Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Read online

  “As am I, but tomorrow is true negotiation. Tomorrow will be the day true colors are shown. I do not dare make such a decision before then.”

  “Agreed, so what would you have me say to them?”

  “Counsel them to patience and to seek information on other possible alliances. We will need as many hands as we can to hold against this enemy.”

  Mordaen had not grown old in his armor by being rash, but rather by taking calculated risks. They still told stories of his defense of Wyrl Hold on Sartol’s southern border. On the risk of leaving a wall undefended to draw in his opponent just to snap the jaws of the defenders closed on him, cutting off his reinforcements. It had earned him his name, the charisma by which he had held his men from breaking from their hiding places a moment too soon. He had taken the old adage, ask no more than you will do yourself, quite seriously; charging heedless of his own safety into the midst of his enemies, sword flashing in the late afternoon sun as it sank below the ridges to give way to twilight in the mountains. Even he would admit the coming of night there at Wyrl had seemed to take forever, as if the gods had brought time to a stop in an attempt to place late wagers on the outcome of the battle. Mordaen had come away from the fight with many scars, his armor nearly shredded from repeated attacks. His wife said the gods had to have been smiling in favor on him because his armor seemed as if it should have had a dead body in it.

  Even if he could not win by the strength of his arms, Vad’Alvarn had time on his side. Should he choose to siege the mountain kingdom, to harry them against any attempts to contact the outside world, then they would have no way of getting the food they needed. Already Mordaen had to consider the thought. How far was he willing to push things? Would he bring Sartol to ruin rather than yield? Could he put his own people to the sword to protect them? This brought Jala and her three siblings to mind. Could he put them to the sword to save them from slavery? Would he bury his line rather than see it sullied by heathen blood? Such weighty questions, questions to which he would have no answers until he had been able to sound the depth of this false king’s obsession.

  The throne room was full but the throne was empty. Mordaen searched the room, eyes darting across faces. The last he had seen, the man was rising to come after him as he escorted Jalcina out of the hall. Had the king followed him, seeking his weakness, seeking the woman who had drawn his eyes? Then the doors opened and Vad’Alvarn, Navar at his elbow, returned to the great hall and the steps of his throne. Pausing there, Vad’Alvarn swept his eyes across the assembled as if scanning for someone. Locking eyes with Mordaen again, he tilted his head before finishing his ascent to settle himself once more on the provided throne. Mordaen knew a moment of pure fear, his thundering heart cutting off his breath at the king’s action. He knew. Mordaen felt a cold sweat breakout under his armor. In that moment, he changed his mind. Jalcina had to leave before they reached the council table in the morning. Whatever bad faith it would show to remove his child from the premises was overridden by the idea she might well be in true danger. There was nothing in him, not even his pride; that would keep him from protecting her with everything he had. Reaching out to his second, Darien, he drew the young man to him.

  “Go to Jalcina; tell her she is to prepare to leave. You will leave with her and be gone before dawn.” Then he thrust the young man back toward the doorway, his order barely delivered in his ears. It did not matter to Moredaen the man stumbled; only him taking heed of what his lord wanted. Darien stutter-stepped his way out of the room, all too aware of the responsibility and honor dropped upon him.

  Across the room, Vad’Alvarn watched what transpired and sat back on his throne, certain Mordaen was sending some communication back to his home telling them to ready for combat. A good choice to make, but for him to do so at this time was folly. Sending his messenger from the ballroom under the eyes of all, it was as if he was too bold to care what was seen. Vad’Alvarn, red eyes mere slits under dark lashes, could not help the single thrill of anticipation walking briskly up his spine and lodging at the back of his head. His hackles wanted to rise, but they did not, no use in getting too deeply caught up in the elation. After all, the fight could happen no sooner than tomorrow. Still, he could make sure to intercept the messenger of Sartol that night.

  With a gesture, he drew Navar to his side and conferred with him quietly.

  “Sartol sends a boy as a messenger, do you see?”

  “A fool’s choice at this time, my lord.” Navar used the formality to try and cover his amusement in case others should hear. “What would you have me do?”

  “Intercept him and find what message he carries. Drag him back so when I declare war against them, I have more than ample justification.” Such justification was not necessary. He was a king, with an army. He could do whatever he pleased. Yet it would make his advisors less likely to balk at restarting a military campaign soon if he had a treasonous messenger caught in the act of delivering a battle plan to an enemy. The game had not even truly begun and already his opponent was making mistakes. Once again, he glanced around, careful not to let his eyes linger on Mordaen in case the man could feel he was spoken of. No need in giving away what he would do.

  Navar had his orders, and he moved to carry them out. First he had to ensure he had the necessary horses and soldiers. Oh and something to pass the time, waiting for someone to pass by on their way somewhere was always hard on the nerves. Having something to draw the attention away from the passage of time was advisable. One scout was hardly going to be much to pass the time with once they caught the little bastard either, but he would worry about entertainment once they caught him. Perhaps he would bring another fighter or two and make it real sport. The doors to the ballroom slammed shut behind him by their own weight, drawing him out of his thoughts as he considered the amount of force necessary to remove the doors from their hinges. He and Vad’Alvarn had damaged the doors conquering this castle, yet seeing those heavy doors now, there was no way to tell they had been damaged and repaired. They were beautiful doors, perhaps once he settled into his own keep he would have doors like them made for him. Perhaps.

  10

  Jalcina had been in the middle of changing when her Father’s second let himself into her room without so much as a knock. He was almost brained with a pot of face powder for his trouble. Narrowly, he dodged the pot and realized why it was thrown, blue eyes going horribly wide in his slim face before he spun on heel to face the door he had just shut behind him.

  “My apologies, Princess.” His words came out so quickly they might have been acrobats tumbling over one another. “King Mordaen bids me help you to pack, we are to leave this minute and return to Sartol.”

  Staring at his back, she glowered angrily. First he confined her to her room then he sent a boy to help her pack so she could return home without him? What did he think he was doing?

  “He does, does he?” The challenge was in her tone and her eyes. Jalcina did not want to leave and would do quite a few things to avoid doing so. “And you are to help me pack?” Busy hands twirled her hair into a tight bun and clipped it behind her head as she spoke. “Then perhaps you should busy yourself with gathering what you will need for this journey. I can pack myself.”

  Darien made a face. This was the woman Lecern wanted to marry. The heavens would have to move to help his friend. He had thought she was undressed. Instead she stood with a linen shirt unlaced against her body, a pair of tight breeches, hiding slender hips, stuffed down into thick heeled black boots. It appeared she prepared to leave on her own.

  “Where are you off to?” He dared to ask. She was his superior, by virtue of her familial relationship, but he had orders. He refused to fail at something so simple.

  “Father said I was not to be seen, so I will not be seen.” It seemed so simple coming from those pale pink lips, delivered with a disarming smile. A common enough trap for men dealing with women. Darien did not fall for it.

  “And now he has said that you will ret
urn to Sartol, so you will have to pack quickly, Princess,” he reminded her. His orders were they depart now. He would follow those orders.

  “And I will certainly get started on my journey before sunrise, but for now, I want to see this gathering Father has denied me.”

  So much pride in her frame, her eyes, far darker than his, stared him down with little fear. Were this her Father, she would speak just as impertinently, but he at least could command her loyalty. Wearing her Father’s livery did not give anyone power over her as far as she was concerned. She was the Princess; they would give way to her wishes. “Go pack yourself, Second. I will find you when I am ready to leave.”

  Darien rubbed his eyes angrily, taking a long breath to still the nerves she yanked on like some bit of rope. “No, Princess, you will pack now.” It came out growled, and she looked at him with mock shock in those well-formed eyes. With a toss of her pretty head, she flatly refused without a word. Darien stepped across the room, grabbed Jalcina by the bun on the back of her head, and pushed her in the direction of her saddle bags. The group traveling with her Father had packed light; he did not think she needed everything she brought in order to make it back, only enough to change clothes as they rode for the border. Once they got into the adjoining kingdom, they could afford to slow their pace, but first he had to get her out of this keep and away from whatever pursuit may well be following them. “Now,” he repeated. They needed to be gone. In the time, he spent convincing her they needed to leave, they could have packed what they needed and been gone. He would spend at least one windy afternoon in the stocks for his behavior, but it did not matter. His orders were to get her back home; the behavior his sovereign had shown making Darien more certain they should not delay.

  He snatched her by her hair and she suffered the indignation silently, yet the glower in those eyes did not die. Still, she did snatch up a shirt or two and an underdress stuffing them quickly into the saddlebag right at hand. Muttering under her breath, she grabbed up a hair brush from the vanity, pushing past him with unnecessary force. How dare he push her around as if she were some scullery wife was one thing he was sure he heard come out of her mouth, but there were no comments made. After all, she was finally doing as he asked; he had nothing else to say to her. Perhaps he should have gone to pack himself, but he could do without. They would be back home in Sartol within a few days. She would simply have to live with him smelling poorly during the journey. A mild offense to her highborn nose, but if it saved her highborn neck, then it was well worth it. He was interrupted by her tapping him on the shoulder with one petite hand, just the tips of her fingers as if she were unhappy to have to touch him.

  “I’m packed. Shall we go then?”

  “Yes, we should.” Well, now things were starting to get better. They could be gone quickly and his master’s wishes would be carried out. She appeared like an itinerant page who had let their hair grow far too long in her current attire, but he did not demand she change. It was better for riding in than skirts any day. Not to mention, they needed to make all speed. Together, they headed for the stables. They would need to gather their horses in order to be gone as soon as they could.

  One could never claim Navar did not watch all contingencies when given an objective. He had set a man to watch the stables to alert him when someone wearing Sartol’s livery came down into them. Wearing no identifying badge of his own, the watcher appeared as nothing more than a stablehand who had fallen asleep at his post. In truth, he was a soldier one who would ride and keep an eye on them as they moved through town. His signal would bring the attack down on them, if he was good enough to keep them in sight as they moved away from the city without being seen himself. Patting himself on the back mentally for such a keen disguise, it was he who saddled the horses for Darien and Jalcina, eyes brushing wonderingly across the page. No such boy had been mentioned as being among Sartol’s retinue. Perhaps he was simply a paid messenger? If so, it would be a shame to kill him for taking the wrong person’s money. Ah well, Navar would decide the messenger’s fate after the ambush.

  Swinging into the saddle, Jalcina furrowed her brow, watching Darien as he started to trot away before glancing back at the man who had saddled their horses. He was not a stable hand, she would bet her old mother’s brooch on it. Yet if he was not truly a stable hand, his hands were too clean, what was he and why was he tending to the stables? Instead of taking much time to consider it, she started her horse after her companion, knowing he would start snapping at her if she took her time catching up. After all, they needed to make all haste, didn’t they? Father had ordered it. Leaning across her horse’s neck, she kicked the creature into a gallop, shooting past her erstwhile guard like a crossbow bolt on the cobbled streets. It was night, the streets were empty and she sounded like an army all alone, hair flagging out behind her. Darien could do nothing, but go galloping after her. Neither of them noticed someone shadowing them one street over, the sound of his horse lost in the clatter of theirs. Buildings floated by, then the city gate manned by two guards who yelled at them something about needing passes to leave as they galloped past, and out onto the roads leading away from the captured city of Kurnak, the current stolen palace of Vad’Alvarn and his advisors. The night was going to be a long one.

  The watcher did not leave the city, but he did advertise what gate they left through, hanging a lantern in easy sight of a long viewer for one of the men with the ambush crew to see.

  “Eastern gate, sir,” said the man searching for the light. “Just as you predicted.”

  “Of course, it’s the fastest way to the passes leading into Sartol’s territory.” Navar sat on his horse, reins loose in his grip. “We’ll get them before they get to the first pass. Too close to the city and we’ll have to deal with what passes for the guard as well.” He wheeled his horse, they needed to hurry if they were going to set up a proper ambush and hide the signs of it from their prey. It would be well worth it, getting a chance to go to war again. They had languished for too long in this worthless town, waiting for the next campaign while advisors grew fat off of what they should not even have, the king’s ear. Three men, counting Navar, rode toward the first of the passes leading into the foothills and further on into the mountains.

  Jalcina and Darien made good time, the cover of night and the emptiness of the roads working in their favor. Words, if they thought any, were not spoken. Perhaps because the Princess still nursed her stinging pride and Darien was caught up in the near religious fervor of insuring his Lord’s command was carried out. Neither of them considered an ambush, so when the first arrow buried itself in the ground in front of Jalcina’s horse, they were both caught off guard. Jalcina pulled up short, her horse standing near full height in the suddenness of the action. Darien was close behind, but pushed his horse ahead of hers, blade flashing from his scabbard.

  “Run!”

  Her chestnut mare was quick to follow his command as she curved her away from the main road and left Darien to take on three armed brigands alone. Two men descended on him, their blades glowing silver-blue in the moonlight. The third wheeled to chase the runaway.

  Riding low against the horse’s neck, Jalcina rode for her life, trying to think of another way into the foothills. If she could get past the fortifications erected by the gods to keep her family’s kingdom safe, then certainly she would be safe herself. Yet there was nothing she could see, no markers showing a trail. Her pursuit was coming up behind her fast. Peeking back over her shoulder, she let go of a word her Father would never have approved of. He was not around to approve then, so he would certainly never know. Pursuit rode up on one side and she leaned away from him, making him have to reach, then pulled up hard on her horse making the poor animal change direction. The tactic might have worked, had her pursuer not caught her reins. His horse was heavier than hers. Her horse tried to change direction, only to have its head harshly pulled back by her pursuer. There was nothing she could do.

  Not with a horse anyway. Sl
ipping out of the saddle, Jalcina rolled on the ground before pulling her legs beneath her. She limped two steps, gaining her stride to run. The other two rode up as the third stopped his horse and her own.

  “Run if you will, boy, it will be fun to chase you in the dark.” Navar sounded amused at the thought, but his steely eyes, reflecting what light there was, said something far different from what his tone implied.

  “Boy?” She sneered the word, mind racing to make the most of the situation. “Is that how you address me?” Her voice gave her away for female as did the way she carried her head.

  “What’s this? Mordaen sends a mere girl as a messenger?” Surprise was there, mixed with the derision. “He’s more desperate than Vad’Alvarn believes.”

  Jalcina did not know the name of the king. Mordaen spoke of him only as the Usurper King.

  “I am no messenger. I will have my escort and my horse back, thank you very much.” Not quite coached as a demand, but there was no doubt in her voice.

  A body was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground before her, the blue eyes of her Father’s second staring at her with an accusatory gaze. She stepped back and covered her mouth, eyes going from the corpse to those who sat on their horses in a half-circle before her.

  “There’s your escort, lady.” The three burst into laughter, and Jalcina ran. No more than a hundred yards from Darien’s body, she was scooped from the ground and thrown over the neck of a horse. There she remained until the group returned to the town, clattering past the town guard as if they had not been involved in the brutal murder of an officer of a sovereign. To them, he was no officer, but only a traitor seeking to sneak some possibly useful information to a group standing in rebellion against the true leader, King Vad’Alvarn of the Burning Island.