The Sworn by Gail Z. Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

There’s just somuch to do.” She reached over to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
    He watched her go, forced to smile as she took charge of the rescue operation, summoning guards to help transport the wounded, and sending servants to gather supplies.
    “You were successful?”
    Jonmarc turned. Gabriel, his sometime seneschal, sometime business partner, had approached with the annoying preternatural silence of the
vayash moru
. “Yeah,” Jonmarc replied. “Got in, got out, killed the Durim we could find, and burned the hole. But there’s nothing to say there aren’t a dozen more holes like that one, and I don’t know if we can keep the peace if this goes on much longer.”
    Gabriel’s expression was troubled. “It’s not the first time plague has brought oppression on my people. Ironic, isn’t it? We can’t die of the plague because we’re already dead, and yet so many mortals want to destroy us rather than letting us help.”
    Jonmarc glanced at him. No one would mistake Gabriel for anything other than an aristocrat. Even dressed as he was this night, in a simple black tunic and pants, everything about his manner spoke of power and breeding. Long, flaxen hair fell shoulder length, framing an angular but not unpleasant face. But while Gabriel had the face and form of a man in his early thirties, Jonmarc knew the other had existed for over four hundred years, to become one of the most powerful lords on the Blood Council that ruled the
vayash moru
in Principality and beyond. “You’ve seen this happen before?”
    Gabriel nodded. “Once a century or so. Fashions change. Monarchies change. People don’t.”
    Jonmarc pushed back a strand of long, brown hair andwiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d risen from smuggler to Lord of Dark Haven when he’d helped Tris Drayke win back the Margolan throne. When he’d gone to war against an uprising of renegade
vayash moru
to avert a bloodbath, Jonmarc had become the protector of the mortals,
vyrkin
, and undead within his lands. He tugged at the collar of his shirt against the summer heat that made the air sticky, even in Dark Haven’s northern climate.
    His fingers brushed the long scar that ran from his left ear down beneath his collarbone, and the two pink puncture marks at the base of his throat. The scar was old, a “souvenir” of a long-ago battle with magicked beasts. The punctures were new, evidence that he had survived the rogue
vayash moru
’s attempts to kill him. Around his neck, two faint scars were a permanent reminder of the years he’d been a prisoner of the Nargi, forced to fight for his life in their betting games. There were more scars beneath the shirt, and they were proof, if anyone still doubted, that he deserved his reputation as the most fearsome warrior in the Winter Kingdoms.
    “Between the Durim and the Ghost Carriage, I don’t know how many more refugees Dark Haven can hold,” Jonmarc said as he walked next to Gabriel into Dark Haven’s massive entry hall. The lower floors had been repurposed as a hospital for as many of the
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
as possible. Upper floors where daylight might intrude had rooms for the worst injured of the mortal refugees. Carina presided over it all, directing the cadre of mortal and
vayash moru
helpers, as well as the handful of mages who came to lend their magic to the effort.
    “Have you heard more from Kolin? Does he expect to have another Carriage run soon?”
    “Last I heard, he said to expect him in about a month,” Jonmarc replied. “Said he’d be going back into southern Dhasson, near the Nargi border, for a dozen or so
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
they smuggled out of Nargi. Depending on how often he has to hide out from the patrols, that should mean a new load soon.”
    “We can take them at Wolvenskorn, if there’s no more room here,” Gabriel offered.
    Jonmarc gave him a sideways glance. “You’re helping fund it, aren’t you? The Ghost Carriage? You and