Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Or at least, whatever euphoria he could generate right now – only enough to keep him from going completely insane.

  Kreth-Hakir had come and gone these past seven days, watching him. He’d eaten nothing they brought him – neither gruel, cured meats, nor late-summer pears – letting it all rot upon the plate until they took it away. He slept not at all and took only mouthfuls of water, letting it absorb in his mouth rather than swallow and risk retching.

  He felt two Hakir arrive today, setting a dish of something that smelled like roast guinea-fowl within reach. Theroun could have lashed out, struck them, but he could not even open his eyes to confront them, much less tell them to leave him be. He couldn’t break his concentration for even a moment, so focused was he upon merely holding to sanity through his diabolical oilslick pain.

  More Kreth-Hakir arrived. Before long, the space of his cat-stall was crowded with Brethren idling against the wooden walls or sitting silently in the straw. Theroun could feel them, the silver threads of their minds dancing around him. Talking amongst themselves, seeking Theroun’s boundaries, testing the edge of the thing that consumed him. Every time they dipped in, his pain would rise like a black leviathan and they would be thrust back – their minds cast out from ruin with no end.

  “He’ll waste.” A burly baritone spoke aloud, something the Kreth-Hakir never did. “No one can survive this.”

  “It’s like what High Master Yesh did to Sage Pierce,” a younger voice murmured, “when Pierce betrayed the Brethren at Darkwinter six years ago.”

  “Awakening a latent wyrria without warning,” the grim baritone growled again. “There’s a reason such an action is forbidden in our Order, Brother Antonius, unless you challenge another Brother to the Kiani-Hithrai. To force a latent wyrria as brutal as this one into awakening is often a death sentence, but the tundra-witch did not know that. Will the Menderian General live or die? All we can do is wait.”

  “It’s more than that,” an ancient voice spoke, a soft step swishing through the straw near the stall’s open gate. The wheeze of time was strong in this new voice, though he spoke with a melodious, almost comforting tone. “The brave General is wrestling the Beast’s Awakening – something I’ve not seen for six hundred years. None without awareness of their wyrria has survived such a spontaneous Awakening since the time of Leith, when Agni roamed the skies. Give this man your honor, Brothers. It’s incredible that he’s lasted this long. Especially without any training.”

  “Brother Kiiar.” Voices murmured respectfully in near-unison, as Theroun shifted into his fast breathing to handle a sudden surge of venomous agony.

  “It’s time to take him to Brother Jornath. He’s the closest thing we have to a Sage out here in these wretched wildlands.” Old Brother Kiiar spoke again. Theroun felt someone reach out to touch him, and in his mind’s eye he could see unseen fingers of silver hovering over his face. As those silver fingers wisped over his energy, sensing his torment but not touching it, he saw a man’s shape materialize in his mind. Woven out of liquid silver threads, the wyrric body of the man leaned in, black eyes shining through that mercurial light as the Brother perused Theroun’s condition.

  “Brother Jornath said to let him stew.” The baritone voice said, burly and aggressive.

  “And I’m saying that time is over. He’s had far more than the required three days for his Adept’s Proving.” Kiiar’s wheezing voice had an edge to it, and the silver man-shape pulled back, gone from Theroun’s inner vision. “Would you defy me, Brother Caldrian?”

  “No, Brother Kiiar.” Brother Caldrian’s big voice surrendered with a growl.

  Two men in herringbone leathers knelt by Theroun, unlocking his manacles. Theroun’s head reeled as another wave of slick-dark pain came. They grasped him beneath his arms and hustled him up. Dizzy, his equilibrium tilted and the pain surged; Theroun’s knees collapsed. Sweat stood out in a hard flush upon his brow, and the reek of seven days soaked his filthy tunic.

  “Carry him,” Brother Kiiar commanded. “He can’t walk. It’s a miracle he’s still conscious.”

  Theroun felt himself hauled up by surprisingly gentle hands and slung into a stretcher of arms. Moving in perfect coordination, Theroun felt the Brethren carry him out of the cat-cradle. A thin drizzle hit his face, cooling his wretched fever. Theroun risked opening his eyes, though even the weak dawn light hit him like a sledgehammer.

  The force within him roiled, but Theroun wrestled it back in order to take stock of the Brethren who carried him around the side of the ruined palace. One was young, barely in his twenties, his pale scruff of beard and short shock of hair Valenghian silver, though his eyes were the drowning orchid-blue of the Lhemvian Isles. Another man was swarthy, as large as Khorel Jornath, though more lean. A ragged scar tore down his right temple, that ear missing, a long black mohawk braided back in Thurumani fashion and bedecked with fetishes of feathers, shells, and human teeth. Gold hoops were pierced through his remaining ear, badges of Lefkani pirating prowess – each hoop indicating ten men killed in battle. Theroun supposed he knew to whom the belligerent baritone voice belonged.

  The other man in his sightline was small, a frizz of white hair haloing his head. Thin as a bird and twice as frail, he was nonetheless upright as he walked alongside those who carried Theroun. He glanced over, as if feeling Theroun’s delirious regard, and gave a comforting smile with his bushy white brows and sparkling black-on-black eyes. The same eyes Theroun had spied conjured out of wyrria just moments ago. The old man exuded a calm yet fierce nature, though only half his face smiled. The other half was burned beyond recognition, a mask of dripping candlewax.

  Theroun had no more time to wonder as he was taken around the edge of the charred palisade to a soaring cathedral. The same building where he’d sworn allegiance to Lhaurent, the Elsthemi house of worship the Kreth-Hakir kept as their headquarters. As the pain roared back in a furious wave and he had to shut his eyes and deepen his breath, Theroun felt himself taken up the wide stone stairs. He heard men haul back the massive white-pine doors. Inside, the building had a sanctuary feel, all vaulted halls and soaring space. Theroun risked another glance. Elsthemi pearled-glass illuminated white timbers bent into elegant curves reminiscent of whale ribs throughout the buttressed space. White marble colonnades were topped by soaring arches, giving an overall impression of peace and solace.

  The hall had not been sacked nor looted. Prayer-benches had been pushed back to the walls to make room in the center for a stout ironpine war-table and chairs. The white wool banners at the front of the nave had an image of a winged Madonna upon her knees in supplication, hands in prayer above her head with sheafs of wheat all around her. Even the table of white candles at the front of the hall was undisturbed, only pushed back to make more room in the middle of the space.

  Khorel Jornath sat at the heavy ironpine table that occupied the center of the hall, taking a cup of wine and a plate of food. Graceful tapers burned in floor-stand candelabrum nearby. He sat with a thoughtful frown, studying a map as he ate. He glanced up as Theroun was hauled in, then beckoned his Brethren forward.

  Theroun saw no more, shutting his eyes as his pain rioted. Taken to the middle of the hall, the cold stone floor was a relief as he was lowered to it. Theroun felt the Kreth-Hakir step away. He heard creaks of leather and the whisper of silk as the Brethren bowed, then the soft whisk of boots over stone as they retreated from the hall. The heavy doors of the hall boomed shut, leaving only two impressions of silver upon Theroun’s suffering mind.

  “Please forgive my intrusion, Brother Jornath, but the Initiate needs to see you,” Brother Kiiar’s wheezy voice spoke. “The wyrria within him still tries to change, going on a full seven days now. It’s tearing his body apart... I’m afraid he doesn’t have much time.”

  Theroun heard the scrape of Khorel Jornath’s chair as the man rose, then a massive sigh like wind through a cavern. “You did well, Brother Kiiar. His First Rite of Proving has passed. Indeed, it pass
ed the first time he faced me in single combat. I did but wish to know his stamina, and now we have all seen it. Leave us, please. General Theroun and I have much to discuss.”

  Khorel Jornath’s smooth baritone would not be gainsaid, and Theroun heard the soft step of Brother Kiiar departing, the doors booming shut. A massive presence approached, limned in quicksilver within Theroun’s mind. Khorel Jornath came to one knee beside Theroun, and Theroun felt as much as saw an enormous hand laid gently to his brow. The big man placed his other hand beneath Theroun’s neck, cradling his head. Suddenly, thousands of silver threads blossomed out from Jornath’s mind-persona, weaving an enormous net of quicksilver around Theroun’s body. Like water pouring through a funnel, they slipped into Theroun from the presence of Jornath’s hands, sinking that tremendous net into Theroun’s flesh – around the massive oilslick darkness that had woken inside Theroun.

  “Be still.” Jornath’s command was so strong, it thickened the air in the room. Theroun’s breaths were harder to claim, his body heavy, his limbs dense. He sank into the stone floor as the net thickened though his body like a quicksilver flow. Enveloping whatever it was that tore Theroun apart, the net settled around every aspect of the darkness – and then cinched it all up like catching rats in a bag.

  The pain snuffed out. Theroun spasmed with a cry of relief. His next breaths came in grateful gasps. His body felt lighter and he was able to open his eyes. Khorel Jornath stared down from above, a mixture of emotions upon his face. Respect and awe shone in those dark grey eyes, mixed with concern, sorrow – even a wry twist of humor upon that full mouth.

  “Can you stand?” Jornath eased his hands away from Theroun’s skull.

  Theroun lifted an eyebrow. Inside, he felt the darkness writhe, but it was trussed up neatly in the quicksilver net, and did little harm but for a fleeting grip in Theroun’s guts.

  “Some trick of yours.” Theroun commented wryly, pushing up to a seat.

  “Indeed.” Jornath’s smile was mysterious as he rose and turned away.

  Holding his ribs at his old wound, Theroun pushed to standing. When he felt no more than a casual roll of pain, he glanced to Jornath, intrigued. Khorel Jornath had resumed his seat at the table, picking up eating where he’d left off. He took a sip of blood red wine from an agate chalice, with impeccable manners. Jornath did not slop his food, nor drink while chewing, and did not spill even a crumb of crusty bread as he spread butter upon it. Of a gigantic size, the man had hands like a mason, but Theroun watched the sensitivity of those hands as the man ate, rather like an accomplished duelist than a laborer.

  Khorel Jornath looked up as if he could feel Theroun’s thoughts, his dark gaze level. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then turned in his chair, regarding Theroun with one hand skimming the rim of his chalice. Khorel Jornath wore three rings of silver, Theroun saw. One a scorpion with a sapphire in its pincers, one a dragon with a ruby in its jaws. And the third bore a simple onyx pyramid, etched in tiny runes and set at the apex with a cap of dusky white star-metal.

  “What did you do to me just now?” Theroun barked casually. He clasped his hands behind his back in a military at-ease, ready to engage his enemy even though his body still felt weak, trembling with hunger and lightheaded with thirst.

  “I did what needed be done. The tundra-witch’s little stunt, awakening your latent wyrria with brute force, would have torn you apart.” Khorel Jornath’s accented baritone echoed through the vaulted space. “So I arrested your wyrria. For a time.”

  “And yet, your Brethren seem impressed that I managed to last seven days.”

  “You are formidable, General.” Jornath gave a soft smile, containing little of his domineering persona, all things considered. “With a bit of training, you might become one of our best. A Sage, perhaps. Even a High Master.”

  “Recruiting me into your Order?”

  “We’ll see.” Jornath said it without any intrigue; it was simply a statement, as if the man actually was thinking about recruiting Theroun into the Kreth-Hakir. Those simple words shook Theroun more than anything else the man could have said. Jornath beckoned, indicating a chair to his right. “Come, sit. Eat. Before you fall over.”

  Theroun saw a plate and chalice before the chair, with ample food upon the table. It was a negotiation tactic, but his stomach gurgled, ravenous, his limbs trembling from too many days without sustenance. Theroun moved forward at a brisk clip, hauled out the chair and sat decisively, without removing his eyes from Jornath. The leader of the Kreth-Hakir took up Theroun’s plate and served him a sizable portion of roast guinea-fowl, a vine of grapes and a portion of wine-roasted pears. Pickled beet chutney went over the fowl before he set it in front of Theroun. Pouring a long measure of red wine from a ceramic pitcher, Jornath removed his rings before tasting it, then set it near Theroun’s hand in an oddly Cennetian gesture of peacemaking.

  “Please.” Jornath spoke with a genial smile. “You have my word that nothing is tainted.”

  “Your word?” Theroun growled. “Does the word of Kreth-Hakir stand for much?”

  All smile dropped from Jornath’s eyes. “The word of a Kreth-Hakir is his everything.”

  Something about the way it was said pulled Theroun up short. He believed the man. What’s more, he felt no mucking about in his brain other than the silver weave Jornath had created earlier, which was quiet.

  “You let General Merra and her contingent go,” Theroun spoke, intrigued. “Why?”

  “Because I gave you my word.” Jornath’s eyes were level, their intensity a match to Theroun’s. “If you could best me in single combat, she and her fighters would be preserved. And they were.”

  “Yet I ended up with a boot in my face, cast into chains,” Theroun gave a hard-humor smile. “Do you count that a win from our duel?”

  “I do.” Jornath’s gaze searched Theroun’s. “Thrice you and I have faced each other. And thrice, you managed to surprise me – once very nearly fatal to me, once nearly fatal to everyone in your vicinity. You do not know what you are, do you, Black Viper?”

  “I am what I have trained to be,” Theroun spoke. “A General of war. Nothing more.”

  “And yet, you are so much more.” Jornath nodded to Theroun’s plate. “You see yourself as a meal of but a single crumb. I see you as a meal of endless bounty.”

  “Not a very good metaphor.”

  “Quite the opposite,” Jornath reached out and took a sip of his wine. “A very good metaphor, I’m afraid. For you see, we are all a meal, to our Beast.”

  “Beast?” Theroun shifted. Something about that word made the disturbance within Theroun roil as if restless. His guts gripped in a brief spasm, and he felt it flicker through his face before he controlled his visage.

  Jornath leaned in, searching Theroun’s eyes. “Long ago, when the first ancients walked this land, wyrria was called the Beast. An immense power that once raged wild in the very earth itself, and everything upon it. Due to a restriction a thousand years ago, few men feel the strange call of their wyrria these days. Fewer still, hold it latent, slumbering in their body but never awakened, though sometimes used on instinct. Very few indeed, survive the sudden waking of a powerful wyrria late in life – but you did. Your natural wyrria, once latent but now awoken because of what that tundra-witch did, has been raging for seven whole days. Lesser men would have died in the first minute of such torment, especially with a wyrria as vast as yours. I let you suffer its wrath not because I was curious how long you would last, but because the First Rite of Proving among our Order requires it. For the practitioner to be left alone to manage his wyrria or die after it has been awakened, for the duration of three days.”

  “You put me through some ungodly Kreth-Hakir rite of passage?” Theroun crossed his arms.

  “Our first level of testing, yes.” Jornath gave a quiet laugh. “To those who are suddenly awakened to a latent wyrria, we give this test. Those who are born with their wyrria awake receive other challenges to gai
n the Path of Initiate. I did not start you on our Path, Theroun. The tundra-witch knew nothing of what she was doing, and yet, she was successful at giving you a Kreth-Hakir Initiation all the same. For which, I must give her credit.”

  “Adelaine withstood nine of your Brethren for three weeks,” Theroun snarled, “and kept our Queen and King from your clutches. Perhaps she deserves more credit than you think.”

  Jornath sat back, his gaze veiled. He swirled his wine goblet in one hand with his fingers upon the rim. “You care for the woman?”

  “Not at all,” Theroun returned. “She’s a bitch. But she’s a powerful bitch, and that I can respect.”

  “As can I,” Jornath responded. “But the tenets of my faith cannot suffer an Outsider with such talents as ours to live. She will be killed, General. And before she is, I will focus my Brethren and break her for the information I need.”

  “No less would I expect.” Theroun took a sip of his wine.

  “You’re not going to bargain for her life?”

  “I am your captive. What position am I in to bargain with?” Theroun retorted. “Your silver net is already in my body. I’m sure you can do whatever you want with it, including killing me.”

  Jornath waved one hand dismissively. “The net will merely contain your wyrria. For a time. It will fail eventually, and I hope to have you ready before it does.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Ready for the pain to return. Ready to make a choice as to what you want to do with your wyrric blessing.” Jornath set his goblet down. Theroun hated that the man watched him so carefully, for he saw Jornath note the quail of fear that flashed through Theroun before he squelched it.

  “Everyone fears their Beast,” Jornath murmured, as if consoling. “People do not fear how small and wretched they can be. Only how tremendous they can become.”

  “Platitudes?”

  “Fact.” Jornath swirled his wine, eyeing Theroun. “What would you be, General? If you could not only take the name Black Viper, but if you could be that? What if it is not merely a title, but an energy that lives within you – an energy of true purpose? Something that breathes, that writhes with wyrria, trying to escape from your very flesh and sinew? What if it could be awoken, trained, harnessed to your conscious will? What then?”