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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  “Did I wake you?” Her voice was a whisper of specters through moonlight.

  “I was already awake. I didn’t sleep.” Elohl nodded his chin at the bed and the snoring. “Does he really stop all your headaches and seizures?”

  Her smile was shy, a smile Elohl had only seen when he used to undress her by moonlight at the edge of Fherrow’s Pond. “He does. He’s a natural-born healer, like Lhegen used to be.”

  “And the visions?”

  “Unpredictable, still. But I haven’t had one since Luc first helped me.” Ghrenna stretched out her fingers, toying with one of the laces of Elohl’s shirt. He caught his breath, feeling her pull. Using all his hard-won discipline, he held very still so their skin wouldn’t touch.

  “I used to dream that you would find me,” she murmured. “Just wishful dreams. That you would climb us both up a white pinnacle so high that we entered the clouds. A palace of solace and mist. And we would lay there in the mist, just … touching. Until the clouds cleared and we could see the world, lit by the diamond brilliance of the spire in the thin air.”

  She reached out, as if to touch his bare chest between the lacings of his shirt, the gold of his Alran-Ink dim in the grey light. But her fingers only hovered, so close, as a subtle tremor rippled her. “I still dream it every night. Of that peace. But every morning I wake to pain. Before Luc touched me, the only time I knew a world without pain was when you and I were there. Just… there. But now you’ve been marked, Elohl. By something… someone… powerful. And I don’t know why. Nor why it keeps us apart when we should be one.”

  Her whisper held a dire portent, that made Elohl shiver and ache. He could feel the heat in her fingertips, the warmth of her body so close and yet so unendingly far. Her eyes were pools of dread sorrow, and Elohl’s heart twisted at the distance that yawned between them. She brushed her fingertip lightly over his bare skin, along a faint line of gold ink. Keening softly, her face screwed up in pain, her jaw locking tight. It was a minute before she could speak again.

  “Foolish dreams of foolish girls.”

  She withdrew her hand. Elohl’s heart went with it. He lifted his own hand, reaching for her, not touching her jaw, just hovering. Drawn in, he moved forward, their faces close. His lips hovered over hers. He could taste her sweet scent upon his tongue. Ghrenna was breathing hard, her soft breath so hot. Elohl couldn’t stop from matching her pull, feeling her obliteration. He couldn’t stop wanting her until the city burned to the ground and his head was in the noose.

  Gods suffer him, he couldn’t stop. He'd never been able to stop her pull.

  She lifted her lips, closing the gap.

  And for a moment, Elohl burned as they kissed.

  And then she was seizing again.

  “Dammit, Kingsman!” Luc launched from the bed as Ghrenna thrashed, keening in the wan light. Elohl came to his knees in his blankets, trying to hold her limbs steady.

  “Let her go! Let her go! You’re only making it worse!” Luc elbowed him out of the way, getting a firm grip on Ghrenna’s whipping head, staying clear of her thrashing. In a moment, he had the violence down to a shiver. But her eyelids were still fluttering madly, and they would not open this time.

  “What did you do, you whorescunt?!” Luc snarled, murderous.

  “I kissed her.” Anguish twisted Elohl’s heart. Fear and helplessness coursed through his veins as he watched his lover writhe. Truth was best. It was Ghrenna’s life Elohl had just jeopardized, and he knew it.

  “Fucking hells!” But Luc’s sigh was more irritated than angry. “You know this strains me, Kingsman. I can’t continue to do this all night long. Each time I work on her, I get sapped. I’m not the fountain of bloody youth! Ghrenna? Ghren, sweetheart, come on back… come on…”

  Luc was all tenderness and care with her. Elohl regarded the man, seeing the sweet love the handsome thief held for Ghrenna. How much they had shared together over the years. Elohl’s heart withered in his chest, wishing they could exchange places. Ice crept in again as he spiraled down in a bitter despair, all his newfound peace sliding away.

  At last, Ghrenna seemed to have fallen asleep, her twitching subsided. But even so, Luc was still moving his hands, ever so slowly, still cradling her skull on the bare floorboards. Elohl reached out, fingers whispering over a lock of Ghrenna’s lovely white-blonde hair where it spilled across her shoulder.

  “I envy you.” Elohl managed, his eyes tight, burning with tears. “You can touch her. Love her. Be with her. I’ve waited ten years… ten years to be able to touch her. Hoping she was alive. And now…” He laughed suddenly, a harsh bark of despair. “Now this! My touch triggers seizures! The worst kind! I used to be able to soothe her... hold her, calm her. All I ever wanted was to be with her, Luc. I had dreams... Aeon, curse me for a fool!”

  Elohl stood abruptly. In a vicious chill of ancient despair, he pulled the lacings of his shirt closed, shrugged into his leather jerkin and halter of climbing items and knives, glancing out the single grimy window of the inn’s room at a bitter dawn. Tears falling thick and fast, he sat upon the bed, pulling on his soft leather climbing boots. Elohl rose, heading for the door to the hall. He had his hand on the bolt when Luc's rough voice called out behind him.

  “Hey! Kingsman! Where can she find you?”

  Elohl turned, not bothering to scrub tears from his weatherworn cheeks. “Do you really want to know?”

  “I don’t. I could give two shits. But she will. And Ghrenna leads our guild, not me.”

  Elohl considered the tall man upon his knees on the boards, still with his hands beneath Ghrenna’s head. The thief was a decent fellow. He was the sort of man Ghrenna deserved. A man who could be kind to her. Who could give her laughter and warm nights rather than pain and bitter memories. But jealousy seared a cold path deep into Elohl's writhing heart, and some part of him rose suddenly in promise.

  He would find a way, to be able to touch her again.

  “I’m at the King’s Cross, in the Tradesman Quarter.” Elohl murmured. “Third floor, second room on the left. Ask for Elohl den’Alrahel, Veteran High Brigade.”

  The man’s attention flicked over Elohl as if seeing something new. “Veteran High Brigade? High Brigade is a death sentence.”

  “So they told me when I was placed there.” Elohl gazed his last over Ghrenna's luminous beauty, her head so sweetly in Luc's long-fingered hands. He steeled himself in his promise. “None of us had any choice in our future when we were ripped from our homes, Luc. Believe me, I tried my best to die. Better to die than to be without her for so long.” He paused, his hand on the bolt of the door.

  “She loves you, you know.” The golden-maned thief growled, bitter but honest. “The way she speaks of you. Not often... only after her dreams. But even so... you'd be a daft bastard to leave her like this.”

  Elohl lingered upon Ghrenna's luminous beauty, some part of him dying at her vicious perfection. “Tell her I'm at the King's Cross?”

  The thief was silent a long moment, but at last nodded. “You’re a lucky man, Elohl.”

  “No. I'm not.” Elohl stepped out into the dim lamplight of the hall without looking back.

  CHAPTER 26 – TEMLIN

  Brother Temlin den'Ildrian massaged his white beard as he stared down at the Ghenje board, contemplating his dark and light stones. Abbott Lhem den'Ulio had backed him into a corner. The old geezer was grinning now, his dark grey eyes still sharp, though he was easily ten years older than Temlin. The lamps were turned up bright in the Abbott’s high-gabled apartments on the third story of the Annex. The scent of burning lamp-oil wafted about the room, drafted out the open windows and out into the frog-chorused night. It was too horridly muggy for a fire, but both geezers needed the lamps bright so they could squint at the pine board of squares, contemplating their moves. A man of much shrewdness, the First Abbot of the Jenners was infamous for his political maneuvering, and it showed in his Ghenje. Two mugs of pilfered honey-brown with the lhenken-hops sa
t to the side of the gaming board upon the Abbott’s vine-carven supper table.

  “Get on, then, Temlin! What’re you gonna do now, huh?” Abbott Lhem lifted his mug to his generous white mustachios with a drunken wink, his well-lined cheeks ruddy with ale. His bark was that of a military General, still hale and deep. Temlin wondered again how such a man had ever sought the monastic life. But he kept a tight ship running at the First Abbey, and his agile mind was always something to behold. Temlin twirled his beard again, pondering his move.

  “Keep messing with that beard and you’re gonna lose what’s left of your hair.” Abbott Lhem growled.

  “Keep swigging that honey-brown, and the younger Brothers are going to know their Abbot is drunk as a badger.” Temlin returned smartly.

  “Ah! Fuck the little men. I can drink if I want to.” Lhem swigged his ale again, defiant.

  Temlin chuckled, still considering the board. “The Way is the Life, and the Life is full of mellow wealth. Seek you to calm your passions, neither drink to pass your lips, nor the riots of flesh to grace your skin, and ye shall find the Peace and the Way of Inner Release.”

  “Don’t quote catechism at me, old man!” He leveled a thick finger at Temlin, then swigged his beer. “I could quote you around the Wall and back.”

  “So you could.” They had enjoyed such a battle before, and it had gone on for an entire week before one of the younger Brothers pleaded for a truce between them. “But sometimes I wonder how much the Way really sinks in for you…”

  “For fuck’s sake, Temlin! Get a move on!”

  “In time, in time, my friend… one must not rush the Bliss of the Way…” But he flicked his eyes up over his half-spectacles to Abbot Lhem’s, and grinned. Lhem leveled his meaty finger at Temlin, bouncing it like he was going to explode into a tirade, which he sometimes did to intimidate the younger Brothers. But instead, he simply began to chuckle, then to belly laugh, then finally dissolved his chuckles into his beer.

  “You old possum. Devious as the Ghost of Roushenn! Make your move, go on, then.”

  Brother Temlin finally did, sliding his white polished stone into an unoccupied space in the lower left corner of the board, trying to secure his left flank. He was losing already, he knew it, Lhem knew it. They were just playing it to see how close it would be. Their games were often within three points of each other, and playing to the bitter end pleased them both long into the night.

  Temlin finally permitted himself a sip of his ale, rolling it around his mouth for enjoyment while sitting back into the plush overstuffed chair. He only allowed himself a beer when they gamed, which was less frequently right now during the Dhenra's coronation. Some might have called their Ghenje nights together sacrilege, but Temlin chose to consider them enjoyment. The Jenner Way had no strict tenets against enjoyment, only against distractions and addictions. His love of beer was an addiction, ancient and strong, which was why he allowed himself only one, under the supervision of Lhem’s stern mustachios.

  And then there was that other thing they were supposed to be doing.

  “I had an interesting visit to day,” Temlin began conversationally.

  “Oh?” Abbot Lhem looked up, fingered his ample mustaches, then went back to considering the board. “Continue.”

  “A young man. Perhaps thirty. He was a Kingsman. Inked.”

  Surprise flitted over Lhem’s ruddy features. His grey eyes flicked up, sharp as flaying-knives. “Continue.”

  Temlin took a sip of his beer. “Inked, and marked also in another way. By Alranstone. Inked in gold.”

  Slowly, Abbott Lhem straightened. Grabbing his flagon, he sat his plethoric bulk back into his plush chair, imitating Temlin’s posture. He took another sip, a very small one, sharp hawk-eyes never leaving Temlin’s. “Goldenmarked? Are you certain?”

  Temlin sipped his beer. “So he said. So I believe.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now?!” Abbot Lhem slammed his flagon down so hard upon the table that ale slopped from the rim. “Dammit, Temlin! Does anyone else know about this?!”

  Temlin shook his head, enjoying baiting the Abbott. “I took him to the Far Ponds. To the bench. No one overheard us. The woman he brought with him knew about it. And she could corroborate the event. They weren’t lying. One night, he just wakes up, climbs a damn seven-eye stone, and in the morning he’s Inked in gold and can’t remember a thing but the word rennkavi. And when he climbs down, every eye upon the stone is open, and they blinked at his touch. He described them perfectly. When he traveled, it took the woman through, too.”

  “Sweet Nectar of the Way.” Lhem took an enormous swig of his beer, his attention riveted upon Temlin. He wiped his mouth with his black sleeve. “And you let him leave?!”

  Temlin chuckled. “He was a stubborn young man, he wouldn’t stay. Got squirrely for some reason. I had to let him go. But he’ll be back. He wanted information on his Inkings, on Alranstones, trying to find out what had happened to him. So I may have told him how to get into the Rare Tomes Room to review Mollia’s journals. Unofficially.”

  A slow smile spread across Abbot Lhem’s face, lifting his mustachios at the corners. “You old goat.”

  “Kingsmen have impressive talents.” Temlin swirled his beer in his mug. “I expect him sometime tonight, after midnight bell. After our game, you and I and Abbess Lenuria could be doing some late-night research... and oops! Catch him in the act of stealing rare journals and have a talk with him.”

  Lhem gave a devious chuckle. But suddenly, the mirth dropped from his mustachios and he sat silent, settling back into his high-backed chair with a scowl. Reaching up, he scratched at one ruddy ear, one of his few tells.

  Lhem was worried about Temlin's news. That was interesting. Temlin took a swig of ale, watching his longtime friend and fellow member of the Shemout Alrashemni closely. Lhem sat in silence a long moment, contemplating Temlin’s information. All Jenners knew the common version of the Uniter of the Tribes. A redemption parable about finding unity within oneself, finding peace and acceptance in life. But now there was a flesh-and-blood man who had opened every iris on a seven-eye stone. That a seven-eye stone would open for the Uniter was part of the official parable. But that the Unifier would be Inked by an Alranstone was not. That was a very deep secret. And now, a flesh-and-blood man wore the prophesied Goldenmark of the Uniter.

  The problem was, that the true Prophecy of the Uniter had been laid down by a seer some thousand years ago. And now, the exact tenets of the Prophecy had been fractured so badly that no one really knew the entirety of it. Part myth, part mystery, part hedge-legend, the original Prophecy was such a mess that no one had really ever bothered to track it. But the legend was still passed on among the Shemout Alrashemni, part of a whole mess of ancient oral lore they had to memorize to earn their hidden Bloodmark.

  And two of those were staring at each other now, sipping beer. Temlin rubbed his hidden Inkings beneath his modest black Jenner-robes. He noticed Lhem was absently doing the same, staring off into space. They locked eyes.

  “Have you heard from den’Selthir lately? Or has Lenuria?” The Abbot spoke at last.

  Temlin shook his head. “No… the channels have been quiet, and we've had no hawks. Den’Selthir is keeping a very low profile since Uhlas' death. I don’t blame him.”

  “So is Mollia.” Lhem murmured. “She hasn’t come through the Abbeystone for two years now.”

  “Lenuria thinks she’s grieving.” Temlin murmured, feeling that old pain, that old sadness lance through his chest. He’d not thought about it for so long, but whenever Molli came up, there it was, agonizing as ever. Love was truly bitter fruit, even for a man past his prime.

  “Maybe she’s dead.” Lhem grumped thoughtfully.

  “Molli’s always been strange.” Temlin countered, his heart gripping him suddenly, thinking that she might be dead. “Perhaps she’s just in seclusion, dreaming. Uhlas kept her a secret from the world for a reason.”

  “Your
brother was wise, Temlin. It’s not everyday that a King falls in love with a madwoman.”

  Temlin felt himself go hard as flint. “You take that back. Molli’s not mad.”

  “No, but she’s batty.”

  “You would be, too, if you saw things in your mind that would drive any other person completely insane.” Temlin snapped, the rage of a far younger man surfacing from underneath all his hard-won patience living among the Jenners. “But she saw this day, Lhem. She saw the Man with Goldenmarks coming right to the First Abbey. And she saw that we couldn’t turn him away. You know as well as I what happens if we don’t give him our help.”

  Lhem sighed heavily. “Annihilation of the Alrashemni, right to our very bones.”

  “We've held on this long in secret. Could we survive prophecy, do you think?”

  Abbot Lhem drummed his thick fingers upon the table. “Perhaps. But perhaps the portent of the Man with Goldenmarks coming to us means it's the Khehemni's turn to gut us.”

  “They've had their turn.” Temlin angrily swigged back more beer. “I think they did a fine job gutting us with that fucking Summons of theirs. Speaking of Khehemni.” Brother Temlin drained the last of his beer, then set it on the table with finality. “What are you going to do about the Chancellate and Lhaurent?”

  “The Castellan?” Lhem scowled, and his scowl held all the ferocity of a raging bear. “Fuck them. Evshein and Lhaurent have tried to blackmail the First Abbey into their operations one too many times. But we need to wait. They've yet to show a strong play.”