Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  From east to west the room was nearly half as long as the practice yards, the planks of the floor made of aged oak, the chamber open down the middle from the doors to the dais at the east end. The Blackwood Throne and its mate sat upon the dais, though Jessa had no idea how both had been moved, and it was inconceivable to her that there would be duplicates.

  Upon each side of the long chamber, tiered rows of seats flowed upward to the walls, wide and smooth until they stopped beneath the overhang of the balconies. North and south the balconies fronted the hall, providing space for minor families and those spectators who were quick enough to find a place.

  Dozens of flags decorated the balconies above the tiered rows, the banners of the Blooded Lords and important families of Arravan well represented. They were silken and bright and filled the vast hall with life as they caught the sun that poured through the skylights. Jessa found this honor to be one more difference between Lyoness and Arravan, the lesser Lords of a kingdom held in such high regard by their king. There were no banners but Bharjah’s in the Jade Palace.

  Jessa had not expected the noise, and if she were to guess, the Hall of Lords was filled to capacity. Lords and Ladies and countless bystanders leaned over the balconies in search of familiar faces among the crowded tiers, and their conversations filled the room with a buzz not unlike the locusts that would torment Lyoness in times of drought.

  Jessa’s shoulders jerked in surprise as Emmalyn’s hand slipped carefully into her own.

  “She’ll be here after my father speaks,” Emmalyn promised. “All will be well.”

  Jessa noted the bruises her friend wore, and the terrible black handprint that stained her throat looked extremely painful. Her dress was a lovely soft blue and her red hair was pulled back in an understated manner, though nothing could hide the consequences of the assault she had suffered. Jessa tightened her fingers about Emmalyn’s and gave what she hoped was a confident smile. “This does not happen in Lyoness,” she explained. “The people are not welcome within the Jade Palace.”

  Emmalyn looked about the room from their seats near the dais. “It does not happen so often here, either, not like this.”

  “I seem to be more of an attraction today than I was the night Darry danced the Mohn-Drom,” Jessa commented dryly. A secret smile turned her lips at the memory of Darry’s body moving to the music of the once forbidden dance. “I would not have thought that possible.”

  “Well, that being the case, perhaps you might sing for us later?” Emmalyn suggested, and Jessa turned to her as if she had been struck. She was greeted with a wry smile. “Sorry.”

  Jessa laughed at once with an equally dark humor. “Do not be sorry. I am glad your humor has returned.”

  Emmalyn took a deep breath and looked back to the crowd. “The Lewellyns are known for their sharp tongues, even in the worst of times. My mother’s family is notorious for it, actually.”

  “And the Durands?”

  “Stubborn. As stubborn as mules in the mud who wish to go the other way.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have seen this.”

  “I bet you have. There’s Jacob,” Emmalyn said and nodded her head toward the opposite balcony.

  Jessa looked up at once and met Jacob’s gaze across the vast chamber. He was dressed in a rust-colored jacket and white tunic. He lifted his hand slightly and gave a nod. She returned the gesture and let her eyes travel down the balcony. Nina stood not too far from Jacob beside Alisha and her parents, Alisha’s brother tall behind them as he spoke to Nina. Nina touched her sling as she replied, a smile there and gone as she spoke.

  Jessa did not see Malcolm, nor Marteen Salish for that matter, and she did not find comfort in their absence. If his game was indeed in play, he would not miss such an event. Although you did not count on your father being the man he is, she thought. Nor did you consider me…or my heart.

  “I do not see Malcolm,” Emmalyn commented as if she had read Jessa’s mind.

  “Neither do I,” Jessa replied.

  There was a resounding bang that echoed down the vast chamber and drew everyone’s attention, and then another as the doors behind the dais opened. Those who were seated rose to their feet, and all within the chamber bowed their heads as the High King and Queen entered the Hall of Lords.

  Owen and Cecelia stepped to the dais and Cecelia smoothed her skirts as she took her seat. Her dress was a beautiful cream color awash in bronze highlights, subtle yet filled with energy. Her collar covered the wound she had received during the siege, and her hair was braided and pulled behind her head, the rich gold of her crown nestled beautifully among the graying red strands.

  Owen turned to the room and stepped to the edge of the dais as he took in the crowd.

  He wore a uniform not unlike those of the Kingsmen, though it was shot through with the blue and silver of Arravan’s colors, his family’s crest embroidered upon the left side of his long jacket. The hem brushed the backs of his knees, and his black boots caught the light. He wore his sword upon his left hip and the ring of his station flared as he rested his left hand upon the hilt.

  “Be seated,” he ordered, and his voice was full and filled with command.

  Amidst another wave of noise, all eyes remained upon the king as Jessa wondered how heavy his crown must feel. It was made of rich gold, and from what she could see, the stones set about its base were large and well cut, various bursts of colored light alive within the air around him. But the crown’s actual weight was not Owen’s burden at the moment, and Jessa said a prayer to the Vhaelin in his honor.

  “Several days ago, Blackstone Keep was deliberately attacked by men of the Fakir.” Owen’s voice carried in a splendid fashion, though he did not seem to raise it, the acoustics of the room designed for just such an effect. “A religious cult born deep in the Kistanbal Mountains and the sworn enemy of our allies upon the Ibarris Plains, they have long been a dark scourge upon the land.”

  Jessa let out a startled breath as his words repeated within her head. For Owen to ally Arravan so closely to her own people before any other statement was made filled her heart with a relief so immense she could barely comprehend it. Emmalyn held more tightly to her hand and Jessa looked down as she took an extremely controlled breath and banished her emotions before they overwhelmed her.

  “Lord Serabee El-Khan, First Councillor to King Abdul-Majid de Bharjah of Lyoness, is the unquestioned leader of the Fakir. He is their Lord and their High Priest. He is the voice of their gods, and he long ago swore fealty to King Bharjah.” Owen’s gaze was made of the same steel he wore at his side, his brown eyes certain as they searched through the faces of the crowd. “And as you know, Lord Serabee El-Khan was a guest of Blackstone—indeed, of Arravan herself. He arrived with a prince of Lyoness, Trey-Jak Joaquin, Bharjah’s very own son. They arrived here on a mission of peace, perhaps even one of love. They arrived with an offer of marriage between your own Crown Prince, Malcolm Edmund, and Bharjah’s only daughter, the Princess Jessa-Sirrah de Cassey LaMarc.” Owen stepped to the right and looked to the balconies. “I did not foresee such an offer, nor did I ever suspect that such a gesture would be presented to the House of Durand.”

  Owen turned again and for a moment he looked down, though not for long. “My hatred of Bharjah is no secret,” he admitted, and Jessa could hear how very tired he was. “My own brother fell on the battlefield, my only brother, who was to be your king, not I. When he was gravely wounded and past defending himself, it is said that Bharjah finally entered the fray and dealt my brother a deathblow and so claimed personal victory over the greatest swordsman many of us have ever known. This was not honor. This was not the act of a king. It was not for my brother to die so on the field, a Prince of the Blood afforded no respect.”

  Owen walked slowly across the dais and lifted his eyes to meet Jessa’s. “My hatred of Bharjah is no secret.”

  Jessa felt the heat in her cheeks but she accepted it boldly and kept her eyes upon him, despite the shame that raced
through her veins.

  “And so when the Nightshade Lark entered the gates of Blackstone, I was not the one who looked to the future. I was not the one who looked to heal old wounds and dream of new beginnings. It was my son, my brother’s namesake, who did so.”

  Jessa looked across to Jacob.

  “And though I commend Prince Malcolm’s intentions, and I am proud of his hopes for peace, he acted as a young man who has never known war. He acted as a man who does not truly understand that Bharjah does not want peace. Bharjah wants the Blackwood Throne.”

  The chamber erupted in a roar, and Jessa’s shoulders jerked in surprise as angry shouts rose from the crowd and a deep banging commenced. The tiers shook beneath the wave of voices as the people within the balconies pounded their hands upon the stone rails in unison.

  Owen held up his hands, and as quickly as the riot of noise had begun, it ended.

  “And so under the guise of bringing peace to our two countries, Bharjah set his plans in motion. He sent his First Councillor and he sent his son. He sent his Fakir warriors under the cover of a High Majik that even the priests of Gamar would struggle against. He sent them…and I let them in.”

  A ripple of noise moved through the crowd and then hushed.

  “And so when my family was at its most vulnerable, when the House of Durand had let down its guard, if only slightly, Lord Serabee El-Khan carried out Bharjah’s orders and attacked in the dead of night. And not only did they come for the blood of my children, they came for the blood of Bharjah’s own daughter.”

  Jessa could feel the eyes of everyone in the chamber as Owen held up his hand.

  “Prince Joaquin himself gave the order, he has confessed to such!” The voices turned quiet, though a low rumble of talk remained. “He has admitted to sending Serabee to murder his own sister and the Lady Radha who serves her.”

  Voices were raised and fell, and Owen let them as his eyes found Jessa’s for a brief moment.

  “What better reason for the Lords of Lyoness to ride to war than if his only daughter, his supposed emissary of peace, is slain within the walls of Blackstone itself?” Owen demanded and his voice was raised for the first time. “Which one of you would not ride to war if the Princess Emmalyn were slain in such a manner?”

  The crowd surged and shouts could be heard amidst the general clamor as the Lords of Arravan stood and gave the call to arms.

  Jessa watched the king as he stood, so calm beneath the outrage and certain of his path. She could not imagine Bharjah in such a situation, standing in such a manner, his shoulders back and eyes aflame with righteous anger. She saw the knuckles of his left hand turning white upon the pommel of his sword.

  Owen held up a hand. “Peace!” he shouted. “Peace, my Lords.”

  It took several moments for the crowd to settle, and Jessa kept her eyes upon the king, every fiber of her being desperate to have Darry by her side.

  “And so many good men are dead. Men of the Palace Guard and the Kingsmen, men of the City Guard sworn to defend our fair city of Lokey. Their families mourn, and their children shall come of age without their fathers. My own children, my own blood, wounded and battered, and the House of Durand besieged.”

  Owen turned to her again, and Jessa held his gaze. “And so I say to you now, I will not stand for such vile treachery, and it shall be answered with the strength of steel. And I say, as well, that even if only the Princess Jessa had fallen victim to Bharjah’s betrayal? I would still ride to war.”

  There was utter silence throughout the hall.

  “For if my oldest enemy has accomplished but one good thing in his wretched life, it is she.”

  “Is there to be a marriage?” a voice shouted from deep within the chamber, and Jessa looked away from the king, completely at a loss.

  “There will be no marriage!” Owen called out and turned back to the crowd. He held a hand up for quiet and it was obeyed. “I cannot sanction such a union, nor does the princess want such a thing. To give Bharjah and his sons a blooded claim upon Arravan is something neither of us desire, and she has told me this from her own lips. She was not sent here of her own free will, and yet she has given us her loyalty. She fought beside us in the Siege of the Great Hall, and as a priestess of the Vhaelin she wielded her powers to help defeat our enemies and to chase El-Khan like a mad dog from our lands.”

  Owen cast her a glance and smiled. “And though she’s but a slip of a girl, when your king was in the thick of it, out of practice and a few seasons too old for the melee”—Owen set a hand upon his stomach—“and perhaps, a victim of one too many peach pies…”

  Jessa was startled to hear laughter and looked to the crowd.

  “She saved my life more than once,” Owen concluded and drew her eyes to his.

  Jessa was surprised when Emmalyn kissed her cheek, her friend’s eyes bright with affection as the pounding started once more and the tiers shook with it.

  “Do we ride to war?” a voice yelled from the crowd.

  “We must prepare for it,” Owen answered, “as if we were. Troops will leave within the week for the Emmerin Gap, in order to reinforce General Nasha’s command. And a contingent of the Kingsmen will reinforce the Lowland Rangers at Tomm’s Town. The call has gone out.”

  “What of Prince Wyatt and the Seventh?”

  “Birds have been sent. Prince Wyatt will bring the Seventh home, and he will welcome every man along the way who offers his sword for the coming fight. The Fourth will join him in Kastamon City. The House of Lewellyn will also gather its forces, and ride beneath the banner of the High Queen. The Council of Lords will meet three days hence, and all who are present may have their say. There is much to be considered and it will take time. It will take weeks, perhaps a month, to fully prepare. We have ships that must return before we march, if march is what we do, ships laden with vital supplies, for an army does not live upon righteousness alone.”

  “What of Solstice?” a woman’s voice called out.

  “Solstice celebrations will go on as planned. Bharjah does not have the power to stop the sun,” he said with a smile, and there was laughter. “As much as he might like to.”

  “And what of Joaquin?” Lord Alistair Lewellyn asked as he rose to his feet. He was a tall man with a head of wild red hair and green eyes. His mustache was long past his lips and as red as fire. “Justice must be served.”

  Those within the chamber fell quiet, and Owen stepped from the dais and walked closer to the crowd. “Joaquin has been challenged to the Blooded Duel.”

  “When?” Alistair demanded. “My family’s blood was spilled here, as well, my Lord.”

  As if on cue, the bells rang out from the barracks tower, deep and full in the distance. Owen let them finish and their music still hung within the air as he spoke. “In the Circle of Honor beyond the practice yards. When the bells for the second watch ring out, as they have done just now, on the morrow.”

  “There must be an official challenge!” Lord Alistair called, his face flushed.

  Owen smiled just a bit and signaled down the hall with a wave of his hand.

  Captain Sol called out the order and the arched doors were pulled inward as all eyes turned to watch.

  Jessa stood as Darry entered the chamber as her men, Darry’s Boys, fanned out behind her, walking in step. They were dressed in their old uniforms, their black trousers pressed and their black boots polished, though their cropped jackets had been altered slightly with blue trim upon the cuffs and collars. Perhaps it was the lack of insignia, or the green tunics they wore beneath instead of the stark white shirts of the Kingsmen, but it was a bold change made with minimal effort.

  Darry’s Boys came armed into the Hall of Lords, and her lover’s stunning new sword—won from Serabee El-Khan himself—looked most fine and deadly as it hung from Darry’s narrow hips. She walked with her left hand upon its hilt as they moved down the center of the hall, and as the crowd began to quiet, Jessa was fairly certain it was not the beauty of h
er lover’s weapon that silenced them.

  Hinsa walked beside Darry with an easy gait, and the giant panther moved as smoothly as Darry did, her eyes keen upon the High King as he stood alone in the center of the room.

  Some ten feet from her father, Darry came to a stop, and Darry’s Boys followed suit within the next heartbeat. Their heels clapped against the oak with a sharp bang that echoed throughout the chamber, and Owen pulled his shoulders back in response.

  Hinsa did not stop, however, and a collective gasp moved through the crowd as the golden panther advanced upon the High King.

  Darry let out a soft cluck of her tongue, and Hinsa answered her with a step to the side and a hiss that bared her fangs. She turned in a smooth circle and sat as her tail swished back and forth upon the floor.

  “Lady Darrius.” Owen bowed his head to her.

  “Your Majesty.” Darry nodded in return.

  “You have business with the crown?”

  “I challenge Prince Trey-Jak Joaquin. By the right of law, honor has been broken and the debt must be paid.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jessa spoke the spell beneath her breath that released the lock upon the last of the four trunks that had been Radha’s. The mechanism turned with a slow grating sound, and then popped the latch as Jessa smiled. She undid the strap and lifted the lid.

  It was the night before the duel, and after taking their dinner in Sebastian’s Tower, she and Darry had carried the trunks up the narrow stairs, Jessa determined to find what she wanted no matter how long it might take.

  They were both dressed in Darry’s clothes, and Jessa loved the feel of the soft homespun trousers and tunic against her skin, the freedom afforded her by a man’s dress oddly unexpected. The fire was high in the hearth against the cool evening breezes, and the lamps had been lit, bathing their expansive bedroom in golden light. The moon was not yet too high, but its pale light fell through the nearest window in an intrusion that was destined to fail as time continued its march into the night.