Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  He was aware of their tenuous position, supporting him rather than Lhaurent.

  The First Abbey had been mobilized in the past three weeks. As Eleshen glanced around, it seemed a hornet’s hive, humming with activity. The verdant grounds were thick with uniforms of cobalt, grey, and cowls of black, all hustling about their appointed tasks. Jenners and Kingsmen and a full third of the Palace Guard had come together within these bluestone walls, in support of King-Protectorate Temlin den’Ildrian who had claimed the throne for his niece the Queen. Castellan Lhaurent den’Alrahel’s powerful unveiling the day after the city burned sat sour in the bellies of those who crowded the Abbey. His proclamation, that he was some kind of god because of golden markings that moved the palace and swayed people to his will, sat bitter as gall in the hearts of the last Alrashemni Kingsmen.

  Together, the trio stepped up the worn bluestone stairs of the Abbey Annex. Sebasos hauled one heavy ironbound door open with his muscled arm. Temlin paused, allowing Eleshen to enter first, and she smiled at his courtly habits. Temlin treated her like a lady in silks when they weren’t bouting, no matter how much buckled leather she wore.

  But Eleshen sobered as she moved into the gloom of the Annex hall, her gaze sweeping the shadows in the cupolas on instinct. She held a deep watchfulness that she was unable to shake now, since Lhem’s torture. Though he commanded the Abbey from sunup to well past sundown like a lion, Temlin was broken in his own way. Eleshen spent some evenings in Temlin’s company, when nightmares of Lhem assailed her. She would steal to his room, often finding him awake perusing documents, ready with a cup of ale and and a quiet sit at the hearth. Despite his heinous flirtation, Temlin understood things younger men didn’t. He never said a word when she came for a reprieve of her awful nightmares; simply wrapped her in his arms, breathing softly without speaking. In their evening quietude, Eleshen could feel his aching grief for his beloved Mollia den’Lhorissian, now trapped within the Abbeystone.

  Glancing along the shadowed corridor, Eleshen saw Temlin’s cramped study lit with swirling dust motes filtering down through an ochre and cinnabar sunbeam. It seemed like ages since she had come here at Highsummer, moving in the fell tides of Elohl den’Alrahel. Elohl was further from her mind now, though his abandonment still stung. And Eleshen had found a new life, a new purpose here among the Alrashemni. The Abbey’s Kingsmen had watched her bout Temlin that sweltering morning two weeks ago, the first day she’d been recovered enough to hold a blade. Feverish and still healing from her ordeals, Eleshen had taken Temlin down fast that day – then Sebasos, then three more Kingsmen fighters who came at her. Right there, it had been voted on and agreed that Eleshen could test for her Alrashemni Seals.

  And become a Kingsman.

  Passing the vaulted worship hall, Eleshen followed Temlin and Sebasos up a winding staircase, toward the wide circular hall with its soaring facades that served as their war-rotunda. The ironbound doors were already open and Temlin’s skinny runner-lad Brandin stood near the central bluestone dais, a scroll of vellum in hand. A colored-glass window of a fighting lion poured golden and red sunlight down upon the dais, as if marking this war-room for the den’Ildrian reign. Temlin gestured as he came. Clad in a plain brown leather jerkin with a bronze lion pin at his collar rather than Jenner robes, the lad whisked forward and deposited the scroll into Temlin’s hand. Temlin spread the scroll out on the stout ironwood map-table. Eleshen saw the sour twist of his lips as he noted the gold wax seal imprinted with a crossed scepter and olive branch topped by the Kingsmount and Stars.

  “Lhaurent’s using the seal of the King of Alrou-Mendera. Whatever will be next?” Temlin gave a huff as his piercing eyes flicked over the vellum, his palms flat on the desk. Reading on, he gave a dark chuckle. He straightened and met Sebasos’ gaze, raking a hand through his unruly russet hair. “Well. His demands are not unexpected.”

  “No, King-Protectorate.” Sebasos set his jaw, his grey eyes burning with fury and disdain.

  Eleshen stepped to Temlin’s side. Fingers settling to the stout grey wood, she skimmed the document as Temlin crossed his arms, making a growling sound. But like the two seasoned Kingsmen, Eleshen found she was also unsurprised at the message.

  “Lhaurent threatens retribution upon the Abbey if we do not deliver ale for Harvest.” She lifted her eyes to Temlin. “He’ll send the Roushenn Palace Guard against us.”

  “The Roushenn Guard don’t worry me,” Temlin snorted. “They’ve not got enough men to break these walls. It’s what Lhaurent isn’t saying that does concern me. What has he got in his pockets that we don’t?”

  “Mind-benders. Those Kreth-Hakir fellows in herringbone-weave armor.” Eleshen’s answer was prompt. Already, they’d had to execute eight refugees from Lintesh who had attacked members of the resistance – including one who had nearly succeeded in assassinating Temlin. When interrogated, all nine had professed to loving King-Protectorate Temlin with tears in their eyes, even as they stood at the chopping block. They couldn’t understand why they would have raised a knife against him; why their bodies had functioned without their permission.

  “The mind-benders are a concern,” Temlin nodded, scowling. “That was a nasty business these past weeks with the brainwashed refugees, but we’ve found the Hakir’s effects to be distance-related. Our patrols atop the walls are being watched for signs of mind-infiltration, but so far, nothing. Mind-bending effects must not reach so high up, or penetrate well through stone, or else Lhaurent’s curs would have caused far more fuss then they have. No, Lhaurent clearly believes he has something else that gives him an advantage over the Abbey.”

  “Control over the King’s Army?” Eleshen quipped, crossing her arms and fiddling with the end of her stable braid.

  Temlin gave a hand waggle. “Yes and no. The news in the city is that Lhen Fhekran has fallen and Lhaurent has laid claim to Elsthemen. Alrou-Mendera’s army is busy with this two-front war Lhaurent so blatantly believes he can sustain. He’d be more than a fool to split his armies in three to attack us. Besides, the First Abbey is built to withstand tides of men hammering it. If we keep enough archers on the walls and in the death-holes above the gate, we have little to worry about.”

  “Then what does bother you?”

  “Trebuchets.” Temlin crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “Lintesh has seven upon the outer wall of the First Tier, and five upon the wall of the Third Tier. Six of those are close enough to the First Abbey to be aimed in our direction. And if they hurl fire—”

  “We’ll be burned out.” Sebasos returned Temlin’s frown. “All our supplies, our gardens. Our storage and food.”

  “Not to mention exploding spirits from the distillery.” Temlin lifted a russet eyebrow.

  Sebasos let out a soft whistle. “That could blow a hole in the walls. The distillery sits too near the south towers.”

  “Indeed.” Temlin gave a strained sigh. “Or Lhaurent could take a more diabolical tactic, hurling corpses from the shanty-cities over our walls and riddling us with disease. What we don’t know is if he has an experienced General advising him, telling him how to siege a fortress without destroying the entire fucking capitol.”

  “Burn a city too far, and its people will abandon you,” Sebasos growled in agreement.

  “Unless his mind-benders can make the populace stay put,” Eleshen mused.

  “Starving men and women will leave Lintesh no matter Lhaurent’s darkest influence,” Temlin eyed Sebasos and Eleshen. “Some hungers go deeper than the mind. Which is why Lhaurent wishes to parlay about Harvestfest. He cannot have more riots over withheld ale. The city would destabilize too far, and his reign would crumble.”

  “But he’s not negotiating from a place of weakness.” Eleshen spoke again.

  “Not by any means,” Temlin’s attention turned to her. “Which is why we must tread carefully. Sebasos. Write a missive. We accept a preliminary meeting. But it will be done in the open, in the fountain-plaza before the Abbey’s main
gate. Mind-benders are not to attend. If any of our people feel even a hint of interference, the negotiations will be considered void and will be ceased at once.”

  “King-Protectorate.” Sebasos crossed his arms. “Lhaurent’s demands include you rescinding your claim upon the throne for Queen Elyasin.”

  “I know.” Temlin went silent, staring out the nearest bank of windows to the clear day beyond, his fingers fidgeting at the ruby in the pommel of his sword. A trickle of sweat slid down his temple in the suffering humidity, though the windows of the upper gallery were cast wide to the afternoon air.

  “Are you seriously considering ceding the throne to Lhaurent?” Sebasos growled softly, iron and menace towards the false ruler in his tone.

  “We no longer have any confirmation that my niece the Queen lives.” Temlin blinked at last, and sighed. “From her Abbeystone, Mollia observed Elyasin and her Elsthemi King escaping by a tunnel from Lhen Fhekran, just before the palace fell, but it has been three weeks, and Molli has seen nothing more.”

  “Your niece lives,” Sebasos gripped Temlin’s shoulder with one battle-scarred hand. “I feel it.”

  Temlin drew a deep breath. “And if I end up destroying her capitol with my resistance in her name?”

  “Much is risked in war,” Sebasos grated.

  Temlin’s nostrils flared. His eyes went from misty to hawk-sharp. “Send the missive. Milady Eleshen, attend me. I have somewhat further to discuss with you.”

  “King-Protectorate.” Sebasos gave his liege’s shoulder a squeeze with his big hand, then turned on his heel with a quick Kingsman salute and marched from the wide rotunda.

  Temlin wore a thoughtful frown as he gestured for Eleshen to follow. They retreated from the rotunda, down the winding staircase to Temlin’s dusty study. Temlin led Eleshen inside and shut the heavy door, latching it. He sank to his stout ironwood chair with a hard sigh, his gaze raking the sagging bookshelves. They were even more choked now than Eleshen had first seen them. Temlin had strategically hidden within their hodgepodge all the books and arcane items the black-clad Ghost of Roushenn had liberated from Laurent’s war-room the night Lintesh burned.

  The Ghost of Roushenn. Eleshen’s thoughts wandered back to him as she took a seat upon Temlin’s overstuffed leather couch, sending up a puff of dust. A strong man with grey eyes like the sea, the Ghost had haunted Eleshen’s dreams ever since he’d saved her. Saved her, betrayed his alliance with Lhaurent, then disappeared like smoke through the walls.

  Inhaling, Eleshen banished her whimsy. She could muse on the mysterious Ghost later; right now, she had a King-Protectorate to deal with. Temlin was harrowed – Eleshen could tell by the way he scowled and steepled his fingers at his desk. She didn’t press him. Temlin was loquacious when he wanted to be, but having rigorously eschewed his addiction of ale these past weeks, he was a more thoughtful man than the fiery bastard he’d once been.

  “A worry grows in me,” Temlin met Eleshen’s gaze at last, “based on things Molli sees in the wider world from inside her Plinth.”

  “What do you mean?” Eleshen sat up. She knew Temlin retreated to the Abbeystone in the catacombs beneath the Abbott’s quarters to speak with his beloved Mollia, trapped inside the Stone. He’d rarely spoken of those conversations, unless they were of import to his war-stratagems.

  “Molli has been watching movements of Menderian troops,” Temlin began, tapping his steepled fingers together. “Not only has Lhaurent taken Lhen Fhekran, but he also shunts thousands of soldiers through Stones all over the nation to Ligenia, and he has ships coming into Ligenia at all hours, bringing slaves from the southwest.”

  “Slaves to supplement his armies?” Eleshen interrupted.

  “So it seems.” Temlin growled, setting his chin upon his steepled fingertips. “I believe Lhaurent prepares for a tremendous battle. To march out from Ligenia to the Aphellian Way, and launch a devastating campaign against Valenghia.”

  “To invade Valenghia?” Eleshen blinked. “To end the Valenghian-Menderian war?”

  “Indeed.” Temlin set his lips to his steepled fingers. “The maps the Ghost of Roushenn liberated for us include supply lines intended to support a massive force stationed near the Valenghian border. I’ve finally had word from Arlen den’Selthir, the leader of our Shemout Alrashemni: a hasty missive sent by hawk, saying that a Menderian force some thousands strong marched from Quelsis, sieging Vennet with Kreth-Hakir at their lead. That was three weeks ago, and I have heard nothing since. I fear the worst, though Arlen has a contingency plan he’s been building these past years that should keep his Kingsmen safe – for a time.”

  “But that’s not what eats at you,” Eleshen murmured, watching him.

  “No.” Temlin snarled behind his fingertips, green eyes flashing. “What gnaws my gut is that Lhaurent makes no preparations in Lintesh. He amasses no military here. There’s been no felling of trees in the King’s Forest for siege-towers or battering rams to deal with the Abbey, and he’s not hired more Palace Guard, who are decreased by a third since many of them defected to my banner.”

  “Lhaurent has something else that he believes could break the Abbey. Easily.” The realization hit Eleshen like a black wave, raising the pulse at her throat.

  “The Abbey is vulnerable,” Temlin nodded, his brooding eyes meeting hers. “From something I cannot take into account. We have food against a siege. We have medicine for a conflict. We could even survive fire, though it would cost us, and we have discovered many of Lhaurent’s mind-warped pawns. So what is it that I don’t know?”

  “Was there anything in the items the Ghost brought?” Eleshen’s gaze perused the shelves.

  Temlin leaned back in his chair; put his boots up on the corner of the stout desk. “Lists, ledgers, maps – plans of battle and records of how Lhaurent pays for it all with emeralds. Mercenaries from Thuruman, hired thugs from Ghrec, Lefkani and Crassian pirates that raid the southwestern coasts to enslave Jadounian and Perthian men into fighting. His net has been woven wide in his four decades behind the throne. Much of it I have passed along by sea-hawk to King Arthe den’Tourmalin of the Isles, who has declared a cessation of the former peace agreement he held under King Uhlas.”

  “The Tourmaline Isles have declared for you?” Eleshen asked, eyebrows raising.

  “As much as they can.” Temlin combed his short red-gold beard with his fingers. “Lhaurent harries them night and day now with fleets of Lefkani pirates he’s bribed to get his slave-ships through. But as for the arcane items the Ghost left us... they seem inert baubles, nothing more. A few are clockworks so ancient they belong in a Praoughian museum.”

  “And the books?” Eleshen ventured. “There must be something useful there.”

  “Would that were true!” Temlin snorted, gesturing expansively. “The books are unhelpful. Genealogies of royal lines from a nation to the far southeast, the Sun Tribes. Detailed descriptions of fanciful wyrric abilities, like transforming the physical body into a beast. Rubbish.”

  “So all of it was just a waste of time?” Eleshen’s heart sank and she fidgeted with her braid.

  “Actually.” Temlin slung his boots off the desk and sat up. “Two of the volumes the Ghost brought were not rubbish. Not rubbish at all, in fact.”

  “Which ones?” Eleshen glanced around the cramped study. Temlin rose and pushed back his stout wooden chair. Eleshen watched him press a sophisticated catch in the floor with his fingertips. A false flagstone lifted from the floor beneath where his chair had been. Temlin pried it up and fished out two slender tomes of cobalt leather, and one far larger volume bound in plain brown leather, yet inscribed with a mad tarentesh of arcane symbols all across the cover.

  He set all three upon his desk with reverence. Touching the slim cobalt volumes with a wry smile, Temlin spoke. “These volumes chronicle the Alrou-Menderan royal line, back to the founding of our nation nearly a thousand years ago. They speak of the royal line’s Alrashemni origin, something I had always suspe
cted but never knew for certain, part of why I pledged myself to the Shemout when I was young. These volumes state that House den’Ildrian is actually an Alrashemni house, though our nation was founded by a different Alrashemni house – the Alrahel. Den’Alrahel, in the tongue of the native Menderian tribes. The Line of the Dawn.”

  “Lhaurent’s surname – and Elohl’s!” Eleshen breathed, astonished. Moving close, Eleshen reached her fingertips out to touch the cobalt volumes, each with a blazing sun imprinted upon the cover. “These establish Lhaurent’s legitimacy as King of Alrou-Mendera.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Temlin snorted. “And I’m sure he wants them back. Without these volumes, Lhaurent will never be able to assert his legitimacy to the monarchs of other nations. They’ll only ever see him as a warlord, and treat him as such, blocking his negotiations and causing him to engage in wars to smash his way through the continent, rather than win allies through diplomacy. Interesting to note that your friend Elohl also could stake a claim upon the throne if these volumes ever came to light.”

  “What stops Lhaurent, then? From using whatever he thinks he’s got against the Abbey?”

  “These.” Temlin gestured to the slim volumes. “I wrote him and told him I had something he needs. Something that I’m sure he wants back. The only thing stopping him from making a move against us right now is that he’s trying to find out what I have and where it’s hidden. Hence, all the brainwashed spies we’ve had to execute recently.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Eleshen turned to face Temlin. “What if he finds these volumes?”

  Temlin gripped her shoulders kindly with his sword-calloused hands. “Then we’re screwed, my dear. He’ll use his mystery leverage upon the Abbey as soon as he has the chance. Laurent’s not the kind of man to wait for his enemies to play nice. He’ll not wait for any parlay, and that’s what keeps me up at night. Any day, any moment, one of his mind-sundered spies could find these volumes. And when they do, the game is up.”