Free Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) by Court Ellyn

chevron on the pommel. He told himself he would never draw it
for an unjust cause, and upon its first bloodletting, he would name it
Peacekeeper. He also knew better than to speak that promise in anyone’s hearing,
because he doubted he would be able to keep it. On his right, he wore the
diamond-studded dagger he’d won in the races at Assembly so many years ago.
With it he had saved Queen Briéllyn from Zhiani mercenaries and defended Bethyn
against his fellow squires. He had come to think of it as simply Guardian.
    “Father is rash enough to
disinherit me, aye,” he said, “then regret it ever after. It doesn’t matter.”
    “But it does,” Kalla argued.
    “What matters is that no one can
disinherit Bethyn.”
    “The White Falcon might. Does the
Princess Regent have that power?”
    “Oh, Goddess,” Drys groaned, “what
a snake’s pit we’re wading in. Ki’eva scares the shit outta me. Those eyes … green
and mean. Glad I am that she didn’t turn ‘em on me at the peace talks. I mighta
shriveled up and died.”
    Laral grinned down at his friend. Drys
was head and shoulders shorter, but insisted he ride as tall a horse as any
other knight. He had a special ladder-type stirrup that he lowered and tied up
again when he rode. A comical pair the two of them had made, standing side by
side on the dais to take their vows and accept their swords from Rhorek. At
least the highborns thought so, snickering behind their hands at Laral’s height
and young Lord Zeldanor’s lack of it. At the banquet afterward, Drys had felt
the need to defend himself: “Aye, but you’re a scrawny shit. I’m twice as broad
in the shoulders, and look at that fist, will ya? Solid granite. I could squash
you flat, so mind yourself.” Laral knew his friend well enough to take the
threat seriously.
    “If Bethyn loses Brengarra, too,”
Laral said, “we’ll come live at Zeldanor.”
    “Don’t drag me into this.”
    “You’re in so deep, you’re treading
water.”
    Drys’s chest puffed out. “You
calling me short?”
    “No, I’m calling you chicken. If
you don’t ride across that bridge with me tomorrow—”
    “You dare!” Drys balled his fist.
    “I dare!” Laral shouted back.
    “Boys!” Kalla looked to the heavens
as if appealing to the Goddess. “Can we save the tree-pissing until after we cross into Fiera? Some moral support you are, Drys. And you .” She
jabbed a finger at Laral. “Some attractive suitor you’ll make, beat all black
and blue.”
    Drys grinned and winked. “Thanks
for the confidence in my prowess, Kalla.”
    “Hnh, you’d look the same, but you’re
not trying to impress anyone, so what do you matter?”
    Drys deflated.
    “Let’s just get to the bridge with
our friendship intact, all right?” Kalla urged her warhorse to a canter. The
boys followed in resentful silence.
    Rather than risk fleas at the
Twisted Oak Inn, they decided to camp under the eaves of Whitewood Forest. The
next morning, they stuffed their telltale surcoats into their saddlebags and
changed into civilians’ garb. Laral owned little more than squire’s livery with
Ilswythe’s sword-wielding falcon on it, nor had there been time to have a wardrobe
made, so he had dug into Leshan’s things. Heart-wrenching, sorting through the
doublets, cloaks, and fine silk shirts; for some reason, it was sight of
Leshan’s gloves that had brought the sob out of him. Wearing those gloves, the black
leather worn and creased, Leshan had tried to build a new future. Sliding them
on, Laral found that his fingers were longer than Leshan’s had been. His arms and
legs, too, but lace cuffs and knee-high boots hid that fact. He only hoped that
by the time he reached Brengarra, the velvet would smell less of moth balls.
    That afternoon, they rode out of
the trees and gazed upon the glistering silver expanse of the Brenlach. Those
vast waters funneled through narrowing shores until they entered the banks of
the River Bryna. On the opposite