The Sworn fkc-1

by Gail Z. Martin

  “That it is.” Young and suicidal.

  “Truth be told, I’ve never seen Gregor get in a brawl-before I took him to Dark Haven.” There was a pregnant pause, and Jonmarc guessed that Gellyr was hoping for the story.

  “You could say that there’s some history,” Jonmarc said. If Gellyr was going to stick his neck out to help him, he needed to understand what he was getting into. Jonmarc gave him the short version of the story: Ric’s death, Carina’s failure to save him and her own near-death, and Gregor’s capture of them the year before.

  “Is that all?” Gellyr asked with wry amusement. “Goddess true! That’s a tale for the bards. Well, that explains a lot.”

  “Here’s the big question, and I know I’m putting you on the spot, but with what’s coming our way, I need to know. Gregor’s an ex-merc. So am I. So’s my friend Harrtuck, who’s now Captain of the Guards for Martris Drayke in Margolan. Some mercs find something bigger than themselves to believe in. Somewhere to pledge their loyalty. Some mercs are only ever loyal to themselves. Which kind is Gregor?”

  Jonmarc could see the conflict in Gellyr’s face and guessed he was weighing his words carefully. “I’ve seen General Gregor perform his duties admirably,” Gellyr said finally. “He received a commendation from King Staden for his performance handling some border raiders a few years ago. Personally, I have no quarrel with the man. He’s been a good commander.” He met Jonmarc’s eyes. “But I know what you’re asking, and I don’t know the answer. I’ve never seen him with his back against the wall. The kind of war your serroquette is predicting-that’s going to put the allegiance of most men to the test. Fighting men is one thing. Fighting magic and monsters, well, some men aren’t cut out for that.”

  Jonmarc met his eyes. “Are you?”

  He saw old pain flash in Gellyr’s eyes. Jonmarc guessed from the other man’s scars that he was a seasoned veteran, someone who had seen real battle and lived to tell about it. “I keep my vows,” Gellyr said, and there was steel beneath his voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to protect Principality and the queen. And if necessary, I’ll die for her.”

  Jonmarc nodded. “Then we have an understanding.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Is it always like this?” Aidane swiveled from side to side in her saddle as they rode into Principality City. Although it was night, the view was still impressive. Colorful flags, banners, and streamers waved from every building and post. Music filled the air, along with the sound of raucous laughter. The night air smelled of incense, perfume, and roasting meat. Crowds jostled the riders. Many of the festivalgoers wore elaborate costumes to the Eight Faces of the Sacred Lady. The vast majority celebrated the Lover or the Whore. Some wore barely any costume at all. More than a few men staggered down the sidewalk gripping a tankard or bottle, while others walked arm in arm with one or more female companions, all, by the look of them, equally inebriated. The alleys they passed smelled of vomit and urine, the byproducts of a successful feast. Sounds from the doorways indicated that strumpets were busy seeing to the needs of the festival crowd.

  Jonmarc gave a protective glance toward Berry, who seemed preoccupied. She noticed his attention, and forced a smile. “I grew up here, remember? You look as though you’d like to put a bag over my head, but believe me, I know what goes on at Haunts.”

  Jonmarc shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  Berry sighed. “It’s really all the same to them, isn’t it?”

  Jonmarc followed her gaze to the merrymakers. “What do you mean?”

  “One king’s as good as the next, so long as the taxes don’t rise,” she said softly.

  Jonmarc could see the sadness in her eyes. “I told Kiara once that until I traveled with the lot of you, it never occurred to me that a king was a real person, someone’s father or husband. Kings were like statues, up on high, not quite real. You paid your taxes to them and vowed loyalty and if it came down to it, you died for them. But loving them? I didn’t understand that until I saw how things affected you and Carina and Kiara and Tris. Don’t be too hard on them. They mean no offense.”

  Berry nodded. “And until I was captured by the slavers and spent time on the road with you and Tris, and then at Dark Haven, I don’t think I realized just how far away the palace seems to most people. Like something out of a storybook. Not real at all.” She swallowed hard. “Father loved Haunts. When he was a prince, he used to slip out into the crowd unannounced and have a grand time until the guards found him and dragged him home, usually drunk and singing.” She chuckled, despite herself. “I wish I could have seen that.”

  “Look at that!” Aidane was pointing, her voice amazed. A huge stage had been erected in the center of the city for the appearance of the Sacred Vessels, the Lady’s oracles. It was an elaborate dais with eight pillars and eight statues, one for each of the Lady’s faces. Diaphanous cloth wafted between the pillars in shades of red and yellow. Behind the dais, a small city of white tents marked the area where the Temple Consorts welcomed those who sought to make a more personal, intimate connection with the goddess.

  Above the sound of the crowd came the ringing of the chimes that marked the brothels. Legend had it that wenching was especially encouraged at Haunts to replace the lives of the departed. Jonmarc had always suspected that the prodigious consumption of alcohol had more to do with it than any religious significance.

  All around the city’s center, giant straw effigies of the Lady in all of her eight Aspects towered over the crowd. Bonfires flared into the sky in front of the empty stage, and musicians were playing a lively dance song. Many of the revelers wore the beads that signified their devotion to the Lady. At least for this night, everyone appeared to be quite devout, festooned with dozens of strings of the many-colored beads. Some of the women wore little else.

  “Nice beads,” Jonmarc commented.

  Berry chuckled. “Good thing for some of the women out here that it’s not any colder. They aren’t wearing enough beads to stay warm. Do you remember what the colors mean?”

  “It’s been awhile. Red for the Whore, right?”

  Berry nodded.

  “Yellow for the Lover. Istra’s beads are dark red like blood. I remember that from Dark Haven. Black is the Crone. Picked up on that in Nargi.”

  “Orange for Chenne and Green for the Childe,” Berry prompted.

  “Blue for the Mother,” Jonmarc added, searching his memory. “I know I’m forgetting one.”

  “Clear for Nameless,” Aidane supplied. “The Formless One.” She shrugged as they turned to her. “I saw clear beads on one of the Black Robes. It stuck in my mind because, in Nargi, wearing anything except the black beads could get you flogged.”

  Costumed dancers twirled and shook tambourines or dried gourds filled with seeds. Puppets large and small entertained the crowd. Some were doll sized, telling stories from a movable stage on a cart. Others were child sized, suspended by strings. Still others towered above their handlers, worked by a clever series of pulleys and wands. Food vendors offered every type of repast imaginable from stalls and carts along the street, while ale, wine, and stronger spirits sold at a brisk pace from taverns as well as from barrels on the backs of wagons.

  “How are we ever going to spot the Durim in this mess?” Jonmarc murmured to Gellyr.

  “If they’re clever enough to leave their black robes behind, they could be anywhere,” Gellyr replied. “We’ll see what my wife’s uncle, the general, has to say. Maybe he’ll have a good idea.”

  They made their way slowly through the press of the crowd. Berry and Aidane were in the middle, with their traveling cloaks drawn up around them to avoid attention. Jonmarc, Gellyr, and the soldiers formed a knot around them, but even so, Jonmarc’s hand never strayed far from the pommel of his sword. As they followed the road uphill, toward the palace, the crowds thinned out. They rounded a bend, and Lienholt Palace came into view, lit by torches and a bonfire in the bailey.

  Berry caught her breath. A gray
flag of mourning flew from the palace’s highest tower. In stark contrast to the colorful banners in the city below, gray banners flew from every window and post. As they neared the gates, Jonmarc could see that a large wreath made of dry vines had been placed above the archway, signifying that there had been a death. Principality City might be going about its festival as usual, but it was clear that the palace was in mourning.

  Jonmarc and Gellyr flanked Berry as she rode forward, dropping her hood. The gate guards bowed low, and the captain of the guards came out to greet them.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, making a deep bow. “We were expecting you. You must be tired from your journey. Everything is ready for you.”

  The large wooden outer gates creaked open. Jonmarc stole a glance at Berry as they entered. Her face was stoic, but her eyes were filled with grief. As the massive gate shut behind them, Jonmarc and Gellyr looked around, scanning for danger. Jonmarc had been a guest of Staden’s for nearly six months when Tris was preparing for his return to Margolan. He’d gotten to know the palace well. Now, he planned to use that familiarity to protect Berry.

  Servants ran to take their horses. Jonmarc and Gellyr stayed beside Berry, while Kolin, Laisren, and Aidane came behind them with Anton and Serg, and Gellyr’s soldiers walked ahead and behind. A man in his middle years was striding down the palace steps toward them, and Jonmarc recognized him as Jencin, Staden’s seneschal. He looked exhausted, and his face was drawn.

  “Your Majesty,” he said and greeted Berry with a hurried bow, as if he was reminding himself about her recent change from princess to queen. “It’s so good to have you home again, although I wish it were under other circumstances.”

  Berry’s gaze strayed past Jencin, to a scorched mark on the cobblestones of the bailey courtyard where Staden’s pyre would have been. “Me, too, Jencin. Me, too.” She collected herself, and her features slipped into regal neutrality. Jonmarc began to wonder if it was something royals practiced from birth. “You remember Jonmarc Vahanian, my Champion, and Captain Gellyr?”

  Jencin smiled. “Of course. I’m glad your ride was a safe one.”

  Jonmarc nodded. “So far.” Jencin looked at him as if he suspected there was a story behind the comment, but he said nothing as Berry continued with the introductions.

  “Kolin and Laisren are emissaries of the Blood Council,” Berry said with a nod. Both men inclined their heads in greeting. “And Anton and Serg represent the vyrkin packs. Aidane is the liaison for the dead,” Berry said with a totally straight face. Aidane swallowed wrong and began to cough; Jonmarc suspected she was utterly unprepared to be introduced as a visiting diplomat.

  “M’lady, do you think it wise-”

  “I do, or I wouldn’t have brought them.” Berry’s voice was sharp. She might have left Principality City as a girl, but she was returning as a queen, and as fond as Jonmarc knew she was of Jencin, old roles had to change. “I am queen of Principality, the living, dead, and undead. These are difficult times. If we expect the allegiance of all our subjects, then we must recognize and reward their fealty.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Jencin led them into the palace. The servants they passed made low bows, welcoming Berry. Jonmarc watched as she swept by them, acknowledging them and thanking them. He wondered how many of them could see the strain in her face, the effort it was taking for Berry to return home, knowing that Staden was gone forever.

  Jonmarc had a chance to brief Berry before they arrived on the plan he and Gellyr had concocted, and she agreed with him. Best not to start off her reign by forcing the military into something, even if she turned out to be right. They’d see if Gellyr’s uncle would act as a go-between with Hant. If not, Berry would take the issue to Hant herself. “The festival was well attended when we rode through,” Berry commented.

  “Yes, m’lady. We didn’t think it wise to cancel festivities, even with your father’s passing. Such energy needs a release.” Jencin looked nervous, and Jonmarc wondered if the seneschal was fully prepared for Berry’s sudden return.

  Berry gave a sad smile. “Father would never have stood for the festival being changed. It was one of his favorites. Better to remember how well he loved a feast.”

  “That he did, m’lady, better than anyone.”

  “Still,” Berry said, pausing as if the idea was only just occurring to her, “it might do to have more guards about, to keep the peace.”

  “M’lady?”

  “I’m not yet formally crowned. As the vyrkin say, the most dangerous time is between what was and what will be. It might tempt some revelers to get out of hand, knowing that Father is gone.”

  Jencin gave her a look that said he suspected there was more to it, but he did not question. “A wise observation, m’lady. I’ll notify the guards and ask for additional men. I’ll request that they remain vigilant but not heavy-handed.”

  Berry nodded. “Thank you.”

  They had moved out of the public areas of the palace and into the private rooms. As they walked, Jencin assigned the visitors to their rooms, with Aidane’s quarters on one side of Berry’s rooms and Jonmarc’s on the other. “As for the vayash moru, I can open the crypts in the cellars. You won’t be disturbed.” Jencin glanced from Kolin to Laisren. “And for meals, am I correct that deer or goat blood is acceptable?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Jencin looked relieved, and Jonmarc suppressed a smile. “The vyrkin will be quite happy with meat, so the deer and goat will be appreciated,” Jonmarc said, with a nod in the direction of Anton and Serg. “Tell the kitchen not to bother cooking it.”

  Jencin glanced at the vyrkin. His hand fluttered a bit at his side, but he controlled his nervousness. “Absolutely. I’ll see to it right away.”

  “Jencin, what are the coronation plans?” It was Berry who spoke, and Jonmarc could see in her eyes the strain of maintaining her composure.

  Jencin’s voice softened as he turned to her. “We’re all agreed that soonest is best. Your father left some unfinished business that can’t wait. Now that you’re here, I’ll convene the nobles at the tenth bells. You’ll find the robes of office in your room. I’ve taken the liberty of choosing a coronation gown. I hope it’s to your liking.”

  Berry nodded, as if the selection of a dress was the furthest thing from her mind. “We’ll have the ceremony here at the palace,” Jencin continued, “to make it official with the nobles and the heads of the merchant guilds. Then tomorrow night, the custom is for the new monarch to journey to the Lover’s Temple to receive the crown from the Sacred Vessels and perhaps receive a blessing from the Lady. In this case, falling on the Feast of the Departed, we’ll go to the dais in the city for you to make your offering and hear the prophecy.”

  Having the Black Robes disrupt the festival is bad enough. Having them endanger the new queen makes this a whole new game. Jonmarc looked at Gellyr, and from the look on the captain’s face, Jonmarc guessed Gellyr was thinking the same thing.

  “Is it really necessary? I mean, the part about going out to the dais in the middle of the festival?” Berry’s voice suddenly sounded fatigued, and while Jonmarc was sure that some of it was real, he was aware of just how good an actress Berry could be when necessary. He was betting she’d realized the danger as well.

  “Without it, you haven’t fulfilled the requirements of coronation, Your Majesty,” Jencin said apologetically. “I can only guess how much strain you’re under, especially after your ride. But we must do everything correctly, to avoid a challenge.”

  Berry nodded. “I’m just not in a festival mood this year. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Of course, m’lady.”

  “With the queen’s permission,” Gellyr said, clearing his throat, “I have some duties to attend to and some things to arrange.”

  “Yes, please,” Berry replied. Jonmarc knew Gellyr went to send a message to his uncle to arrange a meeting after the coronation.

  “I’ve had servants draw b
aths for you, to refresh you after your ride,” Jencin said with a glance to Jonmarc and the others. “You’ll also find food and drink in your rooms.” He looked to Jonmarc. “As Queen’s Champion, you’ll have a role in the ceremony. I remember that you had a fondness for wearing your sword even in the presence of the king,” he said with the barest trace of a smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Good, because I’m wearing it anyhow.”

  The candlemarks passed quickly, and tenth bells found a group of twenty people convened for the coronation. Some of the nobles looked vaguely familiar from his stay in the Principality court, but Jonmarc could not put names with the faces. He fervently hoped that the nobles would defer to Berry and that he would have no reason to get to know any of the nobility better. In his experience, the only reason for one of the Council of Nobles to come to his attention would be if they caused a problem. They had enough problems with the Black Robes.

  Jencin led the procession into the room. All the waiting guests stood. Berry followed Jencin, looking regal in her elegant gown of Mussa silk. Her elaborate royal robes were covered with Noorish embroidery that seemed to move and shift. Berry wore the gold circlet that she had received in Dark Haven. Jonmarc followed in the procession, wearing all black, as he preferred when forced to be at court. Gellyr and three other guards followed, and while they were in their dress uniforms, Jonmarc noticed that they were all well armed. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, making him feel ever-so-slightly more at ease. The doors shut behind them.

  Berry had given Jonmarc some insight into the audience. Eight of the guests were seated in the front row. Jonmarc was sure that meant they were the Council of Nobles. Aside from the fact that each one was dressed in enough lace, velvet, and brocade to cost a master craftsman a full year’s wage, Jonmarc saw nothing remarkable or memorable. They were unarmed, and they looked slightly bored. Behind them were five more finely dressed men and women, Staden’s favorites among the lesser nobility, lords and ladies whose loyalty and allegiance were as certain as their friendship with the late king. These guests appeared to be more interested in the proceedings, although once again, aside from their obvious affluence, nothing marked them as a threat or worthy of notice in Jonmarc’s mind.