Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  When she pulled away, Elohl felt his heart scream. She gave a bright, tinkling laugh and placed a palm to his bearded cheek. He died when she turned to Fenton, full of hot jealousy. She pulled Fenton close, reveling in his wiry body. Their kiss was deep with a fierceness to it, anger tense in Fenton's jaw even as he placed a possessive hand behind her neck and devoured her. She pulled away with a laugh, breathless. Elohl raged, simmering.

  But he would do anything for her – even if it was to watch while she devoured someone else.

  Pulling away from Fenton, she placed a palm to both their bearded cheeks, gazing from one man to the other. “My falcons! One so proud and strong, with so much furious anger in his golden gaze, covered with placidity. And the other,” she gazed at Elohl, and his heart actually jerked in his chest, “cool as a mountain lake, yet with a rushing river of ardor and sadness beneath. Both beautiful. Both mine.”

  “Yours.” Elohl heard himself say.

  “Yours.” Fenton echoed, with bite.

  “Their adornments, please.” The Vhinesse motioned to a pair of guards dressed in the crimson jerkins of the Red Valor who waited patiently behind her. Elohl blinked, not recalling her ever coming to the Falconry with guards before, or ever in the morning. But though he wondered what she wanted, he knew he would have worn anything for her. And then he saw the wrapped packet of rough white silk in the guards’ hands – one for him, and one for Fenton.

  “These are for you, my falcons!” The Vhinesse laughed, her eyes bright. “I’ve had them made especial for the both of you, gifts from my heart to yours. Know the vast honor you do me, to wear my gifts in pride today.”

  “Anything for you.” Fenton spoke roughly.

  “Anything.” Elohl echoed.

  But his eyes were watching the guard’s hands, wondering what the thin silken packets could possibly contain that were garments. As the length of fabric was unwrapped, slim arm-torques of costly white palladian set with milky agates were revealed in the guard's hands. The torques rested upon the rough white silk, and falcon feathers cascaded from each torque by lengths of delicate palladian chain. There was a collar of palladian also, the kind that went not in front of the neck but behind it, with agates and falcon-talons tipped in palladian at each curled end, a delicate jewelry chain extending from them. The items were elegantly wrought, and the amount of rare palladian priceless. Suddenly, Elohl knew he could not accept such an exquisite gift – not when treachery lingered in his heart.

  “Forgive me, my Living Vine.” The words tumbled out of Elohl before he knew what he was saying.

  “For what?” Her opalescent eyes held genuine worry as she raised her delicate brows. Elohl opened his mouth, compelled to tell her all about how he and Fenton had been plotting against her this morning. About how Fenton was immune to her charms. About how they were going to use that against her and escape.

  But just as he began to speak, Fenton cut in. “Ghrenna. He apologizes because he remembers Ghrenna, a woman of tundra-pale beauty near to yours, but with blue eyes deep as mountain lakes. Eyes he could get lost in. Cerulean eyes that call a man's soul. Her touch, that electrifies every part of him. Her body, sweet under the dawn of a summer's morning, up in the white spires of the mountains. He apologizes for remembering this woman he once loved. He told me so this morning. We had an argument about it.”

  Fenton gestured to the broken window and the ceramics. As he moved, the side of Fenton’s hand brushed Elohl, and a jolt of Fenton’s wyrria leaped to Elohl’s fingers, making him twitch. Elohl's mind came clear. He could suddenly feel the silver-white wyrric vines that breathed through his skin and netted his mind – but at Fenton’s power, they shredded away like spiderwebs. Elohl could think again. The Vhinesse was not touching him, but gazing at Fenton. Elohl used the moment to breathe, firming Ghrenna’s radiance from his dream atop the white spire firmly in his mind.

  “Is it true?” The Vhinesse glanced to Elohl. “Do you think another woman more lovely than I?”

  “My Vine.” Elohl sank to one knee, imitating a besotted action. “I am aggrieved that I remembered this woman. The agony of my unfaithfulness tortures me. I bashed my fist through your window in my torment – forgive me.”

  The Vhinesse stepped close, eyeing him, but at last she smiled. “Your transgressions are forgiven. Windows and censers are easy to replace, but beautiful men are not. Be more careful of your body, and save it for my midnight pleasure.”

  “Yes, my Living Vine.” Elohl lowered his eyes in a gesture of fealty and subservience.

  “It is well!” The Vhinesse laughed, her voice ringing through the room. “Rise. I imagine my tempestuous men are weary of their Falconry, and need to stretch their wings. If you would do me the honor?”

  “Of course, my Vine.” Fenton played his part with a genteel bow.

  “Yes, my Vine.” Elohl echoed, though he had to bite back bile this time.

  The Vhinesse motioned and the crimson-clad guards moved to Fenton and Elohl. Elohl stood, though he was clear now as the guards slipped the slender palladian torques around his biceps and clicked them into place, then set the matching torque around his neck. Fine chains dangled from the neck-torques. Their pearl-weighted ends were placed into the Vhinesse's hand, the same done for Fenton.

  “My fleet falcon shows his plumage well, but we shall be discreet today.” The Vhinesse smiled at Fenton, clicking her tongue thrice. “Though I adore your prowess, I do not enjoy sharing certain things. Guards – the rest, please.”

  Elohl’s lips parted, realizing what she meant. The guards stepped close, their eyes downcast, their hands still holding the lengths of rough white silk. The Vhinesse moved to Fenton, receiving the first length of white silk. With precision and care, she wound the silk around Fenton’s bare loins, tucking it in expertly to form a very scant, but workable, loincloth. Moving over to Elohl, she gave a lecherous eye at his silk trousers, then slipped her hands in. She gave him a fondle, stroking him until his cock surged. But Elohl held the cerulean of Ghrenna’s eyes in his thoughts, and it pushed back the white mist that tried to take him. Even as the Vhinesse stripped away his clothing and bound the second length of silk around his loins, Elohl was able to breathe through her wyrric stranglehold.

  Lecherously regarding both men for a moment, she said, “Now, my handsome falcons. Let's go show your beautiful plumage to the world.”

  The Vhinesse sashayed toward the door with her falcon’s leads in her hand. The guards turned, opening the doors. Clearly, everyone believed Fenton and Elohl were docile. The torques and leads were fine as women's jewelry. They breathed with no wyrric power that Elohl could feel – inert decoration, but whose point was obvious.

  Elohl stepped forward without glancing at Fenton. Fenton did the same at his side. On leashes, they moved out of their boudoir for the first time since they had arrived. Elohl caught his breath, gazing up and around, finally seeing the Palace of the Vine by day. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful, except the white spire. Roushenn was a rough-cut piece of coal next to this. Made entirely of opalescent white granite, agate, and marble, the palace caught the morning sunlight and reflected it, glowing with a luminousness that inspired the heart.

  As Elohl followed the Vhinesse down a long flight of marble stairs from the Falconry tower, noting crimson-liveried guards with spears and swords at every door, it was the vistas that enchanted him. The inside of the palace soared, everything carven to enhance the natural elegance of the stone. Every white column and arch was pristine, with high windows of white glass. Oil-lanterns set in the walls and columns were encased in glass flutes with a coiled outlet that kept soot off the marble. White domes came to piercing pinnacles, cupolas were topped with elegant balustrades. Columns were adorned with impressions of vines and verge, faces of nymphs and satyrs peering out from the marble.

  Reflected light rippled through the space, and looking down, Elohl saw an ingenious division of streams coursing along inset waterways, creating natural
waterfalls and giving the constant echo of rushing water. Dripping mosses lined the waterways and myriad falls, choked with tiny white blossoms of glossy duckweed. Watercourses and cascading fountains with lily pads and purple-orange lotus burbled everywhere he looked. He gazed upward, seeing the tops of the columns branch into the vaulted ceiling like the inside of a towering forest. Balustrades of the upper floors could be seen to either side, carven with vines.

  They wound down another wide staircase with a plush red velvet carpet, and thence to a red-carpeted foyer and a door of silvered birchwood flanked by guards. It was flung open to reveal an escort of guards in crimson. As the Vhinesse passed through with her falcons, Elohl heard murmuring voices and light music. Violins and harps sighed to a halt as the Vhinesse stepped into the receiving-hall with her men. Murmurs whispered, twining up into the vaults to join the sound of flowing water. Elohl’s gaze flicked around as he entered, noting fine lords and ladies in crimson or vibrant silks flanking the edges of the opulent court – all staring at him.

  Ignoring them, Elohl swept his gaze to the end of the bright hall. A tableau of a fighting wolf and dragon was carven into the alabaster behind the marble throne. Elohl was shocked to note how similar it was to the wyrric inkings upon Fenton’s back, not to mention how it looked precisely like the same tableaux inside Roushenn – except this depiction had the beasts fighting around a blossoming vine, whereas inside Roushenn it had been a scepter. The throne, also carved with vines, sat upon a marble dais with ten broad steps to the receiving-hall floor. Checkered with opalescent agate and white marble, the floor was inlaid with vines of gold. Waterways ran through the floor, cut in channels and inset with flowering moss. Gold wreathed the pale marble columns, highlighting the carvings. Like the rest of the palace, the ceiling spread in a canopy of white trees, and far above Elohl could see the glimmer of gold running through it all.

  The Vhinesse moved regally through her throne hall. Her smile was radiant, her manner impeccable. She ascended her dais, then motioned Elohl and Fenton to take up positions to either side of her throne. As they faced forward, she lowered into her seat and arranged her gown.

  “Lands of the Living Vine, be welcome.” The Vhinesse’s melodious murmur carried effortlessly through the hall, and Elohl heard her subjects sigh to silence as if mesmerized. “Let us commence with the Commoner’s Audience. Chancellor ven’Rhenni, if you would, please.”

  A man in red livery with a manicured silver mustache and pouffed silver hair bowed his way forward with a scroll. His pale gaze flicked to Elohl and Fenton, but settled upon his Queen. “My Living Vine. The first petition is of stonemason Heller ven’Osti opposing bridge architect Milo ven’Sachs, over the dispute of a collapsed bridge spanning the southern tributary of Fluss Helmenthal in the Province of Leddi.”

  “Bring them forward,” the Vhinesse gave a welcoming smile and a genteel turn of her hand.

  Suddenly, Elohl knew what today would be. Today, the Vhinesse’s kept falcons were to stand at her side as she heard her common petitioners. As she showed off her newest men to her subjects, displayed for all the world to see and bound only in jewelry. Her conquests, the Falcons of the Vine, a testament to the world of her power. A statement for all to see, that she didn’t have to conquer anyone – because everyone did what she wished willingly.

  If Elohl had truly been under the Vhinesse's sway it wouldn't have been torture, but now it took everything he had to stand upon that dais. Setting his jaw, he tried breathing through the tension in his muscles, tried keeping calm and not letting his Goldenmarks flare in wrath as the Vhinesse held audience. As she orated judgements, Elohl and Fenton stood to either side of her marble throne like slaves – dehumanized, displayed, and degraded.

  With her delicate torques around their necks that wouldn't have even held a falcon.

  CHAPTER 4 – KHOUREN

  Khouren Alodwine moved through the burned-out streets of Lintesh in the sunny afternoon, his dark hood up. The flat storm grey of his soft leather jerkin, roughsilk shirt and trousers matched the soot-smirched crowds meandering the rubble in the dwindling afternoon. His ancient garb was the color of the scorched avenue and the folk moving listlessly along it – the color of ashes.

  Fires had consumed the city after the riots three weeks ago. A brisk wind teased Khouren’s bluebottle braids where they escaped from his hood, his soft doeskin boots making no sound as he slipped through the despondent crowds leaving the King’s City. Khouren had intended to evacuate also, as soon as he’d left King-Protectorate Temlin den’Ildrian’s prize at the First Abbey, but found himself unable to depart.

  A Ghost among the ruins, just like everyone else.

  People coughed around Khouren, from the smoke that still clung in a haze to the city. Wisps of char lingered in the sooty sky, the fall breezes off the Kingsmount not strong enough to clear the air. Filthy cloths were held to chapped lips and noses, keeping out wafting ash, or holding in gags from the reek. Faces were smudged with soot; hands were seared from clawing loved ones out of burning dwellings. Blackened rubble lined the avenue, ancient timbers of the Abbey Quarter in ruin. Much of Lintesh’s bones still stood, including the First Abbey, its bluestone granite carven directly from the Kingsmount. But the hovels and slums were in chaos, the shanties as Khouren crossed into the Tradesman Quarter little but charcoal and refuse.

  Massive pumps commanded an impressive view as Khouren passed a grime-muddied fountain. During the burning, Khouren had joined the bucket-brigades, working pumps like this one that dredged up black water from the river beneath the city. Dousing structures, running into buildings to pull out screaming people trapped inside flaming wreckage. The smoke had been thick. No one had seen him move through walls, seizing citizens and heaving them over his shoulders like sacks of charred grain. They’d only seen a man in black ferrying out neighbors and loved ones from certain death, over and over.

  Then disappearing like char on the wind.

  Down here in the lower Tiers, filth in the city burgeoned, and disease. Excrement choked the gutters, crawling with rats and roaches. Normally palatable, the reek of the Tradesman Quarter had reached an unmatched atrocity. Tens of thousands had been dispossessed, and Khouren walked among them in the choked avenue, without belongings and without a home. People had flooded from the King’s City for the past three weeks, just as they did now, passing wearily beneath the yawning portcullis of the Watercourse Gate. Giving up on their burned-out life, with wains, handcarts, and whatever was left to them – moving out to make camp upon the wide plain of the Elhambrian Valley.

  Standing before the portcullis at the edge of the city now, Khouren paused, the mass of bodies breaking around him like minnows in a river. Staring up at the iron jaw of the gate, Khouren felt a tightening in his chest and a grip in his guts. Vertigo rushed through him, making his ears buzz and vision tunnel: this was leaving his city – his fortress. The place he’d haunted like a ghost, that had been his impenetrable vault for more than a hundred years. But now, he would be exposed. Leaving his protection – his place to be anonymous from a life of shame and guilt.

  Thrice in as many weeks, he had approached the gate. And thrice, this same awful sensation had betrayed him.

  Gazing up at the yawning portcullis, Khouren trembled. He was leaving one Rennkavi behind to search for another. A man who was as much a specter as Khouren had been in the dark halls of Roushenn. What if this other Rennkavi wasn’t really Goldenmarked? What if it was just a clever Inking from some foreign land? A falsehood – and this Elohl den’Alrahel hadn’t really been touched by an Alranstone at all?

  What if Castellan Lhaurent den’Alrahel was the only Goldenmarked – the true Rennkavi to unite the nations in a high golden age?

  Khouren shuddered. The portcullis grinned at him like a challenging foe – daring him to step forward. To break his oaths and be damned following a new Rennkavi by a wraith of a rumor. Gazing through the gate toward the rolling grasslands where a shanty-city had built up like
a haphazard anthill, Khouren trembled. Even the thought of being out in the open set him shuddering: to be so exposed. No walls to run through. No oubliettes to wait in, away from threat, to think and plan. No weapons to take from ancient vaults when he needed one.

  Not a Ghost anymore – only himself.

  A shudder shook Khouren and heat flushed his face as his fingers became icy. Reaching up, he threw back his hood. He couldn’t breathe. Gasping, he sank to his knees. One hand braced the earth while tears beaded in his eyes as he fought for air. As it had been the first three times he’d approached the city’s egress, so it was now. A nightmare of desperation. A torrent of racing heartbeats and this fish-out-of-water feeling.

  “Easy there, ghendii.” A solid hand settled to Khouren’s shoulder. “Breathe. The smoke of the city has affected us all. Here, inhale.”

  A vial was presented beneath Khouren’s lips. His tunneling vision could see nothing but the shine of glass in the sun, and the amber color of some liquid inside the vial. A man’s hard-weathered fingers held the glass.

  A crisp musk like scorchgrass and essenac wafted up Khouren’s nose and over his tongue. Suddenly, his lungs opened. His mind cleared; his vision widened. Sitting back upon his heels on the blackened stone, Khouren took great lungfuls of air, grateful, as people flowed around him and his savior in the filthy sunshine.

  “Better?” The man capped the vial and slid it away in his jerkin. As his vision cleared, Khouren noted the man’s garb was a decades-old fighting style, worn to Halsos’ hells: a ranger’s tawny brown like they wore in the Fleetrunners and High Brigade, his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, scuffed leather bracers at his wrists and a ravaged climbing rucksack slung over one shoulder. His garb said Menderian military veteran, but his rolling accent sounded Elsthemi, while his slang hailed from the southeastern coasts near Ghrec.