Chained (Chained Trilogy) (23 page)

“Message? What message?”
             

“He told Marcel to
warn me that he was coming. That vengeance would be his, and he would bathe Dinasdale in blood as payment for what was done in Vor’shy. We increased the guard in Heywick and sent word to Freyvale, but they were never found. They simply vanished.”

Gwen thought of the knight chained to the wall in her chambers and stifled a dry laugh.
No, milord,
she thought
, they did not vanish. I simply found them before you did.

Her lips tingled as she thought of her Daleraian prisoner’s kiss, and shame washed over her.
He had almost convinced her of his innocence, had even caused her to feel pity for him over the loss of his brother—his brother who was a rapist and a murderer. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with rage.

“Milady?”

Gwen’s eyes snapped toward Lord Humber, and she found him peering at her in consternation. She forced herself to calm. “Milord, I pray you will excuse me. I have an urgent matter to attend. As for your brother, it remains to be seen if he will be punished for acting without my father’s leave. You may await my judgment on the morrow.”

Lord Humber stood and bowed. “Of course, milady.”

Gwen departed without another word, her feet moving swiftly as she navigated the curving staircase of the east tower. She took it down past the ground floor, and continued spiraling into the earth below Seahaven—to the archives where all of her father’s ancient texts and scrolls were kept and preserved. Gwen knew the truth now, but she would be absolutely sure before she confronted the Daleraian with what she knew. She’d forgotten to bring a taper in her haste, and had to slow her steps as she descended further into the bowels of the castle, fumbling blindly for one of the torches hanging on the wall. She found it and lit it quickly, grunting as she pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the musty room.

The air was moist down here, and smelled of ink and old paper. Gwen searched the neatly organized tomes until she found the one she was looking for.
The History and Family Trees of the Noble Houses of Alemere.

Gwen lit three tapers on a table scattered with inkwells, quills, and parchment. Shoving several maps aside, she opened the massive book and began flipping through the pages, her eyes searching, seeking the truth. She paused when she found the family tree of the Maignarts, her finger tracing the black scrawl upon the page as she read the names of the family going back several generations before Kings Terrowin I and II. She slowed when she f
ound the last king of Daleraia, tracing his family line.

“King Terrowin Maignart II,” she whispered as she read, her fingers tracing the lines. “Wed to Queen Krea Maignart.
Son, Prince Theodric Maignart, wed to Lady Victoria Maignart.” Her heart leapt into her throat as she found their offspring. “Three sons—Sir Caden Maignart, Sir Jarin Maignart, Sir Asher …”

***

Sweat poured down Caden’s brow, glistening on his chest and torso as his body moved from memory. With his eyes closed he could almost feel the hilt of a sword in his hand. He danced through moves and countermoves, his mind conjuring an imaginary foe, fingers gripping the hilt of an imaginary sword. Today he was more restless than ever. The endless hours spent chained to the wall with little more than three feet of chain allowing him movement had taken their toll on him. He longed for open air and steel in his hands—things he’d taken for granted before his imprisonment.

Still, with Lady Gwen’s shutters thrown open to the balmy afternoon air, his cell was not altogether a terrible place to be. Caden had found he could grow used to the salty air of Dinasdale, the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore and the call of gulls.

Fresh fish wasn’t easily accessible in Daleraia. The coast facing the sea was stony and harsh; it was nearly impossible to dock there without dashing the vessel upon the rocks. To preserve it, fish had to be salted and dried before being transported from Camritte or Seahaven. Here, the bounty of the sea was plentiful and Caden discovered that the fresher the fish was, the better it tasted. The Dinasdalians ate of the ocean daily—mussels, crab, lobster, fish, clams.

He vowed to find a holding
somewhere along the coast of Brodernil Bay once he returned home. There were some abandoned castles near Ir’os that many feared because of their proximity to The Athils—the twin lakes which had been the sight of the Battle of the Athils. It was there that the final battle of the War of Four Kings was fought. The battle in which his grandfather, King Terrowin II, had been slain. His remains, along with countless others, rested at the bottom of those lakes, and it was said that the abandoned keeps near the old battlefield were haunted, including Ir’os itself.

Caden had never been the superstitious sort, and figured that if a ghost were going to haunt him, it may as well be one of his ancestors. It would be nice, he decided
, to live so near the water, to have a place to journey when the winters grew too harsh at Minas Bothe.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and Caden faltered, the rattle of his chains ceasing as he opened his eyes. He found Lady Gwen
standing in the doorway, her determined stare fixed upon him. His body reacted viscerally to her presence, which only angered him. She was the daughter of his enemy, and might well be responsible for instigating war between two lands once at peace. She was a spoiled, high-handed shrew, who irritated Caden to no end.

Ye
t, he’d been unable to sleep after kissing her the night before. Why, he could not say. She was nothing like the kind of woman he typically preferred—the opposite of Esa in every way. Even so, he wanted her; there was no denying that now. In the dark of night, she’d seen his pain and revealed how deeply her own ran.
End my misery,
she’d said. He could see it in her eyes. The lady was not living the sort of life she’d imagined for herself. It should not have worried him, but it did.

She was in one of her moods, he could tell as she strode into the room, slamming the heavy door behind
her. Her jade silk gown flowed about her ankles, a black undergown peeking out at her neck, its dagged sleeves hanging down as low as her hem. The archer of House Toustain was pinned between her breasts, a stunning brooch encrusted in sapphires.

“Which one are you?” she demanded, throwing something at his feet.

Caden hadn’t even realized she was holding anything until she sent it rolling toward him. It clattered and clanked noisily, coming to rest just at his feet. It took everything within him to maintain an outward appearance of calm as he stared down at Asher’s helm. Trimmed in gold, the face of a fox … the helm that had cost Asher his life. Caden frowned and glanced up at Gwen.

“What are you shrieking about now, wench?” he
asked, his tone purposely mocking.

She came closer, crossing the room like a bird of prey swooping down upon its dinner. Her foot connected with the helm, sending it crashing against the wall as she glared up at him. “Which one of Theodric Maignart
’s sons are you?” she hissed, her voice low. “Your brother’s name is Asher—that much I know. That helm belonged to him, do not try to deny it. Lord Theodric has three sons—Sir Caden, Sir Jarin, and Sir Asher. So I ask you again, Sir … which one are you? Sir Caden or Sir Jarin?”

Inwardly, he cursed him
self for a fool, not for the first time since being captured by Lady Gwen. He’d allowed her to disarm him last night, while his grief was at its most raw. He’d said too much, and now she knew the truth. Caden decided that when matching wits with Gwen, it was best to go on the offensive. He placed his hands behind his back casually, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“How well do you know your history, milady?” he asked conversationally.

His tone seemed to take her aback, and Caden had to fight the urge to laugh. She had not expected him to answer so calmly, he would wager.
Brace yourself, wench,
he thought.
You will learn soon enough to expect the unexpected from me.

“I hardly see why that matters now,” she scoffed. “I want an answer.”

“If you think over what you know about the history of Daleraia and the Maignart family, you will discover that you already know which one I am. Theodric Maignart has three sons, and I am one of them. Aye, you are right about that. What do you know of the sons of Minas Bothe, milady?”

Her brow wrinkled as she thought. “I know naught of the younger sons,” she admitted. “Only that they are knighted. But everyone knows about Sir Caden Maignart.”

A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Really? Why do you suppose that is?”

“Because,” she began, sighing in exasperation, “he was knighted when he was only sixteen years old for holding Minas Bothe under siege while Lord Theodric was away on the Isle of Camritte. With a
brigade of only five hundred men he drove back a force of …” She trailed off, her eyes locking with his as realization finally dawned.

Caden could not contain his smile this time. “Aye, wench, you have finally figured out who I am.”

One dark eyebrow rose and her lips pursed. “Sir Caden, I presume.”

He bowed gallantly, his chains clinking as he did. “At your service, milady,” he murmured.

She turned and paced toward her table, filling her chalice before taking a healthy swallow. She paced toward a window and back again, her hands clenched tightly behind her back, her eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“Have you finally put the pieces together then?” Caden called out to her. “I am sure by now you realize just what you’ve done.”

Gwen paused in her pacing and glowered at him. “Aye,” she replied. “I have arrested the man who threatened to bathe Dinasdale in blood. Did those words not come out of your very big mouth, Sir Caden?”

He winced inwardly at that, and knew that if
Lord Guyar were present he would have called him a fool. Again. His impulsive words were following them and causing more trouble than he’d intended. “I spoke in anger,” he reasoned. “Sir Marcel murdered my brother in cold blood for a crime he did not commit.”

“Sir Marcel executed your brother in the name of Lord Clarion and King Merek for rape and murder, and for breaking the peace between our lands.”

Caden’s patience had reached its limits, and he lunged toward her, forgetting his chains. The harness jerked him back, causing his teeth to rattle as the chains jolted against their iron rings. The stone shuddered but held fast, reminding him of just how vulnerable he was.

“Goddamn you, wench, I told you it was not him! My brother was wrongly accused, and your precious knight, Marcel
, is the one who broke the peace by killing Asher.”

Gwen reached for the fox helm and held it up to him, the one piece of damning evidence that Caden could not escape. “Explain this,” she said matter-of-factl
y. “I have it on good authority that several hundred people witnessed the sack of Heywick, which was led by your brother! This helm was seen upon the rider who led the Daleraians across our borders, pillaging, raping, killing, burning. Lord Humber Bauldry presented it to me just this afternoon.”

“Lord Humber …” Caden trailed off, his eyebrows snapping together in confusion. “When did Lord Humber arrive at Seahaven?”

The lady rolled her eyes at him. “Just today. Why?”

Caden shook his head. “Milady, it is impossible for him to have come bearing Asher’s helm. I
was in possession of that helm when your cousin and his men attacked us and dragged us to Seahaven.”

Gwen scowled. “You lie.”

Caden chuckled. “I do not lie, wench. You may accuse me of as many foul behaviors as you’d like, but one thing I’ve never done is lie to you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You lied to me about your identity,” she replied pointedly.

“I omitted a few details, but I did not lie. I told you that I was a knight of Daleraia. You already know that I was knighted at the age of sixteen, so it stands to reason that I did not lie to you. You have only to go seek your cousin out and ask him. I am certain my things have been divided between his men by now, but a few inquiries should turn up that helm.”

Gwen raised the helm in her hand. “Then what is this?” she asked.

Caden shrugged. “A very good replica of my brother’s helm? Some sort of jest? A plot between Sir Marcel and Sir Brennus to make it appear as if my brother is guilty? I cannot pretend to know.”

Gwen’s backed away from him, still holding Asher’s helm tightly. “I will discover the truth,” she said, eyeing him warily.

“I pray you do, milady,” Caden answered. “The truth may rescue Alemere from certain destruction.”

***

Lady Victoria Maignart wrung her hands in despair as she trotted alongside the only son she had left, exiting the keep at Minas Bothe and descending the front steps into the inner bailey.

“Jarin, please, you must hear me,” she pleaded. “You must not do this thing.”

Jarin spun and advanced on her, his face hard and carved in agony. His glittering, golden eyes pierced hers like the prick of a dirk. It brought her despair to see him so angry, so distraught. However, nothing she said or did could bring him comfort; not when Asher lay buried in the crypts beneath Minas Bothe, and Caden was lost in Dinasdale.