Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Acting docile upon his palladian chain, Elohl found it was actually somewhat freeing to bare his Goldenmarks to the world. To the Vhinesse’s people, Elohl was a lovely ornament, a captured Alrashemni Kingsman with a pretty mystery of intricate gold upon his skin, but Elohl was able to control his Goldenmarks from flaring and declaring him further. Though he scanned their faces, he saw no shrewd looks of any who might have known what his markings truly were.

  Elohl was listening to a recounting of the healing herb supply in the eastern Provinces, when the gilded doors to the war-hall suddenly boomed open. A man strode in, his bronze Cennetian skin well-tanned, his dark hair streaked with copper and also a lustrous silver-grey. The man’s shrewd eyes were copper-tinged, and he moved forward with a battered scroll in one ruby-ringed hand. His cloak was a swath of elegant orange and saffron velvet, though the uniform beneath was the crimson of the Red Valor.

  Silver pins of a flowering vine with five blossoms – the insignia of the High General of Valenghia – were tacked to the Cennetian’s collar. As he stood there, strangely defiant in the presence of the Vhinesse, Elohl saw his physique was that of a good sword, his manner holding no infirmity despite his silvering hair and the lines at his eyes and mouth.

  Flourishing a low bow in Cennetian fashion with a swirl of his cloak, he clacked his bootheels.

  “My Living Vine. Forgive my lateness. I have arrived just this hour from the Aphellian Way with news of import.” His voice was low and melodious, with a rolling Cennetian accent. His copper eyes roved over Fenton, then blinked when he came to Elohl.

  And widened. For a moment he could not look away.

  “High General Merkhenos del’Ilio.” The Vhinesse’s voice was tart and her blue eyes cold, though Elohl could tell she attempted to be her usual graceful self. “I am surprised to see you return so soon from your post upon the Aphellian Way. Were you not instructed to remain at the passage until six months hence, securing my borders?”

  “My Living Vine.” General Merkhenos swept a very low bow, dropping his gaze this time. “As I was bid by your Eminence, so have I done, but a message has come from my spies in Ligenia Bay. I thought it of the utmost importance to deliver it to you with haste, personally.”

  Elohl took in the words between the Vhinesse and her High General, understanding that the Cennetian had been sent to the Aphellian Way as punishment – a punishment which was not over. Elohl filed this information away as the Vhinesse extended one perfect hand and the High General placed the scroll into it with a brisk gesture, though he did not touch her skin. The Vhinesse read through the scroll, her visage darkening as her silver brows drew together in a line.

  “Lhaurent den’Alrahel has done what?!”

  Men all around the table shuddered to hear her tone, and Elohl and Fenton imitated it as if affected by her wyrria. But Merkhenos merely held her gaze. The Vhinesse’s eyes were frosty as she spoke with a regal wave. “All of you. Leave us.”

  Her other Captains and Generals went with smart salutes. But the copper-haired Cennetians nodded at Merkhenos as if in solidarity, before filing out of the war-room. At last, all were gone. Not even guards remained in the chamber, though Elohl and Fenton still stood by the Vhinesse’s chair, undismissed.

  “Speak.” The Vhinesse’s tone was chill, her arms crossed as she stared down her High General.

  “Lhaurent den’Alrahel gathers a support-army in Ligenia Harbor.” The Cennetian’s narrow lips held a quirk, as if he was trying not to gloat. “Tens of thousands strong. Our spies have been watching them come through the Alranstone at Ligenia, others arriving by ship. Regiments of Menderian troops, Southron indentured warriors. This army is to join his main host and press along the Aphellian Way, imminently. He also has Kreth-Hakir at their lead. Twenty, or more.”

  “Twenty!” The bloom of color left the Vhinesse’s cheeks, before her face set into stone-cold fury. Her pale eyes flashed in the light of the fluted glass lamps that studded the columns. “How dare he! We had an alliance!”

  “That alliance is unquestionably over.” Merkhenos could not keep the smile from his face now, though it quickly flashed away. “He intends to wreck war upon Valenghia. Real war, not this stymied sham that the Khehemni Lothren in both nations have engineered these past many years.”

  Elohl perked, hearing the high council of the Khehemni mentioned, wondering what the Lothren had to do with the war. Merkhenos’ copper eyes flicked to Elohl again. Elohl banished all life from his face and the High General’s gaze moved back to his liege.

  She was stewing. Fuming. Elohl had never seen the Vhinesse so flushed, even during the height of passion. With a hard set to her jaw, she rose, setting her fingertips to the marble tabletop.

  “Lhaurent den’Alrahel oversteps his bonds.” Her voice was icy, her silvered demeanor cold. “His coup upon the Khehemni Lothren in his own nation was forgivable, understandable even. Long were his aspirations choked by that insufferable Evshein den’Lhamann and his cronies. Lhaurent was the inspiration behind the Kingsmen Summons, and the hand of that triumph. But even after, Evshein did not allow him his rightful place. But now, Lhaurent believes himself clever in the game of nations. A game in the sun, rather than shadows. A mistake.”

  “Grievous and blatant,” Merkhenos interrupted, “to move against the Valenghian Lothren. Once, his supply of indentured fighters to both sides of our border served purpose for the Lothren in both nations. To eliminate Alrashemni fighters by continued warfare. But now, he moves upon your tilthlands, Vhinesse. With Kreth-Hakir Brethren under his banner like they were at the Kingsmen Summons—”

  Her pale eyes flicked to his. “Lhaurent had Kreth-Hakir involved in the Kingsmen Summons? And you withheld this information from me?!”

  Merkhenos’ copper eyelashes flickered, but he did not lower his gaze. “My Vine. There were rumors, unconfirmed. The rumors cited that three Kreth-Hakir Brethren were involved in the capturing of the Alrashemni Kingskinder – to take many of them back to the Unaligned Lands and induct into their order.”

  “Where there is one Scorpion, there are dozens!” The Vhinesse leaned over the table, wrath in her beautiful eyes. “Were you not who you are, Merkhenos, I would have your head for this!”

  The man settled back onto his heels, a subtle swordsman’s stance. Merkhenos del’Ilio set his fingertips to his weapons, staring her down. “Take my head and start a rebellion, woman. Cennetia follows you because I will it. Because being adjunct to your nation was beneficial to our city-states, ever at war from within. My Cennetian Lothren favor it for Cennetia’s solidarity, and to our oaths I stand loyal. But test me, putistena, and I will burn you down. Nothing unites Cennetian city-states more than fighting an enemy who has betrayed the Sons of Illium.”

  The Vhinesse paused, watching the Cennetian with wary attention, as if he was something utterly deadly that she’d learned to not try and dupe. Then, her demeanor softened, her voice sweetening with the chime of bells as she reached out a hand toward his wrist. “My dear Merkhenos. Must we be so at odds?”

  “Touch me not, woman.” Merkhenos slid a step backward. “I’ve had six months free of your odious personage, and I’ll not be swept into your snares again.”

  “You know nothing of the torment I can bring you.” Her voice was cold, bitter.

  “I know your variety of torment,” he spoke back, copper eyes flashing, “and I’ll have none of it.”

  “Cur.” Her tone was frosty, but her lips held a little smile, as if enjoying his defiance.

  “Puta.” He gave a hard smile back. His gaze flicked again to Elohl and stayed. He motioned at her kept falcons. “You waste your wyrric hold over your Generals, keeping your pretty prizes near during a war-council. Some might call it rash.”

  Elohl tried to show nothing, but again, the Cennetian had given him interesting news – that the Vhinesse’s talents had a limit.

  “The only one who has made a rash move here is Lhaurent den’Alrahel.” The Vhinesse’s pale eyes
were frosty. “He calls himself a god, all because he has bloodlines that supposedly fulfill some ancient prophecy that he’s supposed to unite our continent in a golden age. Trash.”

  “And a unique wyrria that has convinced the Kreth-Hakir to ally with him.” Merkhenos lifted a russet eyebrow as he put his fists to the table. “Not a small thing. Lhaurent has convinced the Kreth-Hakir of his power. Of his ability to be the most dominant force of our age. Clearly, they believe him, and thus, they support him.”

  “So the Scorpions have chosen a side,” the Vhinesse mused, her fingers drumming upon the table. “And where does that leave my Valenghian Lothren? Or your Cennetian Lothren, for that matter? Lhaurent annihilated his own Lothren in Alrou-Mendera. Would he send the Scorpions against us?”

  “My Lothren fear so.” The Cennetian straightened. “Where a rabid cur bites once, he will likely bite again. My Lothren have asked me to keep our aims unified, and as you are head of the Lothren here in Valenghia, I will honor that alliance. But don’t push me, woman. Or find two wars on your borders, and half your naval support gone.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, King of Poisoners.” The Vhinesse’s eyes were frosty.

  “Cennetia hasn’t had a king in ages.” Merkhenos del’Ilio’s copper eyes were amused. “But test me again and I will unite the city-states against you. They will follow a strong Generalisso d’Iscurro, with knives in the night and dark draughts in your wine.”

  “A bitter brew.” The Vhinesse crossed her arms, her face impassive.

  “Indeed.” The Cennetian swept a low bow. “I must retire. The ride from the border was long and dusty. I will be in my chambers. Know that should you even attempt to cross my threshold, I will put a knife in you. Coated in a very slow poison of my own devising. To which there is no antidote.”

  The Vhinesse finally smiled. It went with a laugh, free and throaty, though no bells tinkled inside Elohl’s mind now. “You are a vicious cur! Go, then. Have your leisure, but you will come when I summon you, Son of Illium.”

  “As long my audience is in the war-hall and not your bedchamber.” The Cennetian’s gaze flicked to Elohl one last time. “I would interrogate your new falcons, my Living Vine.”

  She lifted one eyebrow, then glanced back at Fenton and Elohl, both impressively quiet beside her chair. “They have given me no trouble. You believe they are not mine?” Reaching out, she stroked Fenton’s face, then Elohl’s. Elohl made no movement other than to give the Vhinesse an idolatrous smile as she stroked down his chest. Elohl felt her twining snares, but thoughts of Ghrenna pushed them back. The Vhinesse gave him a lovely smile – she didn’t know she was being pushed out of his mind, or Fenton’s.

  She turned back to the Cennetian. “Interrogate them as you will. I’ll bring them to you this afternoon, but you may not harm a hair upon their heads. I want them intact.”

  “Indeed.” Merkhenos bowed again, snapping the heels of his boots together, then turned and pushed out the doors. The Vhinesse gave a sigh, scanning the documents upon the table. At last, she turned to her men, taking up their fine palladian chains.

  “Let us retire, my falcons.”

  “Yes, my Vine,” Elohl and Fenton murmured.

  With a weary smile, the Vhinesse took up Elohl and Fenton’s chains and led them through the arched doorway. They took a winding route, following a burbling stream that ran through the floor until they were in a section of the palace Elohl hadn’t seen. This wing had the same columns carven like trees and rivulets of cascading water. But where other areas sported demure carvings, this area cavorted with nymphs and satyrs in coitus, writhing in wanton delight. It was so excessive as to be lewd, and Elohl fought to make his face impassive as they continued through the airy hall.

  At last, the Vhinesse came to a door flanked by two liveried men in the crimson jerkins of the Red Valor. The men were Cennetian, and their hooded eyes, complemented by deeply bronzed skin and bright copper hair, were so alert they prickled Elohl’s spine – even though the men leaned against the wall in a lazy fashion. The guards didn’t exactly bar the Vhinesse from knocking on the door, but one with a silver bar pinned to his collar stepped before her with a rakish smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

  “My Living Vine,” he murmured. “I will alert the Generalisso that you have arrived.”

  The Vhinesse’s eyes were frosty, but she didn’t rebuke him, which Elohl thought odd. The Red Valor were her fighters, after all, but these Cennetians acted as if they were loyal to their country of origin rather than their oaths.

  For some reason, the Vhinesse let it pass. Waving one regal hand, she said, “As you will. I shall not trouble your master. I only leave him these two for his exquisite perusal. He may send a runner to my chambers when he is finished with them. That is all.”

  The guard snapped his bootheels with a genteel nod. The Vhinesse turned to her kept men. With solemnity, she lifted Elohl’s hand and then placed his palladian chain in his palm. Turning to Fenton, she did the same. Stepping between them, she set a palm to each of their cheeks.

  “Now, my falcons. You are to enter this chamber. You will speak with my High General inside, and tell him everything he wishes to know. If he wishes for any kind of demonstration, you will do it. You will be pleasant, and answer him thoroughly. When you are finished, you will be escorted back to the Falconry, and will remain docile all the while. When I come to you later, you will recount to me everything that transpired, down to the smallest detail. Yes, my loves?”

  Elohl could feel the Vhinesse’s cloud of poison trying to choke his mind. He could feel that slippery, suffocating sensation of losing himself again. The command of her touch was so potent, so specific, that he found himself wanting to do as she said. It was a struggle to maintain the image of Ghrenna in his mind; deep cerulean washed out the entwining vapors of the Vhinesse, until Elohl could fake a smile.

  “Yes, my Vine,” Elohl murmured.

  “As you wish,” Fenton responded.

  The Vhinesse beamed at them, and what Elohl saw smiling at him was merely an elegant woman, nothing more. The Vhinesse kissed him upon the lips, then gave one to Fenton. “Now, go. Do my bidding.”

  As she turned back down the airy hall, Fenton and Elohl faced the door. With a swift bow and a clacking of bootheels, the Cennetian Red Valor soldiers pushed the lewdly-carven door inward. Elohl and Fenton stepped inside, the Valorman with the silver bar upon his collar with them. The inner suite was just as disgustingly carven as the hall, phalluses in gargantuan representation upon every column. Elohl fought to not set his jaw. The entire room writhed – a place where sex and innuendo could never be escaped. Some might have found it arousing, but Elohl could only gaze at it with disgust – rutting surrounding him rather than lovemaking.

  The Valenghian High General sat at a white-ash writing desk by the bay windows, and noted Elohl’s disgust with a quirk of his lips. Tossing spectacles to his desk, he set a hawk-feather quill in its holder from a document he’d been writing. Putting his russet Cennetian-leather boots up on the corner of his desk, he leaned his sword-thin frame back in his chair and steepled his fingers with a shrewd narrowing of his copper eyes.

  “The Vhinesse’s falcons, Generalisso,” the guard with the silver bar at his collar spoke, with a clack of bootheels.

  “Thank you, Ghirano.” Merkhenos del’Ilio’s voice flowed with the liquid patter of his homeland, deep with an authority that wasn’t bred into a person, but born. “And do refrain from using the term falcon in my presence.”

  “Forgive me!” The guard reddened under his short shock of copper hair, his gaze dropping. But his eyes came back up. “Generalisso, would you like me to remain here to—”

  “Please wait in the foyer until my business is concluded, Ghirano. You may go.”

  “But sir—” Ghirano’s dark eyes flicked nervously to the Brigadiers. He was clearly uneasy, and Elohl wondered if the man feared the falcons had been sent as assassins. Elohl wondered if such a thing h
ad happened before. He wouldn’t put it past the conniving Vhinesse.

  “Thank you, Ghirano,” Merkhenos repeated, his words very soft. “You may go.”

  Ghirano stiffened like he’d been whipped, his dark eyes flashing though he kept silent. Turning on his heel, he retreated from the room; the doors closed with a marked boom. As the sound died, the Generalisso met Elohl’s eyes, and Elohl saw questions there, but also a vastly patient man. Merkhenos turned his copper gaze to Fenton, then gestured to two carven chairs at a white-ash dining table laden with food.

  “Gentlemen. Please join me for refreshment.”

  Merkhenos rose from his desk and moved to the dining table, then sat in an ornate white-ash chair. Reaching to a wine carafe, he poured two gilded goblets before filling his own. He removed all of his rings, then sipped from each goblet – a Cennetian gesture of peacemaking – then set two of the goblets upon the other side of the table for his guests. Pushing forward a tray of bread, cured meats, olives, and cheeses, he waited as Elohl and Fenton each took a chair.

  “So,” the Cennetian began, his copper eyes amused. “Two Brigadiers of Alrou-Mendera, strangled in the Vhinesse’s vines. I heard how she found you, come through the Alranstone below the palace, but what I want to know is: how is it that my Living Vine was able to snare two wyrrics of such impressive power – my lord of the Wolf and Dragon, and my Rennkavi?”

  Elohl’s lips dropped open. Merkhenos’ laughing copper-dark eyes took delight in his surprise, as he threw back his head and gave a great roaring laugh. He met Elohl’s eyes and held them, something ruthless in their depths, though they also held an awed kind of respect.

  “Yes. I know what you are, but our esteemed Vhinesse doesn’t. She believes she has caught a duo of falcons. But what she has caught, in my estimation, are a pair of dragons – or perhaps, a wolf and a dragon. Most Khehemni Lothren don’t know the truth of the Rennkavi, and my esteemed Vhinesse has not seen the Goldenmarks in action yet upon any front. My tribe remember the Rennkavi legend, in the darkest houses of our sweating city-states.”