Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  “Perhaps you should ask him yourself if El-Khan is—or is not—your man.”

  Joaquin’s face paled.

  “He’s been very talkative.”

  “You lie,” Joaquin shot back. “Serabee is a man of great power and majik.”

  “Do you think the priests of Gamar are so weak in their majik that they cannot cage a mad dog such as El-Khan?” Owen’s tone was curious as he watched the young prince swallow hard and glance over his shoulder yet again. “Beneath the fires of Gamar, your Fakir dog has said much to me about why he did what he did. He does not like the heat much.”

  Joaquin remained silent, though his left hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword.

  “Why he brought an army of Fakir warriors in the middle of the night to murder my family while we slept. Why forty-seven of my men lie dead in the north pasture, waiting for their families to come forth and claim them.”

  “I knew nothing of that.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of an attack upon your family,” Joaquin answered quickly. “I knew nothing.”

  “And your sister and her Lady? They were targets, as well. They had no chance.”

  Joaquin’s expression darkened but he remained silent.

  “What did you know of that, Joaquin?” Owen shifted his weight and leaned casually against the armrest of his throne. “Let us see if your words match those of your dog, yes?”

  “I refuse to participate in this any longer,” Joaquin announced. “As a prince of royal blood, I should not be forced to defend myself against the words of a murderer. It is a poor way to wield your power, Your Grace.”

  “Defend yourself against what?”

  “Against the accusation that I was somehow complicit in the death of my sister.”

  Jessa watched her brother’s face from but a few feet away, and the Vhaelin rose up within her blood. Her brother’s anxiety at an unexpected situation had quickly turned to fear.

  “I said nothing of the sort, Prince Joaquin,” Owen responded and then laughed quietly. “Is that what you think Serabee told me beneath the lash? Beneath the brands of the fire?”

  Joaquin’s brow came down and a flush of blood rose along his throat. “But you just said…”

  “That El-Khan has accused you of plotting your sister’s murder?”

  “Did he?” Joaquin demanded.

  “That you sent him to murder your sister’s Lady, as well?”

  Joaquin’s lips curled in a snarl. “If you speak of Radha, she was but an old witch. She meant nothing, a servant.”

  Jessa stood very still as her power trembled upon her fingertips. Her hatred rose up as she realized how very easily he had sent Serabee to slay what was hers. To destroy her blood and to take what he thought was nothing. Now that she understood her power and what its presence meant, Jessa knew she could kill him where he stood. She had but to reach out and touch his cheek.

  “Don’t do it,” Darry said softly, and Jessa responded instantly. Darry’s eyes met hers in a fierce manner, despite the Veil of Shadows.

  “Do what?” Joaquin demanded of Darry.

  “Speak so to the High King of Arravan,” Darry replied as she shifted her focus.

  Owen snapped his fingers in a quick rhythm. “Over here, boy.”

  “I did not plan any killing,” Joaquin insisted.

  Jessa knew he was lying. He was a master of the untrue, but she had always been able to tell.

  “I think you are lying.” Owen’s tone was bored as his words mirrored her own thoughts, and Jessa was pleased. “You are lying, Prince Joaquin. And El-Khan has given me proof.”

  “There is no proof,” Joaquin said.

  “You sent him to kill your sister and her Lady.”

  Jessa knew she should feel something more than resignation, but at the moment, all she wanted was for him to confess, to put an end to the game he was destined to lose anyway. There had always been a scheme in play—for as long as she could remember, the pieces had always been moving. She was tired of it, and angry, as well.

  “I did no such thing.”

  “I know you did,” Owen stated. “Though perhaps you might convince me to spare your life, with a good explanation. Otherwise, your head will ride a pike before my gates.” The king rose to his feet and looked down at him. “And you will not have even spoken in your own defense. Explain why you sent your Fakir dog and his men to slay my family. Explain now or you die.”

  Grissom stepped forward and drew his sword. “Guard!”

  “It was not me!” Joaquin exclaimed as he took a step back. He flexed his fingers about the hilt of his sword but did not draw it. “I did not do that, my Lord. I am not a fool despite what you may think.”

  The door behind the dais opened once more, and three guards entered.

  “I have learned a few things in my many years,” Owen admitted, “from your father.”

  The dogs used to guard the city armory were held upon thick leather leashes, and their heavily muscled bodies strained and struggled against their bondage. The scent of Darry’s Cha-Diah blood swelled in reaction to their presence, and the animals became so incensed that the guards struggled to hold them at bay.

  “Yes!” Joaquin shouted above the din, his eyes terrified as the dogs snarled.

  Owen waved his hand and the guards pulled at the leads and shouted the dogs down. The animals fought against them, a tangled mess of chaos as they disappeared through the same door they had come through. Their howls could still be heard as they were led away.

  “You sent Serabee El-Khan to murder your sister and the Lady Radha.”

  Joaquin stared at the king, a fine sheen of sweat coating his head and running down the back of his neck. “Yes.” His voice was oddly meek and defiant at the same time. “Yes, I sent him to kill her, though what does it matter?”

  “And you ordered them to murder my fam—”

  “I never did!” Joaquin almost shouted as he stepped forward and pointed at Owen. “I did not do that, my Lord, I swear it.” His hand fell to his side. “I don’t know why he did that. I don’t understand it.”

  Jessa lowered the hood of her cloak and the Veil of Shadows fell away. She stood but a few feet behind her brother. “I believe him.”

  Joaquin spun about, and Jessa met his wide eyes in a calm manner.

  “I believe he sent Serabee to kill me, and for whatever reason, that was his part in this. But I believe him to be ignorant of the assault upon Blackstone.”

  Joaquin stepped toward her and she let him, his face filled with a fury that she recognized all too well. Seal your fate, fikloche…

  Darry moved with a shout, but the back of his hand struck Jessa hard across the face before she could get there.

  Owen yelled as Joaquin began to draw his sword, and Darry grabbed his braid and pulled him off balance. He bent back at the waist and Darry was around him in a heartbeat. She brought her right elbow down and struck him in the throat as she twisted her wrist in his braid. Darry let him hit the floor, her dagger drawn and shoved beneath his chin as he coughed and clawed at her jacket.

  “Don’t do it, girl,” Grissom commanded in a hard voice.

  Jessa was thankful for the strong hands that had kept her from falling, and she looked into Jacob’s green eyes.

  “Hello, Princess.” He looked out of his element but he offered a smile. “I’m very glad to see you’re alive.”

  “Jacob.” Jessa tasted blood as she spoke.

  “Let him up, girl,” Grissom ordered Darry as he crouched beside the fallen Lyonese prince. “Don’t do it like this. Do it right, if that’s what you want.”

  Darry pressed the point of her dagger into the skin of Joaquin’s throat, and it popped through. She looked up as the scent of his blood filled her nostrils. “He tried to kill her.”

  Grissom made a disgruntled face and scratched at his beard. “He did, that’s true.” He looked down at Joaquin. “Should I let her kill you?”

  “Don’t…” Joaquin
managed, his voice cracking.

  Darry pushed away, stepped back, and flipped the dagger. The knife’s tip buried itself in the floor between Joaquin’s legs. “We shall solve our mystery, yes?”

  The blade’s edge had sliced through his trousers and was nestled dangerously close to his manhood.

  “Darry,” Jessa whispered, and her lover looked up. It took but a brief moment for Jessa to realize that she was too late to stop all that would come next. “What have you done?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marteen Salish stopped beside the high-backed chair and waited in silence.

  Malcolm stared at the raised etching upon his goblet and noted how the firelight caught upon the sword held by King Bertram. His armor had faded over the many years, rubbed down by the countless times the cup had been lifted to the lips. Not by Malcolm alone, but certainly by his hand as of late. Bertram did not seem to mind.

  He was well into his fourth hour of being banished from the throne room, and he was sick of it. He was not a child and he was not an afterthought. He was soon to be the High King of Arravan, and he would make this fact known in ways no one would expect. He should have been there, to control what happened next.

  Although he understood he alone knew what needed to be done to secure the kingdom’s future, he had been truly surprised by his father’s actions. Obviously the violence of the Fakir attack had been extreme, but the High King did not have the luxury of reacting as his father was currently responding. The High King was required to stay above the fray. He was required to make the hard decisions for the good of his country.

  Perhaps his father was too old for it all. His continuing to make the wrong decisions would clearly indicate age—and the supposed wisdom that came with it—was no longer his friend.

  Darry should have been clapped in chains and locked in the jails beneath the Keep for what she had done. He was not willing to accept that she was free and left to influence those around her. It was not his father’s smallest misstep by far, but it was the one that galled him the most, for the moment.

  He tasted the warm spring vintage and set the cup upon the table beside him before he looked up.

  “Serabee has escaped, according to Jefs.”

  Malcolm allowed a smile to slip across his lips. “And?”

  “And Darrius has challenged Joaquin to the Blooded Duel.”

  Malcolm closed his eyes. “He ordered the death of the woman who is to be my bride, the woman who will bear my sons.” The logs of the fire crumbled and the ashes popped.

  “It seems as if being regent in Lyoness until your son comes of age was not enough to satisfy Joaquin’s ambition,” Salish suggested in a careful voice.

  “It was enough,” Malcolm said as his temper rose, “and he knew it. More than enough for the likes of him. Bharjah’s dregs could not hope for more.”

  “Perhaps he knew you would never keep your end of the bargain.”

  Malcolm let out a breath of laughter. “Perhaps.”

  “I’m not sure that I understand what he hoped to gain by such an all-out attack on the Keep,” Salish admitted.

  “The Nightshade Lark, murdered upon Arravan soil? Don’t be an ass!” Malcolm came to his feet and Salish stepped back. “Do you think this was Joaquin’s idea? Do you think he is clever enough for a game so vast?”

  “Did he act upon Bharjah’s orders, then?”

  Malcolm frowned. “This was Serabee, you fool. The Nightshade Lark murdered in her bed, in the heart of Blackstone Keep? Bharjah’s Lords will line up behind him and froth at the mouth to cross the Taljah. Joaquin is irrelevant, he always has been. This was Serabee’s doing.”

  “But Serabee failed and has fled, leaving Joaquin behind.”

  “Yes, to take the blame. A stag for the doe will do just as well.”

  “Joaquin?”

  “My dear sister may be many vile things, but she handles a sword better than anyone I’ve ever seen, even Wyatt. Joaquin will not last five minutes. Bharjah will have the death of a prince to avenge, instead of a princess.” Malcolm walked to the fire and looked within it. His jaw hurt and his head ached. His left cheekbone was so tender it hurt to speak, and his lower lip was swollen and tasted of blood. “By attacking the Keep in force with my father here, Bharjah meant to put me on the throne, while at the same time removing my future claim to his. Jessa’s continued presence is a variable he can no longer control. It was wise to use her to some advantage. I would’ve done the same.”

  “But what of Joaquin?” Salish asked. “He has secrets he might share with your father that are better left unsaid. Or worse yet, lies that will prolong what is left of his life.”

  Malcolm lifted a finger to his lower lip and touched the cut. He pulled his finger back and stared at the blood. “Send a bird. Tell our emissary, if you will, that he must make his move at once. Remind him of what will happen if he fails.”

  “Of course. And what of Joaquin?”

  “Midnight will be upon us in a few hours. Bring Jefs to me. Joaquin will tell all sorts of tales—you’re right. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Jefs will expect more. If you bring him in further, it will cost us.”

  “Then he shall have whatever he wants.”

  “As you wish, Mal.”

  “And one more thing,” Malcolm added as he turned. The back of his left hand struck Salish high across the cheekbone. The sharp sound echoed throughout Malcolm’s chamber as he stepped forward and seized his advisor by the throat. Salish stumbled backward as Malcolm tightened his grip. “If you ever touch me in public again, there will be a price beyond blood to be paid. Is that clear, my pet?”

  Marteen Salish said nothing, nor did he acknowledge Malcolm’s words.

  “I do not play now.”

  Salish grabbed gently at Malcolm’s wrist. “Yes.”

  Malcolm let him go. “More than your life hangs in the balance, after your misstep.”

  Salish bowed his head at once. “Yes.”

  “Send the bird. Tell him to return the favor when it’s done.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Malcolm stepped back to his chair and retrieved his wine. He took a generous swallow and felt the better for it. “And find me the Princess Jessa-Sirrah. After my father allows me to leave my room, I would pay my respects and offer her my protection. With Joaquin’s actions, no doubt her fear will be great. If Bharjah may take advantage of good timing, then so must I.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  *

  “And when does this bloody duel take place?” Jessa demanded as she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. She was more angry than she had been, for the longer such knowledge sat within her thoughts, the more fearful she became. “Tonight? Or at dawn, perhaps, for dramatic effect?”

  “It’s a Blooded Duel, actually,” Darry corrected, though her eyes held a spark that Jessa did not approve of in the least.

  “I know what a Blooded Duel is, Darrius,” Jessa snapped. “I said what I meant, thank you. If I know my history, I believe that the first duel of such a nature between Bloods was held in the province of Ana Idriss, in the southland of my own country. Two Lords fought over the rather dubious honor of a woman who was in love with a third man altogether.”

  Darry smiled, genuinely surprised. “Really? What was her name?”

  Jessa took several seconds as her gaze raked across the table.

  “What?”

  “I am looking for something to break!”

  Darry picked up her plate and scraped what was left of her late dinner onto the serving platter before she held it out to her lover. “This should do nicely.”

  Jessa grabbed the plate and slapped its edge upon the tabletop. The heavy porcelain broke apart with a clatter, and she threw what was left toward the hearth. The collision echoed against the stones as the remains of the plate shattered into a dozen pieces. “Do not mock me, Princess, or you shall regret it.”

  “I’m not mocking you.”

  “I
have been mocked down the Dark Ridge Mountains and back again, Darrius,” Jessa proclaimed, and her stomach felt a bit quesy. “Do not do that to me, as well. Not you.”

  Darry stood at once and met Jessa’s gaze straight on. “I am not mocking you.”

  “You have more stitches in you than the rag doll that Radha made for me as a child, and not quite as much stuffing, unless I miss my guess. You are in no position to be fighting over a game of roundball, much less a duel to the death.”

  “I shall be fine,” Darry responded in a gentle voice.

  Jessa narrowed her eyes. “Joaquin may be a fool, but he can handle a sword.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “I’m sorry, Jessa, that he’s your brother. I can say that, in all truth. He sent his men to kill you and Radha as you slept. This crime, for which he has claimed responsibility, is punishable by death. At least this way, he might go out fighting.”

  Jessa’s eyes widened. “Against you?”

  “Who better?”

  “Someone who is not wounded from head to toe, for one thing. And are you saying this is why you challenged him? To let him die with some scrap of honor that he does not deserve?”

  “No. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “He deserves to die like the fikloche dog that he is.” Jessa’s tone was cold and she hoped that Darry could hear it. “The dog that he has always been.”

  Darry’s expression was thoughtful and Jessa waited as patiently as she could.

  “I’m sorry, Jess, but I can’t take it back.”

  “Are you saying you would if you could?”

  “No.”

  “Then why say such a thing at all?” Jessa demanded, and then took an awkward step back. Her chair tipped over as she bumped into it and it slammed to the floor. She blinked at Darry and put a hand over her stomach, uncertain beneath a sudden wave of energy. “What…what are you doing?”

  “I will kill the fucking dog, as you have named him, that has plagued you.” Darry spoke in a low voice, her eyes decidedly bright as she stepped along the edge of the table. “And I shall do it for all the world to see.”