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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Jherrick stood deep in the fey blue darkness of the Hinterhaft, watching as an argument ensued between Castellan Lhaurent and the Elsthemi First Sword. He was certain he wasn’t supposed to have overheard it. He’d only come to report on Guard-Captain Olea's whereabouts prior to having gotten herself chucked into a cell by the Dhenra, and the ensuing news about her investigating the Kingsmen disappearance. But he’d come to his reporting station at a bad time, though it was the usual hour when the Castellan expected him. And now he was party to an argument happening in the blue halls. Jherrick stepped back near a wall, deep in the shadows of the grand vaulted room, watching. Listening to the echoes of the low conversation as blue orbs floated idly around the surreptitious duo at odds in the center of the room near a stout armoire.

  “You've been Khehemnas all your life, Devresh,” Lhaurent was arguing in that smooth, impeccably cultured voice. A tension in his vocal chords was the only thing that indicated his temper, but from it, Jherrick could tell the Castellan was furious. “I don't see why this one more task for the Lothren would be any different.”

  The Elsthemi First Sword had his hands on his lean hips in the vague blue light. He had planted himself in a swordsman's stance. “I practically raised that boy, Lhaurent. I won't kill his bride the day they wed. It's disgusting.”

  “Disgusting or not, it needs doing. And you promised to do it. At your visit here, don't you recall? Just a few weeks ago.” Lhaurent was firm, his hands folded neatly before him, his body deceptively quiet.

  “I've changed my mind. I don't know why I ever agreed to that! Let them have a few weeks together at least. You don't know Therel. He's besotted with Elyasin, poor boy.”

  “Giving them a few weeks together would give them time to plan together, time to strengthen their alliance. It must not happen. And we need riots in Lintesh, to create instability here, my friend. We need to give the Chancellate power to move things forward against Elsthemen.”

  The Elsthemi First Sword growled like a bear, echoing in the vaulted, bruise-blue space. “Find someone else to be patsy to the Lothren's crimes! I'm done. I agreed to spy for the Lothren in Elsthemen and cause a disruption at the coronation by killing one of the Menderian Chancellate. Not by killing Therel's bride right at their wedding, goddammit!”

  Jherrick went immaculately still. His heart hammered. He was almost certain they could hear it. Dusky blue swamped his vision, as his body decided whether it would panic. But he kept it all in check, breathing steadily, silently. The Lothren were planning to kill the Dhenra. It would send the nation into turmoil. It would send Roushenn into turmoil. Everything in Jherrick’s life. And suddenly, he saw the grand scheme. How the Lothren would take command. How rule would fall to the Chancellate, to Evshein, to others Jherrick wasn’t high up enough to know about.

  To Lhaurent.

  Watching closely, Jherrick buried his emotions under stillness, straining his hearing to catch the entirety of the conversation. Lhaurent had narrowed his eyes upon the Elsthemi First Sword, a sign of severe displeasure. But then he gave a liquid, placating smile and gestured regally with one hand. “Walk with me, Devresh. I am willing to hear your argument on behalf of the Lothren, but I find myself in need of exercise and a bite of refreshment. If you will join me in my inner sanctum, I'm certain we can solve this dilemma appropriately for all parties concerned. Please.”

  Lhaurent gestured again down the length of the vaulted chamber, amiably. The Elsthemi First Sword growled in his throat, scowled, and ripped a hand through his white mane. “Fine. Lead the way. But make it quick, Lhaurent. Therel expects me back within the hour.”

  “Oh, this shall take no time at all.” Lhaurent turned graciously, and the First Sword followed, towards a vast room Jherrick was not permitted inside. A room no one was permitted inside. Jherrick narrowed his eyes, watching their forms blur out to the blue-tinted shadows as they walked off towards the forbidden room, wondering why Lhaurent would take the First Sword there. Was the First Sword high enough in the Lothren to have conversation in such a private area?

  But Jherrick's only other known contact in the Lothren, Chancellor Evshein den'Lhamann, only ever met Lhaurent in his quarters. Never in the Hinterhaft, where Lhaurent did his dirty work. And never in that secret room, a massive chamber right at the very heart of the Hinterhaft that was off-limits to all, on pain of torture.

  Jherrick breathed softly where he stood, wondering if he should return later. Wondering if he should move, or if he would be discovered. As he pondered, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly raised. He stiffened, his heart hammering, casting his glance about in the fey blue light, feeling another of Lhaurent's agents but seeing no one. And just as Jherrick was about to draw steel and raise a challenge to the unseen intruder, a hand suddenly pressed atop his from the shadows right beside him, trapping his hand to his sword-hilt.

  “Draw no steel, boy.” A man murmured to his left. “I am no adversary to you.”

  Jherrick hissed in surprise. He almost drew his sword from sheer terror. That someone could get so close to him in the shadows without having been seen, when Jherrick's back was to the wall, dropped his gut through the floor.

  “Who are you?” He breathed. “Are you Lothren?”

  “No, boy,” the shadow breathed. “I serve only the Castellan. And I know he is anticipating your report. Stay put. He shall return shortly.”

  “Who are you?” Jherrick turned his head, searching for the man in the shadows. He could barely make the fellow out, lean and trim, swathed entirely in black with a black hood, his face wrapped with black cloth so that only two pairs of dark eyes watched Jherrick from shadows.

  “I'm no-one, boy,” the shadow breathed. “No one to note, and no one to trifle with. Your master will return shortly. Wait for him.”

  And with that, the fellow melted back into the wall. Jherrick's breath stopped. His heart nearly stopped. The man had walked backwards, right into the wall. And now he was entirely gone. Jherrick's heart restarted, furiously fast. Hardly a moment later, the Castellan and the First Sword reappeared down the long hallway, emerging back into the vaulted blue-lit chamber. And to Jherrick's surprise, the Elsthemi First Sword was talking genially with Lhaurent now, almost smiling, which looked odd on his battle-lined face. And as he turned to take his leave, he offered his arm to the Castellan.

  “Lhaurent. If we don't speak again, good fortune to you.”

  The Castellan clasped arms with a pleasant smile. “Devresh. You will be lauded in history, my friend. The Lothren appreciate your sacrifice, and will remember your deeds. A brave end to a brave life.”

  “I am honored to do the Lothren such service.” And with that, the First Sword turned and strode away, up the nearest set of stairs that would take him to one of the few Hinterhaft access-points for anyone who wasn't Lhaurent.

  Jherrick knew his lips had fallen open. For the First Sword to have had such a change of heart! Questions whirled in Jherrick's mind. The only conclusion he came to was that the Elsthemi First Sword had been drugged by the Castellan in that private chamber. But he hadn't looked drugged when he strode away. He'd not stumbled, he'd not swayed. Not even so much as to indicate they'd shared a goblet of wine.

  But before he could mull it further, the Castellan was suddenly upon him. “Ah. Jherrick.” His voice was intimately pleasant, a smile curling his lips. “How much of that did you see?”

  Jherrick's veins went cold. “Just a minute or so before you walked... down the corridor.”

  “Ah. And do you have any opposition to anything you just saw or heard?”

  Jherrick could see it in the man's cold grey eyes, luminous beneath the fae blue globes that lit the chamber. That Jherrick was disposable. That Jherrick's life meant nothing to this man, and that only information mattered. And the privacy of that information was everything.

  “I serve the Lothren, my liege,” Jherrick murmured, stilling his body and face to betray nothing. “I am Khehemni.”

 
Lhaurent slid forward a step, his grey eyes shot with a vicious shine. “But do you oppose anything you just witnessed, boy?”

  Jherrick stilled himself beyond flesh. He was stone. He was granite. He would betray nothing of his feelings. “No, my Lothren.”

  Lhaurent did not smile right away. And when he did, it was cold. “Up to the cells, then Jherrick. I believe you are on duty for the coronation, are you not? Guarding Captain den’Alrahel?”

  “Yes, my Lothren.”

  “Good. Report to me again in three days' time.”

  “Yes, my Lothren.”

  And with that, Lhaurent turned and slid silently away, back the direction he had come. Moving through the Hinterhaft, Jherrick's mind churned furiously. He passed shadowy figures behind the walls, who only gave a silent nod before slipping about their business. Everyone was moving behind the walls, the Hinterhaft strangely abustle compared to its usual cavernous silence. Lhaurent had a veritable army of his own behind the walls, people who served the Lothren through him, and did his bidding. Cooks, maids, quiet mercenaries, spies and thieves, even a few of the Palace Guard, like Jherrick. A foreigner passed in silence at a turn of the corridor, dark-skinned with the swarthy build of a pirate, probably from Jadoun. He was followed quietly by a Perthian raider with rows of ear piercings, and a Ghreccan, with wayward black curls and geometric tattoos upon his neck.

  They passed in silence, hardly sparing Jherrick a glance. They had orders from Lhaurent, and were about them. Unsavory men, all. Jherrick knew Lhaurent's spies and go-to men were a strong network for the Khehemni, all serving the Lothren, but he found himself wondering suddenly just how much the Lothren knew about Lhaurent.

  At last, Jherrick came to one of the access-junctures. He slid out through a pivoting section of stone, into a dark niche behind a statue of antique armor in the West Armory. Making his way up to well-used halls, he stepped lithely around the bustle of maids, cooks, porters, and visitors all crowding Roushenn for the impending coronation and wedding. But Jherrick hardly noted the swirl of people around him. Inside, he stewed, churning, wondering about Lhaurent, about what he’d done to the Elsthemi First Sword.

  And suddenly, he knew where his feet were already leading him. There was only one person he could report such suspicions to. Jherrick glanced both ways down the hall, making sure none were there to see when he rapped smartly upon the door to Chancellor Evshein's personal quarters. There were also no mirrors in this hall by which Lhaurent or any of his house-spies could see, though there still might be hearing-niches behind the corridor. But Jherrick had to take the risk. He pounded again, harder, his heart racing. Suddenly, the door was thrown back by a scowling guard, one of Evshein's personal attendants.

  “Corporal den'Tharn!” The brawny Guardsman blinked. “Do you need something?”

  Jherrick couldn't help that he'd been recognized. He did, after all, work in the very office where the entire Guard came to collect their week's pay. “Lieutenant den'Bhliss. I have an urgent matter for the Chancellor.”

  “Just a moment.” The guard turned, shut the door in Jherrick's face. It was another moment of gut-wrenching waiting before he returned. “You have five minutes, den'Tharn. Make it quick.”

  “Absolutely.” Jherrick sidled his way inside, casting his eyes about the sumptuous apartments until he spied the elderly white-haired Chancellor sitting at a desk in the adjacent room. He wasted no time, striding through the rooms, straight to Chancellor Evshein. The Chancellor blinked rapidly behind his owlish spectacles. Evshein's hooked nose and his eagle-eyed scowl was formidable, as he cast his spectacles from his face to the desk and rose, this thin frame stiff in his voluminous state robes of black with gold embroidery. Beckoning Jherrick to the open-air balcony, he dismissed his guard.

  “Chancellor,” Jherrick murmured. “May I have a private word?”

  “Jherrick! You are forbidden to contact me—”

  “Forgive me, Chancellor. But I may have news of import.”

  “Go on.” The Chancellor crossed his skinny sun-spotted arms into the voluminous sleeves of his gilt-edged robe.

  “Sir...” Jherrick cast his eyes about, making sure none others were out upon balconies nearby. “Do you know what the Elsthemi First Sword is planning? Tasked to him by Lhaurent?”

  The Chancellor blinked, then scowled, and looked around also. He gripped Jherrick's arm in a claw of steel. “Fool, boy!” He growled low. “I should have your throat slit for bringing this to me in such an obvious manner! But since we are quite alone, I will put your mind at rest. Trust the Lothren. The First Sword serves our plans, and our Castellan does but further those plans.”

  “But I heard them arguing... the First Sword doesn't want to do it!” Jherrick hissed.

  Evshein blinked. “He swore he would. Ever since Lhaurent brought him here for the Elsthemi preparatory conferences, he was amenable to his task.”

  “I swear to you he's not.” Jherrick argued. “Is Lhaurent drugging him? Just now, I heard them arguing in the Hinterhaft, and Lhaurent took him away to a chamber he never lets anyone enter. And then they returned, and the First Sword was … joyous. To give up his life.”

  “Many are joyous to serve the Broken Circle.” Evshein admonished severely.

  “But I swear to you... his attitude and demeanor were entirely different before and after he entered that room. Like he'd been drugged.”

  “Lhaurent is a master of persuasion, lad. Let it go.”

  “This was beyond persuasion! I've seen Lhaurent's tactics of persuasion, and all of them involve threats and blood. This was something else.” Fervent, Jherrick wasn’t about to let it drop so casually. Something about Lhaurent was off, and someone who could do something about it needed to know.

  Evshein was scowling now. He lifted one gnarled old hand to brush his bushy white eyebrows. “A room in the Hinterhaft he never lets anyone else see, you say?”

  Jherrick nodded. “A vast room. I've walked the halls all around it. It's larger than the Throne Hall, sir.”

  “And you think he keeps a poison apothecary in there to make others do his bidding?”

  Jherrick shook his head. “I don't know. But I worry... that he serves himself, not the Lothren.”

  And here, Evshein gave him a very stern eyeball. “You will tell no-one what you suppose, Jherrick den'Tharn. Let me deal with it. Lhaurent has served the Lothren long, but always he has built his network in secret, and we allow it because he is immaculately efficient and effective. Attend to your regular duties, den'Tharn. And if you breathe a word of this—”

  “I know, Chancellor.”

  Chancellor Evshein den'Lhamann gave him one last pointed look, then motioned Jherrick out. Jherrick knew his position, and he went with the curt bow that any Guardsman would give a superior. His walk was brisk as he left, his nod to his fellow Guardsman without passion or emotion.

  But inside, his gut churned, and his palms had broken into a sweat.

  CHAPTER 34 – KHOUREN