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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Elohl felt himself smile. “Those happened yesterday. Well, last night, actually.”

  Olea raised her eyebrows. Elohl filled her in on the seven-eye tower and of his golden Inkings, giving her a succinct briefing as if they had never spent years apart. He watched Olea become more and more astonished with every word. When Elohl had finished, she reached out and touched the golden marks above his collar. Indulging her, he reached up, unbuckling the crossover flap of his leather jerkin, pulling it open, unlacing his shirt so she could see the pattern’s tendrils at their fullest, where they commingled with his true Inkings.

  “Holy gods all above…” He heard Vargen utter softly.

  “I always thought there was something special about you.” Olea had reached out, her calloused fingertips tracing the sigils and whorls of finest gold, lingering over the lines of minute script. “Mother used to say it. Protect Elohl, look out for him. He has a wyrrian way about him.”

  “There’s more on my back.” Elohl murmured. “A sigil of a wolf and dragon fighting. Inside a flaming sun.”

  Olea’s gaze flicked up to his, stunned. “Like the emblem in Roushenn’s throne room…! And upon the Deephouse doors.” Her grey eyes went distant for a moment, and Elohl saw thoughts burning through her like a wildland fire. Her brows knit. “Elohl. We need to speak privately. I have some… information I need to share with you.”

  Vargen's boulder voice interrupted them as he cleared his throat. “This conversation requires dinner and ale. Allow me to go out to the tavern down the street. I will fetch whatever we need tonight. Eleshen, would you care to accompany me?”

  Olea’s smile was filled with relief at the Kingsman’s tact. And Eleshen for her part, flushed to the roots of her hair. “I’d be honored to,” she stammered, beaming. She glanced Elohl’s way.

  “Go.” Elohl murmured. “You’ll be as safe with him as you’d be with me. Safer, maybe.”

  She nodded, a complex emotion sliding through her. But when Vargen offered his arm, she took it as escort, and the two of them issued out through the double doors. Vargen glanced back to Olea and murmured, “Look for us within the hour. If we’re not back, ask the weaver across the alley. She has a reliable network of street lads, they’re good at finding people and gaining information.”

  “I will.” Olea murmured.

  Vargen nodded. He and Eleshen moved off, shutting the massive doors. Once they were gone, Olea turned back to Elohl, serious in the filtering gloom of the workshop. “Elohl. I have to tell you something right away. Other information about our kin’s disappearance will come out when Vargen returns, and you will hear everything that has so startled me these past few weeks, since Vargen and I made acquaintance. Since the Dhenra bid me re-open the investigation I was once making into the Kingsmen treachery with the Dhenir right before it killed him. But I have something else I must say first.”

  Elohl blinked. It was a tirade of information, spilling from his sister’s lips. Startling information that made his heart jump, eager to know, eager to hear. “What do you mean? What have you found?”

  “Later. For now, you have to know…” Her grey eyes shone with light, with ferocity. And with fear. “That you and I are of the King’s own line. That the surname den’Alrahel is ancient, and once it was blended with the crown. That men and women of House den’Alrahel, Linea den’Alrahel, have actually sat the throne, Elohl. And that House den’Ildrian is closely related. They have Alrashemni blood, Elohl. King Uhlas. Dhenir Alden. Dhenra Elyasin. And ours is no less royal.”

  Elohl’s lips had fallen open. His mind roiled, denying it, wanting to forget what he had just heard. But like a storm, it built within him, churning, spinning, burning. A fierceness and a light came with it, a feeling of knowing. A face surfaced in his mind, a stern, wild face. Whorls of red and white Inkings.

  Rennkavi.

  Elohl’s legs turned to water. He stepped aside, sat heavily upon a workbench nearby. And like they’d been called, his Inkings began to itch and burn, searing upon his chest, prickling upon his shoulders and all down his back. “Royal?” Elohl whispered.

  Olea had come to sit beside him. “King Uhlas told me. He knew. He gave me two tomes of the Alrashemni royal lineage, back to the founding of Alrou-Mendera.”

  “But… our blood is thinned…” Elohl’s mind fought desperately for excuses, but his golden Inkings surged, thrumming.

  “Not as thinned as Elyasin’s.” Olea breathed. “You and I still carry abilities, Elohl. Strange ways. Like the stories of the ancient Alrashemni. It’s the King’s line that has thinned out.”

  “But they hold the throne. We’re sworn to them. The family who killed our people.” His eyes flicked to her.

  She nodded. “So we are, Elohl. And I hold to it. I want no throne. I will never challenge Elyasin. She is our Queen-to-come, and I will fight for that with my very last breath. But this secret has been worth killing over. Someone knows. They’ve been trying to kill us all. The Kingsmen Summons was not given by Uhlas. He had nothing to do with it. He was deceived, as we were. I’ve had my share of assassination attempts, too. But they never get close enough, surrounded by Guardsmen as I constantly am. I’ve not told Elyasin about them…”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  Olea waved a hand. “She doesn’t know about all this. Not just yet. It places her in danger, and I can’t speak about it within the palace walls.”

  “What do you mean? Because of palace spies? But you’d hear them coming, hear them hiding in the alcoves…”

  “No. I don’t.” Olea’s gaze was frank upon him. “And that’s part of the concern. What Vargen will tell you when he returns is horrible, Elohl. Prepare yourself for it. Our kin did not leave Roushenn alive, of that I am now certain.”

  “They’re gone.” He breathed softly. Some part of him had known. Some part of him had always known that it had been their last day, that morning he had escaped Roushenn.

  “They’re all gone.” Olea murmured, reaching out to clasp his hand. “But we’re not. And the Dhenra’s not. Though someone wishes we were.”

  * * *

  Vargen and Eleshen had returned not long after, finding Elohl and Olea speaking quietly of her past with the Dhenir, of her life in the Guard, Elohl filling her in about his time in the mountains. Bottled ales of three kinds were hefted to a clean worktable and they all sat ‘round, tucking in to sandwiches of roast boar with cucumber sauce and a fruit salad of fresh melon with summer strawberries. Stories were told all around the workbench, late into the evening. Elohl heard Vargen's wretched tale, all about the Kingsmen killings, the supposed demon, and the cursed back halls of Roushenn. He heard of Olea's investigation with the Dhenir, and now her association with the Dhenra, and how she feared vastly for her liege's safety, especially with a massive public event of her coronation upcoming at midsummer.

  The conversation turned next to suspicions, of what King Uhlas might have known, of how paranoid he'd become at the end of his reign. Olea and Vargen's suspicions that the Chancellate knew of Roushenn's secret halls, and had perhaps ordered the slaughter of the Kingsmen. Of Olea's suspicions that the Castellan or the Chancellors also had something to do with the King's slow demise, and the Dhenir's sudden death at the treacherous end of a darkened lighthouse. And as the conversation turned again, to Ghrenna's vision and the mystery of the clockwork puzzle that Elohl had found in the box, Elohl suddenly sat up straight, blinking away stupor and drink.

  “You still have the clockwork? Where?”

  “I had a bad feeling before we returned to Alrashesh.” Olea nodded as Vargen moved to a side-bench and unlocked a drawer, pulling out a wooden cataloguing box and setting it upon the workbench where they sat. “So I hid your belt-purse in our log. The rotting one, in the forest hollow where we used to play pirates.”

  An inebriated smile lifted Elohl’s lips. “Gods, I’ve missed you. So you’ve had it all these years?”

  “I went back for it when I had some relief time for my serv
ice in the Guard. I went back to Alrashesh. It was still there. The leather had rotted, but the clockwork was just as pristine as the day we found it.”

  Elohl gazed at the pieces in the cataloguing-box before him. Vargen had separated each piece of the clockwork into cataloguing squares. The silversmith brought out papers, each one corresponding to a numbered space in the box, depicting the sigils upon each wheel and fulcrum and pin copied in painstaking fashion.

  “See here,” Vargen spread the papers out upon the main workbench, carefully pushing aside food and a mostly-drained flagon of ale. “I’ve tested each piece. Each one is wrought of either solid silver, gold, or platian, not alloyed. But there are thirteen pieces of rhoyanis. Rhoyanis is very rare, priceless, and is not indigenous to this nation. It comes from meteors that struck down in Ghrec and the deserts further south. You can only make something with it now if you melt down ancient artifacts, as all the natural rhoyanis has been used up. What you have here is a very expensive, very old puzzle, whose origins may be near Ghrec. I’ve been to the First Abbey and scoured their ancient southern language compendiums. Even asked a few Jenner scholars if they could make anything of those markings. They couldn’t. It’s not any language they’ve heard of. But unfortunately, lambsvellum scrolls deteriorate after about a thousand years, so they can’t say for sure the age of this script, or its origin. So, this is a deep mystery as well as a good puzzle.”

  “Can you put it back together?” Elohl interjected.

  Vargen glanced up. “I was rather hoping you’d give me that information. When you first saw it, can you remember which pieces were on top? What shape it was before it fell apart?”

  “I can sketch it for you. When I held it, it… imprinted on my senses. I found myself drawing it in the snow for weeks after I arrived at the High Brigade.” Elohl reached for a sheet of paper. His weathered fingers began to sketch in careful, controlled motions. “It was rectangular, and fit in the palm of my hand. In the center was a dial with spokes like the Jenner sun. I think it was that rhoyanis piece there, I remember it shining even in the darkness of the cavern, like moonstone. Those long rods with the pinhead ends might be the spokes. The backing of the center wheel was like a teardrop… maybe that piece there.” He pushed his sketch back to Vargen. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “I have something to start with at least. May I ask what this object is?”

  Olea and Elohl glanced at each other in perfect unison. It was Olea who answered. “We have no idea.”

  Elohl cleared his throat. “There was supposed to be something else in the box. Our comrade Ghrenna had a vision, that there would be a ruby ring within the box. And with the ring, we would be able to bring the Alrashemni justice. But there was no ring. Just this. The box fell to pieces when I handled it. Whatever this is, it was in there for a god’s age. Ghrenna was wrong.”

  But he and Olea exchanged a look.

  “What?” Eleshen quipped.

  Olea fixed her with a steady gaze. “Ghrenna's visions were never wrong.”

  Vargen grunted. “So whatever she saw in the box was… what? A portent?”

  Olea nodded. “Possibly. Who can say?”

  “Or perhaps the clockwork is related to the ring.” Eleshen’s fussy fingers were hovering near the pieces, as if she might start picking them out. Vargen slid the catalogue cautiously out of reach, and she pouted.

  Elohl blinked at her. “What?”

  She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Well, clearly it’s magic! It fell apart when you touched it! But it’s withstood all of time’s other weathering? That just doesn’t make sense. Unless the clockwork has magic to it. Just like Alranstones awaken to your touch, Elohl, opening every damn eye upon a seven-eye Stone! And ink you in gold! Whatever it is, it’s tied to you. You’re the common link in strange events, I’d say. Maybe your mother was right. Maybe you do have a way about you.”

  Elohl stared at her. He could feel his cheeks blushing, thoroughly embarrassed by her suggestions. He rubbed his short beard with one hand. “But that still doesn’t help us figure out why the clockwork was in the box and not the ring. Or what they do. Or how they are supposed to help us.”

  Eleshen’s smug visage fell. She chewed her lower lip, frowning. “Well. Shit.”

  Silence held court around the table. It was the Kingsman Vargen who finally spoke, his solid gaze resting thoughtfully upon Elohl. “Aeon above. She’s got a point. I can’t say about the clockwork, but I’ve heard something about this phenomenon with the plinth you came through, though, the opening of all seven eyes. Do you remember nothing of it, lad?”

  Elohl shook his head. “Only the word rennkavi comes to mind. And sometimes I recall a part of my dream that night, just a man standing before me, stern, with red and white Inkings. What do you know of it?”

  Vargen shook his head. “Well, the word and the man from your dream mean nothing to me. But, you say you had this dream atop the plinth. And then all seven eyes opened to you?”

  “And they blinked for him.” Eleshen added. “What do you know that you’re not telling us, Vargen?”

  “I know that seven-eye Stones were used for great teachings, so the legends say.” Vargen continued, taking a deep pull of ale from his mug. “I know that there are only three seven-eye towers in Alrou-Mendera, and a few scattered around the other nations. And there is a legend about them in the Jenner cannon, the parable of the Heimkellen. And the Uniter of the Tribes will open the eye of every septen Alranstone, from the mountain fasthold of Uhrkhennig to the Valley of the Ninth Seal. And all will come to him, refugees near and far. And the Lost Tribe will be found again. The heimkeller will celebrate at last, United.”

  Elohl blinked. “Where did you hear all that?”

  A wry smile graced Vargen’s lips. “I looked into becoming a Jenner monk, for a time. Back when I was still… unsettled. History says that there used to be a religious sect among the Alrashemni, called Jhennik Alremani. They had strong opinions about god, and believed the Alrashemni to be a blessed people. They were unable to be impartial enough to act as moderators. So eight hundred years ago, they seceded from the Alrashemni proper. The Jhennik took over the Alrashemni’s ancient fortress in Lintesh and created the First Abbey, started brewing ales and leading a life of monasticism. I had one of their books of prayer and prophecy.”

  Elohl leaned forward, intrigued. “The Jenners.”

  Vargen nodded. “Just so. In any case, the Jenners consider themselves part of the heimkeller, the Ones Who Will Return Home. So they preach. And that there will come a person who can open the eye of every Alranstone, the Uniter of the Tribes, to get them there. It's really more of a spiritual parable than something they actually believe. You know, the heimkeller are sinners who have forgotten Aeon, they will Return Home when one comes who teaches them how to live in brotherly love and unity and eternal bliss, that sort of thing. If you want to know more, you had better talk to the Jenners. But don't tell them that you opened every eye on a seven-eye Stone, lad. It might break their minds, to hear a parable come to life.”

  Elohl blinked. Something about Vargen’s words resonated with him, but he found his golden Inkings were quiet. And he felt, suddenly, that the information was right and yet it was far from right. Thinking deep, he took a swig of his ale.

  It was Eleshen who perked to his right, sitting tall and saying suddenly, “Well. That’s it then. We’ll get some lodgings in the city and then go visit these drunk monks and see what they can tell us.”

  “Jenners don’t drink.” Elohl heard himself murmur, remembering a dark alehouse deep underground, so long ago. Recalling the sigil of wolf and dragon upon the ironwood doors, seeming to roil and struggle as the torchlight guttered.

  “Well. That’s just crap. Brewing all those ales? I’m sure they get soused, they just like to pretend they’re holy men.” She swigged off the rest of her ale. “So. Time to unravel this knot of wool and find out who’s hunting you.”

  Elohl glanced ove
r. Her determination showed in the stubborn set of her jaw. Eleshen was beautiful, in a no-nonsense way. He couldn’t help but smile. His fingers stole out, seeking hers. She gripped his hand. Elohl saw Olea’s gaze flick to it, saw her blink as if surprised, her gaze scouring his face before she finally smiled. He saw her sit back, taking it in. Taking it in that Elohl had found someone else. Someone other than Ghrenna.

  Cerulean eyes surfaced in his vision.

  Elohl pushed them away.

  CHAPTER 19 – DHERRAN

  The ready-tent was stifling inside, the high heat of the day baking through the thick canvas like a brick oven. Outside the tent, calls were going around, a susurration of voices raised in betting, wagering, drunk with liquor and anticipation. Grump was somewhere out in the rabble beyond, pushing men into wagering more, doing his regular, capable wheedling one last time for their trio today. Inside, Dherran could practically feel Khenria’s nervous tension flooding the space. She rolled out her shoulders stiffly, wearing her training halter, midriff bare. Her loose cotton pants bared most of her lean thighs, showing how skinny she was. Khenria was fighting at the strike of noon, and the day was sweltering already. Dherran’s own fight wasn’t for hours yet, fourth bell in the afternoon, but sweat had begun to glisten them both in the thick humidity of the tent.

  “Remember.” Dherran stepped over with a dipper of water, noting with a twinge how lovely Khenria’s skin was and how much it was about to get bloodied and bruised. “No nasty tricks. If you do, you’ll be disqualified. Fight fair, but fight for your life if you have to. Sip. Hold it in your mouth and let it soak in. If you get hit, you’ll regret having a bellyful of water.”

  She nodded, doing as told, fear widening her eyes.

  “Have another.” She did, as Dherran continued his last-moment speech. “You’ll have this tent again if you win, to rest before the next bout as the other contenders take the ring to see who you’ll fight next. Second bout is twenty minutes after the first. First bout is easy. Second bout is hard. Your energy is sapped, you’ve had too much to drink, you’re heady from winning, and you’re hungry after your jitters have worn off. Second bout is where it counts, if you get there. One more sip.”