Chained (Chained Trilogy) (16 page)

Everyone would kneel before him, whether in supplication or
in offering, as the sweet Namiane had done. Even if he had to cut their knees from under them, they would kneel.

Love, Uncle?
he mused as his laugh melted into a guttural groan of ecstasy.
No, the people will not love me. But by the gods, they will fear me. Fear me or be damned.

***

For three days, Caden drove his men toward Heywick at a grueling pace. Had his chest not become a resting place for a heart of stone, he might have felt sorry for them. Thoughts of vengeance alone drove him, and anger fueled him when food and sleep could not. Three nights Caden closed his eyes, and three times saw Asher’s death again. Not one of the men complained; their love for Asher drove them as it did Caden. Having them at his back fortified his strength and resolve.

On the fourth day,
they arrived on the edge of Heywick, staying to the thick, overgrown forest on its borders and careful to keep the hoods of their mantles raised. Caden did not wish to be seen until he could properly assess the situation. What he saw caused a cold fist of dread to tighten in his gut.

The
sun was an orange sphere of fire descending on the horizon behind them, casting the last of its rays upon a city that had clearly been ravaged. The stench reached their company long before the city itself came into view—the odors of blood, burnt wood and ash, death, and despair. Naked children and ravaged women scavenged their way through what was left of their homes, filling their arms with the remains of their lives. Men plowed and tilled where crops had once grown and been burned. At the edge of the city, the remains of Heywick’s once bustling lumber mill was being cleared away. To the north, Heywick Hall loomed proudly, a sentinel watching over the small city, the green and black banners of House Bauldry fluttering from their ramparts.

Guyar’s sharp
gasp echoed Caden’s thoughts. “’Tis true,” he whispered from his place at Caden’s side, his horse nickering nervously at the odors assaulting them.

“Aye,” Caden answered. “But by whom and why?”

“They will say Asher,” Gareth Goodwin replied from the behind the shadows of his hooded of his cloak. “And after the threats you issued in Vor’shy, they will say you rode with him.”

Caden winced as he realized that Gareth was right. “I spoke out of anger,” he said. “Sir Marcel murdered my brother.”

“And in exchange, you threatened to bathe Heywick in blood and fire.”

“Obviously, someone beat him to it,” Guyar said, reigning in his anxious mount. The smell of death all around them made the horses
restless. “What would you have us do now, milord?” he asked. “Lord Humber should answer for Asher’s murder, ’tis true. However, your father will want you by his side when he marches on Dinasdale … and march he will. He is like to be wroth over this. You may well meet Lord Humber and Sir Marcel both on the field of battle. With a host of ten thousand at your back, you will have their heads.”

“I would have them without the host,” he sneered, his hands tightening on the reigns. “There is wisdom to what you say, yet I cannot help but wonder …” He trailed off and shook his head.

When he did not speak again, Guyar frowned and studied him closely. “Milord?”

Caden scowled. “There is more to this than meets this eye, and I mean to bring my father a full report. I must know if there is more evidence to be found. Not just to exonerate my brother, but to discover who the true perpetrator is. If there is a traitor among
st my father’s vassals, I would know who he is.”

He speared
each of the men around him with pointed glares, but not one of them flinched in the face of his scrutiny. Could it be that they were all innocent? Time would tell, he decided. They would ride as far as Seahaven, at the very edge of Dinasdale. Along the way, Caden intended to learn if there had been other attacks such as this. He intended to see which, if any, of his men grew more nervous with each passing day, or showed signs of deceit. If there was a snake in the house of Maignart, Caden would crush his head in payment for Asher’s besmirched name and murder.

“We ride for Seahaven,” he commanded, wheeling Golias about. The others followed without question, which served to slightly bolster Caden’s confidence in them. Surely men who followed with such loyalty could not have betrayed him. Could they?

***

Two
weeks later …

In the days after Lord Orrick and Prince Gaiwan departed from Se
ahaven, Gwen busied herself by setting about her father’s business. Word had spread quickly of the massacre at Heywick, and within the castle walls, as well as in the city of Seahaven, fear was running rampant. It was Gwen’s and her lady mother’s task to calm those fears and ready the castle for siege. A castle well stocked with food could withstand a siege for months. Should Daleraian soldiers hold them hostage here, their rations would hold them until ships could be launched from Camritte and soldiers were sent to fortify their own garrisons.

It would all depend on how quickly he
r brothers reached King Merek.
They are traveling quickly, there is no time to dally,
she told herself whenever she grew fearful. They had only received word from Evrain once—after her brothers had arrived at Lord Humber’s keep. From there, they were to ride to Vor’shy to deposit Jorin with the Saint-Clair’s for fostering. Then, it was on to Brodernil Bay and the ships that would carry them to King Merek.
That’s why we haven’t heard from them,
she told herself every day that passed without a message. In the beginning, she’d been able to assure herself with those thoughts.

Soon, the
blast of horns would call out to them through the trees, bringing riders from Camritte, and her brothers, come to defend them. Until then, three thousand men-at-arms and one hundred knights held the keep, with five hundred more men-at-arms guarding the city day and night. Riders were dispatched to the farmers—whose fertile lands were bordered by the River Tyryn—commanding that their harvests be brought in to Seahaven early, minus the food they would keep for themselves, of course. Harvest time was not for another month, but Gwen would not risk having the fields burned and the crops lost. The farmers had been arriving for days, trading their wheat, carrots, and apples, for fish fresh from the Elyri Sea, rice imported from Lerrothe, and milk from the dairy farms. The fishermen worked morning, noon, and night, filling barrels with fish, which Gwen promptly ordered salted for preservation and stored.

With Seahaven’s storehouses now overflowing, Gwen opened their gates to its people. Anyone who sought shelter would find it—no one would be turned away.
Every morning, Gwen dressed in her simplest gowns and aprons, working alongside her maids to ready every room in the keep for guests. The rooms over the gatehouse were readied, the empty cells within the temple were made available, and the haylofts above the stables filled with fresh hay, so that those who could not fit within the keep would have a place to sleep.

With the help of Lady Enid and Espan Belmis, Seahaven’s Chief Steward, the castle was prepared within
weeks of her brothers’ departure.

“You have done well,” Lord Clarion told her on the day she visited to tell him of their progress. “Your
brothers could not have done better.”

Gwen laughed as she lowered herself into a chair at her father’s bedside. His health had declined even more, and Gwen began to fear that he would
not survive to see his sons return. “I
know
they could not have.”

“Is there word?”

Gwen lowered her eyes from her father’s hopeful gaze. Every time he asked her if there had been a message from her brothers, she had to disappoint him all over again. It broke her heart to see sadness in his eyes.

“No, Father,” she told him. “No word, not yet. What do you think it means?”

Lord Clarion shrugged. “I cannot know. If the gods are good, it means they met the ships at Brodernil Bay without incident and are well on their way to King Merek. Otherwise …”

“We will think only on the good, and take the bad if it comes.”

Gwen remained with her father until he drifted off to sleep, before rising and returning to the main hall. Luncheon had been cleared away, as had the tables and benches. On the dais, her father’s chair sat, waiting for her. As castellan, the duty of hearing the people’s needs and grievances fell to her. The task had been Evrain’s before he was charged with sailing to Camritte, one that he often lamented left him weary. It was monotonous, he complained, when he would rather be riding, or practicing at swordplay. Gwen, however, found it stimulating. She loved the feeling it gave her to know that her actions affected the lives of the people who came to her. It made her feel as if she were more than just a lord’s daughter—more than a pretty fixture to adorn the arm of Prince Gaiwan. Here, she was a lord, a ruler, a high lady acting on her father’s behalf.

When she arrived, the
great hall was already filled with those clamoring for an audience with her. In the smaller chair to her right was Espan, who would take note of all that happened here today, as well as carry out her orders. He was a tall and slender man, who had begun shaving his head bald after his hair began to thin. It fit him, and his angular face and shrewd eyes. He was dressed in his customary black, floor-length surcoat, the archer on his left breast. He was unadorned, and could easily go unnoticed when necessary, a quality Gwen much appreciated.

A hush fell over those assembled as she swept in, the hem of her
white satin gown dragging the fresh rushes. Heads bowed and murmurs of ‘m’lady’ greeted Gwen as she ascended the dais.

“Good day, be welcome,” she said to them, her voice clear and sure once she had settled in her father’s high seat. In the weeks that she had been performing this duty, her confidence had grown. Now she could face
it without the anxiety that had gripped her the first time. “Lord Espan, are you ready to begin?”

The steward nodded and held up his quill. Before him sat a small table with a fresh pot of ink and parchment. “At milady’s leisure,” he replied, his quill poised over the inkwell.

“Let any messengers come forth first,” she declared. She always began these sessions this way. If there was news of her brothers, she would have it first.

A man in the rich raiment characteristic of Vor’shy came forward, and Gwen straightened in her seat, her eyes wide. He inclined his head respectfully. “Milady,” he began. “I bring word from Lord Mador Saint-Clair of Vor’shy. Your brother, Jorin
, arrived a fortnight past, and is safe.”

Gwen smiled, containing a cry of elation at the news. “And the others? What of Evrain, Leofred, and Achart?”

The messenger frowned then, stepping a bit closer to the dais. Worry lines appeared between his dark brows. “Milady …” he began, trailing off. He lowered his eyes. “It was a peculiar thing. The lad arrived alone.”

Gw
en shot to her feet, heedless of the curious eyes at the back of the great hall upon her. From this distance, they could not hear what was said, but they seemed to sense that the news was grave. Striding down the dais, she came face to face with the messenger. “Alone?” she whispered. “My brothers departed from Seahaven two weeks past with three hundred men-at-arms. Jorin should not have been alone. Where are my brothers? Where are the men-at-arms?”

“We are not sure,” the messenger answe
red. “The boy told us that Sir Achart bid him to run when they were attacked upon the road between Heywick and Vor’shy.”

“Attacked? By whom?”

The messenger leaned even closer, his voice nearly imperceptible when he responded, “Daleraians.”

Gwen’s hands balled into fists at her sides and her eyes slid closed. She worked to quell the panic rising within her as the full implication of his words washed over her. Silence fell over the hall as those awaiting an audience seemed to strain to hear. Espan had risen from his place on the dais; his footsteps warned Gwen that he now approached. When she opened her eyes, the messenger was staring at her expectantly.

“Lord Mador awaits instruction from Lord Clarion,” he continued. “Men-at-arms were dispatched to comb the woods from Vor’shy to Heywick, and in the other direction, toward Brodernil Bay.” He paused.

Gwen leaned toward him, her fingernails biting into her palms. “And?”

“There is no sign of them,” he answered. “It is as if they’ve vanished, milady.”

Espan barely stifled a gasp as he gazed from the messenger to her and back again. “Vanished? But where and to what end?”

Gwen shook her head. “If they were set upon by Daleraians, the gods only know. Please,” she said to the messenger, “wait here while I pen a letter to Lord Mador.”

The messenger bowed. “As you say.”

“Espan, inform those waiting that I will return, then meet me in my father’s solar.”

Espan quickly
left to carry out her command, as Gwen turned and exited through one of the hall’s many doors. Violent tremors shook her, but her steps were quick, determined and sure as she followed the winding corridor to the solar where her father often conferred with Espan and his other advisors. Upon a large, rough oak table, maps, charts, and parchment were spread. She was intently studying a map of Alemere when Espan entered.