Wiping his hands on the rag, the Grand Master nodded. “I suppose I have developed a fondness for our Jameela. She will make me an obedient wife.”
Dagan’s smile slipped away. “Aye, she will. I have seen to it.”
“Take me to the chair by the window,” the Grand Master said and his brother scooped him from the stone seat and carried him to the chair. He pointed to the chair opposite. “Sit.”
“Stay,” Dagan sighed as he took his seat. “Roll over. Fetch.”
“Dagan,” the Grand Master drawled in a warning tone.
“Don’t piss on the carpet,” Dagan added.
“Dagan!” The name was a strong admonishment.
“Don’t chew the chair legs.”
The Grand Master threw his head back. “By the Prophet, if you were anyone other than my twin, I’d have you flogged for your impudence.”
Companionable silence settled on the chamber. Dagan made himself comfortable in the overstuffed silken chair and the Grand Master gazed longingly out the window. Both men’s thoughts were on freedom—one to be his own man and the other to be free of his prison walls.
“It has been on mind to tell her before the ceremony,” the Grand Master said.
Dagan frowned. “Tell her what?”
The Grand Master shrugged. “Who you really are and why our father had you castrated.”
“For what purpose, Hagan?” Dagan demanded. “I can see no difference it would make.”
“She loves you,” the Grand Master stated as he stared out the window. “As surely as the sun rises and sets over yon waves.” He looked around. “And you love her just as deeply.”
Dagan plowed a hand through his hair. “So?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter and even if it did, once she weds you…”
“What if it is you she weds?” the Grand Master asked.
Fury washed over Dagan’s face. “Don’t,” he said forcefully, getting to his feet. “This is not a game, Hagan. I…”
“You could take my place at the Joining Ceremony,” the Grand Master interrupted. “Sit in my rolling chair and take her to wife.”
“And do what?” Dagan shouted. “How can I be a husband to her, Milord?”
Frowning at the title Dagan only used when he was upset, the Grand Master waved a hand. “Sit down, Dagan.”
“No!”
“Then pace about like a caged bull if it suits you,” the Grand Master said, “but I think that is the answer to our dilemma.”
“What dilemma?” Dagan queried, squinting dangerously at his brother.
“I have no need for a wife save for ceremonial purposes. I can’t walk beside her in the garden. I can’t ride beside her by the river. I can’t swim with her there.”
“You can, and do, lie with her,” Dagan snarled, his jealousy turning his handsome face ugly.
“Aye, but that is necessary to produce an heir,” the Grand Master reminded him. “Even with you as her husband, I can utilize my right as Grand Master to lie with her when she is having her fertile cycle. The heir would be mine even if we were not legally wed. No one need ever know.”
“I would know!” Dagan hissed. “Think you I would want my wife to be at your beck and call?”
“You are no different than any other of my subjects,” the Grand Master said archly. “Everyone else considers it an honor that I make use of the Jus Primae Noctis rule.”
Dagan stared at his brother. He knew the man as well as he knew himself and he could see the wheels turning in Hagan Kiel’s head. He also remembered the law that stated no man—under penalty of death—could touch the legal wife of the Grand Master and reminded his brother of it.
“Aye, but she is not my legal wife nor will she be. There is no law that states I cannot touch her. I am the Grand Master, not you. As such, I wish you to marry Jameela.”
“No,” Dagan said, shaking his head. “That’s out of the question.”
“It wasn’t a request, Dagan Kiel,” the Grand Master said. “That was an order!”
“Then have me flogged or thrown into the dungeon or hanged for all I care!” Dagan told him. “I won’t do it!”
“Don’t think I won’t, little brother,” the Grand Master warned.
“Then do it!” Dagan challenged.
“Guards!” the Grand Master yelled.
Dagan blinked as the door to the Grand Master’s chamber swung open and the guards marched in. His lips parted as he stared at his brother. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered.
“Will you obey my order?” the Grand Master asked.
Dagan shook his head. “No and it is not fair that you ask me.”
“So be it,” the Grand Master agreed. He looked to the guards. “Escort Lord Dagan to the darkest, filthiest, most vermin-infested cell you can find and chain his insolent ass to the wall!” He glanced at the garderobe then cocked his head toward it. “Do we have a cell directly beneath that?”
The guards looked nervously at Dagan then one another before the taller of the two replied there was a cell near the cistern.
“Then put him there.”
“What?” Dagan yelped.
“You are my brother and I love you dearly but I will not allow you to defy me nor will I treat you any differently than I would any Brother who would dare to deny me what I want,” the Grand Master replied. He glared at the tall guard. “Get him out of here until he agrees to do as I have ordered.”
The guards seized Dagan’s arms in steely grips. He was of a mind to break away, but instead he lifted his chin. It was a matter of wills between him and his twin and he would not fight. He would go willingly to his punishment without complaint.
Cocking an amused brow at his brother, the Grand Master smiled. “You’ll stay there until you relent, Dagan, or you’ll grow old and gray in that vile place.”
“As you wish, Milord,” Dagan agreed.
The Grand Master saw Brother Qutaybah grinning from ear to ear as Dagan was ushered from the chamber. When their eyes met, the Chancellor quickly wiped away the smile.
“Where is my Lady-wife at this moment, Qutaybah?”
“In her quarters, Milord. Do you wish for me to bring her to you?”
“No, but I do want her to know that her Trainer has been incarcerated. Let her know he has defied me and as such, I may well have him flogged for his impertinence.”
Brother Qutaybah unconsciously rubbed his hands together as though eager for such retaliation. “Shall I inform Master Executioner Verial, Milord?”
“I hope it will not come to that but if Lord Dagan has not ceded to my order by nine of the clock this evening, I will have him remanded to Verial’s most capable hands.”
Chapter Six
Dagan’s shirt was plastered to his back, unknown filth turning his flesh cold and causing him to squirm beneath the despicable feel of it against his body. His arms were stretched wide, high above his head, his wrists manacled to the wall and the toes of his booted feet—though barely touching the floor—were beginning to experience wetness through the fine leather. His ankles were likewise chained to the wall so pulling his feet up was out of the question. Something cold ran down his hand and under the cuff of his cambric shirt. He was as uncomfortable as he could ever remember being in his entire life.
“May the Prophet deny you Paradise when you leave this world, Hagan Kiel,” he spat and pulled against his bonds, hissing loudly when there was no give to the restriction.
Only once before had he known the humiliation of being imprisoned, the terrible loneliness of being buried in the bowels of some despot’s dungeon, but then he had known Hagan would send someone to release him. It hadn’t taken his brother long to arrange his release, his rescuer paying the demanded ransom with one hand while plunging a sword into his abductor’s gut with the other.
“No man dares assault the brother of the Grand Master and live to reap his ill-gotten gain!” Brother Lexa declared a moment before lopping his enemy’s head from its dying body.
Only the Grand Master can assault his brother with impunity, Dagan thought, and who was there amongst the Brothers who would dare gainsay him?
Miserable, cold, and shuddering from the slime running down his raised arms, Dagan groaned. There would be no rescue from this situation unless he agreed to Hagan’s terms and that was something he could not do.
For Jameela’s sake, he dared not accept her to wife.
But why not, Dagan? His inner voice cried out.
“The Law!” Dagan shouted. “The Conclave’s damnable law!”
The threat of tears stung Dagan’s eyes and he flung his head from side to side to keep them at bay. What good were tears against the might of the Conclave?
Memories slipped unbidden into his mind there in the darkness and though he tried with all his might, he could not keep those brutal memories from invading. They were always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to spring upon him when he knew a brief moment or two of happiness. They were forever popping up to remind him of his hateful past and the man who had robbed him of his manhood.
* * * * *
Tristan Kiel was the seventh Grand Master to ascend the gilded throne of Akhkharu. The seventh son of a seventh daughter as well as the seventh son of a seventh son he inherited the mystical powers of his mother and father and was sent to train as a Mage at the Monastery of Akhkharu when he was four years old, a situation unheard of until then. While he was at the Monastery, his uncles—including the Grand Master at that time—his father, and all six of his brothers before him were slain in the Great War at Menini. At the tender age of eight and too young to have fought in the war, Tristan had, by default, become the new Grand Master. He took to the authority of his position with a vengeance that startled his enemies and worried his supporters.
At twelve, he took his first woman. At fourteen, he killed his first man in hand-to-hand combat. By sixteen, he began actively seeking a woman for his chosen.
“She must be a virgin, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and her beauty must be unequaled!” he demanded of his Chancellor. “I will pay a kingly ransom for such a lady!”
Though his generals feared the task was impossible, they sent emissaries throughout the nine kingdoms, searching for a girl who fit the Grand Master’s desire. In the miniscule principality of Kabal, they found what they were seeking.
Invernise Bejhena was fourteen years old, a nun at the priory in Kabal. It was her Prioress, the head of her Order, who sent word to the emissary that the woman he sought was housed there.
“The monies from the ransom will do much good for the Sisters,” the Prioress was heard to chortle.
Despite the heavy scarlet robe that covered her from neck to toe, the wimple over her head to hide the glorious blonde hair, around the neck to hide that swan-like beauty, and over her shell-like ears, her exotic beauty stunned the emissary. One look into her warm blue eyes—the color of the summer sky—took the man’s breath away.
Though the young girl screamed and fought, she was taken against her will to Lalssu Keep and there she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she despised.
“Give me a son and I will let you go back to your precious nunnery,” Tristan vowed.
It was said Invernise wished the demons upon Tristan Kiel and prayed nightly that his soul burn forever in the Pit. When—after four miserable years as the Grand Master’s Lady-wife—she discovered she was with child, she thought the end was in sight. She would thrust the son of the fiend from her body then leave Lalssu Keep forever.
She did not count on loving the babes that came from her womb or having a great desire to protect the second born from his father’s insane wrath.
“Twins!” Tristan shouted with displeasure. “I asked for one son, not two! What will I do with the other?”
The Bishops of the Order were consulted for never had there been a dual birth in the history of Lalssu. The Law was firm in regard to the order of siblings, the firstborn son of the royal family of Kiel was given the throne of Grand Master; younger sons were made Lords and given regiments of their own and vast holdings of property, but no real power within the Conclave. On this, the Brothers of the Conclave were adamant. Female children were handed over to whomever could afford their bride price then promptly forgotten.
It was decided amongst the Bishops that the second son must be slain. To allow him to come to maturity, to possibly make an attempt to wrest the throne from his brother, the rightful heir, would be unwise. Had that not been the cause of the Great War at Menini? Had not Grand Master Tristan’s own father rose up against his brother and tried to take the throne?
“Treachery runs in the Kiel family,” the Bishops proclaimed. “We can not allow another war.”
Upon hearing the Bishop’s verdict Invernise was beside herself with terror. She flew to her husband’s throne room and there prostrated herself before the great man. With tearful entreaty—her beauty even more pronounced in her grief—she pleaded with him to spare their child, promising Tristan she would see that the boy never vied for the throne.
“You can not make such a promise,” Tristan sneered. “And if not him, then a child of his body could make an attempt to take what is Hagan’s!”
“Send him to a monastery then but let him live!” she begged.
Despite his firm intention, the tearful pleading of his Lady-wife moved Tristan. Her beauty struck such a chord in his black heart, strummed such a delicious melody on his libido, he relented and made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times over.
“Will you be content if I let him live but make sure he will never have a child of his loins to rise up against Hagan?” he asked.
Unsure of her husband’s meaning but relieved to see he might relent she eagerly nodded. “Aye, Milord. I will do whatever you say if you will but let my Dagan live!”
And so it was that Dagan Kiel suffered for his father’s paranoid fears.
And Tristan Kiel suffered for his foolishness for in the thirteenth year of his favorite son’s life, the boy’s fall from his horse ended the Grand Master’s majestic dreams. While the ignored son grew into a strong, vibrant, lethal warrior, the favored son kept to his bed or was paraded about in his rolling chair—an invalid for the world to pity. As Dagan matured into a man the Brothers admired and trusted, Hagan was barely tolerated and even then reluctantly by men who looked to Dagan for leadership.
* * * * *
“For what good it did me, Father,” Dagan said aloud, pulling on his bonds once more.
There was no doubt in Dagan’s mind that his father—frying in the Pit to which his mother had no doubt consigned him—regretted his decision before his painful, lingering death. A month before his demise, he had called his younger son to his bedside and had spent hours on end teaching him the Magic he had learned at the Monastery of Akhkharu, thinking he was passing on ancient secrets to a son whose seven by seven by seven birthright had already instilled in him knowledge far beyond his father’s ken.
Though Tristan Kiel never uttered an apology to his son, his last words had helped to blunt the hatred Dagan bore his father.
“You are the true ruler of the Conclave, Dagan. It is your brawn and sword hand the Brothers will follow. Never forget that,” Tristan whispered then laid still, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his sunken face.
“He sees the fire,” Invernise stated with a secret smile. “Soon he will feel its embrace.”
With that said, Dagan’s mother turned and walked from the room. Within the hour, she would be on her way to the Priory and the life she had left behind twenty years earlier. Never once did she doubt her eldest son would allow her to leave Lalssu Keep.
Hagan had been the only one to weep over his father’s cooling body. The new Grand Master would keep a silent vigil while those around him planned the grand state funeral that would lay the seventh Grand Master to rest. Now and again, he would look to his twin, needing the support Dagan always had at the ready.
“You are my rig
ht hand,” Hagan broke his silence to say. “I am going to need your help, little brother.”
“I will do whatever you tell me to, Milord,” Dagan agreed.
Thinking back now on that conversation, Dagan sighed heavily. His word had always been his bond and he had prided himself in never going back on a promise. He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the anxiety pumping through his heart.
The scrape of metal against the stone floor made Dagan open his eyes. He heard heavy footsteps coming down the steep steps that led to his cell and breathed a sign of relief. It couldn’t be Brother Qutaybah coming to gloat. No doubt it was the Master Executioner Verial coming for his answer.
As harsh lantern light blinded him, Dagan looked away from the brightness, squinting.
“Have you reached a decision, Lord Dagan?” the Master Executioner barked in his gruff, bass voice.
Dagan looked around, still squinting and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man who had put the fear of the Prophet in many a prisoner’s soul. Verial was holding the lantern up beside his large, round face and the shadows cast that scarred visage into a nightmarish apparition.
“What did His Grace tell you?” Dagan asked.
Verial shrugged. “If you do not agree to His Grace’s orders, I am to take you to the post,” he said flatly. “I would regret having to do so but I will lash you until you agree to do as you were bid.”
Dagan shuddered—more from the thought of being whipped with Verial’s cat-’o-nine than from the slime that oozed into his armpit.
“And if I should die while you’re whipping me, Verial?” he had to ask.
The Master Executioner sighed deeply. “I would regret that even more but orders are orders and I follow mine, Lord Dagan.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “So, what’s it to be?”
Dagan knew his decision had been made long before the guards had brought him to this vile place. He knew Hagan understood that, as well. It had simply been a lesson in who was the true Grand Master and who the servant.
“Tell him I agree,” he said, then quickly added, “but under protest.”
Verial nodded. “I don’t know what you’re agreeing to, Lord Dagan, but it’s good that you did. I would not like to strip the flesh from your back.” He lowered the lantern and turned to go.
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