Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic
Page 57
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Lhaurent found him quite a while later. Khouren sat in their regular meeting-place, a rectangular space in the Hinterhaft with a long table for war-conferences. He had lit all the torches in the room, pushing back the dark, but they could not push back the heaviness in his heart. And now he sat upon the table, fingers leafing idly through an ancient tome bound in hide, but he was not looking at the beautiful illuminations of medicinal plants within. He heard the scrape of the wall as it swung inward over ancient dust. The soft, nearly soundless step of Lhaurent as he slipped in. The closing scrape of the wall. A scent of perfume, heady like ripening plums.
“Khouren.” Lhaurent den’Karthus’ tone dripped icy scorn. “You have gravely disappointed me today, interrupting my plans.”
Khouren did not look up from his tome. “Injuring someone dear to me was not supposed to happen today.”
Khouren heard Lhaurent pause, thinking about this information, still behind him near the wall. “Who was that man who wielded lightning, who killed the Kets al’Roch? What did you do with him, Khouren? He would be a great asset to our cause…”
“My grandfather will never come to you.” Khouren sighed. He heard nothing for a long moment. Slowly, Lhaurent den’Karthus stepped around the table into view. One long-fingered hand wisped lightly over the dust upon the table. On his index finger was the ruby ring of Khouren’s great-great-grandfather. The ring of Leith Alodwine with its wolf and dragon snarling, fighting around a ruby, ringed by white fire of a metal come from the heavens themselves. The ring that controlled the walls, for the right man with the talent. The ring that controlled Roushenn.
And now controlled an entire city.
“Your grandfather?” Lhaurent’s voice was soft, intrigued. “But the man I saw battling the creature… looked like First-Lieutenant Fenton den’Kharel.”
“Just so.” Khouren heaved a deep sigh, looked up, meeting Lhaurent’s curious grey eyes. “Don’t ask me to go after him. He’ll never come to your cause. He believes in the Dhenra. Nothing I’ve ever said has convinced him that you’re the one. The Rennkavi. The Uniter of the Tribes.”
Lhaurent was silent another long moment. But rather than angry, as Khouren expected, he seemed eager. Elated, a soft wonder suffused his face. “Khouren. Something’s… happened. I feel a change in the structure of the walls. In the pull coming from the ring, from the entire palace. It feels… stretched, wider, deeper. As if leagues and leagues of walls and floors and ceilings have suddenly wakened, hearkening to the wyrria in the ring. They’re… humming… all around me. Far into the city…”
Khouren gave a deep, tired sigh. With a slow grace he rose, then sank to one knee. “Rennkavi, the city of my great-great-grandfather has awakened. It is yours to command.”
Lhaurent startled visibly, a twitch taking him from head to heels. “What are you saying?”
Khouren looked up, feeling sick, feeling elated, feeling vast conflict deep in his very bones. “The entire city of Lintesh lives by the wyrria of Khehem, the same as the walls of Roushenn do. My great-great-grandfather’s city has awakened, yoked now to the magic in the Clockworks. All those walls, the streets of Lintesh… they will move for you now. I awakened it today, by the blood of my line. And it will hearken to you. To the power in your ring, the ring of Khehem’s ancient royal line. Keep it well, my Rennkavi. For now you control far more than a mere palace. You control a city. Right beneath the very boots of any who might oppose you.”
Lhaurent den’Karthus had taken a deep indrawn breath. Slowly, it came sighing out, sibilant, his grey eyes shining with a vast fever. “Khouren. Your opposition of me today is excused.”
And something deep in Khouren shifted, restless, watching the man before him. Goldenmarks were upon him, inked there so many years ago by a seven-eye Alranstone, just like the Prophecy had said. And yet. Khouren watched those shining eyes, that serpentine pleasure in his lord and master’s gaze. And wondered for the very first time, if his grandfather had been right.
Right to not follow this Rennkavi.
Right to wait, hoping against hope, that another one would come.
CHAPTER 37 – ELOHL