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

saluted, then hurried to the barracks.
    Acknowledging his guests, the man
on the steps offered a smile as wooden and jagged as a barricade. “I bid you welcome
to Brengarra, son of Lander, and to these, your companions. I am Fe’olan, Lord Downford,
and this is my son, Falyr. I’m brother to Lord Jaeron, whom I believe you
knew.”
    Bethyn’s uncle? In one of her last
letters, she made passing mention of him. Laral had read each letter until the
parchment was soiled and wrinkled. “He arrived from Downford with all his
family yesterday,” she had written. “At first I was grateful to have them,
thinking that my uncle looked, oh, so much like my father, but now I cannot
find the resemblance. He is charming in a disarming sort of way. The royal
court is full of duplicitous men such as he, but I cannot turn him away. He
mourns my father as I do. They are set to depart next week. Then I shall have
more time to compose my music for you …” Was this yet another visit? Or had this
uncle and his family conveniently forgotten to leave?
    Disarming, indeed. Laral heeded the
warning and did not take his eyes off the man. “Knew him? Not really. He and my
brother died on the same day.”
    “I cannot say I’m sorry to hear
that. You do have more than your share of audacity, returning.” Fe’olan propped
his fists on his hips. He was unarmed, but his son was not. Falyr’s hands hung loose
and open near the hilt of a longsword. He wore the same arrogant half-grin that
Kelyn had often worn when he knew he couldn’t be beaten. That was before life thrashed
him about a wee bit.
    “Will you announce me to Lady
Brengarra or not? We wrote to one another—”
    “Yes, I am aware of this,” Fe’olan
interrupted. “Understandably, my niece decided it was best that she no longer
receive your letters. You see, she has accepted my son’s hand. They are to be
married at midsummer. It was no easy task convincing her. I blame you for that,
Aralorri.”
    Laral glared at the son, his hopes
crashing down around him. Falyr flicked a lock of yellow hair from his face
with a toss of his head. There was something supremely imperious about the
gesture. He had the upper hand, and he knew it. Laral understood long ago that
his chances of hearing his wren sing to him for the rest of his life were slim,
but losing her to this conceited son of a bitch? “I doubt I’m the only one to
blame.”
    “Listen here,” Falyr said, his
finger a spear aimed at Laral. “Brengarra stays in our family. We have
been the only family to hold it since the time of King Fiernan. We will not see
it in your hands, Aralorri. Take yourselves from the premises, or we remove
you, and I cannot vouch for the condition you’ll be in.” A trammel of feet
announced the garrison lining up on the walls above.
    Laral was hardly able to stand
upright; the anguish coursing through this veins took the mettle right out of
his legs. “I beg your leave to speak with her, for just a moment—”
    “Certainly not!” Falyr declared.
    “—to make certain we are not
enemies, if we cannot be friends.”
    “Bethyn belongs to me!”
    Lord Fe’olan waved his son to
silence. “In any case, young Tírandon, my niece is not well enough to receive
visitors today. Or tomorrow.”
    Wrong excuse to give. It stripped
away Laral’s grief in an instant. “Not well?” he demanded. “Why is Bethyn not
well?”
    “Mind yourself, young man.” Fe’olan’s
eyes darted between his guests and the garrison. One wrong move and he was sure
to give the order to attack. “Her condition is not serious, nor does it merit—”
    “Not serious! She is not well
enough to receive visitors, but her condition is not serious? Drys!” he called
over his shoulder. “Is it safe, do you think, for me to call this man a liar?”
    Drys grinned. “I call him liar if
you don’t.”
    “Now, stop right there,” Fe’olan
began, round belly puffing up like that of a startled toad.
    “I’ll flay your