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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  The Dhenra had decided, officially. The coronation was to be quite an event, with a wedding celebration immediately afterward. A wedding to House Alramir of Elsthemen. Theroun stood, gazing down upon documents drawn up to his specifications in a fine, flowing hand. The King’s Calligrapher had done a magnificent job with the Writ of Betrothal, and now it bore both signatures of the Dhenra and of King Therel Alramir. Witnessed by Theroun and the other six Chancellors, the betrothal was official. The Writ of Marriage, still empty of signatures, sat next to it upon Theroun’s stout desk.

  Though it was blistering in his quarters in the late-afternoon heat, Theroun wanted to light the hearth and cast both documents into the fire. He wanted to burn them and stuff Lhaurent’s oily mouth with the ashes before he ran the man through. Swirling wine in his silver goblet as he stood by the desk, Theroun sighed. His ghosts crowded him despite the brightness of the afternoon, accusing him with staring eyes. Twisting nightmares cascaded across his vision.

  One image held him, of an entire village slaughtered, pigs feasting upon the dead along with the flies and crows. Theroun looked into the red dregs of his wine and saw Thelkomen's Crossing, his own handiwork. The first village he had slaughtered in his madness upon the Aphellian Way. It had been a Menderian village. Uhlas' own people that he had killed in his madness. He found he couldn’t let the image go, not today. Dead children run through by spearmen, their wounds red as his wine, corpses bloating in the summer heat. Goodwives burned alive in their homes when the dry thatch was torched and the doors barricaded. Slashes across guts so that the men would die slow in their own shit and piss.

  All by Theroun’s command. All because the entire village bore the Blackmark of the Alrashemni. Every last man, woman, and child.

  He sighed again, his usual glower replaced by a hard-lined woe. Theroun had showed no remorse at the time. So maddened by grief and fever from his assassin-wounds and so hopped up on fennewith for the pain, he didn’t even recall half his orders. He had been a devil upon the Aphellian Way. And the Khehemni had been fast to conscript him, upon witnessing what he was capable of. Regret had not come until after he had joined them. His hatred for Alrashemni Kingsmen had simmered long after his madness ceased. But he did feel remorse, now, looking at these documents, at Elyasin’s signed death-note.

  Theroun stared into his wine, watching bodies bleed.

  He’d been ruthless, stringing up both Menderian and Valenghian Alrashemni to every monolith lining the Aphellian Way, shirts ripped from their torsos be they man or woman, displaying the Mountain and Stars. Up they went, dead and alive alike, the live ones left to rot for the crows or strangle to death. They had continued thus, down the Aphellian Way, to the next village, then the next. Theroun’s madness had spread like a curse. His own men went mad, became brutal. Theroun hadn’t cared in his vengeful, deviling fever if those who bore the Inkings were raped or tortured before they died, maimed, or torn apart for the sport of his cruelest curs. Dead Alrashemni had lined the Aphellian Way for fifty leagues into Valenghia before King Uhlas had gotten word of it and sent General Ghuryen to stop Theroun.

  It should have been Theroun’s death. He had been carted back to Roushenn in manacles, feverish and rabid, still unable to walk or ride, hardly able to breathe. Uhlas had been livid, had ordered him to the deepest cells. But it had been Castellan Lhaurent and Chancellor Evshein who had convinced the King to send his physician instead. That Theroun was still valuable. To give him a second chance. Crimes of war were committed in every nation, and Theroun’s formidable ability to manage armies had value.

  And so Theroun had remained in Roushenn. In a suite of rooms rather than a cell, visited by the King’s Physician, out of the public eye. Rumor had been efficiently suppressed, his armies disbanded and re-conscripted into other regiments. Tales of horror along the Aphellian Way had been cleverly downplayed in the populace. It was then that the Lothren of the Khehemni had made themselves known through Lhaurent and Evshein, how it was they who had whispered in Uhlas’ ear to spare Theroun’s life.

  And only then had they made known their true purpose. It had been aligned with Theroun’s own purpose at the time. He had been promised his position of influence as a Chancellor, to be an agent close to the crown. So he could help secure the annihilation of Alrashemni in every nation.

  But not to end the King’s line. Not to slaughter Uhlas’ daughter, his only living heir, and start a war that will kill countless thousands of innocents and loyal subjects.

  “Black Viper of the Aphellian Way,” Theroun murmured, his gaze fixed upon the last sanguine pool of his red wine. He swirled it in his goblet, feeling sweat slide down his neck in the heat of the day. Slowly, his gaze swung back to the two Writs upon his desk. Theroun lifted his goblet and drained it, tasting blood with every swallow. Carefully, he set it aside, so no wine was near the white parchment. Lifting the two documents, he opened a drawer of his desk, slid them in, locked it. Theroun rifled a hand through his hair, airing it. His apartments were stifling. This week had been drowned in a heavy, muggy fever, a thunderstorm pushing this heat that still wouldn’t break.

  A walk was what he needed. To clear this heat, these thoughts of blood. Theroun turned to the door, let himself out, locked it behind him. Striding down the hall, he turned down a spiral staircase, heading to the lower Tiers, egressing through a servant’s door and into the Rose Courtyard. Walking slowly with his side stitching from the war in his soul, Theroun took the air, stopping to smell this bloom or that upon their spreading trellises. A military man raised by a father who had been a captain, Theroun had grown up hard and been denied the finer things in life. But his mother had always kept a small rose garden, and it had been his vice. Roses and Generals didn’t mix, but as a Chancellor now, no one thought it odd for him to stroll and to think, to bend and deeply inhale a flower.

  He had been evading Lhaurent all morning, and Chancellor Evshein. Theroun wanted to be alone, to mourn. It wasn’t everyday that a woman he thought of nearly as a daughter had chosen to go to her death. Elyasin was a pretty bird, one who was going to die in her cage, spiked by its bars. King Therel Alramir was going to be arrested for the actions of his First Sword. And then he would be hung.

  And then they would have a war. Another one.

  Theroun sighed, his customary scowl more morose than usual, bending to smell yet another flower. Its scent was pure as dreams, but to him it smelled of battlefield scorch, its heady fragrance the sweetness of rotting corpses. He paced to the next bloom, stopping to inhale that one too, as if the next flower, or the next, could remove the taste of char, blood, and bile upon his tongue.

  Hearing the crunch of footsteps upon the gravel, Theroun glanced up, watching a few retainers of House Meersh pace quickly through the courtyard, no doubt on their way to secure their liege’s passage to the coast. Like most of the other suitors, Prince Kharshen te’Meersh from Thuruman had opted to depart after hearing the Dhenra’s decision, given in private with each suitor this very morning. Of the foreign nobles, only King Arthe den’Tourmalin had opted to stay for the coronation and wedding, a show of allegiance to House den’Ildrian.

  There was no bad blood between House den’Tourmalin and House Alramir, and Arthe was a generous, calm man. The sort of man Theroun respected immensely, like he had Uhlas. A man of silent thoughts and deep structure. Not to mention morals. Theroun knew he should have pushed Elyasin to marry Arthe, rather than encouraging her to marry a man of dubious personality. One who would get her killed even before she had a chance to taste the pleasures of a wedding night.

  That wasn’t entirely fair. King Therel Alramir wasn’t going to kill Elyasin. But his First Sword was. Theroun thought about Devresh Khir, with his white hair and cold, cold eyes. The man had served as First Sword to the throne of Elsthemen for nearly thirty years. He was still sharp, still immeasurably talented, and utterly deadly. Born Khehemni, not conscripted like Theroun had been. And he was willing to die for his beliefs.

&
nbsp; Theroun’s gut twisted, like someone had sunk a knife deep into his belly. His right side spasmed in protest around his old wounds from the Aphellian Way. He knew, though he tried to tell himself otherwise, what was wrong with him. Uhlas’ treasured daughter was going to be stuck like a pig in two days’ time, betrayed by his most trusted General.

  Theroun bent, inhaling the next bloom, trying to rid his nose of the scent of ashes. He was idling near a white-thorn bush when he heard a soft crunch upon the gravel of a lean figure with a light tread, coming up the path behind him this time. He turned with his jaw set in irritation, expecting to see the eel, but instead found himself facing Thaddeus. Thad had a leather folio under one arm, and a basket clearly stuffed with a variety of food.

  “Looked for you at your quarters, sir, but you weren’t there.” Thad smiled apologetically at his intrusion. “Guessed you’d be out here where it’s more pleasant. I thought you might want a spot of lunch, sir. And a quick review of how accepting trade agreements with Elsthemen will change our negotiating positions with the other nations.”

  “Very thoughtful, Thaddeus.” Theroun was, in fact, grateful for Thad’s thoughtfulness, always bringing foodstuffs and drink to make sure Theroun didn’t starve himself working through meals. Theroun turned and motioned before him through the surrounding greenery along the gravel path, towards a stone bench and table they often shared near a three-tier fountain. The fountain masked their conversation, and Theroun sat at his usual place, his view pleasantly long in all directions so he could see anyone who idled near enough to listen. Thad laid the folio atop the table and began to spread out a cloth from the basket, cheese and jams, bread and butter, cured meats. A regular little picnic.

  Theroun opened the folio and pretended to peruse it. But he had other questions on his mind. Other ideas swirling, gripping him, that he needed to flesh out, that he needed some discourse on. And Thaddeus was the perfect agent with which to explore those thoughts, those potential battle-strategies, carefully.

  “Thaddeus,” he began, with a quick glance to make certain no one was within earshot, “let us resume our conversation of the other night, about the Kingsmen.”

  Thaddeus froze like a mouse in an open field. His hands began to work again, doling out portions of meat and slathering herbed butter on the crusty loaf of bread. “Why?”

  “Because you have a keen mind, lad, and I want to see what’s to be done with it.”

  Thad paused again, then set the knife down. He stared at Theroun from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Eat, lad.” Theroun barked gently enough so no one nearby could hear. “Pretend we are having our usual discussions about nations and trade.”

  Thad blinked, then eyed the folio. Theroun saw him note that though Theroun had opened it, he’d not removed any papers from behind the metal clips. Thad reached out for the buttered bread, and piled it with cheese and meat, taking a bite. But his eyes remained on Theroun. Theroun reached out and took food also, keeping up the ruse for anyone watching.

  “Now,” Theroun spoke with his mouth full. “Ask me questions, lad.”

  Thaddeus blinked. “Is Alrou-Mendera in a situation like Cennetia was once? Where a force behind our throne is manipulating the nation?”

  “Yes.”

  Thad paled, but continued. “Do you know what or whom are behind the thrones of Alrou-Mendera and Valenghia?”

  “Yes.”

  Thad swallowed hard. “Are you one of them?”

  “Marginally. Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I hate Alrashemni. It’s no secret. Though I no longer have reason to.”

  “Who is more central in this endeavor?” Thad was leaning forward now, rapt.

  “I can’t give you names.”

  “Can I guess them?”

  “No. To do so would secure your death. Be smart, Thad. Ask me good questions.”

  Thad swallowed. “Are there others like you in the palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close to the Dhenra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swaying her choices with words?”

  “Careful, Thaddeus.”

  The lad swallowed, but he had courage. “Do you sway her into continuing war with Valenghia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I am ordered to. By my superiors.”

  Thad swallowed. “Can you tell me by whom?”

  Theroun gave him a chiding glower.

  Thad fidgeted. “Forgive me. What do you know of the Kingsmen Summons?”

  Theroun cocked his head. This was an unexpected turn. “Little. I know only that Uhlas did not give it.”

  Thad’s eyes widened. “He didn’t? Who did?”

  Theroun set his jaw. “Someone. I don’t actually know. I was readying armies at the time, Thad, not yet a part of this scheme, just a General in the field. Uhlas was in Valenghia, trying to forestall imminent war with every negotiation skill he had.”

  “One of your people sent a false Summons from the King?”

  “So it seems.”

  “What happened to the Kingsmen after they entered the palace?”

  Theroun shook his head. “I have no information on that account. I know only that the Unterhaft and all the halls were thoroughly searched after they disappeared. They simply vanished. No trace of them was left.”

  Thaddeus narrowed his eyes. “That’s impossible.”

  “Smart lad.” Theroun took a bite of his bread and meat. “Go on, Thaddeus.”

  “Someone knows what happened. All traces of the Alrashemni Kingsmen history have been removed from the library and armor-halls, as if they were trying to cover it up.”

  “Go on.” Theroun knew he was encouraging the lad down his own line of suppositions, but it was imperative that he watch someone else put it together, that he make certain his assumptions were sound through another mind quite possibly as brilliant as his own, though still young. “And who has access to all details of housekeeping inside Roushenn?”

  Thad blinked, then spoke slowly. “Castellan Lhaurent. Castellan Lhaurent knows about the Kingsmen disappearance. He knows exactly what happened. He covered it up, then removed all the evidence.”

  Theroun leaned forward, conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t say that name together with such suppositions if I were you, lad. They might get you killed. Badly.”

  Thaddeus went deathly pale. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Theroun took a drink of the wine Thad had brought. “I cannot confirm any of it, Thad.”

  “And if you could? Don’t you hate Kingsmen? Weren’t you happy to hear they disappeared after the Summons?”

  “Not at the time. I didn’t have any reason to hate them, then. I supported the Kingsmen before I became the Black Viper of the Aphellian Way. They were a formidable military asset.”

  “And now?”

  Theroun gave Thad a very hard look. “Now I am caught between stone and stone, Thad. I am not in a position to have regrets. I cannot reverse my choices. All I can do, is make more agile choices from here on out.”

  Thad leaned forward. “Is Lhaurent threatening you? Pressing you into doing something?”

  Theroun glowered. “Lhaurent does not know whom he threatens, Thaddeus.”

  “What is he pressing you into? What’s going to happen?” Thaddeus swallowed, and suddenly looked very scared, and very young.

  Theroun set a hand to his slender shoulder. “I will not risk your life so rashly as to tell you. But what I want you to do is dig, Thaddeus. You have a keen mind. Dig, lad, and come back to me with questions. I will answer what I can.”

  Thaddeus swallowed. “Why? Why expose yourself, sir? I could go to the Guard… have you accused of high treason for everything you’ve just admitted to me.”

  Theroun gave him a level look. He almost wished the lad would do it, if it meant exposing Lhaurent. But no, the game had to be subtler than that. Theroun had to figure out a better way to strike the head from the eel, a better wa
y to prevent a war that would cost thousands of lives and probably the security of the entire nation.

  A war that would cost Elyasin her life.

  “We’re done here, Thad. I have documents to prepare.” Rising from his seat at the stone bench, Theroun turned to go. But the lad was pale, and very still, a kind of stillness that let Theroun know he had one more question.

  “You didn’t answer me, sir.” Thad breathed.

  “Yes, I did. Use your wits.” Theroun scolded softly. “Would I be telling anyone this if I was secure in my position?”

  Thad swallowed. “No. You’re afraid of what Lhaurent and the people behind him are about to do. You’re regretting your decision to be one of them. Whatever is coming is not what you joined them for.”

  Theroun nodded. “Smart lad. And if the Black Viper is afraid for our nation, Thaddeus… then you should be afraid. Very, very afraid. And very quiet. For now.”

  “Would you kill me, sir… to keep me quiet?” Frank terror was behind the lad’s green eyes, but also courage. He sat very still. He wasn’t going to run from his death, if it came today. Theroun took a deep breath. Would he kill Thaddeus?

  “If I wanted you dead, you would be cold by now.”

  Thad was parchment-white, but he did not fidget.

  “I have to go. Stay quiet, and think over what we’ve discussed this afternoon. Study the broader implications, Thad. All Generals have to take into account every supply line, every watering hole, the weight of every pack their men heft into battle, the amount a man sweats when fighting in full armor under the scorching summer sun, and how long he can do it without water. Think, Thad. Consider all the options. Dig. We will speak again later.”

  Theroun turned and crunched down the byrunstone gravel path, wondering if he had just made a vast mistake, beginning this discourse with Thaddeus. Or if he’d set a pebble rolling from his own soul that would cause an avalanche.