Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  At this revelation, Fenton’s posture shifted subtly, settling back in his chair and crossing one ankle over his knee. He didn’t seem surprised at the Cennetian’s revelation, and sat with an air of command, as if he was utterly comfortable in just his loincloth and jewelry. His posture, Elohl realized, was a challenge – one that came with a glower and a flash of red-gold from Fenton’s normally placid eyes.

  “Play us no games, Son of Illium,” Fenton’s simmering growl brought the hairs upon Elohl’s neck up straight as a prickle of electricity shivered through the room. “As I recall, your tribe has a long memory. Surely, you know just exactly who I am and the honor you owe me.”

  Elohl glanced to Fenton, his eyebrows lifting to see Fenton gazing upon the Cennetian with regal austerity, a slow red-gold fire twisting through Fenton’s eyes. Elohl felt another trickle of Fenton’s power simmer through the room, and with a smooth movement, Fenton rose. Turning, the crimson and gold wyrric Inking of Fenton’s line blossomed upon his skin, curling through his sinews and spreading out upon his back like burning blood. Wisps of crimson and gold etheric fire simmered around him, and Elohl heard Merkhenos draw a swift breath.

  “Behold your Living Dragon, servant of Alodwine. The last fountainhead of Khehem’s wyrria.” Fenton’s words were soft. Dangerous. Regal, as he turned and gazed at Merkhenos del’Ilio.

  The Cennetian watched with awe in his copper eyes, as if witnessing the glory of a fallen god. It was then that Elohl understood true power, watching Fenton as the Cennetian saw him. Ancient, strong; a being that had walked this earth for a thousand years – traveling, learning, seeking, serving. Fighting. Elohl saw it now, in every line of Fenton’s honed body. Glorious, Fenton turned back with a slow fire surging in his eyes – hinting at what terrible storms he could wield, should this man oppose him.

  With a wry smile, Merkhenos pushed out of his chair and sank to one knee upon the plush Perthian carpet. With two fingers to his brow, he bent his head and spoke. “I am no fool, milord Fentleith Alodwine, Last Scion of the Wolf and Dragon. I know you for who you are. Long are the memories of the Illianti. It is my honor to serve Leith’s line, as my grandfathers did of old. As it is my honor to serve our foretold Rennkavi against the Red-Eyed Demon’s Rise. I am your servant. I am Leithren, a true servant of Leith’s line.”

  Silence filled the room. Elohl stared at the Cennetian, still kneeling upon the carpet but watching Fenton carefully.

  “Tell me of my Leithren, Son of Illium.” Fenton’s words were gentler in his sonorous baritone as he stared down upon the Cennetian, his eyes bled out to gold-brown now. “How many still know of my existence, and how many yet serve me – allied against the Kreth-Hakir Brethren?”

  “It is a complicated question, milord, for which there is a long and complicated answer. If I may?” The Cennetian lifted an eyebrow at his chair and Fenton beckoned him to rise. Reclaiming his seat as Fenton reclaimed his, the Cennetian refilled each of their wine goblets. Fenton sipped his wine, though his presence still commanded the room, prickles of energy biting at Elohl’s skin in diminishing surges.

  Elohl noticed that Merkhenos took a large swallow of wine, as if fortifying himself. Setting his goblet down, he smoothed his fingers around the rim with a deft touch, his copper gaze frank as he took up the conversation again. “Let me start at the beginning. Eight hundred years ago, just after the War of the North, there was also a shadow-war within your Leithren, milord Alodwine. An internal schism. It was bloody—”

  “I know about the shadow-war,” Fenton held up a hand, as if exhausted. “I know most of the Leithren who knew me were killed in a massive coup aided by the Kreth-Hakir, acting for their own preservation against my edicts. I know that those who remained were seeded with doubt – that I was real, that I was truly Leith’s grandson. I know that the Leithren re-named themselves the Lothren at the Kreth-Hakir’s urging, and that their forces have been allied ever since. What I’m asking, Merkhenos, is how many of my original supporters remain?”

  “In Cennetia, we believe.” Merkhenos gave a subtle chuckle. “The Illianti had plenty of contact with you in days of old, and with your children – particularly one by the name of Ihbram. Our poisons have long been crafted against Kreth-Hakir mind-bending. Among my clan, we remember not only that we must support the Goldenmarked when he comes, but respect your warnings about the Kreth-Hakir Brethren, about the danger they pose to all of humanity. My Illianti clan have never forgotten whom we serve. Though we have gone very deep underground, inside the Lothren itself.”

  “Do your people know why I was given these marks?” Elohl murmured, wondering if the Cennetian could tell him anything.

  The Cennetian gave a cunning smile as he sipped his wine, his gaze flicking to the Goldenmarks curling over Elohl’s torso, arms and legs. “Why were you chosen for this honor? I know not. Leith Alodwine himself created the marks you wear. My people only know that the Rennkavi was to be Leith’s focus of power against the Red-Eyed Demon: a weapon for Leith to wield. Now that I see you, I wonder. Your presence is proof that we live in dire times – the age of the Demon’s Rise, as Leith supposed.”

  “You believe my grandfather was a hero,” Fenton snorted derisively.

  “I do.” The Cennetian’s eyes flashed. “My kin remember a courageous man who stood up against a future so frightening that he enacted terrible measures to control the outcome. A man who did what he had to, to prevent worse.”

  “My mother’s spear-maidens remembered a tyrant who devastated the Thirteen Tribes,” Fenton’s voice was cold. “Who brought wyrria to a grinding standstill, killing off thousands of wyrric adepts in an instant. Making wyrria vanish from our world, except for the barest trickle.”

  Elohl attended the conversation with rapt attention. The Cennetian leaned forward, his eyes flashing at Fenton. “Wyrria that you and your bloodline got in spades. So did the Kreth-Hakir, and the Rennkavi – while everyone else was essentially abandoned except for small tricks. Why? We can only assume because Leith foresaw that these wyrric lines would be instrumental in bringing down the Red-Eyed Demon.”

  “Any news of that?” Fenton’s fingers perused his lips.

  “No.” Merkhenos shook his head, sitting back. “I have heard nothing of the Demon’s Rise. My allies report that the Kreth-Hakir watch a handful of people, including our Vhinesse. Though Lhaurent den’Alrahel is the one they watch most, and whom they have chosen to serve. However, I imagine—”

  “You imagine what?” Fenton commanded.

  “The Kreth-Hakir would follow you, if they knew you lived.” Merkhenos held Fenton’s gaze. “Like the Leithren, the Kreth-Hakir still believe in the Rennkavi legend. They were sworn to Leith’s bloodline, the same as we were.”

  “The Kreth-Hakir won’t follow me.” Fenton’s voice was suffused with a hard darkness. “We had a difference of opinion, long ago. It was what led to my edict with the Leithren, and why the Kreth-Hakir became involved, cutting them out from underneath me. I should have destroyed those mind-bending bastards when I had the chance.”

  Fenton fell into a deep silence, and though Elohl waited for more of the story, it didn’t come.

  “They would have resisted your destruction,” Merkhenos spoke at last, swirling his goblet. “They are the Scorpions. Where there is one, there are many. Such a vast and coordinated mind is not an easy thing to kill. Leith Alodwine saw an opportunity to bind the strongest forces in the continent to his aims and he took it. Odious as they may be.”

  “Who are these Kreth-Hakir?” Elohl asked, not comprehending this piece of conversation.

  Fenton’s eyes were desolate as he turned to Elohl. “Do you remember men dressed in herringbone leathers, who came to collect the Kingskinder after the Kingsman Summons?”

  “Them?” Elohl bristled, rage rising within him as he remembered the scorpion-rider who had nearly killed him in the Elhambrian Forest near Lintesh, and who had captured them at Alrashesh. “They were sworn to your line? And to the
Rennkavi?”

  Fenton drew in a breath, his eyes closing. When they opened again, they were bright with golden flame. “Ask me again why I think my grandfather was evil, Elohl – the Kreth-Hakir are the proof. Leith bound them, then entrusted them to find and follow the Rennkavi. Or if that failed, get close to anyone who showed signs of harboring the Demon – an ancient evil that is supposed to usher in dark days when it arrives.”

  “So what do the Goldenmarks actually do?” Elohl gave Fenton a hard glance. “What else have you not been telling me about all this?”

  “The Kreth-Hakir and the Leithren,” Fenton sighed, “believe my grandfather was a visionary. That Leith created the Rennkavi’s Goldenmarks to unite the world in an indestructible system of wyrria against the Demon’s Rise. So the Rennkavi could be Leith’s champion and conduit – a weapon channeling all the world’s wyrria for Leith’s use, who would then use it to vanquish the Demon.”

  “But Leith,” Elohl settled back, his mind spinning, “isn’t he dead? Who fights this Red-Eyed Demon if Leith’s not at the pinnacle of the magic? And is this Demon even real?”

  “You’re the pinnacle of the magic now, Elohl.” Fenton gave a tired sigh. “And as to the reality of the Red-Eyed Demon... oh, it’s very real. Don’t ask me how I know, just know that it is. My grandfather wrought terrible crimes, Elohl, so zealous was he in believing he was the man to bring it down.”

  “By uniting the world.” Elohl touched his neck, feeling the shifting prickle in his golden Inkings. “Is that a good thing or bad?”

  “It depends.” Merkhenos’ copper eyes were sly as he cut in. “Would you see the world united in love and peace? Or in destruction?”

  “Are you saying that my intention determines the outcome of the Goldenmarks?”

  “I’m saying that at one time,” Merkhenos eyed him, “Leith Alodwine would have been the mind behind the Marks. They were bound to him as their master and creator, but now they are bound to no-one. Now, it is only you. I can only suppose that in the absence of his will, yours reigns supreme. Your ideas about unity... may determine how the Goldenmarks behave.”

  “Elohl.” Fenton’s voice was low, and so somber that Elohl turned, watching him. Rubbing both hands over his face, Fenton closed his eyes and took a long inhalation, then met Elohl’s gaze. “You need to know. You have a rival. There is one other who carries the marks you bear. The one the Kreth-Hakir have chosen to serve: Lhaurent den’Alrahel, who used to be the Queen’s Castellan.”

  Shock raced through Elohl’s veins as his Goldenmarks lit with a simmering recoil. Not just because Fenton’s revelation was a jolt, but also because Elohl recalled Lhaurent. That moment of connection they’d had in the Small Hall of Roushenn, after the attempt on the Queen’s life. He could still feel that smooth lack of care in the Castellan’s gaze, sliding through his body like deepwater eels. Elohl had felt a resonance then, and he felt it again, slipping through his body like he’d swallowed leeches. It made Elohl feel sick, and he choked down bile with a grimace.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me that sooner?” Elohl rasped, furious and barely containing himself.

  “I can see you have personal experience of our dear Castellan.” Merkhenos wore a dark smile as he watched Elohl. “Your expression is priceless.”

  “I didn’t want you to mistrust the magic,” Fenton spoke softly, gazing into Elohl’s eyes and ignoring the Cennetian. “I didn’t want you to think it was evil because Lhaurent also wields it, and because it was created by my grandfather. Whatever the Goldenmarks are, Elohl, they have a tremendous possibility, if wielded by the right man. I believe you are that man. Down to my very bones, I believe it. My mother believed it, too. Her Prophecy was very clear on the vast benefit of the Goldenmarks, even though she never mentioned two people having them.”

  Elohl sat back, digesting all that had been said, his gaze still pinned to Fenton. “What else? What else do I need to know about these marks that you’ve conveniently avoided telling me?”

  “That the marks grow stronger through trust, through touch.” Fenton spoke plainly, holding Elohl’s gaze and ignoring his barb. “Your Rennkavi’s power grows by having those around you that you trust, those who bring you peace of mind and heart. But you’re a lone wolf, Elohl. I’ve picked your brain these past months trying to find out whom you love and trust, and found almost no-one. You don’t even trust me, not really.”

  “You’ve not given me a lot of reasons to.” Elohl’s gaze was hard, cold, something dark writhing in his gut at how long Fenton had kept this information from him. As he watched Fenton, he realized that although part of him did trust him, something about Fenton bothered him. He roiled with an ancient pain that sent shivers of wyrria curling off him constantly, his core full of power and conflict. Elohl trusted Fenton to have his back in a fight, but he found he did not feel peaceful around Fenton. The man had a bad habit of lying, of withholding the truth to cover his own ass, and it burned Elohl so deep inside that his Goldenmarks simmered to life in a rippling wave.

  The Cennetian’s eyes flashed as he straightened in his seat, watching Elohl’s marks simmer, but Elohl cared nothing for Merkhenos as he held Fenton’s dark gaze with power and fury. “Lie to me again, Fentleith Alodwine,” Elohl rumbled, command pouring through him upon the tide of his marks, “or withhold vital truths in any way, and know that I will banish you from my service. For good or for ill.”

  Fenton’s gaze was riveted to the marks. He breathed a soft sigh, his face strangely drawn. “I’ve tried to tell you the truth, Elohl. Shaper knows I have. But I debated with myself, over and over until it ate me up inside with indecision, worried about the outcome of my actions. The curse of my wyrria is conflict, Elohl. And in this way, my inaction made it all the worse. I swear to you. From now on, I will tell you every truth I know about who and what you are.”

  It was as good an oath as Elohl could have asked for, and yet watching Fenton, he found himself concerned that there was far more Fenton hadn’t told him, or might not even know to tell him. The man sitting before him with the burning firebrand all across his back was ten centuries old. He had seen more of life and wyrria and battle than Elohl could ever dream – forgotten more lore and legend than Elohl could ever learn, but all that was neither here nor there until they could get out from beneath the Vhinesse’s sway.

  Turning to Merkhenos, Elohl spoke. “High General. How many men do you command upon the Aphellian Way?”

  Merkhenos paused, with a knowing glint in his copper eyes. “Rennkavi. How many men can you control with your wyrria?”

  “I’ve not tested it widely.” Elohl held his gaze, undaunted. “The most was a small skirmish.”

  The Cennetian drummed his fingertips upon the table as silence took the room. At last, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and cleared his throat. “I am of a mind to support you gentlemen, to offer you everything you need. One – escape from this palace and the Vhinesse’s ugly charms, which is easily accomplished by liberating you quietly, disguised among my Red Valor when I return to the war-front in two week’s time. Two – helping you figure out just how many men you can command when we reach the Aphellian Way. And three – helping you use your powers against Lhaurent den’Alrahel and the Vhinesse both, when the time comes.”

  “You would rebel against your liege?” Fenton eyed Merkhenos thoughtfully. “Take her army from her for our use?”

  “I was once upon a palladian chain, gentlemen, not so very long ago.” Merkhenos’ copper eyes flashed as he met Fenton’s gaze, then Elohl’s. “I have tolerated our alliance because my Leithren ordered me to remain close to the Vhinesse, since the Kreth-Hakir wouldn’t. But believe me when I tell you – it has been the most unpleasant duty of my entire life.”

  With that, Merkhenos stood, setting his fingers to the tabletop. “Gentlemen. The Vhinesse will be expecting you back in your Falconry. Bide your time upon her chains. We will find our moment to break you free. I swear it. Then we will strike do
wn against tyrants, and when we do, our wrath will know no boundary.”

  Fenton and Elohl both stood. Elohl saluted Merkhenos with a palm to his chest as Fenton did the same. With a wary glance at Fenton and reluctance in his heart, Elohl steeled himself to return to the Vhinesse’s Falconry once more.

  CHAPTER 12 – THEROUN

  It had been a week since the Brethren of the Kreth-Hakir had taken Adelaine Visek away. A week since she had breathed her glacial power down Theroun’s throat. A week that he had twisted in agony, something writhing within him that he couldn’t possibly name.

  He’d been taken out of the chain gang. Four Kreth-Hakir had hauled him off around the palisade to one of the remaining cat-cradles inside the grounds of Fhekran Palace. The enormous barn of a building reeked of cat-piss and vinegar, with the tinge of dead flesh, but the pile of straw they’d thrown him in had been clean as they re-set his manacles to an iron ring in the wall, with room so he could sleep.

  He hadn’t done much of that. Something seared inside Theroun from what Adelaine had done. At once icy and hot like a poison, it twisted his guts and gave him no peace, stabbed him until his body was a writhing mass of torment. He didn’t believe Adelaine had meant him harm, and yet, that was the outcome. For the past week Theroun had endured moment after endless moment of shredding within his guts and venom surging through his veins – like some vast creature made of oilslick darkness stabbing him incessantly from within.

  Theroun was doing the only thing he could about it; breathing. Night and day he sat, legs crossed, drawing in slow breaths through his nose and releasing them. When the pain became too unbearable, he did a fire-breath he’d learned for his old wound, a bellow-fast pant with a hold at the end followed by deep inhalation that induced euphoria.