The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,1

on the shadow of the brooding king. “I know these things: the child not yet born is female. Your wife will bear no sons. Of your three daughters, two shall be against you. Watch your back. Watch your breast. Their immature love will poison your spirit, impossibly sweet kisses will bring blood.”

Abruptly Leir stood, a large man of larger tension. “How shall I know the daughter that is true?”

“You may ask, but can you hear?”

Angrily Leir clenched his sword. “You answer me with a question?” His wrist shifted as he stepped forward. Legions of men gestured for weapons. Leir knew a challenge. His heart thudded, an uneven tattoo within his chest, his breath heavy. Wait, he told himself, wait…

The sage’s lids lowered, seeing the waters and skies of time unwinding, of rime bending, fulfilling prophecy. He knew what would come, ten years, fifteen years, forty years. Even his wisdom would not save Leir from himself.

Softly the sage intoned, “You are the greatest king in all the Island. Never has there been such a ruler, never will there be again. Your kingdom stretches endlessly beneath the soles of your feet, even now, your palm shapes legends, answers fate.” A soft, warm breeze brushed the sage’s beard, his words as if kisses on the wind. “You will live to be old, older than reason, but do not forget to mind the hearts of women.”

The king’s white-knuckled grip on the sword eased, long, even fingers resting more lightly on the hilt. Leir slowly turned to face the sage, his profile hard and clean against the expansive blue sky. He was determined, a conqueror to the end. “What am I to do?”

“Know your daughters.”

BOOK ONE: BRITAIN

1398-1413

CHAPTER ONE

January 1398

COLD. SO COLD. His breath clouded in thick silver puffs and the peasant reached up to adjust the scarf wrapped against his mouth. Only his dark eyes could be seen through the dense swaddling of woolen robe, the thick black fringe of eyelash coated with ice. He prodded beneath the snow crust with a stick, once again finding nothing.

Kirk Buchanan dropped the stick into the crook of his arm and clapped his hands together once, twice, forcing the blood through his fingertips. His stomach churned and he fought panic. There was nothing to eat here. No root, no bulb, no sign of hope. But how could he give up? What would the babe do then?

Suddenly, the wind died and the steep slope hung in silence, a strange serenity for the cascade of mountains that were as fierce as they were breathtaking. The frigid gale winds had turned the trickling waterfall into long spinning strands of silver ice. Mount Ben Nevis shadowed her smaller sister peaks, the range of mountains stitched together so tightly they formed a fortress more formidable than any other in the Scottish Highlands.

Above him came the faint cry of a bird and he looked up, scanning the white wintery sky. A gerfalcon. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the bird circle, its flight pattern tight and concentric. He suspected that he had stumbled on her nest. “I see you,” he whispered, standing motionless, waiting as if torn between two lives, two dreams of who he was and who he once was. Finally he began to back away from the rocky incline, stepping carefully onto a lower snow-banked shelf. On safer ground, he glanced up again. The gerfalcon had disappeared.

Blanketed in snow, the mountain swallowed all sound, all surfaces white and slick, patches of ice on the exposed rock and icicles glittering on the lower limbs of the twisted pines and sharp overhang of roof. The cottage, built in the shadow of Mount Ben Nevis, clung to the steep slope as if it had always been there, perched among the outcropping of rocks. The mountains were frequently covered in clouds, but the mists had lifted in the last half hour to reveal the great north face of the mountain. This was the side of the mountain Kirk loved best, respecting the north face of Ben Nevis the same way he respected all that was wild, unguarded, free. These were the gifts of God and no other.

From inside the cottage, he closed the window against the cold, the rough planks splintering beneath his fingertips as he struggled to secure the shutters. “Damn!” Kirk pressed his thumb against his teeth, trying to dislodge the sliver before it buried deeper.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Geoffrey Mclnnes tapped his foot anxiously, the stool too small for his lanky frame. “This