Gail Martin - The Sworn

“So you expect Kolin back from Nargi… when?” Gabriel asked.

Jonmarc took a sip of the brandy and let it burn its way down his throat. “Depends on how thick the patrols are, and how many safe houses Kolin needs to use along the way. They don’t dare travel openly in Nargi, and it’s gotten to be more of a problem getting across Dhasson, Kolin says. From what I’ve heard, King Harrol tries to be neutral when it comes to the vayash moru, but all that really means is that he doesn’t organize purges. He also doesn’t go after the Durim or the occasional lords who do order a purge. But I would expect Kolin within a few weeks.”

Gabriel nodded, sampling the blood in his goblet. “I had hoped for a better showing from the Council tonight. Uri can actually be a help to Kolin and the Ghost Carriage. I think Rafe will support us as well. He plays the ascetic, but he’s a very wealthy man.”

“And Astasia?”

Gabriel’s expression hardened as he finished his drink. “This is a dangerous time for her to be playing games. Leave her to me.”

Daddy, wake up!”

Jair Rothlandorn groaned and tried to roll over.

“Wake up, Daddy!” The voice was persistent, close to his ear. Jair opened his eyes. A small face framed in dark, ringlet curls stared back at him only inches away. His son, Kenver, had the same amber eyes as his mother and the Sworn. His golden skin was a lighter cast, somewhere in between Talwyn’s tawny hue and Jair’s pale complexion, although by the end of the Ride, Jair would be nearly as dark as Talwyn. Kenver’s face was a mixture of Jair’s and Talwyn’s features, and right now, Kenver’s expression was pure joy.

“Mommy, Mommy. Daddy woke up!”

Jair took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the boy, gathering Kenver’s small frame against him. He breathed in the scent of his hair, hair that smelled of sun and horse and wood smoke. At three years old, Kenver had no thought for his heritage, that he was by birth an heir to the throne of Dhasson, and by blood an heir to the magic of his mother and the chieftainship of the Sworn. Ignoring the pain of his freshly healed wounds, Jair tightened his grip and wiggled his fingers, tickling Kenver under his arm. The boy shrieked with delighted giggles.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Talwyn stood in the doorway. Jair kissed the top of Kenver’s head and released the boy, who scampered off. Jair held out his hand to Talwyn and drew her to the side of the bed. He sat up and winced.

“Much better, considering the last thing I remember feeling was mostly dead.” He put his arm around his wife and pulled her toward him, into a kiss that let her know just how much he had missed her these past six months.

Talwyn’s amber eyes sparkled as she drew away. Her hair was dark and straight like the rest of her people’s, and it framed a rectangular face that was strikingly beautiful but not at all the delicate prettiness favored in the Dhasson court. Talwyn’s arms were strong as they wrapped around him, lean and toned from long days of riding and from training with the long, heavy stelian swords. Around her neck hung a variety of charms with polished rock, bits of metal, and bone on a thin cord woven from hair and leather. The charms spoke of Talwyn’s status as cheira, or shaman, and of her duty as next in line to be chieftain of the Sworn. One of the charms was from Jair, a betrothal token given years ago, the mark of the Lady set in a silver circle.

“You heal quickly,” Talwyn murmured, clasping Jair’s hand. The stylized tattoo of dark ink that circled one side of his wrist completed the circle around hers, matching perfectly. Each mated couple among the Sworn had a unique marking, one that was made up of elements signifying both families’ heritage. Kenver had a matching tattoo that circled his right bicep, marking him as their child.

“With help.” Jair gingerly fingered the newly healed skin on his arm where the dimonn had raked him with its claws. The cuts were almost completely healed, leaving thin, dark scars, a permanent reminder of his battle. His fever was completely gone, assuring him that the dimonn ’s poison had been cleansed from his system. “Thank you.”

Talwyn’s expression grew serious. “That was too close. We almost didn’t make it in time.”

“What about Emil and Mihei?”

“Emil is healing, but we nearly lost him. It will be awhile before he is ready to fight again. Mihei is badly drained, but rest will cure that. Now you know why I sent them to ride with you. The roads have been more dangerous of late.”

“I noticed.” Jair looked around himself. He was in one of the tents the Sworn called home. It was a round structure with wooden poles covered with sturdy canvas. Its roof was fanlike, also made from wood and canvas. It unfolded to form a circular, sloping top that was secured to the base with leather straps. Jair knew from experience that the entire tent could be struck or set in little more than a candlemark. Within the tent, colorful cloths hung from floor to ceiling, separating the sleeping chamber from the sitting and dining area. Jair closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The canvas smelled of the spices typical of the nomadic group’s cooking, and of Talwyn’s incense, and of fresh meadow grass. Despite the battle of the day before, something within Jair relaxed. Here, more than any other place, he was at home.

“How did I get here?” Jair looked chagrined. “I guess I passed out when we got to the inn.”

Talwyn suppressed a smile. “You made it up the stairs,” she offered helpfully. “After that, the healers took care of you and Emil and Mihei, and then gave you something so you’d sleep and heal. The next morning, we loaded you into a wagon and brought you to the camp. If you feel groggy, it’s because the elixir has just worn off.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“A full day.”

Talwyn took his hand and drew him over to plates of food on a low table in the center of the public area of the tent. The inner walls of the tent were marked with runes and symbols. Some told the history of the Sworn. Others gave the narrative of Talwyn’s family, a long and proud lineage among the nomadic warriors. And some of the runes were for protection, invoked by Talwyn when she worked her shamanic magic.

“We must be fairly close to towns,” Jair guessed as he filled a large piece of thin bread with roasted vegetables and meat flavored with the piquant spices the Sworn preferred. “It’s goat meat instead of rabbit.”

Talwyn settled beside him, crossing her legs under her. Kenver scrambled over to sit between them and filled his own slice of bread nearly larger than his mouth. “We’re still a good distance from any settlement, but this year, there are more goats roaming free,” Talwyn said. “Their owners died of the plague and the goats broke out of their pastures. The same is true for sheep and there are hogs rooting through the forest. Good for eating, bad for Margolan in general.”

“What of the barrows?” Jair asked. He finished his food quickly. Not for the first time, he wondered what accident of birth had placed him in the glittering Dhasson palace when his heart and soul seemed at home with the nomadic Sworn.

“Several of the ones we’ve visited recently have been desecrated,” Talwyn said. She handed Jair a leather wineskin. “Some more than others. At one or two, we’ve found markings and some shallow digging, as if someone were trying to work magic for which they didn’t have the power. We’ve been able to put those right fairly easily. But the last one-”

“What happened?” Jair laid the wineskin aside and drew Kenver onto his lap, reveling in the closeness of his family after the half-year absence his court duties had forced upon him.