Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  Nevertheless, he wouldn't expect any of them to understand.

  "When you have children of your own you will understand the importance of considering their future. They are your legacy and you would have them do you proud."

  "They are my legacy and I would have them extend it, I do believe is what you meant. For pride is reserved for the foolhardy."

  "You foolish boy. When you have no coin, or family, or friends, or lands, or clothes upon your back, the last thing that leaves you before you starve, or suffocate, drown, or however it pleases you to perish should be your pride. Remember that."

  "I prefer dignity to pride, but I understand not all choose such a predilection. Thus, wisdom is not a common characteristic amongst this castle, but I do swear I am not rebelling. Consider it dispersing truth where it is due. Is that all, Mother?"

  The siblings had been looking between the two of them, possibly expecting Mother to redden his cheek further or A'zur to finally dive off the cliff of sanity and return the favor.

  "Actually," a small voice from behind their mother called out and Eleanor granted Marianne a smaller smile. Strained as it was, it appeared oddly genuine all the same, perhaps in a fashion only Eleanor could muster.

  "What is it?"

  "I thought, Mother, that since Astrid is leaving and I am confident that she will succeed. I believe she can do this because she's proper and pretty and everyone thinks so—"

  "Hurry up and be done with it."

  "Well, I thought, we, as in the six—no five—five of us could spend some time together. A picnic might be nice. With lots of meats, little sausages, cakes, berries, apples..."

  By the time Eleanor was nearly salivating at her mention of a proposed picnic menu, Marianne had turned on her heel and was regarding her with a bemused expression. "A picnic?"

  "Yes, Mother. A picnic. We all enjoy them. Perhaps you could come along."

  Ethan was the sudden object of her attention and Marianne closed the gap between her and her son. Once again her finger prodded at his chest and she sighed, as if weary of dealing with such a difficult little girl. "Train her to know what is appropriate. There is a time and place for everything and somehow Eleanor possesses too thick a skull to realise that now is not the time for prancing about in the gardens upon a shared blanket. Understood, boy? Or shall I have your father instruct you on the proper way to treat your woman?"

  A'zur couldn't figure out why the male was so reactive. Ethan was shallow and dumb enough to be fearless of their father and mother, but the prospect of failure or appearing weak? His knees buckled. It was seen now in the way his brother's tongue and mind seemed to have addled, teal eyes widening beneath each prod.

  But the moment their mother threatened to have Robert tutor him in the making of a proper wife and queen, fear became offence, then anger. Narrowed eyes turned to Eleanor, lips tugging down in a frown.

  It was a gift, A'zur decided. Their mother had a natural, intrinsic gift for turning them against one another in the span of a heartbeat. It was different from before, when Ethan, Astrid and Eleanor had been wrestling on the floor. That was a trivial digression. This, what Marianne was doing now, had the potential to leave scars that couldn't be healed by simply snatching up a journal and handing it back to the owner.

  "If this castle's best animal behavioural expert couldn't teach her, what makes you think Ethan could?" was A'zur's irritable response. "Our father did not train you, for it was not in his job regime as King. He was above it. Therefore, the task was left to a lesser."

  A'zur could practically see his brother's ego enlarge with agreement. His eyes said, He's right! I am above it.

  A pregnant pause stretched between the siblings and their mother, as Marianne crossed her arms before her once more. Her eyes appeared to be tired, or rather, disinterested. With one last look to each sibling, she settled her gaze on both A'zur and Astrid.

  "I would advise you to consider your attitude and presentation of behaviour before you venture into Redthorn and attempt to promote your own and our family's interests. In any case, I have heard rumour that they do not take kindly to outsiders who attempt to disturb their ways. They certainly will not approve of two youngsters attempting to disrupt their harmonious existence in such a disrespectful manner."

  A'zur didn't so much as consider his mother's words, but the worn expression. He was reminded that no matter how hard and coarse the stone proved, it hadn't always been that way. Tide after tide after tide had changed it, taken a perfectly smooth, uninterrupted surface and weathered it down to something unsightly.

  Had their mother always been this cruel? Sometime or another, he'd heard or read the vow of his siblings, promising to never become the cold statues of their mother and father.

  Had Marianne once vowed the same?

  Though his mother had finished speaking, A'zur found himself wanting to turn back the waves of time, to take back their exchanges and perhaps start over. But when he told his lips to move, to maybe even ask if she would care to join Astrid and him with packing, he found he could manage none other than a frown of disgust.

  He said nothing.

  "See to your evening meal with little fuss. Then bed. I wish to hear nothing from you for the remainder of the day." Their mother left them in a state she always did: silence.

  5

  ~ PRINCE RHENAN ~

  Weshler, Redthorn

  "There she is!" came the reverberation of a steady booming voice. Prince Rhenan of Redthorn. "My favourite girl. Oh, how I have missed you."

  At the fore of the stable, where daylight sweltered down onto the chalked burnished wood, a physician's daughter stood twirling auburn ringlets of hair around her finger, nibbling her bottom lip and peering up through light dusted blonde lashes. An expectant smile curved one side of her mouth.

  Rhenan darted past said girl and dashed straight for his mare.

  A sleek brown beauty with dappled white spots along its belly. The horse was bare, its reins and saddle settled upon the protruding gear post at the back of the loft. Her name was Vortice, tokened after the devout mare that'd led the third king through the Dark Rebellion without a single enemy scratch on her.

  If the commemorated portraiture rang accurate, then the horse before him was an exact facsimile.

  A brizzly snout pricked his one degloved hand as he pet her. Recognition shone through those black, black eyes. If he were not in third party company, the prince may have even thrown his arms around the beast.

  Something thumped against his shoulder.

  He glanced down, confused. A dainty and dirty shoe lay at his feet... He brought his gaze around behind him and was immediately met by folded arms and fury-drowned eyes. One foot was planted shoelessly on the ground.

  What had he done?

  "Do not give me that look, Prince Rhenan," the girl stated coldly. "As if you do not know what you've done."

  Women.

  He scoped the scene behind her, searching for his wrongdoing beyond the farm lot. The robust, massive beast of a steed he'd journeyed here on stood on the boundary of the fencing, as his presence alone upset the other horses. Not only because Kanter was a perfectly aware menace around other steeds, but Rhenan suspected the mares and stallions in the stalls could smell the royal blood beneath the sleek, shiny-furred skin of one of Redthorn's appraised militant warhorses.

  But Kanter was minding himself, diamond shaped ears flicking away the flies, nostrils flaring on each inhale and exhale of breath. They'd been riding for some time, hurrying to return to the castle in time for his father's announced festival. King Gregor was notorious for celebrating anything from the birth of royalborn to the birth of a peasantborn to the birth of a baby ant on the side of a window sill. Rhenan had not been to the castle in months, and it was his father who demanded him home at once. What spurred the celebratory agenda this time? Who could say.

  He looked back to Diadara. "What have I done—"

  "Do not make me throw the other one!"

/>   Instantly he put distance between himself and the mare, lifting innocuous hands in capitulation. "No need for such hostility."

  "How dare you greet a horse before me, and with such enthusiasm."

  "Horse?" Rhenan started towards her with caution. "What horse? I see nothing but a beautiful woman dressed in questionably clean rags—"

  The shoe was off and flying before he could finished.

  And he was on her before she could flee.

  Wind knocked from her lungs as he dragged them to the hayloft floors and crushed her small body beneath his leather-clad weight. He was still dressed to the teeth in the oppressive, unrelenting vesture of the king's personal infantry. Thick, layered textiles with fastening straps all over. He could feel nothing.

  But she could feel everything.

  He pressed between lush thighs, watched the black dots in her eyes become large ores of ecstasy and his smile felt admittedly predatorial.

  "You've no shame, as ever," she gasped, and there was something so incredibly satisfying in the heady pant of a woman's surrender to lust. Even if she was degrading his appearance.

  She was referring to his forgotten image. An unattended mane, having tailed far beyond the musculature of his shoulder blades to gnarl beneath the sword sheath's chest straps. Unlike his father's and unlike his brother's, Rhenan's hair was an entity in and of itself. Some said it made him appear ruggedly handsome. Others—most—recoiled and whispered that he looked like a feral jaguar who'd been accidentally released from its cage.

  But at least his beard was better maintained. He'd had it clipped three—no four, no nine, yes, fifteen days prior. Surely it was still presentable.

  Diadara rubbed her face against his like a loving, nuzzling feline, and in that moment, her soft hazel eyes reminded him of just that. A moody, volatile, manic-depressive kitten. Who flung their footwear at him one moment and purred against him the next.

  Women.

  He started on the dingy unladylike clothing she insisted on wearing despite the hefty coin he provided her.

  She stopped him, asking, "Did anyone see you come here?"

  "Three servants, a butcher and a Sirista tool all followed from a distance. They even questioned the innkeeper of where I slept. They know I am here." He gave her a small wrangling. "Having my way with you. "

  She brought her lips to his and he refrained from digging his teeth into the tender flesh. "Good. Let them see us," she murmured.

  She licked, she purred, she worshiped. "Let them spread their rumours."

  The two of them had been at this game of lies for what felt like forever. They were, as they often time joked, pretend lovers. These "secret" visitations were but planned excursions meant to draw the suspicion of those who watched the prince like a hawk, and falsely bring them to believe their meetings were but secret love affairs, not its true nature.

  Her hips raised, grinding. He felt that. Nearly gave in to the urge to shove down, hold down, take down.

  But he didn't. This was not why he'd come. "Do you have it?"

  After a delayed moment of the girl's hand's rubbing and lingering, she sighed. Then caught him by the crook of his dark coat and tugged him down. He obliged, just as she slid something into his breast pocket.

  "You know," she breathed hot at his neck, fingers now burying into his black curls. "We do not have to pretend."

  "Oh?" he murmured in turn, cutting his lips at the sensitive curve of her ear, drawing out a noise from the base of her throat.

  "Pretend to be secret lovers, I mean. I am not asking that you marry me, but perhaps make me your most beloved concubine. Then you may lavish and pamper me properly, without my having to abuse you with my shoes." She kissed the tip of his nose. "Besides, I do believe I'm starting to grow fond of you, even though this is but an arrangement and you are but the incarnate of a wild chicken."

  Inwardly, he sighed.

  Women, always with their inevitable emotions, their unguarded hearts. They wanted to appear strong and sound of mind, but the more effort they thrust toward the facade, the more they unraveled their own seams, opening themselves to pain and rejection. He hated it. He hated the sight of a broken woman, be it of the heart or mind or both. More than that, however, he could never bear to be the cause of it.

  Rhenan pulled away from the heat of her, and at once she appeared disappointed—no, she appeared dishonoured and wronged.

  "Sorry, but I must go. I informed the king I would return before midday. Lest you wish me to defy him and face his dreadfully long sermon." A hoax. His father never lectured. Such was the sworn responsibility of his mother, Petra, Queen of Lectures.

  Women.

  Diadara pouted some more, her hair wild and spilled around her in such tempting disarray on the barn floor; he ran the risk of saying fuck to his duty and offering all he had to her.

  Luckily, she gave a relenting nod of her head, crossing her arms and pointedly looking away. Dismissing him.

  Thank goodness. It was easier this way. Best they believe they had the advantage, the last word, gesture, show of power.

  He'd gotten what he came for; best he left while her heart was whole and her idea of the two of them remained no more than a moment's whim.

  *****

  Thornhall Castle

  Thornhall, Redthorn

  Three seasons ago Rhenan had accompanied Sir John to the power-driven town of Dunchin. For weeks the collection of taxes had proven as—or more—difficult than convincing a church pupil intoxication was good for the soul, something he'd tried many times to no avail. The men of the town had been inflated by their own self-worth, as the town itself was wedged between a major inland shipment port and a high-traffic grain route. They demanded that the king acknowledge their contribution to the two major power hulls in Redthorn's corners and that he pay them.

  Upon banking the small but imposing city, Rhenan had seen with his own eyes the line of men waiting at the rigidity city entrance with its chipped wooden sign, rebellion and fire in their eyes.

  Rebellion and fire, until he drew close enough for the resilient men to identify him.

  Amazing how quickly the human expression is capable of shifting. From strong and vicious to a fear one could almost reach out and touch with the point of their finger. The men had been terrified, not expecting the prince to ride with the tax collecting marauders.

  At the time, Rhenan had sat atop the diabolical Kanter—and really, the scarred, shiny horse had done half the intimidation work—and then he'd showed his teeth to the men in what was supposed to be a smile, but was said to look closer related to a snarling, starving hound. What was worse, was the musical lilt to his voice, when the prince leaned forward on his steed and asked playfully, "What ever is the matter?"

  An adage to his name, a question he reliably delivered just before he committed a mass, brutal, sickening slaughter.

  He and the collectors had returned with twice the tax expectancies, and three heads decorating the pikes along Dunchin's rigidity city entrance.

  It was this same question he proposed to his brother, Prince Tristian, that evening when he barged into the male's chambers, hopped up on the footboard of the bed and perched there on the ornate wood, grinning.

  His brother was not so much caressing the pleasure maiden's legs, as he was resting between them. It appeared he'd arrived blessedly after the copulation, which he knew could last anywhere from sunrise to sundown. Depending on his brother's mood.

  And he must say, Tristian was moody.

  Not moody enough to lift his head from the flat pillow of the maiden's belly, his golden eyes staring outward into nothing. He looked sad.

  The face he wore when he was mad.

  A thin white spread was strewn over his big body, and one might suspect he was a fragile vessel washed up and tattered by the world, recouping between the safe haven of silken thighs. His brother, always so dramatic.

  The maiden, who was quite beautiful with her tanned skin denoting southern heritage
and long locks, weaved her fingers through the maze of black upon her prince's head.

  "State your business," drolled the somber voice of his brother. Still he had yet to look at him.

  Rhenan swayed and rocked upon the bed post. "I wish to speak with you. Alone."

  "You smell like a barn."

  "I was with my horses."

  "That's right, your choice of companionship was always deranged." Tristian looked at him. Hard contours. God had taken special care when sculpting the fine, dominating features of Redthorn's future king. Dark brows accentuated the golden assault of his gaze. Unlike him, his brother's beard had been cut down to a dark shadow.

  Silence passed, the two of them staring.

  "Leave," Tristian concluded.

  Rhenan rocked and looked pointedly to the maiden, who was irritably placid and impartial. "Yes, you heard him, leave."

  And then Tristian moved with a speed not even he could discern. His hand captured something on the oakwood beside the great bed, and then silver was slicing through the air. Straight at him.

  Rhenan capered out of its death path—and fell flat on the hardwood, his back protesting, sword and blades and various artifices digging into his hard flesh, making him question why he hadn't disarmed before his grand entrance.

  He sighed and lay there on the floor, tipping his head back. A silver letter opener stabbed into the plaster of the wall. It'd been intended to impale him. Not the first time Tristian had taken up arms against him. At least this time it was something small, as opposed to the knife he'd almost driven through his ribs on their last reunion.

  The moody man was abruptly standing beside his sprawled body. A forest of curls hung down the prince's face, darkening his golden attention to a burned amber as he stared down at Rhenan. Frowning. His shirt was loose and quite possibly made for the exact task of lounging between a woman's legs, as its seams were long, hanging below his waist. Black breeches clung to muscled limbs. Laces undone.

  It was easy to see why women adored him in bed.