Chained (Chained Trilogy) (24 page)

She was in pain
, too; could he not see that? Two of her sons, gone—one dead and the other … no one knew what had become of Caden. A messenger had arrived from Dinasdale with news of an attack. The lone soldier hadn’t been able to tell them much, only that Caden and his men were set upon, and the odds were bleak. He was likely fallen, dead as Asher. Victoria doubted she would have the small comfort of burying his remains in the crypts where he belonged. Her eldest son likely rotted at the bottom of some river in the north, a prospect that threw her into a fit of sobs each night as she went to bed, alone in her chambers. It was also likely that he’d been captured, in which case he would suffer torture until he died. Either way, the outcome would be the same.

Lord Theodric had departed shortly after Asher’s
body arrived at Minas Bothe, his mission twofold. King Merek was dying, and Lord Theodric had already planned to journey to the Isle of Camritte to pay his respects to the languishing king. By the time he reached the isle, Merek would likely be dead. They’d planned to take the journey together, but after Asher’s body was returned to them, Victoria could not bring herself to leave Minas Bothe.

The death of their youngest son had added a second purpose to Lord Theodric’s mission. He planned to plead their case to Prince Rowan, who may well be King Rowan now.
Something must be done about Lord Clarion’s vassals and their blatant disregard for the peace treaty.

“He must know what has happened,” her husband had reasoned with her. “Something must be done. If war is what Dinasdale wants, then they shall have it, but I will not act without the leave of my king.”

Jarin wanted vengeance, and he wanted it now. Her husband and son had argued passionately about it before Theodric departed. Jarin wanted to march immediately. Between Minas Bothe and Enthorm—the neighboring castle belonging to Theodric’s brother Sir Destrian—they had eight thousand men-at-arms at their disposal. If they called upon Quaos and Haleah for aid, as well as some of Daleraia’s lesser holdings, that number would far surpass ten thousand—a force large enough to crush Seahaven. Jarin wanted the command, the right to go north and avenge his brother, but Theodric forbade it. His respect and love for Merek would not allow him to act without the king’s leave. This angered Jarin, and the emotion was only exacerbated when word of Caden’s loss was brought to Minas Bothe.

“Why are you here?” her son asked her now, his voice raspy and low. Night had fallen, and the
great hall was all but empty. There was no feasting, no music or revelry—Minas Bothe was cloaked in grief for their lost sons. Lady Victoria lifted her black veil, revealing her tear-streaked face.

“How can you ask me that?” She reached out to grab his hands and clung to the only son
left to her. “I am your mother.”

Jarin’s jaw
hardened, a muscle in his cheek twitching in agitation. He was so like her with his coppery red hair and amber eyes. Much like her in looks, but more like Theodric in spirit. His quick temper would be the doom of them all now. “In father’s absence I am the lord of Minas Bothe,” he reminded her.

Just hearing the words brought her pain.
Caden,
she thought,
that distinction belongs to Caden.
Aloud, she said, “Of that I am aware, Jarin.”

He inclined his head. “Then you are also aware that you have no right to interfere here.”

“Please!” she cried out as he went to walk away from her again. She gripped the sleeve of his doublet and held on tight. “I beseech you as a mother! This man … he is someone’s husband, someone’s son. If you do this thing—if you kill him—you will bring his family the same agony that has befallen ours.”

Jarin’s sneer was dark, contorting his face into something Victoria did not recognize. “Good,” he growled. “Let them know our pain. I want them to feel what
we felt when Asher’s body was delivered to Minas Bothe, his head cleaved from his shoulders.”

Victoria could only follow him as he turned to leave her behind, his long strides one for her every two. He hadn’t listened to her before when she tried to reason with him, he would not listen to her now. Only Theodric could have stopped him, and he was across Gythe Bay in Camritte. The night was cold, the winds biting atop the
Radaughorm Mountains. Even the keep’s high walls could not keep it out. The winds were especially strong tonight, almost as if the heavens knew that this night would be kissed by death. The howling was unbearable, reminding Victoria of the screams of the dying. She held her mantle closer to her body, lowering her veil back over her face as she followed Jarin into the outer bailey.

It was dark inside the barbican, but she knew the way. When they emerged into the moonlight again, they were met by twenty of Minas Bothe’s men-at-arms, as well as her brother
-in-law, Sir Destrian. The Dinasdalian prisoner was bound hand and foot, forced to kneel on the courtyard steps. Even on his knees, he was impressive—long and lean with muscle, finely dressed, and proud with regal bearing. He reminded her so much of Caden that her heart broke anew just looking at him. She looked to Sir Destrian instead.

“Will you not try to talk some sense into your nephew?” she whispered as Jarin drew his fist back and drove it into the face of the captured Dinasdalian. “This is madness.”

Sir Destrian was eerily like her husband—quick-tempered, battle hardened, and strong-willed. “Jarin is lord while my brother is away,” he answered. “Who am I to question his commands?”

“His uncle,” she argued. “His advisor. A man who can see as well as I can tha
t this is wrong. Destrian, I beg of you, do something!”

But Destrian did nothing. He merely stood, the wind tugging at his long salt-and-pepper locks and ermine mantle as he looked on, watching as Jarin sentenced their prisoner to death.

Behind her black, sheer veil, Victoria Maignart cried. Her tears were not only for her sons, but for this son of Dinasdale as well. In the north, there was a woman much like her—a lady who was going to have to bury a son. It was too much ugliness to bear. An atrocity that should never have occurred.

Still, she endured as a p
roper lady should, her eyes focused straight ahead as Jarin drew his broadsword and raised it, the wind whipping through his copper curls. She did not even flinch when he brought it down with a loud grunt, severing head from neck in one precise stroke. She was grateful for a clean death, if nothing else.

Jarin cleaned his sword of the Dinasdalian’s blood. “Send the remains to Seahaven,
with the other to carry my message. Dispatch riders to ensure they reach the castle unharmed,” he commanded before turning to stride back into the keep.

Victoria’s fingers wrapped around his arm as he neared her. He paused, staring down at her veiled face, his eyes glazed over with tears of grief.

“In the annals,” she said, “this will forever be known as the day Sir Jarin Maignart further instigated the war between Dinasdale and Daleraia. I hope you are happy, because you have just made it nigh impossible for us to make peace. If Caden is still alive, then you have just signed his death warrant.”

Jarin’s stricken expression did not make Victoria feel better. Nothing could fill the void left by her
lost sons. She turned away and trudged back to the keep, her heart heavier than it ever had been.

Chapter Eleven

The heat was oppressive within
the smithy, but Gwen ventured inside anyway. Her business was too important for her to be put off by heat and noise. She left the door open as two men-at-arms and her cousin, Sir Brennus, followed, casting a long, yellow rectangle of light upon the stinking rushes. All around her, apprentices ranging in age from seven to seventeen were about their work, melting down old scraps of metal, tempering steel blades, pouring liquid iron into molds for armor. The smith worked in the corner, a breastplate taking shape between his anvil and great hammer. Beneath a soiled leather apron, he was bare-chested—his dark skin glistening with sweat—his braided hair twisted and bound at the back of his head. He paused when he noticed their presence, setting his hammer aside and quickly dropping into a bow.

“M’lady,” he said as he straightened. “Your business must be important, if you could not trust a steward with it.”

Gwen smiled at the young blacksmith, who had only recently taken his father’s place in the little shop after the old man had died. “It is most urgent,” she stated, motioning for her cousin to step forward. “I know that you are the best blacksmith in all of Dinasdale, and your knowledge on the subject can be of great help to me.”

The smith seemed embarrassed by her praise. “I’ll help you any way I can, m’lady.”

Gwen accepted the twin fox helms from Brennus and held them up into the light streaming from outside. “I was wondering if you could tell me if these were forged by the same smith. I am told that you all have your distinct methods, and only the trained eye can tell one smith’s work from the other on sight. I have reason to believe that even though these helms are identical, they were not forged by the same smith.

The man accepted the helms from Gwen and stepped closer to the open door, his eyes squinting as he adjusted to the light. He was silent for at least half a minute as he studied each helm, his eyes seeming to take in every detail, missing nothing.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, turning each helm over and inspecting the insides. “Both are well made, but one is superior quality. This one,” he said, holding up the helm that had been found among Sir Caden’s things, “was crafted in Haleah. They have the finest blacksmiths in all of Alemere there.”

That, Gwen did not have to be told. Everyone knew that weapons and armor forged in Haleah were of superior quality, far surpassing those made anywhere else. “How do you know?” she asked. Before she
would acknowledge that her captive might be telling the truth, she had to be sure. “Is it only the quality that sets it apart?”

The smith shook his head, handing the other helm off to Brennus before stepping closer to Gwen. He tilted the helm so that the light shone inside of it. “See, there.” His forefinger pointed to a place just inside the helm. “The crossed swords of Haleah. All Halean smiths mark their work so. The other helm is a poor copy, forged someplace else.”

“Can you tell where?”

“I’m sorry, but no
, m’lady. It bears no mark. I can tell you, ’tis not my work.”

Gwen accepted the helm from him and handed that one off to Brennus as well before reaching into her leather belt and the pocket concealed inside. She found the golden coin she’d stashed there and placed it in the blacksmith’s palm. His eyes widened as she closed his fingers around it. “For your silence,” she said, before he could protest. “Discretion is necessary, and I thank you for it.”

The smith nodded in understanding, tucking the coin into a pocket in his apron. He bowed again before returning to his anvil. “M’lady was never here,” he declared, punctuating his statement by returning to his work, effectively dismissing them.

Gwen followed Brennus and his men
back out into the street. He placed the helms in the care of his men; each of them tucked one away out of sight, hiding them beneath their cloaks. They mounted their horses, which waited patiently beside her palanquin and six carriers. The carriers wore matching tunics in the blue and silver of House Toustain, the archer proudly embellished across their chests. They were large men, thick with muscle; the better to bear the weight of those who rode inside the palanquin. Brennus handed her into the little box before climbing in after her, reclining amongst the cushions across from her. Once the door was closed, the carrier was lifted and they made their slow way back to Seahaven. Typically, Gwen like to leave the curtains open, allowing in the sights and smells of Seahaven. The docks were only one street over from Smith’s Lane—where all craftsmen plied their trade. Over the rooftops of the little smithies, white sails could be seen, wafting on the gentle breeze. The mingling smells of fish, baking bread, and burning wood usually delighted her, but today Gwen had need of privacy and wanted their words heard by no one.

“I have made a terrible mistake,” Brennus mused once they were underway. “Gods, Gwen, how could I have known the Daler
aian is Lord Theodric’s own son?”

Gwen shook her head. “You could not have known, and he
would not have told you. Besides, it may yet save our skins. Returning Sir Caden to Minas Bothe will go a long way in coaxing peace from Lord Theodric.”

“He will not forgive the murder of his son,” Brennus argued. “Even if we return Sir Caden, Sir Asher’s execution cannot be taken back.”

Gwen pressed her fingers to her temples, where a dull throb had begun. It was slowly spreading between her eyes as well. “Sir Caden is his heir, and it is the only bargaining chip we have. If he has my brothers, we may be able to use his son to get them back.”

“One life for three.” Brennus shook his head. “The odds are not in our favor.”

“We have his
heir
,” Gwen snapped, exasperated.

“And he may have ours,” Brennus countered. “Evrain for Caden—now there’s an e
ven exchange. What will you do if he demands a life for Asher’s? Who will you sacrifice, Achart or Leofred?”

Gwen closed her eyes, picturing Leofred’s wide smile. She could hear Achart’s hearty laugh. Pain lanced through her at the thought of having to make such a sacrifice. “Neither,” she declared
, opening her eyes and spearing him with a determined gaze. “As long as I draw breath, I will fight for them. I may not be a man, Cousin, but I can certainly harden myself as one if I must. If Lord Theodric wants his son back, then he will have him back on my terms, or I’ll mount his head on a spike.”