Read Online King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three by Jenna Rhodes - Free Book Online
Authors: Jenna Rhodes
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keep him isolated.”
“No fear, sir! Lordship.” The lad took a deep breath. “The other birds are scared spitless of this one.”
No doubt. The owl was probably a predator of their kind. He kept no vantane in his roost, but if he had, that proud war bird would have scared this field owl even as it terrified the others. Pecking order.
Tranta found himself grinning at his thought, as he twisted the tube open and popped the tiny scroll out. His smile disappeared immediately.
“What is it, Lord?”
“Word from afar. I may be gone for several days. No one crosses that barricade, not even the Stronghold of ild Fallyn. To do so will mean death. Understand me?”
The Kernan squinted his brown eyes as he looked back to Tranta’s warding, and he nodded, tightly. “No one, Lord.”
Tranta thrust the note in his pocket and took the easy way down from the cliffs, whistling for a groom to bring up a horse.
I N THE NORTHERN HILLS and forests of the lands known as First Home, a manor house sprawled at the edge of mighty aryn groves, with far-flung fields beyond them. They did not look like the holdings of a warlord, but they were, and now, the inheritance of a man who had lived long and well among the Vaelinar. Bistane Vantane felt the welcome weight of his family’s estate fold about him like a cloak as he rode in, dismounted from his weary horse, and turned his reins over to one of the waiting stable lads. “Rub him down well, Cathen. He deserves it, he brought me all the way from Ashenbrook.”
He watched them move toward the open stalls in the back, the horse dampened with sweat and blowing lightly, but walking soundly. Then he turned away.
“Welcome home, Lordship.”
Bistane paused in the stable doorway. His leathers creaked faintly as he looked to see who called his name, and spotted his brother Verdayne standing half-shadowed.
“Brother, will you never learn not to stand unrevealed unless you intend not to be revealed?”
“Someday, I’ll learn. I just keep forgetting what a jumpy lot you elven-blooded are.” The corner of Verdayne’s mouth twisted wryly. He shoved his hands into his jacket, and a glint came into his eyes that, for the briefest of moments, echoed that of the father they shared, though his height and diffident posture came from the mother they did not.
“Bastard,” said Bistane fondly and grabbed for his brother, bringing him close in a rough hug. He ruffled Dayne’s hair. “You’d be jumpy, too, waiting for the Raymy to rain down on you.”
“I’d gladly go in your place, but I think the women fighters would throw me back.” Verdayne twisted out of his hold and stepped back, grinning.
“Perhaps.” Bistane considered. “No, undoubtedly they would. No one attracts the fair sex like I do.”
“Bah. Sounds and smells like the mulch and fertilizer I spent most of the last three days spreading down on the sapling orchard.”
Bistane laughed as they exited the barn. “How do they look?”
“Excellent, if I do say so myself. I have that much of our father in me, I can grow aryns.”
“Indeed you can, but don’t doubt yourself. There is much, much more of him in you than that.”
Verdayne tossed him a look. “I’d rather have heard it from him.”
“I know. I would have, too. A spare man with praise, he was.” Bistane stripped off his riding gloves.
“I can fight.”
“And well I know it.” Bistane rubbed his rib cage ruefully. “I have the scar to prove it.”
Verdayne flushed. His dark blue eyes, blue upon indigo, Vaelinar eyes with their multiple shades of color, darkened even more. “I never meant to—”
“Of course you did! But not to hurt.” Bistane threw an elbow at him, Dayne dodging easily, with a Dweller’s grace. Dayne’s dark curls bounced as he did. His hair was not black like Bistane’s, but a rich, dark brown, with a curl that kept it close to his head until it needed cropping so badly that his brow could hardly be seen. In his youngest
“No fear, sir! Lordship.” The lad took a deep breath. “The other birds are scared spitless of this one.”
No doubt. The owl was probably a predator of their kind. He kept no vantane in his roost, but if he had, that proud war bird would have scared this field owl even as it terrified the others. Pecking order.
Tranta found himself grinning at his thought, as he twisted the tube open and popped the tiny scroll out. His smile disappeared immediately.
“What is it, Lord?”
“Word from afar. I may be gone for several days. No one crosses that barricade, not even the Stronghold of ild Fallyn. To do so will mean death. Understand me?”
The Kernan squinted his brown eyes as he looked back to Tranta’s warding, and he nodded, tightly. “No one, Lord.”
Tranta thrust the note in his pocket and took the easy way down from the cliffs, whistling for a groom to bring up a horse.
I N THE NORTHERN HILLS and forests of the lands known as First Home, a manor house sprawled at the edge of mighty aryn groves, with far-flung fields beyond them. They did not look like the holdings of a warlord, but they were, and now, the inheritance of a man who had lived long and well among the Vaelinar. Bistane Vantane felt the welcome weight of his family’s estate fold about him like a cloak as he rode in, dismounted from his weary horse, and turned his reins over to one of the waiting stable lads. “Rub him down well, Cathen. He deserves it, he brought me all the way from Ashenbrook.”
He watched them move toward the open stalls in the back, the horse dampened with sweat and blowing lightly, but walking soundly. Then he turned away.
“Welcome home, Lordship.”
Bistane paused in the stable doorway. His leathers creaked faintly as he looked to see who called his name, and spotted his brother Verdayne standing half-shadowed.
“Brother, will you never learn not to stand unrevealed unless you intend not to be revealed?”
“Someday, I’ll learn. I just keep forgetting what a jumpy lot you elven-blooded are.” The corner of Verdayne’s mouth twisted wryly. He shoved his hands into his jacket, and a glint came into his eyes that, for the briefest of moments, echoed that of the father they shared, though his height and diffident posture came from the mother they did not.
“Bastard,” said Bistane fondly and grabbed for his brother, bringing him close in a rough hug. He ruffled Dayne’s hair. “You’d be jumpy, too, waiting for the Raymy to rain down on you.”
“I’d gladly go in your place, but I think the women fighters would throw me back.” Verdayne twisted out of his hold and stepped back, grinning.
“Perhaps.” Bistane considered. “No, undoubtedly they would. No one attracts the fair sex like I do.”
“Bah. Sounds and smells like the mulch and fertilizer I spent most of the last three days spreading down on the sapling orchard.”
Bistane laughed as they exited the barn. “How do they look?”
“Excellent, if I do say so myself. I have that much of our father in me, I can grow aryns.”
“Indeed you can, but don’t doubt yourself. There is much, much more of him in you than that.”
Verdayne tossed him a look. “I’d rather have heard it from him.”
“I know. I would have, too. A spare man with praise, he was.” Bistane stripped off his riding gloves.
“I can fight.”
“And well I know it.” Bistane rubbed his rib cage ruefully. “I have the scar to prove it.”
Verdayne flushed. His dark blue eyes, blue upon indigo, Vaelinar eyes with their multiple shades of color, darkened even more. “I never meant to—”
“Of course you did! But not to hurt.” Bistane threw an elbow at him, Dayne dodging easily, with a Dweller’s grace. Dayne’s dark curls bounced as he did. His hair was not black like Bistane’s, but a rich, dark brown, with a curl that kept it close to his head until it needed cropping so badly that his brow could hardly be seen. In his youngest
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