Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Read online

  Falcon Heart

  Chronicle I

  Azalea Dabill

  Dynamos Press

  Chiloquin Oregon

  ii

  Copyright © 2015 by Azalea Dabill.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Dynamos Press

  P. O. Box 942

  Chiloquin, Oregon/97624

  www.azaleadabill.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  All Scripture quotes from NASB except for a few words substituted for meaning. “Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973,1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by permission.” (www.Lockman.org)

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Designer: Derek Murphy

  Keywords: Crossover: Find the Eternal the Adventure, Teen and young adult fantasy books, Young adult fantasy series, Christian adventure books for teens, Epic fantasy romance, Coming of age fantasy, Fantasy literature for children and young adults.

  Falcon Heart Chronicle I/ Azalea Dabill. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-943034-00-0

  iv

  Falcon Heart

  To all my readers and my loving family, who gave me a place to grow and still encourage my adventures.

  And to the Creator of adventure and joy, who made me all I am and will be. Without him Falcon Heart would not be written.

  v

  Chronicles

  Path of the Warrior Entry 1

  Falcon Heart Chronicle I

  Falcon Flight Chronicle II

  Lance and Quill Entry 9

  Cieri’s Daughter Entry 2

  Kingdom’s Fall Entry 3 *

  * Forthcoming

  Chronicle I and II are novels, the Entries are shorter stories of Kyrin’s world.

  iii

  Contents

  Seeker1

  Pursued11

  Taken21

  Slaves33

  Falcon43

  Defiance55

  Oaths69

  Learning79

  Araby91

  Opponent101

  Offense111

  Blood Call125

  Wager137

  Hunter153

  Prey167

  Saviors181

  Byways197

  Assassin211

  Consequence223

  Daggers233

  Unravelings249

  Revelations259

  Division273

  Paths 281

  Offerings291

  Ploys305

  Longing319

  Heart Studies333

  Challenge347

  Entrapped363

  Nemesis375

  Vengeance387

  Wounded399

  Flight405

  After Words420

  Glossary421

  Falcon Flight Peek 1429

  Lance and Quill Peek 2440

  Bio448

  Acknowledgements449

  Dear Reader450

  Prologue

  Seeker

  This child . . . ~Exodus 2:9

  Wind gusted around Kyrin. Heavy with the smell of rain, it flattened the dry grass under her horse’s hooves in the evening light, whispered and rustled across the cart track leading to the guarded gate. Wide as a man lying down and thrice as high, her godfather’s out-wall circled his stronghold with dark stone.

  Between the stronghold wall and the sea, mist rose from grassy hollows to meet the clouds looming behind Kyrin in the lowering sun. She straightened her back.

  The armsmen guarding the north gate knew who they were. Their choices were made, their position and allegiance accepted. If she could but choose her own . . .

  The grizzled, older armsman bowed as her mother’s mount passed him. “Lady of Cieri.” With a grin and a touch of his spear to his helm, he motioned Kyrin through the heavy portal after her mother. The younger guard raised his arm toward Lord Fenwer’s stronghold.

  The hood of his cloak tossed in the wind, tangling with his black hair. There were thoughts of her lands in his eyes, and that her form did not displease him. He dropped his arm and turned back to his post, a silent witness to choice.

  My fight does not touch him. Kyrin rubbed her sleeve across her eyes and tightened her hood. The wall at her back was mossy and solid, murmuring of a shield and of time. Here there would be quiet from the voices that clamored, incessant—if she did not let them follow her inside her godfather’s walls. Such as Aunt Medaen’s strident advice, “Act your age and position, child!”

  As if position gave one everything. But Father said Aunt Medaen had naught else. Kyrin lifted Aart’s rein and nudged him up beside her mother’s dark bay.

  “Mother, why did you send back Father’s armsmen?” Not that she agreed with old Medaen, that it was not fit for a lady to ride without escort.

  Lady Willa Cieri tilted up her chin, guiding her horse with a firmer rein, her face shadowed within her hood. “Medaen is not mistress of Cierheld, and we are not at war. Lord Fenwer patrols his lands with every sunrise. And your Father and our armsmen were with us until York!”

  Kyrin bit her lip. Mother felt old Medaen’s discontent, yet for Father’s sake she did not toss Aunt Medaen out on her ear. Surely Lord Fenwer would not seek to weave his will around them as Aunt Medaen did, though he had been present at Kyrin’s birth. “Did Lord Fenwer truly hold me when I was born?”

  Her mother’s grey gaze sharpened. “It is a godfather’s duty. Why are you wary of him? He is a good man.”

  Yes, but it had been thirteen summers since he heard her first cry, and to be first-daughter of Cierheld and of age was to be caged. She did not need another cage and keeper.

  She had no sisters—and no brothers. No brothers was worse. A brother would take the mantle of inheritance and release her to the woods and the wild wings of the falcons. It was not likely she would hunt again after she had hand-fasted. Truly hunt, that is—astride Aart—unless she found a lord she could meld to her will.

  But she did not want a lord like Myrna’s father who turned tail for his solar, his books, and his parchments to escape his wife’s scythe-sharp tongue. Nor would she take a lord who left bruises to prove his strength, or treated her as his prize mare. If Father had not needed Roman stone for Cierheld’s wall, and a solid line to inherit . . . But the wall was being built, and Lord Fenwer quarried the stone, a friend. Kyrin sighed.

  “No, mother, I’m not afraid of him. He is kind, as you say.” Was he interested in her coming lord, th
e lord who would someday hold the key of Cierheld? Kyrin wound a strand of hair about her finger.

  If she must hand-fast she would ride beside a true lord, neither a tyrannous master nor a besotted slave. But it was better to hold her own honor. Safe from blows and shame—and bars hemming her in—bars that seemed grey as death the longer she looked at them.

  Her mother sighed and patted Kyrin’s knee. Kyrin steadied her cold hands against Aart’s soft neck, warmth blooming inside her. Mother seemed to sense when words would give no help and gave her the quiet gift of nearness.

  From the gate to the small entry in the yard wall ahead stretched more than a bowshot of grass. Cold bare emptiness for defense against fire and enemies.

  Catching her mother’s weary smile, Kyrin nudged Aart forward. There was nothing to gain, dawdling on the killing-ground. Aart’s thudding hooves quickened. He stretched out his neck with a snort, eager for meadow hay and a stall out of the wind.

  Kyrin slowed him at the yard wall. The high walkway was deserted, and no guard or armsman called within the yard. Lord Fenwer did not have the armsmen Cierheld boasted, and he had his great out-wall. But should not his inner walls be watched?

  Twisted iron bound the young oak trunks of the gate. Kyrin stretched out her hand. Old and loyal, the rough oak held; the iron was cold, under cloud-shadow. Pulled from within, the gate creaked open.

  Kyrin yanked her hand back and Aart shied. Her mother moved up beside her as Aart trotted forward. Kyrin shifted on his back with a frown.

  A few servants lingered about the yard. No one waited to greet them on the wide stone steps that rose to the threshold of Lord Fenwer’s hall, or stood in the double-leaved open door between the high towers. Had her father’s messenger not come?

  A hale old man before the gaping arches of the stable on Kyrin’s right watched them. A bit of hay winked in the twisting fingers of a retainer leaning against an arch behind him. On his right was a man stolid as a tree: a farmer, most like. A fourth man clad in dark wool rocked on his heels, armed with sword and dagger, assessing Kyrin for threat and dismissing her.

  The old man’s blue gaze caught her, level and sharp. He did not offend. His white hair was thick, his coarse knee-length tunic brown wool. She lifted her chin. Perhaps he was the steward? Cross garters wound about his calves saved his wrinkled hose from puddling around his shoes. Gold gilding glinted on the worn leather ties.

  Kyrin tensed. Gilding—Lord Fenwer. It must be, and I thought him a servant. Her ears heated and she bowed her head.

  “You are well come to my hall and my hearth.” Her godfather’s voice was quiet, as if he noticed nothing.

  Kyrin raised her gaze. The quirk of his mouth was quick.

  She could not help her grin. He did not seek a lady for his hall. He did not see Lord Dain Cieri’s first-daughter, to weigh for her worth of blood and land, and her ties to power, such as they were.

  Lord Fenwer smoothed his white mustache with weathered fingers, his craggy face solemn as a moor-rock. “Tomorrow you can fly any of my hawks and falcons you wish, goddaughter, and I will show you my walls. I think you will agree with your lord father—the Roman Eagles’ stone wards my stronghold well.”

  She somehow did not think he would name her goose for concerning herself with neighbor stronghold’s foolish sons and their allegiances, or worse, call her hill-sprite because she loved the woods of Cierheld. He also held the falcon’s soul-piercing call to freedom close to his heart.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said to Aart’s mane. His coarse hair flicked her wind-chilled fingers. But she did not wish her godfather to escort her around his stronghold walls, under the eyes of servants and others who might laugh behind their hands. She wanted to be alone, with wings beating high above her, and not think. At the silence, she looked up.

  Laughter lines gathered around Lord Fenwer’s mouth. Kyrin shivered in sudden doubt. Did he smile because Father told him she could ride and shoot a bow as well as his armsmen in training, or because she, the heir who bore the key and the future of Cierheld, was so awkward?

  Lord Fenwer gestured. His dark-garbed armsman closed the gate, the oak bar thunked home, and her godfather strode to her mother’s mount. “Well come, I say again!”

  He led the bay toward the hall steps, and Kyrin followed on Aart. He did not laugh at her.

  Lady Willa said softly, “It is good to see you, old friend, in this time of trouble.” Her bay stretched its neck and whuffled in Lord Fenwer’s chest.

  “Your Lord Dain has an eye for a beast.” Lord Fenwer stroked the bay.

  “My lord is akin to you, milord! His loyalty cannot be bought, and the beasts know it.”

  Kyrin worked her cold fingers in Aart’s mane. A chicken cackled contentment, scratching at the dust below her stirrup. A boy with a pup at his heels made his way toward the hall door, but stopped on the bottom hall step to stare.

  Kyrin smiled at him. Though not a lord’s son, she could respect him. Respect.

  She frowned. Men gave respect and allegiance to her father, a just lord who paid his men with trust, besides their due coin. He kept his blade clean between himself and his armsmen.

  Her father would see that she was well-kept by the lord who claimed her. Kyrin’s smile slipped and she ducked her head. Mother said she need not answer any lord’s son until she reached fifteen summers. She hugged herself.

  Uncle Ulf would tell her to pray. And she had, but—Kyrin sniffed. The scent of hot bread and roasting meat with sage pulled at her.

  In the hall the last red-gold light glowed on Fenwer’s great chair at the end of a long table. Benches lined the sides. Servants crossed to the board, balancing enormous stacks of trenchers and cups.

  The boy on the steps wiped his dirty hands on his trousers, his barley-straw hair bristling.

  Kyrin grinned. He looked as hungry as she. Then he sneezed.

  The chicken cackled in alarm and burst from under Kyrin’s stirrup on pounding wings. Kyrin wrapped her legs around Aart’s stiff sides and whispered to his cocked ears. Now would not be a good time for him to leap away from a chicken-wolf and dump her in the dust. Not in front of her godfather and his men and women, who would not laugh at her if she did not give them cause.

  “Darin!” cried a sharp voice. The boy jumped, and Aart threw back his head with a snort. Aart danced. Kyrin held with her legs and argued for the rein.

  In the hall doorway a girl with a yellow braid wiped her hands on her apron. She frowned. “The wood, remember loose-wit, for the oven?” She turned away, her voice drifting back. “I even have to tell you to tie up your trews—!”

  Darin’s thin shoulders sagged.

  Kyrin scowled at the girl’s back. As horrible as old Medaen and Esther.

  The boy glanced at the thin column of smoke rising above the low thatch roof of the servants’ long quarters that adjoined the hall. The kitchen must lie behind, built apart from the main hall, with a hungry oven Darin had forgotten. Kyrin urged stillness into Aart and abruptly held out the reins.

  “Darin, hold him for me?” First cool drops of rain pattered down, dampening her outstretched arm, flecking the dust.

  Darin wiped his nose on his sleeve, struggling to keep back his grin. He took his charge in a hand that trembled—only a little. Kyrin twisted in her saddle to loosen her haversack.

  There. She dared honor a serving boy. Let Esther make of it what she would.

  “Come, come inside from the wet!” Lord Fenwer reached up, his hands on Kyrin’s waist warding her like iron. He set her on the ground beside her mother, sack in hand, while Darin led Aart away. Darin’s head was up, and his eyes shone.

  On Lord Fenwer’s threshold warmth met Kyrin like a wall, and she leaned into its comfort. At the head of her godfather’s table she steadied weary legs and gulped steaming sweet cider from Lord Fenwer’s silver guest-cup. The heavy oak board w
as smooth and shiny from use.

  Kyrin wished it was laden with the thick gravy, roast meat, and golden bread of supper. There might even be honey-oat cakes. She swallowed.

  Her godfather winked, and Kyrin blushed. She set the still warm guest-cup in his hand, began to bow but remembered he was not her father, and ducked into a hasty curtsey. Lord Fenwer inclined his head gravely, the lines about his eyes crinkling.

  He turned. “My Lady Willa, we will see if the room in the north tower is to your taste.”

  “My lord, I know it is your best. There is no need. We will do excellently. You should hear at what length my lord speaks of your hospitality.” Willa smiled.

  Flame-light played on her mother’s fair skin and black hair, tousled by her cloak. It was good to hear her low, pleasant laugh. The servants paused in their tasks about the table to listen. The cook’s grin was wide. Kyrin lowered her gaze.

  Lady Willa of Cierheld fit her name despite her left hand. Once broken, it had healed awry and now curled in a fur glove at her side. She could not use a quill and ink but could grasp a wooden spoon to stir the batter-cakes as her other hand busily shook in salt. She was as graceful as Kyrin was ill-favored, as Esther so often reminded her. Kyrin scowled.

  “Even so.” Lord Fenwer beckoned to one of his people. “Calee!”

  With a curtsey—proper and swift—and a merry greeting that revealed crooked teeth, Calee led them to an open stair on the far side of the hall from the table. Two flights of steps, a short landing, and then Kyrin hung her cloak beside her mother’s inside a small room.

  There were enough pegs for her haversack of hawks’ jesses and hoods. She had brought Samson’s spare jesses and the hood with the blue feathers for feast days. Father said Lord Fenwer raised the finest line of falcons among the northern strongholds.

  She withdrew the jesses and touched the worn leather. She missed Samson’s bright eyes and glorious feathers. Still, it would be good to fly a falcon, a queen of the air, far over the trees, the cliffs, and the endless ocean. Far from suspicion and laughter and choice.

  Calee lit the fire in the hearth and left them.