Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Read online

  “Has there been nothing written about the Stones since then?” Eleshen voiced Elohl's question, glum.

  “There are a series of tomes about thirty years old that apply,” Brother Temlin continued. “The journals of Sister Mollia den'Lhorissian, who joined the Jenners in her teens against the wishes of her family, a long line of palace healers. She was training to be an Alran-keeper, a post that has not been observed in three hundred years or more, due to the lack of anyone with the suitable gifts for it. But Mollia had the right gifts, so she took up the ancient trainings. She wrote down what she learned about Alranstones from her experimentations with them, and those journals are in our keeping.”

  “What did Mollia den'Lhorissian's writings say?” Eleshen was rapt with attention.

  Brother Temlin shrugged. “Much, and little. Her language is cryptic and difficult to decipher. Some of the text is High Alrakhan, which, as you now know can have many meanings. Some of it was written in a cipher so complex that it still has not been unwound. Entire pages are filled with unidentifiable sigils. Many thought Sister Mollia had gone mad from interacting with the Stones. Apparently, Alran-keepers in the past often did go mad. It was one of the reasons the Alrashemni decided to no longer train young minds in such mystics. It involved frequent usage of very potent mind-altering plants. Mollia became quite addicted, and quite addled, even by age twenty-five.”

  “You speak as if you knew her.” Eleshen’s voice was somber, her comment perceptive.

  The old Jenner glanced over to her, sharp. “I did. Yes, I did. A very sad tale.”

  Elohl paused a moment, then unbuckled the upper part of his jerkin to bare some of his golden Inkings. “Do any of these sigils look familiar?”

  Brother Temlin leaned closer, adjusting his spectacles and squinting. “Could be. But it’s been a long while since I read Sister Mollia's works. I’d have to get permission from the First Historian to get into the Rare Tomes room.”

  “Could you ask him?” Elohl buckled his jerkin back up.

  Brother Temlin shook his head. “Not right now. He’s away in Rhaventia, in conference with our Jenner sect there. He’ll be gone a month or more.”

  Elohl sighed, his heart sinking, feeling that they had reached a dead-end. “I can’t wait that long.”

  Brother Temlin sat a moment, then pulled off his spectacles and began to polish them, peering at Elohl, shrewd. “You look like a man of… capability, Kingsman. The Rare Tomes room is locked, near the Fifth Spoke, the guard-tower near the Annex where we began our conversation today. It's an underground vault, connected to the Annex by a below-ground passage and some stairs, which issues from behind the Statue of Sage Lherrick. He’s the one with the birds on his shoulders. The room is cleaned weekly, on Dornast. Otherwise it is unoccupied. None have permission to visit while the First Historian is away, other than the Abbott and Abbess. There is a key in the Annex office, clearly labeled. The Annex office watch changes at midnight and again at noon. If you are interested in such things.”

  A slight smile spread across Elohl’s face, understanding the man’s meaning. “Many thanks for answering my questions about the Jenner Faith, Brother.”

  “Glad I could be of assistance.” The Brother grinned. “Anything else?”

  “Actually…” Unease sifted through Elohl. There was one more question he wanted answered. “Can you tell me about the emblem in the stained glass? In the First Dwelling. The Wolf and Dragon?”

  Brother Temlin smiled knowingly. “An ancient symbol. It signifies conflict, or so the oldest sources say. Unceasing conflict… the kind that tears a man’s soul apart. Have you seen it before?”

  Elohl nodded. “Once before. But it was different. Balanced… neither animal winning.”

  Brother Temlin crossed his arms over his still-hard chest, staring Elohl down. “You’ve been inside Roushenn. You’ve seen it in the Throne Room.”

  Elohl shook his head, venturing the truth. “No. On the doors of the alehouse deep beneath the palace.”

  “Ah.” A strange look of relief flickered over the man’s lined features. “It’s the same in all the Great Palaces. Eight of them, so it’s said, all through our vast continent. And where those palaces were built with that emblem… a strong center of commerce took root where none ever was before. A symbol of blessing? Perhaps. Lore and mystery. Ringed in fire, the classic tableaux depicts the two ever-battling, neither vanquished. The symbol goes far back, to the Alrashemni’s foreign origins.”

  “And yet here in your Abbey, it shows the wolf victorious, and rather than a ring of fire we see the Jenner Sun encircling it all.”

  “Observant.” Brother Temlin’s green eyes were scalding. “Does it bother you, lad? That tableaux?”

  Elohl shifted, feeling suddenly undone. This man was far cleverer than Elohl supposed.

  The older man smirked. “It disturbs many. Conflict is ever thus. But I’ll tell you something. I’ve heard it described as a blessing, the balance the wolf and dragon have in the classic tableaux. And though the wolf is victorious here in the Abbey, which some suppose is the triumph of righteousness over deceit, I’ve heard a different tale. That the Jenner Sun imprisons the conflict, lending power to the wolf for victory, where otherwise there would have been none. Ancient symbolism, of a war waged long ago. A war that your Alrashemni ancestors had something to do with.”

  “My mother used to tell such tales. That we fled our ancient home, because of that war.” Elohl murmured. “So are the Alrashemni depicted by the wolf, in the tableaux?”

  The old Jenner lifted one white eyebrow. “Or are they the dragon? Or does the tableaux signify something else entirely? I have no answers for you on that account. But my Abbess might. She is far more learned than I on the ancient mysteries.” The old man rose stiffly to his feet. “I would offer that the two of you stay as guests in the Abbey this night. We have comfortable guest-quarters for those who travel seeking information on the Way. I can have rooms made up in a trice, and offer a hot meal and even a bath. I'm sure our Abbott and Abbess would be interested in meeting you and asking about your experiences with the Alranstone. And my Abbess Lenuria den’Brae may be able to answer your questions further.”

  But quite suddenly, Elohl found that his golden Inkings had begun to itch and tingle, almost a burning sensation all across his shoulders and back. Something in Brother Temlin’s last words had triggered it, and a sharp unease rose in Elohl, feeling that this sensation in his Inkings was somehow similar to his premonitions of danger from his natural gift. It made him balk at the Brother’s seeming kindness. Made him question, suddenly, the man’s motives.

  “Thank you, but not tonight,” Elohl found himself politely declining. “We've rooms in the city, and they're paid for.”

  “It would give you better... access. To precious information.” Brother Temlin's green eyes glittered, intelligent, foxlike.

  “I've not got any of my gear upon me, Brother,” Elohl murmured, even more certain that getting him to stay at the Abbey was a ruse.

  “No! I suppose you haven't. Well. When can I expect your return with more questions?”

  “A few days,” Elohl protested subtly, unnerved by what had just happened. “After I've had some... reading time.”

  “Very well.” The older man laughed, but something flashed across his visage. He gripped Elohl’s arm, hard, little infirmity in that old swordsman’s grip, though strangely, Elohl’s Inkings had ceased tingling. “Those journals of Mollia's are in the Rare Tomes room for a reason. If I hear of anything missing or damaged, I will find you.”

  Elohl’s eyebrows raised. “I thought the Jenners were a peaceful order.”

  But the old man’s green eyes were suddenly hard as stone and twice as sharp. “We are descendants of Alrashemni, boy. We didn’t secede because of a lack of passion. Merely a belief in a more sustainable Way. We haven’t forgotten our Brothers and Sisters of the Kingsmount, nor their honor.”

  Elohl didn’t know what to make of it
. The Brother was so vicious, almost violent in his profession of support of the Alrashemni that it made Elohl question suddenly, whether the tingle in his Inkings had been a warning or something else. He found he had nothing to say, staring at the Brother in a moment of gripping intensity.

  At last, the man nodded, a kind of strange certainty filling him. “Well, then. The offer to stay here in the Abbey stands if you want it.”

  Elohl paused a beat, then spoke. “I’ll consider it.”

  Brother Temlin stared at him just a moment longer. Then finally sighed, as if the fight had gone out of him. “As you like, lad. As you like. Just know that we’re here should you need any further advice. Shall we?” He gestured back towards the Abbey with one old, gnarled hand.

  Elohl nodded, unease still roiling his gut as they began the trek back towards the cathedrals, silent in the noon sunshine.

  CHAPTER 22 – OLEA

  Olea stood at attention in the cavernous Throne Hall. Hands folded over the pommel of her sheathed sword, she kept watch up on the white marble dais, a step behind the plain bluestone throne and just to the left. Down below the dais, suitors and their entourages peppered the hall in clumps for the first reception of the Dhenra’s coronation week, along with higher ranks of lords from Alrou-Mendera. Dwarfed by the sprawling, vaulted recesses of the space, richly-dressed men and women lingered by the massive bluestone columns. Others stood brazen in the center of the checkered black and white marble floor, near the red carpet that split the hall to the steps of the dais, as if they’d be more noticeable in their finery and jewels. Liveried servants moved here and there with ewers of iced lemon-water crushed with mint, and honeyed mead freshened with lavender to ease parched throats in the sweltering heat that had already wilted a number of ladies into fainting.

  But the Dhenra stood regal upon the dais before her throne despite the heat, clad in clinging sky-blue silk with a high collar of starched lace, lace dripping from her sleeves nearly to the floor. Sapphires and diamonds were woven into her hair, done again in ornate Elsthemi-style braids with long bone needles. Olea had insisted upon the hair needles this week. Elyasin needed a weapon upon her person at all times, and her poured-on formal silks didn’t allow for a blade. Olea had positioned her Guardsmen all along the main floor, standing stern in their dark blue jerkins, ready for any disruption with hands resting upon their swords. And she had personally set Fenton and Aldris at the foot of the dais, watchful of those approaching the Dhenra.

  Her gaze drifting up, Olea noted the Dhenra's cobalt blue banners hanging high from the vaulted stone ribs of the ceiling. Their crossed scepter and olive branch, crowned by the Mountain and Stars, lent credence to Elyasin’s authority, but not a breath of air stirred them today, though every door and window to the hall had been thrown wide to catch a breeze. All along the upper reaches, fans were aflutter in the hands of watching commoners, their gazes rapt upon the proceedings below. Crowding the upper balconies, they leaned in to try and catch words of the Dhenra’s conversations with her suitors as each approached, one by one.

  The proceedings had taken eight hours so far. Olea shifted, feeling yet another trickle of sweat roll down between her shoulder blades. Her shoulders ached, her hips and knees throbbed, her ankles felt swollen in her new boots. Elyasin had insisted upon her Guard-Captain being impeccably presentable this week, her garb new except her sword and longknives. But the stiffness of the leather was agonizing, none of it yet broken-in enough to breathe in the punishing heat, and Olea’s silk undershirt was now entirely soaked with sweat.

  A movement caught her eye to one side. Her gaze flicked quickly, noting the passage of a servant entering from a side door with chilled wine in a large ewer. The massive tableaux of the Wolf and Dragon caught Olea’s attention, vicious and imposing, covering the wall fifty feet high behind the throne. Carven behind the thrones of a number of nations, some long-ago architect had inscribed this symbol in the throne hall of every palace he'd built, almost like a signature. Olea admired it a moment, having seen the gold Inkings upon Elohl’s back from the Alranstone, wondering now what it all meant. But each was slightly different, even this tableau not the same as Elohl’s markings. Alrou-Mendera’s carving showed the beasts fighting around a scepter. While Olea had heard that the one in Valenghia showed them doing so around a vine. The one in Elsthemen showed the same around a spear.

  Olea's gaze snapped forward, dismissing the carving as a minor lordling of Alrou-Mendera approached the dais, a lesser suitor paying his respects to Elyasin. Judging him a non-threat, Olea's gaze roved the hall again. Lhaurent was in attendance, to the left of the dais with his oily smirk and immaculate grey silks, silently directing servants. Olea's gaze raked the silvered mirrors all along the sides of the gargantuan hall, looming like watchers from behind the lines of bluestone columns. Vargen’s tale crowded her mind, and she wondered if Lhaurent had an army of invisible servants watching today.

  Olea had cased her rooms the past five nights, running her fingers over the coat of grit beneath her window and in the corners of her room. The frame of the gaudy mirror had been dusty, but just because Lhaurent hadn’t moved that mirror recently didn't mean he wasn't standing behind it in the dark. Olea had still not come up with a good way to remove those two tomes from her room. And so they were still there, hidden in with the rest of her books, dangerous like an avalanche about to break loose.

  She was glad the Dhenra had insisted her Guard-Captain stand as her personal protector in the throne room today. Elyasin had been chilly towards Olea since their night together, her mood volatile from stress. But the Dhenra had still appointed Olea to stand close during the most important, and most worrisome, events of the week, concerned as they both were about threats to Elyasin’s person before she came fully into her power with the coronation.

  Another bead of sweat seeped down, between Olea’s breasts. She shifted, rolling her shoulders with subtle movements. The Dhenra was currently receiving House den’Tourmalin of the Isles, next-to-last for the day. King Arthe den’Tourmalin was a tall, brooding fellow with a stern jaw, salt-spray black hair and hard sea-grey eyes. But for all his taciturn brusqueness, Olea liked what she had seen of the Isleman King. He had spoken plainly in the trade negotiations, and was not pressuring the Dhenra to wed. Even today, he made no attempt to cajole or sway as he presented his gift, a lovely ironwood sea-chest full of spices and strands of pearls.

  King Arthe was an honorable man from a very old house, and as he stepped up the dais to speak with the Dhenra he deliberately glanced to Olea, spreading his hands to signify a lack of armament. Only when Olea nodded back did he step forward, clasping Elyasin’s hand with gravitas like she was his daughter.

  “Dhenra.” King Arthe’s murmur to the Dhenra was private, reaching only Olea's ears. “I received a courier this morning, in much haste from the Isles. You should know of it. These past few years, the Isles have had unmarked ships sneaking through our Straits. The ships are fleet, painted black with black sails to slip through at night, and they run passably silent. The missive I received this morning said we finally were able to catch one. It was crewed by Perthians and Thurumen, and had a belly full of slaves from Jadoun. The crew would not speak, not even under the worst torture. But some of the Jadounian captives talked freely. It seems they had been coerced into sailing by threats against their families. They were given the choice of indentured servitude, fighting across the sea along the Menderian-Valenghian border, or else see their womenfolk raped and tortured, and the youngest of their children slain. They chose to sail.”

  Olea’s breath had ceased in astonishment. Her gaze whipped to her Dhenra. The Dhenra was very pale, but she held her composure. “And were the slaves to fight for Alrou-Mendera?”

  Arthe den’Tourmalin shook his head. “Yes and no. Some believed they were to serve Valenghia. Some thought they had been conscripted for Alrou-Mendera. Some thought they were destined for the emerald mines along Menderia’s southeastern coast.”


  Elyasin’s green eyes were hard. “By whom?”

  But again, Arthe den’Tourmalin shook his head, serious. “The slaves didn’t know. And the crew wouldn’t speak. But we did find a writ of payment to the captain signed by one Helios den’Garnesh. My people know Helios. He is Harbormaster of Ligenia, on your southeastern coast. The Isles receive shipments of emeralds from Alrou-Mendera through Ligenia, and Helios den’Garnesh’s signature is upon the documents of trade. I would recommend that you send someone… quietly… to investigate this situation, Dhenra.”

  Elyasin clasped his hands tightly. “Arthe. You are a true friend to Alrou-Mendera. If I can repay you this kindness…”

  He reached up and set his palm gently to her face, a tender, fatherly gesture. King Arthe’s sea-scoured face was kind. “Your father would be proud of who you’ve become, Elyasin. I know I am not the one for you, and I do not believe we need to unify our houses with a marriage. I am content for our mutually beneficial trade to continue. Besides, I am an old man these days. Take this gift of information freely. And if you have need of understanding how to arrange your own personal network of… quiet observers, then send word. I will sail straightaway, and give any and all counsel you may need.”

  “Thank you.” Elyasin’s whisper was soft. Olea could see a mutual trust there between the two monarchs. King Arthe was a very good man. It was unfortunate he was so much older than Elyasin.

  Arthe leaned forward and kissed Elyasin lightly upon the cheek. “Trust no one. Confirm everything. Even words from those you trust implicitly. That is the first law of ruling,” Olea heard him whisper. He knelt over Elyasin’s hand, brushing it with a formal kiss, then moved on, summoning his retainers to stride from the hall. Elyasin watched King Arthe go, her face set and unreadable. She nodded to the herald, who called the name of her final suitor.