Through the Falcon's Gaze
an excerpt

A soft spring rain fell on the rolling green hills of Arodain, drenching the rich earth with life-giving water. It fell on the hamlets and villages of the country, and on the sandy beaches of the port of Tyrne. It churned the carriage roads into mud but washed clean the cobbles of Cantor, the bustling center of trade and social life. From dingy alleys between tall narrow shops to the elegant, broad sweep of Brenham Court Road, the rain fell on rich and poor alike and drenched the urchin as well as the court dandy.

High overhead, with his head tucked tight against the falling rain, a bird flew. It was a falcon of some sort, with dark plumage and piercing dark eyes that stared down at the city beneath. It gusted with oustretched wings on the wet air-currents, allowing itself to be buffeted to and fro. Passing high above the heads of the citizens below, it traveled unseen over the broad flowing River Tarthes, swollen with rain and snow melted from the far-off mountains. It passed over the spire of Harwick Palace and then followed the river in a broad arch.

Below it, the city lived.

~

The rain also sleeted down on the worn stones of a keep balanced high up in the mountains, leagues from Cantor. Here the wind beat the rain against the windows and roared about the stones. The air was cold and the clouds were dark and menacing.

Beyond a window overlooking a dizzying precipes, a fire roared that held back the chill of the storm and cast a warm glow throughout the room. The room's lone occupant sat on a worn couch and stared into the flickering flames. It was a young man, somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age, with a hooked nose and fair hair falling down over his eyes. His pose was relaxed, but his expression was serious.

His boots and his cloak, both placed near the fire, still dripped. Exhausted from a long journey, he shed the cares of the road and relaxed in the warmth of his own hearth. The familiar sights of his own house had been absent- he had laid both good and bad memories to rest.

But now he was back, lord of his own land, staring into the flickering flames with a sense of exhaustion and another feeling he was too tired to examine.

The fire's crackling mixed with the roar of the wind and the patter of rain on the windows, and eyelids drooped over glittering green eyes. The man slept.

~

The drawing room of Lady Grenomia was open only to a sphere of the most exclusive lords and ladies of Cantor. Royalty was a frequent visitor to the lady's home. At the moment that venerable lady was hosting a small party, and the elegant green and cream room was filled with Cantor's beautiful and elite. The noise was deafening, a mingle of shrill voice raised in laughter and the happy bellow of some of the more expansive lords.

Lady Bria Trevelyan, who had been called one of the most beautiful women in town in that budding year of 1219, did indeed look exsiquisite in a rose colored gown that set off her golden hair. Her cheeks were red and she was fanning herself with a gilded fan held in one gloved hand, while smiling and holding out the other hand to an acquaintance in the crowd.

The bright smile and steady curstey betrayed nothing of the hollow feeling inside. Bria traded greetings with another lady- for though Lady Bria was young, her beauty and title had opened every circle of Cantor Society to her. She knew everyone and everyone, especially the young men, knew her.

Now she turned in a rustle of satin as her name was voiced shrilly over the crowded, stuffy room. Bria smiled and curtseyed as an elderly lady wearing an excessive amount of jewels for her age waved and then bustled over to her side.

"Good evening, Lady Grenomia," Bria said sweetly, holding out her hands to the lady. "What a fine party!"

"Do you think so? Oh, it's nothing, quite nothing. The season's only just beginning, my dear! Just wait until we get warmed up. My," Lady Grenomia bubbled, "how lovely you look today! I declare, darling, I am absolutely determined to see you married this year. With your looks and, oh, your sweet personality, you shall have quite the pick of the lot!"

Bria smile was now a little forced and her eyes were strained as Lady Grenomia prattled on, waving her gloved hand around wildly to make her point.

"And now I know, dear, that you were very attached to the Captain, God rest his soul, but he's gone now and he would want you to be happy."

"I'm quite sure he would," Bria said, with only a slight tremble in her voice that Lady Grenomia didn't notice. "How can I ever thank you for your kindess?"

"Oh, it's nothing my dear! To know you is to love you. Oh, darling, do you see who that is over there?" Lady Grenomia's hand flew to her throat. She scurried off through the laughing crowd, waving her hand. "Lord and Lady Ellington, how good to see you!"

Bria heaved a little sigh as she watched Lady Grenomia go, and then her smile returned to her face and she joined a circle of her friends and entered into a spirited discussion on the new play introduced at the Royal Theater that weekend.

"Lady Trevelyan! Oh, I'm so glad to find you here." A delighted voice spoke at Bria's elbow and she turned, then dropped a low curtsey. A second later the ladies around her curtseyed too, the plumes in their hair bobbing as their heads bowed. The gentlemen, all in spotless costume, bowed.

The object of their scraping waved a hand and laughed rather foolishly. Bria rose, fixing a smile on her face.

"Good evening, Prince Torrien. I trust you are well?"

"Oh, making it, making it. All the better for seeing your shining face." The young prince winked at her as he kissed her hand elegantly. The lace at his cuff and collar was impeccable, and the dark blue of his coat set off his rather childish but handsome face.

Bria kept smiling from long practice, even when her gaze caught Lady Grenomia's across the room and saw her encouraging wink. Almost unconciously, her hand reached down to rub the finger where her wedding band had once sat.

It suddenly seemed far too stuffy in the room.

~

The rain fell still on the streets of Cantor, but the back-end streets of the south-eastern corner of the city was a far cry from the elegant houses and well-mannered lawns of the Brenham Court. The streets were narrow and dirty, dimly lit and filled with all manner of trash. Yellow light spilled out across these streets and onto the shadowy figures of people hurrying by in the falling dimness.

A young boy, thin, scrawny and unwashed, huddled between to buildings and trying to stay dry. His dirty brown hair was hanging over his eyes, sticking out from under a hat of undescribable origins. His clothes were ragged and full of holes, and his name was Tam.

His eyes, peering out at the rain-washed street and the strips of orange light falling across it, were sharp and alive, large in a narrow pointed face. He watched the people passing by, with their collars turned up against the chill. They hurried on their way, perhaps to homes or appointments or to whatever purpose for good or ill. Tam saw himself as outside of all that; he had no family to return to, no place he called his own. There was no one who knew or cared about what was just another ragged boy on the streets.

It did not matter either way to Tam. Life on the streets was all he knew, and he did what he had to get by. There were times of quick humor and some of depression, times of hunger and of ease. He was a thief, a pickpocket, and discarded by everyone.

But Tam had a spark in him that set him apart from the other urchins who lived and died in the gutters. He would not lay down and die, or let others walk over him. A sense of cocky pride grew out of the dirt of his existence.

So, huddled in a corner to keep dry, Tam drew his tattered once-green coater tighter around his bony shoulders and watched the world go by.

~

Several streets away a large tavern was doing a booming business as the rain drove cold patrons inside to warm their hands at the roaring fire. The large lighted and smokey room banished the evening's darkness with a mixture of noises that rose in a dull roar around the happy patrons. The Bull's Tusk was one of the more disreputable of the town's taverns. The crowd was rowdy and sometimes dangerous. They were an unruly, dishonest bunch, and fights often broke out among the patrons over real or imagined slights.

Like now. A slight space had been cleared and tipsy people gathered around to watch the two men, swords bared, in the circle. They called out cheers for one of the other of the two, but there did not seem to be any doubt about who would be the victor.

One of the men was obviously drunk, weaving on his feet with a good-natured leer plastered on his ugly face. The other, at first, appeared to be more sober; but closer look defied that. His posture was straight and well-balanced, his sword held in a steady hand, but his eyes were blood-shot and slightly wild. He had not shaven in several days, and gave of an air of concentrated menace. His clothing and hair was dark, but his face was startlingly pale.

His attention was focused single-handedly on the man in front of him. Through eyes narrowed into slits, he preserved his utter stillness and waited for his opponent to make the first move.

Which he finally did, egged on by the drunken calls of his friends. His sword darted towards the man in black. Almost faster then eye could see, and without any visible change in expression on his face, the man parried the blow in a blaze of steel. Then his sword tip flashed and before the drunken man could even blink there were two cuts in his shirt, slashing through his shirt sleeves but not touching the skin.

And there was the tip of the sword held rock steady underneath his chin, and he was looking up into a pair of dark, merciless eyes. His alchoholic euphoria melted quickly away, and he struggled to concentrate.

The noise of the crowd had turned to unease, and several called out to the swordsman.

"Now, mister, no need to be so harsh on him. He didn't mean what he said about you- just drunk, that's all. No need to kill him!"

For a moment there was no reply, then the man's head jerked and he replied in a flat, cold tone. "I shall be made a mock of by no one." His face twitched, then his sword flicked away as fast as before and he sheathed it. Then he spat deliberately on the floor in front of the man he had nearly killed. "I do not kill fools unless I am paid."

The crowd parted before him as he walked with slow, deliberate steps towards the door. When he disappeared into the rain, they gave a shudder of relief. No one followed.

Friendly hands helped the shaken would-be swordsman up and brushed him off. He was shaking, still a bit unsure of what had happened.

"Who was that?!" he finally sputtered, wild-eyed.

"That," a knowledgeable bystander said, "was Rillan Arrem, the mercenary. They say he's never lost a duel. They also say he's crazy."

Nobody in the room doubted it for an instant.

Out in the rain, walking alone with his hand on the ornate hilt of his beautiful sword, Arrem walked. He looked to be in perfect control of himself but every now and then he would stumble a little, or miss a step.

His head swam dizzily and he felt sick. He had drinken too much that night, and the night before, and the night before that. Pressing onward through the night, he tried to beat back feelings and thoughts that he did not want.

~

Across town once more, a ragged group of theatrical gypsies were trying to attract attention at the edge of the Menno. Their peeling-paint cart and faded, if elaborate, costumes were starkly out of place in the cultured and elegant surrounding of the park. In the light of large lamps set out to illuminate the stage, a large dark-skinned man with gold earings was keeping up a steady prattle to try to attract an audience.

One of the performers, a dusky dirl with dark watchful eyes, shrugged a flame colored shawl more tightly around her shoulders and shivered slightly as the wind gusted fine water droplets under the awning where she crouched with the rest of her troup. Their leader was doing his best, but it was getting late and the rain was driving everyone inside.

The bored and hungry looks of the troup needed no words. Their various drums and tambourines lay untouched at their feet, as they refused to play for no audience.

The speaker finally gave it up for lost and turned away from the street, his bald head shining with water.

"They aren't coming," he said dispiritedly. "Asli, get up and dance for them."

The girl, Asli Murina, tossed her dark hair over he shoulder. "What," she snapped in a heavily accented voice, "dance in this rain? D' y' want me to break an ankle or catch m' death of cold, Maharana?"

The man glowered fiercely at her. "Do you want to eat tonight, girl? Then earn your keep. And the rest of you too! Let's have some life around here. We'll give it one last whirl, and if it doesn't work it's cabbage soup again tonight."

There was a heartfelt groan from the gypsies but they began to stir, picking up their instruments and shaking themselves awake. Dark eyes flashing, Asli stretched her limbs and tried to rub feeling into her cold feet.

The music struck up with a patter of drums and the shrill piping of a flute. It was a bit ragged at first, but soon came together into a simple upbeat melody. Asli fixed a smile and her face and stepped out into the lights of the lantern. Her bare feet tapped on the rain slick glance, and she began a quick graceful dance.

Soon she forgot the cold and the gnawing hunger in her belly as the dance warmed her up. Swooping and twirling, she became a flash of bright color. The sprinkling of rain on her hair caught the light and gave her the illusion of wearing jewels.

Then her foot slipped on the slippery grass and her dance came to an upbrupt end. With an angry cry, she barely managed to catch herself from falling face first in the ground. The music ground to a halt behind her.

Dirty, bruised, she regained her feet and stalked over to the Maharana. "I am done. It's too wet."

"What'd we get?" one of the drummers called out hopefully, eyeing the hat that one of the younger girls of their company passed up to the burly Maharana. His stirring finger produced a hopeful clank, but his face was sober.

"Three copper pennies and a half-pera," he said in disgust. "Ai! Perhaps we will eat well tomorrow."

Asli, massaging her ankle, snorted with anger and tried to forget her growling stomach.

~

The rain pattered across the surface of the broad and silty Tarthes and on the decks of the many boats tied up at the docks. It washed the decks of a trim little ship sheltering in the lee of a larger vessel. The ship was painted white and the words across her stern proclaimed her the Glory's Ransom. She was a tight little ship with fast lines, and the rain bothered her none as she bobbed on the river's swell.

Inside were four men, none of them concerned with rain or weather in their snug cabin. In the narrow quarters they were huddled around a sturdy table with a pile of glittering coin mounded in the middle. They held tattered, faded cards in their hands. A feeling of well and relaxation filled the room.

Captain Tanthalion Charis puffed contentedly at his pipe as he reviewed his hand. He was a sturdy old seaman with knowing blue eyes and a weathered wrinkled face that seemed made to smile. A flat-brimmed cap covered his white hair.

He scratched at the short white beard on his face and squinted from his cards to the pile of money. "Well, boys," he said slowly. "What've you got?" Biting down on the stem of his pipe, he laid his own cards down on the rough table.

The sailor to his right snorted with disgust and threw his cards down on the table. "By th' Lady, Cap'n, you've beat me again! I'll swear to goodness that you cheat."

Charis' eyes twinkled. "Naturally, naturally. Ye wouldn't except less, would ye? I've cheated at cards all th' years of my life."

"He's right," another sailor grunted in resignation. "Th' only thing to do is learn to cheat better. An' I haven't figured out how to do that, in all my years playing cards with 'im!"

"Best learn not to play with me at all, then." Charis cackled as he raked the pile towards him. "Prudence and thriftiness get you everywhere, lads."

"Instead of sitting on your tail in a two-kent boat waiting for miracles like you, Cap'n?"

Charis puffed complacently on his pipe and shook a finger at the speaker. "I'll not hear a word against my boat! She's a crafty little lady and she's pulled me out of more scrapes than you can shake a stick at." He settled back in his rickety chair, ignoring his grinning crewmembers. "We've just pulled into port. You've got shore leave tomorrow. Here-" one gnarled hand pushed the pile of money towards them and he stood with a groan. "Divide it amongst yourselves and don't spend it all in one place, lads."