Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Olea’s glance was sharp. “Don’t let anyone hear you talking like that.”

  Fenton chuckled low and soft, and that old sadness haunted his smile. “What are they going to do? Kill me? Then who’s going to run half the Palace Guard…? Besides, they need me to keep you in check. Do you have any idea what you'll do?”

  “You mean if he doesn't come?”

  “Or if he does?” Fenton's murmur was gentle, understanding.

  “I can't leave my post to go gallivanting off, hunting my brother on the road to the Elsee.” Olea dismissed. “I serve the royal family and the Dhenra Elyasin. This is where I'm needed.”

  “But what if Elohl needs you? Would you abandon the palace, your Dhenra?”

  Olea paused, her breath stolen. “Don't ask me to make that choice, Fenton.”

  “I won't. But if Elohl lives... he might. He might ask you to go off, looking for...”

  “Cease!” Olea hissed, hard under her breath. She hadn't heard any footsteps nearby, but Roushenn Palace had a way of learning people's secrets. “That is enough, Guardsman.”

  “Captain.” Fenton's demeanor cooled at her reprimand, though the change was subtle, only around his eyes.

  Olea's breath rushed out, realizing the wound she had dealt her friend in such selfishness. She squeezed his hand. “Fenton. Forgive me. I'm just... tight as tripwire today. That's all.”

  “Understandable.” He murmured, thawing, easy and kind once more. Fenton had a miraculous way of suddenly banishing anger. “I can't imagine your position. What you've endured. That you've become the royal house's most formidable ally says something about your character, Olea. Your determination to be true to what you are. And I respect that.”

  Olea smiled, her mood easing for the first time all morning. She released his hand and pulled away, ready for the day at last. “I have to go. I should polish my boots before my shift.”

  Fenton laughed then, a good laugh born of their long years as comrades. He glanced at all the scratches and worn places on Olea’s blue leather jerkin. “Fat chance. You need three days to clean all that up. Why don’t you give your gear to Aldris and make him do it for you?”

  Olea let out a bark of a laugh. “I can just see his face! He’s going to school you at Stones and take all your pay again, Fenton. If I make him fix my gear and tell him you suggested it.”

  Fenton chuckled, and that dark competitive light was back in his gold-brown eyes. “Yeah, but I whip his ass at Ghenje. I win it all back. And if you play me, I'll win double. All because you won't polish your buckles.”

  “That’s why I have you.” Olea clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re utterly efficient and you set a great example for the men.”

  Fenton chuckled, soft and low. “I just have good habits.”

  “I know your habits on the practice grounds, Lieutenant. They’re far better than good. Who knows where you studied, but you didn't learn how to fight like you do in the High Brigade.”

  Fenton sobered suddenly, and his teasing died. There was a history there. In that moment, the fine lines at his eyes and mouth made him seem ageless, and Olea wondered, not for the first time, how old he was, if his history was as tumultuous as hers. But his age was a secret Fenton never divulged, along with much of his past. Fenton had come to the Roushenn Palace Guard already ruthlessly efficient, a veteran soldier. It was known that he'd been in the High Brigade before joining the Guard, and rumored that he'd served in the Fleetrunners before that. The Guard-Captain before Olea had seen Fenton den’Kharel’s vast promise and set him to training recruits and advanced guard right from the moment he started.

  Fenton had been offered the position of Guard-Captain when the old captain had retired. But for some strange reason, he’d turned it down. And ceded that post to Olea, becoming her First-Lieutenant instead.

  “Keep well, Olea,” Fenton murmured, still sober. “Bring your brother to meet me when he gets in.”

  “I will.”

  Olea clapped Fenton upon the shoulder, and he did the same. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it again, then simply gripped Olea’s shoulder and let her go.

  Olea put a hand to her sword to keep the scabbard from banging against the byrunstone of the column as she moved away, whisking through the massive chamber. People tracked her from a few occupied beds as she sidled around woven dividers towards the door, conversations at the palace apothecary station dropping low. One man in brown Palace Huntsman’s leathers, idling at the station drinking a medicinal tea, gazed at her appreciatively. But as she approached, his gaze flicked to the center of her chest, noting the black inking there.

  And abruptly flicked away.

  Fuck you, too. I’m not ashamed of what I am.

  Olea gave him a hard look as she passed, the stare she gave her Guardsmen when they were severely out of line. The huntsman lifted his mug to his lips, trying to hide from her entirely.

  CHAPTER 3 – GHRENNA

  From atop the bluestone guard-wall, Ghrenna den’Tanuk’s hands conducted an unconscious inventory as she studied the ornate manse in the night. Hunkered next to her Guild-mate Shara den’Lhoruhan, beneath a hardy cover of eldunne branches, she checked her lock pick set, fighting and throwing knives, and the sleeping darts in a neat row on her buckled leather harness. She touched one glove to her braided bun of white-blonde hair, then checked the comb at her crown to make certain her dark hood remained in place over it. But the evening they had chosen was balmy, with no wind to betray their position to guard dogs, nor tease Ghrenna’s hair from beneath her hood. Both thieves wore dark leathers with cowls up in the moonless night, though Ghrenna wore her Kingsmen greys, a deep charcoal with ornate tooling upon the leather, Alrashemni emblems etched into buckles and steel.

  Everything in order, Ghrenna took a long draw from her threllis-pipe, locked between her teeth where it would stay for the remainder of the evening. Visions came when they came, but when she had threllis they merely flickered across her sight, indistinct. And threllis was imperative to keep her from spasming when she had a vision, its numbing sedation just enough to keep her in control of her faculties.

  And remaining in control of her faculties was a priority while she was at work.

  But Ghrenna felt ready tonight, her muscles loose, her mind calm except the dull roar of a headache. Headaches plagued her because of her visions; this one was nothing notable tonight. Gazing at the hulking byrunstone manse that towered in the darkness, quiet as a fennewith-haze, she noted with precision everything about the manor. Only three guards maintained a perimeter, a poor detail. They pivoted at predictable intervals, their movements lax in the muggy night. The lone dog, a lazy wolfhound, gnawed at a carcass on the front stairs. Only four lights burned in the upper halls, and a few in the basement kitchens, to be expected.

  And avoided.

  Ghrenna made the proceed hand signal. Shara nodded, then lifted her dart tube and blew a round-dart with a white flag to the foot of the wall behind them. The two grapples Ghrenna had set suddenly had tension, and presently Luc den’Orissian and Gherris den’Mal, part of Ghrenna and Shara’s regular Guild, were squatting upon the wall next to them. Ghrenna waited for them to get settled at the top and haul up the grapples, her dark blue eyes flickering over the guards and the dog. They hadn’t changed their patterns. And they weren’t watching the wall.

  She made a hand signal to the group.

  Proceed.

  No alarm was raised as they slipped over the wall and snuck through the dappled shadows of manicured greenery. A long row of cypress trees had been foolishly planted nearly all the way to the house, providing excellent cover. Ghrenna didn't relish thieving. It was a poor profession in which to use her Kingsman training, slipping through the shadows like a common thug, but it was practical. She couldn't hold a regular trade. She'd tried to apprentice with an apothecary once, right after she'd arrived in Fhouria. One seizure from a particularly strong vision had sent her crashing into rows of vials, glass bott
les shattering everywhere.

  Her levelheadedness was a boon in the thieving trade, however. Her ability to plan, to navigate situations and think things through, like for tonight. She halted them at the end of the cypress row, raising a hand, signaling for darts. Three properly blown sleeping-darts and the hulking guards collapsed softly upon the front steps, dreaming until tomorrow.

  The dog had Gherris’ knife buried in its throat, which he strode forward silently to retrieve. Five years younger, Gherris was Alrashemni, a Second Seal when the Summons came. Excellent with knives, Gherris was an asset. But like a bricked wall, his emotions were unassailable. Ghrenna had never seen him smile. But his eyes flashed with pleasure to have made a kill, and something about it made Ghrenna shiver.

  She nodded to him. He nodded back, his gaze hooded once more.

  Key rings were removed, the guards looted and hauled into the bushes beside the door. Ghrenna made the proceed hand signal again, and Luc stepped to the front door. The door was unlocked and not in need of picks, but he bent quickly to squirt oil upon the hinges anyway, obsessive about the details. From where she stood with her back to the door, Ghrenna could see his merry green eyes lit with mischief beneath his dark hood. He saw her watching; winked at her and grinned. A born rogue, Luc was golden-handsome, a creature of the gutter. Street performing had graduated to hustles, relying upon his wit and tall good looks, which had matured into professional thieving. It was rumored that there was no lock Luc couldn’t pick, no man he couldn’t swindle, and no woman he couldn’t seduce.

  At last, Luc hauled on the large iron handle, which opened without a sound. They were inside in a flash, melting into the darkened hall like graveyard mist. Luc stepped to the left wall with Ghrenna. Gherris and Shara took the opposite, their usual arrangement. Shara pointed the way she had scouted at the party, signaling upstairs, third floor, second door on right, lockbox.

  Ghrenna knew Shara’s information was good. She nodded and took point. With a mind like steel, there was nothing Shara couldn’t remember. Ghrenna trusted her implicitly, her constant ally since they had abandoned the Fleetrunners together eight years ago. Memorizing layouts of buildings was Shara’s specialty, along with faces and names of their next possible scores. And tonight’s score was the lockbox, the family’s heirloom jewelry. Everything else was catch-as-catch-can.

  Their journey up to the second floor was uneventful. No servants were about this late in the manse of Couthis Emry den’Thorel. Scouted at a masked ball the night prior, they had found that there were no other guards. The rumors Shara had elicited at the party were proving true. A wealthy addict, the young Couthis was lax in security. Careless with his possessions, he threw lavish parties to smoke fennewith, which sent even the hardiest addicts into languid largesse. Apparently, most of the manor's retainers had taken severance pay and quit, not wanting to be associated with Emry’s antics. It was largely rumored that young Emry was going to get his throat slit some deep night, when he was high.

  Ghrenna glanced over at Gherris. Already, her lean companion was toying with a small knife, itching for a kill as they paced to the third floor. Pausing outside the appointed door, two to each side, they tucked in next to a pair of ancient armor-suits. Looking down, Ghrenna watched the light that played beneath the ironbound door as Luc set to oiling the hinges. The flickers of light were strong, the blaze of a fire.

  After a minute more of listening, Ghrenna decided to risk it.

  Pick it, she signed to Luc. He set to, his skills needed this time.

  Five minutes, she signed to Shara. Fighting, leave. Yells, leave. Silence, send Luc. Shara nodded again, and so did Luc, who was done with his lock picking. Gherris merely watched her, brooding. He wanted a kill. Ghrenna could practically smell it.

  She nodded, slipped inside. The door was silent, thanks to Luc’s obsessiveness, shutting behind her with barely a click. Ghrenna froze in utter stillness, blending into the dark wood of the door, even though light from the fire played across her face. Her dark blue eyes roved the bedroom, absorbing every feature. She was a shadow in the dark, capable of pristine stillness. Invading hushed rooms abandoned by gaiety was her specialty. Sometimes her Guild-mates even forgot she was there, only a curl of smoke from her pipe, or a flash of her white-blonde hair giving her away. No matter how long Ghrenna needed to wait for the perfect score, she could.

  Patient. Practical.

  Courhe den’Byrune, she had been nicknamed by her team, the Heart of Byrunstone. In a trade often ruled by hotheaded men, Ghrenna was a valuable irregularity. Her efficient scores kept her in good with her threllis supplier, whose wares didn’t come cheap. Better yet, thieving was generally a profession without brutality. Especially if one was fast, quiet, and effective.

  Unlike the war-front.

  Ghrenna would never go back to the war. She had seen how women died upon the battlefield. Especially Kingsmen women. Never again would she wear the uniform of Alrou-Mendera’s army, conscripted as she had been ten years ago against her will. She would wear her Kingsmen attire until her death, recovered from Alrashesh after her desertion, come Halsos' Hell and Burnwater. The Kingsmen had taken her in when she had been abandoned by her tundra-born parents, and though she was not Alrashemni bloodline, she would honor her oath to them until the end of her days.

  But tonight, like nearly every night thieving, could be navigated without death, if she was careful. A whip-lean man lay sprawled upon the heavy canopied bed, shirtless. Even across the room, Ghrenna could see his breeches were undone, baring a white, emaciated abdomen. A naked woman sprawled next to him, her limbs pale by the light of the dying fire. Ghrenna’s gaze flicked around the room, noting two closed servant’s doors, a few empty sitting-chairs, and a lounging-couch by the fire. And the lockbox of solid iron with etched filigree by a writing desk, just behind the bed.

  Ghrenna took a breath, sliding carefully over ornate Praoughian carpets, her sleeping dart-tube ready near her lips. She was nearly there when one of the side-doors opened. Ghrenna froze, blending into one of the tall ironwood pillars of the canopied bed with their dark velvet curtains, holding her breath. A worn-looking maid entered and approached the fire. She stoked it, added more logs, brushed her hands off noisily. The couple upon the bed lay still, drug-deep and dead to the world. She stood with a sniff as she glared at the couple, fists on her hips in disgust, giving Ghrenna a moment of heart-pounding fear where she stood by the bedpost in the maid’s line of sight.

  But as always happened when Ghrenna was willing herself to be unseen, a strange coolness rose in her mind. And now it came smoothly, licking out like the spun tendrils of a spider’s webbing. Ghrenna felt something like a touch; a gossamer breath where her mind seemed to ease into the maid’s.

  As if her mind spoke, whispering through the maid’s thoughts.

  The maid’s gaze slipped past her, unseeing. Missing Ghrenna entirely, though she was in plain view. The maid went back to the door, then returned, and slammed a tray noisily upon the desk with a pitcher of water. She spun on her heel and left with a huff, closing the door.

  Ghrenna breathed out, her heartbeats smoothing in relief. She had not been seen, and the couple on the bed still hadn’t stirred. She gave it another moment, then silently approached the desk, touching the lockbox, examining it. The thirty-bennel hasps were solid, but the locks were nothing Luc couldn’t handle. A rhennel-bolt, an uringle-puzzle, and a fhass-key, the three old-fashioned locks wouldn't stall Luc. Ghrenna slid over to the bed, observing the couple. They were the problem. The uringle-puzzle would be noisy, no matter how much oil Luc gave it.

  Ghrenna bent closer, removing her pipe from her mouth so the couple on the bed wouldn’t smell it, even though threllis burned nearly smokeless, her dart tube ready at her lips instead. She watched the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest, which she assumed was Couthis Emry, clearly heavily sedated. He had the look of the addicted bourgeois, his overall leanness too gaunt, a smudge of shadows beneath his closed eyes.
He looked like he just might sleep through anything.

  But the woman...

  Ghrenna bent closer, watching the shadows of her ribs. Slowly, she reached out, placing two light fingers on the woman’s wrist. She was cold. Cold and very dead. She backed off, just as the door she had come through opened, and she heard the quick pace of Luc’s footsteps.

  Ghrenna threw Luc a quick flurry of signing as he rounded the edge of the desk. Woman dead. Man drugged. Puzzle, key, and bolt. Proceed.

  Luc’s blonde eyebrows lifted inside the shadows of his hood. You killed her? He signed back. Byrune. His wicked white grin flashed in the fire’s light.

  Ghrenna shook her head. Drug-death.

  Luc looked slightly crestfallen, then grinned again as he set to work. Luc loved a scandal, but not as much as he loved lock picking. The fhass-key he oiled and picked first with his long clever fingers. Then the bolt snapped back with a report Ghrenna was sure would have wakened the dead woman. But Couthis Emry merely snorted, one hand sliding down to fondle himself in his drugged haze. The puzzle-lock was noisier than either of them anticipated. Each time Luc turned the dial it made a groaning creak, which caused them both to wince and the drugged man to shift uneasily.

  Luc paused, eyebrows lifting, then signed. He’ll wake. Cease?

  Ghrenna shook her head. Proceed.

  Luc turned the dial again, and it gave a hideous shriek. The man on the bed came awake with a deep gasp as if rising from the grave. Ghrenna had a moment to decide. If she hit him with a sleeping dart, the sedative could overdose him with that much fennewith already in his system. But then she saw his eyelids were fluttering, that he still languished deep in drug-addled dreams.

  Cool with calculation, Ghrenna was on the bed in a flash. “Shh, Emry…”

  Ghrenna laid a hand on the Couthis’ chest, playing the part of his dead woman. Pushing him back down to the mattress with a gentle hand, she willed him to see her as his lover, to feel her just the same. She felt the tendrils of her mind reaching out, smoothing into him, whispering. Emry went without a fuss, but his rapid blinking indicated hallucinations. Fennewith was famous for it. Ghrenna had no idea what his mind was conjuring, whether he would scream and wake the manse, or spin on in blissful abandonment. Either way, threllis would calm him, so she leaned in, exhaling threllis-smoke into the man’s mouth and nose. At the same time, she willed him to be calm, the tendrils of her mind pouring out towards him like the tide of her smoke.