* * *
Swirling his blood red vellas-wine in his silver goblet, one part of Theroun’s mind enjoyed the way the red rubies upon the chalice caught the firelight like flayed skin, while the red of the wine was more like blood fountaining from a neck slash. The other part of his mind focused on trade routes. He had returned from the Dhenra’s suites nearly an hour earlier, as Elyasin had finally shown fatigue and needed to be fresh in the morning for negotiations. Six suitors she had dismissed already, various lordlings from Alrou-Mendera who had tried their hand at courting without really expecting to win her. Beyond local private garrisons, and two with a decent fleet of merchant vessels, they’d had little to offer the Crown but gold.
The real trade negotiations would begin tomorrow, suitors with both wealth and power who commanded significant holdings, of benefit to a nation at war. Theroun’s bleary gaze drifted over Valenghia’s trade routes for the thousandth time. He took a sip of wine, enjoying the deep plum notes. It didn’t taste like blood, but that was fine. His habits of war spurred him along, driving him to pour over the document, to push himself. There had been nights upon campaign when he’d gotten only two or three hours’ rest, and woken fit in the morning, the first to march from his tent to set a good example for his men.
What I wouldn’t give to be out there again.
His red-rimmed eyes drifted to the Thalanout Plain, near the Valenghian border, thinking of those questions that Thaddeus had at last dared to ask. Memories crowded close, ghosts pressing in at the darkened edges of his stark room. Theroun staggering back to his command tent, knifed in the ribs by a blackmarked Alrashemni assassin while taking a piss outside in the darkness. Holding his bloody ribs and breathing bubbles, his agony exquisite. The tent too quiet. All of his guards murdered without any alarm raised, throats slit to the last man in the full moonlight. Throwing back the canvas flap to find his wife, daughter, and two sons murdered, their throats slit also, royal red in pools of their own blood by the light of the upset braziers.
Theroun’s fingertip rubbed the edge of his wine goblet where he held it by the rim. He took a deep drink, still staring at that swath of land between its flanking bogs. There had been no trace of the assassins by the time he’d stumbled to the nearest tent. That fucking Alrashemni Kingsman with black Inkings so brazenly displayed had gotten a knife in Theroun’s ribs, and he hadn’t even seen the man coming. Just like he hadn’t heard any of the rest of them.
But Theroun had gotten a blade in the assassin’s neck before he could strike again. General Theroun den’Vekir had always been fast with a blade. Fast like a viper. But his family had died that night at traitorous Blackmark hands all the same.
Theroun took a long, slow breath, feeling the twisting cramp in his right side more keenly, though somewhat dulled by wine. He let his breath sigh away, coming back to his duty. Valenghia, it seemed now, would enjoy unceasing war with Alrou-Mendera in perpetuity. Skirmishes fluttered at their borders. Raids dipped into the highpasses and valleys, like they had for over ten years. The Vhinesse’s army had even driven a neat wedge through the Lheshen Valley near Quelsis for a time, though they had been beaten back by a stunning drive from the Fifth, Eighth, and Ninth Calvary, attended by the Fleetrunners and Stone Valley Guard.
Theroun wished he had been at that battle. The river had run red for days.
But it was all a sham, a dupe. All the battles, all the skirmishes, all the drives and counter-drives against Valenghia. Theroun knew the truth of it now, the reason behind the war, unlike he had when he was simply a General out marshaling armies on the field. Not even Uhlas had known the truth, Theroun had found out. His thoughtful, stolid King had been duped like all the rest. The entire nation had been duped.
Nothing was simple anymore. And Theroun’s duty was no longer simple, either. He no longer served just House den’Ildrian, not like he’d done as a General in war. Now he had other masters, and it was his sworn duty to let the war rage, as long as it took to kill all the black-hearted, treasonous Alrashemni Kingsmen still hiding in the military.
Their own dedication to their damn Kingsmen oaths was going to kill them. Theroun sipped his wine, gazing at the fire’s embers now. A part of him felt bad for the surviving Alrashemni. These ones yet serving their nation in secret were a doggedly righteous lot, and they were going to get picked off for it, battle by battle. But they would have that glory, unlike him. Theroun’s only regret was that he couldn’t be out there. That he was here instead, dishonorably discharged and rotting away inside this palace, all his talents going to waste.
Fucking Evshein and fucking Lhaurent.
A knock sounded upon Chancellor Theroun’s heavy ironbound door. His grip tightened on his silver chalice. Only one man came to his quarters so very late.
“Come!” Theroun barked, stilling his irritation deep beneath the smooth, implacable iron of a professional war-maker. Castellan Lhaurent, speak of the demon himself, flowed around the frame of the door. Hardly pushing the door open, he thus hardly needed to close it. Theroun gave the tall, greying man his customary look. It would not do to glower any less or more than he usually did. He didn’t want Lhaurent or Evshein ever knowing exactly what he thought of them.
“What is it, Lhaurent? I’m busy and it’s past late, and the Dhenra has preparatory talks tomorrow with the Isles and Ghrec.”
Castellan Lhaurent den’Karthus cleared his throat smoothly, his beringed hands clasped graciously. His grey-streaked black hair was oiled back from his high forehead, his grey eyes calm, his silver chains of office hanging neat and straight. Always impeccably groomed in his grey silk, at least Lhaurent had that discipline in his favor, and he never fidgeted.
Theroun couldn’t stand fidgeting.
“My apologies, Chancellor. I am aware of the deepening of the hour. I have come with a change of petition from our mutual beneficiaries.”
“Speak.”
“You are to focus your attentions on the suit of Elsthemen. Convince the Dhenra that all the other suitors are less attractive than King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen.”
“Explain.” Theroun drew a long breath, scowling harder, trying to ignore the lancing in his ribs at this news.
Lhaurent gave a slippery smile. “Because the First Sword of Elsthemen is prepared to give his life for our cause if Elyasin chooses King Therel Alramir. So we are going to make sure she chooses the renegade Highlander wolf-King, and no other.”
Theroun ground his jaw. “What is this all about, Lhaurent? What is the First Sword of Elsthemen prepared to do if Elyasin weds King Therel?”
Lhaurent's smirk became subtler. But his meaning was not lost on Theroun.
“He's going to attack someone.”
Lhaurent gave an effete nod.
“He's going to attack the Dhenra.”
Lhaurent's eyes were grey velvet, smooth and deceptive. “At the coronation. Before she can wed King Therel. Therel’s First Sword has volunteered to kill her. For the cause.”
Theroun's stomach dropped, stunned. His scar-ruined side twisted and bile rose to his lips. The Khehemni Lothren had demanded much of him over the years, influencing the Dhenra, using his position on the Chancellate to push Uhlas into endless counter-strikes against Valenghia. But this was madness. Theroun had had nothing to do with either King Uhlas’ nor Dhenir Alden’s deaths, but now, come again, was this familiar rotten flavor in his mouth like seven-day carrion.
“You fucking bastard.” Theroun seethed, jaw clenched. “You planned this, didn’t you? The Khehemni Lothren maneuver far, offing both the King and Dhenir as they did, but you… this brazen play has your stink all over it, eel. Just like Uhlas and Alden’s deaths did. Wiping out the King’s line. Ending the den’Ildrian reign.”
“War necessitates sacrifices, Theroun.” Lhaurent murmured mildly. “I thought you discovered that upon the Aphellian Way?”
Theroun's side twisted in agony, thinking about being adjunct to slaughtering Uhlas' daughter. “That was diffe
rent.”
“Was it?” Lhaurent's smile was smooth. “Because I do believe the objectives of those acts and this one are the same. Provoke war, to kill as many Alrashemni hiding in the ranks as possible…”
“You want a war with the Highlands. Killing the Dhenra is only a means to an end.” Theroun could see it now, the whole bloody strategy, despicable as the filth he wiped from his own ass. “King Therel of Elsthemen will retaliate if he’s blamed for his First Sword’s assassination, and we march on the Elsthemi border. He’ll fight, like a junkyard dog. And the Lothren-controlled Chancellate will push our nation to war, killing off yet more Alrashemni in the ranks, not to mention those up in Elsthemen.”
“Elsthemen is teeming with untamable blackmarked mongrels.” Lhaurent picked a piece of lint from his silk robes. “We simply aim to cull the pack, just as we did in Valenghia.”
“Will Alrou-Mendera cease war with Valenghia to engage one with the Highlands?”
“I think not. The Khehemni Lothren command us to engage both fronts at once.” Lhaurent's answer was practiced, languid, his eyelashes lowered with false demureness.
“But Alrou-Mendera can’t sustain a two-front war!” Theroun erupted, slamming his fist into the stout table. “I don’t care what the Lothren say! We’ll be routed. The Highlanders have keshar they fucking ride to battle! Those tawny cats can leap fifteen feet, and bring down a horse at full gallop! Ever seen a man get his head crunched in a keshar’s maw? There’s little left but brain spatter, and those fangs can reach a heart through the shoulder. We’ll lose too many men, far too fast. The Khehemni Lothren are making a vast mistake. We risk losing the entire fucking country! Especially with the Dhenra dead!”
“Nevertheless,” Lhaurent continued, his hands still clasped calmly before him. “Our ancient enemies, the Alrashemni, are strong in Elsthemen. They are aware of the Khehemni, and pick us off like hawks do rats. They must be dealt with. And the Lothren have declared that this is as it must be. Just as it is with Valenghia. The hiding Alrashemni Kingsmen and Kingskinder must be pinned in the ranks between stone and stone. And we will never get it done with Elyasin upon the throne. She’s far too sympathetic to their plight.”
Theroun stared Castellan Lhaurent down, furious at what the secret ruling body of the Khehemni was going to cost the nation. “That’s a lot of good netting put to waste, to catch a few minnows. You’ll be condemning thousands of Menderian men to death by cat. Tens of thousands! Good men, loyal soldiers. Men who are not Alrashemni Kingsmen in the least. You’ll thin our ranks to the breaking point until the Valenghian Vhinesse gets the idea to really test Alrou-Mendera’s mettle. Start a two-front war, and the Vhinesse will seize her opportunity to smash through our ranks and drive straight to the capitol. She’s a bitch, and she knows her warfare.”
Lhaurent did not flinch. “The Valenghian Vhinesse is well in hand. She will not challenge the Lothren, nor push the war further than we wish her to. She knows her place.”
“Are you sure of that?” Theroun growled.
Lhaurent’s small smirk was eerie. “Yes. I am. Utterly.”
“And just how exactly has her loyalty to the Khehemni Lothren been secured?”
Lhaurent coughed discreetly, and his grey eyes shone with the pleasure of secrets. “That is something, I’m afraid you do not have the authority to know, my dear Chancellor. She is ours. It is enough.”
Theroun ground his teeth, and resisted the urge to shove a blade right through Lhaurent’s greasy throat. “She is the Lothren’s? Or yours, personally?”
Lhaurent’s small twitch of lips showed his vast pleasure. “What does it matter? She serves the Khehemni Lothren. And she keeps up a very expensive war for a very long time, because we wish it. Not to mention the… benefits she receives from the arrangement, which I assure you are ample.”
“What are you doing for her that convinces her to keep such a war going, Lhaurent?”
Lhaurent lifted a well-calculated eyebrow. “I am not doing anything, Theroun. I am merely following at the Lothren’s command. As you would do well to remember.”
“Is that a threat, Lhaurent?” Theroun’s fingers strayed to the hilt of the knife he always wore at his belt.
The Castellan actually smirked. “I do not make threats, Chancellor. When the Lothren of the Khehemni need information, or persuasion, or need someone dead discreetly, I simply supply. But right now, they need a lot of someones dead. In Elsthemen and Alrou-Mendera, in addition to what is already in progress at the Valenghian border. Which is your job. Push the Dhenra to yield to the suit of King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen. Tout their wealth, their bloodlines, their trade. There is much that is attractive about the Elsthemi, and about Therel Alramir. He is young and good-looking. And fairly well-behaved.”
“Except for that time he cut a maid up and stuffed her into a trunk in his rooms.”
Lhaurent coughed smoothly. “That cannot be proven.”
“Wouldn’t it be enough to simply wed them?” Theroun growled. “If she’s trapped by King Therel off in the Highlands, how much disaster for the Lothren could Elyasin be?”
“Plenty.” Lhaurent murmured smoothly. “She favors the Alrashemni, as her brother did. And once she has been bedded, she would regain that temper of hers, fighting in their favor. Besides, Therel is a known womanizer. Any pleasure between them wouldn’t last long. And once there is bitterness across the thrones, kings allow queens do whatever they want, all so that the King can get them to shut up and do what he wishes.”
“But isn’t King Therel aligned with the Khehemni, if his First Sword is?”
Lhaurent shook his head, gazing deep into the fire. “Therel is not aware of our agents, as far as we can tell, and it’s going to remain that way. The man is a rogue like Dhenir Alden was. He’s far too unpredictable to be trusted. But some of his men are very loyal to the cause. Three of whom are in his entourage right now. Including his First Sword.”
Theroun snorted roughly, eyeballing the well-manicured eel. “What about Arthe den’Tourmalin?”
A slight snarl curled Lhaurent’s mouth, then it was gone. “The Tourmaline Isles are giving us… a bit of a fuss. Arthe den’Tourmalin has proven unwilling to negotiate. Even the slightest hint of encouraging war with Alrou-Mendera causes him to speak sharp rebuke. One of our agents was careless, hinting too often, and Arthe den’Tourmalin sent him to the block, to make an example of the man. Den’Tourmalin will not provoke war with Alrou-Mendera. Dissuade the Dhenra from his suit.”
“But King Therel of Elsthemen is just rash enough to fight back in fury if Alrou-Mendera accuses him of having anything to do with assassinating our young Queen.”
“Precisely.”
Theroun was silent a very long time. Lhaurent did not blink and he did not fidget, his hands still gracefully clasped as if he was personally waiting upon the King. He appeared benign and servile, but Theroun knew he was far from either. Theroun wondered again just how high up Lhaurent was in the Khehemni Lothren. Far enough to know exactly what was going on, which Theroun himself didn’t. And yet, Lhaurent had surprising information sometimes, that Theroun wondered if he shared with the Lothren. Lhaurent’s network of spies throughout the northern nations and even the southwestern nations past the Isles were personally-recruited, Theroun knew that much.
And were intensely loyal to Lhaurent, for what reason Theroun couldn’t fathom. He wondered if those spies and servingfolk were even loyal to the Lothren at all. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered it. Lhaurent den’Karthus was very closemouthed about his network.
“Tell me about the emeralds, Lhaurent.”
“Emeralds?” Lhaurent lifted his eyebrow, coy.
“Don't bullshit me. You know where they're going. And why. Evshein's been signing off on the documents.”
Lhaurent gave a secretive chuckle. “Wars are expensive, Theroun. Chancellor Evshein is merely providing... a bit of pay. To recruit the men we need when war breaks out on the Elsthemi border.”
“Recruiting men from where?” Theroun's fingers lingered near the knife at his belt.
“Abroad.”
“Where, you fucking sneak-thief?!”
“Abroad.”
Theroun ground his jaw. His fingers spasmed at the hilt of his knife as a lancing dart of pain ripped through his right side. “You’re an eel, Lhaurent. Someone’s going to put a sword through you someday and roast you for supper.”
The Castellan smirked, just the hint at one corner of his too-smooth lips. “Is that a threat, Chancellor? And here I thought you were the one who had been pinned in the rain barrel by a hawk’s talons. Or have you forgotten why you swore allegiance to the Khehemni, to the Lothren, just after your madness on the Aphellian Way? So many Alrashemni Kingsmen to kill… so little time before a man dies to see revenge done for his family’s death. Oh yes, and the fact that he is now a cripple. I’m watching, Theroun. Step wrong, tell the Dhenra, or do any little thing that compromises Elyasin's demise and you will be pinned again, but not by a Kingsman. And that’s not a threat, my friend. That’s a promise. But play our little game, and see all your desires to annihilate Alrashemni Kingsmen bear blood-ripened fruit.”
“You’re watching?” Theroun growled. “Don’t you mean the Lothren are watching?”
Lhaurent gave an oily smile. “Take my words as you like them.”
And with that, the Castellan turned smoothly on his heel, clasping the iron handle of the heavy door with one beringed hand and flowing around the frame. Theroun rubbed his jaw and scowled, watching the Castellan go. He hadn't raided the banks of the Trius with only fifty men, slitting throats in the dead of night for this. To be disrespected by this silken cur; treated like a lackey. Those cream-smooth hands of Lhaurent's hadn't done a lick of work in his entire poufed life. Theroun thought he could smell eels in the man’s wake. Or perhaps it was just jasoune-bloom, reeking like a west wind through Lintesh. Bloody perfume for a woman’s bedchamber, not the smell of a man.
Theroun found he was gripping the hilt of the knife at his belt, hard.
He should have thrown it. Right into the Castellan’s back.
CHAPTER 13 – DHERRAN
Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic Page 20