Gail Martin - The Sworn

Jonmarc’s throat tightened as the eighth seer moved forward. Berry knelt alone in the middle of the dais, surrounded by a circle of skyclad dancers. Sweat formed a sheen on their bodies and their beads flew as they danced, making brilliant swirls of color in the torchlight. Tambourines had joined the drums and flutes, along with pipers, and it seemed as if the heartbeat of everyone in the crowd had synchronized with the music of the dance.

When the eighth oracle’s white robe fell, a gasp went up from the crowd. A dark-haired woman stood at the front of the stage, covered in a cascade of blood. Jonmarc blinked, and realized that it was a trick of the light, that the wash of dark red that covered the woman was made of beads, and not blood. He felt a tingle of familiar power and knew that the Dark Lady’s presence was very near. He remembered the voice he’d heard in his vision, and the amber eyes that had fixed on his as he argued for death. Perhaps others in the crowd had as clear a vision of one of the other Aspects, but for Jonmarc, it was the Dark Lady who was frighteningly real.

“Istra, protector of Those Who Walk the Night and those for whom the night holds no comfort, speaks to you, Berwyn of Principality. I give to you both blessing and curse. Your crown will be remembered forever, and until the end of the world, men will speak of the days of your rule. You do well to favor my Chosen, and my children of darkness. Remember that my strength is in the night. I am with you.” Her head turned as she spoke the last words, and although he was surrounded by a mob, Jonmarc swore that the seer stared right into his eyes.

There was a hush, and Berry rose slowly to her feet. Her face was turned skyward, and her arms were open, palms up. Her eyes were closed, and while the crowd murmured at the queen’s obvious possession, all Jonmarc could think was that she made a wide-open target. When she spoke, her voice was deep and raspy, like the voice of a much older woman.

“When the north sky drips with blood, soldiers rise and fight,” Berry prophesied. “Only the oldest magic will prevail. When the last days come and the War of Unmaking is upon you, look to the darkness. Born of curses, raised in fire, anointed with blood, the Son of Darkness may yet prevail. Before the end, you will hone your swords with tears and temper your spears with blood.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc glimpsed movement and saw a man brandishing a knife. “Get down!” Jonmarc shouted to Berry, as he barreled onto the dais to cut off the assailant as the man vaulted onto the stage. Jonmarc collided with the man before the attacker could reach Berry, and the knife sank into his left shoulder as both he and the assassin fell to the ground. Laisren seemed to come out of nowhere, adding his strength to pull Jonmarc free and subdue the wild-eyed man whose hand and shirt were slick with Jonmarc’s blood.

“Not again,” Jonmarc muttered, looking at the wound.

Before they could do anything, a scream came from the back of the dais, and all eyes went to Aidane, who was standing, stiff and staring, as if some other power suspended her on strings. She was quivering, and her eyes were wide like someone taken in a fit.

The music stopped, the drumming ceased, and the Sacred Vessels turned to stare at Aidane.

“Who has your body, serroquette?” It was the seer for the Dark Lady who spoke.

“I am Helja, the rune speaker.”

Even Jonmarc recognized the name of one of the legendary oracles of Principality, a rune speaker who had counseled the kings of Principality a century ago. Helja’s wisdom was still sought with gifts and incantations by the battle mages of every merc outfit in the kingdom. Berry rose slowly to her feet, advancing a step toward Aidane with Jonmarc right behind her. “Honored spirit, thank you for your presence. What message do you bring to us?”

Helja was pleased by Berry’s deference. Aidane could feel the spirit’s pleasure. “I have a message for you, Berwyn of Principality.”

Berry nodded soberly. “Speak. I will hear you.”

“Look to the Son of Darkness, when all is lost.”

“Who is the Son of Darkness?”

“Ask my children who hear the music. They will know. They can hear the Blood Stalker rising, and they know the Hollowing is near. Mad eyes watch the horizon, and they flee the call only they can hear. But they know. They know. Look to the Son of Darkness, when all is lost.”

As quickly as Helja’s spirit came, it departed, and Aidane staggered as the ghost left her. Thaine’s spirit rushed in to fill the void with a new and urgent excitement. “Black Robes are among us,” Thaine cried. She stared at a man with close-cropped brown hair who was standing in the crowd. “You’re one of them.” Thaine’s voice was loud and certain.

One of the huge straw figures of the Aspects burst into flames. The man Thaine accused let out a shout and hurled a knife at Aidane’s chest. Aidane barely dodged out of its way, crying out as the knife slashed her shoulder. As the crowd screamed and tried to flee, Aidane saw Berry’s hand flick once, twice, and Aidane’s attacker fell, with one of the queen’s knives in his throat. Kolin dove for Aidane, taking her down to the stage. Jonmarc, still bleeding, shielded Berry from the crowd.

Aidane felt Thaine’s death memories pour over her as Thaine pointed out the Black Robes disguised as revelers in the crowd. Laisren and the vyrkin reacted first, tackling the men Thaine identified. The crowd began to stampede toward the rear.

Amid the chaos, the Sacred Vessels had somehow gathered their robes, but they did not run. Instead, they formed a ring around where Jonmarc lay covering Berry, facing outward, peering into the crowd. Aidane felt their power, their spirits, as if they were seeking out Thaine’s ghost. Thaine spotted another of the Durim in the crowd.

“Black Robe. Murderer. I see what you are.” It was the voice of the seer for the Crone.

Guards barreled through the crowd to apprehend the man. Another of the straw effigies burst into flame.

The seer for the Formless One turned her blind eyes toward the flames. “There is death in the straw. Death in the straw.”

Flames roared to life along the straw outline of the third effigy, and then the fourth, although it was not yet the appointed time.

The first effigy began to crumble with the ferocity of the flames that enveloped it. Mats of straw and thatching fell away, exposing the burning wooden structure underneath it. Aidane had just an instant to glimpse some kind of apparatus inside the effigy, something that intuition told her should not be there, before there came a sound like swords singing through the air on a field of battle.

A hail of solid, silver objects sailed over her head, glittering in the light of the festival torches. Screams rose from the crowd. Blades. Someone rigged the effigies with blades.

She dared a glance up, to see if any of the Sacred Vessels had been hurt, and to assure herself that Jonmarc and Berry were safe. She saw a ring of coruscating light, translucent, like the film of oil on water, surrounding the seers and their royal charge. In the crowd, people were screaming and crying. Aidane strained to see. Many of the people close to the first effigy lay on the ground covered with blood. Others were shrieking in shock and terror, holding motionless bodies.

“Take down those damn effigies!” The voice sounded with authority from the crowd, and Aidane recognized it as belonging to the general with the eye patch. Her vision was limited from where she lay, but she saw a red-haired man come to a standstill facing the second effigy and raise his hands in a gesture of warding just as the straw giant began to tumble.

This time, she saw it happen. The belly of the effigy burst open and a hail of objects was propelled at high speed through the air toward the crowd. The red-haired mage moved his hands slightly, and his lips formed words she did not hear. The blades dropped from the sky as if the air itself had been drawn out from beneath them, and they clattered harmlessly to the ground.