Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  “Undoer’s curse!” Ihbram sat up, deathly still. “Your half-sister – she’s dead?”

  “She came to find me in Roushenn,” Khouren’s tone was hollow, trying not to relive it in his mind. “To tell me... that I could finally follow someone worthy of being followed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Khouren’s fingers picked up a pebble and tossed it into the brazier. “Lhaurent’s not the only Rennkavi. Another one’s been Goldenmarked, this past summer.”

  “Another one—!” Ihbram’s murmur was shocked. And then Khouren felt it, a burning sensation in his mind as Ihbram used his wyrria to search for the truth. In his mind’s vision, Khouren could see threads of crimson flame seeping into his skull, diving into the darkest corners of his thoughts. Khouren clenched his jaw, swallowing down nausea before that touch rippled away. “You’re telling the truth.”

  “I heard it from two different sources,” Khouren confirmed. “Another Rennkavi has been Goldenmarked, near Highsummer. An ex-Brigadier named Elohl den’Alrahel.”

  “Elohl!” Ihbram’s whisper was astonished, his eyes wide in the brazier’s light. “Shaper and Undoer! Dammit! I should have never let him leave the High Brigade. Fentleith’s going to give me Halsos’ Hells for this...!”

  A long silence filled the night, as Khouren let his uncle digest this astounding revelation – news that was against everything they’d been raised to believe. Flames simmered in the brazier, burned down to red coals. A wind picked up in the night, stirring sparks up into a star-shot sky.

  “How can there be two Rennkavis?” Ihbram spoke again at last, hushed.

  “I don’t care how,” Khouren gave a tired sigh, watching the sparks burn out to the backdrop of the stars high above. “But I’ll take it. I can’t follow Lhaurent anymore. Not after everything he’s done. I will find Elohl, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Once a cur, always a cur, aren’t you? Always the servant, never the master.” Ihbram’s words were hard, but there was no malice in them now. It was simply an observation of Khouren’s character – his need to follow, to believe in someone stronger than himself. At first, Khouren had believed in Fentleith, then he’d slavishly followed Elemnia until she’d fucked Ihbram. In the rancor that followed, Khouren had broken from his family, following the Khehemni Lothren and searching for the roots of Leith Alodwine’s magic. When a Rennkavi had arisen, Khouren had followed – to his horror and regret. Khouren couldn’t fault Ihbram this time. His uncle’s words were true, and they stood, desiccating in the violet dusk.

  “I am what I am.” Khouren spoke to the shadows, as if it was any kind of excuse.

  Silence devoured his comment. Khouren looked over to see his uncle had settled down upon the stone, his head on his rucksack and his hands clasped over his belly near his longknives. Ihbram had pulled his hood up over his eyes, drowning his face in shadow and making it all too clear that their conversation was over.

  For now.

  Dire thoughts churned in Khouren’s mind, tingeing his thoughts red. With her final breath, Lenuria had bade him seek redemption. She had been Khouren’s only light of reason this past century, stationing herself in the First Abbey to stay close to him, to steady him after his break with sanity. He’d been a madman after he’d tried to kill Ihbram. Red had consumed him, fire and darkness – and he’d run away from the Alodwine clan rather than face the horror of what he’d done.

  Of them all, only Lenuria had stood by Khouren when he’d defied his grandfather and sought out the Lothren, needing answers to the rage that burned inside him. But Khouren might not get a chance to redeem himself in her dead eyes if he couldn’t conquer his panic and leave the city.

  Pushing off the bluestone block, Khouren settled his back against it. Breathing a sigh, he gazed up at a sky full of dead faces – sleep far away.

  CHAPTER 5 – THEROUN

  Theroun stared into the grey drizzle, manacled into a line of Elsthemi warriors. Watching mist drift upon the chill dawn wind, he and the others knelt upon a dais of white stone before the grand entrance to an Elsthemi cathedral carven with sickles and wheat. Beyond the cathedral, Theroun could see what was left of Fhekran Palace. Consumed for two days by fire, its enormous red cendarie timbers and towering gables had been devoured. Heat had exploded its white foundation-stones in retorts that had split the night like Ghreccan war-cannons. Vaults that had once been a marvel of elegance had collapsed, massive timbers charred like kindling. Nothing of the soaring roofline or supports remained, only charcoal jutting into a grey sky like biting teeth.

  Gazing into the drifting mist, Theroun took in charred buildings doused by the heavy rainfall, houses of worship and hovels sundered and ruined. Flames had towered into the crimson sky in writhing columns the night of the invasion three weeks ago, heatwaves boiling the avenues. Everything the Elsthemi held dear had been reduced to so much ash. A slurried sludge ran through the cobbled streets today, coating what was left of the ruins in mystic shades of black and grey.

  Theroun should have felt sorrow staring at the burned-out buildings, but viewing a city lost and a people decimated, all he felt was emptiness; used-up, like his innards had been scooped out and cast away. He sat, numb to the fingers of autumn that trickled down his skin with the chill drizzle. It was not ennui, and it was not defeat that possessed him, nor was it rage or hopelessness. What it was, was a roaring fire of hope that had been drowned when the Kreth-Hakir Brethren had pummeled him into submission.

  Hundreds of Elsthemi fighters were chained in the plaza before the cathedral. The cathedral, once a tribute to some Elsthemi goddess of grape and grain, was now the Kreth-Hakir’s headquarters. Theroun took in the cathedral steps, wondering if there was to be a show – if he and the other Elsthemi captains were going to be punished, but there was no scaffold for hanging, no rack of weapons, no implements of torture. There was nothing upon the stones before the cathedral, except for Theroun and the others chained on their knees.

  Since they’d been taken captive, Theroun and the Elsthemi and what was left of his Menderian defectors had been kept in chain-gangs. Used night and day to douse smoldering wreckage with buckets, or haul debris from buildings the Menderian military now occupied. They’d rounded up itinerant livestock, erected mess-tents and dug latrines. Sleeping manacled in the lee of buildings at night, there was no roof for them, no refuge. A number of fighters had died from untended wounds, their corpses dragged around in their chains until someone came to release the body.

  Theroun didn’t know where the bodies went. He’d ceased caring after three weeks of living like an animal, but some part of Theroun’s mind registered that today was unique. For the first time since he’d been broken, he was gaining a chance to see the entirety of the Elsthemi forces gathered in the plaza, even though they were ringed by a silent Menderian host.

  General Merra was not among those captured, nor were her elite fighters. Khorel Jornath had kept his promise, but fierce, redheaded Captain Jhonen Rebaldi was in Theroun’s chain upon the dais, staring despondently towards the burned-out palace in her ruined battle-leathers. Two men over from Jhonen, the massive beast of a Highsword Lhesher Khoum sat, glowering through the rain at everything and nothing, his braided red beard and hair sodden. Ever the survivor, Fleetrunner Captain Vitreal den’Bhorus sat nearby with his burning green eyes and hateful sneer. The Kingsman saw Theroun watching him and gave a solemn nod of support, one manacled hand reaching towards his heart.

  Jhonen and Lhesher had been on the King and Queen’s detail the night of the invasion. Theroun hadn’t had an opportunity to speak with them. But from their defiant attitudes, he assumed the Queen of Alrou-Mendera and the King of Elsthemen had made it out of Fhekran Palace through the tunnels.

  Theroun glanced at the six Kreth-Hakir patrolling the Elsthemi prisoners. They would stop occasionally, gazing at a warrior, narrowing their eyes when they felt unrest from someone. Two stopped before Vitreal den’Bhorus, staring him down. The Alrashemni K
ingsman dropped his mean gaze to the slurried stones, teeth gritted, shivering.

  Defiance didn’t last long around the Kreth-Hakir, even from Kingsmen.

  Theroun sat, waiting in the dripping rain for whatever was supposed to happen. Movement caught his eye from the side of the cathedral. Two men in herringbone leathers dragged a bird-frail woman toward the plaza. She was a wreck: her high cheekbones were purpled from beatings. Bruises stood out livid upon her china-white skin. Her pale lips were swollen and split, her white-blonde hair mangled with old blood, as if someone had ripped it out by the handful. Barefoot, she wore a thin silk underdress now ripped to shreds and stained with soot, hardly covering her nakedness. Theroun saw darker patches on her garb, like feces and blood. As she was thrust to her knees next to him, he saw vicious blade-cuts upon her delicate skin, some old and festering, some new and raw.

  The haughty face of Adelaine Visek, High Dremorande of Elsthemen, burned with a righteous fury. Yet for all her fire, she winced as two Brethren set her tiny wrists into an empty set of manacles next to Theroun, abandoned five days ago when the soldier who occupied them had died.

  One of the Kreth-Hakir with a row of Lefkani piercings up his left ear seized Adelaine beneath the chin, forcing her head up. Adelaine set her jaw and the man narrowed his dark eyes. The second Kreth-Hakir, a young man with short Valenghian-silver hair, paused, gazing at the first. He stepped close, laying a hand upon the first man’s shoulder. The second Hakir added his gaze, pale and piercing, and together they stared the High Dremorande down. She began to shiver in her thin shift. The swarthy Lefkani lifted his lips in a leering snarl. Adelaine flinched, but did not look away.

  With twin snorts, the two Hakir at last backed off. Therel could tell the battle of minds was over, though he couldn’t tell who had won, until the Lefkani backhanded Adelaine across the face, hard. Her thin body wasn’t meant for such treatment, and she sprawled into Theroun’s lap. Theroun helped the Dremor sit up as the two Hakir stepped back to their duties in the thin rain. She nodded her thanks, wincing as she took her lip into her mouth, sucking on a new split that dribbled blood.

  “They’re going to kill me.” Adelaine spoke, her voice grim but steady as she watched the two Brethren disappear around the edge of the cathedral.

  “I don’t think they appreciate resistance.” Clearing his throat, Theroun responded in a voice thick with the gravel of extended silence. “Though they enjoy the game. Seeing how long someone can last against their dominance.”

  “But where is the line between resistance that intrigues them, and resistance that is simply too tiresome?” Adelaine croaked too, her voice wretched. Theroun wondered how much torture she had endured these past weeks.

  “Find that line and live, perhaps,” Theroun responded.

  “I can’t.” Adelaine said simply. “I have information to protect. They’ll keep digging into me until they have it, one way or another.”

  Theroun found himself impressed. That the Dremor had protected vital information for three whole weeks from not just Khorel Jornath but the entirety of the nine Brethren stationed on this campaign. Something within him shifted, desiring a fight – a feeling he’d not had in weeks. “How do you keep them out of your mind?”

  “I have a failsafe,” Adelaine murmured. “I shut my mind and body down into coma before they reach that which is most secret. I’ve used it quite a few times now. I feel like I’ve barely been awake these past three weeks.”

  “Which infuriates Jornath, apparently,” Theroun lifted his eyebrows at Adelaine’s bruises.

  Adelaine sneered, fierce, but tired. “Jornath never touches me. His curs carry out such things.”

  “What do they want? Information about the tunnels?”

  “Your scribe Thaddeus has an incredible mind, Theroun.” Adelaine gave a terse nod. “And yet, I fear he may be our undoing. I wish to Karthor I had not spied into his thoughts. It’s a curse of mine, wanting to know too much. Sifting minds for information, looking for a way to wield it like a lance. But I fear this lance has speared me instead. They want information about those tunnels. They want what Thad knew, everything he surmised from the information he gathered, and they’ll get it. Eventually.”

  Theroun was silent. Thaddeus’ hopeful face came to him. What would Thaddeus think of his General of Generals, sitting empty of heart in the mud, chained in a gang? The thought prickled Theroun, like a limb waking after a long sleep. “Did the King and Queen get away?”

  “They did.” Adelaine stared through the dripping rain toward the charred palace. “I bought them enough time to get through the crystal door. The tunnels have their own protection. Jornath and the other Kreth-Hakir have tried for weeks to re-open that gateway, but they can’t breach it.”

  “They’ll keep torturing you. For resisting them,” Theroun spoke quietly.

  Adelaine’s icy blue eyes burned and her lips twisted like she sucked a sour cherry. She sat up tall in her ruined shift, though she shivered from the drizzle. “Physical pain is nothing. They can break my bones, take of my body that which they wish to take. I’ve mastered my mind long enough up on the tundras against cold, pain, and humiliation.”

  “There are twelve of them today.” Theroun had counted the herringbone-clad men that patrolled the manacled warriors. “Their organization has delivered more Brethren as of yesterday. With Khorel Jornath, that makes thirteen.”

  “Some were killed in the fight under Fhekran Palace,” Adelaine’s breath sent up small puffs of steam in the drizzle. “But they’ve been replaced by new faces, and more. I don’t have much time, Theroun. They’ve been waiting for reinforcements to fully break me. Nine of them, I could fight. Even with Jornath. But thirteen...” Adelaine took a deep breath, staring at the palisades. “But I knew this would be my fate when I saw you at Fhekran Palace, Black Viper.”

  Turning to Theroun, Adelaine held his gaze with steady eyes, nearly white in the grey morning. Reaching up a manacled hand, she touched Theroun’s beard-roughened cheek. “For years, I have seen a black viper lingering outside the candlelight when I sleep at night. Coiled, waiting. For years, I wondered what it meant. I used to think it was Therel. But now I know it is you.”

  Adelaine straightened to attention. Lifting her spindly arms, she placed her palms upon Theroun’s temples. Theroun felt a cool wind sweep into his mind like a storm breathing down from the tundra. In half a breath, his entire body went rigid, held in a vise beneath Adelaine’s thin hands.

  Hear me. Adelaine’s voice boomed into Theroun like giants hurling boulders. Your strength is in oblivion, Theroun den’Vekir. That place deep inside that cares nothing for the restraint of men. Only for freedom, for the bliss of the strike. For some men, their strength is love, or rage, or altruism. For you, it is the unblinking strike. Motion without emotion. The ability to laugh in the face of darkness, because you alone know true darkness. Be that, Theroun. Be your true strength now.

  Theroun breathed hard in the chill drizzle, Adelaine’s words thundering through his mind. He sat rigid, remembering that place of bright madness he had recently touched. The place that had filled him before Khorel Jornath had booted him in the face during their duel. It had come so suddenly the night of his battle with Jornath – not a place of seething darkness like the Aphellian Way, but something else. A place where he had no mind.

  Only the strike – and the bliss of it.

  A memory of cold, red eyes filled Theroun. Four men in black Herringbone leathers suddenly rounded the cathedral at a swift run. Rage was in their faces, fury, and fear – their collective gazes locked to Adelaine, to whatever she was doing. Adelaine’s fingers tightened upon Theroun’s temples. Her white eyes blazed into him like diamonds under a winter sun.

  Take this gift, Theroun. Of all the men I have ever felt, you press upon my mind with strength both ancient and powerful. I know now that the viper in my dreams was only waiting. Waiting for me to wake it. So take what is mine, Theroun. Take from me, and let it wake you!<
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  A thundering blizzard built in Theroun’s mind, like high seas frozen into ancient ice. The Kreth-Hakir ran for them full-tilt, joined now by the six Brethren from the plaza, the tide of their hive-mind screaming to drown out whatever Adelaine was doing. Suddenly, an enormous spear of energy thrust through Theroun from Adelaine. The Kreth-Hakir were smashed back, as if hit by a lightning strike.

  And in that moment, Adelaine pressed her lips to Theroun’s.

  Theroun felt energy pour down his throat. Adelaine’s energy, sluicing into his body and mind, into his very essence. Like wintermint and ice floes, she obliterated him, and all Theroun could do was drown. Something awoke in him. With a roar, it rose to what Adelaine offered. Eating her energy. Sucking that flow, drinking her down. Theroun reached out his manacled hands and crushed her to his chest, wanting to devour everything she offered.

  Adelaine’s head snapped back as she was jerked away by the hair. Her hands were wrestled from Theroun’s head and she was smashed in the temple with the pommel of a shortsword. Ten Kreth-Hakir had arrived. Two of them punched Theroun in the gut and neck. He went down, his head ringing, his body spasming from the energy the Dremor had fed him. His cheek pressed to the rained-washed cobbles, his eyes met Adelaine’s as she was pressed to the ground also, her manacles unlocked from the chain.

  “Be the viper’s strike!” Adelaine gasped. “Taste their blood for me!”

  A boot smashed Adelaine in the mouth. Another found her gut and she rolled into a ball, keening. Four Kreth-Hakir hauled the Dremorande up. Gripping her by the hair and skinny arms, they hustled her away.

  Twitching in spasms from whatever the Dremorande had done to him, Theroun could do nothing. It was all he could do to gasp in agony, his forehead upon the chill stone, grateful for the breeze licking his cheeks. Everything burned like ice and poison, and something writhed in the depths of Theroun’s belly – cramping every muscle, sending him into a rigor. Pain devoured him, and he knew he had shit and pissed himself, his body unable to control whatever Adelaine had done.