Chained (Chained Trilogy) (21 page)

“You will not strike me again, wench,” he hissed, his breath fanning her cheek. He released her wrist, allowing her arm to drop back down to her side. His other hand remained on her face, his fingers stroking down the column of her neck and his thumb caressing the line of her jaw. “Your prince is a fool,” he whispered. “
If he were smart, he would try to earn your love, not your obedience.”

Gwen school her face into a mask of calm despite his nearness
, and swallowed noisily. “Don’t all men want their wives to obey them?”

He grinned
. “An obedient wife lies still beneath her husband when he makes love to her, and endures it. A loving wife claws his back and screams his name in ecstasy.”

Gwen shifted, putting a bit of distance between them. Disappointment showed on his face for a moment, and then it was gone. “You speak as if you know of such things,” she said, clearing her throat noisily. “Is there a wife waiting for you back in Daleraia?”

“If I told you there was, would it change your mind about releasing me?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then, no, I do not. However, I know that when I do wed, I’d rather have a loving wife than an obedient one.”

“Then you are a rare man, Sir,” Gwen said. “As well as a fortunate one.
Some of us do not have a choice, and must do what we’re told.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, “I see. What a tragedy. Here I stand, wearing chains, when you are the true prisoner here.”

Gwen turned away from him and returned to her table, taking up her chalice and swallowing the dregs before refilling it. “Lynet!” she called for her maid. “Come, I grow tired.”

In truth, she wanted nothing more than an escape from this knight
, his probing eyes, and intrusive questions. As the maid prepared her for bed, the Daleraian retreated into the shadows and remained silent for the rest of the night. Yet, even as she slid beneath the bedclothes and closed her eyes, Gwen could still feel his eyes upon her in the dark. She could still feel the tight grip of his fingers on her chin and their slow slide tracing a path of fire down the side of her neck.

***

By the gods, something must be done. My son—Rowan—unfit to rule. Yet, what can I do? I who has brought this terrible fate upon Alemere. They asked me to be Alemere’s king, and I accepted the crown out of a want to do good. How could I have known that the fruit of my own loins would spoil? Gods forgive me …

King Merek Arundel tossed and turned fitfully in his bed, alone with his final thoughts. Death was upon him, he would not live much longer. With that realization came the painful knowledge that his son, Prince Rowan, would be left to rule once he was gone.
The thought would have once brought him so much joy. Now, it was spoiled like rotting meat turning his stomach.

Where had he gone wrong? Merek had raised Rowan in the same manner that his father had brought him up, teaching him strength of character and benevolence
above all else. Yet even as a child, Rowan was defiant and willful, but Merek had attributed it to a stubborn nature.

“It will serve him well when he is a man grown,” he had told his wife, Queen Helewys
. “Whatever he sets his mind to he will do, and no man will be able to stop him.”

That much was true, but it was not for the better. What Rowan wanted was absolute power, obedience, and
reverence. As a king, he would be feared, not loved, and the notion broke Merek’s heart.

“I tried,” he whispered to his gods in the dark. “You know that I tried … I failed … forgive me.”

A sudden whisper of sound in the darkest corner of his chamber told Merek that he was not alone. He stiffened and his blood ran cold as his eyes—the whites now gone yellow—darted back and forth, seeking. Footsteps shuffled over the marble floor, and a shadowy figured loomed toward him, slowly coming into the light, peeling itself away from the dark.

“What a pitiful sight you make,” a soft, smooth voice crooned. “An old, dying man, muttering to himself in the dark.”

Merek’s eyes widened as his son’s face appeared, its sharp lines standing out starkly in the light of the candle beside the bed. “Rowan,” he croaked, his trembling fingers clutching at the bedclothes. He cursed his weakness and old age, despising them both. “You intrude upon my solitude. Leave me … leave me to die in peace.”

Rowan’s smile was without cheer, sickening as it spread ac
ross his handsome face. He was the very image of Merek in his youth, with an added petulance that lent a certain poutiness to his mouth, which Merek found repugnant. “I would,” Rowan crooned, reaching out to stroke a lock of thin, white hair back from Merek’s face. “If only you had the grace to perish faster. Alas, the gods see fit to drag out my torment.”

Merek frowned. “Would that the gods ha
d saw fit to murder you in your mother’s womb. The world would be better for it.”

Rowan merely laughed at his
father, perching on the edge of the large bed. Queen Helewys slept in her own adjoining chamber. She had not shared his bed for many years, since his illness had taken a turn for the worst. Merek had commanded it, stating that his restlessness at night would disturb her rest. In truth, Merek loved his queen dearly and wanted to make his death as easy for hear as possible. It would go better for her if she learned to sleep alone so that when he was gone, she would be accustomed to going to her bed without him. He wished she was here now, beside him. These were his last hours, he could feel it. He would have wanted to spend them with her, not Rowan.

“It is too late for that, Father,” Rowan crooned, taking one of Merek’s trembling hands in his. “Here I am, and here I will remain long after you are gone.”

“The people will despise you.”

“The people will love me,” Rowan countered, shrugging in that indolent way of his. “They will love me, or they shall perish. You, however, will not be here to see it.”

Merek did not have the strength to fight as Rowan’s free hand came down over his nose and mouth, pressing down with crushing force. His other hand still held Merek’s, the fingers tightened like a manacle and pressing it against the mattress. Merek’s strength had long fled him, and now all he could do was slap feebly at the hand covering his face, suffocating him. His lungs burned as tears pooled in his eyes, his vision swimming hazily before him. The tears spilled over, and the pulsating of his own blood pounded in his ears, the beats growing slower and slower as the life gradually drained from him.

Rowan’s face flushed
from the exertion, candlelight playing demonically over his features and causing green fire to spark in his eyes. Merek wondered idly, as his life slipped away from him, what he’d ever done to deserve such hatred and contempt. His last memory was of that night on the shore of Port Galaean, when two kings had placed their trust in him. He’d succeeded for a time, but now in death he was failing them.

Merek jerked and convulsed, his lungs burning so painfully now that the tears streaming down his face were as much from
agony as they were from grief. Above him, the face of his son twisted and contorted into a mask of anger and rage.

Merek’s last breath escaped on a sob as his glassy eyes widened and then stayed, his soulless stare fixed upon the ceiling.

Gods forgive me …

***

The taste of blood filled his mouth as Caden swung the longsword in his hands, blocking the downward swing of a morningstar. It threw him off balance, causing him to drop to one knee. His grip tightened on the hilt as he put all his strength behind blocking another blow, determined to save his head from being split open by the spiked club. In the distance, cries reached him through the sounds of battle—clashing swords, men groaning their lasts breaths, and the screams of women and children as they ran to avoid the swing of swords. One cry stood out distinctively, Caden’s name screamed in a moment of desperation and fear—Asher’s voice.

Cade
n fought harder and faster, but it was not enough. It was never enough no matter how many times he had this dream. Still he fought harder, still he persisted. This time I’ll save him, he told himself. This time we will walk away from this fight together, and return to Minas Bothe where we will drink and dice and laugh together as we always did.

But it was not to be. Asher’s cries persisted as the halberd sliced through his meaty neck. Once. Twice. His cries struck a crescendo before dying
away completely. Caden stood, watching helplessly as Asher’s head fell away from his body and rolled. It landed at Caden’s feet, the blue eyes staring up at him blankly, accusingly.

Dead
…

Caden was snatched back into wakefulness
by a hand upon his shoulder
.
Eyes bleary from sleep, he lashed out toward the person bold enough to attack him as he slept. Even as he did, reeling wildly while his mind fought to reconcile dream from reality, he knew that it was all wrong. The shoulders his hands clamped down upon were too slender and narrow, the cry of dismay too high-pitched and feminine.

When the remnants of his nightmare faded away, Caden found himself staring into a pair of wide, dark eyes filled with fear. She was kneeling before him, so close her nose nearly touched his. His grip was tight on her arms, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Quickly, Caden released her, grimacing contritely as he noticed the overturned chalice and rapidly spreading pool of water
upon the floor.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked gruffly, scuttling away from her and back toward the wall. His chain dragged the floor as he did, coiling beside him as he sat, stretching his legs out in front of him and pressing his back against the cool stone walls
.

Gwen shook her head, still upon her knees
. She reached for the chalice. “No,” she said, clearly shaken. “I’m sorry, you were thrashing and calling out in your sleep.”

Caden avoided her gaze and watched the rapidly spreading puddle of water. “My apologies if I disturbed your sleep. I was not aware that my dreams caused such outbursts.” He wasn’t sure why he should apologize to her; she had brought this on herself by imprisoning him in her chambers. Still, he could have easily hurt her in his anger and confusion, and for some reason
that concerned him.

Gwen stood and crossed to the table where her maps and letters rested, taking up a bronze pitcher and refilling the chalice with water. As she returned to him, moonlight outlined her lithe body through the thin, white linen of her chainse.
Embarrassed, he flushed when she caught him staring, her eyes wide as she noticed his gaze raking her figure from head to toe. She made quite a sight out of her usual silks and samite. In her white undergarment, her hair loose and flowing down her back in gentle waves, she appeared so fragile and innocent Caden almost forgot what a harridan she could be. She offered him the chalice and he took it, sighing with relief as the water sluiced down his throat and cooled him.

She remained crouched in front of him, the bottom of her chainse a pool around her on the floor. “Who is Asher?” she asked softly.

Caden frowned, slamming the chalice down to the floor in agitation. “No one.”

Her expression of pity only angered him more. “You certainly seem angry about whatever happened to this person who is no one to you.”

“Leave it be, wench.”

“Is it one of your men, one of those captured down in the dungeons? Is it the one who lost his arm? I can assure you, the healers
have taken good care of his wound—”

“He was my brother!” he bellowed, putting an end to her prattling. His hands balled into fists in his lap as he imagined grasping Marcel Bauldry by the neck and tightening his fingers until the man ceased to breath
e. “He is dead because of one of your people! Yes, wench, a Dinasdalian knight beheaded him in the streets of Vor’shy with no just cause.”

He reared toward her, his hand coming out to circle her throat. Gwen did not flinch; she only continued
gazing into his eyes, beguiling him with her stare. Anger surged through him hotly and his jaw clenched as he leaned closer, his fingers flexing around her neck.

“I should kill you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her cheek. “A life for a life, a debt repaid. It would be so easy, milady. Your neck is so slender
, and all I need do is close my fingers.”

Gwen inclined her head, her gaze never brea
king from his. Despite her earlier fear, she watched him boldly now, her back ramrod straight as she came closer to him, so close that she was nearly straddling him. Blood surged hot in his veins, causing the heady sensation of dizziness to wash over him. What was this? This woman was his enemy, a Dinasdalian, and the betrothed of a Lerrothian prince besides. Everything about her was off-putting, and yet …

“Why don’t you?” she challenged. “Do it, Sir, I beg you. My brothers are gone,
likely dead, and my father is dying. My mother is a stranger to me, and I am betrothed to a man I do not love.” She laughed. “Gods, I don’t even like him. Do it, Daleraian, and end my misery.”

Caden’s fingers loosened, his hand moving to the back of her head and the thick curtain of hair tumbling between her shoulders. His fingers clenched around the strands, sinking into the supple waves.
She didn’t resist when he pulled her toward him, bracing her hands against his chest as he lowered his head to hers. His lips captured her possessively, cruelly, leaving no room for protest, but the lady wasn’t offering any. Fingers wrapped around the chains crossed over his shoulders and chest, she held on and kissed him back.