The Falcon and The Stag Read online

  C J R Isely

  The Falcon and The Stag - C. J. R. Isely

  Copyright © 2020 by C J R Isely

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  For my sister, Savannah, my evil cohort…though she might say that I am the cohort and her the mastermind.

  …She is often right.

  Contents

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by C J R Isely

  Prologue

  Age lined the face, pulling the skin around the deep dark eyes as the white-haired man stood at the window. He stared down from his perch at the courtyard below, watching the young man riding his high stepping black horse. People were observing him from the walls of the courtyard, in awe of the man’s ability to move seamlessly with the beautiful animal

  “Father?”

  The old man closed his eyes, breathing in heavily before he turned. A young man had entered, his dark eyes matching those of his father, his dark brown nearly black hair falling to his shoulders, and his beard neatly groomed. He wore a fine tunic of sapphire, a silver stag on the left part of the chest, set over three golden bars; the family crest.

  The younger man stopped, watching his father with a curious expression. “Father, Athina said I was to meet you here? That you had something to discuss?” an underlaying tension made his words shaper than he had meant but he stuck out his jaw in defiance. He wouldn’t apologize for his brutality.

  “Yes, Temrod,” the old man’s voice cracked with age and hours of silence. “Come, stand with me, won’t you?”

  The younger man, Temrod, hesitated before striding toward his father and looking down into the courtyard. His jaw tightened as he watched the rider below. A hostility had filled the air without warning, crackling from the man, like storm clouds heavy with thunder.

  “He’s doing well with the Kelkorian horse, isn’t he?” the old man asked, chuckling slightly as the animal reared up and stood, on two legs, for a long moment before clattering back to the cobbles.

  “He can perform tricks enough to gain the admiration of a circus crowd,” said Temrod, his knuckles tightening into fists. “If only he showed the same passion for leadership, responsibility, and swords.”

  The older man’s face reflected a moment of annoyance then settled back to age. “There is more to being King than one’s ability to kill and conquer, Temrod. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s been that.”

  Temrod snorted, turning his back to the window and crossing his arms, watching his father instead. “You say this as though you haven’t worked so tirelessly to defend this Kingdom and gain her lands. Had you not, we’d have lost this castle to Thornten like we did the Eastern Border fortress.”

  Laughing, his father shook his head and finally turned to him. “What I did was defend us. I did not live to conquer, if I had I would not have lived this long.”

  “There are more important things to life than living to an old age,” said Temrod dismissively.

  “Tell me, Temrod,” the man rasped, leaning against the stone wall. “Tell me, when I’m gone, what do you intend to do? Paradon is the true heir, my heir. For you, I always hoped a Princess or a title in the lands, such as a Duke or Lord. But I feel…I fear…you won’t be happy.”

  Temrod smiled, his lips pressed thin and strained. “I find happiness on the battlefield, father. Even if Paradon doesn’t care for bloodshed, there will always be a need for men of steel. He’ll have me to rely on then. Perhaps I will be the conqueror who takes on the Thornten lands,” his eyes broke away from his father’s piercing gaze, taking in the room behind them; his father’s chambers.

  He’d lived here for the start of his life, through one of the doors that led from this study. After starting training, he’d moved to the first floor, to the squires’ chambers, and, later, into the Knight’s Tower with the other bachelor knights and warriors. It felt strange to have the reminder of his birth by being back here.

  “Thornten’s Princess isn’t a woman to be reckoned with,” the old man murmured.

  Temrod snorted again, turning his glower on his father. “You’re beginning to sound as daft as those in Kelkor, with these crazy notions that a woman might be a worthy adversary. Her armies wouldn’t stand a chance against ours and, considering how much unrest tears their country apart with those loyal to our family, it is astounding she’s kept rule as long as she has.”

  The old man grimaced, striding toward a seat next to the unlit hearth. “I can only hope you’re right. But, what I truly hope is that when your brother finds himself on the throne, you can find a way to be at his side and be happy,” the eyes slid up to his son’s again and Temrod shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “All this talk of your death, father,” he forced a laugh. “You are being delusional once again. Perhaps you haven’t had a chance to get enough sleep since Athina’s wedding.”

  The old man nodded, closing his eyes. “Perhaps… and I do believe there are days your mother and I both are exhausted.”

  A shiver ran down Temrod’s back but he forced a grunt of agreement. Somehow it was impossible to bring his father back to reality. Reminding him that the Queen had died four years earlier felt crueler than living in the King’s fantasies. “Perhaps.”

  He didn’t wait for his father to excuse him. The man seemed to be slipping into a stupor. Temrod saw himself out of the study. In the hallway beyond he leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and fighting the knot of emotions welling in his throat. He wouldn’t cry. He refused to. He had managed to not shed a tear since the day they laid his mother to rest in the crypts. He wasn’t going to start now. What he needed right now was to fight, to go into the practice arena, and make some knight sorry that he had agreed to train against him.

  “Your highness.”

  His eyes shot open and he wheeled round. In the shadows, a man stood watching him, his bearded face unfamiliar and unremarkable, his lips drawn into a thin frown.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t believe I know you,” Temrod said slowly, his hand automatically drifting toward his sword hilt.

  “No, you don’t,” the man took a step nearer, his voice a calming purr. “But I know who you are, Prince Temrod.”

  Temrod fought the urge to snort with laughter. Everyone knew who he was. He was a Prince. “Perhaps you can introduce yourself then?”

  “Indeed,” the man swept into a low bow, his eyes never breaking away from Temrod’s own. It felt as if he could see into Temrod’s soul. “My name is Glore Tresfal.”

  The name stirred something in the back of Temrod’s mind and his brow furrowed as he tried to remember what.

  Glore’s lips pulled into a broad smile and he straightened. “I am the assassin and right hand to Princess Rhyspa of Thornten.” He shifted, moving his cloak to reveal the embroidered emblem on the high right side of his chest; a bronze falcon on a grey backdrop, diving in the center of a ring of thorns.

  Temrod’s blood ran cold, his fingers tightened on the sword. Before he could think, he had drawn it, bringing the
blade between him and the mercenary. “One step toward this chamber and you shall fall dead,” he snarled.

  Glore laughed hoarsely, eyes glittering. “You are a brave boy, aren’t you. But I’m not here to kill you, no… I’m here on request of my Princess to negotiate with you.”

  Temrod bore his teeth, bracing himself for the attack he felt sure would happen. “You have the wrong brother.”

  “No,” Glore shook his head, taking a step nearer, clearly unconcerned with the sword blade threatening him. “I have the right brother, it’s you she’s interested in.”

  “I’m not interested in her plotting and plans,” snapped the Prince.

  “No?” Glore stopped, the sword point pressing against his chest. Temrod’s hands starting to shake. He had killed, he had fought, and never had he had someone so indifferent to death, so willing to throw themselves on his sword. It was disconcerting. “Tell me, when King Valren dies, will you still be happy as a Prince? Because, with Rhyspa’s plan, you could be so much more than just a general to your brother’s armies.”

  “Oh yeah?” Temrod fought to keep his voice cold and indifferent but an old hungry beast seemed to be raising its ugly head inside his chest, scenting the air. The chance at more power, more war, more victory.

  Glore reached up a gloved hand, slowly closing his fingers over the blade. Temrod’s stomach turned as the man tightened his grip and blood oozed between his fingers. Glore’s smile broadened. “Yes… why settle for just a Prince of Alamore when she can make you the King?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Grey clouds echoed the man’s mood as he lowered himself into the chair to the right of the throne-like seat in the dinner hall. He could feel eyes watching him carefully, waiting to see if he would take the head of the table. He couldn’t bring himself to meet their gaze, instead staring unseeingly at his empty plate. The man’s black hair fell forward over his equally dark eyes. His hands looked unfamiliar, pale spiders sprawled on the table before him, escaping the black sleeves of his tunic.

  “You know, they won’t hate you for taking his place,” the deep voice made him look up into the kind eyes of a tall teenager with golden blonde hair. He took the seat to the black-haired man’s other side, throwing a wistful look at the ornate chair. “He was a fine King and I know you will be as well.”

  The dark-haired man snorted, shaking his head. “I thank you, Greyhead, but I will never take his place.”

  The younger man nodded slowly. “Perhaps a poor choice of words on my end. We don’t expect you to be your father, but we know you are going to make us a great King, Paradon.”

  Paradon squeezed his eyes closed, hoping that the younger man couldn’t see how bright they’d become. He wasn’t ready for this. “It was strange to be back in the crypts,” he murmured, more to himself than the teenager.

  “I suppose it would be,” the deep voice said next to him. “You didn’t bury your mother long ago and now… it’s not easy to bury one’s parents, I know that.”

  Paradon’s eyes opened again and he grimaced, guilt roiling in his stomach like snakes. “I’m sorry, Cavian, I–”

  Cavian cut him off with a shake of his head. “Paradon, you’re allowed to forget such things. We can only hope our future children don’t have to suffer through this until we’re old,” he elbowed Paradon in the ribs, his eyes glittering with humor. “All the more reason we ought to find ourselves married sooner rather than later.”

  Paradon chuckled. “You are practically married already, Cavian. It astounds me that you and Anara haven’t yet announced an engagement. Countess Anara has a certain ring to it.”

  Cavian’s face reddened but Paradon could see the boy wasn’t displeased. “I plan to ask her father soon…”

  “How soon? He’s a fine Lord, Cavian, but he’s a Lord who’s about a two-week ride away.”

  The red deepened in Cavian’s face and was tinged with guilt. “Umm… I thought he might be coming to…um…”

  “My coronation,” the smile died on Paradon’s face. For a brilliant moment, he had forgotten all about that in giving the newest knight a hard time. Now, however, his eyes drifted back to the empty seat. How had it been his father sat there two nights ago? Two nights ago, alive and breathing, but dead by morning. Buried this morning. He moaned and placed his head on the table. “I’m not ready for this at all, Cavian. I’m too young to be a King.”

  “You’re twenty-six,” Cavian said, gripping his shoulder encouragingly. “I became a Count on my eighteenth birthday before I was even a knight. You will be an amazing King, Paradon. You’ve been an amazing friend, you’re just and loyal, and…” his voice faded but Paradon said nothing. After an agonizing moment of silence, Cavian broke the still again.

  “Where is Temrod?”

  Paradon lifted his face, looking along the table where more men, all dressed in black, sat. He turned, taking in the rest of the room, the squires’ table, the pages’ table as if his brother might have decided to sit with the children. “He’s been staying in the tower since yesterday. He must have gone up there again after the ceremony.” After they had carried their father into the crypts…

  “He’s hurting right now too,” Cavian said grimly. “My sister was much the same when my father passed. She still hurts when she comes to Lonnac. She stays with her husband at his court more often than not, serving as a general’s wife. She wanted nothing to do with status after mum and father.”

  “Can’t say as I blame her,” Paradon said darkly. He was watching the door. A man had just strode in, dust-covered and unremarkable. His eyes met with Paradon’s and he moved across the hall.

  “One moment, Cavian,” he pushed his chair back from the table. “I think I’m needed.”

  Cavian nodded, watching the man as well.

  “May I help you?” Paradon asked, approaching the man.

  The man nodded, glancing around the hall nervously and wringing his bandaged hands. He was truly unremarkable, the type of face that Paradon was certain he had seen but would never remember.

  “Your Majesty,” the man-made a clumsy bow, straightening and wringing his hands still more. “The men…they’re worried about paying.”

  “I’m sorry, the men?” Paradon asked. He hated how ignorant he sounded.

  The man nodded. “Yes, yes, Sire. My men,” he saw the blank look on the Prince’s face and continued. “We have been building a passage that your father asked for, Sire. Was supposed to be a way for royals to escape, from what I understood of his wishes. We’ve been building it now for years…but we didn’t get paid yesterday and when I found out about the King-,”

  Paradon held up a hand cutting off the man’s rambling. “I’ll see to it myself that each of your men is paid and paid extra for this inconvenience. I’m sorry that we have overlooked that at this time, I understand how vital it might be to be paid on time. What’s your name?”

  “Gr-Graso, your Majesty,” the man bowed again. It seemed to be a nervous twitch.

  “Well, Graso, give your regards to my men along with my apology. I will speak with my treasurer and council to see to it that this doesn’t happen again,” the words felt foreign, dream-like coming out of Paradon’s mouth. His father was dead. His father was dead…. “and I will look forward to seeing this passage soon. I expect that it must be grand to have taken several years. My father failed to mention it…” his voice faded.

  How many times had his father tried to tell him about secrets in the castle, of plots and ideas, that he couldn’t be bothered to listen to? An escape passage for the royals seemed like such an idea. Something that he didn’t care about that his father would be doing for him.

  “Thank you,” the man bowed again and Paradon gritted his teeth to bite back an annoyed remark. The groveling. How had his father ever handled so much groveling in his own home? He shook it off, waving a hand for Cavian to join him, silently glad that he had something to do other than sit in the sorrow of the dinner hall with the others. He and Cavian would
find what had happened with the pay for the masons.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no stopping fate, no stopping the days from racing one into the next. Paradon watched the messengers ride out, intent to spread word of his father’s death, and then locked himself within the walls of the castle. He had grown bored of trying to understand his father’s records, to figure what exactly he needed to find for the masons. He was certain that without Cavian’s steadfast presence, he would lose his mind. His younger friend was always by his side when he needed him.

  While the rest of the castle skirted around him, staying out of his way, Cavian and he stayed up late in a corner of the Hall of Records, pouring over old documents and information. There was so much to learn before becoming a King, so many pieces of policies and laws that he had been certain he knew that now looked brand new, even if the parchment they were written on was yellowed and cracking with age. Cavian insisted on helping Paradon, even sending another messenger to Lonnac to ask that his brother-in-law continue to run the castle until his return.

  “This is useless,” Paradon moaned, resting his head on the table. He wanted to fall asleep right here, on a map of the water-ways of Alamore and a chart of the tides in the main port cities.

  Cavian looked unimpressed. “Pull it together, Paradon, you’re being asked to be a King, not killed. So things could be worse.”

  “Kill me?” Paradon asked, lifting his head slightly, a hopeful expression on his face.

  Cavian raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “And be killed for it? I think not. Just focus for another minute, won’t you? Then we can get out for a while, perhaps on a ride or to see this passage that the masons were on about. I’m curious what it looks like. I’ve never heard it mentioned in any of the councils. It seems like something your father kept quiet.”

  “He loved his secrets,” Paradon straightened, pushing the map away from him. “Let’s go have a look now, what do you say?”