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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  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?”

  He was still shamefaced. “My name is Brother Sheldran. Shall we proceed to the Abbey?”

  Elohl nodded, a smile still lifting the corner of his lips. “Lead the way.”

  They proceeded in, moving through manicured gardens near the walls, along a path separate from the thoroughfare through the main gates. The compound within the walls of the First Abbey brought Elohl right back to his childhood. Well-organized and exquisitely planned, similar to Alrashesh, each building was made of byrunstone blocks with cap-fitted rhivenstone shingles upon peaked roofs. Pearled glass windows anointed every building, creating fanciful triptychs and single-pane stories from the Penitent holy texts. The gables were high enough to cause snow to shed in the deepest winter at the foot of the Kingsmount, and even buildings that were barns for livestock or hostelry for the Penitents seemed like cathedrals.

  And unlike most of Lintesh, every building in the compound of the First Abbey was exquisitely carven. Flowered vines of byrunstone writhed up every corner, gargoyles and fanciful beasts graced every roofline, their wide mouths creating spouts for water-collection from gutters to rain barrels. They passed a granary entirely carven to look like fields of wheat and oats, and as Elohl peered closer, he saw foxes, rabbit, and small dragons creeping through the stalks. A storehouse nearby was carven with panels all along its length telling the story of hops, from planting to beer. A section of wall they passed beneath served as an aqueduct from one part of the compound over to lavish gardens exquisitely tended, the arched stone portal flowing with the rising Jenner Sun and miniscule script over a land of well-tilled fields.

  Absorbed in his surroundings, Elohl hadn’t noticed he’d been silent until Eleshen spoke at his side. “It’s beautiful! All the stone carving! Brother Sheldran, how long does such a thing take?”

  The man gazed around with an indulgent, fatherly smile as they walked through a quadrangle of buildings with gardens and a fountain at its center. “We have carved these stones for as long as Lintesh has been a city, young lady. Stories tell of the Abbey being founded just a single year after the palace was hewn from the mountain. A panel like that one there,” he pointed to a five-foot piece depicting incredibly lifelike deer in a forest, “Takes ten carvers a year. And one master can take five or ten years on such a piece, depending on how complex it is.”

  “So long…” She murmured, astounded. “Don’t they get bored? Does it really take that long?”

&
nbsp; The Penitent’s chuckle was indulgent. “No, not really. But the peace of carving is an act of Penitence. The thought, the careful consideration of the stone and what is to be carved, the feel of it, the silent participation in a team or the solitude of working on one’s own. The dedication, to do it day in and day out. Many take vows of celibacy and silence for the duration, to absorb themselves in the task. The Doing is the Way, the humbling loss of self into a greater Knowing. A Greater Way, beyond yourself. This is the Lost Way, which we must remember. Ah, here we are. Our First Dwelling. The first cathedral built upon our beloved grounds.”

  He gestured up a wide colonnade of byrunstone steps, to a building more ornately carven than many of the rest, clearly ancient from the amount of weathering it had taken, many of the carvings dulled with time. It wasn’t the most astounding building in the compound, a newer and far larger cathedral next to it, all high arches and domes and gargoyled turrets. But this one had a gravitas and simple elegance to it, as if those who had built it had done so in haste and only afterwards honed and shaped it to fantastical beauty. Brother Sheldran hauled on a massive iron ring to open one of the tall cendarie double-doors, and ushered them inside. “Please enter. Speech is currently permitted, as prayers are not in session, but please keep your voices respectful.”

  Elohl and Eleshen nodded, stepping through the doors. The space inside was vaulted, lit by thirty-foot panels of opalescent glass at the far domed end. Musk-heavy incense curled through the air, sighing from bronze censers suspended near the doors. Long rows of cendarie benches with meditation pillows proceeded forward to the central glass panels, depicting the Jenner Sun with its thirteen golden spokes.

  Elohl blinked, transfixed by the tableaux. Inside the Jenner Sun, he saw an image burned into his mind from long ago. A dragon and wolf fought each other, tumbling in their vicious glory. Dark halls flashed back. Elohl, staring up at the same image carven upon the torch-lit doors of the Deephouse in Roushenn. Nausea hit him suddenly, a wash of fear, the tension of that night flooding up through his newfound calm. He forced himself to see it, done here in sparkling ruby glass for the dragon, opalescent greys and whites for the wolf. Fire wreathed them, living flame, the gold of the Jenner Sun encompassing it all, trapping their fight in the center.

  But as he looked, he suddenly saw it was different. In Roushenn, the wolf and dragon had been equally opposed, in balance despite their fight. Here, the wolf was triumphant, the dragon’s neck in its bloody jaws, standing over the great serpent as it roiled upon its back, coiling in death throes. But not dead. The red eyes of the dragon blazed, livid as rubies, live as blood.

  Hateful of the wolf.

  “Do you like it?” Brother Sheldran’s soft baritone made Elohl startle, jerking. He blinked, the spell of the tableaux broken.

  “It’s ferocious.” Elohl murmured.

  “It’s like your back, Elohl.” Eleshen quipped before Elohl could stop her. “But different.”

  “The Battle of Wolf and Dragon. A fight to the death.” The Jenner Brother murmured, gazing at the glass rotunda, clearly having missed Eleshen’s comment.

  “What does it signify?” Elohl murmured, curious if this Brother had information.

  But the Brother merely shrugged, still staring at the tableaux. “Only the most learned among us have read deeply into the symbolism of the Wolf and Dragon. You should query Brother Temlin, who I am taking you to meet. He has made some study of it with the Abbess Lenuria, who is an expert on arcane symbology.”

  Elohl nodded his thanks. Brother Sheldran led them off to the right, towards a more modest area with stone arches that opened into reading-rooms packed with sturdy shelves of books and scrolls. He led them around a few twists of the hallway, then finally to a cramped study room, packed with tomes and odd items. A wire-framed older man with ample white streaking his combed-back red waves sat behind a cendarie desk. His nose firmly planted in his tome, he blinked up through reading half-spectacles, then lowered his chin and gazed over them, his green eyes sharp as emeralds and piercing as hawk talons. Elohl liked the look of the man immediately. Shrewd, he looked, fierce. Like a man used to war now past his prime, engaged in a war of the mind in his aging years.

  “Brother Temlin?” Their guide knocked politely at the open door. “The young man has a few questions about our faith. Are you occupied?”

  The older man smoothed his trim white-streaked red beard and let the leather-bound tome thud to the table irreverently. He raked a hand through his yet-thick waves and stood with the energy of a sprightly fox but the stiffness of a turtle, as if his joints hurt and he didn’t expect them to. Gesturing them in, he barked out, “Come! I was just finishing a treatise on House del’Ilio of Cennetia. Conniving, moneygrubbing bastards the lot of them! Inbred to boot, fucking their own sisters, and a quick hand with the poisons whenever it suited them! Come in, come in!”

  Brother Sheldran coughed, his face going red. “You will have to excuse Brother Temlin. He is… opinionated.”

  “Leave them here. Have Brother Berian bring ale for our guests, with bread and butter. They look thirsty. Shoo!” Brother Sheldran’s face reddened more as he was shooed out of the cramped study like a child.

  “Ah, well now!” Brother Temlin peered at the both of them over his flat-rimmed spectacles, his hawk-keen gaze taking them in as he brushed dust from his black Jenner robe. “Have a seat! Never mind the scrolls. Useless, the lot of them. Sit upon them if you like.” He gestured amiably to an overstuffed couch on the far side of the desk. Elohl gingerly shoved over a few ragged scrolls to make room for himself and Eleshen, and when they sat, the sofa revealed a puff of fine dust.

  “Now. I am Brother Temlin, Second Historian of the Abbey. Are you wanting to convert, lad, or does something else about the Faith pique your interest?” The Brother’s lips twisted into a wry smile, humor in his green eyes already saying he knew Elohl had no intention of joining the monks.

  Elohl shook his head, a smile flitting across his face, enjoying the man’s directness. “I am not interested in conversion, Brother Temlin. I have questions about your history and cannon.”

  “Well.” The older man leaned back in his chair, putting dry, dust-cracked bare feet up on the corner of his desk. He stroked his trim beard thoughtfully. “That would take all year. Is there something specific about the cannon you want to know?”

  A nervous-looking mouse of a young man suddenly appeared at the door, with a wide trencher full of hot-buttered bread, and two pewter flagons. Brother Temlin motioned him in, and the lad placed it all on the desk, nearly slopping ale in his haste.

  “What have we here?” Temlin asked, eyeing the flagons sharply.

  “Honey-red, Brother, with the baelin-malt.” The lad’s nervous speech was a bare whisper, his voice squeaking in the middle.

  “Shoo, shoo, lad. I’ll let Brother Vance know what our guests think of the honey-red later. Shoo.”

  The young man practically raced out the door. Brother Temlin gestured to the food and drink. “Sup, friends. You repay our time and efforts with the kindness of detailed commentary on the brew.” He winked.

  Elohl reached for a mug and passed it to Eleshen, nudging the bread trencher towards her. She needed no second urging and set to with haste. Taking his own mug, Elohl sipped. It was a lovely summer ale, with a crisp floral taste from the honey, and an expansive bouquet from the malt, with very little bitter. He nodded appreciatively, taking another sip, then answered Brother Temlin’s earlier question.

  “I’m looking for information on the Alranstones and their history. In particular, what the number of eyes signify. I’ve heard the Penitents have an origin story surrounding them.”

  Brother Temlin stroked his white-streaked beard, but his face had softened into wistfulness. “Better to have asked the Alrashemni, lad. They knew far more about the Alranstones. Are you a scholar?” But the way the man’s time-wrinkled eyes passed shrewdly over Elohl’s frame, lingering upon the golden marks just barely v
isible above his jerkin’s high collar, said he knew otherwise.

  Elohl’s gaze flicked to the open cendarie door, wondering if he should rise to close it.

  “Tongues wag less around here if doors remain open,” the old man said shrewdly, having noticed Elohl’s action. He pulled a piece of blank parchment from a drawer and wrote a short sentence with a pressed charcoal nib, passing it over to Elohl. Eleshen leaned over his shoulder to read along.

  Anything you wish not spoken, please write. You may take it with you and burn it in the cathedral braziers at the end of our session today. Many come here, to write meditations and burn them, releasing them to the Way. It will not be notable.

  Elohl nodded. But still, he glanced out the open door, taking a moment to spread his sensate sphere wide, monitoring for anyone lurking in the hall outside. There was no one. He undid a few jerkin buckles, then unlaced his shirt, pulling it down so the man caught a glimpse of both his gold and black Inkings, before lacing and buckling everything back up.

  The old Jenner betrayed surprise, though he hid it well. But Elohl had seen a flash of impression and deep understanding move through the man’s hawkish gaze, before it had been banished. Elohl’s heartbeat rose, knowing somehow, that he’d find a few answers here at last. But before he could speak, the Brother held up one gnarled hand, forestalling Elohl.

  “I must tell you, lad. We Penitents do not involve ourselves in political movements. Ours is a peaceful order, to promote the Way of Inner Knowledge. If this is about Alrashemni vendetta, you may leave now.”

  Elohl shook his head. “Though I war with my own demons, Brother, this is not about vendetta. It’s about something else.”

  The old man nodded, then beckoned for the paper. Elohl slid it over, then pulled it back when the man was finished writing.

  Curious about your Alrashemni lineage?

  Elohl shook his head, paused. He had a moment of concern, that anyone here in the Abbey could potentially be part of the cabal sending assassins after him, including this man here. But locking eyes with the old Jenner, Elohl had an impression of impatience and intolerance from this man, as if he abhorred secrets. It eased Elohl. He set the nib to the paper and wrote, These gold Inkings were given me by a seven-eye Alranstone, slid it back.

  Brother Temlin read it, blanched, and read it again. His lips fell open slightly. He looked up, eyes tightening in anger behind his spectacles. “Do you jest with me, lad?”

  Elohl shook his head. “I do not jest. What you’ve just seen was given me by no hand of man.”

  Brother Temlin went very still, his gaze roving over Elohl’s neck where the gold could yet be seen. He gestured for Elohl’s mug. Elohl slid it over. Brother Temlin took a very long swig, then slid it back. Settling into his chair, arms crossed, Elohl noted that Brother Temlin still had the firm chest and shoulders of a man who had once used a sword.

  “I think I would like to feed the ducks.” The Brother quipped suddenly. “How about you? Would the two of you like the take a walk out to the ponds?”

  Elohl nodded, understanding the need for privacy. He drained the rest of his mug and stood, Eleshen close upon his heels. The Jenner Brother exited his study, leading them along the side of the cathedral’s annex, and out a back door that opened into a sprawling herb garden. They crunched along gravel paths through the circular beds, towards the glimmer of water. Reaching the duck-ponds at last, Elohl found the air pleasant and cool, the area clearly used for meditation, with artfully sculpted paths for walking and byrunstone benches beneath cascading willows for sitting.

  Brother Temlin led them along the manicured paths, prattling about the Penitent canon, clearly stalling, and Elohl and Eleshen pretended their interest. Gradually, he led them to a secluded area near a part of the wall clearly used only for deep meditation. Elohl’s view over the ponds and to either side was uninterrupted. They would see anyone coming thirty yards away. He glanced up at the wall before having a seat on the bench Brother Temlin indicated, beneath a well-kept bower of lhumen-vine, their full yellow blossoms smelling of honey and reminiscent of squash.

  Brother Temlin followed his gaze up the wall. “Don’t worry, lad, we can speak privately here. This section of the wall plays funny tricks on sound. We’ll hear anyone coming before they hear us. Only us old-timers know it, though.” He winked conspiratorially. “So… those golden marks you bear were Inked by a seven-eye stone.”

  Elohl nodded. “I was hoping someone here would know about it. A friend told me the Jenners have a history with the Alrashemni and the Alranstones. Something called me to climb the stone, to sit atop it beneath the full moon. A…pulse. Like a heartbeat. And I know I dreamed, but the only thing I can remember is the word rennkavi and a vague impression of a man with red and white Inkings. When I woke in the morning, every eye on the stone was open. And when I placed my hands upon it… they blinked.”

  Brother Temlin’s white eyebrows had been steadily climbing his face. “And you swear to me this is all truth, lad?”

  Eleshen piped up in irritation. “I saw it. It’s all true. One day he just had his Kingsmount and Stars, and the damn stone wouldn’t even open a single eye. The next morning, he had all that gold on his skin and every damn eye was open, and when he set his hands to the Stone, they blinked for him. Then we traveled through it.”

  Brother Temlin blinked at her. “The stone let you go through? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not Alrashemni.”

  Eleshen shook her head. “I’m not.”

  Brother Temlin sat back, stroking his white beard. “Tell me, lad, what color were the eyes on the seven-stone?”

  “The lowest eye was jet, then lapis, then malachite. The one in the center of the column shone every color like a diamond. The fifth was moonstone, then citrine, and the one at the top was Elsthemi fire opal.”

  “By the Light of the Way,” Brother Temlin murmured, sitting back against the bench and stroking his beard. “And you swear to me you’ve never read any Jenner cannon?”

  Elohl shook his head. “Never. Like I said, my friend told me about it.”

  “Then he told you the Heimkellen. The Prophecy of the Lost Tribe, and the Uniter.”

  Elohl nodded. “I don’t claim to be this man in your prophecy, Brother. I just need to find out what all this means.”

  Brother Temlin nodded, still stroking his beard. “Tell me, lad, do you know what the word rennkavi means in the ancient Alrashemni dialect?” Elohl shook his head, but he leaned in, ready to hear what this man had to say.

  “Rennkavi often is translated as ‘binding’.” Brother Temlin continued. “But to the ancient Alrashemni, of which us Jenners were once part, it carries many interpretations. This word can sometimes mean to bind or make bound, as in binding a wound or tying things together. Or it can mean, one who binds, or, he who remembers. Some interpret it as indicating a wise man, like a sage, or a scholar. Some think the word has yet another meaning, and I am one of those. The suffix –kavi was traditionally used to mean unity, like the unbroken circle of the sun. The prefix renn means to bring. But in High Alrakhan, such a combination was often used as a noun. So the word actually means unifier, or unity bringer. The person who embodied the rennkavi was a person to bring others together. A leader.”

  “So why do I remember that word and nothing else?”

  Brother Temlin eyed him. “You should rather ask, how in the Great Way did you open all the eyes upon an Alranstone and get those golden marks Inked upon you!”

  “What do you know about the Stones?” Eleshen chimed.

  “I’ve made a study of them from historical accounts.” Brother Temlin glanced back to Elohl. “You described the iris colors perfectly. But you must know, most of that knowledge was kept by the Alrashemni. When the Jenners were kicked out of the Alrashemni, the Rakhan at the time was furious and would not allow us Jenners access to the old annals. He feared we would retaliate against him, and sent the annals to a mountain stronghold somewhere. So we do not have
those records.”

  “Has there been nothing written about the Stones since then?” Eleshen voiced Elohl's question, glum.

  “There are a series of tomes about thirty years old that apply,” Brother Temlin continued. “The journals of Sister Mollia den'Lhorissian, who joined the Jenners in her teens against the wishes of her family, a long line of palace healers. She was training to be an Alran-keeper, a post that has not been observed in three hundred years or more, due to the lack of anyone with the suitable gifts for it. But Mollia had the right gifts, so she took up the ancient trainings. She wrote down what she learned about Alranstones from her experimentations with them, and those journals are in our keeping.”

  “What did Mollia den'Lhorissian's writings say?” Eleshen was rapt with attention.

  Brother Temlin shrugged. “Much, and little. Her language is cryptic and difficult to decipher. Some of the text is High Alrakhan, which, as you now know can have many meanings. Some of it was written in a cipher so complex that it still has not been unwound. Entire pages are filled with unidentifiable sigils. Many thought Sister Mollia had gone mad from interacting with the Stones. Apparently, Alran-keepers in the past often did go mad. It was one of the reasons the Alrashemni decided to no longer train young minds in such mystics. It involved frequent usage of very potent mind-altering plants. Mollia became quite addicted, and quite addled, even by age twenty-five.”

  “You speak as if you knew her.” Eleshen’s voice was somber, her comment perceptive.

  The old Jenner glanced over to her, sharp. “I did. Yes, I did. A very sad tale.”

  Elohl paused a moment, then unbuckled the upper part of his jerkin to bare some of his golden Inkings. “Do any of these sigils look familiar?”

  Brother Temlin leaned closer, adjusting his spectacles and squinting. “Could be. But it’s been a long while since I read Sister Mollia's works. I’d have to get permission from the First Historian to get into the Rare Tomes room.”

  “Could you ask him?” Elohl buckled his jerkin back up.

  Brother Temlin shook his head. “Not right now. He’s away in Rhaventia, in conference with our Jenner sect there. He’ll be gone a month or more.”

  Elohl sighed, his heart sinking, feeling that they had reached a dead-end. “I can’t wait that long.”

  Brother Temlin sat a moment, then pulled off his spectacles and began to polish them, peering at Elohl, shrewd. “You look like a man of… capability, Kingsman. The Rare Tomes room is locked, near the Fifth Spoke, the guard-tower near the Annex where we began our conversation today. It's an underground vault, connected to the Annex by a below-ground passage and some stairs, which issues from behind the Statue of Sage Lherrick. He’s the one with the birds on his shoulders. The room is cleaned weekly, on Dornast. Otherwise it is unoccupied. None have permission to visit while the First Historian is away, other than the Abbott and Abbess. There is a key in the Annex office, clearly labeled. The Annex office watch changes at midnight and again at noon. If you are interested in such things.”

  A slight smile spread across Elohl’s face, understanding the man’s meaning. “Many thanks for answering my questions about the Jenner Faith, Brother.”

  “Glad I could be of assistance.” The Brother grinned. “Anything else?”

  “Actually…” Unease sifted through Elohl. There was one more question he wanted answered. “Can you tell me about the emblem in the stained glass? In the First Dwelling. The Wolf and Dragon?”

  Brother Temlin smiled knowingly. “An ancient symbol. It signifies conflict, or so the oldest sources say. Unceasing conflict… the kind that tears a man’s soul apart. Have you seen it before?”

  Elohl nodded. “Once before. But it was different. Balanced… neither animal winning.”

  Brother Temlin crossed his arms over his still-hard chest, staring Elohl down. “You’ve been inside Roushenn. You’ve seen it in the Throne Room.”

  Elohl shook his head, venturing the truth. “No. On the doors of the alehouse deep beneath the palace.”

  “Ah.” A strange look of relief flickered over the man’s lined features. “It’s the same in all the Great Palaces. Eight of them, so it’s said, all through our vast continent. And where those palaces were built with that emblem… a strong center of commerce took root where none ever was before. A symbol of blessing? Perhaps. Lore and mystery. Ringed in fire, the classic tableaux depicts the two ever-battling, neither vanquished. The symbol goes far back, to the Alrashemni’s foreign origins.”

  “And yet here in your Abbey, it shows the wolf victorious, and rather than a ring of fire we see the Jenner Sun encircling it all.”

  “Observant.” Brother Temlin’s green eyes were scalding. “Does it bother you, lad? That tableaux?”

  Elohl shifted, feeling suddenly undone. This man was far cleverer than Elohl supposed.

  The older man smirked. “It disturbs many. Conflict is ever thus. But I’ll tell you something. I’ve heard it described as a blessing, the balance the wolf and dragon have in the classic tableaux. And though the wolf is victorious here in the Abbey, which some suppose is the triumph of righteousness over deceit, I’ve heard a different tale. That the Jenner Sun imprisons the conflict, lending power to the wolf for victory, where otherwise there would have been none. Ancient symbolism, of a war waged long ago. A war that your Alrashemni ancestors had something to do with.”

  “My mother used to tell such tales. That we fled our ancient home, because of that war.” Elohl murmured. “So are the Alrashemni depicted by the wolf, in the tableaux?”

  The old Jenner lifted one white eyebrow. “Or are they the dragon? Or does the tableaux signify something else entirely? I have no answers for you on that account. But my Abbess might. She is far more learned than I on the ancient mysteries.” The old man rose stiffly to his feet. “I would offer that the two of you stay as guests in the Abbey this night. We have comfortable guest-quarters for those who travel seeking information on the Way. I can have rooms made up in a trice, and offer a hot meal and even a bath. I'm sure our Abbott and Abbess would be interested in meeting you and asking about your experiences with the Alranstone. And my Abbess Lenuria den’Brae may be able to answer your questions further.”

  But quite suddenly, Elohl found that his golden Inkings had begun to itch and tingle, almost a burning sensation all across his shoulders and back. Something in Brother Temlin’s last words had triggered it, and a sharp unease rose in Elohl, feeling that this sensation in his Inkings was somehow similar to his premonitions of danger from his natural gift. It made him balk at the Brother’s seeming kindness. Made him question, suddenly, the man’s motives.

  “Thank you, but not tonight,” Elohl found himself politely declining. “We've rooms in the city, and they're paid for.”

  “It would give you better... access. To precious information.” Brother Temlin's green eyes glittered, intelligent, foxlike.

  “I've not got any of my gear upon me, Brother,” Elohl murmured, even more certain that getting him to stay at the Abbey was a ruse.

  “No! I suppose you haven't. Well. When can I expect your return with more questions?”

  “A few days,” Elohl protested subtly, unnerved by what had just happened. “After I've had some... reading time.”

  “Very well.” The older man laughed, but something flashed across his visage. He gripped Elohl’s arm, hard, little infirmity in that old swordsman’s grip, though strangely, Elohl’s Inkings had ceased tingling. “Those journals of Mollia's are in the Rare Tomes room for a reason. If I hear of anything missing or damaged, I will find you.”

  Elohl’s eyebrows raised. “I thought the Jenners were a peaceful order.”

  But the old man’s green eyes were suddenly hard as stone and twice as sharp. “We are descendants of Alrashemni, boy. We didn’t secede because of a lack of passion. Merely a belief in a more sustainable Way. We haven’t forgotten our Brothers and Sisters of the Kingsmount, nor their honor.”

  Elohl didn’t kn
ow what to make of it. The Brother was so vicious, almost violent in his profession of support of the Alrashemni that it made Elohl question suddenly, whether the tingle in his Inkings had been a warning or something else. He found he had nothing to say, staring at the Brother in a moment of gripping intensity.

  At last, the man nodded, a kind of strange certainty filling him. “Well, then. The offer to stay here in the Abbey stands if you want it.”

  Elohl paused a beat, then spoke. “I’ll consider it.”

  Brother Temlin stared at him just a moment longer. Then finally sighed, as if the fight had gone out of him. “As you like, lad. As you like. Just know that we’re here should you need any further advice. Shall we?” He gestured back towards the Abbey with one old, gnarled hand.

  Elohl nodded, unease still roiling his gut as they began the trek back towards the cathedrals, silent in the noon sunshine.

  CHAPTER 22 – OLEA