Chained (Chained Trilogy) (20 page)

“Will you reply to Prince Gaiwan’s letter now, m’lady?” Lynet asked as she finished lighting the many tapers in the candelabra on her mistress’ table.

If anything, the mention of her betrothed caused the lady’s eyes to become even more tempestuous. “No,” she answered, her voice a soft, melodious note in the dark of night. “I don’t believe I will. However, I will pen one to Jorin. The poor boy must be sick with worry over Achart, Leofred, and Evrain. I wish to put his mind at ease.”

“Wine?”

Lady Gwen nodded as she retrieved fresh parchment and pulled the stopper from an inkwell. The maid filled her lady’s chalice. “See that our prisoner is fed,” Lady Gwen murmured as she bent over her parchment, quill already scratching out her letter.

“Aye, m’lady,” Lynet answered before leaving the room once more.

Caden leaned against the stone wall and watched as the lady penned her letter. Her brows furrowed over her fathomless eyes, her full lips pursed in concentration. The firelight played over her angular features, and Caden found himself surprisingly content to trace the angles and planes with his eyes, studying her intently. She was no Esa; that was certain. The two women couldn’t be more opposite, but therein lay the allure for Caden. No Daleraian woman had skin so dark and lustrous, eyes so obscure and mysterious, lips so plush and full. She was exotic, different than what he was accustomed to … that was all.

The maid returned, interrupting his thoughts, and just in the nick of time. Caden gave her a grateful smile as she knelt an arm’s length away from him and pushed a plate laden with bread, cheese, and fruit
toward him. She followed it with a mug of ale, which he accepted gratefully. The moment his hand touched it, she snatched hers away as if avoiding the strike of a snake.

“I will not harm you,” he said honestly. “You have no need to fear me.”

“I have never met a Daleraian that did not inspire fear.”

Caden frowned as he swigged from his mug. The ale was honeyed, sweet but stout. He liked it. “You have the look of a Daleraian about you,” he remarked, tearing into the hunk of bread on his plate. It was buttered and still warm. Perhaps being imprisoned in the lady’s tower wasn’t so bad.
The food was certainly better than it was in the dungeons. “Blue eyes, freckled face, delicate features. You are of mixed blood.”

Lynet nodded. “Aye, but the blood of Dinasdale is the strongest in me. I did not know my Daleraian father
and I was raised at Seahaven.”

Caden chewed thoughtfully. “Allow me to venture a guess. Your mother was a serving woman in one of the castles during the
War of Four Kings. Your father was a Daleraian soldier who took her in his bloodlust.”

The maid nodded, her lips pinched and her jaw clenched. “Aye,” she responded. “Daleraians rape.”

He scowled at her, his hands tightening into fists. “Men rape,” he corrected her. “Small men who shouldn’t even be allowed to call themselves men. When I take a woman, she is more than willing. As for your father, he is likely dead and Alemere is well rid of him. Though, if not for him coming upon your mother, you could not exist. That, at least, would be a pity.”

Lynet started as if shocked, and Caden went back to his meal. He’d
stunned her. Good. The War of Four Kings had earned his people a reputation for bloodthirstiness and daring. Sometimes it served them well; no enemy dared to cross them without thinking twice. Other times, though, it was a less than desirable reputation. His great grandfather had kidnapped and forced a Dinasdalian princess to become his concubine over half a century ago before hanging her dead body from the ramparts of the Wraith’s Tower in a fit of rage. He’d wanted her to love him, and she could not. Since that time, the Dinasdalians had seen all Daleraians as bloodthirsty rapists and murderers, and nothing he did could change that. Perhaps, though, he had convinced this maid, who seemed less fearful of him as she retreated. Caden could have sworn she saw a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

He finished his meal in silence before draining
what was left in his stein. “More ale, if you’d be so kind,” he requested when Lynet came to take his plate away. She obliged, before departing to prepare for bed. It was then that Lady Gwen finally sealed her letter and rose from the table. Caden watched as she stretched and yawned, one small hand massaging the undoubtedly tense muscles at the back of her neck.

“Who is Jorin?” he asked, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him.

Gwen’s eyes swiveled toward his, finding him in the shadowed darkness. “My brother,” she answered. “My father’s youngest son.”

Caden frowned. “You said your brothers were missing.”

“I have four brothers, Sir,” she said, busying herself with closing the shutters against the starry night. “Only one of them escaped the attack of your kinsmen. He has been sent to foster at Vor’shy.”

Thinking of Asher’s blood spilling onto the street in the so-called city of pleasure, Caden choked down the lump of grief rising in his throat. “They were no kinsmen of mine,” he said, though he knew his words fell on deaf ears. The evidence was strong against him, he knew. “Your brother, he is named for King Jorin, is he not?”

Gwen nodded as she closed the last shutter and turned to face him. “Yes, my great grandfather. He was killed by one of Daleraia’s kings, I believe.”

Caden knew his history well. “Aye, King Terrowin II. The Fall of King Jorin, they called it.
”

“His daughter, Princess Farah, was also killed by one of your kings. King Terrowin I. As well, my great uncle, Geoffrey Toustain was slain by command of King Terrowin II. For centuries Daleraian kings have wreaked havoc on Dinasdale.”

“And for thirty years, our two realms have known peace as one kingdom,” Caden pointed out.

“
Yet, the true nature of the Daleraians shows itself once again. Conquest is all you know.”

Caden laughed at that. “Do you know that Lord Theodric had a chance at the throne? He was next in line to rule Daleraia, and even when the first council of Alemere met, he could have fought to be king of the new world.
There was enough support that he could have taken it. He chose to become a high lord instead, to bow to King Merek for the good of the realm. Why would he destroy that on a whim?”

Instead of answering his question, she narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know all of this?”

Caden cursed himself for a fool, but recovered quickly. “Every Daleraian knows the history of how King Terrowin II died at the Battle of the Athils while his son treated for peace.”

Gwen turned her back on him as Lynet entered the room once more, her sandy hair unwound and hanging down her back in a long braid. She’d come to prepare her mistress for bed.

“I do not know why your high lord would wish to destroy the peace,” she said, “but I aim to find out.”

Gwen a
wakened early the next morning and dressed for the temple. She’d had Lynet lay out her garments and dress her in the neighboring chamber to preserve her modesty. The Daleraian watched her too closely as it was; Gwen had no desire to dress and undress in front of him as well. It was something she hadn’t thought of when having him chained to the wall of her bedchamber, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

“So much ceremony and spectacle for a couple of stone statues,” Caden muttered as she and Lynet carefully covered their faces with their veils. Lynet gasped at the knight’s blasphemy
, but Gwen was hardly surprised.

“Your faithlessness does not
shock me,” Gwen said, linking arms with Lynet. “You Daleraians have always been a godless people. Do not ridicule me for my faith, Sir, for daring to believe in something bigger than myself.”

“Yes, those stone statues are rather large, aren’t they? I have only one go
d, wench, and it is made of steel. Perhaps someday you will witness how I choose to honor it by offering the blood of my enemies as tribute.”

Gwen turned her back on him and went to exit her chambers. “
I pity you, Sir, to put your faith in only what you can see and feel. I, for one, find much comfort in knowing there is something more to put my trust in.”

He did not respond, leaving Gwen and Lynet to adjourn to the temple in peace. The morning and afternoon passed her by in a blur. She visited the temple and met the poor beggars at the castle gates before
joining her mother for breakfast. It was a strained affair, and neither of them spoke much as they broke their fast on cod and boiled quail eggs. Gwen barely had time to finish her meal before it was time to change her gown and join Espan in the great hall. Though it had only been a fortnight since she’d sent men in search of her brothers, each day she dared to hope that someone would bring word. Today was the same as any other day—the mundane matters of vassals and villeins alike were brought before her, and the messengers sent back from her knights and men-at-arms said no trace of her brothers had yet to be found. Gwen tended them all, only adjourning for a quarter of an hour for a bite of bread and sip of wine before returning.

In the evening, before dinner, Gwen visited with her father
. Because he was so fragile, Gwen dared not burden him with talk of the Daleraian. He had trusted her to keep Seahaven safe until Evrain’s return, and that is what she would do. She need not bother him with every little trifle. An unruly prisoner was hardly his concern. She did write Orrick, though, as she trusted his council more than she did Espan’s. She’d told him all, and hoped that he would write back with wise council, or even journey to Seahaven once Freyvale’s defenses and stores had been seen to.

When she returned to her room that evening after dinner, Lynet ask
ed her the same question she did every night. “Will you write a letter to your betrothed, milady?”

Gwen frowned, settling in her
chair before the parchment and scrolls splayed out across the table. Gaiwan’s letter was buried beneath a stack of ledgers and records, the seal bearing the tidal wave of House Bainard pressed into blue wax, broken weeks past. His words were flowery and false, and Gwen was at a loss as to how she should respond. When she thought of Gaiwan, all that came to mind now was pain and embarrassment. She doubted he wanted to read her thoughts on their bedding ritual, so Gwen had neglected to respond. Her mother would be appalled if she knew that Gwen was neglecting her betrothed. A true lady would never act in such a way.

“No,” Gwen answered curtly, waving Lynet away and opting to pour her own wine. “I would like for you to leave me be and stop pestering me about that infernal letter!”

Lynet, who was accustomed to Gwen’s shifting moods, simply curtsied. “Very well. I will leave you to until you are ready for bed.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair and
sipped her wine as she watched the approaching twilight through her open shutters.

“And here I thought all women delighted in finding a man to
trap with marriage. For a blushing bride, you look positively dismal.”

Gwen glared at the knight through the shadows cloaking him. The moonlight glinted off his iron chains and shackles, and his eyes glittered
in the dark. “Cease your prattle, Daleraian, I am in no mood.”

He scoffed. “Seems to me, if your prince had done his job your mood would be vastly improved. A little carnal pleasure would go a long way for you in that regard.”

Gwen gasped, shocked at his daring. He merely laughed at the sound, his chains clinking as he stood, stepping more fully into the light of her candles. He could not go far; his chain allowed him just enough slack to walk back and forth to the chamber pot hidden behind a screen not three feet away from him. The pot was emptied by a chambermaid each day. A palette of straw had been placed against the wall for him to lay upon and was covered by a thin, woolen blanket. Not once did the knight complain. “We are loose-tongued people, Daleraians. We have no cause for candor or tact, when our women aren’t so easily offended. Tell me, Gwen, did you find the Lerrothian bedding ritual to your liking?”

Gwen squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, stepping forward to meet the knight in the center of the room. Moon and candlelight illuminated the mottled bruising on his forehead and jaw, but his eyes glittered like sapphires, clear and bright as they penetrated hers. “What do you know of it?” she challenged.

“The Lerrothians are excessively amorous,” he said with a shrug. “Stories of their rituals abound, so do not try to deny it. Was he gentle with you, your prince? Did he bring you fulfillment?”

Indignation rose and swelled in her chest, and Gwen fought the urge to strike him as she had the night before. “How dare you!” she chastised. “You go too far!”

The knight cringed, sympathy flaring in his gaze. “He wasn’t, was he? I am not surprised, most men are not. They think it the woman’s job to pleasure them, and give no thought to much else. A spoiled prince … well, I’d imagine he’d be a more selfish lover than most men.”

Gwen lost her carefully composed control and let her hand fly, but this time,
the Daleraian was ready for her. His own hand shot up, quicker than lightning, and intercepted hers. His tight grip was gentle but firm around her wrist, the chain running between his shackles heavy against her breast as his other hand came out to grip her jaw. Gwen stiffened in his hold, fear causing her breath to quicken as he drew her closer.