Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Reaching out, Theroun snagged a Kreth-Hakir Brother he didn’t recognize by the arm, a sword-honed Cennetian man with short-shorn copper hair and beard, alchemical sigils tattooed up the sides of his neck. “What is all this? Where is Jornath?”

  He felt a tendril of silver reach out to his mind. The oilslick-black venom of Theroun’s wyrria slapped it back and the Brother winced, then spoke aloud. “Scion. The High Priest has gone to the Alranstone under the palace.”

  “He’s gone into the tunnels?!” Theroun bristled, raging at having been so deceived.

  “No, Scion,” the Hakir Brother corrected mildly. “The white witch died with the information Brother Jornath needed locked inside her mind. He’s been trying for three days to open the tunnels, without effect. He sent word to Rennkavi Lhaurent den’Alrahel this morning that pursuit of the King and Queen is futile. So Lhaurent has opened the Alranstone beneath Fhekran Palace. He bids us move the army with all haste to the Port of Ligenia to make ready for an assault upon the Aphellian Way against Valenghia. Excuse me, Scion. We all have much to do. If you seek Brother Jornath, you may find him near the Alranstone, orchestrating transport.”

  Theroun blinked. So Khorel had kept his word. And with Theroun’s wyrria slamming back the other Brethren from his mind, the secret of their deal would remain. “I’ve been asleep three days?”

  The Brother gave a frown, his green eyes penetrating. “Most sleep a full week when their Beast is finally tamed. Did Brother Jornath not instruct you in this?”

  “Brother Jornath has not instructed me in much,” Theroun snapped back.

  “Did you not find the raiment we left?” The man inspected Theroun’s filthy Elsthemi gear with a critical and somewhat disdainful eye.

  “Oh, I found them.”

  Theroun shouldered past the Cennetian Kreth-Hakir Brother and out the doors. Jogging down the white stone steps to the avenue, his gaze took in the ruined city of Lhen Fhekran under the high autumn sunshine. Everything was on the move. Menderian soldiers and Elsthemi captives alike were busy transporting goods in wains, carts, and over their shoulders. Every beast that had survived the fires was being herded toward the ruins of the palace, a steady stream of livestock and horses rounding the palisade and moving toward the towering heap of black rubble that had once been Fhekran Palace.

  Theroun picked up his feet, ignoring stares from both the Menderian army and the Elsthemi. He didn’t have time to explain himself, and wasn’t about to try. With a ground-eating stride, he marched toward the palisade, darting around men and horses upon a broad path that had been cleared in the debris. It angled down, deep into what had once been the hot-pools of the palace.

  Theroun rounded a wall of blackened char and was greeted by the sight of a massive Alranstone of pure crystal standing tall and undamaged near a recessed alcove set with a rose-crystal door. Positively covered in runes and script of precious ores, both the crystal door and the Alranstone were pristine, untouched by the fire’s ruination though all the stone walls bordering the once-underground space were cracked and blackened from the immense heat of the palace’s burning. The pools that surrounded the Alranstone were filthy with ash slurry, though Theroun could see a few had already flushed themselves clean from the natural springs that welled up beneath the palace. Flowing away to the northwest in a meandering stream, the drainage found its way out of the palace’s ruin by a newly-formed channel to the Fhekran River beyond.

  Nature would take its course once they had gone, and this place would become a curiosity like so many other places sundered in war, Theroun mused. But right now, it was a staging-area for a massive operation of men and animals, barrels and crates. Khorel Jornath stood next to the Alranstone, directing traffic with his hands and smooth silver floes from his mind. As Theroun watched, Jornath beckoned for a group of ten Elsthemi to lead thirty blindfolded horses up to the Stone. The men joined hands and shared a look, but the man on the end gazed up at the Stone as if superstitious as his hand hovered over its smooth crystal surface. Theroun practically heard the silver command Jornath whipped at the man’s mind to get him over his fear and proceed. The Elsthemi warrior set his palm to the Stone and a thunderclap filled the ruin, accompanied by a sucking of wind that made Theroun’s ears pop – and then both men and horse were gone.

  Theroun scowled. King Therel had said this Alranstone hadn’t ever been active, not in living memory. Theroun wondered again how in blazes Lhaurent was able to wake and command Alranstones, surmising that this was how the eel traveled so quickly and in such secrecy from place to place. A hundred paces away, Khorel Jornath glanced to Theroun as if he’d heard Theroun’s thoughts. Even from a distance, Theroun felt the man’s gaze hit him like a quicksilver wall. Theroun staggered with a grunt and Jornath smiled, as Jornath’s words broke through his mind, bright as the fucking morning.

  That was a reprimand, Scion, for insubordinate willfulness. You were given a gift of our garb and were intended to take it. To wear the raiment of the Kreth-Hakir Order on this, your first day among us. You have insulted me, and your Brethren, by not joining us in this.

  I’ll not wear your colors. Ever. Theroun knifed it back, almost seeing an iridescent black tendril shoot out from his mind and cross the distance in a flash, striking at Jornath. But the vehemence of his will-sending hit a silver river, flowing away into nothing. Jornath smiled, and it was not kind. I know a thousand ways to dissipate a mind-attack, Scion. You do not. You are bound to my blood now, and with that bond comes certain privileges, for both of us. I will not be so easy for you to block anymore, nor to attack. Would you like me to force you to make obeisance? Or will you obey my requests?

  Theroun ground his jaw. Bristling, he opened his mouth to speak, but Jornath’s silver line slipped into his mind, wrapping deep into his old injury. I can make you writhe, Theroun. Or we can be civil until it is time for your proper lessons. The choice is yours.

  Theroun pulled his rage back. He could feel the promise of Jornath’s words, already starting a hot lance of pain in his side. After days of suffering, it was the last thing he currently wanted.

  I suppose I can maintain civility. Theroun thought back, though he still said it with a growl.

  Master. Jornath’s gaze was penetrating, even from a hundred paces.

  Excuse me? Theroun bit back, hackles rising.

  Master. Jornath’s smile was exquisitely subtle and thrice as dominant. You will call me Master, and I will call you Scion. And that is how it will be between us. Do you understand?

  A growl bubbled out from Theroun’s mouth. Livid anger seethed through him, trembling his body. But before he could do anything, silver threads struck out from Khorel Jornath’s mind again, wrapping into Theroun. Wrapping into his knees, his feet, his ankles. Suddenly, Theroun’s body weighed two hundred stone. He sank to his knees in the sludge and char, fighting and losing. The weight of his head tripled, his neck bending in penitence. Simmering with rage, Theroun and the wyrria inside him both roared. But even his vocal cords weighed ten times what they should, and would not permit any sound. From the outside, Theroun simply looked like a man who had fallen to his knees for a moment of prayer. But from the inside, he felt his blood boil, fighting his captor’s will with everything he had.

  Khorel Jornath’s rolling baritone laughed inside his mind. Theroun was allowed to lift his head, and as he gazed across the bustle, he saw the man was actually laughing where he stood near the Alranstone. Waving another group forward, Elsthemi soldiers carrying crates of chickens, Jornath directed them to assemble.

  I could leave you there all day, Jornath chuckled.

  Do that, and royally piss me off, Theroun bit back.

  Jornath’s gaze sobered. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and it was not kind. Stay, Scion. Remember today who I am to you, and you to me. Remember that your blood is no longer your own, nor your body, and certainly not your mind. We are one now, and even though you can fight the other Brethren off with your viperous will, y
ou are one with them as well. Remain in a posture of humility today, and I shall summon you at sundown for your lessons.

  Khorel Jornath turned away.

  And left Theroun in the slurry on his knees, stepped around by a group of soldiers leading goats.

  CHAPTER 27 – ELESHEN

  Two days after the keshari forces arrived, Eleshen stood at the pockmarked ironwood table in the Upper Gallery of the fortress at Gerrov-Tel, thinking. Arms crossed, her long fingers fiddled with the end of her black braid where it cascaded over her shoulder, a frown knitting her brows. Discussion had gone on for hours, and the grey day had eased into a subtle twilight. Bullfrogs chorused outside as the last of the light deepened, darkness now eating through the arrow-slits of the round gallery on the third floor of the fortress. Oil-lanterns had been lit and sat in niches in the walls, where ancient rubble of broken statues had been cleared the day before. Eleshen stood at the table, gazing at Lhaurent’s maps of the southeastern Menderian countryside, Ihbram, Khouren, Sebasos, General Merra and her Captains Rhone and Rhennon Uhlki ringing the table.

  General Merra spun a fly-blade upon the table as her ice-blue gaze flicked cunningly over the maps, then reached up to flick a few braids of her red-blonde mane out of her sightline. Eleshen regarded the fierce, battle-ready General in her battered Elsthemi leathers and shaggy grey wolf pelt. Her Captains, stout trees of brothers with shaved mohawks of bright blonde braids, stood at casual attention also, arms crossed as they examined the map.

  The brothers Rhone and Rhennon Uhlki weren’t identical, but had fashioned themselves that way. Elsthemi dragon tattoos curled down from the shaved sides of their scalps, their tattoos mirror images of each other as they arced down behind their pierced ears and disappeared under their shaggy brown-bear pelts. Cunning sky-blue eyes connected to Eleshen’s, as if they felt her watching. Each brother gave a smile; Rhone’s lecherous, Rhennon’s just reassuring. At her side, Eleshen felt the massive bulk of Brother Sebasos shift. Crossing his burly arms, Sebasos gave the brothers a look of hardened stoicism from beneath his heavy black brows. Their gazes shifted back to the map, though Rhone’s went with an even bigger grin for Eleshen and a wink.

  “All told,” Merra continued in the discussion, “we’ve got five hundred keshari riders and cats, just over three hundred defected Menderians from Theroun’s forces, and with your four hundred or so Kingsmen and Roushenn Guard, that brings us up to twelve hundred fighters. A goodly amount to bring to Arlen den’Selthir’s aid.”

  “Who stays behind to defend Gerrov-Tel?” Eleshen spoke up, cognizant of the promise she made Temlin: to protect both the Kingsmen and the Jenners. “If we mobilize all the fighting men and women to aid Arlen den’Selthir, we leave Gerrov-Tel unprotected. Temlin charged me with keeping the Kingsmen and the Jenners safe – I won’t have them all killed because of a single campaign.”

  “Sending our warriors down to Vennet may seem a foolhardy engagement, Eleshen,” turning to her, the rogue Ihbram den’Sennia spoke in his lilting baritone, his green gaze fierce, “but trust me when I say that Arlen den’Selthir is no weakling. He could have been King Uhlas’ top general, back in the day, but he chose not to be. It was more important to him to keep his position as leader of the Shemout Alrashemni, and that meant staying close to Vennet to ensure his contingency plan remained upheld. His emergency location has been cultivated in utter secrecy for over fifteen years, ever since war began to rumble on the Valenghian border. Arlen’s played the lord in Vennet all these years because he is, but trust me when I say the man has contingencies for his contingencies. Some of us may die in this engagement, but I’m certain Arlen’s planning will make certain those losses are minimal.”

  Eleshen fiddled with her braid, then turned to Sebasos. The massive brewer’s muscled arms were folded at his barrel chest. Clad in his Alrashemni garb, his grey-streaked black waves were curried back from his forehead, his Blackmark visible upon his chest just above his shirt-lacings. His black brows made a scowl, his normal thinking face.

  “What do you think, Sebasos?” Eleshen cocked her head.

  Sebasos shifted his stance. “Temlin and I did not know each other in the Shemout, though he and I were both commanders of our cells, and thus independently had contact with Arlen over the years. What normal people would call an emergency plan to Arlen is simply good prudence. I believe Ihbram. Arlen would be prepared to defend this contingency location of his through Halsos’ Burnwater and out the other side.”

  Eleshen was about to speak, when Ihbram suddenly chimed in again. With a twinkle of humor in his green eyes, he added, “If we make it to Arlen, he’ll keep us safe. His emergency location has natural fortifications. It’s a stronghold, a few hour’s march northwest of Vennet, in the Great Forest – a place called the Vault.”

  “The Vault?” Eleshen spoke. “Aren’t those the haunted ruins inside that old river-crevasse near Vennet? Fae-yarns speak of fortune-hunters that go there and disappear, and moaning spirits that drive men mad. Are you saying that’s Arlen’s stronghold?”

  “What better a place to fight from than haunted ruins?” Ihbram’s smile was eloquent. “Besides, Arlen’s Kingsmen know how to deal with such things. And the stone walls are damn hard to climb up, but there are enough ledges for cats to leap.” Ihbram nodded at General Merra, slipping into a sexy slouch with one hip against the table. Merra lifted her lips in a smile that was almost a snarl, ignoring his flirtation.

  “So say we ride to Arlen,” Eleshen took up the conversation again. “Who do we leave here?”

  Sebasos stroked his grey-streaked black beard with one hand, then sighed. “As much as I’d love to join the battle, my knees aren’t what they once were. I volunteer to remain behind with my Shemout cell to guard Gerrov-Tel – forty good fighters. This valley will be abominable with snow in a month or so. We just have to secure the fortress until winter. Lhaurent might risk sending a battalion up here in the snows, but he’d lose far too many men. And with the industriousness of the Jenners, we’ll have it well fortified by then.”

  “The snows up here are harsh,” Eleshen agreed. “You’d be safe until spring. The highway becomes impassable past Dhemman after Darkwinter.”

  “What about Elsthemen? In your absence?” Khouren spoke now, his melodious voice subdued as his gaze penetrated the High General. Something in his pale grey eyes was stronger than when Eleshen had first made his acquaintance. More human, somehow.

  “Elsthemen is held in my absence.” Merra spoke solidly, a fierce glimmer in her clear blue eyes. “Mikka Khuriye rounds up the Bhorlen Rangers on my orders. She’s rallied the mountain and tundra clans, in the Dhelvendale and Blackthorn ruins. They’ll hold everything north and west of the Themi Sea. Elsthemen will hold on, by tooth and claw. But we need the Kingsmen ta truly rout Lhaurent’s forces and regain our nation.”

  “Temlin left you in charge of this fortress,” Sebasos turned to Eleshen. “It’s your decision that matters in this. But what we cannot do is continue to deliberate. Every day we waste is another day Lhaurent can use his armies to crush what is left of the Kingsmen and the Elsthemi.”

  “Sometimes to protect life, you have to go out and fight for it,” Ihbram agreed in a soft voice. He and Sebasos shared a long look, Sebasos giving the man a nod.

  Arms crossed, Eleshen fingered the hilt of one longknife. Temlin had left her in charge of not only preserving Alrashemni treasures, but preserving the Alrashemni people. If she remained here, using the Kingsmen to protect scrolls and monks, she did Temlin a disservice. Eventually, Lhaurent would send an army – and if Arlen’s Kingsmen fell, there would be no one left to help Gerrov-Tel.

  Something clicked inside Eleshen. The attitude Elohl had once held, of doing what he had to, suddenly made sense. She was the tip of the spear now. She was the shield to save the Alrashemni Kingsmen from annihilation. And that meant taking them out to fight for what was theirs.

  Their nation, their freedom – and their very right to exist.


  Eleshen straightened. Her arms uncrossed as she set both hands to the hilts of her longknives. “Then we go. We live or fall together. The Alrashemni Shemout and Kingsmen failed to band together in the past, and they paid for it. Unity will be our strength. As Temlin den’Ildrian came out of the shadows to proclaim his strength as a leader for our nation, so will we come forward also – to be the heart of that nation. To fight, with passion and power, and bring all under the true light of the dawn at last.”

  “Stronger words than you know,” Khouren gazed at Eleshen, his eyes sorrowful, but also simmering with fervency.

  “And a stronger woman than you know, Khouren,” Ihbram cocked his head, peering at Eleshen curiously. “Who are you?”

  “I am still heir to the Dhepanship of Quelsis, as I was born.” Eleshen gave a wry smile. “But now I know a larger truth. I’m the one who has faith in the Alrashemni Kingsmen. I will still have faith in them, even to the last Kingsman standing.”

  “Or woman.” General Merra’s blue eyes shone with a hardy fierceness. “Ah’v a cat who’s recently lost a rider. Moonshadow needs a new lass. Do ye want a smooth fucker of a mount to go with that battle-sass, Wolf’s Child?”

  A ready smile lifted Eleshen’s lips. Something passed between her and General Merra, and it was fierce in a way that only women can be. “I love cats.”

  “Ha!” Merra’s laugh was throaty. Ambling around the table, she came to grip Eleshen’s shoulder. “We’d love ta have ye. Yer a bitch like me, an’ that’s a compliment. Then I can ride back ta my contingent? Tell them of battle and get them on the road?” This last was addressed directly to Eleshen, rather than any of the men present.

  “Indeed,” Eleshen answered before any of the men could speak. “We’ll make our forces ready to travel. Sebasos, will your fighters need anything to prepare the fortress before we set out?”