The Sworn fkc-1

by Gail Z. Martin

  The crowd, drunken as it was, had stilled despite the music that played faster and faster. Some of them were sober enough to hear the warnings in the words of the Sacred Vessels, and as much of a hush as was possible for several thousand people fell over the throng as the fifth oracle moved to the front.

  Orange beads, for Chenne the Warrior, covered the prophetess. She was of mixed blood, and Jonmarc guessed she had Eastmark heritage. “Soon my horses will ride your lands, and your blood will whet my steel. Hear me, Berwyn of Principality. In the rising and the setting of the sun lies your salvation. From across the sea comes death. Look to the course of the sun.”

  The sixth oracle let her robes fall. She had short, chopped brown hair and white, sightless eyes. She was thin, too thin, like an animated corpse. Vayash moru looked far more healthy than she. Clear beads, the color of Nameless, the Formless One, did little to hide her nakedness or the bluish pallor of her skin. “I ride across your land with my Host, harvesting what belongs to me. Beware the Hollowing. My servants have heard another voice, someone who would be their master. The Night Ones wake. Dread their coming. Dread and blood come and what will remain when they have passed?”

  The crowd was now nervously quiet. While the oracles danced across the stage, whirling in a frenetic motion that drove out reason and opened them to the passions of the divine, two more seers had yet to speak. Jonmarc felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach as the seventh seer revealed herself.

  Beads black as night covered her, making her pale skin glow in the torchlight by comparison. Or perhaps, Jonmarc thought, the seer was vayash moru. The beads made the sound of rattling bones as she moved, and unlike those that adorned the other seers, these strands seemed to move on their own, followed by a blur of shadows that almost formed a misty covering for their wearer. “Hear the words of the Sinha, the Crone. My cauldron fills with blood and spirits. Shadows awaken from long slumber. Days grow short, and night remains. The battle is coming, between day and night. Dawn and sunset war with each other. In darkness lie both defeat and victory.”

  Jonmarc’s throat tightened as the eighth seer moved forward. Berry knelt alone in the middle of the dais, surrounded by a circle of skyclad dancers. Sweat formed a sheen on their bodies and their beads flew as they danced, making brilliant swirls of color in the torchlight. Tambourines had joined the drums and flutes, along with pipers, and it seemed as if the heartbeat of everyone in the crowd had synchronized with the music of the dance.

  When the eighth oracle’s white robe fell, a gasp went up from the crowd. A dark-haired woman stood at the front of the stage, covered in a cascade of blood. Jonmarc blinked, and realized that it was a trick of the light, that the wash of dark red that covered the woman was made of beads, and not blood. He felt a tingle of familiar power and knew that the Dark Lady’s presence was very near. He remembered the voice he’d heard in his vision, and the amber eyes that had fixed on his as he argued for death. Perhaps others in the crowd had as clear a vision of one of the other Aspects, but for Jonmarc, it was the Dark Lady who was frighteningly real.

  “Istra, protector of Those Who Walk the Night and those for whom the night holds no comfort, speaks to you, Berwyn of Principality. I give to you both blessing and curse. Your crown will be remembered forever, and until the end of the world, men will speak of the days of your rule. You do well to favor my Chosen, and my children of darkness. Remember that my strength is in the night. I am with you.” Her head turned as she spoke the last words, and although he was surrounded by a mob, Jonmarc swore that the seer stared right into his eyes.

  There was a hush, and Berry rose slowly to her feet. Her face was turned skyward, and her arms were open, palms up. Her eyes were closed, and while the crowd murmured at the queen’s obvious possession, all Jonmarc could think was that she made a wide-open target. When she spoke, her voice was deep and raspy, like the voice of a much older woman.

  “When the north sky drips with blood, soldiers rise and fight,” Berry prophesied. “Only the oldest magic will prevail. When the last days come and the War of Unmaking is upon you, look to the darkness. Born of curses, raised in fire, anointed with blood, the Son of Darkness may yet prevail. Before the end, you will hone your swords with tears and temper your spears with blood.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc glimpsed movement and saw a man brandishing a knife. “Get down!” Jonmarc shouted to Berry, as he barreled onto the dais to cut off the assailant as the man vaulted onto the stage. Jonmarc collided with the man before the attacker could reach Berry, and the knife sank into his left shoulder as both he and the assassin fell to the ground. Laisren seemed to come out of nowhere, adding his strength to pull Jonmarc free and subdue the wild-eyed man whose hand and shirt were slick with Jonmarc’s blood.

  “Not again,” Jonmarc muttered, looking at the wound.

  Before they could do anything, a scream came from the back of the dais, and all eyes went to Aidane, who was standing, stiff and staring, as if some other power suspended her on strings. She was quivering, and her eyes were wide like someone taken in a fit.

  The music stopped, the drumming ceased, and the Sacred Vessels turned to stare at Aidane.

  “Who has your body, serroquette?” It was the seer for the Dark Lady who spoke.

  “I am Helja, the rune speaker.”

  Even Jonmarc recognized the name of one of the legendary oracles of Principality, a rune speaker who had counseled the kings of Principality a century ago. Helja’s wisdom was still sought with gifts and incantations by the battle mages of every merc outfit in the kingdom. Berry rose slowly to her feet, advancing a step toward Aidane with Jonmarc right behind her. “Honored spirit, thank you for your presence. What message do you bring to us?”

  Helja was pleased by Berry’s deference. Aidane could feel the spirit’s pleasure. “I have a message for you, Berwyn of Principality.”

  Berry nodded soberly. “Speak. I will hear you.”

  “Look to the Son of Darkness, when all is lost.”

  “Who is the Son of Darkness?”

  “Ask my children who hear the music. They will know. They can hear the Blood Stalker rising, and they know the Hollowing is near. Mad eyes watch the horizon, and they flee the call only they can hear. But they know. They know. Look to the Son of Darkness, when all is lost.”

  As quickly as Helja’s spirit came, it departed, and Aidane staggered as the ghost left her. Thaine’s spirit rushed in to fill the void with a new and urgent excitement. “Black Robes are among us,” Thaine cried. She stared at a man with close-cropped brown hair who was standing in the crowd. “You’re one of them.” Thaine’s voice was loud and certain.

  One of the huge straw figures of the Aspects burst into flames. The man Thaine accused let out a shout and hurled a knife at Aidane’s chest. Aidane barely dodged out of its way, crying out as the knife slashed her shoulder. As the crowd screamed and tried to flee, Aidane saw Berry’s hand flick once, twice, and Aidane’s attacker fell, with one of the queen’s knives in his throat. Kolin dove for Aidane, taking her down to the stage. Jonmarc, still bleeding, shielded Berry from the crowd.

  Aidane felt Thaine’s death memories pour over her as Thaine pointed out the Black Robes disguised as revelers in the crowd. Laisren and the vyrkin reacted first, tackling the men Thaine identified. The crowd began to stampede toward the rear.

  Amid the chaos, the Sacred Vessels had somehow gathered their robes, but they did not run. Instead, they formed a ring around where Jonmarc lay covering Berry, facing outward, peering into the crowd. Aidane felt their power, their spirits, as if they were seeking out Thaine’s ghost. Thaine spotted another of the Durim in the crowd.

  “Black Robe. Murderer. I see what you are.” It was the voice of the seer for the Crone.

  Guards barreled through the crowd to apprehend the man. Another of the straw effigies burst into flame.

  The seer for the Formless One turned her blind eyes toward the flames. “There is death in the straw. Deat
h in the straw.”

  Flames roared to life along the straw outline of the third effigy, and then the fourth, although it was not yet the appointed time.

  The first effigy began to crumble with the ferocity of the flames that enveloped it. Mats of straw and thatching fell away, exposing the burning wooden structure underneath it. Aidane had just an instant to glimpse some kind of apparatus inside the effigy, something that intuition told her should not be there, before there came a sound like swords singing through the air on a field of battle.

  A hail of solid, silver objects sailed over her head, glittering in the light of the festival torches. Screams rose from the crowd. Blades. Someone rigged the effigies with blades.

  She dared a glance up, to see if any of the Sacred Vessels had been hurt, and to assure herself that Jonmarc and Berry were safe. She saw a ring of coruscating light, translucent, like the film of oil on water, surrounding the seers and their royal charge. In the crowd, people were screaming and crying. Aidane strained to see. Many of the people close to the first effigy lay on the ground covered with blood. Others were shrieking in shock and terror, holding motionless bodies.

  “Take down those damn effigies!” The voice sounded with authority from the crowd, and Aidane recognized it as belonging to the general with the eye patch. Her vision was limited from where she lay, but she saw a red-haired man come to a standstill facing the second effigy and raise his hands in a gesture of warding just as the straw giant began to tumble.

  This time, she saw it happen. The belly of the effigy burst open and a hail of objects was propelled at high speed through the air toward the crowd. The red-haired mage moved his hands slightly, and his lips formed words she did not hear. The blades dropped from the sky as if the air itself had been drawn out from beneath them, and they clattered harmlessly to the ground.

  The third effigy began to sway. A woman with short dark hair ran at the toppling figure and thrust out both of her hands, palms forward, and then brought them down sharply. Water flowed out of the nearby well and a watering trough for horses and it slammed into the burning effigy, extinguishing the flames. It groaned and wobbled, and then collapsed to the ground as the crowd fled as best they could in the press, but the deadly payload inside did not discharge.

  It was impossible for Aidane to tell from the crowd who was trying to flee for their lives and who was running toward the effigies to stop the carnage. With the mages and many of the soldiers out of their normal dress, she had no idea who was who. A dozen men ran at the legs of the effigy to the Crone and brought it to the ground. It crashed with a solid thud, far too heavy for a straw shell, but none of its weapons discharged.

  Two more of the effigies were burning. A dark-haired man with a determined look planted himself in front of the third effigy, the figure of the Mother. He brought his open palms up from his sides in a swift gesture. A wall of dirt rose into the air high enough to reach the effigy’s head, and then the full weight of the airborne ground struck the effigy, cracking its supports and toppling it as the crowd surged to outrun its falling weight.

  Men Aidane assumed were soldiers were trying to keep the panicked crowd from stampeding, with only partial success, but they had cleared a swath around the last burning effigy, the figure of Istra, the Dark Lady. A thin young man with lank, straw-blond hair stood alone in that no-man’s area. He brought his hands together with a clap that sounded like thunder, and then pushed out with both palms at once, sending a stream of red fire to match the flames of the burning figure. For a moment, flame seemed to fight flame, and then the red fire won, consuming the figure in a blaze of lethal heat that singed Aidane’s hair although she was a distance away. The fire mage held his ground, although his clothing began to smoke. Whatever weapons the effigy might have held inside never had the chance to discharge. One moment, the figure was intact, identifiable; the next, it crumbled to the ground in a mound of cinders and ash.

  The soldiers had pushed down the rest of the effigies that were not on fire, aided by some of the clear-headed men in the crowd. A thick blanket of smoke hung over the festival area, which was much emptier of people than it had been not long before. Over the din of voices, Aidane could hear soldiers shouting for order. She blinked against the smoke, amazed to still be alive.

  Aidane became aware of chanting, and she looked up to see the Sacred Vessels standing in a protective circle around Berry, who was still shielded by Jonmarc. As if they had suddenly agreed that the danger was passed, the chanting stopped and the curtain of light winked out. Kolin helped Aidane stand. To Aidane’s astonishment, the seer who wore the yellow beads of the Lover’s oracle walked toward her.

  “We heard your spirit, Thaine of Nargi. Know that you have the thanks of the Sacred Lady.”

  Aidane’s heart pounded, and she did not know whether her own fear or Thaine’s was greater. She stammered for words, still in shock over her role in the turmoil. “Thank you, m’lady,” she managed to say.

  The oracle looked at her and her eyes grew sad. “You would leave us, Thaine of Nargi?”

  Thaine’s spirit came to the fore. “I’ve given you all the information I had. The men in the crowd were the men I saw in Nargi. I have nothing else to offer. I would go to my rest.”

  The oracle nodded. “You did not die in vain, Thaine of Nargi. I cannot make your passage to the Lady, but I give you my blessing. May you cross the Gray Sea in safety.”

  Thank you. For everything. Thaine’s voice brushed along Aidane’s mind. Aidane felt the spirit flow through her, taking one last, full breath. As she exhaled, the spirit seemed to follow the breath, gradually leaving her body, until nothing of Thaine remained. Aidane shook herself, as if awakening, and she found Jonmarc staring at her with an expression on his face that she could not read. Surprise, concern, and sadness mingled in his dark eyes.

  A moment later, Jonmarc helped Berry to her feet. His shirt and coat were bloody, and he had grown pale. Berry looked at him with concern, but Jonmarc shook his head as he jerked the blade from his shoulder and threw it aside.

  “Guess this one wasn’t poisoned. I’ve had worse.”

  Berry turned to the Sacred Vessels. “Thank you,” she said, making a low bow.

  The speaker for the Childe inclined her head, just a bit, in recognition. “This is our gift from the Sacred Lady in all Her Aspects,” the oracle said. Her eyes seemed to darken, as if she saw shadows they could not. “Darkness is coming. You must be wary, but bold in your attack.”

  “Your Majesty.” It was Gellyr. He looked uncomfortable trying to extricate Berry from the circle of seers. “While the crowds are clear, we need to get you to safety.”

  “Yes, of course,” Berry said. Although Aidane hadn’t seen him draw his weapons, Jonmarc stood slightly in front of Berry with a sword in each hand. Gellyr led them toward the edge of the stage, and for a moment, Jonmarc looked behind them at the soldiers who had taken command of the wreckage and the aftermath as if he wanted to join them. Then he looked down at Berry and managed a lopsided grin.

  “You know how to make an entrance.”

  Aidane stepped over the body of the first attacker, the man who had jumped on stage. Only then did she see the hilts of two throwing knives embedded in his chest. Berry moved past her, defying the guards, and bent over the man, removing her knives and cleaning them on the dead man’s shirt before returning them to the folds in her skirt. She straightened.

  “Hant will find out who he was. If I know Hant, he’ll have the mechanism that was inside those figures analyzed by daybreak.” The queen looked up at Jonmarc, and the look in her eyes was much older than her years. “Let’s patch you up, and then I want you there when Hant questions any prisoners. I want to know who they are and what they know.” There was an undercurrent of cold, hard rage in the young queen’s voice. “I will not lose this kingdom to the Durim, or to invaders from the north. If the Lady wants a vow from me on my coronation day, then there it is. We’re going to fight this, Jonmarc, with everythin
g we’ve got.”

  Aidane shifted her attention to Jonmarc. She saw resolve in his face, and anger, but there was something more, something she might have noticed because of Thaine’s memories, something Berry did not see. He knows, even though Berry may not, that the Lady hears vows like that. And he knows just how costly that vow will be to uphold.

  Jonmarc drew a deep breath and looked away. “Let’s get back to the palace. We’ve got a mess to clean up, and a war to plan.”

  Early the next morning, a commotion in the courtyard roused Jonmarc from sleep. He looked out his window. Three fine carriages fit for royalty were in the courtyard. Each carriage was pulled by a team of sleek black Eastmark stallions, horses Jonmarc knew to be worth a small fortune each. With the carriages were wagons for servants and a dozen men at arms mounted on war steeds. Though the guards wore no livery, Jonmarc knew their origin from the fit of their armor and the style of their saddles. He swore profusely under his breath as he dressed quickly, belting on his sword as he left his room.

  He caught up to Jencin in the castle’s grand entranceway. “Were you expecting company?”

  Jencin sighed. “The delegation from Eastmark was due, but I was hoping they wouldn’t arrive until after Haunts.”

  “Actually, they’re right on time.” Berry’s voice came from behind them, and Jonmarc turned to see the queen approaching, looking regal in a dress of forest-green Mussa silk. “Father and King Kalcen made several treaties and agreements after the wedding in Margolan last year. We were told that they would send an ambassador, and a gift to seal the alliance. I doubt there was time for word to reach them about Father’s death.”

  Jonmarc shrugged. “Let’s just hope everyone remembers that Kalcen repealed the death warrant his father issued on me. Otherwise, there might be a ‘diplomatic incident.’ ” He looked at Jencin. “How many of them are there?”

  “An ambassador, two military strategists, two of their Hojun priests, a dozen servants, a contingent of bodyguards-and Prince Gethin.”