Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Olea took a long, single breath. “Forgive me, Dhenra. Today is the tenth anniversary of… when we were arrested and conscripted into service. It weighs on me.”

  Elyasin blinked, caught her breath. Sadness lifted her brows. “Forgive me, Captain… I didn’t realize… But all the more that this be discussed! For ten years, our realm has been in the dark about what happened. I have been. So, what do you know of the Kingsman Treason? What have you heard?”

  “What do you know about it?” Olea countered. “Let’s start there.”

  The Dhenra tapped her fingertips on her gown, then indulged Olea’s query. “I found an annal in the library that describes the Summons of the Kingsmen more thoroughly than I was taught, or heard from my father. He was ever tight-lipped about it, even when my brother Dhenir Alden confronted him. I was so young, and Alden and I were away at the Summer Palace on the Elsee when it happened. But no one I ask knows what actually occurred here in the palace. Not the Chancellors, not Castellan Lhaurent, not the Guardsmen. And in all our training sessions, you’ve never once mentioned it. So I ask now. Do you know what truly happened that day?”

  Bitter bile rose in Olea’s throat. Her fingers lifted to her chest, tracing her Inkings, thinking of that awful time. Nearly two thousand Kingsmen had been shown to rooms scattered throughout the bowels of the labyrinthine palace, and then… gone. Olea scowled, her straight black eyebrows furrowed. She had always assumed that when it was time for the Dhenra to become Queen, King Uhlas would have told his daughter what had really happened. But Uhlas had never told his son, Dhenir Alden, about the Kingsmen disappearance. Olea knew that much was true, as many days and nights as she had spent with Alden, and the conversations they’d had. But King Uhlas had never told Elyasin, either. And now he was dead and couldn't tell anybody.

  Olea traced her Inkings, pondering how much she should say to her Dhenra. How much was safe to tell a hot-tempered, untested future Queen with few allies.

  “I don’t know… exactly what happened.” Olea murmured. “I was at our Court in Alrashesh when the Summons came. My brother Elohl and I were only twenty. We weren’t Kingsmen yet, so we weren’t Summoned for the Oaths of Reinstatement. Kingskinder under twenty-one were left behind. We were collected… afterwards.”

  “The annals say that the Kingsmen are dead, but there was no public execution, no trial,” Elyasin murmured. “No one actually saw them die. They simply showed up here at Roushenn and were never seen again. Even the oldest maids and cooks remember nothing of the Kingsmen after their arrival. They were shown courtesy, taken to rooms, and then… nothing. In the morning, all the rooms were empty. The Kingsmen had vanished in the night, without leaving a single blade nor boot behind. Some writers say they abandoned their King, used magic to disappear into the mountains like wraiths.”

  Olea scowled. “If that was the case, they would have come for us Kingskinder who were caught. But none of our elders ever came for us, Dhenra. The few Kingskinder I’ve been able to trace went to foster-families to learn a trade. Those past their Fifth Seal were split up into military service. I've discovered a few names in the lists over the years.”

  Elyasin’s face twisted in disgust. “I read about that. The youths were pressed into service. Like slaves. Slaves in my own country, serving their lifeblood up to my father against Valenghia!”

  Olea held her gaze, hard and honest. “It is my honor to serve the Crown, Dhenra.”

  “Even after what my father did to your people?”

  “You are not your father.”

  “No, I am not. And I will find out what happened, and why. I dislike secrets in my realm.”

  “Everyone in Roushenn keeps secrets,” Olea murmured. It was a common adage about the palace, labyrinthine fortress that it was.

  But the phrase struck a violent chord with the Dhenra, who clenched one fist, a livid scowl upon her face. “Not from me, they don’t. Olea, if you know—”

  “Your highness!” A smooth voice suddenly cut the air in the hall, like an oiled whip. Startled by the sound, Olea’s head whipped up, glimpsing the intruder. King’s Castellan Lhaurent den’Karthus moved forward down the armor hall with imperious efficiency in his tall, slightly stooped frame. Piercing grey eyes under dark brows rode his high cheekbones, his well-cropped black beard and hair streaked with grey. Immaculately groomed, the Castellan’s grey silken doublet, silk robes and breeches were always fresh. Silver chains of office hung from his doublet’s high collar, polished and shining. Rings in silver and gold bedecked every finger. A ring of a dusk-grey metal adorned the index finger of his left hand, with a ruby in the center, decoration around it. Everything about the man was polished and perfumed and well-oiled, down to his scented breath and buffed nails.

  He gave Olea a cold look. “Captain den’Alrahel. Why did you not alert someone of the Dhenra’s whereabouts? She is needed in the Small Rotunda to meet Prince Ilkresh of Crasos, to discuss the grain embargo.”

  Olea lifted one eyebrow and set her jaw. Castellan Lhaurent den’Karthus’ smooth baritone always irritated her. Whenever he approached, his soft-booted silence made Olea think of rain barrel eels slipping through dark water. Lhaurent had never given anyone specific reason to think he was disloyal, but Olea didn't trust him. She’d never been able to accuse him of anything, but she had her suspicions. Thievery, perhaps. Embezzlement. Maybe plotting to murder someone to better his own station. Although he was absolutely indispensable as Castellan, running Roushenn with impeccable effortlessness.

  “Castellan Lhaurent,” Olea growled. “The Dhenra wishes to be alone. I am sure she can manage her schedule to her liking.”

  Lhaurent den’Karthus’ eyes narrowed upon Olea’s tousled blue-black mane, her undone buckles and laces, at the Inked star on her chest. Lhaurent had never been friendly, and he wasn’t about to pretend now. His tone dripped scorn. “You are a mess, Captain. It is a wonder anyone lets you remain in service.”

  Olea was about to retort, when the Dhenra suddenly stepped forward from behind her suit of armor. Elyasin’s back was straight, her posture unassailable as she approached, imperious.

  “Leave us, Lhaurent. I was in need of a report from my Captain-General before her rounds, and you are interrupting. You may tell Prince Ilkresh that I will be along presently. Invite him to music, wine, and delicacies in the Viewing Gallery. I will be no more than fifteen minutes.”

  The Castellan betrayed a small surprise, but he gave a languid bow. “As my Dhenra wishes, so shall it be done.”

  He turned on his heels and glided smoothly from the hall, as if his ego had never been bruised by his Dhenra’s sharp rebuke. The Dhenra watched her Castellan go, her posture still impeccable. But once he had turned the corner, Olea saw Elyasin fiddle with her knuckles. “Aeon, I never hear him coming! If I did, I’d be able to prepare myself better.”

  Olea’s lips twitched in a snarl. “He’s like an eel, Dhenra. All that oil in his hair greases his passage.”

  The Dhenra snorted. Her lips were still quirked in laughter as she turned upon her captain. “Olea! For shame. He is a loyal subject, both for my father and his father before him. Lhaurent is a fixture of this palace for the past thirty years, and he knows his business. No one runs Roushenn with such grace as he.”

  Olea said nothing more, her teeth set with distaste. She never heard Lhaurent’s soft-booted feet approaching, either. And with her uncommonly acute hearing, it was one of the things about the man that made her immensely suspicious about him.

  “What are you thinking, Captain?”

  Olea mussed her blue-black curls a moment, then decided to shut her mouth on her wariness of the Castellan. “He’s just an eel. That’s all.”

  Dhenra Elyasin’s lips pursed. “I suppose not everyone who is loyal is agreeable.”

  But Olea was still watching where Lhaurent had gone. “Are you certain he’s loyal?”

  It was out before Olea could take it back. The Dhenra’s smile changed suddenly, into something though
tful far beyond Elyasin’s twenty-one years. A look like her father Uhlas might have had, shrewd and calculating. “Are you certain he is not? Do you know something about him, Captain?”

  Olea’s eyes flicked to her regent. In Elyasin’s sharp gaze, Olea read the steady depth of Uhlas. Sometimes the Dhenra was as hotheaded as her elder brother Alden had been. But sometimes she was her father, flinty and calculating. And Olea could not lie to Uhlas’ daughter.

  As a Kingswoman, she could never lie to her regent.

  “My suspicions have no proof, Dhenra. Alden and I never had any proof of anything.”

  Elyasin stepped closer, intent. “Suspicions and proof of what?”

  “Treachery against the Crown.”

  “Castellan Lhaurent?!” Elyasin looked shocked.

  Olea shook her head. “Not necessarily. But someone who knows these halls.”

  Elyasin raised one regal gold eyebrow, cool as stone. “Explain.”

  Olea took a deep breath. It was time to tell what she knew. Elyasin had been denied the truth from so many sides, it was against Olea’s oaths as a Kingswoman to withhold any more. Even if it was dangerous, even if it placed her liege in a precarious situation, Elyasin had a right to know. She would be Queen in just four weeks’ time, and she was right. A Queen needed the truth from her allies. Olea’s chest clenched, feeling the pain of that time.

  The pain of love still fresh even two years after Dhenir Alden’s death.

  “Two years ago, just before he died,” Olea began, steadying her voice against a flood of awful memories, “your brother Alden and I were looking into the Kingsmen disappearance. It was one of the reasons we were spending so much time together openly. Looking into why your father was acting so paranoid, why he had become so secretive. We had just started to dig into some dire leads, when Castellan Lhaurent exposed our… intimate affair. For the good of the realm, he said, to bring our improper relationship before the Chancellate rather than speak with your father the King privately about it. It put your father in a terrible position, Dhenra, having such a shameful family matter of Alden and I’s indiscretion be made public. But what Lhaurent’s exposure of our affair truly did… was stop our investigation into the Kingsmen disappearance by separating Alden and me.”

  Elyasin’s eyes had gone wide. “Two years ago. That was when the Chancellate voted for you to be beheaded because of the scandal. I remember that day.”

  Olea nodded soberly. “Your father was merciful. He sent me to the cells instead. And put Alden on a trading ship to Ghrec with the merchant fleet.”

  “The ship that crashed…” Elyasin’s face fell, infinitely sad.

  Olea nodded, trying not to think about that horrible time. “That lighthouse should have been lit, Dhenra. That ship never should have crashed coming back into port.”

  Elyasin’s green gaze flicked to Olea, sharp. “You think someone orchestrated Alden’s death? Darkened the lighthouse on purpose to crash the flagship that night? Because of what you two were investigating?”

  Olea nodded. “Because we were investigating the Chancellate in regards to the Kingsmen Summons. And the palace household. And the Generals. There were whispers of rumor leading into all those arenas, Dhenra… rumors we had heard and were about to follow. But we were stopped before we could find anything conclusive. And then Dhenir Alden was killed on that ship. Only someone very powerful could have persuaded or bribed the lighthouse-master of Amlenport to darken his charge for a night when the ship of the King’s son was coming into the harbor.”

  Elyasin was very pale. And very silent. Her fingers rubbed her knuckles. “Walk with me, Captain-General. I have a request to make of you.”

  Olea nodded and offered her arm. The Dhenra took it regally, resting her fingers upon Olea’s sleeve just as she might do with any man. It was strange these days, to have a woman so high-ranking in the military. But there had been a time when it had not been, and Olea knew the rituals of respect that bound a Kingswoman to her liege. She escorted her Dhenra from the hall, starting down the labyrinthine corridors beyond the West Armory.

  “Captain, I want you to re-open your investigation into the Kingsmen disappearance.”

  Olea startled, but did not lose her step. “Yes, Dhenra.”

  “Use what resources you must. I will give you a writ for the treasury and to excuse you from your regular duties, but keep your activities very discreet. You are trained in espionage?”

  “Yes, Dhenra.”

  “No one else must know, unless you can recruit someone to aid you that you absolutely trust. I must know why the Summons of Kingsmen Treason was dispatched, what led to it, and what happened afterwards, in detail. If possible, before my coronation in four weeks at Highsummer.”

  “Yes, Dhenra. May I speak freely?”

  Elyasin glanced over. “Always.”

  “Why are you looking into this? If it got Dhenir Alden killed… why take it up now?”

  The Dhenra paused and Olea halted. Elyasin's golden brows furrowed. “Because I think the Summons of the Alrashemni was wrong. Everything I have read in the ancient histories speak of the Kingsmen with high honor, citing them as the Crown’s most trusted alliance, and most reliable weapon. But all the events of the past thirty years concerning the Kingsmen have been scrubbed clean. I am in the dark, captain, and I don’t like being in the dark. My father left me a vast kingdom, but he also left me vast worries, and an ongoing war with Valenghia. You have always been forthright with me, and my brother Alden loved and trusted you like none other. You have given me wise council without manipulating me, and you have kept every secret I have ever told you. If all the Kingsmen were like you, then I think my father's Summons was amiss. And perhaps precipitated by... something else. Something that still may trouble our nation. And that I will not abide under my rule.”

  Olea's throat tightened. She dropped to one knee in the hallway, her head bowed in silent respect. Elyasin was proving wise beyond her years, but Olea couldn’t help but wonder if the Dhenra subjected herself to the same unknown tides that had ripped the heart out of the Kingsmen, and of her beloved Dhenir, Alden.

  “You place yourself in danger if you pursue this, Dhenra. Like Alden did. Whomever is behind this… if they hear of it, they may try to strike you down before your coronation. Before you truly have the power to move against them, independent of the Chancellate.”

  “Yes. I know.” Elyasin murmured. “And if we find that my father actually was the source of the Summons, and did something with the Kingsmen, something so horrible he could never tell me, then that is that. I will hate him for his decision, but it was his to make as King, for whatever his reasons. But if not…”

  “The Summons didn't come from Uhlas.” Olea breathed, head still bowed, knowing she had to tell her Dhenra everything.

  Elyasin went utterly still. “What?”

  “Alden and I found one thing out for certain with our inquiries.” Olea's murmur was softer than specters in the looming hall. “That King Uhlas wasn’t at the palace when the Summons went out, nor when the Kingsmen arrived at Roushenn. He was in Valenghia, making a last-hour effort to stop oncoming war with the Valenghian Vhinesse. The signature on the document was a very precise forgery. Your father never gave that Summons. Someone else did. Someone, or someones, very close to him. And you have inherited all your father’s Chancellors, Dhenra… and his staff… and all his generals…”

  “All those who were close to my father are now close to me.” Elyasin's words were very quiet as she realized the terrible truth. Olea didn’t need to nod. Her heart sank like a stone. Fingertips brushed her shoulder and Olea knew her cue to rise. She came to her feet, gazing at the fierce, porcelain-boned Dhenra. Elyasin reached out, trailing her fingers over Olea’s Inkings.

  “Find out what happened, Olea. I trust you, just as Alden trusted you. Find out what happened to the Kingsmen, and who was behind my father’s reign. And once we know…” Elyasin’s eyes went flinty. “I will clean out my own rule. An
d start fresh.”

  “Be careful, Dhenra. I admonished Alden to be careful—”

  “But my brother was not careful enough, was he?”

  “Alden was never one to take care.” Olea blinked back a prickling of tears. Her heart twisted. She could still feel the closeness of him even now. His soft breath at her ear in sleep, the way his lion-rich laugh used to ring through the practice yard when she bested him. The warmth of him, so smooth and hard, in bed.

  Elyasin reached up, stroking Olea's wild hair away from her cheeks. The Dhenra's face was sad, but the set of her jaw was uncompromising, just like her father's. “Do this for me, Olea. I know I put you at risk, but I have no one else I trust…”

  Olea breathed back her grief with a single, slow breath. She offered her arm. “I will not fail you, Dhenra.”

  CHAPTER 7 – JHERRICK

  Jherrick den'Tharn stared down into the glassy eyes of the dead boy.

  The fey blue light of the Roushenn Palace Hinterhaft flickered uneasily over the boy's pale features, accusatory like ghosts lingering at the edges of Jherrick's vision. He hunkered by the body, the leather of his cobalt Guardsman jerkin creaking slightly in the cavernous silence. A catacomb-thick darkness filled the empty corridor behind the walls of Roushenn, but for the wisping globes of vague blue light that gently traversed the upper reaches of the Hinterhaft’s arched ceilings. Like dusky sand water swirled in a glass, the fae-wisps sometimes floated down towards the floors. Curious about death, their blue lights never lingered long from a corpse, inquisitive like fireflies. One wisped close to the boy's face, lighting its sallow emptiness, those candlewax-smooth features. Just a bristling of beard starting there, on the chin. Purpled bruises around the boy's neck standing out in livid detail. Four strong fingermarks upon each side.

  Jherrick hadn't killed the boy. Those weren't his orders.

  He waved one hand at the blue globe, and it wafted away.

  In another place, in another life, the lad could have been Jherrick's brother. They had the same straw-gold hair, the same fair skin, the same sea-grey eyes, a similar lean stature. Twelve or thirteen, the boy had been just on the cusp of manhood, that transition where a kitchen page starts to train at waiting table to move up in life, to become a proper servingman. Jherrick had started that way, before he'd been moved into Palace Guard by the ruse dealt for him by his true allegiance.