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The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two

Page 7

by Gail Z. Martin


  Jonmarc drew a cup of water from a bucket near the wall and handed it to Gethin. Then he dug two strips of cloth out of a box and began to bind up the prince’s wounds. “You fight well,” Jonmarc replied, choosing to ignore the compliments rather than search for words to acknowledge them. “You’re salle trained, but you’ve seen some battle, haven’t you?”

  Gethin’s chagrin at being bested wasn’t easily mollified, but he nodded. “Some. I was sent to the army at fourteen, and went on my first campaign against raiders at sixteen. I’ve been out a few times since then. It’s all the campaigning there’s been—until now.” He managed to brighten. “Although if I have to lose in the salle, it’s no shame to lose to you, of all people.” He sighed. “You could have hamstrung me with that move, couldn’t you?”

  Jonmarc chuckled. “It’s a street move that I like to use on all the young princes I end up having to train right before we go into battle against overwhelmingly bad odds.”

  Gethin frowned. “You do a lot of this sort of thing?” His Markian accent made his words clipped and gave his vowels a strange turn. The accent stood out, even in Principality’s polyglot mix of peoples.

  “Actually, only once before. An old mercenary friend of mine helped three young noblemen escape with their lives from Jared the Usurper. One of them, a prince who was your age at the time, wasn’t fortunate enough to have even your battle experience. I will say, he improved quite a bit by the time it counted.”

  Gethin gave him a dry smile. “Might that unlucky prince have been Martris Drayke?”

  Jonmarc nodded. “Tris was as green as grass back then when it came to real fighting. Not his fault: Margolan hadn’t been to war in a generation, and his salle training had been mostly for sparring, not for real battle. I’ll tell you what I told them: My ‘technique’ was learned one street fight at a time, which is the only way I know how to teach anyone. Oh, and did I mention—there are no rules.”

  Gethin smiled widely. “We have a saying,” he began, and then lapsed into Markian with a look that dared Jonmarc to translate.

  “A scar at the hand of a master brings no shame,” Jonmarc interpreted dryly. “I know I speak Markian with a Borderlands accent, but when I was your age, I was a Principality merc hired into the Eastmark army and well on my way to becoming a senior officer. Until the court martial.”

  Gethin shouldered gingerly into his shirt, and Jonmarc worried for a moment that he had scored more deeply than he intended. But the look on Gethin’s face kept him from inquiring. He had no desire to batter the prince’s pride any more than his loss in the salle had already done. Despite himself, Jonmarc found that he liked the young man.

  He put on his shirt and turned, only to find Gethin looking at him as if debating whether or not to speak. Jonmarc raised an eyebrow, inviting comment.

  “You’ve known Princess Berwyn for a while, haven’t you?” Suddenly, Gethin sounded every bit as young as his years. Whatever assurance Gethin had in his sword skills and his royal lineage, he seemed flustered by his new role as a peace-offering groom for a politically arranged marriage. For Jonmarc in his position as Champion for the princess, that boded well.

  “I met Berry when we’d all been captured by slavers who’d been sent by Jared to hunt down Tris Drayke,” Jonmarc replied, dipping a cup of water for himself. He took a long drink. “They’d captured Berry when she had traveled into Margolan to visit family, but they didn’t know they had nabbed a princess. They thought she might be noble, and that someone might pay a ransom.” He chuckled. “They got more than they bargained for.”

  “She’s a fighter?” Gethin’s voice revealed skepticism.

  “Not exactly, although Berry understood the ‘no rules’ part before I ever met her. She slipped me a blade, poisoned the slavers with bad mushrooms in their stew, scalded the leader with a pot of hot soup, and in a brawl to the death with slavers, vengeful ghosts, and more magic than I care to remember, she was hopping from ledge to ledge dropping boulders on their heads.”

  Gethin smiled, and Jonmarc guessed the other was forming a mental picture of the events. “Then I’ll try not to make her angry,” he said with a grin. Just as quickly, he grew serious.

  “I must admit, my lessons were a bit thin on how to woo a headstrong bride for a marriage of necessity.” Gethin looked decidedly uncomfortable. “But just in the short time I’ve been here, I can see that Princess Berwyn won’t be forced into something she doesn’t want.”

  “Look, Gethin, I’m really not the best person to ask for advice about women,” Jonmarc said, setting his cup aside. “My way of winning over Carina involved nearly getting myself beaten to death by a Nargi commander who was overdue for revenge.”

  “Truly?”

  Jonmarc grimaced. “Yeah. Truly. So as I said, I’m maybe not the best person to consult.”

  “I have no one else.” Jonmarc met his eyes and saw Gethin the young man, and not the self-assured Eastmark prince.

  “All right,” Jonmarc said and sighed. “Ask. But it doesn’t mean I know any answers.”

  Gethin hesitated, and Jonmarc had a flash of insight. Gethin had been presented as a trophy groom to seal an alliance, accompanied by priests, ambassadors, and staff. None of his companions would be suitable for personal questions. “Am I correct in guessing that Princess Berwyn didn’t know about the pact our fathers made—at least, not about me?”

  “She knew they were working on an alliance. She didn’t know it involved marriage.”

  Gethin sighed. “Is there a rival? Is her heart already taken?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  At that, Gethin relaxed, just a bit. “That’s for the best. I left no one behind, either. Perhaps that, at least, is in our favor.” He dared to meet Jonmarc’s eyes. “I’ve seen quite a few arranged marriages at court. At best, the couple grows fond of each other. Most merely tolerate a charade where each goes separate ways. At worst, they spend the rest of their lives ripping each other to shreds.” He looked away. “I’m the extra heir. That meant chances were high that I would be sent somewhere for a political marriage. I’ve always hoped to manage the best of the three options, if love isn’t one of the choices.”

  “Marrying for love almost started two wars in recent memory,” Jonmarc noted. “From what I’ve heard, your grandfather didn’t take kindly to your aunt eloping with Donelan.”

  Gethin grimaced. “No, he didn’t. And the rules that forbade the royal family to marry outsiders were struck down by my father, as soon as he took the throne, in Aunt Viata’s memory.”

  “But because your grandfather was spoiling for war, Tris’s father agreed to an arranged marriage between his heir and the heir to Isencroft’s throne, just to put Eastmark on notice. It managed to stop that war, but it created a real mess when Kiara ended up betrothed to Jared the Usurper and then sided with Tris.”

  “And if our intelligence is correct, Isencroft is on the brink of civil war over having a shared throne and a mixed-blood heir.” Gethin closed his eyes and shook his head. “And people actually believe that the royal family can do as they please.”

  “What do you think I can tell you?”

  “I believe that Berwyn and I will do our duty to our kingdoms, although she’ll make me prove myself to her, as is her right,” Gethin said, beginning to pace. “But can I win her heart?”

  Jonmarc chuckled. “Berry was quite the matchmaker, trying to pair up Tris and Kiara as well as Carina and me. So I suspect she harbors some hope of an agreeable match. I’m not the best person to ask about winning hearts, but it’s a good start to win her respect. She can’t stand pretense or arrogance. She can forgive mistakes but not lies. And she has a wicked sense of humor.”

  “I’m relieved to find that she’s not one of those fragile noble girls,” Gethin confessed. “You know something of Eastmark. We train our princesses just as hard as our princes in the sword.”

  “I found that out from a turn or two in the salle with Kiara,” Jonmarc said
with a chuckle. “She held her own with me, and she said it was her mother’s training.”

  Gethin looked down. “I know Viata only from my father’s stories of her. He was much younger, and he mourned when grandfather banished her. When father took the throne, he found a court artist who remembered Viata and commissioned portraits of her. So in a way, she returned to the palace, at least in memory. I grew up hearing his stories about her and thinking how strong and brave she must have been to defy grandfather. When I was a child, I was silly enough to hope that I would find a beautiful, headstrong princess like Viata.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” Jonmarc watched Gethin, surprised that the prince would be so open. That honesty, along with Gethin’s sword skills, raised Jonmarc’s opinion of the young man and made him somewhat more comfortable with the shaky alliance. “Berry’s got a lot of fire, and she has a good head on her shoulders. She needs someone who’ll admire that and support her, instead of trying to get the upper hand.”

  “I’ve thought a lot about Aunt Viata lately, because what happened back then is a great deal of the reason that I’m here, now.” Gethin walked to the salle window and looked out toward the eastern horizon. “Eastmark has never willingly given one of its royal family for an alliance. Father’s taken a risk with this. There are some among the nobles who still agree with grandfather’s ways. They don’t want to see our blood ‘polluted’ by outsiders,” he said scornfully.

  “Sathirinim,” Jonmarc murmured. The term meant “corpse flesh,” and it was the view of many of Eastmark’s older leaders that the pallor of outsiders’ skin was evidence of deeper inferiority.

  Gethin’s head snapped up. “Don’t use that word! Father made it a crime to say it, and he’s done his best to root it out wherever he could from law and custom. Nothing enrages him more, not even blasphemy.”

  “But old ways die hard,” Jonmarc replied, understanding Gethin’s meaning. “Kalcen’s gone out on a limb sending you here. It’s the final defiance against what King Radomar did to his sister, isn’t it? And not everybody likes it.”

  Gethin sighed. “No, they don’t. If it doesn’t go well, if the offering were to be refused…”

  Kalcen would lose face among his nobles, and that can be fatal, Jonmarc said to himself, mentally finishing the sentence that Gethin left unsaid. “I think I understand. Principality is used to a mix of people. Hell, I met mercs from places beyond the Winter Kingdoms. As I recall, there were more than a few Eastmark soldiers who found their way across the border and settled down with Principality women, no matter what the old king thought. On the other hand, some of the mercs noticed that their ‘bad blood’ was good enough to spill on Eastmark battlefields, but not good enough to win them an Eastmark woman. They’ll be scratching their heads over why you’re here, that’s for sure.”

  “I need to make sure the alliance goes smoothly.” Gethin’s eyes looked older than his years. “These are dangerous times. Eastmark and Principality need each other.” He paused. “For myself, I’d like it to be more than just an arrangement.” He smiled sadly. “I’d prefer to win Berwyn’s affection and not just her tolerance.”

  “Play your cards as straight with her as you have with me, and I think you’ve got a chance,” Jonmarc said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a war to plan.”

  A candlemark later, Jonmarc was seated at a large council table. As Queen’s Champion, he sat at Berry’s right hand. Berry had dressed for the occasion, attending the council in full formal regalia, to reinforce the authority of the crown.

  At Berry’s left was Jencin, the seneschal. Around the table, Jonmarc saw several familiar faces. General Valjan, the former leader of the War Dogs mercenaries, Jonmarc knew and trusted. Laisren and Serg, the emissaries of the vayash moru and vyrkin, had fought alongside Jonmarc. Hant, the palace spymaster, had thrown his considerable abilities toward helping Tris Drayke take back the throne of Margolan. Exeter, the head of the Mercenary Guild, was an unknown, as was Lord Alarek, the representative from the Council of Nobles.

  “We’ve sent advance troops to the coast, and what ships could be mustered are in place,” Valjan reported. “Thanks to the mercenaries,” he added with a nod toward Exeter. “The Principality troops are split three ways: Most went to the coast with the mercs. Some will patrol the river to make sure none of the enemy ships slip inland. The rest will guard the palace.”

  “What of the mercs?” Berry asked. “How many troops can we count on?”

  Jonmarc looked to Exeter. For other kingdoms, mercenaries were usually just extra hired muscle. But Principality had a long, complex relationship with the multitude of merc groups that called the small kingdom home. A few hundred years ago, Principality had been created by the surrounding powers as a way to keep the peace over its wealth of gem mines, mines that had been a near constant source of war as the neighboring kingdoms fought for control. Battered by fruitless and expensive fighting, the other kingdoms had created Principality as its own sovereign state, but it was too small to marshal a full army from its population.

  The first king of Principality, in a stroke of genius, had made it known that all mercenary groups were welcome to winter within the kingdom’s borders, provided that those merc companies swore that they would never sell their swords against Principality. Over the years, the best and most fearsome merc companies in the Winter Kingdoms found their way to Principality, as did the fastest privateers and some fleets that were probably more pirate than privateer. The kings of Principality had welcomed them all, along with their oath of fealty. As a result, Principality was heavily protected from within and rested in the assurance that no legitimate mercenary group would agree to attack them. Now, Jonmarc hoped that the age-old agreement would be enough.

  “We’ve rallied the merc troops,” Exeter reported. “Those that were traveling have been recalled, except for the ones that had already been recruited to serve the other kingdoms against the Northern threat. As for ships, we’re still counting as they come in.” Exeter grinned, showing a row of mottled teeth and a wolfish grin. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a war like this is shaping up to be. Any fighter worth his price is itching for a piece of it. And of course,” he added with a calculating look toward Berry, “for a piece of the spoils.”

  “You’ll receive your customary percentage, and a bonus if my commanders say it’s been earned,” Berry replied.

  “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Berry looked to Laisren and Serg. “Were you able to recruit from among the vayash moru and vyrkin?”

  Laisren was Dark Haven’s weapons master, and Jonmarc knew exactly how dangerous Laisren could be on the battlefield. Although he was several hundred years old, he looked to be in his early thirties, with an angular face and dark blond hair that fell loose to his shoulders. The charcoal jacket that he wore made his pallor the more visible.

  “Our numbers are fewer than they were at the beginning of the year due to the war with the rogues of our kind,” Laisren said. “And we are always fewer in numbers than mortals believe. Some remain in Dark Haven to protect the manor. But four of the Blood Council broods have pledged themselves to support you, m’lady. They’re still arriving, but we should have several dozen, at the least.”

  Berry frowned. “And the fifth Blood Council brood?”

  Laisren exchanged a glance with Jonmarc. “Astasia and her people have gone missing. We believe she’s thrown her support to the other side. The other houses are bloodsworn against her. We’ll handle that matter ourselves, if it arises.” Jonmarc could see the tips of Laisren’s elongated eye teeth in the other’s cold smile.

  Berry looked to Serg. “And the vyrkin?”

  Serg was a stocky man of medium build with brown hair and a close-trimmed beard. His violet eyes were the mark of the shapeshifting vyrkin. “As with the vayash moru, the uprising in Dark Haven cost us many lives. But the plague brought many more vyrkin for sanctuary in Dark Haven, and these new wolf brothers and si
sters are ready to fight in your service. There are fifty of us, and we expect more to come.”

  Berry nodded. “Very good.”

  “Your Majesty.” Hant’s quiet voice made the room fall silent. The late King Staden had once introduced Hant to Jonmarc as his “best rat-catcher.” Hant was a small man with dark eyes that did not miss any motion. He said little, but knew everything that went on anywhere in Principality. Hant might not be a warrior like most of the others at the table, but Jonmarc knew the spymaster was equally dangerous in his own way.

  “You have news, Hant?”

  “Not as good as what the others have reported, but important nonetheless.” Hant looked at the group seated around the table. “My sources in the city have continued to investigate the attack at the Feast of the Departed. The serroquette’s information was correct. More than a few of the Durim were active before and after the attack.”

  “Were?” Jonmarc met Hant’s eyes, and the spymaster gave a cold smile.

  “Were. My associates are very effective in rooting out vermin.”

  Jonmarc’s smile mirrored the chill in Hant’s expression. He’d gone up against the Durim himself, in that battle and before, in Dark Haven. The Durim were the fanatical devotees of a long-renounced goddess, Shanthadura, the Destroyer. Long ago, Shanthadura had demanded blood offerings and human sacrifice. Peyhta, the Soul Eater; Konost, the Guide of Dead Souls; and Shanthadura, the Destroyer had been worshiped as the Shrouded Ones, and their reign of bloody devotion had held sway in the Winter Kingdoms for centuries. Four hundred years ago King Hadenrul had displaced the worship of the Shrouded Ones with devotion to the Eight Aspects of the Sacred Lady, exiling or destroying those who would not abandon their murderous rites.

  “I’d like to tell you that the problem is solved, but unfortunately, although we’ve captured quite a few of the Durim, someone or something is still causing problems. Buka, for one.”

 

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