Goldenmark Read online

  Brother Kiiar dhim’Erle stood at the end of the map-table, given a slight space of honor around his person by the Brethren. Small, with a frizz of white hair haloing his head, his birdlike face was pensive as he regarded the map of the Aphellian Way spread up the table and weighted down with longknives. He glanced over as if feeling Theroun’s regard and gave a comforting smile with his bushy white brows and sparkling black eyes in his half-burned visage.

  Brother Kiiar came from an ancient race of desert people upon the far southeastern peninsula, beyond Ghrec and the Twelve Tribes. It was a lawless place, known as the Wasteland, though its proper name was Aj Naab. Brother Kiiar had told Theroun briefly of his home, a place where all were warriors or mystics out in the unforgiving sands and obliviate crevasses, no oases to save them like the Twelve Tribes. A place where men battled upon massive lizard-like mounts called kuori for the scant remains of an ancient technological civilization that had once dominated the southern peninsula.

  Brother Kiiar’s position among the Brethren was High Priest of the Watch. Technically, he was Khorel Jornath’s superior, though his position here was more as mystic guidance for the campaign rather than as a tactical strategist, and he spent four-fifths of each day and night in deep meditation inside his tent.

  Then there was the surly Lefkani pirate, swarthy Brother Caldrian hek’Khim, Jornath’s third-in-command. Gazing at the map upon the table, Caldrian scowled, his long black mohawk braided back from his crown and cascading down his spine full of feather fetishes, gold trinkets, and bone beads. He reached up, scratching at the hole where his right ear had been next to his scarred temple. His left ear was full of pierced gold hoops in the Thurumani privateer way, in addition to his left eyebrow.

  Caldrian’s position was Priest of Wrath. Theroun had seen enough of the man’s temper to know Caldrian could spread his rage through an entire battalion and make men fight past death and out the other side. But in meetings he was civil, his rage well-controlled for the most part. Glancing up at Khorel, Caldrian’s near-black eyes flashed as he spoke in his burly baritone. “I don’t like leaving such a paltry force to guard the coastline, Brother Khorel.” He gestured at Theroun. “Even your Scion would agree, I’m sure.”

  Theroun was allowed to speak at these meetings, and he did so now. “I do agree with Brother Caldrian. Menderian ships are currently being blasted by the cannons of the Tourmaline fleet, on as many shales as King Arthe den’Tourmalin can hound them. We’re only a Tourmaline spy-vessel away from word reaching Arthe that Lhaurent masses a force here intended to drive into Valenghia. Arthe is no friend to Valenghia, but he is even less of a friend to Lhaurent. He would seize the opportunity to attack Ligenia Bay and cut off our provisions from the sea.”

  Jornath regarded Theroun, then Caldrian. “Lhaurent assures me a Menderian fleet will maintain position in Ligenia’s harbor to guard our rear for the duration of the campaign.”

  “How many ships?” Brother Caldrian crossed his arms, scowling in a very Theroun-esque manner. Theroun found himself smiling internally. This man, he understood.

  “Some twenty strong.” Jornath’s eyes narrowed on Brother Caldrian. “Don’t veil your thoughts, Calo. You know I can punch through them if I have to. Tell me plainly what you suppose.”

  Interesting, Theroun thought. He filed that information away for later, that Brother Caldrian was defiant and willfully secretive.

  The Lefkani pirate’s pierced nostrils flared, but he made a gesture of respect to Jornath with two fingers to the center of his brow. “Forgive me, High Priest. In my old life sailing with my people, I had the opportunity to fight Tourmaline fleets regularly. They are vicious, and their ships slice the water faster than hawks fly. A fleet of twenty is not enough to keep Ligenia Bay secure, should they put their minds to interfering. Not to mention that there are no fewer than fifteen other accessible inlets along this strip of coast.”

  Brother Jornath’s gaze flicked to Theroun. “I respect the opinion of my Priest of Wrath, and his significant naval history. Brother Theroun, do you have an opinion on this matter?”

  “I do.” Theroun was blunt. “This section of coast has many access-points, as Brother Caldrian has noted.” He nodded at the former pirate; the man nodded back with a pleased glint to his black eyes. “And King Arthe den’Tourmalin has detested Lhaurent and the Khehemni Lothren for many a year. The Lothren are destroyed in Alrou-Mendera due to Lhaurent, but they still exist elsewhere, and Arthe remains a vigilant man. His spy-ships run the oceans. He will come for our tail. And since he has declared a cessation of his treaty with Alrou-Mendera, it is only a matter of time before he decides Lhaurent’s dealings upon every coast are to be utterly halted.”

  “Is King Arthe’s fleet strong enough to stop all the Rennkavi’s coastal activities?” Khorel Jornath crossed his arms, a position Theroun now knew meant the man was thinking deeply.

  “His isn’t,” Theroun growled. “But it’s a hop, skip, and a jump for him to notify Valenghia. They control the fleets of Cennetia, Praough, and have a historical alignment with the Independent Island of Crasos and the Lhemvian Isles. Five fleets against Lhaurent’s one. I enjoy bad fucking odds, gentlemen, but not that bad. Lhaurent plays a game he is a novice at, and it shows. He should have stayed with primping, perfuming, and back-stabbing in the shadows.”

  Brother Kiiar gave a snort. All eyes instantly looked to him as he chuckled, waving one gnarled old hand. “I appreciate your candidness, Brother Theroun. It’s been a long while since we’ve had a new member with such fire and blatancy.”

  “The Scion doesn’t mince words, that’s for certain,” Brother Arlo spoke with a laughing smile. “Piss and vinegar and little else.”

  Theroun despised being treated like a new recruit, and was about to open his mouth when Jornath scowled, tapping one finger against his leather-clad arm. “Focus please, gentlemen. Lhaurent knows his game of spies, but this game of nations is foreign to him. Brother Theroun’s insights are valuable, as close as he has been to Lhaurent’s person these past many years at Roushenn. As such, even if Lhaurent sends more ships, he risks a sea-battle in Ligenia, corrupting our supply-lines to the Aphellian Way.” Jornath gave a measured out-breath. Not a sigh, but not far from it. He scowled deeper, reaching up to rub his smooth lips.

  Brother Kiiar perked, his sharp black-on-black eyes piercing Jornath. “Our Kreth-Hakir fleet is tied up in Ghrec and the Twelve Tribes, Brother Jornath. It will be weeks before they can aid us, even if you do have me send word.”

  “You have a fleet?” Theroun raised an eyebrow at the news, as he filed the information away that Brother Kiiar could read Khorel’s mind fairly easily. “What is it doing at the southeastern peninsula rather than running support for this campaign?”

  “We have a fleet, Scion,” Jornath corrected, his gaze pinning Theroun. “And it runs the coast of the peninsula because our Order have business in the Twelve Tribes. Part of our arrangement with Lhaurent was his assistance in an Order-arranged takeover there, which is in progress. The ancient Oasis of Ghellen has fallen and so have the coastal Oases. But the berounhim rangers of the desert have waged a war of unprecedented skill against us. And so our Order is split right now, our fleet and many of our Order members occupied.”

  Theroun blinked. That was insanity. Why split the ranks of the Order and of Lhaurent’s armies at such a critical juncture? What could it possibly gain them, battling in the desert of that obscure and mostly wild land?

  “The Order has many interests, Scion,” Jornath’s eyes turned steely, reading Theroun’s thoughts. “Not all of them are your burden to understand. Focus on our situation here.”

  Theroun bristled. Crossing his arms, he adopted his best glower.

  “I was once like you, Brother Theroun,” Brother Arlo spoke up with a smile. “Full of piss and hot water. A martial commander with decades of accolades dripping from my belt, not to mention excellent alchemical training. I served under King Iccio del’Carrini of Legate, and
I lived to unify the Cennetian city-states under his banner. Being green as the lowest footsoldier chafes for men such as us. Use that to propel you upward in our Order, Theroun. Let it fire you on the inside, while you give respect to your superiors on the outside. Your energy is wasted in direct defiance of your Master.”

  Theroun was irked at the speech, but something about Arlo’s words tripped his mind. Theroun shuffled back through his history lessons. “King Iccio del’Carrini united the city-states of Cennetia over four hundred years ago. How—?”

  Arlo smiled, patience resting in his sea-green eyes though they were also stern. “I am four hundred and seventy-six, Theroun. You stand in a room of men who are all no less than three hundred years aged. Every man here has spent the entirety of their lives commanding armies. Brother Jornath is our superior for this campaign, but even with his ten centuries of life, he is but a junior to some of the men and women in our Order. Think about the vast honor you have been given to stand at this table. Particularly, at Brother Jornath’s side.”

  Theroun had no words. His lips had fallen open and he shut them, but he still found he could not scowl. His gaze tracked around the command tent, noting each face. They all stared back at him frankly, no lie in their eyes.

  Theroun stood in a room of ancients. He was the greenhorn. Theroun swallowed, and he knew it looked weak, but the film in his mouth had to go somewhere. His mind reeled, trying to take it in, when Jornath’s hand settled to his shoulder. A comforting energy flowed into Theroun and he took a breath, steadying himself.

  “We will risk Lhaurent’s gambit.” Jornath did not address him, but spoke to the group. “I see no other options. Brother Kiiar, please find a meditative seat tonight and send word to High Master Yesh that we require the fleet’s support, and a full battle-cadre for this operation, as many as can be spared, as I am loathe to risk so many of our Brethren on ill-devised plans. Lhaurent may be a weak tactician on the field, but I will not underestimate him. He wears the Goldenmarks, and all of us here know the harbinger of that anointment.”

  Heads nodded around the table. Sober scowls filled the room. “The Age of Chaos comes,” Brother Kiiar spoke softly. “The Demon’s Rise is upon us.”

  “Agate brithii discenzio.” Brother Caldrian growled. Screwing up his face, he spit upon the rug. “I don’t believe Lhaurent is the Uniter of the Tribes. He is a fool.”

  “You felt his power, the same as I.” Jornath’s eyes were icy. “And though we have received word from Lintesh, before we felt our Brethren perish there, that Lhaurent’s birth line was possibly not Khehemni as we supposed, he still wears Leith’s ruby ring and is able to wield it. You will serve our Order in supporting him, Brother Caldrian. So did Leith order us, to watch closely anyone who demonstrates astounding wyrric ability, and to serve the Rennkavi. If you have dispute with that, I invite you to take it up with High Master Yesh personally.”

  Theroun watched the pirate blanch. His black eyes flickered down and stayed down. Whoever this High Master Yesh was, he was enough to intimidate even the most violent mercenaries.

  “I like Lhaurent no better than you do, Calo,” Jornath’s words were soft. “Do not make me remind you what it means to serve our Order. Especially not with the Rise of the Demon at stake. You are a formidable warrior and we would have you among us. We need every possible man, when that time comes.”

  Jornath’s eyes flicked to Theroun. All eyes flicked to Theroun. Theroun could feel slips of silver wafting between them as the Kreth-Hakir shared thoughts – thoughts he wasn’t party to because of the ferociousness of his inner wyrria.

  “The rest of you,” Jornath’s gaze traversed the tent, interrupting the silvered conversation to conclude the meeting, “please engage yourselves making the camp ready to march to the Aphellian Way in three days’ time. Dismissed.”

  * * *

  The meeting adjourned, leaving Theroun alone with Khorel Jornath in the command tent. It was where they both slept and took meals, as Theroun was expected to remain close to his Master during his early training. Drinking deep from a chalice of wine, Theroun refilled it and sipped. His mind spun through all the snippets of information that had been so casually dropped at the meeting. It was plain that the Kreth-Hakir were far more powerful than he knew, though their reasons for tethering their formidable power to other men baffled him.

  After kindling some oil in a bronze brazier against the night, Jornath sank into a stretched-hide chair. Leaning back with his boots up on a footstool, he sipped a wine also. His searching gaze fixed upon Theroun before he spoke. “You are wondering why we don’t just crush tyrants like Lhaurent.”

  “Among any number of things I’ve been wondering, that does top the list.” Theroun had grown used to this kind of interaction with Khorel – him not speaking but Khorel reading his thoughts anyway. It was irksome, but there was little Theroun could do about it. Claiming a plate of cherries from the table, Theroun sat in the chair next to Jornath’s. Picking through the plate, he found the cherries tangy and refreshing after a long day in the hot Ligenian sun.

  “Could you break Lhaurent’s hold over Alrou-Mendera, do you think? With the full power of your order?” Theroun wondered aloud, sipping his wine.

  Khorel Jornath swirled his goblet, his grey eyes faraway. At last, they focused upon Theroun. “We could. Though I cannot best Lhaurent personally, I believe under High Master Yesh’s coordination, we could flay Lhaurent’s mind and be done with his idiocy.”

  “I think you and I share some things in common, Khorel,” Theroun chuckled.

  “Far more than you know.” Jornath regarded Theroun with a candid gaze. “I have judged Lhaurent to be a petty tyrant. So have you. But he has something that turns petty tyrants into dominators of their time.”

  “Wyrria?” Theroun sipped his wine.

  “Belief.” Jornath heaved a sigh. “He believes in what he is, Theroun. He believes he is the Uniter of the Tribes. And he will do it in the only way that makes sense to him, with domination and cruelty. I have seen deeply into his mind. It is a thing of oily depths and slipping shadows. Your nickname for him, eel, is far more appropriate than you know.”

  Jornath lifted his goblet with a nod. Theroun raised his goblet in response, but another question needed answers. “If you don’t trust him, why serve him so blindly?”

  “Kreth-Hakir never serve blindly.” Jornath leaned forward, cradling his goblet. “We serve tyrants because we must make them trust us. So they will let us in, let us see if the Demon has turned their eyes and mind red. Before this strange accident I felt in Lintesh recently, I had men close to Lhaurent in Lintesh. Watching him, feeling his mind, even as they did his bidding. It is a dire loss that we no longer have anyone in the capitol monitoring him, but I can still feel Lhaurent from afar, and I meet with him almost daily through the Alranstones. Lhaurent has to trust us, Theroun. We don’t have to trust him.”

  “Would you ever leave his service?”

  “If he dies,” Jornath nodded. “Many a nation has lost our support because their heir was not worthy of our watching. Empires fall fast without us.”

  “I can imagine. Have you ever taught anyone the secrets to your longevity? So that they could rule longer than their normal span?”

  “We do not share our Order’s secrets,” Khorel continued. “Such mysteries are too powerful in the wrong hands, without the Mind of the Brethren to moderate for the Demon’s Rise.”

  “Moderate,” Theroun cocked his head. “The mind-connections of the Brethren provide security against any of you becoming possessed by this Red-Eyed Demon creature.”

  “Indeed.” Khorel nodded with a slight smile. “As a hive, like the shared minds of the diamanne scorpions of the southern deserts, we are able to force out any mind that might possess any one of us. Even if the Demon were to enter our pinnacle member, High Master Yesh, the rest of us have a ritual where we could join as one to cast the Demon out. It is a thing of dire magic, passed down from ancient times, but r
ecorded as effective.”

  “Dire magic? What does that mean?”

  “It means that none of us would survive the ritual,” Jornath gave a bitter smile, “but neither would the one possessed. A win, but at great cost.”

  Theroun rubbed the old wound in his side, though it was only a slight annoyance tonight. “All of you are committed to going down with the ship if this Demon rises. Using your lives to drive the Demon out of anyone powerful enough to garner its attention.”

  “We would use far more than our lives to cast out the Demon, Theroun. We’d use our will.” Jornath leaned forward, setting his wine goblet aside. “For as you are learning, bending minds has everything to do with willpower. The man with the strongest will shall prevail even when his mind has fled. Hone that, and one can control madness even as it rages.”

  “Like a warrior in the grips of the red rage upon the battlefield,” Theroun mused, “who practices fighting so that when battle sweeps him, his movements will be innate.”

  “Indeed. At its foundation, Scorpion-wyrria is will-wyrria.” Jornath nodded. “How do you live in the world? How strong is your force of person?”

  “What do you mean? How strong is my will in battle?”

  “Perhaps. Or consider this.” Jornath countered with a knowing glance. “Is the force of your will the means by which you understand your world? There are seven major types of wyrria, Theroun. People who show aptitude for wyrria are not limited to the type in their bloodline, not in as specific a way as most men think. It’s your way of understanding the world that determines which type of wyrria you favor. Most children acquire the same aptitude for the wyrria of their ancestors’s bloodline because they have a shared milieu – an enculturated way of understanding the world from their people, which begins even as the baby listens to life through their mother’s womb before birth.”