Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Chancellor Theroun stood off to one side of the ornate gilded desk in the Mirror Hall, where the pile of papers from his rooms now sat, temporarily moved by Thaddeus. The young, slender secretary was shuffling them, sorting them into stacks by nation, comprehensive lists off to one side. Theroun stood, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t the biggest man, but his presence was commanding, he knew, and he had always stood during a conference of war. He really didn’t see suitor’s negotiation talks as any different.

  But today was different. Today he had a role to play.

  He watched with his customary scowl as the Dhenra glided into the room from the south-second hall. Elyasin was resplendent, clad in a pale yellow silk gown cut low upon her bosom that clung to every movement. Her golden hair was done up cleverly in what Lhaurent had said was the current fashion in Elsthemen, with bone pins long enough to stab a man piling her bright waves in ornate braids, leaving her slender neck bare. Midnight-grey hahled-opals dripped from her ears and in a long spray from her neck, their veins of red fire catching the light and flaring like the Dhenra burned from within.

  It was a fetching combination, the hahled-stones native to Elsthemen, a nod to Elyasin’s suitor today. She was going to slaughter King Therel Alramir. But her beauty was not what made the pain in Theroun's right side lance. He bent into a deep bow to cover his twitch as the Dhenra proffered her hand for him to kiss, silk whispering about her person. She was quiet today, thoughtful, and she nodded to him.

  “Chancellor Theroun. I have read your treatise of the Elsthemi Highlands. My thanks to you and your apprentice for assembling it.”

  “Your highness.” Theroun bent over her hand, curtly, then straightened, hiding a wince. She turned from him, dismissing him until later, and glanced at Lhaurent. The man slid forward to his Dhenra smoothly, his soft grey boots hardly whispering over the gloss-polished bluestones inlaid with pearlvein that caught the light and threw it back, dazzling every mirror in the hall.

  Lhaurent bent over the Dhenra’s hand far more smoothly than Theroun had, his rings whispering beneath her fingers. “How may I serve, Dhenra?”

  “Please show the Elsthemi delegation in from the Crown Room. I am ready to receive them.”

  Lhaurent bowed deeply, then turned and slid away. The Dhenra motioned her guards back into various alcoves, leaving only Captain den’Alrahel close to Elyasin's person. The Captain-General of the Guard was a mess, her dark curls windblown and a hard glint in her grey gaze. Her shirt was sloppily laced and her cobalt jerkin undone nearly halfway, brazenly baring her Inkings. Their eyes met. Theroun felt like keshars had just stalked his grave. Part of him was impressed with the den’Alrahel woman, at the fighter in her, as he always was.

  And part of him could not abide her, for what she was.

  Olea den’Alrahel’s attention flicked past Theroun, scouring the room. The Dhenra turned and sat upon a high-backed, slender chair with red-tufted upholstery. She had strategically placed herself near the desk, near Theroun and her Guard-Captain, leaving room for King Therel and his entourage upon the other side of the circle of chairs. It was an informal meeting today in this small, personal drawing-room. The first of many, to discuss light matters and begin to broach issues of trade with the Highlands. Hence the Mirror Room rather than the Small Hall with its formal dining and negotiation table that could seat a good hundred.

  The double-doors to the front of the Mirror Room opened with a boom of air, stirring the indoor potted palms that flanked massive gilded mirrors. King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen strode in, followed quickly by his cluster of knights, lords, and guards, all wearing travel-ready buckled leathers and furs in the Elsthemi Highlands fashion.

  Tall and loping in, King Therel strode down the red annunciation carpet with his pack. His light blue eyes were wolf-like in their pale attentiveness, and he scoured the room as if he expected battle, one hand to a plain, functional sword only sparsely set with gilt. An astonishingly handsome man, the young King was in his middle twenties, his military-short white-blonde hair and scruff of blonde stubble displaying the rumors about him, that he was both seductive and frighteningly sharp. Resplendent in a light grey cloak with a grey wolf-pelt for a collar, he wore a black leather jerkin like his men, only the silver-etched buckles showing his station. Black tallboots rode his grey breeches, and it was here that King Therel's true nature showed. Buckled up the side with clever sheaths for knives, those leather boots were all function and no pomp.

  But upon seeing the Dhenra stand to receive him, he startled suddenly. It was a movement Theroun had not expected from such a cold, lupine man. Shivering to a halt, he looked at her, really looked at her. Other suitors had stared at the Dhenra, lovely as she had been upon those other days, but this was uncanny. Therel’s regard had sharpened upon her so keenly, that had he been a lance, he would have pierced right through her breast. A moment passed in the hall, Therel’s retainers confused, halting at his back, glancing at the Dhenra, then back to their liege. But as quickly as her radiance had stopped him, King Therel recovered. A seductive, lupine smile curled his lips, a smile of eager pleasure, his pale blue eyes rapt with attention upon the prize that was Elyasin.

  King Therel strode forward and gave an ornate swirl of his cloak, showing the blood red interior. Reaching forward smoothly, he fetched Elyasin’s proffered hand, bowing over it with a snap of his boots, genteel. It was a showy gesture, but well-reasoned. He didn’t have to bow. She was a Queen-heir, but he was a full King already, his father having died three years prior. But regardless of that, King Therel Alramir played a smart entrance. He hadn't come to their first meeting with a circlet upon his brow, nor much wealth of note. A pendant upon a plain silver chain dangled briefly when he bowed, but as he rose it slipped back inside his shirt. But Theroun had glimpsed it long enough to know that it was a keshar-claw that hung over the Elsthemi King’s heart. The Highlanders were wildmen, as wild as the cats they rode to battle.

  And King Therel Alramir wore their emblem upon his breast.

  “King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen. Be welcome. Are your suites to your liking?”

  “Dhenra Elyasin.” King Therel’s speech held the subtle, rolling northern accent, like a cat’s purr. He did not relinquish her hand, but lifted it to his lips, his pale blue eyes riveted to hers. His kiss was lingering, a brush of lips that nevertheless flared poor untutored Elyasin. Theroun stifled a growl as he watched his Dhenra fidget, rubbing the knuckles of the hand that dangled at her side. Her green eyes were wide, her breathing high, her lips slightly parted. When King Therel removed Elyasin’s fingers from his lips, he didn’t drop her hand, but instead held it close to his mouth as he spoke, so she could feel the heat of his breath. “We are richly accommodated. Your palace is a wealth of gracious hospitality. I give my humblest thanks.”

  He inclined his head, just a nod, but Theroun saw the Dhenra succumb even more. Her breathing quickened and her cheeks flushed, eyelashes fluttering as she reclaimed her hand. Something in Theroun growled at Lhaurent, who lingered nearby, watching in his best servile manner, hands clasped. That damn man had known that King Therel of Elsthemen would be the first to make such an impression upon the Dhenra. Her two prior suitors of note had been old hounds, and the young ones hadn’t held lands enough worth the Dhenra’s alliance. But this one. This suitor was a bright young wolf, and a rich one, and the impression that Lhaurent had engineered had been smoothly made.

  In fact, the young tundra cur before Elyasin had rolled her well and good.

  Just behind the Dhenra, Theroun saw Guard-Captain Olea den’Alrahel set her jaw in distaste of King Therel, her grey gaze scathing. Theroun quite agreed.

  “Please.” Dhenra Elyasin gestured to the unoccupied chairs. “Sit. I invite your retainers to retire to the adjacent Rotunda Room to discuss potential trade benefits for the clans over wine and gaming with Chancellor Evshein, whom you have already had the pleasure of meeting. My Castellan will show them through.”

&nbs
p; “You are most kind, Dhenra.” King Therel nodded and a generous portion of his entourage peeled away, following the bowing Lhaurent through a side door. Like the Dhenra, only a small cadre of guards remained, the roughhewn Highlanders scattering throughout the moderately-sized entertaining room, clustered around the gilded chairs in the middle of the pink and white granite columns. Two remained standing by their liege, including one older Highlander with white hair who walked straight and proud. Eyes dark and flinty, he wore an unembellished sword at his hip and a snowbear pelt around his shoulders.

  Devresh Khir. The First Sword of Elsthemen.

  Theroun narrowed his eyes upon the man, watching him closely.

  King Therel unclasped his cloak and handed it off to a thick-muscled bear of a retainer, but left the shaggy grey pelt about his shoulders over his black leather jerkin, giving him a wild, roguish look. He settled himself upon a high-backed seat of red velvet as near the Dhenra as he could get, as she resumed her own chair. Everyone else had a seat, except for the guards and Theroun by the desk. Theroun folded his arms with his customary glower. He didn’t change his demeanor for any royalty, and he was not about to change it now. The white-haired First Sword eyed Theroun with mild hostility, but at last settled into a comfortable standing posture to the left of his liege.

  Castellan Lhaurent returned to wait upon the gathered company, next to a rolling silver trestle laden with beverages and set with delicacies and roast meats. At the Dhenra’s nod, he cut the wax on a sealed bottle of wine with a moderate flourish and poured gilt-rimmed glass goblets, bringing them around. The silver-wrought trestle was wheeled to one side of the Elsthemi King, and all watched as Lhaurent tasted everything solemnly. At last, he stepped back, folding his hands and blending seamlessly into the mirrored room as though he had never been.

  Thaddeus shuffled some papers behind the desk to Theroun's right.

  The Dhenra fiddled with her knuckles.

  King Therel broke the yawning silence, clearly well-versed in courtly manners. He swirled his wine, admiring it for color and clarity. After a sip, he nodded and smiled graciously. “Very lovely. Your grapes bloom full and sweet, the mellow base complementing a high heady fragrance. It intoxicates me, Dhenra.”

  He sipped again, leaning at his leisure upon one arm of his gilded chair, his ice-blue eyes never leaving Elyasin’s. Her cheeks colored, but Theroun noted with satisfaction that she did not duck her head. Instead, Elyasin had a very regal sip or her own wine, regarding Therel with shrewd appraisal. “You appreciate our southern grapes? We do not import grapes from any other nation, though the wines of Praough sweeten the palate and light the heart as well as any.”

  Praough has an heir near marrying age, is what she means.

  But King Therel only chuckled smoothly. “The far southern climes are too hot for proper grapes. In Alrou-Mendera, grapes are chilled by ocean mists and snowmelt streams, while heated by fine summer suns, making your strains the perfect combination of tenacity and delicacy. Dhenra.”

  He sipped again, his regard pinning her.

  “And yet the far southern grapes are hardy indeed. Do you think our grapes wan, easily taken by frost or drought?”

  King Therel's smile was all seduction and little else. “Wan? No, not hardly so. The beauty of Menderian grapes is that they persevere in the face of much hardship. Erosion of soil from snows and a touch of frost or blight only intensify the flavor of such heady grapes. A flavor which I long to taste, to swirl in its goblet as I take my leisure by the light of roaring fires in the dead of night. For what man wants a wan or a hard grape? No. A man wants a supple grape, one that is ripe with beauty and bursting with juices upon the tongue. One that is only made luscious and sweet by hardship, by scorching, a touch of mist, and the deep wells of snow from between the rift of crevasses. Only such a grape does a man wish to take at the height of summer, to punish beneath his bared skin into the sweetest of mellowed wines.”

  Even Theroun was nearly gaping at the end of this onslaught. Papers shuffled nervously at his side, and Theroun held a hand out, forestalling Thaddeus' fidgeting. The Dhenra’s eyes were riveted to King Therel. Her breathing was fast, her face and chest blooming crimson. She was silent a long moment, then gestured regally, albeit somewhat shakily, for her Castellan.

  “Please…” She swallowed hard. “Another cup of wine for our honored guest.”

  Lhaurent slid forward smoothly, wine to hand. He poured carefully, refilling the King’s goblet. As he backed away, Therel saluted Elyasin with his goblet. “To Menderian wines, the finest in all the land.”

  The Dhenra swallowed hard, flushing again. “To gracious guests, who know quality when they see it.”

  At least she still has her brother’s tongue. Good girl.

  “Who know quality when they taste it.” Therel added, his lips curling into a rapacious smile. Theroun thought the Dhenra was going to drop her goblet, so violently did she tremble. She managed to hold onto it, and indeed, not to spill any upon her lovely buttercream gown. But Theroun noted with concern that her eyes did not leave King Therel over the rim of her goblet, and when it was time for petty conversation once more, the hand in her lap was rubbing one knuckle violently.

  And so it went. Him with innuendo, though ostensibly speaking of trade, her trying desperately to counter, growing more and more fidgety as the afternoon progressed. It was agonizing to watch. Thaddeus was shuffling so furiously Theroun had to press his hand down upon the stack of papers to get the lad to quit. Thad startled. Theroun made stern eye contact. The lad blushed, nodding his chin at the scene still unfurling before them as if asking what to do about it. Theroun shook his head with a scowl, letting Thad know that any interruption would be a severe breach of station.

  The Dhenra had to maneuver the raw sexuality of Therel Alramir all by herself. This wasn’t harder than managing a war, which she’d done in a vastly capable way for nigh-on two years. Theroun crossed his arms again, watching the pair duel it out, keeping an ear on Thad. He watched with scathing judgment as the Dhenra’s power slipped and slid, nearly obliterated by King Therel’s opening gambit. His salacious talk bruised her deep, and Therel had the upper hand of the conversation for most of that time, the Dhenra reeling and flushing, folding like a fan and more than likely entirely wet down below. Apparently, Therel knew what kind of talk made women wet, and that was it. Innuendo dripped from the man’s lips like honey, and Elyasin sank fast beneath wave after wave of his lances.

  But for all that, King Therel Alramir had a keen mind, Theroun had to accede that. Friend or foe, the Highlander King was no fool, even if he had hacked a woman to pieces and stuffed her in a trunk. When sexual banter gave way at last to talk of trade and tariffs, Elyasin had come into her element at last. Standing with the briskness of a battle commander, she stepped to the desk where Thad and Theroun waited, asking for a few lists. Hastily, Theroun’s secretary handed them over. Elyasin spread them out, leaning upon the desk in a decidedly unladylike way to look over lists, studying something shrewdly and nearly ignoring the Elsthemi King.

  And in that moment, Therel morphed into a man of business. Innuendo was quite suddenly shelved as he rose and came to the Dhenra’s side to examine the lists. And now, together, pouring through numbers and figures, they seemed almost a team. Commenting smoothly side-by-side on various matters, they pointed out pieces that each would like to maintain, and other areas for negotiation.

  Theroun watched it with a growing pleasure. Elyasin was showing her prowess now, thumping the Elsthemi brigand of a King with her wits, doing complicated sums on the fly in her head and raising the King’s blonde eyebrows. And just like this, they continued on. The hours flew by, the King and Dhenra deep in conversation, as if the rest of the room had utterly disappeared. And more and more, Theroun found himself pleased, suppressing a smile beneath his regular scowl. This was Uhlas’ daughter. Not some wealthy, idle waif just waiting for some man to show her the way to the bedchamber. And the Highlander
King had it coming if he presumed otherwise.

  But King Therel did presume at one point, as the sun was finally dying away beyond the high-gabled windows at the far end of the marbled hall, lighting the gilded mirrors with flaming oranges and reds. As they leaned over a map together, heads close, discussing the mining of silver veins in the Eleskis, Therel quite suddenly laid a few fingers upon Elyasin’s elbow. It was a small gesture, almost something one might do with a friend, a passing touch, neither sexual nor deviant.

  But the Dhenra nearly jumped out of her skin. Theroun was surprised she hadn’t yelped aloud, and was glad that her wine had been abandoned earlier. She snapped upright, shuddering so badly that King Therel actually blanched, concern suffusing his visage. They stared at each other, Elyasin breathing hard, the King quite silent. Standing near the desk, Guard-Captain den’Alrahel had her hand on the hilt of her sword, watchful, ready. A long moment stretched in the mirrored hall, the vast silence bouncing off the marbled granite gables as the light in the room whispered gold and red.

  “Forgive me.” King Therel murmured suddenly, heartfelt, raw and honest. He paused a moment, his lips parted as if he searched for the right words. And for the first time all afternoon, he seemed vulnerable to Theroun, as if something deep inside him might break should Elyasin reject him. Theroun’s gaze sharpened upon the man, watching this sudden, strange weakness.

  “I can see our conversation has many benefits, Dhenra,” the King recovered at last, his speech smooth but surprisingly plain, free of innuendo. “Perhaps we should adjourn for the evening and take this up again upon the morrow? My clansmen are quite tired from the journey. And though they would never say so, I think an ale and a good leg of roast meat would do them well.”

  Theroun blinked. Tact was not something he’d have expected out of the man.

  Elyasin recovered well also, giving a kind smile, though something in her green gaze seemed disappointed. “Of course. We forget our duties. A banquet has been set in the Small Hall, milord, for you and your men. A welcome for your journey, with feasting and music. I will attend anon, for a little while. Though of course, my schedule has been quite busy, you must understand, and I shall need to retire early.”

  “Of course.” King Therel dipped his chin in a slight nod, but his eyes never left hers. “But I would request, milady… the pleasure of your company for a dance at the banquet. Before you retire for the night.”

  A beat passed between them. Theroun watched it, standing nearby at the desk. He saw how Elyasin’s eyes shone with a dark light, to hear his bold request. He saw King Therel waiting, strung out now that he’d made such a plain move. Nervous. And Elyasin saw it, too. Her gaze lingered upon him, and a slight, clever little smile lifted her pink lips at last.

  “There will be dancing, I am sure. Milord. You will see me at the banquet. Until then, my Castellan will show you and your men back to your rooms so you may make ready. I look forward to taking a cup of wine with you at the festivities.”

  And with a gracious nod and an elegant but slightly snide dip of a curtsy, Elyasin let her gaze fall from the King’s, demure and frustrating as hell for any man. She sidled by, close enough that her sleek silk brushed the King, close enough for him to linger upon her scent. Theroun watched the man break. He saw the young wolf-King of the Highlands watch her go with agony in his eyes, a desperation far more than any man should have when watching a beautiful woman tease him. Without turning back, Elyasin clapped her hands smartly for her Castellan, who reacted with easy grace, sliding forward and bowing to the assembled Highlanders as they all rose.

  And just at the last moment, as Therel and his men were ushering from the hall, she raised her voice, standing proud by her high-backed, gilded chair with her Guard-Captain at her side. “King Therel!”

  He spun with a breathlessness about his person, his pale eyes startled and simmering, to have been called by her. “Yes, my Dhenra?”

  She gave a roguish grin. “Save a dance for me.”

  Therel’s retainers broke into the raucousness for which they were famed. Hollering, pounding their fists to the walls, to the door, they clapped Therel upon his shoulders, jostled him in a familiar way no King would have allowed from his men. But Highlanders were different. Theroun saw it now, how they were family, how the King cared for his men and they for him, looking out for each other through haunting winter nights full of burying snows.

  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.