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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Olea stood at attention in the cavernous Throne Hall. Hands folded over the pommel of her sheathed sword, she kept watch up on the white marble dais, a step behind the plain bluestone throne and just to the left. Down below the dais, suitors and their entourages peppered the hall in clumps for the first reception of the Dhenra’s coronation week, along with higher ranks of lords from Alrou-Mendera. Dwarfed by the sprawling, vaulted recesses of the space, richly-dressed men and women lingered by the massive bluestone columns. Others stood brazen in the center of the checkered black and white marble floor, near the red carpet that split the hall to the steps of the dais, as if they’d be more noticeable in their finery and jewels. Liveried servants moved here and there with ewers of iced lemon-water crushed with mint, and honeyed mead freshened with lavender to ease parched throats in the sweltering heat that had already wilted a number of ladies into fainting.

  But the Dhenra stood regal upon the dais before her throne despite the heat, clad in clinging sky-blue silk with a high collar of starched lace, lace dripping from her sleeves nearly to the floor. Sapphires and diamonds were woven into her hair, done again in ornate Elsthemi-style braids with long bone needles. Olea had insisted upon the hair needles this week. Elyasin needed a weapon upon her person at all times, and her poured-on formal silks didn’t allow for a blade. Olea had positioned her Guardsmen all along the main floor, standing stern in their dark blue jerkins, ready for any disruption with hands resting upon their swords. And she had personally set Fenton and Aldris at the foot of the dais, watchful of those approaching the Dhenra.

  Her gaze drifting up, Olea noted the Dhenra's cobalt blue banners hanging high from the vaulted stone ribs of the ceiling. Their crossed scepter and olive branch, crowned by the Mountain and Stars, lent credence to Elyasin’s authority, but not a breath of air stirred them today, though every door and window to the hall had been thrown wide to catch a breeze. All along the upper reaches, fans were aflutter in the hands of watching commoners, their gazes rapt upon the proceedings below. Crowding the upper balconies, they leaned in to try and catch words of the Dhenra’s conversations with her suitors as each approached, one by one.

  The proceedings had taken eight hours so far. Olea shifted, feeling yet another trickle of sweat roll down between her shoulder blades. Her shoulders ached, her hips and knees throbbed, her ankles felt swollen in her new boots. Elyasin had insisted upon her Guard-Captain being impeccably presentable this week, her garb new except her sword and longknives. But the stiffness of the leather was agonizing, none of it yet broken-in enough to breathe in the punishing heat, and Olea’s silk undershirt was now entirely soaked with sweat.

  A movement caught her eye to one side. Her gaze flicked quickly, noting the passage of a servant entering from a side door with chilled wine in a large ewer. The massive tableaux of the Wolf and Dragon caught Olea’s attention, vicious and imposing, covering the wall fifty feet high behind the throne. Carven behind the thrones of a number of nations, some long-ago architect had inscribed this symbol in the throne hall of every palace he'd built, almost like a signature. Olea admired it a moment, having seen the gold Inkings upon Elohl’s back from the Alranstone, wondering now what it all meant. But each was slightly different, even this tableau not the same as Elohl’s markings. Alrou-Mendera’s carving showed the beasts fighting around a scepter. While Olea had heard that the one in Valenghia showed them doing so around a vine. The one in Elsthemen showed the same around a spear.

  Olea's gaze snapped forward, dismissing the carving as a minor lordling of Alrou-Mendera approached the dais, a lesser suitor paying his respects to Elyasin. Judging him a non-threat, Olea's gaze roved the hall again. Lhaurent was in attendance, to the left of the dais with his oily smirk and immaculate grey silks, silently directing servants. Olea's gaze raked the silvered mirrors all along the sides of the gargantuan hall, looming like watchers from behind the lines of bluestone columns. Vargen’s tale crowded her mind, and she wondered if Lhaurent had an army of invisible servants watching today.

  Olea had cased her rooms the past five nights, running her fingers over the coat of grit beneath her window and in the corners of her room. The frame of the gaudy mirror had been dusty, but just because Lhaurent hadn’t moved that mirror recently didn't mean he wasn't standing behind it in the dark. Olea had still not come up with a good way to remove those two tomes from her room. And so they were still there, hidden in with the rest of her books, dangerous like an avalanche about to break loose.

  She was glad the Dhenra had insisted her Guard-Captain stand as her personal protector in the throne room today. Elyasin had been chilly towards Olea since their night together, her mood volatile from stress. But the Dhenra had still appointed Olea to stand close during the most important, and most worrisome, events of the week, concerned as they both were about threats to Elyasin’s person before she came fully into her power with the coronation.

  Another bead of sweat seeped down, between Olea’s breasts. She shifted, rolling her shoulders with subtle movements. The Dhenra was currently receiving House den’Tourmalin of the Isles, next-to-last for the day. King Arthe den’Tourmalin was a tall, brooding fellow with a stern jaw, salt-spray black hair and hard sea-grey eyes. But for all his taciturn brusqueness, Olea liked what she had seen of the Isleman King. He had spoken plainly in the trade negotiations, and was not pressuring the Dhenra to wed. Even today, he made no attempt to cajole or sway as he presented his gift, a lovely ironwood sea-chest full of spices and strands of pearls.

  King Arthe was an honorable man from a very old house, and as he stepped up the dais to speak with the Dhenra he deliberately glanced to Olea, spreading his hands to signify a lack of armament. Only when Olea nodded back did he step forward, clasping Elyasin’s hand with gravitas like she was his daughter.

  “Dhenra.” King Arthe’s murmur to the Dhenra was private, reaching only Olea's ears. “I received a courier this morning, in much haste from the Isles. You should know of it. These past few years, the Isles have had unmarked ships sneaking through our Straits. The ships are fleet, painted black with black sails to slip through at night, and they run passably silent. The missive I received this morning said we finally were able to catch one. It was crewed by Perthians and Thurumen, and had a belly full of slaves from Jadoun. The crew would not speak, not even under the worst torture. But some of the Jadounian captives talked freely. It seems they had been coerced into sailing by threats against their families. They were given the choice of indentured servitude, fighting across the sea along the Menderian-Valenghian border, or else see their womenfolk raped and tortured, and the youngest of their children slain. They chose to sail.”

  Olea’s breath had ceased in astonishment. Her gaze whipped to her Dhenra. The Dhenra was very pale, but she held her composure. “And were the slaves to fight for Alrou-Mendera?”

  Arthe den’Tourmalin shook his head. “Yes and no. Some believed they were to serve Valenghia. Some thought they had been conscripted for Alrou-Mendera. Some thought they were destined for the emerald mines along Menderia’s southeastern coast.”

  Elyasin’s green eyes were hard. “By whom?”

  But again, Arthe den’Tourmalin shook his head, serious. “The slaves didn’t know. And the crew wouldn’t speak. But we did find a writ of payment to the captain signed by one Helios den’Garnesh. My people know Helios. He is Harbormaster of Ligenia, on your southeastern coast. The Isles receive shipments of emeralds from Alrou-Mendera through Ligenia, and Helios den’Garnesh’s signature is upon the documents of trade. I would recommend that you send someone… quietly… to investigate this situation, Dhenra.”

  Elyasin clasped his hands tightly. “Arthe. You are a true friend to Alrou-Mendera. If I can repay you this kindness…”

  He reached up and set his palm gently to her face, a tender, fatherly gesture. King Arthe’s sea-scoured face was kind. “Your father would be proud of who you’ve become, Elyasin. I know I am not the one for you, and I do not believe we need
to unify our houses with a marriage. I am content for our mutually beneficial trade to continue. Besides, I am an old man these days. Take this gift of information freely. And if you have need of understanding how to arrange your own personal network of… quiet observers, then send word. I will sail straightaway, and give any and all counsel you may need.”

  “Thank you.” Elyasin’s whisper was soft. Olea could see a mutual trust there between the two monarchs. King Arthe was a very good man. It was unfortunate he was so much older than Elyasin.

  Arthe leaned forward and kissed Elyasin lightly upon the cheek. “Trust no one. Confirm everything. Even words from those you trust implicitly. That is the first law of ruling,” Olea heard him whisper. He knelt over Elyasin’s hand, brushing it with a formal kiss, then moved on, summoning his retainers to stride from the hall. Elyasin watched King Arthe go, her face set and unreadable. She nodded to the herald, who called the name of her final suitor.

  Olea saw Elyasin tap her index finger upon her long pale-blue gown. It was a nervous tic. Elyasin was rattled by what she had just heard. But as Olea gazed down the long red-carpeted hall, she realized her Dhenra was also rattled by the appearance of this next suitor. King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen loped down the red carpet with six of his fur-clad swordsmen. Well-built, gracious, he had a handsome frame and a strong jaw, and once again wore the plain garb and wolf pelt Olea had seen him in all week during negotiations, though he’d added an unadorned circlet of gold today upon his white-blonde hair. He presented his gifts with a flourish at the foot of the dais, a trunk full of keshar pelts and raw silver bars. The Dhenra motioned her herald forward to accept them, giving words of thanks. King Therel stepped up the dais, leaving his men behind. Olea’s gaze roved over Therel’s retainers, her hand tightening on her sword. But Alramir’s men, including that shrewd First Sword with the white hair, gave not even the slightest hint of threat, idling placidly at the foot of the dais with Fenton and Aldris.

  As the King drew near, the Dhenra began to show more nervousness, rubbing viciously at one knuckle and finally locking her hands together, flushing to the roots of her golden hair. Olea knew the reason for that nervousness. Therel had been sexual and intimately alluring with the Dhenra all week, though sometimes he’d shown a gentler, almost tender side with Elyasin. And for her part, Elyasin had returned that attention. Olea was almost certain the Highland King had already won the Dhenra’s favor.

  But Olea caught a glimpse of the King’s eyes as he bent to kiss Elyasin’s hand. Though his demeanor was impeccable, Therel Alramir’s pale blue eyes roiled with lust. A thing of coldness ran beneath his trappings, as if he was certain he had already won the prize so formally fought-over today. Though he was the picture of courtly grace, he had the air of a killer, howling victorious in the darkness.

  Olea recalled the rumors about him, that he was ruthless as a keshar when necessary. She wondered if she was likely to find Elyasin diced up in pieces and stuffed in trophy jars the morning after their nuptials. Olea gave the man her best glower, and his gaze flicked to her. She thought she saw a hint of smile at the corner of his lips, or a snarl. His pale blue eyes roved over Olea before moving back to the Dhenra.

  “Elyasin.” King Therel was far too familiar, clasping the Dhenra’s hand as if it was his. Elyasin trembled at his touch like a populus leaf. Therel stepped close, reaching up to stroke her face with the backs of his knuckles. “You’re shivering. On such a hot day, in such fine silks, one would think the sweetgrapes would be sweating upon the vine, dripping with moisture…” Olea’s fingers tightened on her sword. She saw Therel note her subtle change. He was no fool.

  “King Therel.” The Dhenra’s voice was breathy, but she held her strong posture. “We look forward to mutually beneficial trade with your noble nation.”

  Therel Alramir’s chuckle was sexual. “As do I. Trade with you would be most sweet. I would lick your Menderian wine from my fingers, and plunge my tongue into the moist chalice from whence it came.”

  He leaned down, executing a perfect bow over Elyasin’s hand, letting his lips linger. But he did not take his gaze from Elyasin. Something simmered between them, like the thickness of air before lightning. At last, King Therel straightened, but not before rubbing his thumb over her fingers. Elyasin shuddered and made a small, aroused sound. And with a contented smile Therel was gone, striding back down to his retainers and moving off towards the side-hall where Arthe den’Tourmalin had gone. Wary, Olea made a mental note to double her guard around the Elsthemi suites, and to have Therel Alramir tailed until the end of the week.

  King or no, men like that caused trouble.

  At last, the list had come to an end. Elyasin raised her voice in ceremonial words of thanks, giving a pretty speech about peace and prosperity for the futures of all lands. It was well done, and the lords and ladies in the long hall clapped politely. A raucous cheering came from the balconies high above. Elyasin lifted her gaze, nodding first to one side, then the other, which made them cheer more, elated. Elyasin had remembered her commoners today, as Olea had previously advised. She had made this concession for them the entire week, that the balconies be available on a first-come basis to the general populace, though many of her Chancellors had advised against it. It had raised her popularity overnight. People had thronged the Central Plaza all night just to be here today, and Olea was certain it would continue for the duration of the week.

  A fanfare came from the Royal Hornsmen near the dais, clarion hunting-horns calling an end to the proceedings. Dhenra Elyasin turned at last, sweeping from the hall with regality. Olea fell into step just behind her, eyes canvassing the gables as they recessed through an alcove. Tailed by the Chancellors of her cabinet and the Castellan, Elyasin retired to the Greenhouse’s Sun Lounge. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in through the south-facing windows, which curved up and over in a latticework, giving the impression of an arched waterfall of glass cascading over a forest. The Sun Lounge was a nightmare of places for an assassin to hide. Olea’s gaze swept the densely-vegetated space, wilting today with a humidity like southern Cennetia.

  “I must rest before the banquet tonight. Leave me.” Elyasin dismissed her Chancellors curtly, then turned her back, staring out the windows. All left with only a few murmurs and bows, except Castellan Lhaurent, who hovered expectantly. “You, too, Lhaurent. I need to be alone.”

  “As my Dhenra requires. May I send in a tray and beverages to refresh you? And some of your ladies to attend?” He didn’t even spare Olea a glance. Lhaurent believed himself superior to Olea, untouchable. It was all Olea could do to not draw her sword and strike his sneaky head from his shoulders. But suspecting a man of spying behind the walls was not enough. She had no proof that he was connected with the Kingsmen killings inside the palace. But Olea was just as relieved to not have to face him today, as he might suspect if she acted more severe around him than usual. She set her jaw and sufficed by giving Lhaurent her best Guardsman glower, which he consummately ignored.

  Elyasin nodded over one lace-framed white shoulder. “Give me an hour before you do. I wish to be undisturbed a while.”

  “As my Dhenra commands.” Castellan Lhaurent frowned slightly. But he knew his place in public, at least, bowing his way backwards and turning to leave. At last, the Dhenra turned to regard her Guard-Captain. Olea dropped to a bow. Light fingers passed over her hair, tracing a blue-black curl. Elyasin had sent one of her ladies earlier in the morning to oil it and coax Olea’s mess into something honorable.

  “Your hair is longer than I thought.” Elyasin said at last, letting her fingers fall away.

  Olea looked up, then stood. “I thank you for your kind gifts, Dhenra.”

  Elyasin’s mouth quirked. “One might almost call you respectable, Captain. Indeed, I hardly recognize you.”

  Olea nearly smiled. “Almost. But the boots will be scuffed terribly by the end of the day.”

  “Alden could never keep new boots nice, either.” Elyasin’s fac
e had softened into wistful sadness, but swiftly deepened into a worried frown. “Olea. I must have your opinion on what King Arthe—”

  “Which is something that takes the fresh air of the Rose Courtyard to help us review.” Olea cut her off quickly. “Shall we?” Olea offered her arm, as a proper Kingswoman. The Dhenra’s green eyes narrowed upon her, affronted, but then she sighed.

  “Yes, I suppose it is too stifling in here. And the Rose Courtyard should be quiet from any of the celebrations enough to talk, shouldn’t it?”

  Olea nodded, her arm still proffered. At last, Elyasin took it. Together they made their way through the Greenhouse, Olea scanning the vegetation for threats, Elyasin silent, her steps slow and clearly exhausted from standing for the past eight hours in the scathing heat, even though she’d enjoyed occasional refreshments. Olea selected a little-known staircase that wound down through the Sixth and Fifth Tiers and opened out into the gardens. Moving left, she led them through a set of tall hedges, and into a small courtyard of bluestone fresh with fountains and topiary, giving a wide view upon all sides.

  Roses wound up trellises and statues, magnificent pots in bright glazes held rare varietals from far over the southern seas. Guards lingered at the entrances, and Olea flicked her fingers, sending them in to sweep the high stone arches and lace-carven lattices before she and the Dhenra strolled. Olea saw Aldris step into the courtyard, having trailed them down from the Greenhouse. He saluted, then leaned idly upon a centaur statue, far enough away to be out of earshot. Stopping now and then to smell the flowers in their heady early-summer riot, Elyasin and Olea strolled the garden, enjoying the late-afternoon breeze that finally tickled the greenery and cooled their sweat.

  At last, Elyasin spoke, lifting her voice up through the drowning scent of summer roses. “Why the garden, Olea, to discuss what King Arthe just said to me? What aren’t you telling me that you began to the other night?”

  They’d come to it at last. Olea would have preferred a less stressful time to speak to her Dhenra about Roushenn, but the young woman had not made time in the past week, and it couldn’t be helped now. Olea took a breath, then spoke plainly. “The palace isn’t safe, Dhenra. Not for such discussion. And not for you.”

  Elyasin snorted, waving a tired hand. “Your men and women patrol it, Captain! If it isn’t safe, whose head shall I take?”

  “The halls my men patrol are safe as they can be,” Olea pitched her voice low so it didn't carry. “But there are other halls that have no guards.”

  “You’ve sealed off the Unterhaft, as a precaution for my coronation, correct? As we discussed? And the entries to the Deeprooms?”

  “All as you commanded, yes. But Dhenra, the palace isn't safe because there is a palace behind the palace!” Olea argued softly. “That’s what I wanted to tell you the other night, the reason I requested we ride out. Because an entire labyrinth of rooms and corridors exists behind the walls, where people can spy, traverse, and listen. And all of it can be accessed by secret means. I’m not even sure this courtyard is safe for you! Or for us to talk…”

  Elyasin stopped, blinking wide in surprise and distress, her hand elegant in the way it fell, making Olea turn towards her. The Dhenra was upset, fidgeting with all the news she had heard today. And when Elyasin became upset, she became angry. That temper flared now. Elyasin’s demeanor was piercing upon her Guard-Captain. “What do you mean, Captain, a palace behind the palace? Speak plainly!”

  Olea paused, knowing how this would sound. Her Dhenra was a storm about to break, Olea could read it in every line of the young woman’s body. But this news, like Arthe den’Tourmalin’s, had to be told.

  And now might be her only opportunity.

  “The walls of the palace move,” Olea breathed urgently. “Everything moves. I don’t know how, but they do. There are passages behind the halls! It’s part of how the Alrashemni were killed the night they came to Roushenn. They were shown to rooms, split up that night. And while they slept, the walls moved on them. Changing, confusing them. And some kind of poison was released into the air to disorient them and make it impossible to fight back! They were slaughtered, Dhenra. Slaughtered to a man, quietly. Because Roushenn is a weapon for whomever it is that controls those walls! I still don’t know why the Kingsmen were killed, but I know partly how it was done. And if the palace wasn’t safe then, it’s certainly not safe now. Because of this, security for your coronation is already compromised. Don’t you see? There’s no possible way I can keep you safe if any wall, at any time, could move, Dhenra. You mustn’t remain here! We need to postpone the coronation until we know more. Or move it altogether to the Winter Palace in Fhouria. And get you out of here. Tonight.”

  Elyasin was gaping at Olea. Her eyes went from incredulous, to furious. “Are you jesting with me, Captain?! Do you think to dissuade me from my coronation, from ruling by some cruel joke, by making me feel unsafe in my own palace, especially at a time like this? Have you seen this yourself?”

  Olea shook her head, her heart sinking that Elyasin was suddenly taking the whispered advice King Arthe had given, and mistrusting her own most loyal until she had proof. “No, but I met a man who escaped the slaughter that night. He saw it, though he was drugged by whatever was in the air at the time.”

  “Drugged? And who is this man? You trust his word?”

  “He is a silversmith in the First Tier, an Alrashemni Kingsman. I trust his word completely. Dhenra, I have seen things myself. A piece of furniture replaced here. A twist to the hall that I don’t remember there. Strange things.”

  “But have you seen this behind-the-palace? Have you seen palace walls move of their own accord? Do you know for a fact that his words are true? Have you verified any of this?”

  The Dhenra didn’t believe it. She thought Olea was speaking false. It was going from bad to worse. Olea’s mind raced frantically for any information that could convince her of the truth. “No, Dhenra, I have not seen it, but I assure you it’s true. Those tomes I told you about, the ones Uhlas led me to find, they chronicled the history of your house. Your lineage is Alrashemni, Dhenra, right back to the founding of this nation. Your House, den’Ildrian, is directly related to House den’Alrahel, the original founders of Alrou-Mendera, the ones who first made a peace treaty with the native Menderian tribes—”

  “Den’Alrahel.” Elyasin had gone very still. “Are you saying to me that you believe your own house to be royal?”

  “So it said in the tomes Uhlas gave me, but you’re missing the point, Dhenra. Your lineage is Alrashemni and whoever is killing Kingsmen—”

  “Silence!” Elyasin was livid now. Severely rattled, the Dhenra was reacting, not thinking. Olea’s dire warnings were not just falling on deaf ears. They were being badly misinterpreted as Elyasin’s temper roared. The Dhenra’s cheeks flushed hot and red, her green eyes searing with wrath. “I asked you to uncover the fate of the Kingsmen!” Elyasin shouted at Olea, her voice ringing around the courtyard. “And you give me fae-yarns! Today of all days! You know what this week means to me! Are you trying to derail this coronation? My marriage? My rule? Are you trying to set yourself up as Queen by asserting a blood-relation to the throne?!”

  Olea knelt quickly to the gravel path, one hand going to her Inkings without even thinking, so desperate was she. “Dhenra, no! I swear to you, I would never—”

  “Silence! Guards!” Five of Olea's guards came at a run from behind a set of potted rose-trees, confusion spreading over their features to see their Captain-General on her knees upon the gravel and their soon-to-be-Queen livid. “Take her!”

  Two of Olea’s best hustled in, still confused, but unable to shy from a direct order. They seized Olea by both arms, hauling her up, relieving her of her sword and longknives, apology in their manner. A Guardsman coughed discreetly by a rosebush. Olea glanced over to see Aldris, his green eyes flicking nervously between Olea and the Dhenra, severe worry in them.

  “Pardon, Dhenra.” Aldris spoke quickly,
his clarion tenor cutting through the commotion. “Where are we to take Captain-General den’Alrahel?”

  Elyasin was rubbing her knuckles viciously, flushed with fury. “Somewhere… anywhere! Out of my sight! You are dismissed from duty, Captain den'Alrahel, until my nuptials and coronation are over! Your First-Lieutenant Fenton den’Kharel will be my bodyguard for the duration. And you will spend the week in the Upper Cells, to think about why it is unwise to spin fae-yarns and falsehoods to me!”

  The Dhenra nodded to the guards. Olea did not resist. Her eyes locked upon Aldris as she was hustled away, and he gave her a very discreet, very worried nod.