Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  So it had been with curiosity that he explored Dark Haven's chapel. Though small, it was filled with carvings and artwork of supreme craftsmanship, illuminated by banks of can­dles. The chapel was tended around the clock by a vayash moru recluse who never spoke and seemed to exist only to serve the chapel. A large stained-glass image of the Lady, back-lit by torches, dominated the rear wall of the chapel.

  Eifan was correct. Istra was no demon. One elaborate bas relief showed her, head bowed, lifting up the broken body of a fallen vayash moru. But it was the Lady of the stained glass that held Jonmarc's attention. Amber-eyed and darkly beautiful, her intricately-decorated cloak was wrapped around her huddled children and her lips parted to reveal the long eye teeth of the vayash moru. Istra was the goddess of the outcast, of Those Who Walked Alone in the Hour of the Wolf. And mortal though he was, something in those eyes connected with Jonmarc Vahanian's own outcast soul.

  A candlemark later, he adjusted the collar of the black velvet doublet and tugged at his cuffs. He ran a hand back along his thick, brown hair, done up in a neat queue that fell shoulder length, and took a passing glance in the mirror to make sure all was well. He met his own dark eyes and paused.

  By rights, I should be face down dead in a ditch somewhere with a shiv between my shoulders. Probably would be if Harrtuck hadn't conned me into smuggling Tris out of Margolan.

  That adventure, which had begun for Jonmarc a few weeks after last year's Haunts, moved him from outlaw smuggler to a friend of kings and a landed noble. The bounty hunters and debts were paid off, the smuggling put aside perma­nently. Even so, he did not feel at ease.

  Jonmarc picked up a small rigging of leather straps and green wood. Carefully, he buckled it onto his right forearm. The contraption held a single arrow and a tightly coiled spring. It was just slim enough to fit into the sleeve of his doublet. Jonmarc raised his arm level with his chest and flexed his wrist, tripping the release.

  The arrow shot out, embedding itself into the wall. Where they were going tonight, Jonmarc had no illusions about being safe. His daily sparring with vayash moru partners made it clear that, should tonight go badly, his sword would be poor protection. The arrow was a weapon of last resort. He retrieved the arrow, refitted it, and slipped his coat on.

  There was a knock at the door. "Come in."

  Gabriel stood in the doorway. The slim, flax­en-haired vayash moru noble was dressed for court. His coat was midnight blue, elegantly tailored from fine brocade. If nothing else, Jon­marc thought, immortality was good for acquiring wealth.

  "Good evening, Jonmarc."

  "I hope it will be." He turned. "So, was it ready?"

  A faint smile played at the corners of Gabriel's thin lips. "Would you like to see it?"

  No one would mistake Gabriel for anything but an aristocrat, Jonmarc thought. His bear­ing, his fine features, everything about him bespoke privilege and breeding. And yet, since before the battle for Margolan's throne, Gabriel had sought him out, sometimes as pro­tector, sometimes as unlikely partner. Since Jonmarc had come to Dark Haven, Gabriel had been content to function as the manor's seneschal, although Jonmarc knew Gabriel owned lands of greater worth. He was also one of the Blood Council.

  Jonmarc knew that he could not have accom­plished so much nor navigated the politics of becoming the manor's lord without Gabriel's help, and he had grown comfortable with Gabriel's companionship. If they were not quite friends, they were very compatible busi­ness partners, and Jonmarc was grateful for a guide in a strange and forbidding land.

  "Let's see how good this goldsmith of yours really is."

  Gabriel held out a velvet pouch. Jonmarc emptied it into hispalm, and caught his breath. The bracelet in his hand was feather-light. Wrought of silver and gold, the betrothal token incorporated two intricate designs. Five verti­cal lines with a "V", reminiscent, of the marks of a wolf's claws, was Jonmarc's old river mark, the symbol by which he was known as a fighter and a smuggler. The other, a' full moon rising from a valley, was the crest of the Lord of Dark Haven. Incorporated into a bracelet— called a shevir in the borderlands of Jonmarc's birth—the symbols warned any who could read them that the wearer was under the pro­tection of a known fighter, a lord, and perhaps the vayash moru themselves.

  "It's beautiful." He turned it so that it gleamed in the firelight. "You were right. A few hundred years of practice pays off. Now comes the hard part."

  "And that is?"

  "Getting Carina to accept it."

  Gabriel chuckled. "Did I see our courier return from Isencroft last evening? Has Carina agreed to winter with us?"

  Jonmarc replaced the shevir in its pouch and placed it on the mantle. He turned away and walked toward the windows, which were frosted from the chill outside. "Donelan's adjusted her duties. She's planning to be here for the winter." He smiled. "I wouldn't doubt that Kiara's had a hand in it—she and Berry considered it a per­sonal challenge to get the two of us together."

  "Those are all good signs."

  Jonmarc shrugged. "Carina'll have had three months to remember what it's like living in the Isencroft palace. Healer to the king, cousin to the next queen of Margolan, and a reputation that will open any door in the Winter King­doms. Why should she give up any of that?"

  "Because she loves you."

  "Maybe she's had time to come to her sens­es. I mean, even with Dark Haven, I'm not exactly a step up."

  "I don't think Carina cares much about such things."

  "We'll see."

  Gabriel inclined his head. "Ready to ride?"

  Jonmarc nodded. "Let's hope the Council's in a good mood."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gabriel's manor was only a candlemark's ride from Dark Haven. A blade carriage arrived for Gabriel and Jonmarc at Dark Haven's entrance, and the two rode in silence for a while. The carriage was not opulent, but jonmarc knew from its solid build that it was one of the finest of its sort. Four sleek black horses drew the carriage, fitted in hand­worked leather tack trimmed with silver. The carriage and horses alone were worth a small fortune.

  "Neirin says that we're meeting the Council on your land because I'm safer there—some­thing about 'sanctuary.'"

  Gabriel did not turn. He watched the forest slip by from the carriage window. Taking in the view or scanning for threat? Jonmarc won­dered.

  "Wolvenskorn is a very old manor," Gabriel replied. Jonmarc followed his gaze and saw large, dark shapes keeping pace with the carriage, running silently in the shadows of the deep forest along the road. He repressed a shudder. The wolves of the northern forests were known for size and ferocity, and he had met more than one on smuggling runs. Things other than vayash moru hunted the deep forests. Even the, bravest mortals did not venture deep into the woods at night.

  "The name is ancient. It means 'place of the wolf god' in the language of the old tribes. There's a stone circle that rings the great house. Those stones were carved almost a thousand years ago. They show the Dark Lady taking the Wolf God as her consort."

  "The Flow under Dark Haven didn't keep the last couple of lords alive. Arontala still managed to make a mess of things. So why should a couple of stones make me feel safe?" "Old magic works in unusual ways. Neither my brood nor the wolves will allow harm to come to you."

  Torchlit under the blue light of a full moon, Wolvenskorn's tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky, topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the next, rose from the snow. Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The building was capped by a tall cupola

  ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.

  Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were both deco­ration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlap­ping shingles. Wolvenskorn looked nothing like Dark Haven, and Jonma
rc was certain that it was much older.

  To his chagrin, wolves circled their carriage as they drew up to the front steps of Wolven­skorn. Large, dark, and powerfully muscled, they were the size of a person crouching on all fours. One gray-flecked she-wolf circled Jon­marc slowly. He stopped, hoping he showed neither fear nor aggression. The wolf eyed him with uncanny intelligence, and Jonmarc real­ized that the wolf's eyes were deep violet. For a moment, he thought he saw a trace of humor. The wolves suddenly turned and padded off, melting into the shadows.

  Other fine carriages were parked along the grand circle of the entrance drive. Inside Wol­venskorn, Jonmarc could see the flicker of candlelight and the shadows of partygoers. "I believe we're the last to arrive," Gabriel said, indicating with a nod that they should approach the steep stone stairs that led toward Wolvenskorn's arched entrance.

  Inside Wolvenskorn, a huge open room greet­ed guests. Three massive fireplaces, carved from the same dark rock, stood along the far side of the room. Only one of the hearths boasted a fire; the others lay dark. Jonmarc guessed that the fire was a concession to him as the evening's only mortal guest. The vayash moru would not mind the chill.

  Overhead, arched wooden beams soared to the rooftop. The beams were painted with intricate geometric designs that matched the runes on the outside of the building, From the steepest of the three roofs hung a chandelier the like of which Jonmarc had never seen. The massive iron chandelier hung in twelve circular tiers, one atop the other. Each tier was made of panels cut with intricate patterns and more candles burned within, so that the entire struc­ture glowed. Figures were cut into the patterns, each tier telling its own story. "Good to see you again, Jonmarc." Jonmarc looked up to see Riqua standing in front of him. With her was Kolin, her second. Jonmarc remembered both from the night they had taken refuge in Riqua's crypt. Kolin gave a nod of recognition, which Jonmarc returned. Turning to Riqua, Jonmarc made a perfunctory bow and took Riqua's hand, pressing the back against his lips in greeting. Her flesh was icy. "Greetings, Lady Riqua." "Better accommodations than my tomb tonight?"

  "I'm grateful for shelter, whatever its form."

  Riqua took his meaning clearly. "A tomb can be a haven, and a haven can be a tomb. Fate has as much as the Lady to do with it."

  Jonmarc sensed no threat from Riqua, but he struggled to keep his expression impassive at her words. A warning?

  Just then, a man and a woman joined them, and Gabriel made room for them within the circle of conversation. Both were dressed in black without ornamentation. The man looked to be near Jonmarc's age. He had dark, shoulder-length hair and a neatly cropped beard. The woman was of similar age, but her dark hair was flecked with gray. Both the man and the woman were trim and lean-muscled. When Jonmarc looked up, he met the woman's violet eyes.

  "May I present Yestin and Eiria," Gabriel said, and the man and woman nodded in turn. "Not members of the Blood Council, but, shall we say, visiting nobles who have an interest in seeing Dark Haven restored."

  "A pleasure to meet you," Jonmarc said. Eiria smiled, and Jonmarc noticed that she lacked the long eye teeth of the vayash moru. Her violet eyes seemed to see right through him, and he shuddered, remembering the wolf.

  "Our families have watched over the Lords of Dark Haven for generations," Yestin said, taking Eiria's arm. "Many of our kin died in the service of Dark Haven. We offer our

  welcome, and our deepest wishes for a long and prosperous tenure."

  Jonmarc did not mention the fact that the last lords of Dark Haven had not lived long enough to enjoy their holding. But before he could think of a reply, Yestin and Eiria slipped away in the crowd, moving with dancers' grace.

  "And this is Lord Rafe, with his second, Tamaq," Gabriel said, shifting Jonmarc's attention. Rafe carried himself with military bearing. He had short-cropped, sandy-colored hair and a perfectly trimmed beard. With him was a pale young man with the look of a schol­ar or a priest. "Your reputation precedes you, Lord Vahanian."

  "Which reputation is that?"

  Rafe smiled, showing the tips of his eye teeth above his lips. "Many. I have kin in Eastmark. They were witness to Chauvrenne. And the ways of the Nargi are well known to our kind. You've survived the kind of trials many vayash moru have not. Perhaps the Lady's hand is on

  you." "If so, She has an odd way of showing it." Rafe's expression was unreadable. "Always." "I understand you were in the presence of the Obsidian King himself," Tamaq said.

  Jonmarc nodded. "I saw the battle when Tris destroyed him."

  Tamaq's eyes glittered with a thirst for infor­mation. "Then at some other time, we must talk. In my mortal life, I fought against the Obsidian King at his last rising. But I never personally saw him."

  "Count yourself lucky."

  Rafe made a parting bow. "We have much to talk about, Lord Vahanian. Be well." At that, Rafe and Tamaq moved back into the press of the crowd. Jonmarc felt more than heard a presence behind him.

  "You must be Jonmarc Vahanian."

  Jonmarc turned to face the speaker. She was a beautiful woman with chestnut-colored hair. Her face and form looked to be that of a girl in her twenties, but the woman's eyes spoke of centuries. She was on the arm of a young vayash moru who looked to be barely out of his teens, pale even by vayasb moru standards, his pallor heightened by his curly red hair. "I'm Astasia, and this is Cailan."

  Jonmarc bowed and kissed Astasia's hand. Cailan watched with a look of distaste border­ing on jealousy. Astasia giggled, seeming to enjoy Cailan's discomfort, and let her fingers tighten around Jonmarc's hand. Her thumb stroked his palm provocatively.

  "So you're the new Lord of Dark Haven." She made no secret of looking him up and down. Cailan's eyes darkened, but he said nothing. "You must visit my home. I give the best parties," she said with a glance toward Gabriel and Riqua which clearly said they were not among her guests. "You're more than

  welcome to spend the night." Both Astasia's manner and her eyes made the double meaning of her words expressly clear.

  "Your invitation is gracious," Jonmarc replied, hoping he could be half as diplomatic as he'd seen Tris be in similar situations. He guessed that spurning Astasia's proposition outright might not bode well, although her offer did not appeal to him in the least. "There's a great deal of work to be done at Dark Haven before winter. It doesn't leave much time for parties."

  Astasia's eyes narrowed. "I heard you'll be bringing a guest back from the royal wedding in Margolan. Even among our kind, Lady Carina's reputation is well known. Will she be staying long?"

  Jonmarc disliked the undercurrent to her voice. He kept the same neutral expression that had let him win many a hand of cards. "That's up to Lady Carina."

  Astasia smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "My offer still stands. Bring her, too, if you like. I'm flexible." She let her hand slip over his in parting. Cailan's eyes made it clear that he did not second Astasia's welcome. Jonmarc's throat was dry as Astasia moved away through the crowd, and he was grateful for the glass of brandy that Gabriel offered.

  "That's all of the Blood Council except one," Gabriel said. Jonmarc made a mental note to ask him later what the role was of the Council's seconds. Bodyguards? Consorts? A little of both?

  In one corner of the huge room, a string quartet played courtly music. In addition to the Blood Council and their seconds, many other vayasb moru mingled, carrying goblets of what looked to be red wine. Jonmarc was quite sure it was not. Although the candles sparkled and the fire danced in the fireplace, the reception was notable for its lack of food. Except for me, Jonmarc thought darkly. Maybe I'm the guest of honor and the main course. Cailan looked like he'd have happily gone for my throat.

  All of the Blood Council had seconds, except for Gabriel. Jonmarc knew that Mikhail, Gabriel's second, was in Margolan, helping Tris rebuild his army. Tonight, Yestin func­tioned as Gabriel's attache. Eiria was never far away. Jonmarc watched the pair with interest. The vayash moru treated the young couple with deference. If I'm right, and
those violet eyes are the same as the she-wolf.

  "Yestin and Eiria are shapeshifters," Riqua said. She had come up beside him so quietly that he startled. "There are small clans of them in the Black Mountains, not far from here."

  "Then the wolves—"

  "Yes. They're vyrkin. The wolf-clan's alliance with the Lord of Dark Haven goes back many generations. That's not true of all the clans."

  "There are more?"

  "Each clan has a totem animal whose spirit they honor and from whom they seek wisdom. Most shifters can only take one shape. Some, the unlucky ones, can shift into many shapes."

  "Unlucky?"

  Riqua watched Yestin and Eiria. "Over time, the shifting becomes involuntary. Eventually, the shift becomes permanent. Most shifters die young or go mad. It's worst for those who can take many shapes."

  "I thought that sort of thing only happened on a full moon." ' .

  Riqua's eyes darkened. "For many genera­tions, shifters were hunted by superstitious fools who believed so. Those who were hunted and tormented by the light of the full moon— if they survived—found the sight of that moon triggered their pain, forcing them to shift. When that happens, they lose their memory of time and know only that they must defend themselves, even when no threat is near. They become a danger to all. Eventually, their pack has no choice but to destroy them."

  "Being mortal doesn't seem so bad, com­pared to the alternatives."

  "While it lasts."

  Behind them, the doors to Wolvenskorn slammed open. "Where is he? Where's the Lord of Dark Haven?"

  The questioner was a dark-haired man with the coloring of a Nargi native. His voice was rough and his features lacked the same fine breeding of the rest of the Blood Council. The man's clothing made an extravagant show of wealth compared to the relatively subdued ele­gance of the other guests. Gold necklaces adorned his throat, and heavy rings covered his fingers. With him were a half dozen young men who moved with predatory grace. The crowd made room for the group to enter, parting with a palpable distaste.