The Sworn fkc-1

by Gail Z. Martin

  Gellyr swallowed hard. “Apologies, m’lady. ’Tis too easy, sometimes, to forget that the victims were people.” He took a deep breath. “I knew about the problems in Dark Haven, but I never put the two together.” He shook his head. “I know we’re running out of time, but we all need to get some sleep if we’re to fight tomorrow. If Aidane can manage it, I’d like to find out anything we can from Buka’s victims. It may give us a clue about the Durim’s plans for the festival, or at least we might get a break in trying to catch the bastard.”

  “I’ll help if I can,” Aidane said. Jonmarc could hear the strain in her voice. He knew from the time he’d spent with Tris Drayke how much of a toll magic took, and while Aidane’s gift might be slightly different, he bet it came with a cost.

  “We’re no good to anyone if we’re too tired to move,” Jonmarc said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  The next morning, Jencin knocked on Jonmarc’s door. “You’ve got visitors.”

  Jonmarc dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway, where Gellyr was just closing the door to his room. He looked at Gellyr, who shrugged. “I’m not expecting anyone,” Gellyr said. “Are you?”

  “Who are they?” Jonmarc asked as Jencin walked with them down the corridor.

  “Mages, by the look of them. Said you’d called for them.” His tone clearly gave Jonmarc to know that a warning would have been appreciated.

  “Sorry for not mentioning it, but I had no idea they’d show up this quickly,” Jonmarc said. He glanced at Gellyr. “Looks like your messages got through.”

  Jonmarc followed Jencin into a parlor off the main corridor. He was surprised to see a dozen people waiting for him. Some of them dozed in chairs or on the floor, while others looked up from where they had been talking in low tones. All wore mage robes. One of the men rose and started toward the door to greet them. He looked to be in his third decade, with reddish-blond hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyebrows were almost white, and he was clean-shaven.

  “Lord Vahanian?” The mage looked from Jonmarc to Gellyr.

  “Are you Rigel?”

  The mage smiled. “I see Taru mentioned me. She’s well, I hope?”

  Jonmarc nodded. “Very well. I’ll give her your greeting. You’ve brought friends?”

  Rigel swept his arm in a gesture to include the others in the room. “Landis wouldn’t approve of our being here. Some of us have already left the Sisterhood; others were planning to do so sooner rather than later. We don’t agree with Landis’s notion that mages should lock themselves in a tower and refuse to use their magic to help.”

  “I never thought I’d be so happy to see a room full of mages, but you’re a welcome sight,” Jonmarc said. Two servants entered the room, bearing trays of bread, cheese, and sausage and a large kettle of kerif. One of the servants brought Jonmarc a cup of kerif, and Gellyr also accepted one. They sat down as the mages grouped themselves into a circle. Rigel made introductions, but Jonmarc was tired enough that the names didn’t stick in his mind. He paid attention to the color of their robes. Rigel’s robes were light blue, and he remembered that Taru said that Rigel was an air mage. Not quite the powers of a summoner, but magic that was closer than any other type. He spotted a couple of green robes, indicating healers. Nice to have in a fight. Light brown robes usually meant a land mage. There were three of them. Tired as he was, Jonmarc began to smile when he saw six mages with dark blue robes. Water mages would come in handy if they faced an enemy from across the Northern Sea. The twelfth man wore red robes, and Jonmarc frowned. Fire mages were trouble.

  Rigel seemed to follow his gaze, and guessed his thinking. “That’s Tevin. He’s a fire mage.”

  Jonmarc’s eyes narrowed. “The last fire mage I met was Foor Arontala. It wasn’t a good experience.”

  Tevin seemed to wince at the name. He was very pale, with lank, straw-blond hair. He might have been anywhere from seventeen to just under thirty. Jonmarc bet he was older than he looked. Tevin didn’t look up, and he spoke just above a whisper. “We’re not all like that. We choose what we are.” His voice was quiet, but when he looked up to meet Jonmarc’s gaze, Tevin’s eyes were determined. Jonmarc guessed that he wasn’t the first to question Tevin’s integrity, or the first to suspect a fire mage’s motives.

  “We’ve got trouble at the festival,” Jonmarc said. “If you’ve got the stomach for a fight, it looks like there’s more bad news coming from across the Northern Sea. Help us, and I’ll ask the queen to find patrons who’ll take you out of Landis’s reach.”

  Rigel was silent, looking from face to face, and Jonmarc wondered if he had the ability to mind speak with the other mages. Finally, he met Jonmarc’s eyes and nodded. “You have yourself some mages. There’re more coming. They couldn’t be here this morning, but they should arrive before the festival begins.” He smiled then, a look that seemed to anticipate the danger and accepted the risks. There was a glint in his eyes that told Jonmarc that Rigel knew what they were signing on for, knew before they set foot in Lienholt Palace.

  “All right then,” Jonmarc said, setting his empty cup aside. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Later that day, just before tenth bells in the evening, Berry’s procession left the palace to head for the festival. Despite all their preparations, Jonmarc still didn’t feel confident that the ceremony would finish without incident. Thanks to Hant and Valjan, Jonmarc knew that the number of soldiers who were visible in their uniforms was only a fraction of the number of their men who were dressed as festivalgoers throughout the crowd. Rigel and Tevin rode with the queen’s entourage. The others had dispersed into the crowd, without the robes that marked them as mages, indistinguishable from the celebrants. They, too, would watch for trouble, using their magic. Kolin and Laisren had agreed to meet them near the dais. Anton and Serg were already in position. Jonmarc hoped that the heightened senses of the vayash moru and vyrkin would pick up some clue before the Black Robes made their move.

  Aidane also rode with the queen’s party. Unlike their entry into Principality City, when she hid her serroquette ’s outfit with a traveling cloak, Aidane seemed to flaunt her status. Whether it was bravado or Aidane knew that here at Haunts a serroquette would be welcome and not reviled, Jonmarc couldn’t say. She had a determined look, and if he watched, her expression changed so that he guessed that she was alternating with Thaine to scan the crowd as they passed.

  “Smile,” Berry whispered as Jonmarc rode next to her. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”

  “I don’t feel like smiling.”

  Berry chuckled, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes. She patted the folds of her skirt. “I have both sets of knives Carroway gave me. Spent a candlemark last night practicing. It’s good for the nerves.”

  “I wish we’d had more time. For all we know, the Durim have been planning whatever they’re going to do for months.” As he spoke, Jonmarc scanned the crowd, but all he saw were drunken revelers. He’d told the others to watch for people who didn’t seem intoxicated, who weren’t doing their best to get laid or score a free drink. If anything, this year’s Haunts seemed to be more out of control than Jonmarc remembered it to be, as if the news of plague and the rumors of war had convinced people to live it up while they still had time.

  “You know, I’ve had more complaints from the constables this year than ever before,” Gellyr murmured, echoing Jonmarc’s thoughts. “It’s been like a weeklong drunken binge, and even by Haunts standards, ‘orgy’ seems too mild a word.”

  “Back when we were mercs, Valjan’s motto was ‘Drink it, eat it, win it, and bed it, because tomorrow you die.’ In a business where most people didn’t live to see thirty seasons, I’d say it was taken to heart.”

  “Indeed. Although I don’t think everyone here is a merc.”

  Jonmarc shrugged. “If there were a year that would convince people to make the most of it while they’re still breathing, I’d say it’s the year we’ve just lived throug
h. Or at least, it’s an excuse to get their minds off it.”

  They reached the dais without incident. Soldiers in palace livery stood shoulder to shoulder along the pathway through the crowd and lined the edge of the raised platform. Behind the dais and creating a semicircle around the center of the crowd were the eight straw effigies of the Aspects of the Sacred Lady. Each effigy stood as broad as a tall man and four times as high, made of straw over a frame of wood.

  At midnight on Haunts, the effigies would be lit and the revelry would reach its frenzied peak. A child conceived near midnight on Haunts was considered to be especially fortunate and said to be fated for wealth and happiness. Jonmarc noticed that more women in the crowd than usual appeared to be very near term, and he fought down a stab of loneliness, missing Carina. Beyond the dais, the white tents of the Temple Companions had long lines of both men and women, waiting to seal their good fortune for the next year by coupling with the Companions. They were going to have a busy night. Throughout the crowd, bead-draped revelers sang, hooted, and danced, and the smell of ale, wine, and stronger drink hung as heavy in the air as the incense of the Sacred Vessels. Local legend said that anyone too drunk to remember midnight on Haunts would be blessed by having their troubles erased like their memories of the evening. By the look of it, most of the crowd had a lot they wanted to forget.

  Jonmarc turned his attention to the dais. Eight white pillars were draped with swags of fabric. In front of each pillar was a statue to one of the faces of the Lady, and at the foot of each statue, a brazier glowing with incense. Smaller braziers ringed the large common area, and the wood for a huge bonfire was stacked, ready to be lit at midnight. Prayers, requests, and thank-yous to the Lady could be written on scraps of wood or cloth and tossed into the braziers or into the central bonfire, and it was said that the sparks would carry the messages to the Lady Herself.

  Eight women were already standing on the dais, and Jonmarc knew they were the Sacred Vessels, seers, oracles, and rune scryers who had dedicated themselves to the worship of the Lady, especially the favored Aspects of Principality: the Lover and Whore. At the moment, they wore loose white robes. Before the night was through, they would shed the robes to make their predictions sky-clad. Tonight, with the unusual circumstances of a feast night coronation, Berry would join them on the dais. Their predictions were expected to be focused more than usual on the fortunes of the new queen, and Jencin had told him that it was not unheard of for the spirit of the Lady to fall upon the newly crowned monarch with visions and prophecies. Such an occurrence was considered to be a very good omen. Jonmarc found the prospect unsettling.

  Even with the guards, the crowd seemed too close, now that they knew the Durim were among them. Jonmarc scanned the crowd, but nothing seemed amiss. Still, his gut feeling warned him that something was very wrong.

  When they reached the dais, Jonmarc helped Berry down from her horse, while Gellyr assisted Aidane. Jonmarc knew for a fact that Berry could have swung down on her own, but an unaided dismount would not convey the proper queenly reserve. As they had hurriedly arranged ahead of time, Berry held out her hand to Aidane, asking Aidane to accompany her to make the sacrifices that protocol demanded. Soldiers weren’t allowed on the dais, so having Jonmarc attend her wasn’t an option, and they had all agreed that Thaine would be in the best position to search for enemies, seeing through Aidane’s eyes if Aidane were on the dais with Berry.

  The crowd murmured when they realized that Berry had chosen a serroquette as her attendant. Although there were plenty of whores, concubines, consorts, and plain old strumpets in Principality, real serroquette s were rare, and even more rarely seen in the company of a monarch. If the attention bothered Aidane, she didn’t show it, and then Jonmarc realized from her walk that it was Thaine in charge. He smiled despite himself. Thaine would have loved the show.

  “I don’t like them up there by themselves,” Gellyr murmured just loud enough for Jonmarc to hear.

  “Agreed. Let’s hope it’s worth the risk.”

  Jonmarc thought he had caught a glimpse of Kolin in the crowd, but the press of people was too heavy for him to be certain. It was nearly too crowded for him to be able to draw his sword without injuring a bystander. He flexed his fingers just above the pommel of his sword. I’d much rather start a fight than stand around waiting to get hit.

  Berry moved with a gracefulness she rarely showed as her tomboy self. If Jencin could see her, Jonmarc knew the seneschal would be both proud of her bearing and astounded that the lessons that had seemed to go unheeded had actually sunk in. Beside her, Aidane was doing her best to scan the crowd, even as she carried the basket with the gifts Berry brought to present to each of the Aspects.

  The Sacred Vessels greeted Berry, but did not bow. “Your Majesty,” said one of the robed figures. With their cowls raised, all of the Sacred Vessels looked alike. “Have you come to make your coronation gifts to the Lady?”

  “I have.”

  “She awaits. May the Sacred Lady, in all of Her faces, look on you and your reign with favor, and may your life and reign be prosperous.”

  Berry inclined her head, slightly, in acceptance of the blessing. The Sacred Vessels stepped aside for Berry to approach the statues and their glowing braziers. Aidane followed her, carrying the ornate basket of offerings.

  Berry bowed to the statue of the Lover first, and took a flagon of wine from the basket. “My Lady, Lover of your children, grant us peace and prosperity.” She poured out the wine onto the feet of the statue and she dropped a handful of rose petals into the brazier.

  Then she moved to the statue of Athira, the Whore. “Athira, most generous in your favors, give increase to our crops and herds, and to our people. Make our children fat and our women fertile.” She withdrew a bunch of plump, ripe grapes and laid them at the statue’s feet and she sprinkled a handful of cardamom on the brazier. The sweet, spicy smell spread on the smoke, mingling with the rose scent.

  Berry moved from statue to statue in turn, making her gifts and asking for blessing. Finally, she stood in front of the statue of Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of Dark Haven’s vayash moru and of outcasts everywhere. Against his will, Jonmarc felt himself drawn to look up at the face of the statue, and he shuddered. Amber eyed and wild, Istra was more beautiful than any of her statues. Once, when he lay close to death, he had seen that raven-haired beauty on the shores of the Gray Sea, the sea all souls must cross at the end of their days. He had bargained with Her, and She had claimed him as Her champion.

  “Istra, patron of outcast souls and Those Who Walk the Night, protector of my champion, look on us with favor. You know the dangers we face. M’lady, I beg of you, make us wise to know the vipers among us.”

  Jonmarc felt a shiver go down his spine. He realized he was holding his breath. There was power in the air, and even though he had no magic of his own, he could feel something. The energy made the skin on the back of his neck prickle in warning.

  When Berry had made her offerings to each of the figures, she turned and moved to the center of the dais. Aidane stepped back, her eyes scanning the crowd. The eight Sacred Vessels clustered around Berry, and the queen knelt. Each of the Sacred Vessels moved closer to lay a hand on Berry’s head. They murmured together in a language Jonmarc did not recognize, and he dimly remembered hearing once that the acolytes of the Lady spoke in a tongue all their own.

  Near the stage, drummers began a complicated rhythm, and flutes picked up a descant. It started slow, but increased in tempo, and the Sacred Vessels began to sway with the music, even as the crowd felt its rhythm.

  The Sacred Vessels fell silent, and one of them moved away from Berry. The white-robed woman let her cowl fall back, and she shrugged out of her robe, letting it pool around her feet. She was a beautiful woman, with chestnut hair that covered her shoulders and spilled down to partly cover her breasts. Strands of red beads draped across her chest, all lengths, falling to her navel. She lifted up her arms and let her head fall back
as she let the music take her.

  “A prophecy for the queen. Plague will depart from Principality, but War will take its place. Blood will feed the crops of the next harvest. Blood and flesh will fatten the birds. Death and birth begin in blood.”

  Still possessed of the spirit of prophecy, the Sacred Vessel began to dance, caught up completely in the music that was moving faster and faster and in the pounding drumbeats.

  A second of the oracles stepped forward, and when her robes fell, blue beads, sacred to the Mother, covered her body in a cascade like sea water, with the torchlight glinting off the facets of hundreds of beads. “A prophecy for the queen. Alliances will be forged, and new life will replace the fallen. Night and day will become one.” She joined her sister oracle in the dance as yet another of the Sacred Vessels stepped to the front.

  Bright green beads and feathers festooned the oracle’s nude body, like a short, fringed dress. She threw open her arms as if she would embrace the crowd, but her eyes were distant, possessed. “Hear the prophecy of the Childe. Water births and water kills. From the waters comes darkness. To the waters return the souls of warriors. The future is born of water and fire.”

  As she joined the dance, the fourth oracle left her place by Berry. She wore a more revealing cascade of yellow beads around her neck, but bracelets of beads covered her from wrists to shoulders and belled anklets chimed as she moved. “A prophecy for the queen. Hear the vision of the Lover. Hearts break. Hearts bleed. Bury love and fear together. Reap a harvest of souls, and a hollowing of spirits. Weep for the lost ones, never to wake again. Kings will fall and crowns will rise, and the old ways will be forever changed.”