Goldenmark

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  The silver of his keshar-pendant shone in the gloaming, though it held no power now. The Brother Kings were gone, released from their Alranstones, and Elyasin and Therel’s magic had gone with it. But staring up into her King and husband’s grinning, regal face, Elyasin knew the truth. That they were better this way, just the two of them. Without dire, destructive wyrria racing through their veins – even though neither of them had lost the strange wyrric inkings of the Brother Kings. Gazing up into her beloved’s eyes, Elyasin felt a power all their own blossom into the night, as drums of celebration began to pound inside the palace. Staring down, a winsome delight lifted Therel’s face. His pale eyes were luminous as he beamed at her, reaching up to stroke her cheek.

  “What is this amazing look a wife gives her husband tonight?” He chuckled.

  “I love you,” Elyasin spoke plainly, holding her husband’s strong gaze.

  “I love you, too.” Therel bent his head, pressing the softest kiss upon her lips, lingering. A breath of wind eased around them, sealing their moment of bliss as they stood in the chill, inhaling the darkness and feeling love.

  “Sounds like the celebration’s beginning without us,” Therel spoke at last, lifting Elyasin’s fingers up to press them with a roguish kiss as his eyes glinted like a cocky raven. “Shall we make our way up and show them how to really start a party?”

  “Absolutely.” Elyasin broke into a wide smile.

  “Then after you, my sweetgrape.” With a flourishing bow and a swirl of his crimson cloak, Therel motioned her on. But Elyasin stepped in, hooking her arm through his with firm solidarity.

  “We go as one.”

  Therel’s eyes shone as he gazed down through the glittering night, then lowered his head to kiss her lips. “We go as one. Always.”

  CHAPTER 53 – ELOHL

  The rebuilt Throne Hall of Roushenn Palace was a place of magic tonight. Elohl glanced around, watching the Darkwinter celebrations rage all around him. Holly and cendarie boughs twined every column, the trestle-tables laden so full of food, ale, and telmenberry wine that they dipped in the middle. White globes swirled into every vault, brightening crystal chandeliers newly installed from Roushenn’s catacombs. The palace sparkled with life and revelry, packed with attendees from seven nations and more, all dressed in their finest. Elohl himself was clad in an exquisite midnight blue silk jerkin. Embroidered with golden thread in the pattern of his Goldenmarks, it was a gift from Elyasin, along with the new set of Kingsmen longknives in his black boots, and the sword he’d left in his rooms.

  For this, the first night of their peace treaty and new Unification year.

  But Elohl felt only emptiness as Elsthemi war-drums pounded through the hall, a rousing chorus of fifes and hand-clapping accompanying a raucous partner dance. Servants rushed about, making sure every goblet was filled, and Elohl’s telmen wine was barely half-drained when a young woman refilled it with a wink and a smile. He gave her a nod. She sensed his mood and moved off, continuing to libate the festivities. Trestle-tables ringed the hall, but most everyone mingled through the space with their plates and drink, the Throne Hall newly adorned with chaises and high-backed chairs in extra dining clusters, plus indoor greenery that the gaily-adorned royals moved through like fish in a calm eddy.

  Elohl had eaten little. He’d picked at his roast pheasant and plum chutney, his tastebuds dull. After a few bites he’d abandoned it, and now had no idea where his plate had ended up. Idling near a column with only his drink, the spicy scent of evergreen boughs was the only thing that came even close to soothing him. He sipped from a golden chalice, his eyes tracing the boughs that wound the tall bluestone columns like a living forest – faces of deer and nymphs staring out at him, newly carven by Fenton’s wyrric arts and the diligent Jenner monks.

  The shadows were the only place Elohl felt at ease. His sensate sphere had heightened since the opening of the world to wyrria. Every clap of hands and thunder of drums set his teeth on edge, his hearing almost painfully acute. The light-globes that swirled above were searing to his eyes, his wine too sweet upon his tongue. Elohl took another sip, trying to restrain himself from bolting back to the forest near the Elsee that he’d been haunting for the past two months.

  “Nice place to hide. Couldn’t have picked a better spot myself.”

  Fenton’s calm baritone was the only thing soothing to Elohl’s ears in all the cacophony. Elohl turned with relief to see the Scion of Khehem at his shoulder. Fenton was resplendent in a crimson jerkin with Wolf and Dragon tooling in gold. A pendant of dusky star-metal set with a ruby showed at his open collar, and the ruby ring of Leith Alodwine glittered upon his left index finger. He hailed Elohl with a lift of his gilded goblet, his eyes their regular gold-brown, though a tad reckless with drink. Fenton’s confrontational but humorous glance spoke volumes. He wasn’t going to berate Elohl for being absent from the world these past two months, but he also wasn’t going to let Elohl slip away without facing it, either.

  “I’m only here for the night.” Elohl sipped his wine.

  “You’re not here at all.”

  Fenton’s curt response wasn’t what Elohl expected, and made him turn. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not here.” Fenton gestured, indicating the festivities. A Valenghian game of horseshoe-slide had begun in a cleared space, and Jadounian war-whoops went up as the southrons began to handily win every slide against the silver-haired folk.

  “You’re not among us, Elohl,” Fenton continued, fixing Elohl in his keen gaze. “You’re somewhere else. Don’t think I can’t feel it. Everyone here is celebrating the Rennkavi’s Unity, except the Rennkavi himself.”

  “Not just me.” Elohl’s glance tracked to the one person he’d been watching all evening. Beautiful as a tundra night, Ghrenna’s pale perfection outshone even the loveliest women in the hall. Her hair was braided in an ornate weave, curled up in a bun at the side of her slim neck, long tendrils escaping. She shone like a pearl in a gown of cerulean silk the color of her eyes, decorated with sapphires along the high collar – a collar that covered the burn marks over her chest and the sides of her neck. Her cheeks were vivid, her lips the same as she sipped from a pewter goblet, watching the revelry from the shadowed greenery also.

  They were a pair, the Rennkavi and his Gerunthane.

  Except that they weren’t, not anymore.

  Ghrenna glanced over, as if she felt Elohl watching. Her dark blue eyes devoured him, and all sound dropped from Elohl’s ears. All motion dimmed as she became his world. But in that beautiful, sundering gaze, he saw only a lingering curiosity and sadness. Those blue eyes held a different woman than his beloved – someone he didn’t know.

  “She’s not the same, is she?” Fenton’s murmur stole into Elohl’s ears, reopening them.

  “She’s Morvein Vishke now,” Elohl spoke, cold. Ghrenna turned away, back to the throng. Lifting his goblet, Elohl took a deep swig, but didn’t feel any better. Something dark had opened up inside him, ever since the White Tower and everything that had happened there. Deep inside his innermost self, he’d always held onto Ghrenna’s love. But now that love had been severed, taken by the countless arguments and ways he’d tried in that first week to find Ghrenna within the woman who now occupied her body.

  And found that his beloved was well and truly gone.

  “She is Morvein.” Fenton spoke again, his words knifing Elohl’s heart and making yet another dark wound inside him. “I remember everything about her, Elohl. The way she moved, the way she spoke. The way she breathed and turned her head. Every way that Morvein was then, eight hundred years ago, Ghrenna is now. You’ll have to face it, eventually.”

  “I have faced it.” Elohl’s growl was harsh as he swigged his wine again. Turning to Fenton, a flare of anger whipped him – an echo of the vicious, devouring beast of wyrria that had partially transformed him atop the White Tower. “I know she’s not the same. What do you want from me?”

  Fenton’s mouth quirk
ed, though the humor didn’t touch the smolder of gold moving in his eyes. “Finally. Some other emotion than this self-suffering darkness you’ve been devoured by every damn time I see you.”

  “Fuck off.” Elohl didn’t want company. He swigged his wine, turning back to the hall.

  “Don’t be this way, Elohl.”

  “Leave me be.”

  “No.” Stepping in front of him, Fenton placed himself squarely in Elohl’s line of sight. “I don’t leave my family alone when they’re suffering. You and I both saw what happened to you atop the White Tower, when everything went bad against Lhaurent. I’ve convinced Thaddeus to keep his peace about it for now, but eventually, we’ll need to discuss what happened. You’ve changed, Elohl, don’t think I don’t see it. We—”

  But at that moment, a golden-maned Palace Guardsman in cobalt stepped up, a contingent of Twelve Tribes spearmen in desert-silk finery accompanying him. Aldris den’Farahan, now wearing the silver pins of Guard-Captain at his high collar, gave a bright laugh. Moving in, he embraced Fenton with a slap on the back.

  “Fenton! Finally!” Aldris spoke, grinning. “Been dodging ambassadors all night to get to your side, asshole. And wyrria! Fuck off, man, when did you get all that?”

  “Oh, I might have had it for a little while,” Fenton chuckled, gripping Aldris’ shoulder with a pleased smile, his intensity vanished as if it had never been.

  “Longer than a little while, so I hear.” Aldris gaze was keen suddenly, as if the lively persona was just a mask for a very shrewd mind glinting out from those emerald eyes. Aldris turned to Elohl next, his lively face dropping into seriousness. They had first met at the Queen’s coronation, when Aldris had helped Elohl masquerade as a Palace Guardsman, but Elohl knew Aldris was one of the men who had been there for Olea’s last moments. Elohl hadn’t wanted to speak to Aldris, but now it was upon him. Reaching into the breast pocket of his cobalt jerkin, Aldris produced a small box of woven red reeds. He held it out.

  “Elohl.” Aldris eyes had gone dead, full of pain. “She would have wanted you to have this.”

  Elohl’s throat closed. He didn’t want to take the box. Reaching out, he claimed it gently, opening it. Within lay a single curl of glossy blue-black hair, lovely as a dragonfly’s wing. Reaching in, he touched Olea’s curl with reverent fingers.

  “She was a warrior until the moment she died,” Aldris spoke, somber. “Olea brought hope to an entire nation against Lhaurent’s tyranny. Her death was not in vain.”

  “Thank you.” Elohl’s throat was tight. He couldn’t see, his world blurring.

  A tall spearman with brush-cut hair dressed in a white shawl with a red-woven border stepped forward next, setting hand to Elohl’s shoulder. His sorrowful grey eyes met Elohl’s, love radiating from his presence.

  “She will be missed,” the spear-captain spoke in a flowing accent. “Olea-gishii was the flower of our hope. She was the peace in our hearts.”

  Elohl could only nod, grief too keen inside him. Just then, trumpets gave a fanfare through the hall. Elohl tucked the reed-woven box away in his jerkin as the music died and the dancing halted. Heads craned, to see Queen Elyasin ascend the dais and take up a place before her throne. Clad in a vivid gown of gold and cobalt silk now rather than her leathers, she was escorted upon the arm of King Therel in his crimson and black formal attire.

  They were the picture of bliss. Something woeful gripped Elohl, even as he was glad for them. Beaming at each other, the young King and Queen were the height of fierce handsomeness and effortless command. With a smooth gesture from Elyasin, the hall quieted. Releasing Therel’s arm, she raised her voice, its strong rule echoing from every restored vault and pillar.

  “Friends! Welcome to our Darkwinter Night celebrations, and the blessing of our Coalition’s First New Year!”

  Roars erupted through the hall from the Elsthemi, punctuated by battle-whoops from the Jadounians and polite clapping from the Valenghians and the rest. With a laugh, Therel gestured for quiet and the hall gradually came back to a boisterous, eager attention.

  “I will be brief, but we have a few matters of ceremony before we commence with the rest of the revelry,” Elyasin continued. Clad in dark green robes that fit his slender frame like a scabbard fits a sword, Castellan and Queen’s Historian Thaddeus den’Lhor moved to Elyasin’s side. Extending a ceremonial sword in a gilded scabbard, he paused, and Elyasin received it with a nod. Retreating a step behind her, Elyasin’s new Castellan kept to her side.

  “Our primary order of business,” Elyasin spoke again, “is a reparation of grievous wrongs. High Rakhan Arlen den’Selthir of the Alrashemni Kingsmen and Shemout Alrashemni Order. If you would come forward, please.”

  At mention of the Kingsmen, Elohl’s attention sharpened upon the dais. Watching closely, he sipped his wine, every sense alert. Tingling with attention so fully that it made his skin crawl in the packed hall, Elohl didn’t know exactly what was happening, though it had the feel of a ceremony arranged ahead of time.

  A lean lord with iron-blonde hair moved up the steps of the dais, until he stood a step below Elyasin. Elohl had found out about the Shemout from Fenton, but he’d never met this man. But he had an impeccable demeanor as Elyasin motioned him all the way up, and he came to stand before her. The feel of wyrria breathed over Elohl’s skin as the man performed a crisp Kingsman salute with one hand upon his sword, the other over his elegant charcoal silk doublet trimmed with silver braid.

  “High Rakhan of the Alrashemni Kingsmen, please kneel.”

  A breath of surprise flowed through Elohl’s lips – a similar breath issuing out from the entire hall. Everyone was rapt, watching the proceedings. Elohl’s skin prickled, his Goldenmarks simmering beneath his midnight blue jerkin. Light eased out from beneath his high collar, but Elohl ignored it, watching the dais.

  Rakhan Arlen den’Selthir sank to one knee before Elyasin. Sliding the ceremonial sword from its scabbard, she dubbed it gently across Arlen’s shoulders. “Through the presence of their chosen High Rakhan here today, and by the grace vested in me as Queen of Alrou-Mendera and Elsthemen, I hearby re-instate the Alrashemni Kingsmen as Friends of the Crown. I hearby rescind all annexation Alrou-Mendera has made upon sovereign Alrashemni lands and citadels. I release the Alrashemni Kingsmen from the accusation of falsely-instated High Treason by the Summons of the Kingsmen. And I release the Alrashemni Kingsmen of any obligation to serve the Crown, though they remain Friend to us for their support of this nation in dire times, proven throughout our mutual history. Please accept the Crown’s formal apology, for the heinous atrocities wrecked against you these past ten years. And our sincere promise, to spare no expense in rebuilding your life in the years to come. We regret what has passed by our father’s reign. And we seek to repair all wrongs, so we may move forward together.”

  A spreading hush filled the hall. In that moment of silence, Queen Elyasin sank gracefully to her knees in her cobalt gown, right before the High Rakhan of the Kingsmen. Placing the gilded sword into his hands, she bowed with her forehead all the way down to the floor and moved aside her golden hair – baring her long, lovely neck.

  Gasps inhaled throughout the hall. The gesture was not lost upon anyone, and it made a rushing thrill burst through Elohl. Elyasin bared her neck to the High Rakhan of the Kingsmen. She bared her Queenship, offering it as reparation for the terrible wrongs done to the Alrashemni during Uhlas’ reign.

  Elohl saw Arlen hesitate. He saw the man’s fingers grip the hilt of that blade, just for an instant. Though it was ceremonial, the edges shone in the hall’s light, wickedly sharp. But with a smooth, slow out-breath, that Elohl felt shiver through him from across the crowded hall, Arlen set the blade aside upon the stone of the dais. Reaching out, he set a hand under Elyasin’s chin. She looked up, meeting the raptor-keen gaze of the aged fighter, holding it with her own hard readiness.

  “In the name of the Alrashemni Kingsmen,” Arlen rasped, his hand lifting hers to his lips, t
he both of them still upon their knees, “I accept your apology. And I reinstate the Kingsmen as Friend to the Crown, in any hour of need. Especially for you. You make our nation strong, my Queen, and the Kingsmen would aid you in that. Let us be One once more, as we should have been these ten long years.”

  Arlen kissed Elyasin’s fingers with a lordly gentleness, and a cheer went up through the hall. It shattered Elohl’s ears, thundering every nerve. With a graceful fluidity, Arlen helped Elyasin rise, then moved in to give her an almost fatherly kiss upon either cheek. She blushed with a tremendous smile and stepped back, allowing Arlen to turn to the hall.

  “Tonight,” Arlen thundered, his voice ringing like well-forged steel, “we do more than re-instate the Kingsmen! We also add to our numbers, for the first time in ten years. Vhiniti Khenria Oblitenne of Valenghia, Dhepan Eleshen den’Fenrir of Quelsis! Please step to the dais and be recognized by the Alrashemni for deeds of valor in our time of need.”

  Elohl blinked, startling to hear Eleshen’s name. His gaze roved the hall, searching for her curvaceous golden beauty. He’d not known she was here, and certainly hadn’t known that she’d been involved in the events of the past few months. But as he watched two women step up the dais, confusion filled him. One was Khenria, the distinctly Alrashemni-looking, fierce young woman who had been Dherran’s lover. Now the Vhiniti of Valenghia, heir to the Vhinesse, she was dressed in a crimson Red Valor uniform with royal gold detail.

  But the other woman who approached the dais had cascading black hair sleek as otter’s fur that fell in an ornate braid to her waist. Tall and willowy and wearing Kingsmen Greys but with Elsthemi styling, she had a warrior’s way that reminded Elohl of Olea – fierce and bristling with weapons. As she turned to be recognized, Elohl saw a haunting face with level, dark brows, high cheekbones, and violet eyes so stunning they made Elohl’s breath slip from his lips. “Aeon, who—?”