by AJ Nuest
Caedmon snarled, fisting and relaxing his hands. ʼTwas person of consequence, then. Someone Denmar dare not arrest. A courtier with royal lineage who believed everything was theirs for the taking.
“His name, Denmar. Tell me his name so I may skewer his beating heart in his chest.”
The captain gripped Caedmon’s shoulder and leaned in. “His name…” he breathed, “is Prince Braedric.”
A roar blistered his throat, and Caedmon leapt to his feet. The chair toppled sideways as he raced for the door.
A streak of blue light screamed past his shoulder, exploded and sealed the wood in ethereal flames. One touch and the wizard’s fire would leach into his skin. Char him from the inside out.
Reversing directions, he charged for the window. He would wrench the bars from the stone if he had to. Smash the glass and hunt down his brother until his breath ceased to wheeze in his cold dead throat.
“You cannot fight him.” Two corded arms encircled Caedmon’s shoulders. His grip on the iron rods faltered as Denmark pried him away from the wall. “He is first in line to the throne.”
“I would die before I let his offense go unpunished.”
“Indeed, you will.” The ground disappeared under Caedmon’s feet. He toppled back and a guttural grunt blurted from Denmar’s lips as they landed in a bone-jarring pile atop the desk. “And what will your maiden do then? Forget you ever existed, that’s what!”
The bow snapped. Splinters bit into Caedmon’s skin. A chest of war figurines clattered to the floor as he grappled with Denmar’s arms. The two of them rolled off the desk and thudded to the rug.
Cinching Denmar’s waist in his legs, Caedmon seized the collar of the captain’s waistcoat and slammed him to the gray slate below. He lunged for the air, but was tripped. Denmar’s outstretched arm caught up in his leg. The room reeled, and he pitched forward. His breath whooshed from his lungs as his ribcage collided with the stone floor.
A bent knee pressed the center of his spine and held him firmly in place. “You may not care what happens to you, but the lass needs your help.” Denmar brought his lips to Caedmon’s ear. “And by the great path of Helios, I’m going to make damn sure she gets it.”
Thrashing around, Caedmon bellowed and tried for purchase, but to no avail.
“You gets to killing the reigning prince and, no matter how much your father intervenes, your neck will surely bleed dry on the chopping block.” The pressure on his back eased, and Denmar slid to the floor. Sorrow etched the corner of his eye. He dragged his palm down his grizzled cheeks. “Think, lad. You just this day came back to her. You’ve been given a second chance.” Fisting his beefy hand, he shook his knuckles in Caedmon’s face. “As with us all, you must abide your anger until the day it serves you best. She’s been too diligent for you to go off half-cocked on her behalf.”
Squeezing his lids closed, Caedmon fought to reign in his hatred. No matter what Denmar’s advice, nothing would scour away the image of Braedric’s hands soiling his lady’s skin.
The terror she must’ve endured. The helplessness and horror.
If not for Denmar intervening, Braedric would have surely beaten her. Raped her. No man’s needs in all the kingdom, save the king’s, outweighed those of the reigning prince.
Defeat seized his heart and slowly permeated the blind fuel of Caedmon’s rage. Though he was loathe to admit it, Denmar’s assessment rang true. What good would he be to her dead or imprisoned, yet again? He could not allow his anger to rule his actions. Her protection was paramount. More important than even his obligation to stand strong in defense of her honor.
He ground his back molars until pain mushroomed along his jaw. But Braedric would be wise to keep a sharp eye on his back. Caedmon’ neck was not the only one in fear of the noose, and one day soon his vengeance would be at hand.
“If you two are quite finished.” Fandorn wiggled his fingers and the wizard’s fire sizzled into nonexistence. “I believe there is a more pressing issue to discuss?”
By all eighteen tits of the Goddesses, now what laments were in store?
Denmar crawled to his feet and offered Caedmon a hand up. The prince clasped his wrist and the captain hauled him to standing. Dusting off their clothes, they exchanged a nod and returned to their seats.
Securing his cup, Caedmon guardedly sipped some of the brew. It scalded his throat and set his belly to burning. But the tension in his shoulders eased a bit. And the fraying around his nerves grew somewhat numb.
Whatever was coming, this time he would stand prepared.
“Her Radiance appeared in this very chamber the next day.” A wistful smile emerged beneath the bristly hair on the captain’s upper lip. “And a right sight she was, too. High color staining her cheeks. All prickly words and donned in a pair of men’s leather breeches.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “When she petitioned me to train her, I scoffed, of course. Arming a woman is a fearsome gamble, not to mention I scarce believed the king would permit such a thing. But the lass persisted, each day more stubborn than the last, until I thus suspected more lie hidden beneath her request than a mere passing fancy in swordplay.”
Caedmon’s nostrils flared. Only one conclusion remained. “Braedric.”
“Aye, lad.” The captain crossed his arms. “His dogged pursuit of her was unrelenting.”
“Yet one does not outright confront a royal prince.” Fandorn aimed his bony finger toward the ceiling. “Nor accuse in matters regarding such a delicate nature.”
“The guards confirmed our suspicions.” Denmar dipped his chin. “They’re privy to the servants’ gossip. Rumors ranged from Braedric’s obsession to bed Mistress Rowena, to him being discovered lurking in her chambers, after which some or another of her personal trinkets would be found missing.”
At the mention of objects mislaid, alarm scuttled across the nape of Caedmon’s neck. No. Though the servants had aired his rooms and laid a fresh fire, not one amongst them had mentioned his missing armoire or, most notably, the shattered mirror which had once hung inside it.
His original assumption had been that, during his absence, his father had ordered it moved to a more secure location. “And the veil? My wardrobe? What of those?”
Fandorn froze. The color drained from his face.
“Sneaky rat bastard.” Denmar grumbled and scratched his head.
Caedmon wrenched forward in his chair. “You were unaware it was secreted from my chambers?”
The wizard scowled, eyebrows a hairy caterpillar along his brow. “That first winter after your imprisonment, Prince Braedric ordered your rooms draped and sealed, a guard continuously posted outside the door. We were told his objective was to make safe the veil.” He squinted at a spot along the far wall, fingertips drumming the table. “Mayhap his true intent was not to protect what was inside, but rather to guard against discovery of what was not.”
An arid desert swept Caedmon’s tongue, and he swilled a little more brew from his cup. Yet for what purpose would Braedric take possession of the veil? From the onset, he’d lacked the ability to awaken its power.
Had he been motivated by jealousy? Greed? Or was his goal of a more sinister plot altogether?
Returning his drink to the table, Caedmon twisted the rim with the tips of his fingers, studying the iridescent surface of the brew. Regardless of Braedric’s intent, accusing his half-brother of thievery ranked immediately below calling him out for attempted rape. Without undeniable proof, his head would still be parted from his shoulders. “And so?”
“And so, after ascertaining the truth, I could no longer rightfully deny the sorceress’ plea for help.” The captain cocked a brow. “And Helios save me, the thought of her jabbing Braedric’s prick with the pointed tip of a dagger appealed to me. So, upon her fifth visit, we reached an accord. If she gained the king’s consent, I would train her.”
Yet how had she done it? Caedmon pursed his lips, considering the Rowena he’d fallen in love with these two years past. By hi
s reckoning, she remained every bit as quick-witted, and when set upon a decision, held steadfast in her beliefs.
All qualities she would’ve used to her advantage, despite the choice not being hers to make. He glanced from Denmar to Fandorn and back. “I’m nearly afraid to ask what happened next.”
Fandorn chuckled and sat forward. “’Twas nothing quite so devious as you’re supposing.” Pinning his sharp elbows on the table, he gathered up the strings of the tale. “The captain made me aware of her petition, and after the king had denied her, I took it upon myself to set a kind word in his ear. By then, I’d become quite charmed by her, you see. She has a fascinating mind. Not duplicitous, but…open. Unrestrained. I daresay the poor girl sometimes speaks without realizing the intriguing things that pass from her lips.”
He squinted at Denmar. “What is that phrase she’s so fond of using?”
The captain widened his one eye. “Piss off?”
“No, no, the other one.”
“Ah.” Denmar cleared his throat. “There’s godda be an easier way.”
“Yes, quite right.” Fandorn smiled and opened his palm toward Caedmon as if offering him the words on a plate. “There has got to be an easier way. How incredibly remarkable.” He shook his finger as if something of great import had occurred. “Did you know she collaborated with me on the design of a small metal coil? She makes use of them in her wrist blades. Most of the nobility believe she holds the ability to summon weapons, but one flick of her wrists and her daggers spring forth into the centers of her palms. It’s astounding when one considers the applications of such an ingenious device. We must do our utmost to maintain its secrecy.”
Clever, clever girl. Caedmon cocked a brow. “And her petition to the king? What of that?”
“Oh, yes.” Fandorn dismissed Caedmon’s curiosity as if swatting a gnat. “She traded some bauble in her possession. Quite surprising, when one considers the king has gold and gemstones to spare. However, once he displayed an interest in the ring, she offered it without hesitation.”
His mother’s ring. Caedmon collapsed in the seat. The next moment, two opposing sides of a battle took up arms in his head and set to warring. One proud, adoring, in awe of her resourcefulness…the other infuriated beyond all measure.
So, should he wrap her in his arms and kiss her senseless? Or bend her over his knee and apply a sharp smack to her bottom?
His cock flexed against his thigh in agreement to both thoughts.
“That’s not the last of it, my boy.” Denmar broke into his musings. “Your escape was flawlessly timed. Tomorrow at Apex, she faces her final test.”
“What?” Impossible. Only the finest of the guard achieved such an honor. To do as much, she would have had to trounce every man amongst the ranks—a task he had toiled five seasons to attain.
The dark bruises on young Urich’s face tapped on his memory and his stomach sank to the region below his knees.
She’d rightfully gained the admiration of her brothers and, in return, they had put forth the respect due her station.
Pushing up from his chair, Caedmon paced the length of the room, pinching his bottom lip. Every guard who earned their crest was granted a heavy purse, a parcel of the king’s land and their choice of horses. Once accomplished, she would be free to go where she would—most assuredly her objective since the day Braedric had assaulted her.
Dropping his hand, he came to a stop and tipped his gaze toward the ceiling. But he could not let her leave. The hazards of such an undertaking were too great. “No. She cannot depart the castle grounds. I will not allow it.”
Denmar sputtered. “Allow what you will, Mistress Rowena comes and goes of her own devising. She has for quite some time.”
“The few who have tried to intervene have met up with the sharp ends of her blades.” Fandorn shrugged.
“Or the medicant,” the captain muttered.
Caedmon lowered his chin, the seeds of a scheme taking root in his mind. “Then we must be crafty, and I believe I know the exact course.”
“I decline.” Denmar adamantly sliced his hands over the table. “Should the guards catch wind of a ruse, they would surely renounce me. The lot of them worship her with an allegiance due the Nine. Moreover, I respect the lass too much to cast trickery in her path. She’s earned her chance, Caedmon. Fair and with the hard knocks.”
Ah yes, the guards. He fisted his hands on his hips. Mayhap therein lay the perfect opportunity. She’d beaten men twice her size and half again as strong. Her ability with a blade was no doubt sound, and to further crimp his neck, he’d suffered the last two years sequestered in a dank dungeon.
The stakes were high… “Yet none of those men had as much to lose as I.”
And he, as well, had rightfully earned his chance.
“The woman fancies a fight, you say? Tomorrow at Apex?” Placing his foot on the seat, he leaned toward his friends and braced his forearm across his thigh. “Then as her prince, I am duty bound. Her wish is my command.”
Chapter Fourteen
Winds out of the north, crisp and clear with the occasional gust. Ideal for a southward descent.
Rowena absently stroked Dart’s breast, his cream and brown-spotted plumage gliding like silk along her index finger. Feet braced on the window ledge and her wind rider flapping at her back, she sized up the bustling activity occupying the lawn five stories below.
Several of her brothers-in-arms cranked the giant gear which manipulated the pendulum swing of the massive sand bags, and the first obstacle she would need to clear along the narrow beam at the gate of the Gantlet. Five held the tension in the release cable as one locked the iron catch in place. Eibel bounced his significant bulk on the rope bridge and the ends chafed against the high wooden platforms. The twine connecting the hand ropes to the base twanged like a mistuned lute.
Master Denmar perused the labyrinth of walls, the dead ends and various nooks and crannies along the course. Tugging a rope here or a shoving his heel against a wall there, he shouted instructions before moving onto the final section—a circular teetering base the guards had nicknamed “the table of doom.”
Four of her five opponents waited on the lawn, just outside the cordoned-off area for the nobility, and yet close enough to be ogled by a flock of hankie-fluttering maidens.
Oh, good grief. Rowena rolled her eyes even as her respect for the men notched up several degrees.
There was no way the guys could’ve missed the attention, but her challengers weren’t known as the best of the best for nothing, and not one of them glanced away from Denmar’s last-minute course modifications just so they could get in the chance to flirt.
Each wore a leather chest plate stamped with the royal crest, an arsenal of weapons dangling off their shoulders and hips, shields either waiting near their feet or decorating their backs like dented turtle shells.
Excellent. Rowena smirked. It was kinda nice to know her reputation preceded her. And lucky for her, so did theirs.
At the top of the line-up was Keegan. One of those over-confident types ready to barrel in and take charge of any situation. He’d most likely position himself first…and make a really bad mistake in the process. If the guy was smart, he’d wait ʼtil later in the course after everyone else had gotten in a few good strikes.
Next came Syme, the best archer in the guard. His arrows accounted for more kills than a dozen of his brothers combined. He would hide, let his deadly aim do the work, and hopefully back himself into a nice tight corner so he’d be super easy for her to find.
Rinald was known among the ranks as a comedian. The guy who ever shut up already about his victories through insurmountable odds. It really was a damn shame the stuff that came out of his mouth was so ridiculous. But if he thought she was gullible enough to let him get in her head, poor Rinald was, quite frankly, just plain dumb.
Tristan—now he was a threat. She sized up his tall frame and broad shoulders. A warrior in his prime, he was seasoned enough to
be patient. Hold back so he’d be able to gauge her approach. Once on the attack, he’d engage her in physical combat, over and over in hopes of wearing her down.
The split-second she saw him coming, her best bet would be to strike fast and from a distance. Getting close to Tristan was never a good idea no matter what her future had at stake.
So, that made four…but where was the fifth victim in their little parade? Her wide sweep of the surrounding grounds and forest edge came up empty.
Maybe, like her, he’d decided to hold back until the grand bell kicked off the start of the game.
This was allowed. Hell, when it came to the Gantlet pretty much anything was allowed. As long as the quitters remembered to say I submit once they were done, everything else was fair game.
Unless, of course, they were unconscious. Which basically amounted to the same thing.
Dart danced along the padded leather patch covering her left shoulder and she smiled as he burrowed the top of his head against her cheek. Her secret weapon. A loyal friend to the end. She fed him a scrap of raw meat from the pouch on her belt and he chuck-chucked with a bob of his head.
Funny, how stumbling across Braedric and his drunk buddies during a hunting excursion had turned into one of the biggest blessings she’d ever had.
After sleeping in Belial’s stall several weeks, she’d finally earned enough of the beauty’s trust to take him out for a stroll through the forest. The moment he’d heard all the noise, the horse had spooked and run off, and her first instinct had been to march over to where Braedric and his friends were taunting a wounded falcon and give them a sharp crack across the jaw.
But she’d chickened out, hiding behind a thick copse of trees. Making excuses about how they were armed and her training wasn’t far enough along yet to successfully take on five men.
Once they’d gotten bored and moved on to torturing whatever they could find next, she’d rushed over only to wind up wanting to smack her own face instead.