Chained (Chained Trilogy) (3 page)

“Your Graces,” Merek g
reeted the king and prince. “Milords,” he said to the lords. “Sirs,” he addressed the knights. “Thank you for coming. I know you have done so at great personal risk, but you are to be applauded.”

“Aye,” interjected Sir Bors Goodwin, “while we cow
er underground, our sons are marching toward The Athils.”

“Your presence here is necessary,” Merek’s brother, Sir Hadrian offered. “The time has come to put this
war behind us once and for all.”

“While my father fights, we hide and talk,” Theodric said, his gravelly voice of a similar texture as the walls around them. “Let us take care that it isn’t all for naught.”

“Let us get to it then,” Merek said, striding over to the long, low table in the center of the dark room. He’d had a trusted servant bring wine and chalices down from the keep, and he now served his guests his best Lerrothian red. “We are all here because we are of one mind. Our realms must be joined under one king. Elsewise, we shall all perish.”

“Aye then,” said Sir Griffon Calliot of Haleah, his voice booming out in the cavernous room. He was a large man, with arms thick as tree trunks, covered with the same shaggy auburn hair that hung down to his shoulders in a tousled mess. A sworn
knight of House Goodwin, he displayed the crossed double sword emblem of Sir Bors’s house across the breast of his doublet, with the mountain of House Maignart pinned to his shoulder. “Supposing we agree to such a thing. Who, then, will this new king be?”

“Well,” said Sir Hadrian from Merek’s side
, shifting uneasily. “We had hoped … rather, it would be best if …”

“If
two kings should bow to the other,” Merek finished easily. “It is the obvious solution.”

The room fell deathly silent, though tension grew, filling the room like a damp and smothering fog. Lord Humber of Heywick spoke first, the silver rings adorning his bear
d jangling together as his jaw moved. “All knees should bend to the king of Dinasdale,” he declared, one heavily ringed hand resting on the paunch pressing at the front of his doublet. “I shall follow no king but him.”

“I’ll not bend my knee to an
oath-breaker!” Sir Destrian, uncle of Prince Theodric, declared, pounding his empty wine chalice against the wooden table. “’Twas Prince Favian of Dinasdale who broke the peace treaty when he assaulted our king in the melee at the Tourney of the Kings!”

“Aye, our prince speared your king like a boar,” Lord Humber replied, leaning across the table toward Sir Destrian, his dark eyes narrowed and glittering, “but only after he’d been injured himself in the
joust.”

“An accident,” Sir Destrian scoffed, waving
away Lord Humber’s accusation.

“A malicious attack!” Lord Humber insisted. “Not only is your king the true
oath-breaker, he is a cheat and a liar as well!”

Sir Destr
ian stood, drawing a dagger from his side and pointing it at Lord Humber. “I’ll have your tongue for that insult, Dinasdalian, and that pretty beard of yours, too.”

Several others stood, their hands reaching for their weapons, but Prince Theodric placed a thick arm in front of Sir Destrian, pushing him back into his chair. “Sit,
Uncle, and hold your tongue. It is only natural that Lord Humber would suggest his own king for the ruler of our new realm. You offered him insult first.”

“I meant no offense, Your Grace,”
Sir Destrian said to his nephew, “but I submit to this gathered council that you are more fit to rule our new realm than any man. I know it, you know it, and every man seated at this table knows it.”

“The grandson of a rapist and a murderer,” spa
t Lord Mador Saint-Clair of Vor’shy. “Dinasdale has not forgotten the offenses of Terrowin Maignart I. The statue of Princess Farah looming over the Wraith’s Tower reminds us all who really began this feud. Do you truly believe that the people of Dinasdale will bow before his spawn?”

“He speaks true,” said Orrick Toustain, younger brother to King Percyvelle. “Dinasdale has not forgotten. Nor will we.”

“Neither will Daleraia forget that King Jorin accepted Lord Sigan into his great hall to negotiate the release of the prisoners from the Siege of the Wraith’s Tower,” declared Sir Destrian. “After he’d supped with them, he ordered them slaughtered. I ask you, who amongst those gathered here can truly say they’d trust the son of a man who would do such a thing?”

“I am not my grandfather, nor my father,” Prince Theodric said quietly. Despite the softness of his tone, every man in the room fell silent to hear his declaration. “As well, neither is
King Percyvelle his father. Milords, good sirs, we are not to be held accountable for the deeds of our fathers.”

“His Grace spe
aks true,” agreed Percyvelle. “’Tis not because of the mistakes of our forebears that we are gathered, but for the love of our people, who are suffering because of this unending war.”

“The question of who the new king will be is still unanswered,” said Merek’s uncle, Sir Olivar. “After all that has happened between the realms of Dinasdale and Daleraia, I worry that neither king will be acceptable. The people will never bend their knee to an enemy they have fought for decades.”

“The people will do as their king commands,” Percyvelle said.

“Grudgingly,” Sir Olivar argued. “Behind your backs they will stew in their anger, and over time you run the risk of rebellion and strife. It is not the ideal way to begin a new world.”

“No,” Theodric agreed. He stood, his arms crossed over his chest. “That is why I have decided. I will bend my knee … but not to King Percyvelle of Dinasdale. Daleraia will declare its loyalty to House Arundel, and King Merek.”

Merek’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Your Grace, you are to
o kind. I had not thought to be considered. My only aim in gathering you all here was to help you see the logic of one realm bowing to the other. I had planned to cast my lot with the king who knelt first.”

Theodric inclined his head in acknowledgement. “It is for that reason, I choose to bow to you, Your Grace. For
all your reticence, it was you who found the courage to seek us out and bring us together. It was you who thought first of the people who have suffered in the wake of this war. Is that not what a king is—a man who puts his people first?”

King Percyvelle stood as well, his eyes glittering brightly with excitement. “Aye,” he declared, nodding emphatically. “The prince speaks true. King Merek should rule. Aside from the fact that he is the one who brought us together, he is also a son of both Daleraia and Dinasdale. What better way to bridge our kingdoms than with a man who
se blood is of both realms?”

Merek’s heart swelled with pride. He could not have foreseen this outcome in even his sweetest dreams. His hope had been to bring these men together and pray they would not kill each other before an agreement could be reached.
He bowed his head in humility. “Your Graces, you honor me,” he said. “Prince Theodric, do you hold the power to speak for House Maignart and Daleraia?”

The prince reached into the folds of his mantle and produced a scroll, which he placed in the middle of the table. “A declaration, signed by every member of my father’s council a few nights past. They have named me Regent and declared my father unfit to rule. While he marches toward The Athils to continue in his war, I come here to make peace.
” He removed his sword from its scabbard and held it in both hands as he knelt. Lifting the sword, he bowed his head. “King Merek of House Arundel, I hereby pledge my loyalty to you. As your vassal, I will serve both you and the realm. I will fight beside you in battle and obey you in all things. This I swear to you by the power given to me as Prince Regent of Daleraia.”

Shocked, the prince’s vassals watched as Theodric pledged Daleraia to House Arundel. Theodric glared up at them from his position on the floor and they quickly followed suit—
Sirs Bors, Griffon and Destrian, Lord Cedric and his brother Guyar—each unsheathing their swords and pledging their fiefs and swords to King Merek. In one fell swoop, Minas Bothe, Enthorm, Haleah, and Quaos were his.

King Percyvelle was next. His men knelt with him as one
, pledging their swords, their lands, and their people to King Merek. When it was over, Seahaven, Freyvale, Heywick, and Vor’shy belonged to Merek as well. Sir Hadrian declared that a toast was in order, and once the chalices were filled again, the three kings drank together, now united in lands and wealth as well as purpose. Merek decided that his Lerrothian red had never tasted so sweet.

The men remained late into the night, their quill pens flying over parchment with declarations and plans. The realm, they decided, would be named Alemere—after one of the very first kings of the Isle of Camritte. House Arundel would forever be the royal house of the realm. Prince Theodric
was named High Lord of Daleraia and Warden of the South, and retained all of his lands and vassals, providing Daleraia paid their taxes to the king and offered up their swords in defense of the realm when needed. King Percyvelle was named High Lord of Dinasdale and Warden of the North, under the same terms which Theodric had been given.

And miles away in Daleraia, near the twin inlets known as The Athils, one final battle raged among
st those who had no notion as to the plans being made beneath Oryna Keep. By the time the news would reach Dinasdale and Daleraia, King Terrowin Maignart II would lay at the bottom of one of the Athils, his head lopped from his shoulders and the fish feasting on his eyes. Yet, Prince Theodric would not find it in himself to mourn his father. This war was as much his making as it had been his father’s before him, and Theodric was glad of the terms of peace. There was a woman he loved with all of his heart, and he would make her his bride. Aye, he would fill Lady Victoria’s belly with babes and watch them grow, and rule the south with wisdom, something his father had never managed to do.

King Percyvelle was overjoyed by the new treaty as well. That night, he would return home to find that his firstborn
son, Clarion, had survived the Battle at The Athils. He would live to be an old man, to see his son marry and sire children of his own. He smiled at the thought of becoming a grandsire to children with wide smiles and laughter full of innocence and joy. If peace should hold, he could live out his days at Seahaven, a man old and grey.

So began
the new world. One kingdom joined of three … Alemere.

Chapter One

Thirty years later

Seahaven,
Dinasdale

130
5

The summer air was sweet—tasting of soil, leaves, and grass. It was warm, though not blisteringly so. In Dinasdale, the summers were mild at best, and the thick canopy of trees above its thick forests usually kept anyone traversing them quite cool. This was a day for being out of doors—fishing, swimming, picnicking, strolling, hunting—and it was the latter which interested Gwendolyn Toustain. The past three months had kept her cloistered within the walls of the keep at Seahaven. As she stalked through the woods stretching between her home and the neighboring Freyvale, Gwendolyn parted her lips and allowed her palate to linger over the sweet taste of freedom. Within the walls of her father’s castle, she was Lady Gwendolyn, daughter of Lord Clarion Toustain—Warden of the North and High Lord of Dinasdale. Here, in the quiet of the wood, she was only Gwen.

The longbow was familiarly heavy in her hand, the quiver of arrows at her side a pleasant companion against her th
igh. Over a plain, ivory kirtle her deep burgundy surcoat was pinned at each shoulder with the silver archers of House Toustain. The garment trailed the forest floor behind her, a quiet whisper in concert with the sound of chirping insects. At her hips, a leather belt held her quiver, dagger, and wineskin. Soft, brown boots molded to her feet and made her steps quiet upon the underbrush. As Gwen slinked between two trees, her eyes fixed upon the doe she’d been trailing. She was a beautiful, long-legged creature with a luscious, fawn-colored coat. Gwendolyn had wandered a bit from the rest of her hunting party—an action that would surely annoy her brothers—but she wanted that doe.

Just that morning
her brother, Achart, had taken down a wild boar. Between them, Evrain and Leofred had slain ten braces of quail and two doves. Meanwhile, Gwen’s restlessness had resulted in not a single kill, and her brothers were not shy about reminding her of the fact. She was not quite sure what it was, but the feeling would not abate. Though her hands were steady on the bow and arrow, her mind was racing, her eyes darting, her gut churning. Something was wrong, she felt it. Yet, nothing appeared out of place in the solitude of the familiar wood, so Gwen decided it must be nothing. It was only nerves over her impending marriage … yes, that was it.

She lifted the bow and took aim, her chest expanding with a deep breath as she drew back on the string. The arrow’s feather tickled her jaw, but she clenched it and held fast, breathing slowly as she tracked the doe’s movements.

It paused, just at the edge of a shallow brook gurgling over green, moss-covered rocks, and bent her head to drink. Smirking triumphantly, Gwen relaxed her fingers, prepared to let the arrow fly. A flurry of movement and a woman’s shriek startled the doe, and she lifted her head swiftly, her ears twitching at the sound. Gwen lowered her bow and followed the doe’s gaze, her brow furrowed as the screams grew louder. Hooves pounded over the soft earth, and the doe dashed away, disappearing between the trees with a flash of her white tail.