Dark Haven (2 page)

“Sounds like you have that on good authority”

“On more than one occasion.”

Jonmarc entered through the iron‐bound doors. He could smell roasting lamb, baking bread, and the aroma of simmering spiced wine. Dark Haven had a feast‐day air about it. Although the vayash moru had no need of mortal food, the staff prepared for the Feast of the Departed—or Haunts as most called it— with gusto.

“It’s going to be different celebrating Haunts here, that’s for sure.”

Neirin grinned. “There’s nowhere else in the Winter Kingdoms you’ll find the residents to be so friendly with the departed—except maybe in Margolan with a Summoner‐king.”

“As long as I’m still among the living, I’ll count it a win,” Jonmarc said, taking his leave of Neirin as he headed for his rooms.

Jonmarc had just closed the door behind him when the temperature in the room plummeted. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and knew that one of the manor’s ghosts was close at hand.

Turning, he caught just a glimpse of a spectral girl as the apparition glided across the far side of his room and disappeared, into the dark gray stone of the wall. He stared after her in silence.

“Don’t let our bonnie lass trouble you.” Jonmarc turned to find Eifan, his valet, standing 13

behind him. Eifan had the dark eyes and dusky looks of a Trevath native, although his mortal days were some two hundred years past. A quick, wiry man, he moved with the speed of a small bird of prey.

“I expect our lass is up and about early for Haunts,” the vayash moru said, setting out the last of the bath items next to a steaming tub of water.

“I’ve seen her before. Did you know her? I mean, alive?”

Eifan shook his head. “Many of Dark Haven’s ghosts are older even than I, m’lord. The lass is said to be the daughter of one of the Lords of Dark Haven, taken by a plague. They say she’s looking for a healer who promised to

come to the manor and never arrived.” He held out a towel. “You have a big evening ahead of you, m’lord. Your bath is ready and your clothes are laid out.”

“Have you seen Gabriel?”

“No, m’lord. Lord Gabriel had business to attend with the Great Houses in preparation for tonight. I am sure he’ll return shortly.”

“Too soon, I’m sure.”

Though the vayasb moru were generally taciturn by mortal standards, several months of solid vayash moru companionship had given him more insight than he could have ever imagined.”Something on your mind, Eifan?”

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“It’s not my place, m’lord.”

“I’ve never held much for ‘place.’”

Eifan was silent for a moment. “I have served three masters of Dark Haven. None made so good a beginning as you. I would like to see you succeed. There are some, m’lord, who may not share that view. You’ll be the only mortal at the Blood Council tonight. Some among my kind don’t agree that a mortal should be our Lord.”

“I’ve had mortals trying to kill me for most of my life. I’m used to rough company.”

“Watch out for Uri and his brood, m’lord. He wants the title for himself. I don’t think any would be so bold as to move against you with Gabriel nearby, but I would not walk alone tonight, m’lord, were I you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s said that the Lady chooses a mortal to rule Dark Haven to protect Those Who Walk the Night,” Eifan said quietly. “Many believe that were Dark Haven to have a vayash mora lord, one who never ages and never dies, that we might grow too arrogant among our mortal neighbors.”

“And I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“A mortal lord might better balance the needs of both vayash mom and mortal subjects.”

“So why the concern? You need a mortal, I’m here, and Gabriel keeps telling me I’m the Lady’s choice, although how he claims to know, I haven’t a clue.”

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“It’s the will of the Dark Lady. Mortals say that Istra is a demon, but we believe Istra is a she-wolf, protecting her pups. As Lord of Dark Haven, you are her champion.” “Thank you.”

Eifan made a small bow and left Jonmarc to his thoughts as he undressed and slipped into the waiting tub. Eifan’s comment made Jonmarc think of a carving in Dark Haven’s chapel. It showed Istra, a sad‐eyed beauty with a regal presence turning back a torch‐wielding mob and standing between them and a cringing group of vayash moru. Although he had no occasion to frequent shrines, he was as familiar as any in the Winter Kingdoms with the faces of the Lady. Chenne, the warrior. Athira, the lover/whore and goddess of luck, the Aspect to whom he was most likely to pray, if he prayed at all. The serene Mother and the preternatu‐rally wise Childe. Sinha, the crone. The Formless One, who lacked even a name.

Until he came to Dark Haven, Jonmarc had never seen a depiction of Istra, though he had heard Her name. “Istra’s Bargain” was a term common among soldiers and mercenaries, fighter’s slang for a suicide pact that promised one’s soul to the Lady in return for the life of one’s enemy. He had seen soldiers make that pact, marking themselves with the sign of the Lady and making their vow. None had come back alive, but all achieved victory.

So it had been with curiosity that he explored Dark Haven’s chapel. Though small, it was filled with carvings and artwork of supreme craftsmanship, illuminated by banks of candles. The chapel was tended around the clock by a vayash moru recluse who never spoke and seemed to exist only to serve the chapel. A large stained‐glass image of the Lady, back‐lit by torches, dominated the rear wall of the chapel.

Eifan was correct. Istra was no demon. One elaborate bas relief showed her, head bowed, lifting up the broken body of a fallen vayash moru. But it was the Lady of the stained glass that held Jonmarc’s attention. Amber‐eyed and darkly beautiful, her intricately‐decorated cloak was wrapped around her huddled children and her lips parted to reveal the long eye teeth of the vayash moru. Istra was the goddess of the outcast, of Those Who Walked Alone in the Hour of the Wolf. And mortal though he was, something in those eyes connected with Jonmarc Vahanian’s own outcast soul.

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A candlemark later, he adjusted the collar of the black velvet doublet and tugged at his cuffs. He ran a hand back along his thick, brown hair, done up in a neat queue that fell shoulder length, and took a passing glance in the mirror to make sure all was well. He met his own dark eyes and paused.

By rights, I should be face down dead in a ditch somewhere with a shiv between my shoulders.

Probably would be if Harrtuck hadn’t conned me into smuggling Tris out of Margolan.

That adventure, which had begun for Jonmarc a few weeks after last year’s Haunts, moved him from outlaw smuggler to a friend of kings and a landed noble. The bounty hunters and debts were paid off, the smuggling put aside permanently. Even so, he did not feel at ease.

Jonmarc picked up a small rigging of leather straps and green wood. Carefully, he buckled it onto his right forearm. The contraption held a single arrow and a tightly coiled spring. It was just slim enough to fit into the sleeve of his doublet. Jonmarc raised his arm level with his chest and flexed his wrist, tripping the release.

The arrow shot out, embedding itself into the wall. Where they were going tonight, Jonmarc had no illusions about being safe. His daily sparring with vayash moru partners made it clear that, should tonight go badly, his sword would be poor protection. The arrow was a weapon of last resort. He retrieved the arrow, refitted it, and slipped his coat on.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in.”

Gabriel stood in the doorway. The slim, flaxen‐haired vayash moru noble was dressed for court.

His coat was midnight blue, elegantly tailored from fine brocade. If nothing else, Jonmarc thought, immortality was good for acquiring wealth.

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“Good evening, Jonmarc.”

“I hope it will be.” He turned. “So, was it ready?”

A faint smile played at the corners of Gabriel’s thin lips. “Would you like to see it?”

No one would mistake Gabriel for anything but an aristocrat, Jonmarc thought. His bearing, his fine features, everything about him bespoke privilege and breeding. And yet, since before the battle for Margolan’s throne, Gabriel had sought him out, sometimes as protector, sometimes as unlikely partner. Since Jonmarc had come to Dark Haven, Gabriel had been content to function as the manor’s seneschal, although Jonmarc knew Gabriel owned lands of greater worth. He was also one of the Blood Council.

Jonmarc knew that he could not have accomplished so much nor navigated the politics of becoming the manor’s lord without Gabriel’s help, and he had grown comfortable with Gabriel’s companionship. If they were not quite friends, they were very compatible business partners, and Jonmarc was grateful for a guide in a strange and forbidding land.

“Let’s see how good this goldsmith of yours really is.”

Gabriel held out a velvet pouch. Jonmarc emptied it into hispalm, and caught his breath. The bracelet in his hand was feather‐light. Wrought of silver and gold, the betrothal token incorporated two intricate designs. Five vertical lines with a “V”, reminiscent, of the marks of a wolf’s claws, was Jonmarc’s old river mark, the symbol by which he was known as a fighter and a smuggler. The other, a’ full moon rising from a valley, was the crest of the Lord of Dark Haven.

Incorporated into a bracelet— called a shevir in the borderlands of Jonmarc’s birth—the symbols warned any who could read them that the wearer was under the protection of a known fighter, a lord, and perhaps the vayash moru themselves.

“It’s beautiful.” He turned it so that it gleamed in the firelight. “You were right. A few hundred 18

years of practice pays off. Now comes the hard part.”

“And that is?”

“Getting Carina to accept it.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Did I see our courier return from Isencroft last evening? Has Carina agreed to winter with us?”

Jonmarc replaced the shevir in its pouch and placed it on the mantle. He turned away and walked toward the windows, which were frosted from the chill outside. “Donelan’s adjusted her duties. She’s planning to be here for the winter.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt that Kiara’s had a hand in it—she and Berry considered it a personal challenge to get the two of us together.”

“Those are all good signs.”

Jonmarc shrugged. “Carina’ll have had three months to remember what it’s like living in the Isencroft palace. Healer to the king, cousin to the next queen of Margolan, and a reputation that will open any door in the Winter Kingdoms. Why should she give up any of that?”

“Because she loves you.”

“Maybe she’s had time to come to her senses. I mean, even with Dark Haven, I’m not exactly a step up.”

“I don’t think Carina cares much about such things.”

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“We’ll see.”

Gabriel inclined his head. “Ready to ride?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Let’s hope the Council’s in a good mood.”

CHAPTER TWO

Gabriel’s manor was only a candlemark’s ride from Dark Haven. A blade carriage arrived for Gabriel and Jonmarc at Dark Haven’s entrance, and the two rode in silence for a while. The carriage was not opulent, but jonmarc knew from its solid build that it was one of the finest of its sort. Four sleek black horses drew the carriage, fitted in handworked leather tack trimmed with silver. The carriage and horses alone were worth a small fortune.

“Neirin says that we’re meeting the Council on your land because I’m safer there—something about ‘sanctuary.’”

Gabriel did not turn. He watched the forest slip by from the carriage window. Taking in the view or scanning for threat? Jonmarc wondered.

“Wolvenskorn is a very old manor,” Gabriel replied. Jonmarc followed his gaze and saw large, dark shapes keeping pace with the carriage, running silently in the shadows of the deep forest 20

along the road. He repressed a shudder. The wolves of the northern forests were known for size and ferocity, and he had met more than one on smuggling runs. Things other than vayash moru hunted the deep forests. Even the, bravest mortals did not venture deep into the woods at night.

“The name is ancient. It means ‘place of the wolf god’ in the language of the old tribes. There’s a stone circle that rings the great house. Those stones were carved almost a thousand years ago.

They show the Dark Lady taking the Wolf God as her consort.”

“The Flow under Dark Haven didn’t keep the last couple of lords alive. Arontala still managed to make a mess of things. So why should a couple of stones make me feel safe?” “Old magic works in unusual ways. Neither my brood nor the wolves will allow harm to come to you.”

Torchlit under the blue light of a full moon, Wolvenskorn’s tall, sharply sloping peaks stood out against the sky, topped by narrow gables. Three levels of wooden and stone wings, one behind the next, rose from the snow. Each level had a deeply slanted roofline. The building was capped by a tall cupola

ringed by carved monsters. The oldest wing was daub and wattle, with a sod roof that sloped back into the forest soil.

Grotesques and gargoyles looked down from the roof onto the front courtyard. Between them, intricately carved runes were both decoration and protection. The wooden sections of Wolvenskorn were set with carved panels and the lower halves were covered with overlapping shingles. Wolvenskorn looked nothing like Dark Haven, and Jonmarc was certain that it was much older.

To his chagrin, wolves circled their carriage as they drew up to the front steps of Wolvenskorn.

Large, dark, and powerfully muscled, they were the size of a person crouching on all fours. One gray‐flecked she‐wolf circled Jonmarc slowly. He stopped, hoping he showed neither fear nor aggression. The wolf eyed him with uncanny intelligence, and Jonmarc realized that the wolf’s 21

eyes were deep violet. For a moment, he thought he saw a trace of humor. The wolves suddenly turned and padded off, melting into the shadows.

Other fine carriages were parked along the grand circle of the entrance drive. Inside Wolvenskorn, Jonmarc could see the flicker of candlelight and the shadows of partygoers. “I believe we’re the last to arrive,” Gabriel said, indicating with a nod that they should approach the steep stone stairs that led toward Wolvenskorn’s arched entrance.