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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  “Fenton was right,” Olea glowered at Aldris. “You two stay out of it. It’s the Dhenra’s business, not yours.”

  Aldris shrugged, gave her the flagon. “Boys who took you in told me they overheard you and the Dhenra shouting before I got close. Something about investigating the Kingsman disappearance.”

  Olea’s stomach gripped hard, to know that Elyasin had been loud enough to be overheard when she had gotten livid. Olea’s secret was out now, that she was investigating the Kingsman disappearance. If those Guardsmen had heard, it would be all over the barracks and guardhouses by sundown. And if they knew, it was a short eavesdropping before the veritable army of household maids, cooks, porters, and everyone else knew, like Lhaurent. Olea tried to shake off the feeling of being watched. Glancing at the walls of her cell, she squinted past the bars to the shadows of the torch-lit hallway. She was becoming as paranoid as Uhlas had been at the end.

  “Captain?”

  Olea roused herself, gave Aldris a forbidding glare. “I said it's the Dhenra's business. Leave it be. And shut up any fool mouths that you hear passing that information around.”

  Aldris nodded, but his green eyes were narrowed now. Olea saw him warring between asking her another question, which could get him reprimanded, and shutting the fuck up. Olea handed the flagon back through the bars, but Aldris just looked at it, still warring internally. Finally, he shook his head. “Keep the drink. I gotta get back up to the banquet. Fenton is getting lonely guarding the Dhenra’s pretty ass. Anything you need, Captain? I’ve arranged for a bit of the banquet leftovers to be brought down later for you.”

  Olea shook her head, then thought better of it and reached through the bars, grabbing Aldris by the blue jerkin, pulling him in so close their lips nearly touched.

  Aldris raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Last kiss?”

  “Shut up and listen.” Olea snapped. Aldris den’Farahan’s smirk was instantly wiped clean, replaced by that cool calculation and keen mind Olea had promoted him for. “I believe Elyasin is in danger. Very serious danger. This week is the most serious. I have reason to believe Dhenir Alden and King Uhlas were both murdered because they had a personal connection to the Alrashemni.”

  “Personal?” Aldris murmured, betraying surprise. “How personal?”

  “Blood-kin personal.” Olea hardly breathed it.

  “Fuck.” Aldris’ bare murmur summed it up nicely.

  “If I’m right,” Olea breathed, “they’ll try to strike Elyasin, and do it before her Queen’s Writ is signed, before she’s technically able to rule on her own without the Chancellate. Triple her guard. From now on, either you or Fenton plus one of my six best are there like flies on pigs, whether she’s awake or sleeping. Trust nothing and no one.”

  Aldris’ eyebrows rose. “Damn. I mean… shit.”

  Olea growled and yanked Aldris closer, barely breathing her words. “Roushenn holds its secrets, Aldris. Closer than any of us ever suspected. There are passages behind every passage, passages we know nothing of, and can’t control. Keep an eye on the walls and mirrors. The walls of Roushenn move. They fucking move and I don’t know who or what controls it! Only that it secured the end of the Kingsmen. All of them, annihilated, in a single night. They never escaped this palace, Aldris. The fucking Kingsmen, the most talented fucking fighters on the entire continent, couldn’t escape Roushenn. They died here. These bluestones aren’t what they seem. And I think Castellan Lhaurent knows something about it. I think he knows what the walls can do… or maybe has access to it. And assassins… where we can’t find them.”

  She let Aldris go. He gaped at her, blinking at Olea like she had gone mad. “Are you fucking serious?”

  Olea narrowed her eyes. “Do I look serious?”

  Aldris nodded slowly, slipping into a deep grimness. “Yeah. You look really fucking deadly, actually. You look like you mean every fucking word you just said.”

  Olea yanked her new shirt down, the laces undone now that she was no longer guarding the Dhenra. She widened the gap, baring her Inking. “Then hear me. Never forget what I am, Aldris. I am an Alrashemni Kingswoman to the death. And Elyasin is my King. So swear me to Aeon and all the Gods, if anything happens to her, I will begin a bloodbath until my blade runs through every last throat involved. Are we clear, Guardsman?”

  Aldris nodded slowly, and his green eyes held no laughter. “Clear as diamond, Captain.”

  At her nod, he turned swiftly, moving off down the flickering hall at a jog to see her orders done. Olea sank back against the bars with a growl, feeling caged. Worry gnawed at her, set her to pacing her five-by-five cell like a beast. Tousling her hair violently, she found herself ripping at the strands, something she’d not done since she was a child. A tingling feeling skittered over her again, like roaches on her skin. Olea halted, breathing silently, listening. But she didn’t hear a soul, other than the young first-year Guardsman currently on duty trimming his fingernails with his knife.

  The sensation of being watched dogged her as she began to pace again. Olea tried to breathe past the clenching in her gut, past the feeling of paranoia, past her rage at being in here, past her terrible fear that something was about to happen now that she was caged. She was pacing the five-square of her cell for the umpteenth time when her tray finally came down from the banquet. A Guardsman carried it, but he was not a mere soldier. Trim and wiry, her First-Lieutenant Fenton den’Kharel had a spring of vicious speed and strength to his step as he approached, a fluidity of movement like lightning over ice.

  Not a man of many words, Fenton slid her tray along the stones into her cell via the pass-through. He hunkered, interlacing his calloused fingers expectantly, dark brows brooding. Olea hunkered also, squatting to eat from the tray with her hands. The roast goose was still warm, smeared liberally with peach chutney. A fennel salad with roasted honey-nuts went into her mouth as fast as the goose. It had been a very long time since breakfast, and Olea found herself eating quickly, memories of starving in the Lower Cells nearly two years ago crowding close.

  Her cell had not been as nice then as it was now. Not by far. Fenton watched her eat in silence, and when Olea finally wiped her mouth, his eyebrows rose expectantly.

  “Is Aldris guarding the Dhenra?” Olea asked.

  Fenton nodded, his gold-brown eyes thoughtful by the torchlight. “She’s asleep. Aldris and den’Thanut will take watch until noon tomorrow. I convinced the Dhenra that security was needed inside her rooms at night and attending her person closely, just two for the duration of the week. I placed a guard of four on each door to her suites, and we’ve got three men on the walls watching her windows. They’ll rotate every six hours.”

  Olea leaned back against the bars with a sigh. “It’s not enough. We have to get her out of the palace entirely. Dammit!”

  Fenton traced a pattern in the dirt on the stones with one well-calloused finger. “What’s this about, Olea?”

  Olea grimaced. “You’d think I’m insane if I told you.”

  He continued tracing, but his attention was sharp upon her. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, Captain.”

  Olea nodded, her gaze roving over his brown hair that still showed no spot of grey, that face that was chiseled but still vaguely smooth, those quiet, gold-brown eyes that were given to silence. “How old are you, Fenton?”

  His smile was secretive, wry. “Older than I look. Younger than I feel sometimes. Wise enough to know insanity and den’Alrahel don’t connect. You’ve always been steady and loyal. Everyone knows you’d be the first to die for the Dhenra, as you were for the Dhenir. You and Uhlas may not have had much love between you, but you’d die for his heirs, and that’s plain.” His fingers traced on. Olea noticed the pattern stabilize into a Kingsmount and Stars in the dust by the bars. “What I mean to say, Captain, is that I know what you’ve been up to.”

  Olea scowled. “Everyone knows now, dammit.”

  He nodded quietly, tracing another pattern. “What the Dhenra sai
d today confirmed it, yes. But I knew before then. Aldris wanted to tail you, but he’s too sloppy. I know it wasn’t wise, but sometimes I’m not known for being wise.”

  “You’ve been following me.” Olea blinked, stunned. She’d not heard a damn thing.

  Fenton nodded, still tracing. His gold-brown eyes were knowing when he looked up. “I’ve seen the silversmith, seen his scars. I’ve seen your brother and his pretty woman, I followed them to the Jenner’s compound yesterday. I know you’ve been poking through the Unterhaft. I know…” He stopped suddenly, evaluating her, then falling quiet for good.

  “Out with it, Lieutenant.”

  His eyes were wary. “I’ve followed you quite a few times, over the years. And the Dhenir, too, back when he would wander at night. And I follow Elyasin, regularly, sometimes without your orders…”

  Fear ripped through Olea. Quickly followed by a vicious anger. She snarled at the bars, gripping them hard, feeling the heat of fighting animals roaring through her. “Whom do you serve, cur?!” She snarled. “To whom do you give all this information?!”

  But Fenton shook his head quickly, calm. “I am First Lieutenant Guardsman, Captain. It is my duty to know where my lieges go. I report to my Captain-General, and to her alone. Unless my lieges are in danger.”

  “And then to whom do you report?” Olea growled like a menacing dog.

  Fenton put one hand to his heart, his eyes holding hers as he sidled close to the bars. Olea saw his fingers quickly undoing his jerkin buckles and shirt laces, always immaculately attended to. She realized he was close enough that if anyone was watching in the torch-dark hall, they could not have seen what he was doing. At last, she saw what he wanted her to see, the Kingsmount and Stars plain upon his chest, but strangely done in red ink instead of black, a small bloody nick upon the center of his chest like someone had scored him with a blade. But Fenton had never had a Kingsmount and Stars before. Olea had seen him without his shirt in the practice yards countless times. She fought to keep her face neutral for anyone who might be observing, despite her immeasurable surprise.

  Fenton was a careful man, and now she knew why. He was Alrashemni. Some kind of secret, underground Alrashemni.

  “I am one of you, and yet I am not,” Fenton whispered low and soft, confirming her thoughts. “I report to the shadows, Olea. But not the shadows of Roushenn. We were close to the throne, once. We are close still, but not as close. Not in the way that matters. But you are. With Elyasin, just as you were with Alden. It was … fitting. You and the Dhenir. His death was a tragedy for us.”

  “Who are you? How many others of you are out there?” Olea could barely breathe.

  “Enough of us. But not here. Not now.” Fenton’s visage was fierce, feverish with dedication.

  “Aldris? Is he also...?”

  Fenton nodded once, slowly. Olea’s world spun like a badly-made top. Shadows flickered all around, menacing. That lingering sensation of being watched had crept back, itching between her shoulder blades, raising the small hairs at the back of her neck. And suddenly, Olea knew they were at war. Whatever this was, whatever was happening here, if it had driven Fenton to expose such a secret, then all her fears were founded.

  All of them.

  “Find my brother, Fenton.” Olea's voice cracked with a sudden urgency. “Find Elohl. Tell him what has happened. Tell him the Dhenra needs protection. Now. He’s the fastest swordsman I know. He needs to be close to her. Especially at the coronation.”

  Fenton nodded quickly, fingers racing back up his lacings and buckles. He leaned very close to the bars, his next words barely a whisper of sound. “Olea. I have to tell you… what you found out about the walls…”

  It hit Olea like a staff to the knees. “You knew?!”

  Woe smote him. “I did. I had to keep that secret, for reasons I cannot give. But you must understand, your assumptions are correct. Lhaurent keeps an army behind the walls. I’ve been in the Hinterhaft. I’ve seen it. But you cannot flush him out of that labyrinth, Olea. He has…ways… of keeping himself safe if he retreats there. Which I assure you, he can do at a moment’s notice. Be wary of him. Be very, very wary.” Fenton’s gold-brown eyes were drowning now, drowning with some emotion Olea didn’t understand. He reached through the bars, stroking her face gently, his thumb lingering at her lips.

  “I fear for you,” he breathed, “trapped in here. But I can’t get you out, not right now. I swear to you, though, that someone is watching you… someone… who will get you out, if any threat comes. He would die for you. Just like I would.”

  Something cold dove into Olea’s gut and made a deep, dark home there. “Fenton… what are you talking about?”

  He shook his head, his touch falling from her face. “I can’t say more. But trust me. Please. I will go straightaway to your brother, get him into the Guard for the coronation. We’ll keep Elyasin safe. I promise.”

  Fenton’s jaw tensed. Reaching through the bars again, he took Olea’s hand. Lifting it, he pressed a kiss upon her fingers, his demeanor ferocious, deadly with his promise. He nodded again, as if confirming it all, then spun on his heel, and was gone up the shadowed stairs as fast as Olea could blink.

  CHAPTER 23 – DHERRAN

  Dherran was simmering. And it didn’t bode well for the beginning of this fight. Four bouts into the final men’s rounds, and he was strung tighter than ever. His first four fights of the Vennet Midsummer Festival had gone well these past few days, yielding only a fat lip, a bruised cheekbone, and a few purpling areas over his ribs and torso. He was sweeping the men’s finals in Vennet. And for the first time, Dherran strode bare-chested to the field of spears with cheering in his ears, people eager to see him fight once more. That energy fed him like a meltwater flood, only making his frustrations with Khenria’s bitchiness these past few days deepen.

  She’d been teasing him, mercilessly, ever since their fight after her win. Flaunting herself with other men. Sitting in their laps at suppertime. Disappearing for hours at night without mention of her whereabouts, smirking when she returned. And her cruelty was punishing, distracting Dherran from his focus, as it was doing today.

  But now he faced his true opponent. Arvale den’Whestin, the reigning free-hand champion in this region and a local of Vennet, he was a featherweight, wiry but made like well-tempered steel. Shifting from foot to wrapped foot upon the dry earth, his feet and ankles were wrapped better than his hands, taking Dherran’s measure. The man was a kick-fighter in the old Praoughian style. His thighs were corded muscle, his calves the same. The bell sounded for the fight to begin, and Dherran paced slowly, guard up, trying to think only of his opponent and not of Khenria.

  Dherran allowed his back heel to square to the dirt, not his usual agile stance. He needed this man to think he was too thick, too slow, his footwork too heavy. He heard the crowd settle into a hush. The lean rooster bounced, getting his feet beneath him, then tried an experimental set of punches at Dherran’s face. Dherran flowed out of the way with tiny movements, not moving his feet. The man then tried a set of kicks. Dherran swiveled his hips, keeping his frame aligned, each kick passing him by, again not moving his feet.

  The bantam rooster scowled, bouncing from foot to foot. At last, the man came at him for real, and they began to engage. Dherran kept to a small space, using his alignment, throwing falsely heavy punches, which the smaller man avoided. High kicks came. Dherran crouched, dodged, slipped past. The rooster was getting angry, his face red and his scowl deep, batting at his heavier, immutable opponent.

  Finally, the punch came that Dherran was waiting for. The rooster faked. Dherran slipped sideways so the punch came at his face, as he had intended. He faked being caught off-guard, throwing his right hand up to defend, leaving his right flank unprotected. The rooster crowed, whirling into a kick with the full force of his steel-lithe body. But the kick came straight to Dherran’s inner elbow. Which he used to absorb the kick, folding it inward to his torso and taking the man’s foot with it
. Spiraling his right arm up and in, twisting his hips with agile speed, Dherran had the man’s leg pinned. And as he turned, it sent the man into a flying twist, meant to either dislocate his hip or spin him horizontal to the ground and smash him into the dust, a blow to end the match.

  It fact, it did neither.

  With a vicious crack that rent the air, the man’s femur broke in a spiral, his leg turning into the twist, but his body not following through. He hit the ground like a sack of rocks, screaming. His leg was riven, twisted unnaturally. Dherran released his leg, shock flooding his body. Dizziness took Dherran, surprised by what had just happened. He had been distracted and had twisted too efficiently, too true to the killing nature of his Kingsman training, training meant to break a man upon the battlefield.

  He had been thinking of Khenria, and this was the outcome.

  Screams filled Dherran’s ears, unnatural, the shrieks of a mauled animal. The man reached for his leg, hands hovering and splayed, not daring to touch it. The scorekeeper rushed to the ring. The fight-medic stepped in between them. Dherran stepped back, breathing hard, unable to hear, unable to see anything but that mangled flesh. The medic reached out to touch the man’s leg. He screamed, feral, then snarled with murderous hate at Dherran.

  “Fucking whoresbane! You’ve ruined me!” He broke into sobs, rent with gasping as the medic tried to assess the extent of the break. Silence filled the square beyond the spears, the faces of the crowd shocked. Arvale den’Whestin had been favored to win. The scorekeeper was muttering low to den’Whestin. The medic touched his leg and he screamed again. Finally, he gave a curt nod.

  The scorekeeper stood, facing the crowd, hands high. “Dherran den’Lhust, for the win!”

  But the moment was rent by the cursing man on the hard-packed dirt. “How can you call yourself a Kingsman?! You’ll pay for this, you… you brute!” He gathered his saliva, and spat into the dirt.