“But you didn't kill those Brigadiers who attacked you.”
Elohl opened his eyes, held her gaze. “Killing a soldier of the crown is treason. Even if they do jump you six-to-one while your trousers are down in the privy.”
“Aeon...!” Eleshen murmured. “And the other times?”
Elohl held her gaze, glacial, his fingers idle now upon the corpse. “I’ve had my climbing-rope cut three times by men of my own team I thought I could trust, and found myself at the end of a blade at night in my bunk by fellows like this one here, all of whom bear no marks. I’ve been spat on and called Blackmark and traitor more times than I can count, and been lunged at by stupid fools in drunken rage. I'm anathema in my own nation, and praise falls not at all for the lofty marks I bear. I'm a honed sword press-ganged into service for a King that betrayed me. Is that what you want to hear? The beautiful truth? The romantic story of the Kingsmen?”
“I’m sorry… I just…”
“Being a Kingsman isn’t glorious, not like the old songs. There are no heroes here, and no one ever called me noble. Let us be plain, for you’ve seen now what I am. I’m a killer, Eleshen. And I'm tired. Marked, and tired.”
Eleshen was quiet a long moment, watching him. Elohl rose to his feet, finished with the corpse. There was nothing upon the man, just as before. And he knew that when he searched the clothes and weapons, there would be nothing there, either. Just like all the others.
Elohl glanced over. Somber, Eleshen clutched her nakedness loosely, as if protecting herself, though she'd not gone for a robe. Elohl sighed, compassion drowning his own problems somewhat. He bent, wiping his bloody hands upon the dead man until at least a few fingers were clean, then stepped around to her side of the bed where a homespun blue night-gown hung upon the tall bedpost. He lifted it off, returned, and draped it gently around her shoulders.
“You'll get a chill.” Elohl murmured.
She shrugged it on, handing him the candleholder. “What about you?”
“I'm used to the cold.”
Her pale eyes softened, tension in her blonde brows easing. “I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what you've been through.”
Elohl stepped close, gazing down at her. The ice around his heart slipped. He reached out, cupping her jaw, smoothing a climb-roughened thumb over her chin, leaving a smear of blood in its wake upon her pale skin. “Don't be sorry for dead men.”
“You're not dead, dammit.”
Elohl swallowed, hard. His truth was too plain, just there in her candor, in what she had spoken so simply. Emotions rioted, all vying for dominance, all stalled, his throat a burning madness.
“I may not be dead. But I can't live.”
Her body was warm as she slid closer, her robe gaping open from her shoulders. Her fingers stole up, touching his where they rested upon her face. “Why not?”
“Because the justice that I want... I can never have. The King is dead. And the secret of my people's demise has gone with him to his grave. In all these years... I've found out nothing. Nothing. Not a breath of what happened. Not a word...”
“Word travels slowly to the mountains.” Eleshen murmured.
“But assassins travel fast.”
She breathed out, tension between them easing. Her fingertips slipped down, touching his Inking, sliding heedlessly through the blood that smeared his scarred chest. “Come to the kitchen. We'll wash… stoke the fire. Have some tea. Figure out what to do with... that.” Her gaze flicked to the body, then back to him, down to the hardened plains of his lean-sinewed chest. Her eyes stopped at something. Her fingers slipped to a blistered scar just to the left of his Inking, over his heart. “This scar… no blade made this.” Her gaze flicked to his scarred wrists, then back to his chest. Sadness engulfed her. Comprehension. “You tried to burn it off. Your Inking.”
“Once. A year into my service.” Elohl's gaze slipped to the cold hearth in the room, at the stand of iron pokers there. “But my body has other plans for me. I spasm when I try to inflict self-harm. It never takes. Just like my body never lets me lie still beneath an assassin’s blade.”
A soft silence filled the room. Elohl couldn’t look at Eleshen. He stared at the cold iron by the black hearth, feeling her gaze steady upon him.
“Do you still want it gone? Your Inking?” She murmured.
Elohl took a deep breath. He knew what she was really asking. Always it came to this. A stubborn heat flared, deep inside his body. “No.” He murmured at last. “I would like to earn it first.”
“Haven’t you already?”
“No.”
Silence shrouded the room, yet again. Elohl felt Eleshen shift, step back a pace. Her fingers slipped down to his hand, tugging. “Come to the kitchen. Please.”
Elohl heaved a sigh, nodded. Trailing at the ends of the innkeeper's fingers like a mongrel dog upon the leash, he came to her call, his body a riot of feelings beneath a cracking glacial crust.
* * *
“So tell me why you never defected. Not sought out any Kingsmen over these many years to find out the truth of what happened.” Eleshen was gazing at him with utter frankness, cradling a bluestone tea mug across the table, her robe tightly closed and cinched over her pert little body. Elohl’s bare foot rested up on the wooden bench, the rest of him washed and clothed. They had wrapped the body in a sheet, and Elohl, still naked, had hauled the corpse out into the forest. Half the night had been spent scouring the floor of the bedroom, and only afterwards had Elohl cleaned up. Now, a damp-peat smell of dawn sweetened outside, the light violet beyond the kitchen windows. The hearth-fire had been stoked, the kitchen cozy once more.
Elohl’s clean fingers traced the rim of his own bluestone mug upon the table. “To leave the King's army without proper dismissal,” he answered, “is treason. And since I am a Kingsman, it is still my responsibility to serve. I respect the promise I made when these Inkings were confirmed upon me, though the King did not respect his promise to me.”
“Such honor,” she murmured. “Even now, to a man who wronged you.”
“I have no honor.” Elohl scoffed, taking a swig of tea.
“But you're a decorated Brigadier! And a Kingsman!” She argued, fierce.
“Eleshen, you have to understand,” Elohl murmured, fingers tracing his mug. “My Alrashemni Inking is technically unlawful. If any Kingsman or woman saw me, and knew me for one seal short of my full eight, my life would be forfeit. But my comrades and I made a choice, back then, to Ink ourselves though the five of us were too young to do so, because we feared the worst. We were desperate youths, and it was a desperate act we committed in the eleventh hour.”
“Who is we? What were you doing in such desperation?”
Elohl felt his manner chill. “For your protection, you will ask me nothing more.”
“What happened? You must tell me! How can you possibly keep something this dire a secret?”
Elohl sipped his winterberry and rosemary tea in its plain bluestone mug. Inside, the heat in his throat warred with the chill in his heart. One sought to rise, to flood out, breaking his dam and following an inevitable river that led straight into torpid secrets and dark memories. One was still, smooth, urging him to take his hard-won calm and leave all else alone. Practical. Ghrenna’s blue gaze surfaced in his mind. Elohl pushed it away. Silence stretched. He could feel the innkeeper simmering in her own righteousness, not comprehending his inner war, of whether or not to pick up a life long dead.
A life Ihbram wisely warned him against resuming. Especially considering this night’s events.
“I go back to Lintesh to seek my sister,” Elohl murmured at last. “Nothing more. Ask nothing more of me, Eleshen...”
Eleshen simmered a moment longer, but at last sighed. “Forgive me, Elohl. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I am a stalwart supporter of the Kingsmen, I just wanted you to know that. When they were accused of high treason, my family did what we could to rally in their defe
nse. We sent a delegation to the King’s City, but… there was never any trial. The Kingsmen just… disappeared. I thought you were one who escaped… whatever happened at the palace. I just want to know that truth. I thought that maybe... maybe you knew it.”
Elohl shook his head. “Our families had already marched. I never found it. I was too late…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then over his short beard, then took more tea, realizing all too late that Eleshen had wheedled him into saying too much. Visions surfaced in his mind, hot like volcanic fire. A black door in the night, a snarling wolf and dragon rising high before him. The glint of layered metals in the darkness, a puzzle now broken. A cerulean lake, eyes like deep blue flame as they gazed up at him, calm and passionate. A halo of hair so white it shone like pearl, spread over the emerald moss of the forest floor… moving with her, breathing the scents of pine tundra from her neck as she cried out his name…
He pushed the thought away.
Eleshen reached over and took his hand, an honest gentleness. “Would you tell me?” She murmured. “I would like to know what happened to you.”
Elohl's grimace was wry, his voice rough and bitter. “If anyone finds out you’ve been speaking with a Kingsman about the Kingsman Treason... you'll be a target.”
“Who is here to know?” She whispered, her pretty face lit by the hearth fire and lamps, cheeks rosy and lips sadly secretive.
Elohl took a sip of tea. “I was followed here, Eleshen. Someone might come for you. Torture you for information of me. I don’t want to place you in harm’s way. Not after... your kindness.”
Eleshen huffed, then sipped her own tea, a decisive swig. “Well. I’m already in harm’s way, or didn’t you know? After my family showed support for the Kingsmen, the Palace Guard came after us. We had to go underground, separate from each other. I came here with my father, rest his soul. My mother and two sisters went elsewhere.”
“Your father died?” Elohl blinked, stunned from his own sorrows. “I’m so sorry...”
Eleshen shrugged, her smile wry. “It’s been five years. I do well on my own.”
Elohl couldn’t help but soften as he reached out and grasped her hand across the rough table by the fire. He watched Eleshen gaze at her fingers clasped in his weather-roughened fingers. It was comfortable, holding hands with her. She reminded him of Alrashemni women. Unafraid, cocky. Eleshen didn’t have training, but she had spitfire. And Elohl was fairly sure she had used that iron frying-pan at the door on more than one occasion.
He smiled, a true smile. Chuckled.
“What?”
He glanced up. “I was just thinking of your fry-pan at the door.”
She flushed to her roots. “Oh. Well. Not all men as are honorable as you.”
“You just watched me kill a man tonight. How can you possibly say I’m honorable?”
“Why do you think you’re not?”
The question took him aback. “Because I'm a killer, Eleshen.”
“The sword that is honed the sharpest pierces best when a rabid boar attacks. That was a fairly rabid boar that invaded my rooms just now, wouldn't you say?” Her pretty mouth lifted at the corner, daring him. A beat passed between them, a moment of understanding.
“You should have been one of us. Alrashemni.” Elohl murmured with a slight smile. “You've the wit for it.”
“Maybe I should have. But I was born into a different life. It doesn't mean I care any less what happened to your people.”
“I suppose not.”
“So tell me a story, Elohl.”
“What?” He blinked.
“Tell me a story.” She leaned forward on her elbows, raptor-keen, cradling her mug. “Tell me of the Alrashemni. I've finally got one captive in my inn, and I want to know.”
“I'm hardly your captive, woman.” Elohl's mouth quirked.
“So you say. But I'll have my story. Something you can speak of. Tell me your history. Your people aren't native here, are they?”
Elohl shook his head, tension inside him easing from her change in interest. “No, we're not. But we've been resident in Alrou-Mendera for centuries. A thousand years, maybe.”
“Where did the Alrashemni come from?”
“From somewhere else,” Elohl murmured. “But the where of it is forgotten. Somewhere far to the south where sands cover the land, bleak and barren, ringed in mountains.”
“Why did your ancestors leave?”
Elohl settled, leaning upon one hand, stretching both legs out along the bench towards the fire. He sipped his tea, gazing deep into the livid flames, thinking about stories his mother had told him on cold winter nights, sitting around the fire in a kitchen much like this one. Burning rose in his throat and he pushed the memory away.
“There was a terrible war.” Elohl murmured at last. “We had to leave. We traveled a long time, before we finally settled here.”
“Your people didn't stay to fight in the war? With all the battle-skills Alrashemni have?”
“Coming from such a harsh place,” Elohl murmured, “it's true that my people developed skills we subsequently kept, but our skills weren't originally intended for war. It’s said the Alrashemni are a race that goes far back, even further than that desert land. That we originally came from a continent to the east, beyond Ghrec and the Unaligned Lands, over a great sea. And that when we arrived in the mountain desert, we were literate, and gifted, arriving among nomadic desert peoples who knew nothing of mathematics and letters. We rose to leadership because of our learning and special inborn talents. But we became known for prowess in war from so many conflicts in that barren place, and for our clever negotiation and adjudication.”
“So how did your people become associated with the King here?”
“It's said that the King of Alrou-Mendera made a pact with my people, an oath of fealty that they would use their formidable skills on his behalf, in exchange for us being left alone to govern ourselves. In the King’s hour of need he could call upon us, the most capable warriors and moderators available to him, and we would honor our oath. Loyalty means much to Alrashemni.”
“And such skills?” Eleshen spoke again. “Are they magic like the stories say? Are your people imbued with fae talents given to them by demons, like hedge-wives suggest with their harvest-time tales?”
Elohl chuckled, wry. “There’s no magic, not really, not like the tales. But we’re taught certain skills with such precision and thoroughness for them to seem magic.”
“Like spying.”
“Yes.”
“And assassination?”
“Sometimes.” Elohl chilled.
“Are there Alrashemni in other nations?”
“There were. I don’t know if there still are. I don’t know how far the purge of the Summons reached. It was once said that there were Alrashemni in Valenghia, serving in ways similar to us Kingsmen. And that Elsthemen was founded by Alrashemni. But if there are any Kingsmen from Alrou-Mendera left, they are probably hiding so deep that I have heard nothing of them.”
Elohl stopped, realizing suddenly how she'd maneuvered him. His eyes flicked from the fire to meet Eleshen's, but her gaze was not crowing with triumph. Instead, a calm interest flowed from her, and in it, Elohl felt a promise of burdens eased. He gazed at her a long moment. In his mind, the deep roiling of a lake smoothed out. Something within him sighed, encouraging him to talk, to unburden himself. Elohl gazed back to the flames. He could feel his story ready to slip out, shadows long buried brought forth to illumination, like he'd only done once before, when he'd told his story to Ihbram den'Sennia.
“My sister Olea and I saw the emissary who came from the Palace with the Summons,” Elohl murmured at last. “It was one of the King’s Chancellors, den’Khenner. He came with a small guard, only a brace of twenty, but he bore the King’s banner. They rode in through the gates of Alrashesh just after the noon meal. My sister and I were in the yard, training at quarterstaves. My father Urloel was observing our bout. He stepped as
ide when the delegation arrived, spoke with the Chancellor. We thought it was a request for men to go to the Valenghian front with the military, as tension was high from constant raids over the border, and war was imminent. But my father’s face spoke otherwise. I have never seen him so angry. He kept his voice low, but his face was a thundercloud. He kept flexing his hands as if he was going to draw his sword right then and there in the yard. He showed them to the Receiving Rotunda, and my sister and I spied on the proceedings from the gallery.”
“What happened?” Eleshen’s voice was rapt.
“My father started shouting the moment they were inside and the doors were closed. He erupted into a tirade of cursing. I had never heard him curse except when having stitches sewn. He was livid. The Chancellor was just standing there, smirking, as if my father yelling was proving his point. When he finally calmed down, the Chancellor handed him a writ with the King’s seal and signature, and said ‘Three days. At dawn.’ And turned on his heel and left.”
“What was it all about?”
“It was the Summons. Apparently, the Alrashemni had been accused of high treason, for something my father was certain we had no part in. To prove our loyalty, we were to march to the palace in three days’ time, there to have audience before the King and re-swear our Oath of Fealty. It was a sham, and my father knew it. But he had to go. A summons from the King was a summons from the King. If he didn’t go to swear, it would have been high treason. All those past their Eighth Seal were Summoned, all those Inked. The Council of Alrashesh met, the decision was made to go. We fifteen between Fifth and Eighth Seal were instructed to take the little ones to a safe place in the mountains until the Inked returned.”
“But they never came back.”
“It was worse than that. They knew, Eleshen. Somehow, my father didn’t trust the Chancellor or the Summons, and the rest knew they were walking into something bad. They went heavily armed and dressed in the Greys, like they would for war. Us fifteen enacted the advance caution, and ten took the children out of Alrashesh. They went into the countryside, to a lake fortress in the mountains that was an Alrashemni secret. But five of us went on an errand, something that might have been able to stop the Summons. It failed. And when we came back, we were captured, and they forced the location of the other Kingskinder out of us. They captured all the children, split us up. I was sent under guard to the High Brigade that same afternoon, forced to swear military oaths or be put to the sword. I chose the oaths. Ten years of service, to the day. Yesterday.”
Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 13
