The Golden Key Chronicles

by AJ Nuest

  Resisting the urge to check his reaction, she walked straight for the wide double doors.

  Chapter Three

  Even though they were both in attendance in the same room, the distance between them oft seemed measured in leagues.

  Caedmon gnashed his teeth. Nearly every noble in the kingdom was present to celebrate his homecoming, yet black ichor flowed through his veins, much like he’d ingested one of Fandorn’s leaded poisons. Confounding woman. He had put everything he was into that kiss. And she had responded with a wanton enthusiasm that left every fiber of his being stiff and poised for more.

  With the first touch of their lips, she could no longer deny a profound connection existed between them. He was certain of it. Yet each time the parting words she’d uttered reverberated in his mind, his stomach seized and his shoulders wrenched as if he’d just received a swift, sharp kick to the gonads.

  Truth be told, he understood the danger in revealing the finer points behind their hasty engagement. In his realm, courtships sometimes lasted years before an official betrothal was announced. And whence accomplished, the wedding preparations could stretch another two or more depending on the families involved. Matters of matrimony perplexed him, nearly as much as the fairer sex, and contained a peculiar choreography he’d neither needed nor cared to discern. Until now.

  Still, he’d held out a grim optimism the quickening of their hearts would assuage her disbelief. Prior to their arrival in the gardens, he’d detected the distinct impression she was more aware of him than she cared to admit. And once joined in a kiss…the way she’d molded her succulent curves to his body, the swiftness of her passionate response… He raked a hand through his hair. When she withdrew from him, a captivating awareness had flashed in her eyes. He’d had to physically restrain himself from pulling her back into his arms. Because something, some deep-seeded fear had kept her true heart’s desire at bay. Her eyes had gone blank, her face unreadable and she had all but fled his presence.

  Lest he lose the chance, he had followed quickly on her heels into the brightly lit ballroom. Tonight’s celebration would be the perfect opportunity to uncover the true reason behind her hesitation, then strive to put her fears to rest. He would start slowly, test his boundaries. And, if she allowed, mayhap he could whisk her to a secluded alcove for a clandestine conversation…which would hopefully culminate in several more passionate kisses, followed by an early retirement to the nearest bedchamber.

  When he glimpsed her long, white locks through the crowd, he approached and stood at her side. The determined way she refused to acknowledge his presence set his teeth on edge. Yet her actions betrayed her, and at the same time confirmed his suspicions. She was terrified of what had passed between them.

  Without forewarning, she floated away, no words spoken, leaving him standing alone like a love-struck fool. Moments later, he resigned himself to trail after her, only to be intercepted by several council members, a duke, two earls and a gaggle of blushing maidens. The conversations lasted overly long. Yes, they must determine the siege strategy on Castle Seviere. Quite right, he was relieved to be home. Thank you, his health was more than satisfactory and no, he did not care to dance.

  He finally extricated himself and caught sight of her near a marble column, standing beside Fandorn, their heads tipped in private discussions. But, before he drew near, she retreated and disappeared amid a swirl of colorful silks.

  The flash of a bare shoulder here, the quick rustle of her skirts there—she played an infuriating game of cat and mouse, and after three such circuits around the Grand Ballroom, his patience had thinned. By a stroke of luck, evading an overbearing dowager, he spotted his lady paused before a set of open double doors, facing the gardens, alone. To demonstrate his resilience, he neared and placed a hand on the small of her back.

  She stiffened at his touch, snapping her attention to some distant point straight out before her.

  “I would speak with you,” he said.

  “Oh, you would, would you?” Her lips compressed into a hard slash, the ends of her hair whispering along the back of his hand with the subtle shake of her head. “Tell you what, Caedmon. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” She whirled and slipped through the assembled courtiers gathered near the edge of the dance floor.

  No. He would never give up his quest to prove his love so easily. He spun on his heel to pursue her, but drew up short when a member of her personal guard stepped into his path. Young Urich, if Caedmon remembered correctly.

  Crossing his arms, the guard stared directly into Caedmon’s eyes. “I believe Her Radiance has made her preference for your company abundantly clear…Your Highness.”

  Caedmon’s eyebrows inched toward his hairline. Had the blow to his face addled the boy’s brains? Disparaging a member of the royal family—a prince, no less—during his own reception?

  Though his demeanor was stoic, the young man stood no taller than Caedmon, no more broad in the shoulders and chest. Yet his experience and ability with a sword were not in question. All palace guards were trained to within an inch of their lives. The depth of his loyalty, however, was the issue Caedmon elected to test.

  He closed in mere inches from the young man’s face and pitched his threat in a heated whisper. “Stand down, Guardsman, or I shall personally ensure your head is removed from your shoulders.”

  The guard huffed. “I gladly offer it. As would every other guard in the palace.”

  The crowd parted to accommodate the rest of her entourage, the three men taking up stations behind the first, all affecting the same stance—arms crossed, legs braced, creating a wall of flesh Caedmon would need to hack through in order to advance.

  Did they think he meant Lady Rowena harm? But, to what purpose? He’d done nothing to warrant their negative assumptions.

  “Now, now, lads, what seems to be the trouble?” Denmar pushed through his men and slapped a hand on Caedmon’s shoulder, easing him back a step. “’Tis not the time or place for a skirmish, my boy. Tonight is for merriment.” He lifted his wine goblet to encompass the nearby guests, all focused on the scene with wide eyes, and smiled grandly before draining the contents.

  “What’s this?” He upended his cup and a red droplet left the rim to splatter the white marble floor. “’Tis a grand fete and I’ve no wine in hand? No, no this will never do.” He increased the pressure on Caedmon’s shoulder and steered him onward into the room, effectively diffusing the tense moment.

  “Rest assured, lad, their quarrel is not with you,” the Captain of the Royal Guard spoke from the side of his mouth. Light from the candelabras cast a dim glow along the crown of his shaved head, mirrored in the lustrous sheen of his black leather eye patch.

  At the opposite end of the dance floor, he stopped and faced Caedmon, though his gaze lingered on the dais and, more specifically, the thrones situated along the northern wall of the room.

  Strange. Nothing seemed untoward in the presentation of the royal court. King Austiere sat high in the center, Braedric and Faelynn on either side, Fandorn standing back a pace from the King’s elbow. Yet the captain’s jaw remained set as if he garnered no pleasure from such a display.

  “Give the sorceress some time, boy,” he spoke softly. “Much has transpired in your absence. Many things are not as they appear.”

  Caedmon frowned. Denmar had been as much a father to him as the king, and foreboding crept into his chest over the bitter disproval pervading the captain’s counsel. He filled his lungs to inquire after the low warning, but was stalled when a resounding gong echoed against the vaulted ceilings, announcing the commencement of the evening meal.

  “Ah. Cook finally got his lard arse in gear.” Denmar clapped an arm around Caedmon’s shoulders. “Come, my prince. Let us talk of such matters later. A good meal and some pleasant conversation will serve you well.”

  Pleasant conversation, indeed. Never before had Caedmon suffered through such a laborious affair. Seated between his father and Fandor
n—Braedric within earshot on his father’s left side—he feigned joviality whilst guarding each word that formed on his tongue. The nobility’s idle gossip held no more interest than did the flirtatious attentions of the nearby maidens.

  Down the long table where his lady had been seated, her food remained untouched on her plate. Nary had a sip of wine passed her lips. She stared straight ahead, ignoring the guests to either side, eyes devoid of emotion. The sallow hue of her cheeks the only hint to disclose her thoughts were troublesome.

  The moment the dessert plates had been cleared, she sprang from her chair and rushed from the room, her squadron of loyal guards in her wake. Many stares trailed after her, followed by discourteous scowls and nattering murmurs. Yet allowing her to vacate his protection was an inexcusable risk. Most predominately in lieu of the information he’d gleaned prior to his escape.

  Caedmon shoved back his chair to follow, but his father clamped a vise-like grip on his forearm, reigning in his departure.

  “Fandorn has repeatedly assured me, the enigmatic dealings of a sorceress are not meant as offense. Nevertheless, a son abandoning his father’s side on the night of his homecoming does not sit well with this king.”

  “Oh, come now, father.” Braedric lifted his wine goblet, smiling grandly. “Surely you realize the gypsy blood in Caedmon’s veins prevents him from abiding such courteous formalities. Let him pursue the sorceress. His preoccupation with her undoubtedly thwarts coherent thought. Though he may attempt to bed her, he will add nothing of value to our discussions until his failure is complete.”

  Tittering laughs echoed down the table above the painted smiles decorating the guests.

  Caedmon tamped down the compulsion to leap across his father and crush his half-brother’s throat in his hands. Yet, after the torture he’d borne, he could not allow the barbed insults which rolled so smoothly off Braedric’s tongue to deter his path. To display the slightest hint of his suspicions could be disastrous, for all of them.

  “Leave us.” The king flicked a finger and the courtiers seated nearest them sprang to their feet, bowed and backed toward the ballroom. The rest of the nobility quickly followed suit, until only Caedmon, his father, Braedric, Denmar and Fandorn remained.

  A moment later, the stirrings of gay music became muffled as two footmen secured the doors of the dining hall.

  “On the contrary.” Denmar swiped a linen cloth over his mouth. “I’m quite curious to learn of Caedmon’s devices in obtaining his escape from Castle Seviere, given your hashishans’ failed attempts to breach the walls.” The captain shook his head as if remorse weighed heavy on his heart. “Wretched shame, if you ask me. How many did you lose, my prince? A dozen? Two dozen?”

  Caedmon lifted his brows at Denmar’s masquerade of regret. It was well known the captain suffered no admiration for the underhanded dealings of Braedric’s personal assassins. At a young age, members of the royal guard were taught to face off on the battlefield like men, not slither and sneak behind their opponents’ backs, a poisoned blade the bearer of death instead of strength and a belief in fighting for what was just.

  Braedric slammed his goblet onto the table. “Seventeen of my best men never returned. And what of yours, Captain? How many of the royal guard did you volunteer in Caedmon’s defense?”

  Denmar locked his one eye onto Caedmon’s face, the blue iris filled with sorrow…and a dire warning. “At the king’s command, I would have sent them all. Alas, I was not presented the honor.”

  Caedmon narrowed his focus, glancing between the two men. Braedric’s men attempted his rescue? The duplicity behind such an event was ill trusted, and apprehension swirled in his gut over this deplorable revelation. At last he rested his gaze on his father’s brooding scowl. “You sent none of the royal guard to my aid?”

  A fire ignited in his father’s dark eyes, flickering like black opals in the candlelight. He placed a leathered palm on the back of Caedmon’s hand. “Seviere holds both chest and key, my boy. He could unleash a campaign against us the likes of which we have never encountered. As King, I could not knowingly weaken our defenses. My first obligation is the safety and wellbeing of my subjects. But take heart. My decision did not come without great cost.”

  Caedmon flipped his wrist and clasped his father’s hand, offering reassurance, and his understanding. Two years past, he had once faced a similar choice, and the love of his heart had been stripped of her memories as the outcome. He glanced toward the doors. Was she safe? Did she suffer his absence? For too long he’d endured such uncertainties. Until he confirmed her guarded slumber, he would have no rest this eve.

  “How did you escape Seviere’s dungeons, brother?” Braedric raised his goblet and a maid scurried from the shadows to refill his wine. “Enlighten us where we have all failed.”

  He’d prepared for this moment and yet still amusement threatened to burst from his lips. The treacherous repute proceeding Braedric’s black-robed vipers was due to take an irreparable hit. “My mother’s family infiltrated the castle.”

  Braedric clenched his jaw, his fingers whitening around the base of his cup.

  Denmar tossed his head back and his hearty laugh rebounded against marble columns. “The gypsies?” He slapped his hand on the table several times, chortling and rattling the silver. “Those devilish scoundrels found a way in? How’d they do it, lad?”

  “They came masked in the guise of a minstrel troupe.” Caedmon smiled at the merry sparkle in his friend’s eyes. “Should the occasion ever arise, I counsel you. Never partake of free drink from a gypsy.”

  Denmar hooted and pounded a fist next to his plate, toasting Caedmon before swilling his wine and smacking the goblet to the table. “Those glorious rabble rousers,” he muttered as the servant girl topped up his cup. “A gold coin and a slap on the back, I say, to every gypsy in the realm.”

  Caedmon chuckled before refocusing on his father. “I do owe them an invaluable debt of gratitude.” More so than his father may ever realize. The secret missive he’d found hidden beneath his daily platter of bread and pottage had been perfectly timed and, two days later, he’d looked upon the bonny faces of family members he hadn’t seen since childhood. “They took a great risk in aiding me. I would be hard pressed to deny them any petition.”

  “Yes, Father,” Braedric’s sharp agreement echoed inside the cup he tipped it to his lips. Flickering candlelight danced long the thin gold band bisecting his brow. “We must pay our respects to the gypsies. I daresay even ask their counsel. Mayhap in their clever subterfuge, they uncovered why Seviere has yet to use the key.”

  A menacing dread leached into Caedmon’s chest. Struggling to conceal his unease, he sent up a silent plea. May the goddesses grant that Braedric never ascertained the truth behind Seviere’s delay. Everything Caedmon held dear hung in the balance. He glanced toward the doors a second time.

  “He cannot.”

  The prince swiveled his head toward Fandorn’s bare whisper. The wizard’s face hung slack, his gray eyes unfocused, as if he’d been transported far outside the walls of the castle. “Something prevents Seviere’s progress. I’d surmised at first the winter or spring solstice played a role, perhaps a specific alignment of the goddesses. But two years now and nothing.”

  He dropped his gaze to the table and smoothed his bony fingers along the well-worn edge. “Forgive me, my King. Gaelleod’s evil sorcery blinds my third eye. The reasoning behind such a mystery eludes me.”

  “As it does us all,” Braedric muttered.

  A million tiny spiders scrambled down Caedmon’s spine and sweat beaded on his brow. The mere mention of Seviere’s perverted wizard parched his throat. Those obsidian eyes in a ghostly countenance devoid of age. The sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh and bloody rituals which preceded his entrance. The scars Caedmon had suffered under the dark lord’s pitiless tutelage ran much deeper than the lash marks lacing his back.

  He filled his lungs and expelled a shuddering breath.

&n
bsp; “Are you quite right, brother?” A devious smirk twisted Braedric’s lips. “Your face has just gone the most peculiar shade of green.”

  “’Tis this talk of wizardry and black magics,” Denmar snapped, darting a furtive glance at the shadowed corners of the room. “Such things are best left to when Helios reigns in the sky.”

  “As it should.” King Austiere stood and the assembled party quickly mirrored his movements. “Tonight’s discourse was meant for much merrier pursuits.” He grasped Caedmon’s arm and steered him toward the ballroom. “Come, lad. We must indulge the nobility a bit longer. Let us bestow this occasion its warranted joviality. My son has finally returned home.”

  Chapter Four

  Gone! Caedmon bolted down the corridor, the retort of his boot heels echoing off the stone walls of the lower keep.

  By the time he’d arrived at her chambers, she had vanished. His worst fear had come to pass, though her chambermaid swore Mistress Rowena had never departed her rooms.

  In a fit of anguish, he’d shoved past the whimpering girl and burst into his lady’s bedchamber. Her nightdress hung crumpled over the arm of a chair, the blankets on her sleeping pallet lay undisturbed…and when the window hinges creaked, the latch hanging open in the frost-tipped breeze, foreboding had hollowed out his gut.

  Gertie had collapsed to her knees and clutched the religious pendant around her neck, swaying and keening in fervent prayer.

  He’d rushed to the sill, but no rope dangled down the wall from which his lady could have made her escape. Great tits above, had she taken flight through the window?

  Selene hung high in the sky, a golden halo encircling her pearlescent face, Helios’ diamond offerings winking against her violet tableau. The garden torches whickered in the wind, doing little to illuminate the menacing shadows five stories below.

  On a low growl, he’d slammed his fist against the wall. None other than Denmar and Fandorn could be trusted. He must band together his most loyal advisors and seek her out.