The Sworn

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I bless you, my children.” The voice that came from the figure sent a chill down Jonmarc’s back. Whatever—whoever—the thing was, the sound that came from its throat was not entirely human. The spirits glided across the cavern chamber to mass around the gaunt figure, and the vyrkin bowed deeply. Following suit, so did Gabriel and Jonmarc, although Jonmarc never took his eyes from the shadowed visitor. “Restore the pack. Replenish the blood. Remember our way.”

  Jonmarc blinked and the figure vanished.

  The figure’s sudden departure seemed to trigger something within the pack. Several of the vyrkin began to shift, changing into their wolf forms. But as the first couple turned around, a cry came from the crowd and the man Jonmarc guessed to be the bride’s brother launched himself at the groom, tackling the younger man and crashing to the ground.

  Jonmarc started forward to break up the fight, but Gabriel caught his arm and gave a warning shake of the head. Vigulf stepped toward the two men who were struggling on the floor, and Jonmarc expected the shaman to intercede. Instead, he raised his staff and gave a deep-throated cry that sounded more wolf than human.

  Like a blast of winter air, the spirits came rushing toward the struggling pair on the floor. They swarmed around the attacker, lifting him into the air although he was a muscular man. The spirits seemed to be entering the attacker’s body through his mouth, eyes, and ears, and from the silent scream that formed on the man’s face, it was obviously not a gentle possession.

  Three of the vyrkin who were still in human form rushed forward to drag the injured groom away from his attacker. The bride stood transfixed, looking in horror between her wounded husband and the punishment her brother endured for the attack.

  “What the Wolf Father has blessed, no one may challenge,” Vigulf warned. “Harm to one is harm to the pack. You must be made to remember.”

  As abruptly as the spirits had seized the attacker, they now departed, streaming from his mouth. The man’s body twitched and his eyes were wide with terror. As the spirits rushed from him, he grew paler, finally collapsing on the ground. Sior tugged at Jonmarc’s sleeve as the rest of the assemblage began to file silently from the room, following the narrow pathway up to the forest.

  No one spoke until they reached a clearing where a meal had been set out on large tables, which Jonmarc guessed had been brought from the manor house. That the menu consisted of nearly raw meat did not surprise him. To one side, Jonmarc saw a table by itself. It was set with a plate of food, a goblet, and a large hunk of bread. Dozens of candles glittered atop the table. There was no chair. “An offering to the ancestors, who are honored guests at the feast,” Sior murmured from just behind Jonmarc, following his gaze and guessing at his thoughts. Jonmarc followed Gabriel and Sior to places that had been set for them. Conversation resumed and the gathering regained a festive air, although Jonmarc did not see any of the newly married couples, nor was there a table set for them.

  “What will happen to him?” Jonmarc asked Sior.

  Sior frowned. “Eljan didn’t like his sister marrying someone outside of our pack. Vigulf tried to reason with him. What he did endangered the pack, because we need new members in order to survive.”

  “Will Vigulf kill him?”

  Sior met Jonmarc’s eyes. “No, we’re already too few. But he’ll be punished.”

  Jonmarc remembered the terrified look on the man’s face and did not doubt that a repeat of the attack was unlikely. “And what about the newlyweds? Where are they?”

  Sior’s expression softened to a knowing grin. “They’ll celebrate privately.”

  The night was mostly spent before Jonmarc and Gabriel returned to Wolvenskorn. Torches blazed at the entrance and candles gleamed in the windows. Between the posturing of the Blood Council and the tension of the vyrkin weddings, Jonmarc was tired and ready to rest. He followed Gabriel into the manor and they walked into Gabriel’s well-appointed study. Books and scrolls filled shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The library was worth a fortune, and Jonmarc wagered that few kings could boast of so large a collection. Gabriel poured a brandy for Jonmarc and a goblet of goat’s blood for himself and motioned for Jonmarc to take a seat in one of the large leather chairs that sat in front of the now-darkened fireplace.

  “So you expect Kolin back from Nargi… when?” Gabriel asked.

  Jonmarc took a sip of the brandy and let it burn its way down his throat. “Depends on how thick the patrols are, and how many safe houses Kolin needs to use along the way. They don’t dare travel openly in Nargi, and it’s gotten to be more of a problem getting across Dhasson, Kolin says. From what I’ve heard, King Harrol tries to be neutral when it comes to the vayash moru, but all that really means is that he doesn’t organize purges. He also doesn’t go after the Durim or the occasional lords who do order a purge. But I would expect Kolin within a few weeks.”

  Gabriel nodded, sampling the blood in his goblet. “I had hoped for a better showing from the Council tonight. Uri can actually be a help to Kolin and the Ghost Carriage. I think Rafe will support us as well. He plays the ascetic, but he’s a very wealthy man.”

  “And Astasia?”

  Gabriel’s expression hardened as he finished his drink. “This is a dangerous time for her to be playing games. Leave her to me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Daddy, wake up!”

  Jair Rothlandorn groaned and tried to roll over.

  “Wake up, Daddy!” The voice was persistent, close to his ear. Jair opened his eyes. A small face framed in dark, ringlet curls stared back at him only inches away. His son, Kenver, had the same amber eyes as his mother and the Sworn. His golden skin was a lighter cast, somewhere in between Talwyn’s tawny hue and Jair’s pale complexion, although by the end of the Ride, Jair would be nearly as dark as Talwyn. Kenver’s face was a mixture of Jair’s and Talwyn’s features, and right now, Kenver’s expression was pure joy.

  “Mommy, Mommy. Daddy woke up!”

  Jair took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the boy, gathering Kenver’s small frame against him. He breathed in the scent of his hair, hair that smelled of sun and horse and wood smoke. At three years old, Kenver had no thought for his heritage, that he was by birth an heir to the throne of Dhasson, and by blood an heir to the magic of his mother and the chieftainship of the Sworn. Ignoring the pain of his freshly healed wounds, Jair tightened his grip and wiggled his fingers, tickling Kenver under his arm. The boy shrieked with delighted giggles.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Talwyn stood in the doorway. Jair kissed the top of Kenver’s head and released the boy, who scampered off. Jair held out his hand to Talwyn and drew her to the side of the bed. He sat up and winced.

  “Much better, considering the last thing I remember feeling was mostly dead.” He put his arm around his wife and pulled her toward him, into a kiss that let her know just how much he had missed her these past six months.

  Talwyn’s amber eyes sparkled as she drew away. Her hair was dark and straight like the rest of her people’s, and it framed a rectangular face that was strikingly beautiful but not at all the delicate prettiness favored in the Dhasson court. Talwyn’s arms were strong as they wrapped around him, lean and toned from long days of riding and from training with the long, heavy stelian swords. Around her neck hung a variety of charms with polished rock, bits of metal, and bone on a thin cord woven from hair and leather. The charms spoke of Talwyn’s status as cheira, or shaman, and of her duty as next in line to be chieftain of the Sworn. One of the charms was from Jair, a betrothal token given years ago, the mark of the Lady set in a silver circle.

  “You heal quickly,” Talwyn murmured, clasping Jair’s hand. The stylized tattoo of dark ink that circled one side of his wrist completed the circle around hers, matching perfectly. Each mated couple among the Sworn had a unique marking, one that was made up of elements signifying both families’ heritage. Kenver had a matching tattoo that circled his right bicep, marking him as their child.<
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  “With help.” Jair gingerly fingered the newly healed skin on his arm where the dimonn had raked him with its claws. The cuts were almost completely healed, leaving thin, dark scars, a permanent reminder of his battle. His fever was completely gone, assuring him that the dimonn’s poison had been cleansed from his system. “Thank you.”

  Talwyn’s expression grew serious. “That was too close. We almost didn’t make it in time.”

  “What about Emil and Mihei?”

  “Emil is healing, but we nearly lost him. It will be awhile before he is ready to fight again. Mihei is badly drained, but rest will cure that. Now you know why I sent them to ride with you. The roads have been more dangerous of late.”

  “I noticed.” Jair looked around himself. He was in one of the tents the Sworn called home. It was a round structure with wooden poles covered with sturdy canvas. Its roof was fanlike, also made from wood and canvas. It unfolded to form a circular, sloping top that was secured to the base with leather straps. Jair knew from experience that the entire tent could be struck or set in little more than a candlemark. Within the tent, colorful cloths hung from floor to ceiling, separating the sleeping chamber from the sitting and dining area. Jair closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The canvas smelled of the spices typical of the nomadic group’s cooking, and of Talwyn’s incense, and of fresh meadow grass. Despite the battle of the day before, something within Jair relaxed. Here, more than any other place, he was at home.

  “How did I get here?” Jair looked chagrined. “I guess I passed out when we got to the inn.”

  Talwyn suppressed a smile. “You made it up the stairs,” she offered helpfully. “After that, the healers took care of you and Emil and Mihei, and then gave you something so you’d sleep and heal. The next morning, we loaded you into a wagon and brought you to the camp. If you feel groggy, it’s because the elixir has just worn off.”

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “A full day.”

  Talwyn took his hand and drew him over to plates of food on a low table in the center of the public area of the tent. The inner walls of the tent were marked with runes and symbols. Some told the history of the Sworn. Others gave the narrative of Talwyn’s family, a long and proud lineage among the nomadic warriors. And some of the runes were for protection, invoked by Talwyn when she worked her shamanic magic.

  “We must be fairly close to towns,” Jair guessed as he filled a large piece of thin bread with roasted vegetables and meat flavored with the piquant spices the Sworn preferred. “It’s goat meat instead of rabbit.”

  Talwyn settled beside him, crossing her legs under her. Kenver scrambled over to sit between them and filled his own slice of bread nearly larger than his mouth. “We’re still a good distance from any settlement, but this year, there are more goats roaming free,” Talwyn said. “Their owners died of the plague and the goats broke out of their pastures. The same is true for sheep and there are hogs rooting through the forest. Good for eating, bad for Margolan in general.”

  “What of the barrows?” Jair asked. He finished his food quickly. Not for the first time, he wondered what accident of birth had placed him in the glittering Dhasson palace when his heart and soul seemed at home with the nomadic Sworn.

  “Several of the ones we’ve visited recently have been desecrated,” Talwyn said. She handed Jair a leather wineskin. “Some more than others. At one or two, we’ve found markings and some shallow digging, as if someone were trying to work magic for which they didn’t have the power. We’ve been able to put those right fairly easily. But the last one—”

  “What happened?” Jair laid the wineskin aside and drew Kenver onto his lap, reveling in the closeness of his family after the half-year absence his court duties had forced upon him.

  “Someone at the nearest barrow had a better idea of what they were doing,” Talwyn said darkly. She glanced to Kenver, a signal for Jair that the boy shouldn’t hear what would be said next.

  “Have you gotten any better with your bolas?” Jair asked Kenver.

  The boy beamed at him. “Lots better. Want to see?”

  Jair grinned. “Of course I do. Let me finish talking with your mother and then I’ll be out. Go ahead and practice.” Delighted, Kenver ran from the tent.

  Talwyn watched to make certain the boy had gone. She lowered her voice, just a bit. “The barrow we’ve camped near has been vandalized by someone doing blood magic. They did enough damage that the spells binding the tomb have been weakened. Tonight, I need to walk the smoke to gain wisdom on how best to reseal the barrow. Tomorrow night, I’ll do the working.” She looked up at Jair. “I’d like you with me, both nights.”

  Jair nodded solemnly. “You know I’ll be there.” He thought for a moment. “Do you think the disturbers of the barrows are organized? Father doesn’t hold much with meddling in the ways of the vayash moru, but ever since I went back to Margolan for Tris’s wedding, I’ve seen how important it is to rule both the living and the undead. Tris connected me with the vayash moru leaders in Dhasson, and through them, I’ve heard that with the plague, some people are turning back to the old ways, to human sacrifice and blood magic to appease Shanthadura and the Shrouded Ones. Do you think that could be behind the barrow desecrations?”

  Talwyn shivered although the day was warm. “The Sworn remembers the cult of the Shrouded Ones. Those were very dark days. It’s been hundreds of years since anyone has worked their rites—at least, that we’ve heard about. But the smokewalkers will know. I’ll ask.”

  Late that night, after the Sworn had gathered for dinner to greet Jair and welcome him back to the Ride, Jair and Talwyn headed toward the ceremonial tent. They were joined by Pevre, who was Talwyn’s father and the Sworn’s chieftain. Pevre was a large, strongly built man. He was esteemed among his people for both his leadership and his ability with a sword, but now, as Jair and Talwyn entered into the ritual tent, it was Pevre’s mystical connection to past generations of the Sworn that was foremost in Jair’s mind.

  The chamber had been prepared. As they entered, one of the Sworn warriors handed a cup filled with a clear blue elixir to each of them, then stepped outside to guard the entrance. Jair took a deep breath and swallowed the elixir. It seemed to sharpen his senses immediately, even as it gave him the feeling that he was floating within his own body, untethered to the physical world. Three pillows sat next to a small brazier in the center of the tent, and in front of it, a series of small cups filled with sacred herbs that would help open the passage to the spirit world.

  The ceremonial tent was large enough to hold all of the adults in the Sworn. The walls of the tent were painted in more pictures and runes. Bells hung from a central support, and on the other side of the tent, bits of colored glass, polished stone, and reflective metal glittered in the firelight where they were suspended as a warding against evil. Along the back wall, a small altar acknowledged the ancestors, whom the Sworn believed continued the Ride for eternity, aiding from beyond the mortal world in maintaining their watch over the barrows and the Dread who dwelt within them.

  “Are you ready?” Talwyn’s voice was level. Jair nodded, although he had no idea what tonight’s ritual entailed.

  Pevre began to chant. The language of the Sworn was heavy with consonants, a language that almost seemed more growled than spoken. It was far different from the languages of the seven kingdoms, or from Common, the language spoken by traders. Some said the Sworn’s language was older, while other tales said it took its origins far south, beyond the Winter Kingdoms, from peoples now long gone. It had taken Jair years to master it, but now he followed the chant in what had become his second native tongue.

  “Spirits of those who have gone before, come to the gathering. Walk with us on the paths of smoke. Let us see with your eyes, and counsel us with your wisdom. We are the people of the Ride. We are the guardians of the barrows. We are the watchers of the Dread. We are the protectors. We are the Sworn.” Pevre raised a ceremonial knife and sliced a gash i
n his forearm. He held his arm over the brazier so that drops of the fresh blood fell into the coals, hissing. Pevre took herbs from the first of the cups next to the fire and dropped it onto the fire. Pungent smoke rose, filling the tent with the smell of absinthe.

  Pevre passed the obsidian-bladed knife to Talwyn. Talwyn rose onto her knees and spread her arms wide. Her head fell back, exposing her throat and chest to the cloud of smoke. She raised her head and brought her hands in, palms up, as she looked toward the opening in the tent roof through which the smoke slowly spiraled.

  “Travelers who have made the journey, walk with me, fathers of my father, mothers of my mother, bone of my bone, I call you. I want to walk the paths of smoke with you tonight. Accept me into your company.” Talwyn raised the flat of the knife to her lips and kissed it, and then drew the point down the palm of her left hand. She let drops of the blood hiss on the brazier coals, and then added herbs from the second cup to the fire. This time, the smoke rose with the scent of cinnamon, mingled with holly and dandelion.

  The knife passed to Jair. He had none of Talwyn’s shamanic gifts, nor Pevre’s second sight. But the blood of kings flowed in his veins, a powerful and ancient magic. Bound to Talwyn by oath, sex, and magic, Jair’s presence was essential for the working of the night’s ritual. As Talwyn had taught him, Jair focused his attention on the ancestral altar.

  “Warriors of the Sworn, aid your people. Seers of my tribe, bring us your visions. Souls of our honored dead, we bid you welcome.” Jair slashed the blade down his left thumb, opening a cut that bled freely into the coals. With his other hand, Jair dropped another handful of the ritual herbs into the fire. Smoke rose that smelled of sweetgrass and anise.

  The smoke grew thicker, dense with the smell of blood and herbs. It hung in a heavy layer within the tent and as Jair watched, the haze began to move. Jair thought he glimpsed barely formed images in the smoke, faces or forms almost perceived and then gone. Along the wall, the bells chimed.