Trying to smother the worries that consumed him, Elohl moved forward to refill his wine goblet from a bottle of burgundy Valenghian Champelion that tasted of cherries and chocolate. It eased his mind and let his soul breathe to drink a bit; pushing back images of bodies spilling blood as he cut them down and the feel of his Goldenmarks pouring through disarmed men.
Leaning against the carven agate-stone wall by one massive fireplace, he watched the roaring blaze as the light beyond the gabled windows darkened toward evening. Dressed and picking through meats from a silver platter upon a side-table, Fenton looked up, then seized the platter and approached. Saluting with his wine goblet, he motioned with the platter.
“Have you eaten?”
“Just wine.”
Fenton cocked an eyebrow, a small smile upon his lips. “You’ll be worthless after all that fighting if you don’t eat. Someone must have told you that up in the High Brigade.”
“It was probably Ihbram.” Elohl gave a slight smile back as his fingers took a chunk of roast beef from the proffered platter. He chewed slowly, though the flavors tasted like ashes right now.
Setting the platter down on a side-table nearby, Fenton leaned back against the wall, regarding Elohl with a level look. “How are you?”
“Drained.” Elohl was honest. He didn’t feel the need to hide anything from Fenton as he reached for more roast beef. “Whatever happened in there with the Marks, it took a lot out of me.”
“No shit.” Fenton’s gaze was frank. “We need to talk, Elohl. I felt myself pulling power from you, from the Goldenmarks. You must know, that wasn’t my intent—”
“I know.” Elohl’s words were soft as he settled against the wall at Fenton’s side. “You don’t have to apologize. The Marks... I believe they did what they were engineered to do. This goes deeper than us, Fenton. The Marks didn’t just feed power into you, they used the power of everyone in that room whom I held dear. Ate it. Combining all of it together to cause something greater...”
“You could have controlled us.” Fenton’s voice was hushed. “I felt it, in that moment before you relaxed. You could have shot the power of the Goldenmarks through us all like you did the Vhinesse, taking us, binding us. Why didn’t you?”
Elohl paused. Rubbing his fingers together upon the piece of meat he held, he stared at it. “Because then men are no better than slaves, Fenton. No one should ever be a slave. Not to any king, not to any throne, and not to me.”
Fenton let out a slow breath. Elohl glanced up. The Scion of Khehem wore a complex look, but something in it was pleased. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
“Were you afraid I’d choose differently?” Elohl ate his meat, chewing slowly.
“Perhaps.” Fenton went for some cheese and grapes, popping them into his mouth. “Not all men would allow power like that to slip by their control.”
“Not all men have lived a life like I have.”
The words dropped from Elohl’s lips like stones. He hadn’t meant for them to sound so cold, but there it was. He’d hated his life in the High Brigade, pressed into military service like a common thug. And yet, honor had made him try his best, despite everything it had cost him.
“Perhaps you’re the perfect person to wear those marks,” Fenton mused, watching him. “I keep wondering why you were marked by Brother King Hahled Ferrian. It goes deeper than having twinned Alrashemni and Khehemni blood, Elohl. Plenty of babies have been born over the past thousand years with twinned bloodlines. But not many of them understood sacrifice. What it means to have your liberty taken from you, how that feels. A cautionary tale that you hold in your heart at all times.”
Elohl looked up from the tray and met Fenton’s gaze. “No man should ever be a slave.”
“Nor will they be,” Fenton lifted his goblet in a small salute, “not with you carrying those marks. But we have bigger problems to discuss at this meeting than the succession of the Vhinesse and how to stop the Menderian-Valenghian war. I fear we may be up all night, with the things I have to speak about.”
“Lhaurent den’Alrahel.” Elohl took a sip of his wine, his eyes dark in the fire’s light. His voice was a low growl as he set his goblet down upon the gilded table with subtle force. “I can’t hardly imagine a man such as that holding the Goldenmarks.”
“It’s worse than that.” Fenton simmered also, a subtle prickling around his persona. Fenton took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest as if trying to keep his cool. “Lhaurent was given the Goldenmarks, just as you were, over forty years ago. And he’s built everything he’s created, every diabolical piece of it, over the past decades because he believes in those Marks. In his right to rule because of them. He knows the Rennkavi’s Prophecy, because someone from my bloodline told him. Told him he was the Unifier. Gave him talismans from Leith, important talismans, that never should have been turned over to someone so black of heart. Lhaurent has his tremendous influence now because one of my line betrayed me. And gave a tyrant what he needed to rule, both in arcane objects and in ideology.”
Elohl stood, stunned. His mind poured through thoughts yet was blank with shock. Fenton took up his goblet and drank deep, his gaze shifted to the fire. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I had to see what you were capable of first. What you would choose with those Marks. Lhaurent has chosen to do terrible things. I was fearful you might do the same.”
“How could you think I would ever choose the same as that madman?” Elohl bristled.
“When we first met, I felt darkness inside you.” Fenton’s words were soft but his gaze was hard. “Olea was as upright as anyone I’d ever met. But you were an enigma. I’d heard from Ihbram how you’d tried to kill yourself – numerous times – in the High Brigade. I know conflict in a soul. Like blood on the tongue, I can taste it when I meet someone. You have it, in spades. But you also have something that Lhaurent never did.”
“And what’s that?” Elohl was still bristling, offended at Fenton’s judgement.
“Love.” Fenton gave a wry smile. “Lhaurent’s never loved an Aeon-damned thing in his life. I don’t even know if he can love. That man is a cold, murderous motherfucker, with a mind more twisted than the coils of an eel in the darkest sea. But you’re not. You’re a good man, Elohl. I felt your love today in that throne hall. We all did. Believe me, it’s a feeling I’ll never forget. Not even if I live a thousand years more than I already have.”
Elohl’s affront left him. He thought of Ghrenna, and as if summoned, her cerulean eyes returned to him. “It wasn’t just my love you felt.”
“No. It wasn’t.” Reaching out, Fenton gripped his shoulder. “Your love, what you wrought in that moment... it pulled up love in all of us. In that moment, Elohl, I felt every love I’d ever had. I saw them all. From the face of my first wife Levennia del’Mira to the chubby little fingers of the last grandson I saw birthed—” Fenton trailed off, his eyes lost before he took a deep breath, then smiled. “That’s what you woke in us today, Elohl. The only thing that can unite men. Pure love, and the deep inner peace that comes with it. You are the true Rennkavi. Lhaurent is false. I need to speak about that tonight, and I hope you’ll stand with me.”
“Do you have any doubt that I would stand with you? After everything we’ve been through?”
“I’ve kept a lot from you.” Fenton shrugged, an amused smile playing about his lips. “Some men would be sore about that. You were, as I recall, not so very many days ago.”
“I could continue to be angry at you,” Elohl gave a wry smile back, “but where would that leave us? It solves nothing. Not for our nation, not for Queen Elyasin or King Therel. If there’s anything I’ve learned lately, it’s what my sister already knew: keep Fenton den’Kharel close, whomever he might truly be. I’ll want to know your secrets, eventually. All of them. But I’ve realized in the past few days that I don’t doubt you, Fenton. I don’t doubt your heart, nor what I feel when the Goldenmarks bind us together.”
“Maybe you should,” Fenton’s gaze was dark by the fire’s twisting light. “I’m not what I seem, Elohl. Maybe you should have a little caution around me.”
“Maybe I should make that decision for myself,” Elohl countered, “and not take the self-flagellating words of a guilt-ridden old wyrric for my guidepost.”
Fenton’s face opened in shock. He gaped at Elohl, lips asunder, hands unwinding from his chest. He set one hand to his belt, but not like he was angry or going to draw a knife. At last, an enormous smile split his face. “You fucking runt. Guilt-ridden old wyrric my ass.”
Elohl shrugged, but his small smile betrayed him. Reaching out, he clasped the Scion of Khehem by the shoulder, feeling something resonate between the both of them. “You’re constantly trying to atone, Fenton. Don’t think I don’t see it. I might not know the half of everything you’ve done in your life that you feel guilty for, but I’m not ignorant. I—”
“Gather!”
Their conversation was cut short by a brisk double-clap from Delennia Oblitenne, the handsome silver-haired woman from the throne hall, regal as a battle-empress in her clean Red Valor attire. Fenton gave Elohl a shrug and pushed from the wall, taking up his goblet and tossing more cheese into his mouth. Elohl followed, joining him as everyone gathered around the immense fireplace in Merkhenos’ quarters. Chaises and settees had been placed in a circle, with the hearth left as a speaking-place. Fenton took a seat on a gilded chaise and Elohl claimed the space beside him. Dherran and his woman Khenria took a couch to Elohl’s left with the aging lord Grunnach den’Lhis, Dherran giving Elohl a nod as he settled.
Elohl smiled back. It felt good to see Dherran again. As if something deep inside Elohl needed that passionate, driven spark Dherran held. As their gazes connected, Elohl felt a strange heat flow between them again, an echo of what had happened in the throne hall. Elohl suddenly thought of that mirage he’d seen surround Dherran when Khenria had been stabbed. Elohl’s brows knit, noting that neither Dherran nor Khenria seemed to be injured any longer. But the council was starting, and he had no more time to think on it as Delennia Oblitenne stood before the hearth, hands upraised.
“Comrades,” she began, her formidable pale blue gaze piercing each of them, “we are gathered tonight to determine the fate of a nation, and perhaps more than one. My sister, the Tyrant of Valenghia, has been deposed. By means and magic that none here in this room nor in any land could have foreseen. It will cause chaos and much suspicion among the populace, and we are here tonight to devise a strategy to minimize that chaos. I will not have any nation burn as a result of what has happened today. Not my own, and certainly not any of yours. So. I turn the discussion over to the High General of Valenghia, Merkhenos del’Ilio. Merkhenos, if you would.”
With a graceful motion, Delennia gestured to the High General. He rose with a brisk clip, taking the center of the hearth. Staring at each of them in turn, he barked a single word, “Battle.”
Some of the company shifted. Others sat easy, sipping their wine, most notably Fenton and Delennia. The wiry lord Grunnach den’Lhis sat erect and attentive, Dherran and Khenria the same beside him.
“That is what will surely happen,” Merkhenos continued in his rolling accent, “if we do not organize. Lhaurent den’Alrahel has weaknesses, but information is not one of them. Even as we speak, he may be receiving word that a coup has happened here. How, you ask? Because it is the observance of those I employ in my intelligence, that Lhaurent den’Alrahel has a peculiar ability to make Alranstones do his bidding. As such, he controls many inside and outside of Alrou-Mendera. There is one such Stone deep in the bowels of this palace. Which I have personally seen the late Vhinesse moving through – having had council at length with Lhaurent inside Roushenn Palace.”
“How did you come by such information?” Fenton spoke, as easy interrupting a High General as he was sipping his Champelion.
“Please speak frankly, Merkhenos,” Delennia added, a knowing look in her pale gaze as she set her wine goblet to a gilded side-table. “My sister’s reign was tyranny. I intend to value openness and cooperation. But we cannot have that trust among this budding alliance of nations if we are all second-guessing each other. Please, state your alliances and how you know such detailed information about Aelennia’s movements.”
Merkhenos eyeballed Fenton, his copper gaze steady, before he gave a nod to Delennia. “My Living Vine. I was once upon Aelennia’s palladian chain. And if our late Vine had a weakness, it was trusting that her kept men were completely brainwashed. As a Son of Illium, I have my ways against such mind-games. Cennetia, as you all know, is a nation of constantly shifting allegiances. But one faction, the Khehemni Lothren, has maintained an underlying stability there for centuries. After Aelennia hammered our nation and threatened to raze it to ashes a few decades ago, my Cennetian Lothren offered me up to be a Generalisso in Aelennia’s army, as part of a peace pact. She soon became enamored of my talents, and through her poisonous persona, insisted to my Lothren that I become her falcon, just a few years ago. During that time, I learned a great deal about Aelennia’s private meetings with Lhaurent, including the balancing act they engineered upon the Aphellian Way and the borderlands to keep the Menderian-Valenghian War stymied these past ten years – plans Aelennia thought she could one day usurp. Because of their hidden agreements, it is likely that Lhaurent has spies throughout this palace, and that they’ve already traveled through the Alranstone, giving Lhaurent news of today’s events. I sent a cadre of men down to guard the Stone as soon as the battle ended, but I fear it may have been too late.”
“How does that change the war?” Dherran spoke up, a thoughtful frown pinching his brows.
“Lhaurent will make a push, and soon,” Merkhenos continued. “I have it on good authority that he already gathers a supplemental force of fighters at the Port of Ligenia, to augment his main forces at the Aphellian Way. He was already planning to break his agreement with the Vhinesse and drive hard into Valenghia’s interior. Hearing of her disposal, he will move, and quickly. Before he thinks we can form a united force.”
“Lhaurent has split his border-regiments,” the wiry lord Grunnach spoke now, his fingers perusing his chin thoughtfully. “He sends forces through from Quelsis to overtake an uprising in the interior – the Alrashemni-aligned Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir in Vennet. They marched some three weeks past, likely having sieged Vennet already. A contingent of Bog-men under the direction of Vicoute Purloch den’Crassis have gone to their aid. ”
Delennia shifted as she turned to Grunnach, her face flushed and scowling as she drank from her wine. Elohl was acutely uncomfortable, feeling the woman’s wyrric power stalking around his body. “How many soldiers did Lhaurent send to deal with Vennet from the northern border?”
“Some five thousand, though they have likely sent in reinforcements from the Stone Valley Guard by now,” Grunnach answered promptly. “I’d say they have eight thousand, probably. Plus at least three Kreth-Hakir, most likely more.”
“I can gather half that in Red Valor Longriders stationed in Velkennish and the northern borderlands. We could be at Vennet in a week’s time, if we push hard through the Stone Valley near Quelsis.” Delennia spoke confidently, but her hands were tense where they gripped her wine goblet. In her strained visage, Elohl read all he needed to know – she cared for this Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir, deeply. Even if she was too proud to admit it, it showed in every line of her worried frown.
“Don’t count on having an advantage,” Fenton spoke quietly. “Lhaurent has the Kreth-Hakir Brethren on his side. One High Priest can control a hundred fighters. Add five Brethren together, and they can influence an entire battalion.”
“When Kreth-Hakir join together,” the wiry lord Grunnach chimed in with a glance at Fenton, “they create a synergy that ensnares minds by the hundreds or more. Most men are powerless against it, unless they’ve studied techniques to shield themselves.”
“And Lhaurent has their all
iance because someone else would not step in to lead them when he had the chance.” Merkhenos’ gaze was piercing upon Fenton.
Fenton sighed as he ran a hand through his thick gold-brown hair and riffled it. “I admit, it is my fault. Had I taken command of them eight hundred years ago, they would have gone where I bid. Now they run amok, choosing to serve tyrants who cause atrocity.”
Everyone stared at Fenton in shock, except Merkhenos and Elohl. Fenton took his revelation in stride, gazing around the room with his posture easy as he lounged upon the couch. With a careful movement, he set his goblet aside upon a table, then rose to face the assembly. Though he did not change his demeanor or betray any emotion, power suddenly breathed out from him like the roll and bite of fire ants surging across Elohl’s skin. All sat at attention, even though those present had already seen Fenton in action. Holding all gazes, red-gold fire began to writhe in Fenton’s eyes, complementing the flames from the hearth.
“Gathered friends and allies. What you are about to hear does not leave this room.”
Briefly, Fenton began his tale: of being Fentleith Alodwine the grandson of Leith Alodwine, Last King of Khehem. Of how that related to the Kreth-Hakir Brethren, the Leithren – now Lothren – and the Red-Eyed Demon. And of Leith’s terrible restriction of the fountainheads of wyrria all over the globe, and the creation of the Rennkavi.
“I believe, as did my mother the Prophetess,” Fenton murmured to the silent room, “that my grandfather was mad, using the tale of the Demon as an excuse to rule the known world. But the one blessing we have is that his legacy, the Rennkavi, lives.” Gesturing to Elohl, he continued. “Once designed as a tool for Leith’s use, it is now a free power. Because of the Goldenmarks, Elohl has the ability to unite all our nations and bring our continent to peace. Each one of you felt it in the throne hall today. Imagine that in battle, my friends – and know hope.”
Goldenmark Page 42