In the stables, she fought being tied with rope and a gag wound round her head. Then she was carried down into the bowels of the castle, where the stone was not pretty marble, but rough hewn slate gray stone pitiless as the arms carrying her. Voices around her laughingly called back and forth between themselves over dice games. Jalcina landed on the stone floor of the unprepared cell. Just once her Father’s name was mentioned, but the words said defied her attempts to listen, as if some spell were on her ears. The full weight of fear had yet to settle in her chest. It twirled around her head like a bird seeking a perch, some purchase in the stone of her pride keeping her from giving in to the feeling this might be the end of her life’s road. Perhaps it would be. She wriggled into a better position, something to take the weight off the bruises from the brutally fast ride back into the city.
Standing in the doorway, Navar gazed on her with empty eyes. A woman as a messenger. He could hardly believe the level of foolishness prompting a man to allow a woman to carry his message to his subordinates. Then again, he stroked his chin, a woman was less likely to be tortured for the information she carried, pampered and spoiled creatures. “Perhaps if you’re quiet,” his tone was as warm as the damp air of the cell. “They will remove your gag in the morning to feed you.”
Watching with eyes beginning to show fear in them, Jalcina stared at the door to her cell as Navar slammed it shut and threw the bolt into place. Then, barely able to breathe much less move any further, she centered her vision on the square of light cut into the top of the door with its bars. Just out of sight, the flame of a torch flickered making the square dance in her vision before she closed her eyes and surrendered finally to the wellspring of fear in her heart. Heavy sobs worked their way up from her injured chest to die against the gag between her lips. She was never going to see her family again and her Father was never even going to know. Would he send men to search the passes for her corpse, hoping against hope he might find her and give her the proper burial? It would make no difference for his peace of mind. Even once he had her body and had committed it to the flames; he would want to know who dared lay a hand on his family.
Jalcina prayed quietly, moving her lips as best she could. She prayed for her Father, for his health, for his safety, for his sanity. She prayed for her siblings who would continue on under his care. Yet not one word did she say in prayer for herself. No matter how many tears she shed for the life she could have led, she could not pray for herself lying on a cold stone floor in clothes better suited to an evening out riding or tavern hopping than to sleeping in. Bound and gagged, she managed to curl some, making herself as comfortable as she could to sleep. There was nothing else she could do now but wait for whatever was to come next. Her thoughts finally shifted to Lecern as she lay there curled up awaiting what sleep may come.
The fields of Sartol, held in a valley between the high peaks of the mountain kingdom, rose in her vision to comfort her. Jalcina felt her skirts, gathered in her fists, as she ran through the grass. Lecern’s laughter followed her. Yet when she looked back, heart full of hope for his pleasant face, he was not there. Stopping, she spun in a circle.
“Lecern!” Surprised, she called his name. His laughter was there, but not his shape. “Lecern!” The joy of the moment was becoming lost in fear. Where was he? Strong arms slipped around her, his chin coming to rest at her shoulder.
“I’m right here, Jalcina.” The joke was over; her fear forgotten. “I will never leave you.” He whispered in her ear, hugging her closer. “I promise.”
“When will you ask my father?”
“Soon, soon, my love. Your father already knows, as does my own, but I have to finish my apprenticeship first. Once that is done, I will be prepared to be a good husband, a good father.”
Jalcina relaxed in his hold. Lecern held the certainty of her future in his arms, just like her heart resting in his hands.
11
Lord Mordaen paced the length of his suite, eyes forever drawn back to the disarray left behind by his daughter’s sudden departure. Part of him was relieved Darien managed to get her and be gone before something befell her among the vipers at Vad’Alvarn’s beck and call. Yet he wanted more than anything, he admitted to himself in quiet tones, to be beside her, riding into the darkness of the Filenaden Pass toward the Kingdom of Sartol. Cut out by an ancient river, Filenaden Pass was the dividing line between the kingdom of Sartol and Membalar. Enter the pass in Membalar and exit in Sartol. Each side had a single fortification; manned at all times by some member of the militia from a nearby town. Those men were messengers and fighters, healers and cooks, well placed and well needed during times of trouble. Perhaps she would send a message back? It would be morning before she reached the near side of Filenaden, near dark again before she made the far side. Stopping at the window, he gazed out over the grounds arrayed below, then further out into the night toward the city beyond the walls. This landscape was nothing like home, too flat. The realm of Sartol was part of the mountains it sprouted up in. From the windows of his rooms, he could watch the eagles in summer and the dragons in winter, but this place was nothing but buildings. No natural beauty drew him, called to him so deeply.
Mordaen, silver hair swept back from his forehead and temples, promised himself again he would rather spend his life than give away his kingdom. A certainty from his bones, the awareness his home was worth too much not to spend every drop of blood in his body.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, a boy barely in his teens entered head bowed before his sovereign. “Shall I help you out of your armor, sir?” The question was asked in a quick mumble. The boy was in training to be a Knight, but as such he had to do his years of service in return for his instruction. It had been an honor to be included in the retinue coming to something so important.
“I suppose,” he remarked. The son of one of his knights undoubtedly, one of many. Did he regret he did not have a son old enough to enter the Knight’s service yet? “Do you know what must be done?”
“Yes, sir,” he finally seemed confident enough to look up. He had the trademark blue eyes, the eyes Mordaen wished Jalcina had. She had the expressions of her mother, captivating and calling him in a way he could not describe. Her eyes held a power he never spoke of. The squire started at the bottom, working his way through the toughened leather straps, pulling and working the armor away from the undergarments.
12
Peace found its way into the cell with Jalcina, winding around her and granting her uninterrupted rest through the night. Unfortunate it could not remain when morning came. Water, only just barely liquid as opposed to solid, was splashed on her prone form and she gasped, instantly stretching. Her shoulders burned from her arms secured behind her back all night. The gag was not forgotten, but she still tried to scream through it. The attempt was ignored as a bag as thrown over her head and secured around her neck. Bodily hoisted up by her arms, bringing another cry over her pained shoulders, Jalcina was carried away.
The council chamber had all the charisma of a gallows. A dozen different pairs of eyes shifting from one face to the next, searching for some sign of who could be trusted and who was already destroyed by Vad’Alvarn before things even began. None of them could be certain, yet they all knew one thing: the man at the end of the table was their mutual enemy.
Vad’Alvarn sat at the end of the table, his hands steepled in front of him like an old sage. Red eyes stared forward, daring others to match his gaze. Daring them to have the gall to say what they hid in their hearts.
One theory he heard from the kitchen carl was someone needed to kill him before he could destroy the cosmic order and bring down the true wrath of the gods. Another, he was demon spawn and only through the use of a holy object could his head be severed. Vad’Alvarn laughed at the thought. It was ridiculous. He would live until he lifted his curse. He could not lift the curse without Leviana, wherever she was within the cosmos.
The doors swung open abruptly, interrupting
the silent eye to eye arguing of the room, and two men with Vad’Alvarn’s insignia branded into their chests entered. Between them, they carried a limp body. Its feet barely dragged the floor held as it was with one man on each arm. Vad’Alvarn rose. Mordaen, seated halfway around the table, sat back in his seat.
Mordaen recognized those boots; they were Jalcina’s boots. He remembered her begging for them at the summer faire a year ago. She promised to behave like a lady for the Long Night Ball, which she had gone as a D’Avlin Fairy with wings made of the thinnest silk and such a skirt that was hardly modest, but he had been in attendance so Mordaen had allowed it. His angry expression had been enough to dissuade many a possible suitor from speaking to her, much less saying anything inappropriate. Yet, now, he watched those same boots scuffed as they were dragged along the floor. He dared say nothing yet, but his fists clenched at his sides.
Vad’Alvarn noted his opponent’s action with a placidly pleased expression. In his eyes, Mordaen was making another mistake, giving away the fact he sent the messenger being dragged in.
Brought to the end of the council table, Jalcina was dropped to the floor with a soft thud where she moaned once and fell silent. Her head pounded from the assault of the bag over her head smelling of stale vomit. She would have given much to get the bag off her head. She wished she could wake up from the nightmare of waiting. Let it finish. If she was going to be executed, murdered summarily like poor Darien, let it be finished.
“This messenger was found riding for the mountains last night.” One of the branded pair said, his voice sounded much like a tumbling of stone. “By King Vad’Alvarn’s order, they were detained. The owner of the messenger is asked to step forward.”
Not a man moved. No one willing to face the possibility it would change their position in the conqueror king’s future plans. It was not as if refusing to answer was going to help either, but it seemed the safer course.
“It would be madness to admit to sending a messenger.” Mickal of Relo in Membalar finally said, staring at Vad’Alvarn with hard eyes. “You cannot believe anyone at this table would not sit in silence and allow this poor fool to go to their death rather than take credit for sending them to relay a message against you.”
“Well, then perhaps I should have the messenger point to their master then.” Vad’Alvarn waved one of the prisoner’s two guards to his side. Their murmured conference lasted only a moment, but every man strained to hear what was said. The instructions were quite simple, drag the messenger back to their feet, and remove the bag. Let them point to the one who hired them in return for their life. Men who commanded armies stood watching the progress of one man walking down the behind the chairs to carry the instructions to his companion. Then working as one, they lifted the messenger between them. One reached up to snatch the bag off of Jalcina’s head and showed her to the room.
Dazzled, Jalcina twisted her head from one side to the other, jerking away as rough fingers attempted to rip the gag from her mouth. She sucked in breath as best she could, the bruising on her body from the ride back the night before making it difficult to breathe deeply.
“Now.” Her attempt to get her bearings was interrupted by the sound of Vad’Alvarn’s voice. The two locked eyes as they had the night before when she had stood at her Father’s arm. Had it been only the night before? So much time seemed to have passed. Wild rides and death separated that quiet evening from this harsh morning. “If you would be so kind, messenger, as to name the one who hired you to carry military secrets?”
Her brow furrowed, military secrets, messenger; her mouth worked without sound, opening and closing. It was then she noticed her Father there in his armor. Lifted to the level of his eyes, she could easily read what was behind them. If she revealed any connection to him, he was in danger. If she revealed no connection at all, she would be executed. Breathing was hard and she could barely center herself for the pain in her ribs. Turning her head, she looked at the other faces around the table before returning her gaze to Vad’Alvarn.
“Sire.” Her manner was differential, first meeting his eyes then dropping her own as if she were ashamed of her actions. “I was contracted by Lord Mickal of Relo to carry information to his Northern Captains.” What she knew of the region’s geography said it was possible. She and Darien fought their attackers at the entrance to the passes. There was no telling exactly where she had been headed.
Mickal stared at her with eyes betraying his disbelief far too clearly for someone who fancied themselves a politician. “You cannot possibly be willing to take the word of this hired hand,” he screamed. “If that’s not enough, it is a woman.”
Jalcina let her eyes slid across the room toward her Father again, knowing the lie she told would kill someone. Nothing betrayed he knew anything more about the situation. Jalcina wore nothing tying her directly to Sartol and those men at the table who had seen her before only knew her as a chubby child of five.
The conqueror king let Mickal make his denials. Undoubtedly he had actually sent out a messenger of his own, one who was either drunk from the commission he had no intention of ever delivering on or who slipped into the passes and completed his mission. Either way, it concerned Vad’Alvarn not at all he was going to execute the wrong man. In the end, each man sitting at the table was already dead. Each one of them was marked. They had one choice: join him or die. It was much easier to simply kill them, but perhaps they might be useful if given the choice. If they choose to try and plot against him later then they had only delayed the inevitable death at his hand.
“Navar.” He spoke the name of his second on command with a purring tone. “Assist Lord Mickal down to the dungeon and find the surgeon for the messenger. It seems she has shown some wear from being under your care.”
At his elbow, Navar chuckled before moving from his place advancing on Mickal with a measured step. The march-like step seemed to be perfect for walking up the steps of a gallows. Yet it was not Navar who had anything to fear, but Mickal who would see the end of his life long before he felt it should come.
“Bring her.” Navar snapped at the two who carried Jalcina as he bodily lead Mickal from the room. Despite the urge, Jalcina did not glance back to the man who had helped bring her to life. Keeping her chin up, she let herself be carried, a little more carefully, from the council chamber.
Mordaen watched his daughter go with frozen eyes; it was like watching his wife all over again, watching her disappear from his sight with her back to him. So painful and yet he could not allow himself to feel it. Not right then, Vad’Alvarn certainly knew more than he betrayed; giving himself away would endanger his life and those of his people. No choice but to play the game set before them, even when he could feel the opposing forces closing off all route to escape. A swift prayer was all he could spare for her. Perhaps she would find a way to escape whatever was coming.
“Well.”
Mordaen’s thoughts were interrupted by the king’s voice drawing attention back to him from the door shutting against those leaving.
“It is a pleasure to know one who could plan such a cowardly action is no longer among us, those who are looking to the true possibility of becoming united.” Of course, his eyes lit up as if his words were nothing more than jest. Of the assembled, not one man thought those words falling from his lips were genuine. Still, none of them dared to open their mouths and say one word to contradict him. Certainly not the man just saved by a lie. “Now, we can come to the business of negotiating the terms of your surrender.”
The sudden disappearance of the silence in the face of frantic babble was not unexpected. Surrender? None of them had come to this meeting with any intention of actually surrendering, negotiating the terms of peace only. Cries of over my dead body came from various quarters and throughout Vad’Alvarn was silent. He let them speak. Returning to his pose of watching, words flew around him, unmarked. His mind drifted to those eyes: the eyes of the Sartol messenger, the woman he had seen the night before. There
was something there. It sang to him. Casually, he turned his eyes toward Mordaen, silent among his gibbering fellows.
The lie was an obvious one. The messenger traveled with someone wearing Sartol’s insignia. The body of the messenger’s escort was surely still lying where it had been thrown the night before, left for the birds to pick at until it was nothing more than skin and bones or some benevolent soul came along to bury what was left and give the spirit its proper rest. To the conqueror king, it did not matter what happened to the body. It had served its purpose. The messenger and whatever information she carried had been delivered back into his hand, a gift in honor of his foresight. The messenger, Mordaen’s eldest daughter, the woman Vad’Alvarn wanted, simply dropped in his lap. The talk had gone on long enough. The time had come for him to speak again, to draw this to a close.
“You will surrender.” His voice did not raise, but it carried weight just the same. “Or you will die.” He rose from his seat and shifted his gaze across the assembled. “Now, who wishes to oppose me?”
“I will oppose you.” Mordaen had sat silent throughout the babbling din. Now he stood to his feet and stared down the table at the man offering the challenge.
Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Page 8