Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  “What did you mean, that we’re not yet safe?” Owen asked, and Jessa could see his eyes were clear as he asked the question.

  “These men were of Lyoness.” Her stomach filled with nervousness as she spoke the words. “They were of the Fakir, the Sahwello Clan, I believe. It is the warrior caste of their faith.”

  “Bloody hell.” Grissom growled.

  She looked to him. “Do you know of this Clan?”

  “Only by legend.”

  Jessa returned her attention to Owen. “Serabee is a Lord of the Fakir. These men are his. They bear a brand upon the chest? A sort of wheel, with a cross spoke?”

  “A spar?” Grissom asked. “Broken through the middle?”

  “Yes.”

  Owen’s eyes flared with rage. “You know these men?”

  “No,” Jessa responded at once. “But I know Serabee and I know the Fakir. I am a Vhaelin witch, and the Fakir have been the enemy of my people for a thousand years, even longer. There was not a time, ever, that the people of the plains did not fight the Fakir. This feud is as deep as blood. More importantly, however, is the fact that Serabee is First Councillor to my father.”

  “This I know.” The king closed his eyes.

  You should never have opened your gates, my Lord. “Whether or not this was planned by Bharjah, I don’t know. I have only ever been a trinket.” She shook her head. “I have no power and no certain knowledge of such things.”

  “Joaquin has hinted that your father has not aged well, which I took for the complaints of youth. There’s nothing as tiresome as an old man, especially when he’s standing in your way. But I have spies that tell me he is actually ill. Is this true?”

  Jessa was startled by the thought, though in the back of her mind several troubling ideas began to slide into place. A picture was formed, and his unexpected words allowed the colors of her keen logic to flow and paint upon the aging parchment of her frustration. “I don’t know,” she answered and arranged her thoughts as quickly as they arrived. “The last I saw him, he sat upon his throne and told me that I was…” Her eyes focused upon the past as she remembered her father’s throne room. She remembered his veiled amusement, and the darkness that lay hidden just beneath. “I was…”

  “What?”

  “You may be right.” She took the leap and followed where it led. “He said I would be the last piece of jade in his tower.” She shook her head. “I thought he meant that I would marry your son, and that one day his blood would sit upon the throne of Arravan.”

  “And you do not think that now?”

  “Well, aside from the fact that I am backwards and in love with your daughter”—Owen surprised her with a smile—“your son is not interested in a marriage to me. He is more concerned with—”

  “Joaquin,” he finished for her.

  “A child would take much too long and my father is old. The fact that he may be ill is irrelevant to that point, for he would not live to see an heir of his blood take to the throne of Arravan even if he was healthy. And besides, my brothers would never allow it. To see a child lay claim to what they feel is theirs to take?” She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “I have twelve brothers, my Lord, and none of them are certain of the throne. They each have claim, and so they will all seek what is yours. To claim Arravan may seem easier to some than to lay hands upon the Jade Throne.”

  “Sylban-Tenna?” Grissom asked.

  “Sylban is first, this is true, but that carries very little weight in my land.” She met the commander’s steely blue eyes. “They fight like dogs for my father’s attention and favor and Bharjah pricks them on, like a stick in their bellies to watch them scrap and fight. There is no clear succession, for my father’s favor changes with the wind. When Bharjah dies…” Her voice faded with the words. “When he dies…”

  Jessa sat back slowly as she felt more than just a portion of the world’s weight settle onto her shoulders.

  “When Bharjah dies, if he has not chosen his successor publicly before his Court of Lords”—she felt somewhat ill as she looked long and hard down such a road—“my country will be thrown into a civil war, my Lord, and it will be a war that will rage until only one of my brothers is left standing.”

  Jessa met Owen’s eyes as Bharjah’s puzzle, and her place in it, took on a definite shape. “My Lord?”

  “Yes?”

  Jessa took a breath to speak and felt fear. How well do you truly know your son?

  Owen’s gaze sparked with something close to suspicion and she knew she had shown him too much. “This is a conversation for another time, I think.” She straightened in her chair and focused on their most immediate concern. “Right now? The Lord Serabee El-Khan is here.”

  “He is in the Green Hills.”

  “He is not,” she contradicted. “If the Sahwello are here then Serabee is here. We are still in grave danger until he is found. Have you sent word to your sons?”

  “My best company of men,” Grissom said, “aside from Darry’s Boys.”

  “If they attacked us here, then my sons could be in danger as well,” Owen informed her. “My help to them will only be as fast as the Thirteenth can ride. If they are in the thick of it, well, I will know soon enough.”

  “Is there a place where we may wait?” Jessa asked. “We must stay together.”

  “Right here, the Great Hall. Wait for what?” Owen demanded.

  “Wait for Serabee and his majik to come. If your men search the grounds, they are in more danger than ever. You must pull them back at once.”

  “But Serabee’s men are found out. Their best chance is to run—no matter that we have been caught lacking, they’re greatly outnumbered.”

  “No, my King, you are most certainly wrong.” Jessa moved to the edge of her chair. “These men are Fakir, they are Sahwello.” How to make him understand? “Once blood has been spilled, they will not be able to stop until there is no one left. Whether they are five men or five thousand, any Fakir that came to kill this night has the sole intention of laying waste to everything you love.”

  She saw it then, that he heard her words. “This dark passion, it is why my people hate them so, and most likely why my father enjoys them and seeks to curry their favor by placing Serabee so high in his confidence. They have no restraint and they kill for the sheer joy of it. Their rites are of blood and they consume it in worship to their gods. The Sahwello are the hardest of these men and not quite right in their minds. There is no land that may be shared with the Fakir, and so since the birth of my people and theirs we have tried to destroy them.”

  “I thought the Fakir had grown weak.”

  “Once, long ago, the Fakir were extremely powerful and might have even encroached upon Arravan, had my people not stopped them and dealt them a terrible blow that lingers still. If you search back through your scrolls, no doubt you would find some mention of the Sahwello and their stature among the Fakir. And the Fakir have never been weak—they merely hide with great skill. Darry knows of the Sahwello, and Jacob, no doubt.”

  “Darry has always known a great many things that no one else seems to know,” Owen replied, and Jessa could hear the affectionate frustration in his voice. His brown eyes had changed in a wonderful manner when he spoke his daughter’s name, though the pride came and went quickly.

  “The Fakir have hidden within the Kistanbal Mountains, in the north country of my land, for hundreds of years. Radha says they have been waiting and sending men like Serabee into the world for whatever purpose they deem worthy of meddling in. And the Sahwello leave only to kill, or to steal women.”

  Owen lifted a hand and covered his eyes. “And I let them in. I opened the bloody door myself.”

  “But this is not your fault, my Lord. Access to such knowledge is, well, let us say my father’s borders can be unkind to the curious traveler.”

  Owen let out a soft bark of laughter and met her eyes.

  “The Fakir were a legend in Lyoness, spoken of in hushed tones of fear and
stories told about the fire to frighten children into behaving. Radha says that when Lord Serabee arrived in Karballa and word spread that a Lord of the Fakir had come, villages at the foot of the Kistanbal Range became deserted overnight, the people leaving for fear that the Fakir would ride again.”

  Owen stared past her, lost in thought.

  “Owen,” Jessa’s firm voice brought his gaze back into focus. “Serabee will come. There is something here he wants.”

  Owen’s eyes flared in a silent demand for more.

  “I know not what it is, my Lord, but he has exposed himself and the Sahwello in a most brazen manner. He has a need, and he’ll not leave until he satisfies it. Whether he does so at Bharjah’s bidding or his own, I do not know. Perhaps it is both.”

  “Would Joaquin be involved?” His tone was lethal at the suggestion.

  “Joaquin is cruel and clever,” she admitted, and her tone was not dissimilar from his, “but he is a fikloche piton.” She nearly spat as she revealed her hatred. “If he is involved, he is merely a puppet and does not know it.”

  “Where is your Lady Radha? I would speak with her.”

  Jessa’s frown was instant. “That, my Lord, is a very good question. I’ve not seen her since midmorning.”

  Owen looked to Grissom. “I don’t care if you have to carry them kicking and bloody well screaming, I want everyone in this hall. I want them here now.”

  Grissom slapped his boot heels together and turned. “Quick now, Winnows,” he ordered and walked several feet before he turned back with a snarl.

  Arkady waited for Jessa, the question in his eyes.

  “Go now, Arkady. Bring my love to me, if you would please, before she does something foolish. Like nearly falling from a balcony again.”

  Arkady smiled and clicked his heels as Grissom had done. He walked past the older man. “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder and Grissom followed with a muttered curse.

  When Jessa turned back she knew she was blushing. “Darry’s Boys have sworn an oath to me,” she explained, somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t understand why, really, except that they would not let Darry leave them behind.”

  Owen let out an odd snort of amusement and used the table to help himself rise. “Do not be so modest, my young Queen.”

  Chapter Seven

  Darry watched as the Great Hall was transformed beneath Grissom’s command, the heavy tables moved and chairs stacked out of the way or used to build fortifications around the wounded. The doors to the kitchens swung open at regular intervals, and barrels of water had been set against the far wall beneath the tapestries, blackwood for washing and oak for drinking. The doors to every entrance and minor hall were barred against attack, with only the main arch and gardens left open. Every lamp was lit and torches burned hot in their sconces as they filled the room with light.

  Jessa wrapped Nina’s arm with herbs and fresh bandages, and though Nina looked tired and frightened, she seemed ready for a fight just the same.

  Emmalyn sat upon the dais floor with her back against the wall, her knees close beneath her skirt and her arms wrapped tightly around them. Etienne Blue was a small distance away from her, cross-legged upon the floor with his sword in reach.

  At the moment, her father stood within the center of the Great Hall with his hand on his sword. He stared beyond the garden doors, and though she tried to give a name to it, Darry found his expression completely unfamiliar.

  Conflicted though she was about her relationship with her father, she was fairly certain that she understood at least a bit of what he felt in this moment.

  The Fakir had invaded her home, and though but a few hours before she had planned to leave Blackstone Keep forever, it was still the place she loved most in the entire world. Her memories were here, both good and bad, and it was the place that had always centered her world.

  But to the High King, it was the seat of his power. And so how did the attack look to his enemies, both here and beyond the waters of the Taljah? He’d opened his gates in good faith, like a fool, perhaps, and men of Arravan died because of it. Did he have the will to go to war again? Perhaps he no longer had a care for the honor of his own name, just as he had none for hers.

  The temper that still simmered in the pit of Darry’s stomach began to boil once more and she turned away, only to fall straight into the eyes of her lover.

  Jessa took Darry’s hand. “Come with me.”

  She led Darry easily about the tables, past her own men and those that remained of the Palace Guard. Arkady and Tobe stepped aside so they might pass. The talk in the hall was quiet, but as their numbers grew with each passing moment, the air had taken on a quality of dark anticipation. They were under siege, and though there was now a brief respite, they all understood what might come. There were men that lay dying all around as a grim reminder, nothing the Healer could do for them beyond giving them passionflower syrup mixed with valerian root so they might be made as comfortable as possible. Some of those men would die alone, Jessa knew, without their families or their loved ones to comfort them.

  Her own love was not among them, and at this she felt a relief and a joy so fierce she found it hard to contain her emotions. She had stood by for as long as she could and let Darry clean up and change her clothes, her wounds dressed quickly and without fuss. She had let her speak with her men and Commander Grissom Longshanks, and she had played her part and helped those she could. The Healer was an able man and he had respected her rank as a peer in the healing arts. He had let her practice without interference, and he had even deferred to her knowledge once or twice.

  Yet through it all she had kept an eye upon her lover, and she could see the panther lying in wait. She was proud of Darry’s confidence and the love the Arravan soldiers laid at her feet, like the dearest of tributes given to a great lord. She was a natural leader and a warrior that commanded respect, no matter what her rank was. Jessa had known all this, but she had not understood what it truly meant until she had seen with her own eyes.

  When Darry had watched her father with a reluctant look of understanding and hatred both, Jessa could bear no more. Darry’s anguish tore at her heart, and though she felt some shame at the thought, she cared at that moment for no one but Darry.

  They passed through the kitchen doors and were greeted with activity, the fires lit and tended as the cook yelled for more wood and clean linens. There was a guard set upon the doors which led to the courtyard and the kennels beyond, despite that they were barred against attack.

  Jessa spied the empty shadows of a far corner near the laundry and moved accordingly. Her heart hammered in her throat and her flesh felt overheated at Darry’s presence. When Darry stepped around her and spun them deeper into the shadows, Jessa grabbed her shoulders with anticipation.

  Their mouths met and Darry’s hands were forceful at Jessa’s waist, her arms like steel as she held Jessa tight. Jessa opened her mouth to her and moved as close as she could, Darry’s tongue against her own in a kiss so deep that Jessa felt it in her very blood. Her desire for discretion waged a war against her body, a moan held prisoner within her throat until she could hold it no longer.

  Jessa felt Darry’s hair and bent back at the waist beneath the force of their kiss. Her passion demanded the sort of satisfaction she knew must wait, and yet Darry’s hands slipped lower and cupped her buttocks, an openly defiant gesture amidst the labor that was happening but a few dozen feet beyond their secluded corner.

  Darry thrust against her and Jessa gasped, suddenly trapped against the wall as her sex throbbed with want and need alike.

  She tasted blood in their kiss. “No”—she pulled back, startled—“wait.”

  She held Darry’s face, the panther abruptly docile before her, an exquisite tenderness about her lover that had arrived without warning and replaced her aggression within the span of a heartbeat. She moved her thumb across Darry’s lower lip, the deep cut upon the tender flesh just inside, ardent in its want of her attenti
on. There was a burn beneath her jaw, as well, the mark red and raw from something that had scraped the delicate skin.

  She pushed back the damp curls of Darry’s hair and saw the bruise already forming against her right temple. “You’re hurt, my love,” Jessa whispered as a shiver danced about her spine. She felt no fear, but the tingling sense did hold a delightful expectation of what the look in Darry’s eyes might mean for her. She let her fingers slide along Darry’s neck, and her touch eased behind Darry’s head, in search of the wound she knew would be there.

  “I’m all right, Jess.”

  “Are you the Healer now, Akasha?” Jessa asked, not without kindness.

  “No.”

  Jessa felt the knot at the back of Darry’s head, her touch careful. Darry moved her head to the side and shook her off. “I’m fine, Jess.”

  Jessa’s hand dropped away. “Let me see it.”

  “Jess.”

  “Do not be stubborn, Darrius, or I shall—”

  “You shall what?”

  Jessa covered Darry’s dimple with her hand. “I love you.” She stepped close and wrapped her arms about Darry’s neck. “Do not be falling off any more balconies.”

  “I love you, Jessa.” Darry’s lips moved against her ear. “If anything had happened to you…If they had…”

  “Hush,” Jessa’s hand moved at the back of Darry’s head.

  Darry growled within her throat at the touch upon the tender skin, and she pulled her head away for a second time.

  Jessa leaned back against the wall and set her hand at the center of Darry’s chest. “You cannot hide that from me, Darry. And do you think you can just be hanging off balconies and smashing through doors? You have a serious wound.” Her throat was tight with fear. It was not a pleasant thought. “It might cause you great harm.”

  Darry did not ignore her words, but neither did she react to them. “Serabee is coming for us, yes?”