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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  “No.” Dherran growled. “Get out.”

  “As you wish, sirrah. I am to inform you also, that the Vicoute has sent a man to wait for your own servingman back at the fighting tents.” But this man was no wilting flower, with good-shouldered brawn and a trim waist like he spent most of his time upon the practice yards rather than in the house. His dark brown eyes showed obvious disdain as he eyed Dherran’s shirt, then his trousers, like a father might eye his most filthy urchin. “Sir, may I suggest...?”

  “You may not.” Dherran tried to shut the door in the man’s face, but the servingman cheekily put his boot in the door.

  “You know, if I had the opportunity to dine at a Vicoute's table,” the fellow spoke softly, but with an edge of iron, “I would make full use of it. I hear Kingsmen are experts at negotiation. One does not negotiate an evening with a Vicoute dressed like a bandit. Sirrah.”

  And despite his temper, Dherran knew the man was right. With a growl, he opened the door wide, gesturing angrily to the wardrobe. “What do you suggest, then?”

  With only a slight smirk, the man stepped quickly inside, shutting the door. He paced to the wardrobe, threw it wide, paused. He glanced at Dherran’s nakedness, eyes narrowing critically. And then pulled out breeches, a shirt, a jerkin, a pair of leather kneeboots, and a belt, thrusting them all into Dherran’s hands. “Wear these. At least you’ll not look like a pauper.”

  Dherran was about to cuss him, but the disdain in the man’s face suddenly made him feel ashamed of his temper. He was uncultured and he knew it, a far cry from how he’d been raised. And then, something within him resolved to try harder. He buried his growling, stepping into the clothes without protest. The white rough silk shirt was the softest thing he’d ever worn. The breeches were nearly as soft, a tight fit in dark green lambswool, showing off his muscled thighs. The dark brown leather kneeboots were creamy smooth, and the brown belt to match was tooled with a rushing river. His jerkin was doe-leather, dyed dark green like the trousers with a high open collar. It was a crossover military-cut, and suited his athletic frame like a second skin. Dherran waved away a tray of men’s jewelry, needing no adornment.

  The servingman backed away with an amused nod. Dherran ran a hand through his blonde hair, then glanced in the full-length mirror. And didn’t recognize himself. The man who stared back at him looked every inch the lord, tall and well-built, with hard green eyes and lines of temperament cutting across the face of his youth.

  Dherran looked like his father. Almost exactly as he remembered. With a rough sigh, Dherran turned from the gilded mirror, regret and anger surfacing. He gestured to the door, and the servingman led on. Pacing down the long hall of armor and oddities, he stewed, silent and brooding after the servingman. Moving down the soft cobalt carpet upon the marble stairs, he was led through a parquet-floor ballroom and then a sitting parlor crowded with potted ferns. At last, they came through a set of gilded white-oak doors into a massive dining hall flooded with light from an entire wall of bay windows. Slanting early-evening sun caught crystals in the chandeliers, throwing rainbows about the room.

  Khenria surged from her chair at the white marble table with a full-throated laugh, her face lit upon seeing Dherran. The silk of her close-clinging gown shone a rich emerald in the golden sunlight, pouring like water over her every curve and muscle. White lace delved to her décolletage, the plunging neckline of the bodice maddening. Lace fell from her sleeves, covering her hands and cascading towards the floor. When she moved, a lace-covered slit parted in her gown, slashed scandalously high over one hip, everything Dharran had almost tasted barely hidden beneath. An emerald pendant the size of his thumb nestled between her breasts, and emeralds dripped from her earlobes. Lips rouged and eyelids lined, her short black curls expertly smoothed and arranged, she smoldered for him.

  Talons sank deep into his heart. Dherran gaped at her like a fool.

  “She looks just as beautiful within the fighting ring as without, does she not?” Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir had stood, motioning Dherran forward to the table. Large enough to seat thirty, it was set only for three at one end, tall branched tapers lit against the oncoming night. “Come, sit! Your lovely student has already been telling me of your most unusual training tactics.”

  Dherran hated the man instantly, how cultured he was. Wearing a jerkin of crimson silk, he still wore riding breeches and boots, though these were finer that what he’d had on earlier in town. His iron-shot waves were oiled back artfully, his person smelling of sandalwood incense. Rings bedecked his fingers, costly with gemstones, and a sapphire pierced the lobe of one ear, set in gold. The Vicoute looked like a rogue, with the hard edge of a man who took what he wanted. And as his gaze flicked to Khenria, Dherran felt himself sear with jealousy.

  “Has she?” Dherran sneered.

  “Indeed.” Den’Selthir motioned again for Dherran to have a seat. As soon as he did, his host also sat. “Challenges of surprise combat, even while the other is fast asleep. Interesting.”

  Dherran growled internally as he sat. A servingman stepped forward to fill his wine goblet. Primping obviously at the table, Khenria pressed her elbows in to plump her breasts. Leaning forward, she batted her dark eyelids at the Vicoute. And worse, it seemed to be having an effect on Arlen den'Selthir, who was solicitous, engaging her in banter that Dharran wasn’t hearing through the acute jealousy that hummed his veins. They laughed, Khenria throwing back her head, showing her white throat. Dherran glowered, taking a generous swig of his wine. He took another swig, missing the conversation entirely.

  “Dherran?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  Khenria was looking at him oddly. “The Vicoute just asked if you would show him a few fighting moves after supper.”

  The Vicoute spoke. “I have an indoor training arena beneath the manor.”

  Dherran swigged his wine. “If you want to get hit, sure.”

  The Vicoute leaned forward, swirling his goblet, his pale blue eyes suddenly sharp as the grey iron streaking his blonde hair. A cold fire moved in him, honed like spears. He did not even glance down as a simmering plate of ghennie-fowl in a cranberry sauce was placed before him. “You are a man of very little tact, Kingsman. Tell me, how did one such as you escape a lynching all these years? Flaunting your Blackmarks at every bout, inciting riots. I’m sure today has not been the first occasion your hide was almost skinned, nor may it be your last.”

  Dherran swigged his wine obviously to show the extent of his lack of care about tact. “I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

  Den’Selthir chuckled, swirling his wine. “With fists, perhaps. But is it enough? How many times have you had to run for your life?”

  Dherran was about to answer with an epithet, but Khenria answered for him. “Eight times in two years, at least.”

  “Eight times?” Den’Selthir’s dark eyebrows lifted, his gaze scathing. “You are a survivor, it seems. With the harvest-time Kingsman Burnings, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.”

  “They don’t actually burn Kingsmen at harvest fest.” Dherran sneered.

  Den’Selthir leaned forward, his eyes hard. “But how long before they get the idea to have an actual Kingsman Burning? How many times do you have to piss off a public before it’s your body they truss to the burning-pole and not a stuffy-guy? When it’s not a burlap sack of straw dressed all in black, but a living flesh-and-blood man they want to watch burn? Or perhaps a woman?”

  His gaze flicked to Khenria. That was all Dherran needed. He lurched out of his chair, his food untouched on its gilded china plate. “Khenria. We’ve leaving.”

  “But you’ve hardly arrived.” Den’Selthir’s tone was smooth and mild, but hard as iron. He had not budged from his posture of repose, swirling wine idly. “And you’re hardly worthy of those markings you flaunt.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to make me worthy of them?” Dherran snarled.

  “I could.” Den’Selthir took a small sip from
his goblet, his eyes locked on Dherran, cold fury in their ice-blue depths. “You do owe me, after all. For breaking my liege-man. For saving your life. For teaching you manners like a real Kingsman.”

  Something inside Dherran snapped. His rage rose, untamable, surging like a lance towards the man who was goading it. Part of his mind knew den’Selthir was unarmed, had roved the man’s fine clothes when he had risen from the table in greeting. Part of him knew the servingmen were similarly unarmed, in their fine coats for table-waiting.

  The rest of him didn’t care. He lunged for den’Selthir. He didn’t know what he intended. But suddenly, den’Selthir had launched from his chair, sending it flying backwards. He pivoted smoothly so Dherran’s attack found nothing but air, seized Dherran by the throat. And in one move lifted him from his feet and tipped him backwards, slamming him into the marble floor-tiles so hard that a tile cracked beneath Dherran's broad back. All breath was driven from him. His head rang, lights pulsed in his eyes from where his head had hit the marble. Dherran gasped beneath the Vicoute’s iron grip, vaguely aware of Khenria surging from her chair to attack the man who still had Dherran pinned by the throat.

  “Stay back, girl!” The Vicoute snarled viciously, all pretense of lordly manners gone, his icy eyes flashing. “This is between your incomplete mentor and myself. Touch me and I will break your arm to teach you a lesson in mis-timed courage! And you,” he snarled coldly at Dherran. “Your parents should have named you Dherrennic, the Gutting Boar! For you will surely secure this fate for us all if you continue on as you are! Kharlos! Seal the doors. No one comes in or out tonight, unless Whelan comes with the Khehemnas in custody. If he does, have him sleep in the cells, guarding the man.”

  A servingman from the table rushed to comply, his fine clothes, Dherran suddenly realized, a costume for a far more dangerous man beneath. Just like the entire persona the Vicoute had showed until this very moment. The Vicoute’s pressure eased somewhat on Dherran’s throat as Dherran stopped struggling, and he was able to gasp a ragged breath.

  “Khehemnas?” Dherran coughed. “What…?”

  The Vicoute was cold steel as he regarded Dherran, all pretense of an idle lord utterly gone. “You travel with the enemy, boy.”

  “And who the fuck are you?” Dherran growled through his damaged throat, head pounding like a madman.

  The Vicoute’s grip tightened warningly upon Dherran’s throat. “I am the Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir, boy, and I have a people to protect. Alrashemnari aenta trethan lheroun! And you are fucking it all up.”

  At last, the Vicoute released him. Massaging his throat and swallowing, feeling it swelling where the Vicoute had manhandled him like a fool, Dherran gradually sat up, then managed to get up into a chair at the table. He was stunned, both from his sudden besting and also from the man’s High Alrakhan. Khenria was silent, sipping her wine with eyes agog. A servingman moved close, setting a mug of something cold before Dherran.

  “For the pain, sirrah.” He murmured, low.

  At the man’s words, Dherran was suddenly aware of his pain, lancing through his head, neck, and back. He took the mug, sipping gingerly, tasting a bitter herb tea. His head throbbed, and there was a distinct tender area near his spine, where he’d probably cracked a rib. But his headache began to roll back with the tea, and he chanced a look at the Vicoute. Seated, the man had lapsed into a dangerous, simmering silence. He’d allowed Dherran to rejoin civilization at the table, but Dherran had a feeling that anything he might say in his own defense would only provoke another beating. And looking at this man suddenly, seeing his sword-honed sinew, Dherran wondered just what kind of man he was dealing with. Alrashemni. Dherran’s gaze flicked to the man’s well-covered chest, wondering. At last, the Vicoute heaved an irritated sigh. He took a well-tempered sip of his wine, then swirled it, the masque of a lord falling into place once more. But it was a masque and it was not. Dherran had the feeling this man had actually been a Vicoute for quite some time, in addition to being a Kingsman, somehow.

  “Listen, boy, and listen well to what I am about to say.” Arlen den’Selthir spoke at last in a flat, imperious tone. “For I will say it only once. After tonight, you may not speak of it, you may not ask me of it, and you may not mention anything of what or who I am to anyone outside this room. Do you understand?”

  Dherran nodded, cleared his throat. “I understand.”

  Den’Selthir’s icy gaze fell upon Khenria.

  “I understand,” she spoke quickly.

  The Vicoute nodded regally, pinning Dherran again with his gaze. “Every person on the entirety of this estate is either a Kingsman or Kingskinder in hiding. The man you broke today was the same. The Kingsmen here were on political missions abroad, away from Lintesh and the Three Courts when the Summons was sent down ten years ago. We were not able to make it in time to renew our vows. But when we heard of how everyone else had disappeared, naturally, we all went underground. Fortunately for me, my position has always been underground. After the Summons, the King met with me on his travels back from failed negotiations in Valenghia. He told me to spread word among the gentry, the landed, and the military that the Kingskinder were to be protected at any cost once they had been put into positions of tradecrafts or soldiering. Now, why do you think the King would send a Summons calling the Kingsmen traitors and cause them to disappear at Roushenn while he was away on political mission to Valenghia, then cruelly capture our children, then turn right back around and protect our children immediately afterwards?”

  Dherran’s entire world shattered in an instant. Disbelief filled him. So many lies, curling through his mind. He glanced down. His hands were shaking in his lap, but not from fury. From fear. And it came at last, the same feeling he ran from, the same feeling he fought, the same feeling that he burned to forget. The terror of having to run. Run home, run back, hoping they weren’t dead. Facing off with the man in herringbone leathers. Run away, away from Suchinne’s death, away from prison for his actions. Run from every town, run from their slurs, from their hate. From the lies they’d been told.

  And here, at last, was the proof.

  Silence fell around the table. The Vicoute was glaring at Dherran. “I’m asking you, Kingsman! Use your brain for once and answer my question!”

  “Because the Summons didn’t come from the King…” Dherran whispered.

  “There are brains in there after all.” The Vicoute was acerbic. “Yes. The King was not even at Roushenn upon the appointed day of the Summons. He was in Valenghia in secret, trying to salvage trade relations before it could turn into a war. Which obviously failed.”

  “So the King comes here on his way back, and hears what has happened to the Kingsmen for the first time.” Khenria jumped in, wide eyes blinking.

  Den’Selthir nodded. “Precisely. And finds he has been betrayed. But by whom? And suddenly, he realizes his palace is dangerous, which even our own agents inside Roushenn knew nothing of. How do you suddenly lose almost two thousand people? In any case, he issues a secret edict to protect the Kingskinder. It goes out everywhere, but only through our channels. Kingsman channels. Agents are assigned to keep each and every one of you ungrateful miscreants alive. Ever have a friend who saved your life? Perhaps more than once?”

  Dherran swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He remembered the day Ottavio had taken a blade for him, helping him escape prison in Quelsis. He glanced over at Khenria. She was very pale. He didn’t know anything about her past, and even now, she was mute on the subject of her life before Grump. But Dherran could see it in her, the terror of something awful, that she had somehow escaped, maybe with help.

  Maybe because someone took a blade for her.

  Arlen den’Selthir nodded in a world-weary way. “I see you both are no strangers to assassination attempts. Hear me now, and hear me well. There is a power behind the throne of Alrou-Mendera. A throne the Alrashemni once held openly, which has now been usurped. For centuries, a secretive group of agents called the Khehemni h
ave been a thorn in our side. More than a thorn. A fucking blade without mercy, both here and abroad. Myself and others of us in hiding believe the Khehemni were behind the Summons, and the subsequent deaths of Dhenir Alden den’Ildrian and King Uhlas den’Ildrian. But we have no proof. Meanwhile, the popular opinion of the Kingsmen dwindles to little more than pure hate. Popular traditions like the Kingsman Burning at harvest-time don’t make it any better. And you,” he glared at Dherran now, “are making it much worse. I hereby forbid either of you to fight in public spectacle from here on out. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very.” Khenria whispered fearfully.

  “And who are you to give such an edict?” Dherran murmured, subdued but needing to know.

  Den’Selthir eyed him coldly. “I am your Elder, boy. And if you want to earn those markings you have so foolishly had Inked by an amateur before you were ready to become full Alrashemni, you will do as I say. Alrashemnesh aere veitriya Rakhan rhavesin.”

  Dherran swallowed, his bruised throat tender. “You’re a Rakhan?”

  Den’Selthir did not blink. “I am Rakhan of a Court you’ve never heard of, and a name I will never again repeat. I am Rakhan of the Shemout Alrashemni.”

  “Shemout. The Hidden People.” Dherran murmured, remembering his High Alrakhan.

  “Just so.” The Vicoute nodded. “We are the Kingsmen behind the Kingsmen. We are born in secret, we are trained in secret, we live in secret, and we die in secret. And we comprise almost all of the Alrashemni who are left. To the world, I was born a Vicoute, I live as a Vicoute, and I will die a Vicoute.”

  But then, Arlen den'Selthir suddenly began unbuckling his red silk jerkin, pulling his fine white shirt open. And without pause, he took up the steak knife by his plate and drew it across the skin of his chest, biting deep, drawing blood. As Dherran watched, curls of red began to lance through his skin, like ink moving through water. Red it was, ruby-bright, slit-throat bright. And as Dherran watched, the curling moved outwards, stabilizing into a Mountain and five crowning Stars. A set of Inkings so red they looked like fresh blood upon the Vicoute’s skin.