Dark Haven (20 page)

“I’m only dead—not truly absent,” Viata said, reaching out to touch Kalcen’s face. “I’ve watched you grow to be a man—and a king. I am very proud of what you’ve done. I wish I were among the living. But you’ll always have my love.”

The ghost faded from view and Tris relaxed, letting out a deep breath as he lowered his arm and opened his eyes. Kalcen stared at him. “So it is true. The mage heir of Bava K’aa. Even in Eastmark, we knew of her power. I’d heard the stories about your magic, but I didn’t dare believe—until now.”

Tris smiled.. Kiara moved next to him and slipped an arm around his waist. “Nothing I conjure up surprises Kiara anymore,” Tris said. “She’s gotten used to it by now.”

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“Thank you.” Kiara gave him a squeeze. “I didn’t mean to pull you away from more important things.”

“You got me out of that interminable receiving line—that was good enough for me.”

“If you’re not anxious to go back immediately, I have another favor to ask,” said Kalcen.

“Glad to do it—we still have half a candle‐mark before the ball, and I think I’ve shaken every hand in the kingdom.”

“Donelan has asked me to forgive an old death warrant, one my father wrote during the Troubled Times. I’m willing to do so, but first, I would look on the man before I pardon him.”

Kiara and Tris exchanged glances. “How can I help?”

“I would appreciate your introduction to Jonmarc Vahanian.”

“I’ll be glad to take you to him. Probably best that way—Jonmarc’s reflexes are pretty fast, and I’d hate for him to guess wrong about your intentions.” Tris kissed Kiara’s hand in parting, wishing for a more private goodbye, then he led the way to the corridor. Guards fell into step behind them—both his own bodyguards and Kalcen’s. The hallway was crowded as servants bustled with last minute preparations and guests hurried to their destinations. Tris hoped that Jonmarc hadn’t already gone to the ballroom, and was pleased to hear a response to his knock at the door. Tris positioned himself so that he would be the first thing Jonmarc saw as the door opened.

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“Every time I open my door tonight, there’s a king outside,” Jonmarc grumbled good‐naturedly.

“Hello, Tris.” Jonmarc was dressed for the evening’s ball in the black doublet and pants he preferred for court occasions, and a claret waistcoat that Tris bet matched Carina’s gown. His sword hung at his belt. Tris was sure that it was not the only weapon hidden under Jonmarc’s coat.

“I have a visitor for you,” Tris said. He stepped aside, and saw Jonmarc’s eyes widen as he recognized Eastmark’s king.

“Your majesty,” Jonmarc said tightly, with a quick glance toward Tris. “Is this a friendly visit, or am I under arrest?”

“May we step inside?” Tris asked.

“Sure. Why not.”

Jonmarc stepped aside warily, and Tris saw that while he did not reach for his sword, his hand never strayed far from its pommel. Probably best if I stay for this, Tris thought. I’d bate to see Jonmarc lose bis pardon by running Kalcen through.

Kalcen gave Jonmarc a look of appraisal. “So you’re the hero of Chauvrenne,” he said in Markian.

“I was there,” Jonmarc replied in the same language, with a heavy Margolense accent.

“Foor Arontala tried to destroy you at Chauvrenne. You knew him for what he was—and you knew his power. Yet you returned with Martris Drayke to face him again. Why?”

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Jonmarc was silent for a moment, his gaze locked with Kalcen’s. Once more, Tris felt the tingle of magic that told him Kalcen was truth‐sensing. For a mortal, Jonmarc was exceptionally resistant to mind magic, but he hoped Jonmarc had the good sense to permit Kalcen’s touch. “Arontala killed my wife. He hanged my men. I had a score to settle.”

Kalcen’s gaze fell to the scar that ran from below Jonmarc’s ear down under the collar of his shirt, and lingered on the two faint parallel scars that were the mark of a Nargi fighting slave collar. “In Eastmark, we have great regard for warriors,” Kalcen said. “And although we have no love for the Nargi, your skill in combat against their champions is legendary. Istra has chosen you as Lord of Dark Haven, and you have become an ally of kings.

“My father was slow to recognize General Alcion’s treachery. He didn’t know that Arontala was behind the General’s rise, nor did he realize Alcion had set his sights on the throne of Eastmark—until the revolt at Chau‐vrenne. When the army learned what Alcion had done, there was an uprising. It was the beginning of Alcion’s fall—and it may have prevented a civil war.”

Jonmarc’s eyes were hard. “My men were hanged for refusing to murder civilians. Alcion burned the village anyhow. If you’re so bloody grateful, why keep my death warrant on the books for ten years?”

“Nothing can change their sacrifice—that’s true. As for the death warrant—Father believed you dead at the hands of the Nargi. I only recently learned otherwise. The warrant has been struck from the books. You’re pardoned.”

Tris saw a mixture of anger and old pain in Jonmarc’s dark eyes. No one spoke. Finally, Jonmarc drew a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you.”

Kalcen grinned with unexpected humor, his white teeth a contrast against his dark skin.

“Donelan tells me that you plan to marry his ward. That would make you kin to both him and to Martris Drayke. You’re already liegeman to Staden. I suspect there would be protest if I tried to 173

clap you in irons. Although I would relish a go in the salle—they say your skill is the best in a generation.”

“If you’re as good as Kiara, you might give me a run for my money. But I still won most of my matches with her.”

Kalcen laughed. “Eastmark is open to you now. When you return North, come to visit. We’ll see about that time in the salle.”

Outside, the bells tolled the tenth hour. “We’re all due in the ballroom,” Tris said, moving for the door. “And as the host, I’m late. We’ll see you—and Carina—later?”

Jonmarc nodded. “We’ll be there.”

Shekerishet’s great room sparkled with mirrors and candlelight. Carroway’s musicians played tunes that kept the guests on their feet, twirling in finely‐clothed pairs to more sedate numbers, or dancing in boisterous groups to more lively songs. Although Carina was seated between Cam and Jonmarc at the table, the press of people and the obligations of court prevented any real conversation. Jonmarc chafed at the delay. Everyone assumed that Carina would accept his proposal, but he had yet to have the opportunity to have any kind of private discussion.

Remembering the assassin in the Winterstide crowd, Jonmarc wore a shirt of fine gauge mail beneath his court clothes. It had been Gabriel’s suggestion. The shirt, made by vayash moru craftsmen, was lighter and stronger than anything he had ever worn in combat. If Carina guessed, she said nothing, although her choice of gown harked back to her observation that red would be less likely to show blood.

Near the front of the great room, Tris and Kiara greeted well‐wishers. “When they took to the dance floor, Jonmarc noted that Soterius’s guards made sure that a circle of floor was clear around them. Ban’s not taking any chances on a repeat of Winterstide. Can’t say I blame him.

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Gabriel and Mikhail stood near the back, talking with Riqua and Rafe. Astasia and Uri were notably absent. Jonmarc let the conversation buzz around him as he scanned the room for danger. As the time wore on without incident, he relaxed, just a little. After meeting Donelan and Kalcen, he felt as if he’d already run a dangerous gauntlet. But the nervousness he felt in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with kings. Until he’d had the chance to talk privately with Carina, he doubted he could truly relax.

That opportunity finally came after the eleventh bells. Carina excused herself claiming exhaustion from the long trip, and asked Jonmarc to accompany her back to her rooms. Two guards fell into step behind them, but kept back a respectful distance. They said little until they reached Carina’s door, and she‐invited him into the sitting room. The door closed behind them, and Carina breathed a sigh of relief.

“Finally! I didn’t think we would ever be free of the crowd.”

Jonmarc drew her into his arms. She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck. For a moment, he was lost in the scent of her dark hair, the press of her body against his. “I missed you.”

She took his hand in both of hers and held it close to her chest, bending down to kiss his fingers.

“I missed you, too.”

“You’ve brought what you need to winter at Dark Haven?”

“Enough that Kiara joked that I hadn’t left anything in the palace,” Carina laughed, her green eyes bright. “You said there hadn’t been a real healer in Dark Haven for years. I packed everything I could, assuming I’d be busy.”

Jonmarc pulled her close once more. “Oh, you’ll be busy,” he murmured, bending to kiss her 175

again. She leaned into him and he tangled his fingers in her short, dark hair. This time, her kiss brought a warmth that carried with it a tingle of magic. When she stepped back, her eyes searched his.

“You’re worried. What’s wrong?”

“You never told me healers could read minds,” he joked, trying to change the subject.

“We can’t read minds—we read bodies. Bodies don’t lie. What’s the matter?”

Long ago, when he was a soldier, he’d heard rumors about what it meant to fall in love with a healer. The men he’d camped with were as much in fear of healers’ supposed abilities to read minds as they were desirous of the ways a healer could turn his or her gift to other, more seductive uses. He’d dismissed it, especially the men who swore that taking a healer as a lover could ensnare a man’s soul. Since none of the healers who traveled with the army made personal attachments, he’d assumed they weren’t free to do so. Now he wondered whether the rumors had a grain of truth to them, and whether the healers who had remained alone did so out of choice.

“Afraid you’d changed your mind, I guess. About coming to Dark Haven.”

Carina reached up to touch the back of his neck, letting the warmth of her magic loosen his knotted muscles. “I love you, Jonmarc. That hasn’t changed.”

“I have something for you.” He reached inside his vest and withdrew the small velvet pouch. “Go on. Open it.”

When the delicate silver bracelet fell into her palm, she gasped, her green eyes wide. “It’s 176

beautiful.”

He took the bracelet from her hand and slipped it onto her left wrist. .”It’s a shevir, a blood oath that I’ll always come for you. I love you, Carina. Marry me. Dark Haven needs a lady and so does its lord.” Riding into pitched battle didn’t seem to require as much courage as the next few seconds.

“Yes.” Her green eyes glistened with tears. “Yes.”

He kissed her again, finding that her answer did more than any magic to release the worry that had gnawed at him these past few months. Nothing else mattered, not the royal wedding celebrations or the long journey back to Dark Haven, or even the feuding of the Blood Council.

Nothing mattered at all right now, except her answer. A knock startled them both. Reluctantly, Carina stepped back and opened the door. A page stood outside. “Lady Carina, sorry to bother you, but one of the ladies has taken sick and Healer Cerise is with King Donelan.”

She glanced back at Jonmarc with a look of resignation. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s late. Just make sure those guards go wherever you go.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“Where are your guards?” she teased.

Jonmarc patted the pommel of his sword. “King’s Sword, remember? Be careful, Carina. Even here. Don’t take any chances.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and the guards moved forward to escort her and the page down the corridor. “I promise. Stay out of trouble.”

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He grinned. “That’s one promise I can’t make.”

When the bells tolled three, the castle was quiet. Even the hardiest of the party‐goers had retired to their rooms, and the corridors were empty of servants. Kiara slipped through the outer door of Cerise’s chamber, managing to elude the guards who dutifully watched her door.

She had changed from her elaborate gown into a shift, and her hair was back in a simple braid.

She padded down the back corridor usually reserved for servants. Tightly held in her palm was the slip of paper Tris had passed to her. Meet me after the third bells by the hearth in the kitchen.

In the stairwell, she listened for a moment to make sure the kitchen was empty. The large cooking fires had been banked, and the kitchen was warm from the glowing embers. Pots, pans, and serving trays all awaited a resumption of festivities the following morning. Pies and cakes stood ready on a side table, and a fresh batch of apples, cabbages, and potatoes sat in bins awaiting the arrival of the morning servants.

“Hungry, dearie?”

Kiara wheeled to see a stooped old woman whose grin showed her mottled teeth. “Looking for a bite of bread or some cheese and sausage?”

“No thank you,” Kiara said. “I’m supposed to meet someone—”

“King Martris will be coming down those back stairs any minute now, I wager. Been doing it since he was a boy—sneaking down to get some food, or to patch up what damage that demon Jared would do. I’m Bian. Looked after the king since he was born. Do the same for your young’uns too, when they come.” She laughed. “Oh yes, dearie, I recognize you without your pretty gown. S’bout time our boy found a bride for himself. Can’t tell you how glad I am that he’s picked a girl with some spunk. But you’d best be careful wandering alone at night.

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Always some rats afoot in a castle this size, if you take my meaning.” Bian limped toward the other side of the kitchen. The old woman turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Just then, Kiara heard footsteps on the stairs. Tris stepped into the dim light of the kitchen. He was dressed in a tunic and trews, looking much more like the outlaw tent rigger she had met on the road to Westmarch. “I see you read my note.”

“I shudder to think what Zachar would have thought,” Kiara said as Tris stepped nearer and wrapped his arms around her.

“I couldn’t wait to see you alone.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. She reached up to touch the white blond hair that fell loose to his shoulders, playfully twisting it around her fingers. “Do you think it’s too late to elope?”