only made her face
bloom the warmer. The sweat had barely cooled from her brow when she heard a
gruff cough behind her and turned to find Master Brugge in his mail, hands
clenched behind his back. “I would take you up on your offer, m’ lady, if these
peacocks know how to really play. Can you keep up?”

She would’ve refused, but the
idea was hers in the first place. “I’ll try,” she said, setting aside her wine
glass.

When the music stopped and the
applause quieted, he bellowed toward the balcony. “Play a proper dwarven song,
damn ye!” The highborns laughed, the musicians consulted, and at last a tabor
rattled out a quick rhythm. The whistle joined in with a jig, and Brugge
grunted. “Aye, ‘twill serve.” He grabbed Carah’s hand, and his short legs went
to work. Carah knew only one jig, but it allowed her to keep time with the
dwarf. She was soon laughing so hard that she could barely breathe, and little
by little the other highborns circled round them, clapping out the rhythm. It
was a scene fit for a tavern’s common room, not a king’s ballroom. Brugge was
red in the face and surely Carah’s was a match for it by the time the pipe
trilled its last note. A cheer resounded, and Carah kissed the dwarf full on
the forehead.

“Aye, that was worthy of a mountain
hall,” he said and led Carah to a chair beside an open window. The night air
pouring through cooled her face deliciously. “I will tell Dagni she has met her
match.” His whiskers tickled the back of her hand as he bent to kiss it, then
he made his way across the room to where Da wagged a finger at him, grinning. The
dwarf raised his nose smugly, as if he felt ten feet tall.

Carah planned to refuse the rest
of the invitations; her feet were throbbing and she’d started dreaming of a
pillow, but the night was young yet. Some of the older highborns, like Drem and
his mother, had toddled off for bed, while others were conspicuously missing,
but the young people remained and the wine flowed. What could possibly be wrong
in Bramoran? Carah began to think the nightmare was a lie.

On the dais, King Valryk brooded.
Was he merely tired, or had something unpleasant been said? He stared at the
floor, insensible to the dancers and the chatter spinning past. On occasion he
sipped from a silver goblet encrusted with lapis lazuli. King Ha’el grew weary
of trying to make conversation and descended to the floor to dance with his
cousin Ni’avh, then with Lord Mithlan’s granddaughter. Aisley, Carah thought
her name was. A willowy girl with enviable night-black hair, she was the
younger sister of the girl reported missing years ago.

Prince Da’yn was too fat to
dance, but he gave it a valiant effort at his father’s insistence. Carah was
only glad that he chose Lady Endhal, his future mother-in-marriage. His girth
threw off the spacing in the lines, and the minuet nearly ended in confusion. It
was better not to watch than laugh at a prince’s expense.

At last, Carah was unable to
avoid Maeret. The girl hooked Carah’s arm in hers as if they were best friends
and insisted they stroll. Her shoulders were too muscular for the low-collared
gown she wore, but she was as adept at gossip as she was at handling horses.
“Mother says Lord Lander is vying for another wife. After all these years, can
you imagine?” Even though she was excited, her voice remained flat, her eyes
heavy-lidded and dull.

“That’s nonsense.”

“Where is he, then?” A sweep of
her arm took in the throngs of chatting highborns, the lines of whirling
dancers. “Off with Lady Lanwyk, I’d wager.”

“He’s
old
. He probably
retired for the night.”

“Retired, yes. But alone?”

“For shame, Maeret.”

“He needs an heir, doesn’t he?
His son can’t show his face in Aralorr anymore, and his daughter is crazy.”

“His daughter is—” Carah bit her
tongue. The truth wouldn’t help, she feared.

The latest dance closed, polite
applause went up for the musicians, and suddenly everyone was dropping into a
bow. One of the kings had risen again. Carah stooped into a curtsy, then
glanced up through her lashes to find the White Falcon stepping down from the
dais. No one uttered a sound as he walked the length of the floor. He might’ve
been aiming for the cakes or wine, but Carah’s cheeks heated, telling her it
wasn’t so. He’d spotted her and there was no hiding now. Polished boots walked
past her, and she experienced an instant of mixed relief and disappointment.
But then he circled round behind her and his fingers brushed her shoulder.

She raised a hand and he lifted
her out of the curtsy. “Play the Imperial,” he ordered the musicians. Turning
to Carah, he asked, “Do you know it?”

His eyes were the greenest she’d
ever seen, like emerald shadow. Her mouth had turned to cotton. She gulped.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”

It was a stately dance, one meant
to symbolize harmony between nations, between a king and his court, between a man
and a woman, and for that it was a diplomatic choice. She had danced it once
with Valryk at one Assembly or another, but that was before he was a king, and
it was a bit of fun between cousins. This was altogether different. As the
music started, she feared the fate of the realms rested on her performance. But
then the White Falcon was guiding her in a sweeping circle around him, and she
had no time to think about anything else. He exuded a grace and a dignity that
made Carah feel as inept as a newborn goat; it took all her effort to match it.

“You are the War Commander’s
daughter,” he said, leading her in a promenade on his fingertips.

“Yes, sire.” What stronger
statement than for the White Falcon to dance with the daughter of the man
responsible for his kingdom’s defeat? Only, which statement was Arryk making?

“I’ve read much about him. Are
you as determined and stubborn as he is?”

Carah’s glance snapped around,
then the steps brought them face to face. “Oh, much more.” She blurted it like
a confession of folly, but the White Falcon laughed as if he approved.

“What sorts of things are written
about my father?” she asked, even though it was inappropriate to interrogate
him in return.

He didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, the
worst. He’s a terrifying man.”

Carah had to grin at that. “Yet you
dare dance with his daughter?”

“
I’m
a terrifying man.”

The spark of flirtation chilled to
ashes at that. “I believe you.” Yet as they went round and round from one end
of the ballroom to the other, he gazed at her in such an enrapt way that Carah’s
fear of him soon ebbed. She recalled the way he had possessed his enemy’s
courtyard upon his arrival, and for the space of the dance he possessed her,
too. The realization was shocking but not frightening, as perhaps it should’ve
been.

When the last notes sounded, she
sank into a deep curtsy and he bowed over her hand. “Shall I escort you to your
father?” he asked, setting her hand on his arm.

Her face was on fire and her
voice stuck in her throat. All she could do was nod. Everyone was staring at
her. Astonishment, coolness, uncertainty punctuated the applause.
Don’t
acknowledge them
, she warned herself, raising her chin. Da’s eyes were a
fraction too wide, Carah decided, finding him among the crowd. He bowed his
head as the White Falcon approached, then took Carah’s hand a measure hastily.

“You do me honor, Your Majesty,
by honoring my daughter.”

“Oh, no, Lord Ilswythe. She does
me the honor.” He started back toward the dais. “I hope we’ll have a chance to
talk later.”

Da bowed again, then turned to
Carah, accusation ripe on his face. “About
what
, I wonder.”

Carah shrugged emphatically,
barely managing to keep a straight face.

Someone giggled nervously in her
ear. “What was
that
?” She turned to find Cousin Ni’avh blushing to the
tips of her ears. The handsome lines around her eyes deepened as she smiled. “My
father says that King Ha’el says that the White Falcon hasn’t danced since his
queen died seven years ago.”

“I don’t believe it, begging King
Ha’el’s pardon. How would he know? The White Falcon wasn’t the least bit
rusty.”

Ni’avh laughed. “We all saw that.
If he doesn’t dance with anyone else, well, we’ll all be suspicious by
morning.”

“What nonsense!” Carah hissed,
even though her heart hammered in her throat.

The dances were over for her
after that. Maeret and a circle of other young ladies surrounded her,
whispering and giggling and asking the kind of questions that silly girls
asked. Dreading gossip that would cheapen the evening, she nudged her da.
“Let’s go. I’m tired of it.” They had only half the night left for sleep as it
was. Morning would come too soon. Kelyn voiced no complaints and let her lean
on his arm as they slipped from the ballroom into the cool quiet of the King’s
Hall. Seated at the tables, Garrs and Master Brugge drank and laughed and
tossed dice with someone wearing the ship device of House Endhal. Young Lord
Ulmarr whispered excitedly with a handful of White Mantles. He cast a
disdainful glance at Carah and her father, then turned his back to them. She
was too tired to feel anything but irritation at the slight. “Curse these
shoes,” she groaned.

Rhian stumbled along behind them,
either exhausted or half-drunk himself. Carah had seen him frequently
inspecting the wine table after brushing off the attentions of several ladies.
How many times had he been forced to tell his lie about being a highborn’s son?

“M’ lord Ilswythe!”

Da swore softly as he turned
toward the voice. A page waved him down. King Valryk strode along behind him.
“Oh,” Da said and wiped the annoyance from his face. “Your Majesty, a
successful evening. No bloodshed.”

Valryk stopped cold, blinking as
if the word were a slap. “No … not ....” He cleared his throat. “I wonder if
you’d speak with Captain Tullyk.” He gestured across the Hall where the
garrison commander scolded a pair of sentries, likely for nodding off. “You
were a Falcon Guardsmen, were you not?”

“Briefly,” Da replied.

“The Hall will be crowded enough
tomorrow. Only a select few guards will be permitted inside, and no weapons, of
course. Still, Tullyk requested someone on the inside to help keep things
civil. Would you?” His nod toward the garrison commander said, “Now.”

Kelyn did as the king ordered.
Left alone with Valryk, Carah sought something pleasant to say.
“I’d
hoped to dance with you as well, sire.”

His smile was curt. “I was not in a
dancing mood.”

“Yes, I—”

“I noticed your mother is not
here.”

The thinly hidden anger in the
interruption jarred her. Rhian’s presence was a comfort. The pearl fisher gazed
back toward the ballroom doors, pretending disinterest. “Er, no. She felt
poorly last week. We would not let her risk the weather. She desperately wanted
to come. We thought Kethlyn would be here to represent Evaronna’s interests.”

“Your brother is on king’s business.
It keeps him in Windhaven.”

“Oh, good.” Carah pressed on a
smile. “Mother will be pleased. We had begun to think something had happened to
him.”

He offered his arm and escorted her
on toward the corridor. Pausing between the great silver doors, he whispered, “Some
things can’t be taken back, you know.”

What things? Was he angry that
she’d danced with King Arryk?

“If I … ask you to stay in your
room tomorrow, would you do that? For me?”

“You want me to miss the talks? You
invited me to attend.”

“Yes, I did. But I fear sentiments
will get out of hand, and I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

The stink of blood filled her
nostrils, the crunch of bone her ears. Bone and blood oozed through a hooded
man’s fingers. Cautiously Carah let her awareness crack open, like the shell of
a clam. The buzzing and the pain were a net that she tossed toward Valryk. It
bounced right back at her. Silent Speech detected nothing, just as Uncle Thorn
had said. The king’s thoughts were swaddled in cotton batting. Carah stuttered
for a response. “I m-must do as my king commands.”