Chained (Chained Trilogy) (15 page)

Orrick smiled for the first time that morning, his dark, lined face brightening considerably. “My dear, if I trust in nothing else, I trust you. If the gods would only give most men the good sense you possess, this realm would be better place.”

Gwen laughed. “If the gods gave men the good sense of a woman, they would no longer be men, Uncle.”

Chapter Six

“Please, Y’
Grace, he’s just a child, he meant nothing’ by it! Mercy, I beg you.”

Prince Rowan Arundel
narrowed his eyes at the bedraggled peasant cowering before him. He was an unpleasant stain upon the golden marble floors of Oryna Keep’s throne room. His torn rags and mud-caked feet were out of place amongst the opulence of House Arundel, and his stench curled Rowan’s nose. Still, the fear in his eyes was most stimulating and the prince enjoyed watching the man cower. Beside him, the young boy accused of poaching on King Merek’s lands trembled in his father’s shadow, his bearing as pitiful as his sire’s. These were not men at all, Rowan believed, but lambs. He was a lion, and lions ruled over lambs. They were pitiful; poor, spineless, wretched, and his to control.

He inhaled, holding a
jasmine oil-soaked handkerchief over his nose to put off the offending odor of the peasant. It fell away, revealing an aquiline nose set in a regal face. Sharp cheekbones and a slashing jaw gave him a hawkish look, and his father’s glittering green eyes were set beneath ginger colored brows. Locks of the same color framed his face in a tumble of artful curls, and his pouting lips were pursed broodingly as he surveyed the young boy. His lean frame was opulently adorned in rich black and gold samite, diamonds dripping from his neck, wrists, and fingers.

“Young man, come here,” he said, his voice deceptively soft and smooth.

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise and he shuffled forward. “Your Grace,” he mumbled meekly, his head lowered.

“
Are you a thief, boy?”

Large, dark eyes snapped up to meet Rowan
’s, and the boy trembled as he answered, “No, Your Grace.”

Rowan arched a golden
eyebrow. “No?” He turned to the woman seated on the lesser throne beside him and laughed. “Helena, see how he lies?”

His sister shifted in the high-backed chair and fixed her cool green stare on the boy. “He isn’t very good at it,” she mused aloud, shrugging one bare shoulder. Her raven black hair tumbled in a thick cascade of curls down her back

“Beggin’ your pardon, Y’Grace,” the boy whispered. “I do not lie. I would never steal from you, Y’Grace.”

Rowan stood, his fist tight on the hilt of his sword. Slowly, he descended the stairs from his throne, toward the gleaming golden floors. Through the pillared archways lining the long hall, the hot, spicy air of Camritte filled the room. The shutters had been thrown open to allow in the afternoon sun and warmth, causing the floors and fixtures around them to glitter in the light of the sun. Rowan grinned as he unsheathed the sword, watching as the sun
rays played over the tempered steel and caused the golden hilt to gleam. The pommel was House Arundel’s golden star, with a gleaming emerald at the center. He crouched in front of the boy, holding the sword up between them. Rowan eyed him over the blade’s edge.

“The woods surrounding Oryna Keep are called the King’s
Forest. Do you know why?”

The boy swallowed noisily, his throat bobbing visibly. “Because they belong to the king.”

“Yes,” Rowan answered, turning the blade this way and that, hypnotized by the way the light played over the metal. “You are accused of hunting fowl on my father’s lands—the King’s Forest. Do you deny it?”

“No, Y’
Grace,” the boy whispered.

“In fact, you almost left the King
’s Forest with your arms full of quail. You must be quite the little archer.”

Rowan could see that the boy was proud of the fact, but only his eyes betrayed
it. His words remained meek, his head bowed. “I s’pose so, Y’Grace.”

“So then,” Rowan said slowly, as if thinking over every word. “You killed quail in the king’s woods … lands that do not belong to you. One could argue that if the lands do not belong to you, then neither do the quail.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Mercy, Y’Grace, I didn’t think—”

“No,” Rowan interjected. “You did not, but then you are a peasant and of low intelligence. It is hardly your fault, boy. Lay the blame upon your father, who has lived longer in this world and should have taught you better. Allow me to explain so that you understand. You killed quail on my lands, they did not belong to you. When you take things that do not belong to
you that makes you …” He trailed off, raising his eyebrows pointedly at the boy.

“A thief,” he finished, chocking back a sob.

Rowan nodded. “Very good. Now then, my father the king is ill, as you well know, and has left it to me to see to these mundane matters. King Merek is a benevolent man, isn’t it? Strong, wise, just yet merciful. But my father is not here, and I am. Now, you will find me as strong, wise, and just as my father, but my mercy is in short supply. I find myself much more amenable to the ways of the kings of old. Do you know what the kings of old would do to punish thieves?”

A lone tear rolled down the boy’s dirty cheek and Rowan stood, still brandishing his sword. “They would take his hand.”

“Very good. See, Helena, he isn’t so stupid.”

“Please, Y’
Grace!” the boy’s father cried, rushing forward and throwing himself between Rowan and the boy. “I beg you—”

“Cease your squealing!” Rowan commanded, motioning toward the
armed guards flanking the throne. They marched forward, two of them grasping the old man’s arms and dragging him back, one throwing the boy to his face on the ground and placing a knee between his shoulder blades. “Speak another word and I’ll take your tongue along with his hand!”

The man fell to his knees, sobbing as Rowan circled the boy. He trembled like a leaf in the wind, but was silent, brave in the face of mutilation. Rowan sneered as he raised the sword and brought it down, severing the boy’s right hand
with one clean stroke. A satisfied smile split the prince’s face as the boy’s bloodcurdling screams echoed from the high, vaulted ceilings of the throne room and his blood spilled across the golden tiles in a crimson rush.

Rowan kicked the hand aside and loomed over the boy, red gore still staining his blade. “Steal from me again, and it will be your head next time. Remove him from my sight,” he bellowed at one of the guards, “and send for a servant to clean the mess.”

Rowan cleaned his blade with the hem of a guard’s surcoat before striding back up the stairs to his father’s towering throne—his throne if the gods ever saw fit to grant him his greatest desire. His sister stared up at him indolently from beneath a dark fan of long lashes.

“Well met, brother,” she murmured. “If you let one get away without punishment, then all the other peasants will believe they can as well.”

Rowan smiled as they watched the guards drag the boy and his father from the throne room. His mirth quickly faded as the guards ushered in the next person in the long line of vassals and villeins come to present their grievances to the Prince Regent. Rowan wished the city sentries would come with another peasant that needed punishment for some grievance or other. The sight of the previous criminal’s blood upon the tiles would have been enough to send anyone into a state of panic and a fit of begging … and Rowan loved it when they begged.

Instead, he found himself confronted with his uncle, Sir Hadrian. The old knight was thick and long of limb, an imposing presence. His hair was the same dark blond as his brother and nephew, his skin the same deep bronze that spoke of their variegated heritage.
White mingled with the blond upon his head and face, and deep lines were prominent around his eyes and mouth. His face was rough and weathered, his jaw covered by a few days’ beard. A long scar slashed its way down his face, from temple to jaw, adding a fearsome aspect to his countenance. Were Rowan a lesser man, he might actually have been intimidated.

Sir Hadrian’s bow was nearly imperceptible as he approached the throne. “Nephew,” he said curtly, his hand resting on the hilt of the curved scimitar
at his waist.

Rowan stood and forced a smile, though he was not happy to see his uncle. If the gods were good—and in Rowan’s experienc
e they were not—they would take Hadrian with them when they took Merek. “Uncle!” he exclaimed with false cheer. His steps were light as he trotted down the stairs and extended a hand to Hadrian. “Your presence is a delight.”

Hadrian had no choice but to take his nephew’s hand and kiss his ring. “I would speak with you. Alone.”

Rowan waved the guards away. “Leave us. All other requests and grievances will be heard on the morrow.” Helena took her leave as well, and Rowan extended an arm toward the pavilion just through the open archways to their left. “After you.”

Hadrian preceded him out onto the covered
rotunda. From this height, they could see over the walls of Oryna Keep to the bustling city of Port Galaean. The reddish-brown clay dwellings and shops rose up from the ground, stacked on top of each other like uneven bricks. Then the bright red, yellow, and blue tents of the market gave way to the crowded dock with Gythe Bay and the Elyri Sea beyond.

His … it was all his.

“I will soon depart for Ir’os,” Hadrian announced once they were alone. Rowan turned from where he’d been standing, staring out over all that he would soon inherit.

“A shame,” he lied. “We have so enjoyed your company.
Nonetheless, I do understand. As the lord of Ir’os, you have many duties that require your attention. We shan’t hold it against you.”

Hadrian grunted as he came
up beside Rowan. His narrowed, green gaze was far too perceptive. Rowan shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “No,” he mumbled, “I suppose you will not. After all, the further away from Oryna Keep I am, the less likely I am to spoil your fun by reporting your activities to your father.”

Rowan snorted. “Now you will lecture me like a proper nursemaid. Well, go on then
,
nanny
. Tell me what a bad boy I’ve been.”

Hadrian’s eyes narrowed and his face became thunderous as he turned on Rowan. “You are a small man, Rowan. Aye, your name and your lineage have given you power, but take that all away and you are nothing.”

“Nothing,” Rowan murmured with a shrug. “Only, I am not nothing, am I, Uncle? I am a king.”

“Not yet, you are not.”

“It is only a matter of the finer details. Father will not survive the year, and the council has named me regent. I rule all of Alemere now. I know that you would have preferred the honor yourself, but alas, the gods saw fit to give my father a son.”

“If you think your title and power make you a ruler, you are wrong,” Hadrian persisted. “The people adore Merek because he brought them peace—not just here, but in Dinasdale and Daleraia. He made us all one realm,
and he did it without ever launching a single warship. That sort of benevolence inspires fealty, it inspires love. The people will not love you as they love him.”

Rowan smiled again as he surveyed the isle and the glittering sea beyond. “Uncle, you are a fool.”

The old battered knight stiffened, his fingers trembling on the hilt of his scimitar. “Mark my words, we shall see who the greater fool is, in the end.”

Rowan shrugged. “You bore us with your prattle. Go, return to your castle and lands. We shall send word when Father finally has the decency to die.”

Hadrian backed away slowly, his eyes fixed upon Rowan menacingly. Rowan simply grinned and watched him go, enjoying his uncle’s anger immensely. There wasn’t a thing the man could do to stand in his way … it was all so marvelously delicious. A serving girl wrapped in rich, billowing silk appeared on the pavilion, her steps faltering when she encountered him.

“Oh, Your Grace,” she said demurely, curtsying swiftly. “Good afternoon.”

Rowan’s eyes traveled over the maid, a copper-skinned woman of mixed blood—Daleraian and Dinasdalian. Dark hair tumbled down her back in a thick curtain, and her feet were bare. Gold circled her wrists and ankles, a stunning contrast against her skin; her eyes were round and black as pitch. The curves of her body were tempting beneath her silk. She was a chambermaid, dressed as all the maids of the palace were, but Rowan found her enticing all the same.

“Come here, darling, I do not believe I know your name.”

“Namiane, Your Grace,” she offered as she strode toward him. She met his gaze proudly, her chin high. Rowan’s loins grew full as he reached out to tug at the front of her draped gown. It fell, and hung from the belt at her waist, revealing full breasts with beckoning, brown nipples. Rowan pinched one lightly.

“Namiane, have I ever k
nown the pleasure of your mouth?”

The maid smirked knowingly. “No
, Your Grace, but it would be an honor to know your taste.”

Rowan stroked her cheek and chuckled. “Then I shall honor you. Kneel.”

The maid obeyed as Rowan freed himself from the constraints of his breeches and braies. Namiane’s mouth found him hungrily, suckling and lapping with a skill no brothel whore could match.