Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1)

by Alledria Hurt

  “The first who signs will die today. The rest will be taken to Arthum and killed there, tortured sacrifices to draw the favor of the gods on my wedding.” Hardly an offer that could not be refused, but when one considered the alternatives, the guarantee of a swift death seemed worthwhile. Yet still there was no rush to get up and seek the feather. So he waited; eyes everywhere in the room but on those who sat around the table. Truthfully, his mind was far from those men as well. Rather filled as it was with the thoughts of his darling he left sleeping off the exertion of her day. He would have rather been curled up beside her, smelling the sweet scent of her hair than sitting among these cowards who were not even fit to shine her boots. Not even of those he would assign to draw the water for her bath. Still time continued past, sand draining through an hourglass as the Master’s patience wore thin. Yet like a predator he continued to wait, let the first come to him. It was a moment to break their resolve. Once the first fell, he would have them all in the palm of his hand. If only they had been willing to learn courage, if any of them had been willing to walk out when Sartol was allowed to leave, then they would not have been sitting there waiting for his patience with them to run out.

  The first to fall was the one with the least to lose. His family, and its land, was already in deep debt to the next nearest lord. The years had been hard, drought had destroyed the crops and the livestock, his children were married off into other families. His inclusion in this negotiation had been little more than a formality. Now he rose from his seat, pushing it back and listening to it scrap across the stone of the floor, before he walked quite calmly up to Vad’Alvarn’s elbow. “I’ll sign,” he said, his voice as warm as the breath of death. “For one thing.”

  “And what would that be?” Vad’Alvarn said nothing about granting it for why would he make a promise he could not or would not keep simply for a signature he could force if he truly wished to force these men into being further cowards. He watched him, face impassive, waiting expectant.

  “Let my body be carried to my family and buried next to my wife. Her spirit is waiting in the next world and I do not want her to wait forever.”

  The king let the edges of a smile come to his lips. “Yes,” he agreed to the request after a momentary consideration. “You will be allowed your manner of death. Choose.” He offered him an honor a coward should not have been afforded, but he had shown great courage in that single moment by making his wishes known even though he could have easily been denied.

  “I want to fall on my sword,” the man said, his eyes downcast. A warrior’s death, though this man had never struck a single blow in his lifetime. A long and distinguished lifetime fallen on hard times toward the end. What was allowing him one last honor for being willing to accept the fate he could do nothing to change?

  “I see.” Each man lost their weapons when their quarters were searched after their capture. Their retinues were held in cells, waiting to be conscripted into the army. “Soldier,” he called one of the young men to his side from their place along the wall. “Go get this man his sword.” His order was answered by the sharp sound of a soldier saluting, then walking away. Vad’Alvarn reached out and took a hold of the delicate white feather they were using as a pen. “Your signature.”

  “Do not give in,” someone hissed down the table. “If we stand together.”

  “Stand together and die together,” the signer replied. “I would rather die alone and get to rest in peace next to my Malinka.” There was nothing left in his life. Nothing made it worthwhile to fight this regime pressing in on him from all sides. So he took the feather and pressed the tip to the page, drawing the ink across the page to make his name clearly and carefully. “There.” Done he simply stood there, no reason or wish to return to his seat. From the expressions being thrown around the table now, he was asking for his death sentence to be handed out by his colleagues. So he stood there, hands carefully held behind his back through the uncomfortable silence of waiting for the solider to return with his sword. It would be a relief for all when his blood was spilling out onto the floor of the council chamber. The nervous shifting in chairs had started before the young man returned with a set of twelve swords in hand, all of which he dumped onto the floor with a clatter.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” He came to attention, chin lifted so far he nearly hide his eyes in his helmet. “I could not locate which one was his.” Stiffly standing, it was as if he expected to have his own order of execution to be given in those next few moments. Vad’Alvarn only waved the young man away.

  “Find your sword, old man.” Hardly the kindest thing to say, but at least it allowed the man the truth of his age, the awareness he had lived his many years and earned his right to fall upon his own sword now in order to save face. “And you will be allowed to fall on it, just as I promised.” No one else in the room moved as the old man walked to the pile of swords and knelt down to sift through the swords tossed down on the floor. His sword was, like several of the others, only differentiated by a slight bit of stitching at the opening of the scabbard. Not exactly the kind of thing that would make it easy to tell, but when a man knew his sword, he knew his sword. There was more than enough to keep him from losing the blade in just such a pile. Rising, he returned to his place near Vad’Alvarn’s elbow and offered the blade to him, hilt first.

  “Well, King,” he said, eyes meeting those of the man who had stolen his life’s work. “Does it suffice?” The king pulled the blade and the sound caused several at the table to shiver. Trained eyes walked the length of the blade and one thumb tested the sharpness carefully.

  “It suffices.” He offered it back, turning it in his hand so the hilt was outward. The old man took his sword, hefting it with some ease of practice. It was after all his own blade, something he should have known intimately from the time he was old enough to hold it. Perhaps it should have been expected, standing as close as he was, when he lunged forward, his blade seeking the heart of the conqueror. Vad’Alvarn himself was unarmed; certain none of the men in the room had the heart to challenge him. He was wrong.

  The blade ran across his shoulder, leaving behind a trail of open flesh rapidly filling with blood as Vad’Alvarn rolled away from his attacker, upsetting his chair and coming to his feet once again, after a bare breath. The guards, their armor clattering, moved to take the old man who had attacked into custody, but Vad’Alvarn waved them off with the command.

  “Bring me my sword.” A growled command made those in the room who had dared to move toward their own weapons stop, fearful he might focus on them as much as he focused on the man before him. The spines along his neck had risen, shredding through the soft robe he wore to make themselves known as had the natural armor along his arms. “I would have let you go.” He moved to kick the chair between them out of the way. Some of the leg splintered off beneath his boot. “Painlessly.” Blood red eyes began to glow, just as the legends of him said they would. “But you have chosen a far more painful death.” The drip of blood along his skin was slow, seemingly slower than the way blood would normally flow and it moved erratically, following the lines of scales far too small for the eyes to see. “And that death will be granted.”

  It was a true exhilaration, the feeling of the rage coursing through his veins as the teeth in his mouth lengthened into fangs and the darkness along his back and arms spread, skin shifted to scales and shimmered before the eyes in the daylight. Tongue lashing forward over his teeth, the acrid smell of piss made him wrinkle his face. Such weak creatures, too weak to be anything other than conquered. The growl in his voice refused to abate as he called once again for his sword. He was going to meet this man in combat, but the more he waited, the more the sense he should simply tear him to shreds. He was standing there, trembling, his sword point bobbing up and down like some toy pushed by the waves of the sea. The animal in him snapped at it, jaws shutting just an inch or so away from the point of steel, yet the man withdrew as if the sword could be harmed by this monster held back
by only the thinnest tie of restraint. The man bearing his sword took too long.

  Now it was Vad’Alvarn, or rather Vadian, who lunged forward, deflecting the sword with the scales at his wrist so he could get inside of the old man’s guard. Less than a heartbeat later, he had sunk his teeth into the thin flesh along the man’s neck, severing through down to the bone. Blood gushed out and ran down his neck from his chin, even as the man tried to draw breath to scream. Pity all that came out from his throat was a bloody gurgle of froth foaming over his tongue. Vad’Alvarn withdrew as quickly as he had struck, letting the body slump to the floor, still twitching and trying to speak. Wiping his face with one hand, he flicked the blood in the direction of those seated at the table. It landed on the parchment, tiny drops of blood and larger ones, obscuring the words in some places. It had never mattered what the treaty said. The king would do as he pleased. Those lands beneath him had two choices: live under his rule or rebel. Rebellion was punished severely.

  His presence in the room ate the light as he whirled once again to the men sitting at the table, some of whom were murmuring in prayer, all of whom were counting their blessings not to be the one who had dragged this monster of anger to the surface. “And now the first is dead. The rest…” He turned away from the table, letting all see the way those dark spines shot out through the back of his robe along his spine. “Will sign and join my wedding party.” A soft chuckle as he walked away, leaving the men at the table alone with the guards and the corpse of one of their number. It would be cleaned up soon enough by some indifferent guardsman who could not seen remember what land the man had ruled, but would tell the story of his attempt on the king’s life far and wide as if it were his own claim to fame. Such was the way legends were made and Vad’Alvarn had quite a few to his name. His final muttering as he slipped out of the chamber had nothing at all to do with the men within. “And now I have to bathe before I can go near Leviana again.” Already he had lost the name she had given him that night under the moon, losing it to the name in his memory just as he no longer saw the young woman whose life he was destroying, but only the previous woman, the one who had tamed him and then torn his heart out with her death. Any further musing was lost in the sound of the doors shutting behind him.

  20

  The packing went on around Jalcina until she was made to move off the bed so they could roll up the cushion protecting it from the frame. The frame itself was most likely going to become firewood. It would not be necessary. Once they returned to Arthum, he had every piece of furniture he could possibly want. The cushion was kept because it would be carried once again when he moved out on campaign. Then Romkita dragged her off to another room, the library, in order to help her waste time while the preparations were completed.

  Her headache was beginning to abate, so she managed to wander about the room, half interested in the books settled on the floor. Fingertips walked along the spines, reading as she moved to from one set to the next. There she saw it, the single word Romkita had said to her earlier. Divar. It was an old text, but the embossed letter had left behind indentions long after the filling color was gone. Solaric Divar. Legendary Divar. She did not snatch the book off the shelf, but passed it by originally, let it go. There was no truth to it after all, none. Yet, she found herself coming back to it, lifting the black book off the shelve and holding it in front of her, eyes going over and over the cover though there was nothing on it but the words. Fingers traced the lettering, memorizing it with her skin.

  “Romkita,” she said quietly, showing her the book. “This is the word you said earlier, is it not?” Jalcina knew it was the same word, but she needed to ask anyway, for her own peace of mind.

  “Yes, Mistress,” though she did not read well, the word had been drilled into her head. “I’m sorry, but I do not know the other one.”

  “It’s all right,” she dismissed the apology without a second thought. “I do.” Opening the book, she flipped through the pages. If what Romkita had said about the king was true, then there would be some clue mentioned somewhere in this book. Flipping, eyes scanning, this book was supposed to be some legends of the divar.

  The Divar are creatures cursed by the Heavens to live again and again until they complete the promises they have made. Divar only appear in pairs. A single one can survive, but will spend its years searching for its mate. It is often said the strongest curses are handed down by the Gods for seeking power none should have.

  Jalcina read with a furrow of concentration at her forehead, the cursed by the Heavens. She flipped a few more pages, checking for something else of use. Nothing else jumped out at her as she searched, so she snapped the book closed. The expression on her face prompted a question from Romkita who had watched the entire scene without a word once she answered the question asked of her.

  “Mistress, what is it?”

  “I need to speak with the King.” The Princess gazed at her given servant with unhappy eyes. This book only served to pique her curiosity; it answered nothing. Yet the more she thought on it, the more she realized nothing could possibly answer the question she had in her heart. Only he could. So she would have to ask it of him. Left standing alone a moment, Rom went out into the hallway from the library, returning a few minutes later.

  “He has retired to a bath. Are you certain you would speak with him now?” It was not unheard of for a princess to meet with a king in his bath, but it seemed as if this would be unnecessary. After all, it was only a question, certainly it would keep.

  For a brief moment, the memory of Vad’Alvarn reaching up to slip his shirt over his shoulders and the planes of his stomach flashed before Jalcina’s eyes. With a dip of her head, she said, “I would speak with him now.” Her resolve refused to be defeated by something so simple as a memory of the draw of his body. “Take me to him.”

  21

  The baths were done in marble of a much duskier, redder color than the ballroom which seemed as if it was made from the sea itself. This was more like a red desert cave all around the person and full of steam it might have been the domain of some bloody witch who sought the destruction of those around her with hollow incantations in the name of darker, older, more merciless gods. This was the feeling it gave walking through the steaming mist, the few lamps seeming to appear and disappear as they swung on copper chains attached to the ceiling. Romkita had abandoned her at the door, stating she was not to enter the king’s bath, no matter the princess wishing to herself. It was simply not done. So Jalcina walked alone into the room where she could see nothing, not even the hand before her face for the combined mist and darkness swirling around her.

  “Stop.” The voice was familiar in its commanding tone. “Or you’ll fall in.” It was the sound drawing her to peer, finding his eyes glimmering like gems in the darkness.

  “Do you always bath in darkness?” Though she felt it, she refused to admit the darkness felt welcoming to her, as it was created from him, or perhaps he was created of it. There was no answer to the question in her mind, not yet. Perhaps once they were finished she would have the answer she sought.

  “Yesss.” The sound of him moving made her take a step back, her eyes trying to keep his but they disappeared in the darkness. Vad’Alvarn had closed them to cut off her only source of understanding. “Welcome, Princessss,” he greeted her more formally now, a bit of a growl to his words sending a shiver up her spine. “Why have you come?”

  Hands found their way to twisting the cloth of her skirt, now aware of the dampness at the hem dragging the material across the floor. The words were stopped in her throat, unwilling to come forth of their own accord, she closed her eyes now, blocking out the oppressive darkness around her to concentrate on the sound of her own thudding heartbeat.

  “I would ask you something.” Now the words came as she centered herself against the fear something was no longer right. The water moved again and she refused the need to open her eyes, to try and see whatever it was coming for her. No matter what, there w
as no reason for her to allow herself to become afraid of what was going on. He had said they were to be married, why would he harm her before he had a chance to have such a claim upon her? It was all muddled in her mind, he was wed to her, but not, it all seemed so murky, dark like the air around her as she stood there composing herself against the creeping fear seeking to put chill fingers around her heart and squeeze it to an early stop.

  “I will endeavor to anssswer.” Still the gruffness did not abate, and the ‘s’ in answer strung itself out for a moment as if hissed. Again, Jalcina stilled a shiver in her skin, arms coming up to wrap protectively around her body. “Assk your quessstion.” Once again, a step back from his voice as though she found it far more dangerous than it was indeed.

  “What are you?” Not the question she had come to ask, but those were the words leaping forth from her mouth when she opened it after being given his leave to ask of him what she would. Breathe coming in fearful pants, she suppressed the urge to flee, certain if she did so then whatever it was she was speaking with would only chase her and perhaps even kill her.

  Since leaving the council chamber, Vad’Alvarn’s transformation had continued, leaving him only human in shape. His eyes, deep red gems, had lost their distinction becoming little better than pools of blood with black slits set in a face made not of flesh, but scale. His teeth had sharpened into those of a predator, the predator kept hidden within his skin all the time. Hands, previously just roughened by the constant use of a sword and other things of his need to continue with war, had become clawed. Now he lay back in the water of the bath, in darkness, aware he did not wish to be seen in this state. Not by his bride of all people, yet he wanted the scent of her near, even if it was tainted with the fear she tried so hard to hide. He could certainly smell her over the scents poured into the water of his bath to carry away the scent of the blood running down his face and throat, staining him as if it were no more than wine. Now it had been scrubbed away to float in the water around him, waiting to be drained away, the evidence of his monstrosity. He could see her clearly in the dark, hear her heartbeat over his own, smell the scent of her skin in the air. Her voice tugged at the human side of him, making him all the more aware of the change going on in him. The change he sacrificed her for: power. He sought to conquer the world and never stopped to calculate the price. Now he knew the price of conquest yet continued forward, he had been almost certain after so long she would never return. Now she was with him once again and he had a choice. He had to decide if he was willing to continue on with this conquest. Already he had ordered his army back to its homeland, perhaps this was the beginning of the end.