Chained (Chained Trilogy) (29 page)

In the evening there was more work to be done, cleaning Gaubert’s chainmail and polishing his armor, taking his soiled c
lothing to the washhouse to be cleaned and mended. After dinner, Jorin spent most of the late hours of the night tending to Gaubert’s weapons—sharpening his blades and mending arrows. By the time he laid his head upon his pillow, his fingers were blistered and sore, his palms red.

Aside from that, Jorin had no
t made a single friend. The other squires seemed nervous of him because he was their high lord’s son, and because of that, he was mostly shunned, more out of deference than spite. Jorin found himself missing home more and more each day. His missed Seahaven, and his horse, Clamedeus. He missed his brothers … was not even certain they still lived. However, he missed Gwen most of all, the person he was closest to in the world. He’d received a letter from her reporting that Evrain, Leofred, and Achart had not been found, but she and Uncle Orrick were doing everything they could to find them. Until then, he was to remain in Vor’shy, one of the strongest holds in the realm. It would be safe for him there, she’d promised, and his safety was all that mattered to her now. She did not write what she truly thought, but Jorin read it clear enough. If the others never returned, he would be the only brother she had left, and that would make him Lord Clarion’s heir. That distinction was never meant for him; the fifth of five children, and the fourth of four sons. The idea made him ill, his stomach churning and his heart wrenching. Evrain had to come home, he just
had
to. If only there was news, but Jorin knew nothing.

Word
finally came, in a way he would never have expected. Dinner had just ended and Jorin was sharpening Gaubert’s sword as he did every night, the whetstone stroking the steel with a scraping sound that echoed in his master’s chambers. Sir Gaubert himself came to find him, his dark face lined and edged in pity.

“Come, lad,” he said. “Set your work aside for later. Father has sent for you
, and is waiting in his solar. There is someone here to see you.”

Jorin’s mind raced at the possibilities as he followed Sir Gaubert on the long walk to Lord Mador’s
chambers. He dared not ask what this was about, as Gaubert did not tolerate insolence of any kind, nor did he suffer being questioned. The tight pinching around the knight’s mouth told him that something was horribly wrong.

His heart leap
t into his throat at the sight of Achart. He was travel weary and filthy with dust and grime, but Jorin had never been happier to see anyone in his life. He rushed forward with a cry, hurtling himself into his brother’s arms and holding on tight.

“Achart,” he spoke the name aloud, assuring himself that this moment was real. “You’re here. You’re truly here.”

The last time he had seen his brothers, Achart was the one who’d helped him escape. Jorin would never forget the moment Achart had thrust the reigns of a horse into his hands and bid him to run. It was the hardest thing Jorin had ever done, turning his back on his brothers when he had a perfectly good sword at his hip and bow at his back, and they were surrounded by enemies. “Do it for Gwen,” Achart had urged him. “If she loses you, it would kill her. Go!”

Jorin had dug his heels into the swift courser and disappeared into the underbrush. As he’d glanced back, it was just in time to watch Achart turn and clash swords with a Daleraian.

“Aye,” Achart answered him now, “I am here, and with tidings.”

Jorin smiled. “Well, where are Evrain and Leofred? Did they meet with Father’s ships?”

Achart winced as he placed a large hand on Jorin’s shoulder. Lord Mador rose from where he’d been sitting at a long table and came to stand on Jorin’s other side. “You must be strong, boy,” he said, compassion thick in his voice.

Dread filled him, and Jorin turned back to Achart, whose grim expression finally became apparent. Something had gone horribly wrong. “Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are Evrain and Leofred
?”

“
Leofred is alive, safe for now. He is a prisoner at Minas Bothe.”

“Minas Bothe? Lord Theodric sent those men to imprison us?”

Achart frowned. “It is a queer thing,” he murmured, “but it does not seem that way. We fought to the very last man against our Daleraian foes, but in the end they overwhelmed us with sheer number and power. Three hundred men-at-arms left Seahaven with us, yet when we were taken, less than twenty remained. We were all taken to Minas Bothe—the three of us included—and left at the gates in the care of Minas Bothe’s guards. ‘A gift,’ their leader informed the guards before leaving us there. Lord Theodric is away—where he has gone we do not know, but his thirdborn son, Sir Jarin, took us as captives.”

“Why?” Jorin asked. “I do not understand any of this. What have we done to the Maignarts to deserve such treatment?”

“From what I gathered, Sir Asher, Lord Theodric’s secondborn, was slain in the streets of Vor’shy for a crime he did not commit.”

“The sack of Heywick,” Lord Mador muttere
d. “Many say they saw him there. The Daleraians lie, as always.”

“Tell that to Sir Jarin!” Achart snapped, leveling a narrowed glare upon
Lord Mador. “He believed in his brother’s innocence so much that he sought to take vengeance upon us.”

Jorin’s eyes widened. “Vengeance? What vengeance? You said Leofred was safe, but Evrain …”

Silently, Achart motioned toward the long, narrow box resting in the middle of the room. Jorin did not know how he hadn’t noticed it before. Now, of course, it was the only thing in the room he could see. It had handles on either side, long enough for four men to bear it. He’d seen a box much like this one before, bearing the remains of a distant relative who had been killed in a storm conjured up by Tinitas, the angry sea god. Jorin couldn’t hold back the tears that fell as he walked forward, his arm outstretched. He placed a hand upon the box’s lid, and turned back to Achart.

“Tell me,” he im
plored. “You have to say it aloud, or I will not believe you.”

“Evrain is here,” Achart said, his voice barely a whisper,
as his gaze shifted to the box, “with us.”

***

Ir’os, Daleraia

Sir Hadrian Arundel strode through the
great hall of Ir’os Keep, his steps purposeful, though his body and mind were weary. The keep was on Daleraian land, north of The Athils, and ringed by the River Gwyth. Just beyond the river was the stony shore of the Elyri Sea. Ir’os was a small castle, no more than a motte with a square keep set atop it, but it was charming. It had been a gift from King Terrowin Maignart II, during the War of Four Kings.

While his brother, Merek, had remained neutral in the conflict, Hadrian had gone to battle for the
Maignarts. He and Terrowin fostered together at Enthorm, and he’d loved him as much as he’d loved Merek. When Prince Favian Toustain had taken Terrowin’s wife, Queen Krea, and imprisoned her at Freyvale, Hadrian did not hesitate to ride to Terrowin’s side. Merek had not liked it, but did not try to stop him either. Hadrian’s involvement was one of the many reasons Merek had intervened and forged peace, ending the war. He had not wanted to lose his only brother to a war that Camritte had no stake in. In return for his service, Terrowin had given him Ir’os, and the fertile farmlands just below the motte.

He’d come
home to escape Rowan’s reach and take some time to plan. Something had to be done about his nephew, and soon, lest Alemere fall into an even greater state of chaos. The Daleraians and Dinasdalians were at each other’s throats; yet, on the isle, Rowan sat upon his throne, basking in the glory of his ascent. The troubles of the realm did not concern him when there were concubines at his beck and call, peasants to rule over and torture, and riches to be squandered. He was vain and undisciplined, and he would be the death of the realm unless someone intervened.

Lord Theodric, who was as much a nephew to him as Prince Rowan, would
aid him, Hadrian knew. Once he told the Daleraian High Lord the way of things, together they would act. For tonight, though, he would rest. The journey from Camritte to Daleraia had been long, and the ride from Ir’os to Minas Bothe would take days of hard riding.

He took his seat at the high table, gazing down upon the men-at-arms and knights eating at the tables below him. At his side sat his wife, Lady Esme. His firstborn son
, Fendrel, sat at his right hand and his brother, Wendel, beside him.

“Be welcomed home, husband,” Lady Esme said as Hadrian took her hand can kissed it reverently. “You were sorely missed.”

“As were you, milady,” he replied as the first course was served.

Hadrian sulked silently while
he ate, barely tasting anything that passed between his lips. His mind was too heavily burdened to allow him to enjoy the food, the minstrel strumming his lute in the corner, or even the laughter of his sons, who were the pride of his life. He excused himself from dinner early, wearier than he’d first believed.

A good night’s rest and I will feel more like myself,
he thought as he slowly trudged up the stairs to his chambers. After sleep and a hearty breakfast, he, Frendrel, and Wendel would set out for Minas Bothe. The sooner he met with Lord Theodric, the better he would feel.

His chambers were dark, not a single candle lit. Hadrian cursed silently under his breath
when he realized that his squire had fallen asleep before tending to his duties again.

“Damn you, Renouf! Get up
, boy, and light the tapers. Fetch me water for washing, and wine!” He fumbled in the dark until he found a candle, enraged that the boy still had not answered him. “By the gods, when I set my hands upon you, boy, I’ll give you such a thrashing!”

Hadri
an managed to light the taper, thrusting it before him to illuminate the little palette where Renouf slept at the foot of his bed. Another scathing rebuke died on his lips when he saw the body lying on the palette. Renouf stared up at him with unseeing eyes, his lips parted on a scream that was never heard, a red, gaping gash laying his throat open from ear to ear. Blood stained his face and tunic, and had long begun clotting. The boy had been dead for hours.

“By the gods!” Hadrian exclaimed, backpedaling away from the dead boy, his hand going to his belt for
one of the twin scimitars he carried there.

He never freed it from its scabbard.

A sharp pain tore through him and drove him to his knees. Hadrian gasped as the scent of his own blood filled his nostrils, and the warm gush of it trickled down his back and dripped onto the stones below him, filling the grooves between them with pools of crimson. A figure in black appeared before him, emerging from the shadows with a large, curved dagger in its black gloved hand. It word a hooded cloak, and through the dark haze rapidly stealing his vision, Hadrian could make out none of its features. The dagger was stained with his blood.

Pitching forward,
Hadrian fell face-first upon the floor. The shadowed figure crouched beside him, using the sleeve of Hadrian’s doublet to clean his blade. His were the last words Hadrian would hear.

“
In the name of King Rowan, ruler of the realm of Alemere, I hereby sentence you to death for the crime of treason. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

Chapter Thirteen

They rowed for days, following the coast of Dinasdale toward the Horn, a chunk of land jutting down into Brodernil Bay. Eventually, they would row past the mouth of the bay, toward Daleraia and Ir’os. They rowed by night, and hunted, ate, and slept by day. After their kiss in the woods of Freyvale, Caden did not attempt to touch her again. They barely spoke unless remarking upon the fair summer weather, or thanking one another for simple courtesies. One morning, Gwen hunted with her bow and returned to their campsite with a brace of quail. Caden had complimented her hunting skills, then set about silently preparing the birds to be roasted over the fire. That same evening before sunset, they’d taken turns walking down to the river to bathe before setting out again. When Gwen had returned, her hair a curling, wet mass hanging down her back, Caden had been sorely tempted to run his fingers through it as he had before. He’d wanted to crush her lips to his and drink from her, sinking with her down to the forest floor so that he might plunder the body he knew she would willingly give to him.

However, Caden
had refrained. He’d merely averted his eyes until she had the heavy locks braided and coiled at the back of her head, schooling his face into an inscrutable mask until the urge had passed. That kiss should never have happened. Aside from the fact that their families were now at war with each other, Caden could not ignore the fact that she belonged to someone else. It didn’t matter that she had yet to wed Prince Gaiwan; she was as good as his, and Caden could do nothing to change that.

It did not help matters to know that Lord Clarion had considered approaching his father with a marriage contract.
How different might things have been were I the one betrothed to Gwen instead of Gaiwan
? he wondered. It was not worth considering, he decided, pushing the thoughts aside. Thinking about what might have been only made him angry—at Lord Clarion, at Prince Gaiwan, and the Bainards—and Caden did not have time for anger. Too many lives hung in the balance; he and Gwen had a task to carry out.