Gail Martin - The Sworn

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.”

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.