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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  King Therel, for his part, broke into the most pleased, most sexual dark smile Theroun thought he had ever seen. “My Dhenra.” Was all he said. But he said it with such a rolling thrum to his baritone that Theroun thought it might just drop the Dhenra where she stood.

  It didn’t. She stood tall, regal, challenging, one gold eyebrow arched, a slight smile upon her lips. King Therel placed a palm to his chest and one hand to his sword. He sank, down into a low bow upon one knee, and held it for a count of ten. And then he rose.

  An Alrashemni bow. It wasn’t wasted upon Elyasin. Theroun saw her note it, saw her startle, and den’Alrahel’s beside her. And suddenly, Theroun knew the other part of the secret, why the Khehemni Lothren wanted war with Elsthemen. Wanted to frame this young, roguish King of the Highlands for Elyasin’s assassination.

  He was Alrashemni by blood, right smack in the middle of the Elsthemen royal line.

  It had shaken the Dhenra. She turned, giving the Highland King one last, ornately tortured glance. And then moved off towards the doors in the rear of the room that would take her back to her suites, her Guard-Captain on her heels. King Therel watched her go. And then roused his clansmen, gesturing them forward after Castellan Laurent.

  Theroun snapped his fingers at Thaddeus, who was frozen, gaping, at the desk. “Thad!” He growled low. “Pick those up and follow me. The Dhenra will need to study them tonight in her quarters. Things are progressing here, and she needs to be prepared for tomorrow.”

  Thad blinked, gaping at Theroun. And then nodded hastily, gathering everything up in piles with hurried, startled hands.

  * * *

  The banquet had been raucous. Theroun had stood by with Thaddeus beneath the high gilded chandeliers, watching the Highlanders make merry, downing their ale like there’d be no more, ever. Getting up to interrupt the elegant musicians and take their instruments away, forming their own band, thundering the hall with the stamping of feet for their boisterous dances. And as the fires in the hearths lining the Small Hall had burned low, King Therel had gotten his dance with Elyasin, nothing elegant and lingering, just a folk-reel known in Alrou-Mendera and the Highlands. She spun from partner to partner, women of her coterie and female Highlands warriors filling in the long line as the men came avidly to dance, seeing the Menderian Queen upon the marble floor. But none came so avidly as Therel Alramir, a dark pleasure illuminating his visage every time they came together for a promenade or a bow, a spin or a daring lift.

  And Theroun had seen how the young King had let Elyasin slide down his body in her thin cobalt silks from every lift. Theroun had seen how she melted into his touch, deeper and deeper every time they partnered back together. Heat blistered between them, for all to see. Sex. And when it was over, Therel had bowed over her hand, pressing it with a daring, hard kiss, watching her flush as he breathed fast with a grin from the dance.

  Elyasin had left the hall after that, leaving the Highlanders to dine on. Theroun had, too, needing at least some sleep before what was certain to be an early morning. He’d left Thad to enjoy the revelry, pacing back to his plain suite with bitterness choking his throat. He’d slept with nightmares, tossing and turning until the dawn, and woken in a fierce temper, flowing through his sword forms with more violence than was truly necessary. And when the Dhenra’s summons had finally come, just as he was finishing dressing, Theroun couldn’t help himself. After the page-lad left, he slammed his fist into his desk so hard it bled. And then wrapped it in clean linen, lurching out his doors in a bitter anger.

  It was still early in the palace when he knocked upon the Dhenra’s doors for admittance between two flanking guards. The gilded double-doors boomed open, placid First-Lieutenant Fenton den'Kharel upon the other side today, admitting Theroun with a nod and a slight smile. Theroun nodded back. Fenton was a decent sort, the kind of warrior he respected. And though the Dhenra should have been primping with her maids, readying for her meeting that morning with the only other proper King on the docket, Arthe den’Tourmalin of the Isles, Theroun gazed down the vaulted chambers to see that the Dhenra was hardly dressed.

  Sunlight flooded in through a high, arching bank of windows as Theroun entered the Dhenra's sitting-parlor, potted ferns and greenery growing in a riot among the cobalt velvet chaises. The Dhenra was at her leisure, curled up on one chaise in the sunshine in a robin’s egg dressing-gown edged with fine, dripping lace, sipping coffee from a piece of Jadounian midnight-blue porcelain. The rim of gold winked in the sun as she brought it to her lips. Eyeing him from above her coffee cup, Dhenra Elyasin did not stand for Theroun’s arrival and Theroun did not sit, as per their usual arrangement. It had been the same with Uhlas, and Elyasin had learned many habits of her father’s. Elyasin drew the lace décolletage of her light-blue dressing gown more securely closed, shifting upon the chaise.

  Regarding him, she tapped the rim of her cup with one buffed fingernail. “Theroun,” she said at last. “What do you think of King Therel?”

  Here it is. Open your mouth like a good puppet, Theroun, and dance upon your strings.

  Theroun gave his customary glower, neither more nor less than usual. “He is very full of himself, Dhenra.”

  A smile quirked her lips. “I can always depend on you for an honest opinion, can’t I?”

  “I give frank opinions as I once did upon the battlefield, and as I did for your father, Dhenra. When Generals hold things back studying the fields of engagement, good men die.”

  “Men always die in war, Theroun,” she said smoothly. “I am asking you how much of a risk Therel is.”

  Theroun did not break his scowl. “To the nation? Not much. An alliance with House Alramir has benefited our country for more decades than I can count. They are strong supporters of your House, though they did not approve of the war with Valenghia. It almost cost us our trade.”

  “Mmm…” The Dhenra's gaze drifted, and Theroun wondered how long she had tossed and turned in the sheets last night, thinking of the lupine King. “The Elsthemi Highlands provide most of our wool and ghennie-fleece,” she continued. “Not to mention nearly a million bales of pevel yearly, precious ores, gemstones, and many of our dyes. In any case, Therel has been most gracious as far as the preparatory discussions of trade. He has offered the pevel at half its usual price, and the wool at two-thirds, in addition to other sundries of note.”

  “Very generous, Dhenra.” Theroun had heard it all at the desk the afternoon before.

  Elyasin lifted her porcelain cup, sipped from the gold rim. “Generous indeed. What are his ulterior motives, Chancellor?”

  Theroun almost laughed at her. “Ulterior motives? You’re young, beautiful, wealthy, the only heir to the throne of Alrou-Mendera from the direct line of den’Ildrian. What King in his right mind wouldn’t want to take that to bed?”

  She coughed in the middle of her next sip. The cup was set down upon its saucer with a vicious clink. “Chancellor! When I require opinions in matters of the bedchamber, I will ask for them!”

  “Forgive me, Dhenra. But my opinion stands. He’s clever, daring, charming, and motivated. And you are his ultimate conquest. His flagrant behavior yesterday, both at the negotiations and at the banquet afterwards, have made that inescapably plain.”

  The heat in her green eyes withered. “And once he has me?”

  Theroun cursed himself. His strategy with words had never been as good as his battle-plans. He covered his next lie with his usual scowl. “Once men capture the golden idol, they never cease to display and luxuriate in its presence. Dhenra.”

  Elyasin brightened, foolish already for the Highland King. Theroun could see it all over her, in the way the pulse in her neck sped, in the way she breathed faster, how she began to flush already, just thinking of the young wolf. “And once the idol is captured, do men like Therel smash the temple from whence it came? Would he?”

  Theroun rubbed his jaw with one hand and held back a bitter sigh. This was too easy. Elyasin and King Therel were practical
ly wedding themselves. Right into the Lothren’s plans for their destruction. “I believe King Therel to be a man of his word, Dhenra. Indeed, you may enjoy more freedom with him than with most men. Elsthemen has had split kingdoms before. The Elsthemi tradition has been to invite any outlander Queen to spend half a year with the King, while she spends the other half-year in residence at her own kingdom, ruling as needed, with regular visits from her husband. Decisions are, for the most part, agreed upon jointly. Women enjoy freedoms more broad in Elsthemen than anywhere else upon the continent. They have an entire regiment of women keshar-cavalry. Women own property, just as here, and when there is not a King upon the throne, there is a Queen. You would not usurp his power, and he would not usurp yours. From what I’ve seen of Therel so far, he has his father’s demeanor. Flagrant, compelling, naturally magnetic and unabashedly innuendous, but with a keen mind for ruling and trade. And he has… a camaraderie with his retainers that leads me to believe he is of good temper overall.”

  “I heard he stuffed some poor woman in a trunk after dismembering her.”

  Theroun scowled harder. “Rumors can be petty and misleading.”

  “I see.” Elyasin took a small sip of her coffee. “What time am I meeting with King Arthe den’Tourmalin of the Isles?”

  “Ninth bell, Dhenra. Just after his delegation has enjoyed a morning repast. Castellan Lhaurent has planned a brief sitting in the Mirror Room, then a walk of the Greenhouse. Apparently, King Arthe likes to walk while he discusses business.”

  “You should know, Theroun,” she eyed him candidly. “I am considering Arthe den’Tourmalin rather seriously. The Tourmalines command an impressive spice trade.”

  “Indeed, Dhenra?” Theroun could have laughed at how she was trying to deceive herself. He knew the Dhenra’s heart would not lead her to the King of the Isles. But since she’d brought it up, he now had to address it. “May I be frank?”

  She blinked. “Of course. From you, I expect it, really.”

  “I think you’ll find King Arthe to be a bit much like your father.”

  “Indeed?” She arched a regal eyebrow.

  “Indeed.” Theroun commented. “He’s older, stern, a man of few words. He’s been married. His previous Queen died, but he has four healthy heirs. He needs no more. And though he is a King, everyone knows the Isles are run by the Septhan, comprised of a representative from each of the seven Tourmaline Islands. The Tourmalines are more a federation than a monarchy, banded together in egalitarian values from their ancient history as pirates. Their King is merely one of seven, their tiebreaker for voting, their foreign diplomat. For the Isles, you would be a figurehead only. Your power to affect change would be limited, Dhenra, as Arthe’s is, though his populace love him tremendously.”

  He saw it strike her deep. Her green eyes shrouded over, her thoughts faraway. If nothing else, Elyasin was an idealist, and maintaining her power and wielding it with surety, grace, and a strong hand were of vital importance to her. Just as it had been with Uhlas. Theroun watched her consider his words thoroughly, and when her eyes cleared, he knew she’d already chosen.

  Aeon help them all.

  “Very well. We will discuss Arthe den’Tourmalin after he and I have met. And when is my next meeting with King Therel Alramir?”

  “This afternoon.” Theroun spoke curtly. “First bell again. Your schedule has been cleared of any other matters, until the banquet for the Islemen in the evening.”

  “Very good, Chancellor.” Elyasin gave him a nod to go, calm with clarity.

  “Yes, Dhenra.” Theroun gave his curt military bow. He turned upon his heel, startling to realize that First-Lieutenant Fenton den’Kharel had been standing behind him the entire time, slouching genially but in a ready way at the door. He’d honestly forgotten the man was there. He nodded, den’Kharel nodded back. Theroun hauled open the door to the Dhenra’s suites and strode out into the carpeted hall, his old battle-wound in his side twingeing viciously from what he had just done.

  CHAPTER 21 – ELOHL

  Elohl shifted in the stifling, dusty thoroughfare outside the thirty-foot byrunstone wall that ringed the Jenner compound. The First Abbey of the Jenner Penitents was a marvel, a separate city from Lintesh. The City Within the City was a fortress, and the wall that ringed it spoke of martial history. Elohl shaded his eyes from the midmorning sun, gazing upwards at turrets with guard lookouts spaced at fifty-foot intervals. Arrow-slits dominated the upper reaches, an edifice from more disastrous times. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the battlements for signs of life. There were none. No sentries, no one watching the doors in the pre-noon heat. Elohl pulled the bell-chain at the ornate iron grille that flanked the massive main gates of solid red cendarie wood, then pulled it twice more in irritation.

  It was the seventh time he had rung. They’d visited daily for the past five days, and always it had been a wait like this. Patient at first, the routine was now wearing upon him and Eleshen both. And all five days they had spoken with a curt, angry brother who had insisted, it is a bad day for visitors, would you please come back upon the morrow when the deliveries of ale for the Queen’s Coronation are concluded? And today, the heat was thick, the dust high in the air, and yet again they were being ignored. Sweat dripped down inside Elohl’s collar, his well-buckled jerkin stifling. He had half a mind to just visit by night in his black climbing-gear and case the place. But their mission was to actually speak with a Jenner Brother, and that they could not do by subterfuge. Elohl was about to ring again when Eleshen, all piss and vinegar today, strode forward, rattling the ornate iron grille set before the small welcome-door of cendarie.

  “Well, where are they?” Eleshen huffed, as outwardly irritated as Elohl felt.

  “Maybe they’re praying. Or still readying the Queen’s ale deliveries.” He sighed, rifling a hand through his thick black ruff, fanning out the sweat.

  Eleshen eyeballed him. “Ha, ha. Very funny. They’re lazy, that’s what they’re doing. A fat lot of nothing! Open up! Answer your goddamn door!” Eleshen rattled the grate again, kicked it. Elohl was about to pull the chain one more time, when the small door beside the massive main gates opened at last.

  A tall man stood there, a different fellow than before. Of later of years, he had a long, drooping face with a full gray beard and stooped shoulders. He wore black Jenner robes, his cowl up despite the muggy heat, its draping bell sleeves hiding his hands. The long robe had a nondescript belt of black cordage, and as he shuffled forward to unlock the wrought-iron grille, gnarled toes peeked from beneath, his feet filthy with dust. The man dropped into a moderate bow, one foot behind the other, two fingers to his lips.

  It was far more respect than they had been treated with the previous days. Elohl inclined his head, of a mind to be civil to this fellow. “Penitent.”

  The Jenner’s smile was of gentle temperament as he straightened. “Milord. Milady. Blessings be upon you. Do you have business in the First Abbey?”

  Elohl shook his head, relieved that they weren’t being summarily dismissed today. “No pre-arranged business, no. But I have questions about the Penitent faith.”

  The man’s face opened into a warm smile of delight. He motioned them forward with one gnarled old hand. “Come in, come in! Please forgive my lateness in opening the door. You have come on a busy day, a busy few weeks. We ready libations for the Queen’s coronation seven days hence, and there is yet much to do. But we always have time for those who wish to ask about the Faith. Do come in. Perhaps we can find an appropriate Brother in the history office to answer your questions.”

  Elohl nodded and stepped forward through the iron gate, Eleshen on his heels. But as she passed through the gate, the old man stepped to the side and gathered a long white shawl from a basket in a niche carven into the inside of the wall, holding it out to her.

  “Please, milady, if you don’t mind?” His greying eyebrows raised expectantly.

  Eleshen’s brows furrowed in puzzlement, not understanding the
man. She looked like she was going to say something peevish, so Elohl answered quickly. “Of course.”

  “What?” Eleshen glanced from one man to the other.

  “Cover up a little.” Elohl motioned to her hair, her bare collarbones, chest.

  The old Penitent coughed. “Our Sisters… go about the Abbey with modesty. As do all the Brothers. Though we move together about our duties, there are some who could be… distracted.”

  “Oh!” Eleshen’s face opened in understanding. She inclined her head, accepting the shawl. “Because you’re celibate, you mean?”

  The Penitent mimed her winding it up over her hair and covering her bare upper torso and shoulders. “Most are, by choice. Some are not. Ah…relations are not prohibited among us, simply frowned upon as a distraction from true bliss.” Eleshen had finished winding her shawl, now waiting expectantly, but the man frowned. “The, ah… finer trimmings of feminine beauty, ah… please.”

  Elohl glanced over to see that Eleshen’s cleavage was still clearly visible below the edge of the shawl, above her buckled lambswool corset and the edge of her shirt.

  “What finer trimmings?” Eleshen quipped, oblivious.

  It was adorable. Elohl held back a chuckle, which turned into a cleared throat. “Your breasts.” Eleshen glanced down, missing the old Penitent going red as a beet as he also looked. It was hard not to. Eleshen did have very nice breasts.

  “Oh!” She tugged the shawl over them so she was fully covered, then looked up, grinning at the Jenner, completely unashamed and amused by the man’s squeamishness. “Better?”