NOVEL NEXT 237. The Eyes of an Owl
A day of roosting among the rafters in the great hall at the Falcon's Roost to no result had left Wren mired in an equal mixture of boredom and anxiety. While the princess and her ladies in waiting had descended for a morning meal, the old dowager queen hadn't left her room once - and there had been no suspicious looking Sherard men bringing her live squirrels, rabbits, or kittens.
Wren twitched her wings, and not for the first time considered simply making the flight overland to the pass. She'd more than recovered, by now, and the weather in the low country of Courland had veered firmly into the territory of a Lucanian spring. Nearly all the snow had melted, leaving sucking mud behind anyplace that wasn't well paved. The Lanes had provided her with an easy supply of blood by the simple expedient of having live chickens bought at the market each day and brought to the manor for cooking. Wren was feeling, in all honesty, as ready for a fight as she was going to get.
She'd even considered simply slipping into Milisant Loredan's room one night and slitting the girl's throat. Wren was fairly certain that she could have gotten the old dowager, as well, if it wasn't for the fact she already knew there were wards in her chambers. It wasn't any feeling of moral compunction that stopped her: she was confident that both of them deserved nothing better.
No, she was simply worried that the princess turning up dead inside the castle of the Falkenraths might only make things worse for Liv. Wren wasn't a noble, and she certainly wasn't skilled at politics or intrigue, but she was fairly certain that making Milisant a corpse would ruin any chance she had of turning the Falkenraths away from the crown. Things would only end up worse if she somehow got caught, and the responsibility for the assassination ended up laid at Liv's feet. On top of that, Tephania and her father would likely be the first casualties in the wake of spilling royal blood, if even the hint of suspicion fell on them.
So, instead, Wren was still roosting among the rafters, listening to Thurston Falkenrath review numbers with his father, when the dowager queen burst into the room.
"We have to hold the waystone long enough to bring our wagons through," Thurston was arguing. "It's the only supply line we're going to have, and without it we'll be stranded and starving."
"Supply lines won't matter," his father, Thomas, said. "We take the Whitehill forces in the back and the battle ends there, one way or the other. If we win, we'll have the supplies with the crown army. If we lose, we're dead anyway, caught behind enemy lines. Nothing slows us down."
The wooden doors of the hall swung open and hit the walls with a crack; one of the Sherard men who'd remained to guard the old queen bowed out of her way, and the elderly woman stormed up the center aisle like a team of runaway horses. The princess scurried in her wake, with both ladies in waiting on her heels, and for all the world they looked like a line of baby ducklings following their mother. Wren would have laughed - if she'd had the right sort of mouth for it at the moment, and hadn't been hiding.
Both Thomas and Thurston rose from their seats at the high table, leaving their sheafs of parchment, quill pens, and ink bottles scattered atop the great map spread out before them.
"Your Royal Highnesses," the duke greeted both women, inclining his head. "Is something the matter?"
"It is time for your troops to move," the dowager queen declared. She hesitated at the steps up to the high table, and Princess Milisant hurried to lend her an arm. They made the brief climb together.
"You have word from the pass?" Thurston asked.
"A bloody day's fighting," the old woman said. Cecily Falkenrath pulled a chair out for her at the table, and the dowager sat. Evangeline Howe performed the same courtesy for the princess, who settled in at her grandmother's side.
"Give us the report," Duke Thomas said, and nodded to his son. Thurston found himself a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his pen in the inkpot, and prepared to take down notes.
"The numbers will still be coming in," Millicent answered. "Lord Commander Howe opened the assault with eight hundred levies advancing on the wall, carrying rams, ladders and towers, and supported by siege bombardment. A flock of birds nearly a thousand strong struck the ramparts, and Duke Richard led an elite group of barons, court mages, and Arundell Lightning Guard to strike at the very head of the serpent. Their goal was to get to the top of the wall and kill Henry and Julianne themselves."
"The results?" Thomas Falkenrath asked.
Wren, up in the rafters, shivered. The largest fight she'd ever been in - the attack on Soltheris, perhaps? - hadn't even involved half those numbers. Liv and her friends were talented, and good fighters, but what could a handful of people do in the midst of thousands fighting? She braced herself for the worst.
"North of two hundred and fifty dead," the dowager began, and Thurston's pen set to scratching. A footman silently filled a goblet each for both the old woman and her granddaughter. "As many again wounded, at least. Baron Fane is dead, supposedly at the hands of Julianne's Eldish witch. Duke Richard is severely wounded, and there's doubt as to whether or not he'll survive the night."
Thurston Falkenrath paused in writing. "That's a disaster," he stated, plainly.
The dowager waved her hand dismissively. "Levies are brought to die, boy. They're there to tire out the enemy so we don't waste our real troops. The only real losses are the Lightning Guard and Fane - and some casualties among House Sherard's own troops, from Julianne's lightning. I have faith Richard will pull through."
"Losses on the enemy side?" Thomas Falkenrath asked, his voice even and calm as a still lake.
"Somewhat less," the old woman admitted. "But that is to be expected, when we send levies against a fortified position. We estimate at least a hundred, all either Eld or Henry's Whitehill men, and as many or more wounded."
"Howe traded five hundred of our soldiers for less than half that of theirs?" Thurston exclaimed, with a look of disbelief on his face. "What is the rusted man thinking? He's either incompetent, or-"
"You'll mind your tongue when speaking of my husband," Princess Milisant hissed, leaning forward across the table. "He is your prince!"
The duke held up a hand, and his son ceased. "Every Eldish warrior dead is worth at least two of ours," he muttered. "Lord Commander Howe brought fourteen hundred levied troops from around the kingdom for a reason. At those rates, he can mount the same assault tomorrow all over again, and continue to bleed the enemy. Exhaust their mana reserves before the real fighting commences."
"Which he will do tomorrow," the dowager agreed. "In the meanwhile, you need to take all of your troops through the waystone to Bald Peak and march them south through the valley. When the Lord Commander has exhausted his levies, and begins his true assault, you must be present with all of the Falkenrath troops to take the rebels in the back."
Thomas Falkenrath nodded. "See to getting our soldiers ready to march, Thurston," he commanded.
For his part, Wren thought that Thurston Falkenrath looked downright mutinous, but he bit his tongue, bowed to everyone present, and hurried out of the hall.
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"In the meanwhile," the dowager continued, "I will ride for the pass. The Eld have brought more magic-users than we anticipated. Each of them is inferior to one of our trained guild mages, of course, nevermind a baron - but I don't want anything left to chance. I've already sent birds ahead to every town between here and south pass to have fresh horses waiting for my guards and I."
Thomas Falkenrath looked the old woman over doubtfully. "Are you certain that's wise, Your Royal Highness?" he asked. "You are by no means a young woman any longer. I fear the days when you could spend an entire day in the saddle are long passed."
The dowager rose abruptly from her chair, a scowl that positively dripped venom on her face. "I've been riding and hawking since I was seven years old, young man, and imprinted with Avi nearly as long. Do not concern yourself with what I can or cannot do - see to it that your troops are where I need them to be, when I need them. Millie, attend me."
The princess scrambled out of her chair, offered her arm to her grandmother, and escorted her to the open doors leading out of the hall. Wren hesitated only a moment, then fluttered after them, keeping herself high in the rafters where she would be concealed by the shadows.
She followed the princess, the dowager queen, and both ladies in waiting up to their chambers, where Wren settled in to watch a flurry of packing, interspersed with argument.
"Don't be ridiculous, child," the old woman snapped, after the third time the princess insisted on coming with her. "It's more important you carry your child safely to term. I will see you on the waystone to Freeport before I leave, and that's the end of it."
Milisant looked like a toddler who'd been denied her heart's desire, but there seemed to be nothing in the Falcon's Roost that could stand in the old woman's path once she'd determined something was going to happen. Before a bell had passed, the princess and her ladies in waiting had been packed off, and the dowager stood at the edge of the waystone to watch them go, until the light died away. Only then did she mount her own horse and ride for the city's north gates, surrounded by her guard.
Wren followed.
She'd failed at catching the old woman or the princess in the worship of Ractia, despite days of watching them. The huntress wasn't quite certain what she was going to do now - bid farewell to the Lanes, most likely, and then fly north to join the battle at the pass. But something drove her to watch the dowager's party from above as they rode out of the city and northeast along the road through Courland to the mountains.
Wren pursued them long after the point that she would have had to turn around to make it back to the Lane estate before the sun set; she found a perch in a convenient tree to watch while they made camp. She didn't have any good reason, or at least nothing that she could have confidently stated out loud: merely the hope that, perhaps what had stayed the old woman's hand was fear of being caught out while staying at the castle. Now that she was out of sight -
The evening meal had been eaten, and the moon was out, when Milicent Loredan used her word of power to summon an owl down from its hunt. The magnificent bird perched on the old woman's extended arm, seemingly entranced, while one of her guards passed her a knife.
"Great mother," the dowager queen prayed, and the words stirred an eager excitement in Wren's belly. "Grant us the strength to endure this travel, and hasten the steps of our mounts, so that we might reach our allies in time. Lady of Blood, preserve the child growing in my granddaughter's womb, our heir. Accept my sacrifice."
This time, Wren did not follow. Instead, she dropped to the ground, assumed her human form, drew one of the enchanted daggers Jurian had given her, and began to dig at the freshly packed soil.
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Wren didn't make it back to the city until well after dawn; she'd had to run or walk the entire way, eventually staggering along, dripping with sweat and utterly exhausted, because there was no way that she could carry the corpse of an owl while she flew in her bat form.
She was stopped at the gates by Courland guards, who looked at the dead bird with disgust and weren't particularly inclined to fetch Sir Lane on a stranger's behalf. It took a good deal of arguing before Tephania and her father were finally fetched, and more wasted time. Wren grew more and more desperate by the moment, because it was clear from the excitement in the city, a buzz that spread up and down the streets, that the Falkenrath army was ready to march.
"I've got what we need," Wren exclaimed, thrusting the dead owl into Sir Lane's armored chest as soon as he approached. "You need to get this to your duke, before he leaves."
Elias Lane hesitated, then accepted the bloody owl. "You couldn't possibly have waited any longer; we're about to leave. I thought you'd fled the city." His dress spoke to the truth of that; with his jack of plate, helm, and the sword at his hip, it was clear that Sir Lane was ready to head into battle. "With me, both of you," he ordered. Waving the city guards back, he led Wren and Tephania down to the waystone, by way of the walled in, paved road that led from Falcon's Roost.
They had to shoulder past horses and soldiers standing in ranks, rushing the entire way, while Lane shouted for men to stand aside. Wren wasn't certain they'd make it - but it seemed getting an army moving, even a small one, was no quick feat.
"Lord Thurston! Duke Thomas!" Elias shouted, shouldering through the press. Wren caught Tephania's hand in her own and dragged the other woman along in her wake, before she was lost.
"Lane?" Thomas Falkenrath wheeled his horse about to face them. "What is it, man? We're about to depart. And why is your daughter here? Who is that woman?"
"Her name is Wren Wind Dancer, your grace," Elias declared, finally coming to a stop at arm's reach from his liege's saddle. "And she's brought the proof of something I've suspected for some time now."
Falkenrath turned to face Wren, and narrowed his eyes. "I recognize that name. How did she get here?"
"That would be my fault, father," Thurston said, pulling his own gelding up. "I sent Sir Elias and his daughter to make contact with the northern riders who harried Baron Erskine out of the mountains."
"In the name of the trinity, why?" the duke rounded on his son.
"Use your word of power," Wren called up to the mounted man. "I'm told you can use a corpse to see how it died. Take the owl and look. If you don't understand then, go ahead and arrest me."
"Please, father," Thurston begged. "I know you have reservations about all of this. The Summersets have been our friends for generations."
"This had better be worth my time," Thomas said, and reached down for the owl. "Whatever we've discussed in private, son, you're risking our entire family, our legacy, everything our ancestors have built."
Sir Lane passed up the dead bird, and Duke Falkenrath held it up before his face, clutched in both gauntlets, as if he were looking into the owl's eyes. He whispered something under his breath, an incantation. Wren was certain that if Liv had been there, or Sidonie, they'd have been able to parse it, but it was all she could do to force herself to breathe while she waited.
Thomas Falkenrath's eyes lost their focus, as if he'd had too much to drink, or been hit in the head hard enough to knock himself senseless. "Great mother," he murmured. "Grant us the strength - Trinity. Blood and shadows."
The duke shook himself, and handed the corpse of the owl to his son. "You have my attention, Mistress Wren. Speak, and speak quickly."
"We found an idol of Ractia on one of the Sherard men who went raiding with Erskine," Wren said, the words tumbling out of her. "I came back here with the Lanes to try to track down who was serving the Lady of Blood in Lucania. The dowager had a ward set up in her rooms, to keep anyone from listening to her and the princess. You can probably still find traces of the mana stone dust if you look. But they were afraid to actually make a sacrifice while they were in your castle, I think, so the old woman waited until last night, when they were well away and she had only her own men."
"I can't tell you how long she's been serving Ractia," Wren said, "but I'd bet for years. Why do you think the Sherards have pushed so hard for the crown to go after Liv? Because she and the Eld have been the only ones fighting back. I wouldn't be surprised if that old hag's used her connections to keep Lucania out of it the entire time. If you ride north, you're just being used as tools, to distract everyone while the Lady of Blood does whatever she wants across the sea in Varuna."
Thomas tapped the articulated fingers of one gauntlet against his thigh, clearly caught in his own thoughts. "Thurston," he said, finally, "nevermind the waystone. Going by that route would leave us out of position. We march along the road, instead."
"Does that mean -" Wren spoke up, but the duke didn't even wait for her to finish.
"Someone get Mistress Wind Dancer a horse," Falkenrath ordered. "I think she and I have a good many things to discuss on the ride north."