Forsworn: Legends of the Forsaken Empire, #3

Copyright 2018 by R. J. Larson

Researched and written by R. J. Larson

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Cover design by: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

Background and images: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow.

Gramcoink feather and ink: Katharin Fiscaletti

Map: Kacy Barnett-Gramckow

Gram-Co-Ink

Books by R. J. Larson:

Books of the Infinite

Prophet

Judge

King

Realms of the Infinite

Exiles

Queen

DownFallen

Valor

Legends of the Forsaken Empire

Realm of Thorns (A novella)

Forfeited

Forsworn

Coming Soon: Foretold

From the scribes of our Limitless Creator, to the faithful House of the Mountain’s Vales. Let us revere His Name and Words forever.

An inscription. The Rone’en

Vocabulary

IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER:

Adeliia  Ah-deh-LEE-ah

Adelina  Ah-deh-LEE-nah

Aikkr  AY-ker

Aubert  AWE-bert

Aupaziia  AWE-pah-zee-ah

Avenctaii  Ah-VENK-tay-ee

Belvasia  Bell-VASS-ee-a

Caiden  KI-den

Ceyfraland  SEH-fra-land

Cinnia  SIH-nee-ah

Davin  DAV-in

Evadne  Ee-VAD-nee

Gauatchen  Gow-AHT-chen

Ilwydaii  Ill-WHY-dee

Julaiin  JULE-ay-een

Khelqua  Kell-KWAH

Liia’dain LEE-ah-dane

Lucina  Lu-SEE-nah

Lucaii  LUKE-ee

Na’khesh  Nah-KESH

Nyle  NILE

Osian  OSH-en

Fenyarpas  FEN-yar-pass

Rhaidr  RAID-er

Rone’en  RONE-en

Savtroi  SAV-troy

Sely  SELL-ee

Seoftor  See-OFF-tor

Sorcha  SOR-ka

Syphre  SIGH-free

Syvlande  SEEV-land

Tarian  Tah-RI-an

Teyrnon  TEER-non

Thomen  TOE-men

Tor Karmir  Tore CAR-meer

Trisguard  TRICE-guard or TRISS-guard

Valdehaii  VAL-deh-hee

Valo-Treor  VAY-lo TRAY-or. Also, TREH-or

Vrydn  VRYE-den

Walhaizaii  Wall-HI-zee

Zenevieva  Zeh- neh-VEEV-ah

Chapter 1

Northern Syphre Forest, Trisguard

Greeningmonth, 1196

Hidden within the woods , hushed by fear, Julaiin Valo-Treor Avenctaii knelt in last year’s damp, moldering leaves and peered through the late spring’s shadowed, sheltering undergrowth. Rag-tag men carrying a haphazard array of swords, shields, axes, makeshift blades, and bows and arrows, stalked past on the nearby muddied trail, grimly silent. The third group of fighters she’d seen this week.

Had all the local herders, farmers, and tradesmen abandoned their work to rally for war?

She and Rhaidr must face the truth. These wild northern lands that had protected their family for more than twenty years were no longer safe. Trisguard, slumberous and backward, had awakened, clamoring for war against Ceyfraland—Julaiin’s true home. Eyes open, she prayed silently, watching the procession from her fragile shelter of leaves and shadows.

A slight whisper of sound alerted her to Rhaidr’s protective nearness. Stealthy as ever, he crouched beside her, his silvery gaze turning bleak as they watched the last rough-and-ready fighters disappear into the woods. Beneath his breath, he murmured, We’ll be forced to fight Ceyfraland if we stay. The magistrates will order me, and Aubert and Sir Stephen, to join ranks or provide for Trisguard’s armies. I’ll not leave you and Adeliia alone here while we fight against our homeland.

I’ve been thinking the same, she admitted. We must protect the children—take Aubert and Adeliia home. They’ll be safe with my lord-father.

Particularly if she were betrayed and executed.

Would she face the death sentence she’d escaped all those years before? If so, then Rhaidr and the children must escape. Julaiin laced her fingers through her husband’s and he helped her to stand. If I’m caught, perhaps Lord Savtroi or the Walhaizaii will offer you refuge.

Her husband slid an arm around her waist and drew her closer, their cloaks sweeping around them as they turned away from the muddied woodland path. I’ll welcome no refuge if you’re not with me, love. And why do you talk as if you’ll die? We’ll take the children to the Vales, then hide ourselves. Perhaps at Noring.

Perhaps. She pressed her hands to her throat as her heartbeat skipped in uncertain rhythm. At least we’ll see Isolde, and the earl and the countess. I’ll be so glad! And we’ll visit your brother and my cousins—if they’re willing to see us.

Rhaidr’s expression brightened, but he muttered, We’ll have to reach them first. That might be a war in itself.

We should travel by night.

If we must, but it’ll slow our journey.

They’d follow the river south through Syphre Forest, then cross Trisguard’s plains to the Na’khesh Mountains, and the Vales. Rhaidr tugged her toward a leaf-obscured path. I think our walk’s ended. Let’s warn Sir Stephen and the children to gather their gear.

Passing through the trees and deep tangles of briars and shrubs, they made their way to a field, then the hillside crowned with the small, rugged stone fortress that served as their residence for the past nineteen years. As they approached, their only son, Aubert, whistled down to them from the ancient guard-tower. Obviously enjoying mid-morning practice, he lifted his sword at them in a salute, then rushed toward the stairs, his dark hair ruffled in the springtime breeze as he ran. Julaiin smiled at his wild mane, bracing herself for battle. She’d have to cut that magnificent hair before they reached the Vales.

By the time Aubert unbarred the iron-and-oak doors, fifteen-year-old Adeliia had joined him, slender, silver-eyed, her dark hair curving over her shoulders and past her waist like a richly fringed cloak. She cut in front of Aubert to urge Julaiin and Rhaidr inside. We’ve been waiting—you took forever!

Morning meal’s ready, Aubert announced, setting aside his weapons, his voice low and gruff—a nineteen-year-old image of Julaiin’s lord-father, Earl of the Vales. Sir Stephen scorched the eggs.

The eggs are perfectly edible, an older, cooler voice enunciated from the darkness beyond the door. It’s just that they’re not cooked to your liking. Not all of us enjoy slimy-raw eggs with our burnt bread. Approaching, Sir Stephen grinned, his lean, dark-bearded face a rustic contrast to his shaven head and the coarse brown robes, marking him as a Religious. A rebel-Religious, though no one had guessed it since their escape twenty years past.

Adeliia huffed at his subtle taunt. I didn’t burn the griddle bread!

A tinge of smoke told Julaiin otherwise. Rhaidr kissed their perturbed daughter. Whatever its state, we’ll eat it. Then we’ll gather our gear and pack the horses. We’re leaving as soon as possible.

Aubert’s expressive black brows lifted, but he stepped back, allowing Rhaidr and Julaiin to reach the hearth and warm themselves. Are we going home?

"This is home, Adeliia argued. We’re going to Mother’s home. She sought Julaiin’s glance. Or are we?"

Yes. A small thrum of fear vibrated through Julaiin as she said the word. Eternal, were they wrong to leave this sanctuary, isolated as it was? Your father and I fear that war’s inevitable, and we shouldn’t raise weapons against Ceyfraland.

Rhaidr rested one hand on Aubert’s shoulder. Not if you’re to have a chance at inheriting the Vales.

The earl’s last letter hinted at the possibility, since Julaiin—being condemned—was disinherited. Although many would consider Isolde to be the earl’s only legal heir. Aubert, they might argue, shouldn’t have been born.

Aubert shrugged. I’d live content without it.

Doubts threaded into Julaiin’s soul. Might they be better off to simply retire quietly to some obscure, isolated stronghold in Ceyfraland? There, they could continue to make copies of the forbidden Rone’en, while the children could decide their own paths.  

Yet, the Rone’en’s path invited enmity from the Soul Hunter and his ilk wherever they went. Not to mention the Blessed Fathers of Seoftor, who guarded their mortal Chaplet faith realm with lethal acquisitive ferocity. Had she and Rhaidr been wrong to tell the children of the Vales? To promise visits? Though the Soul Hunter never attacked them directly nowadays, he’d certainly inspire others to intrigues against them all—he and his whispering, mocking shadow-like deceivers.

You’ve never seen the Vales, Sir Stephen argued. Consider it. As heir, with discretion, you could ultimately do much to serve and persuade others of your faith.

Aubert grinned, his sparkling golden gaze charming Julaiin’s heart. Good sir, why don’t you go ahead of us? You’d serve the Rone’en far better if you were freed of us.

Meaning that I’ve been imprisoned here? No. The priest shook his head. I’ve enjoyed our isolation—time to think, to write, to pray, and to make plans. I’ll regret leaving. But until then, shall we pray and eat while I read from the Rone’en?

As they ate, they listened to Stephen’s voice rising and falling over the sacred verses, his gaze and tone so rapt and filled with wonder that his devout soul shone through. Julaiin swallowed a dry, blackened bit of griddle bread. Perhaps she could persuade Sir Stephen to attend Aubert if they did return to the Vales. He could advise Aubert as heir. And yet ...

What would her firstborn, Isolde, think of the situation? Did she consider herself to be the Vales’ heiress? Or had the earl spoken to her of accepting Aubert as his heir?

Julaiin exhaled quietly, her palms sweating. She’d not seen her father and her daughter since their stealthy visit fourteen years past—shortly before the earl was forced to surrender Isolde to the Religious at Sutland Abbey.

What did her beautiful, lively Isolde think of her reprobate mother?

Had too many years passed?

Beloved Eternal, let Isolde not shun her, nor hate her.

Chaplet House, Sutland Abbey, Ceyfraland

Greeningmonth, 1196

DRAPED IN WHITE, ISOLDE Avenctaii stepped from her bare stone cell into the stark, echoing limestone corridor—toward freedom. Toward her future, Eternal and Syphre willing, as Teyrnon Savtroi’s wife. She’d speak to Grandpapa and Grandame the instant she arrived in the Vales, though Teyrnon had likely overstepped in eagerness, as usual, and asked permission beforehand.

Well, he and Isolde wouldn’t be refused.

Her grandparents already favored Teyrnon above any other suitors. As would her parents, distant though they were. Their families were allied, Grandpapa said, and Isolde’s marriage to Teyrnon would seal generations of friendships.

Another white-clad young woman stepped into the corridor from a nearby cell, met Isolde’s gaze, and then pantomimed a silent whoop of joy—her dark eyes shimmering and her glossy wild curls bouncing as she danced. Zenevieva Wolfsword, the epitome of mortal perfection according to their superiors, would shock the abbess with her exuberance.

Silently warning Viev to compose herself, Isolde ran one hand over her own face, schooling her expression to blankness. A nearby door’s lock rasped loudly as it turned, its somber echo adding urgency to Isolde’s warning for Viev.

Her pretty face turning mask-like with feigned tranquility, Viev fell into modestly timed step with Isolde and whispered, You’re escaping. Hurry! I’m next.

A Chaplet pledge, fully veiled and serene as an icy lake, emerged from the cell ahead. Noiseless, she glided toward them, bowed her head slightly, then continued onward without a word. Obviously sworn to silence.

Unlike Viev.

As soon as the pledge vanished into another cell, Viev hissed, Will you see Teyrnon soon? I must attend the wedding! Perhaps I’ll meet my love there!

You’re a mere seventeen, Isolde teased beneath her breath, The abbess would declare you too young.

Viev shook out her long, pale sleeves as she hid a smile. No. She won’t hold me here as long as she’s held you—my family hasn’t much silver, nor your famous grandfather.

You mean infamous. Viev’s family didn’t have a scandalous, irreligious past that must be severed from her very thoughts and soul. Unlike Isolde’s family. Not that Chaplet House had succeeded with her.

Isolde’s muted, soft-paced behavior concealed equally muted rebellion, mingling with her mostly devout soul. To the saints before the Eternal, she appealed in in a barely-mouthed whisper, Let me be acceptable.

Righteous before the saints, the Eternal, and for this instant, the abbess, who held actual keys to her freedom. Wasn’t it time? She was twenty years and two months. Except for six Religious holidays each year, she’d been imprisoned and tutored here since age five. Wasn’t it time for Seoftor to forget her reviled mother’s wicked paniym rebellion against the Religious and all Chaplet beliefs?

Could the abbess keep her here for another five or ten years?

At the end of the corridor, Viev gripped Isolde’s arm and whispered, Swear you’ll send for me—as if I’m vital to your existence. Or at least vital enough to ensure my release.

I give you my word. And ... you are vital. Isolde hugged her friend, blinking back an unexpected mist of tears. Viev made this cold, quiet place more bearable. I owe you the debt of my sanity!

Indeed, all other inhabitants of this house feared to befriend her.

For the past ten years, Viev’s stealthy prattle and joyous ways were medicinals to Isolde’s abraded, Religious-shamed soul. Isolde kissed her friend’s cheek, then fled.

By the time she reached the abbess’s gilded, mural-decorated cell, Isolde had mastered her tears. Even so, the abbess, tall, slender, and pallid as the statues she adored, greeted her with a sharp look. Undoubtedly recalling—as most of the Religious did—the fact that Isolde’s golden-amber eyes reflected her paniym mother’s, and deserved close watching and immediate rebuke for wrongdoing. Have you been crying, Lady Isolde? Should I delay your journey?

Delay? The word tightened Isolde’s throat like an invisible vise. She forced herself to swallow. Then curtsied, showing perfect humility. Beloved Mother, no. I shouldn’t delay. My grandparents would be so disappointed—I dare not upset them.

Good. She motioned Isolde to a stark bench near her regal, parchment-heaped writing table. Please, be seated.

Mindful of her steps, and of the need to behave meekly, Isolde sank onto the bench, her back straight, her gaze resting on the clean, sunlit black and gray chaplet-patterned floor tiles.

The abbess cleared her throat. She sounded almost uneasy. Isolde risked a glance at her superior, then hid her own surprise. Sutland Abbey’s revered Beloved Mother was indeed uneasy. Yet her hands and well-bred voice remained steady as she lifted a folded parchment from her huge, beautifully waxed writing table. She offered the parchment to Isolde.

You know how carefully our Blessed Fathers in Seoftor have followed your progress.

Seoftor. That faraway walled-off wonder of a city in distant Belvesia, south of Ceyfraland’s borders. Ruled by a cadre of much-feared Religious princes and prelates. Yes, Beloved Mother.

Again, the abbess cleared her throat. To assure your soul’s safety, your continued devotion, and pure conscience, Seoftor’s revered fathers have chosen a wise, devout, highly respected lord of much your own rank, to continue to guide you and care for you throughout your life.

Seoftor had chosen? Whom? And as her warden? Isolde opened the parchment, stared at its undoubtedly authentic gilded-lead seal, and the elegant, miniscule cursive writing within. As she deciphered the impossibly exquisite script, the abbess said, It is the will and loving wish of your revered fathers that you marry a devout, mature, and faithful man—Lord FitzHaiid, widower of the late Lady Agretha of Thaneswall.

FitzHaiid? Her grandparents’ infrequent guest, that wealthy, dignified-elder lord, who rarely spoke to anyone at Grandpapa’s feasts? Isolde held her breath. As she steeled her thoughts, she almost heard Grandpapa’s voice growl.

How much had FitzHaiid paid to Seoftor for their permission?

How much must Grandpapa pay to have this contract revoked in favor of Teyrnon Savtroi—if it could be revoked?

Willing calm into the pulses that hammered in her head and throat and sent her heartbeat in a raging gallop, Isolde quietly refolded the parchment. She mustn’t claw the abbess, or throw furniture, or dash all the parchments from that regal desk. Somehow, she must save her betrothal to Teyrnon.

She spoke to the waiting abbess in a submissive murmur. Thank you, Beloved Mother, for your care, and for Seoftor’s. I’ll give this letter to my grandfather when I reach the Vales.

And she’d pray the earl wouldn’t die of a fit. But how Grandpapa would rage.

After humbly suffering the abbess to press a parting kiss of peace on her forehead, Isolde curtsied, covered her dark hair with a pale hood, then departed Sutland Abbey’s Chaplet House.

Forever. Saints and Eternal, let it be so.

No young woman should suffer its confines and oppression against her will.

Because of another’s transgressions.

To her absent mother, Lady Julaiin, she whispered, Yours.

Now, it seemed, Seoftor willed Isolde to continue a lifetime of forfeits for her mother’s offenses through marriage to Lord FitzHaiid.

Isolde masked a scowl. She must resist.

ISOLDE DISMOUNTED IN the Vales’ inner yard, Seoftor’s wretched bit of parchment weighing on her thoughts like a boulder, threatening to crush her breath from her body. Would Seoftor steal her dreams?

Her grandpapa, tall and splendidly silver at age seventy-one, beamed at Isolde, then delightedly hugged Grandame Cinnia, who stood beside him, veils fluttering about her silvering-brown hair and sweetly girlish face—looking younger than almost sixty. Their obvious health reassured Isolde. She’d certainly not distress them with Seoftor’s proclamation if either of them had been ill.

As Isolde sought composure, her grandparents descended the magnificent keep’s stone steps, their arms open—both eager to smother her in hugs and kisses. Their love more than balanced Seoftor’s burdensome watch-care. She glanced around for any sign that Teyrnon and his dear father had arrived for their promised visit, but found none.

Just as well.

She met her grandparents’ hugs, kissed Grandpapa Nyle’s whiskered cheek, and Grandame Cinnia’s soft face, then murmured, I’ve such news. And not the best news, but perhaps we can plan some answer.

Her grandparents exchanged a look, as if reading each other’s thoughts. As if they’d been married for forty years instead of twenty. He’d entered the marriage as the infamous Lady Julaiin’s father, a widower. Grandame Cinnia, a widow, had accepted his marriage proposal despite being the guilty Rhaidr’s mother. Together, they’d protected their family from Religious antagonism due to Julaiin’s condemnation and Rhaidr’s complicity in her escape.

Why must Seoftor bruise them further—bruise Isolde further—with this latest demand?

Linking her arms with theirs, Isolde walked them up the steps as they’d done six times per year at the start of each of her visits. She steered them toward the writing room, a small chamber near the enclosed spiraling stone stairwell that led up to her grandparents’ chambers. When they were inside the writing room, Isolde shut the door.

At once, Grandpapa’s dark, grizzled eyebrows drew together, and Grandame winced, her soft oval face betraying worry. She studied Isolde’s eyes, then asked, It’s terrible news, isn’t it?

Well, Grandpapa growled, say the worst and we’ll manage. I’m sure someone needs at least a few hundred shieldcoins, am I right?

Perhaps. But I suspect the gold’s been paid already. By Lord FitzHaiid. Seoftor decreed that I must marry him, because he’s mature, devout, and capable of protecting my soul.

Grandame Cinnia sniffed as Isolde handed over the parchment. Grandpapa Nyle bellowed like a beast prepared to attack. FitzHaiid! That skulking, sulking miser of a man! Last time we met, he complained that his wife bequeathed five-hundred shieldcoins to Seoftor. Your father never should have befriended him! By all the saints’ eyes, I should have permitted him to starve while he fought his marriage to that wretched Thanescliff heiress!

Thaneswall, Grandame murmured.

Undoubtedly! Grandpapa shook the parchment. "Cliff or wall, she was wretched and longed to throw herself off either the cliff or the wall, because FitzHaiid didn’t want to marry her! By the nostrils of Saint Garon, I should have let him starve!"

Well. Grandame Cinnia’s gentle voice sharpened as she scanned the document again. "It seems FitzHaiid does want to marry our Isolde. What is he thinking? Nyle, my lord ... She patted Grandpapa’s arm for his attention. Whatever he paid Seoftor, we can pay more, pleading something. Perhaps a—"

A previous betrothal to Teyrnon Savtroi, Isolde suggested. Her grandparents stared at her.

Grandpapa’s eyebrows lifted and he calmed, interested. "Is there a betrothal between you and young Savtroi?"

Not actually, Isolde admitted. But we’d hoped for one.

Grandame smiled. And we would have agreed. Perhaps we can claim we’ve already agreed. We should write to Lord Savtroi and that rascal Teyrnon and ‘remind’ them that you two were betrothed at Natiuiteo Feast this past winter. I’m sure they’ll hurry along the wedding before Lord FitzHaiid catches scent of it and objects. If your marriage is official, even Seoftor should accept it.

She sat down, snatched a fold of parchment from a low shelf, then opened an inkstand as Grandpapa grumbled his approval. She’d scribbled less than three lines into the note when a knock sounded on the door. Grandpapa called out, What!

Cedrych, Isolde’s minstrel and childhood companion in apple stealing and storytelling, poked his red-curled head into the writing room. My lord. Ladies. I’m bid to tell you that we’ve a guest. Lord FitzHaiid’s in the central yard.

Chapter 2

Isolde hissed as Grandame Cinnia linked arms with her to follow Grandpapa into the great hall. I won’t say a word to him! Not a single word!

Good. Grandame nodded. Be everything Seoftor expects you to be: gentle and perfectly quiet. When I was in Seoftor years ago, the Religious ordered me to say nothing, even as they insulted me and took my son’s gold. I’ve no idea what we should expect from FitzHaiid. Has he considered us fools all these years?

Grandame, I’m sure I don’t know. Shaming tears stung Isolde’s eyes and threatened to make her sniffle. She mustn’t behave as a child.

Cloaked in fur-edged black, FitzHaiid entered the echoing marble-columned great hall before Grandpapa reached the tall richly carved wood-and-iron entry doors. Immediately, FitzHaiid swept off his cap and bowed, gleaming silver subtly threading his dark hair. Isolde muted a wince. This frightfully dignified man was older than her father by several years. His voice low but clear, FitzHaiid greeted them. Earl. Lady Cinnia ... He paused, his dark blue eyes apologetic as he nodded to Isolde. Mai’dn Isolde. I beg your forgiveness. I hurried here as swiftly as the weather and Seoftor allowed. I’ve unexpected news.

Grandpapa Nyle interrupted, his voice cold. We’ve heard. How did this happen?

How? FitzHaiid exhaled an agitated breath. It happened so quickly that my thoughts are still muddled. I’d no intention of marrying again so soon, but the Blessed Fathers commanded my presence in their court the same day I arrived. Earl, they’ve not forgotten my ties to the Vales. They undoubtedly suspect my involvement in ... the distressing occurrence twenty years past.

The earl didn’t move. What did the Blessed Fathers say?

They asked me why I was in Seoftor—as if I’d brought plague to their sacred golden city. I told them the truth, of course, that I’d journeyed to fulfill my late wife’s request, as my year of mourning her neared its end.

He shrugged, indicating helplessness. The Blessed Fathers alluded to the Mai’dn Isolde, saying they’ve been following her progress and pondering her future. They accepted my personal presentation of my late wife ’s pledge as a sign of faith, and they decided that I—as a mature and devout supporter of the Chaplet faith—would assure Mai’dn Isolde’s continued blamelessness.

Did you argue at all? Grandpapa asked, folding his long arms before his big chest.

I protested that I’d no intention of remarrying immediately. The Blessed Fathers looked as if I’d told them I planned dalliances throughout Ceyfraland.

They would, Grandame Cinnia muttered.

Even as we talked, FitzHaiid complained, "they ordered a clerk to write to our Lord-king Aikkr and inform him of the Mai’dn Isolde’s betrothal—binding us that instant. Claiming Religious prerogative for the sake of Isolde’s soul, and mine."

His indignation heightened over the slur to his good morals.

Her soft brown eyes sharpening in her sweet oval face, Grandame asked, How many more shieldcoins did they require of you for this betrothal?

FitzHaiid rubbed his forehead as if the memory hurt. Three-hundred. But what infuriates me even more about Seoftor’s interference is that they’ve brought our king into the situation. He’s so credulous about his soul’s wellbeing and others’ that he’d likely imprison me for not complying. Furthermore, Earl, FitzHaiid slid one long hand inside his heavy, dark-furred surcoat and removed a squared, gold-sealed parchment packet. Seoftor commands us to be married before this month’s ended, and ... they’ve sent another inquiry concerning Vrydn Abbey’s book.

Isolde glared at the marble floor. That mysterious old book that no one had seen in decades. The thing was probably lost forever. From what Cedrych’s parents had told her years ago, no one except the Vales’ old clerk, the long-dead Sir Davin, could translate a word of that ancient tome. Why were her grandparents being harassed over its disappearance? Meanwhile, she must marry FitzHaiid this month—within three weeks at the latest.

Willing herself to appear serene, Isolde fought outrage. Dear saints, why couldn’t she be trusted with her own heart and soul? Wasn’t she responsible enough? FitzHaiid, obviously infuriated, seemed concerned for only himself, yet with every word he said, she felt her chance to marry Teyrnon Savtroi slipping further away. If she and Teyrnon fled and married in some distant place, she’d be unable to return to the Vales. Perhaps even to Ceyfraland.

Considering all these things, Earl, FitzHaiid continued, I feared to argue and draw fresh scrutiny upon your family and friends.

While FitzHaiid and her grandparents talked, Isolde turned away, skimping on her curtsy and barely murmuring a proper take-leave as she fled for the sanctuary of Grandame’s sunlit rooms above the stairwell. This one time, she’d shrug off the rules. For the remainder of her life, or at least FitzHaiid’s life, she’d be utterly subjected to him, and to Seoftor.

Otherwise, her family, and perhaps Teyrnon and his lord-father, would suffer anew for her parents’ crimes.

Seoftor would be merciless.

But what of FitzHaiid? Was that stately, pale man friend or foe? Could she learn to love him—as he might love her?

Eternal and saints, if she must obey Seoftor, let this marriage protect her family and bring her some joy.

ROB FITZHAIID RESTED his silver-edged mazer on the pristine linen-draped high table, finished a tender slice of ale-poached chicken, then surveyed the Vales’ great hall. Despite all his wealth, he’d no residence to match those magnificent marble columns, the polished stone floor, and massive carved marble hearth. Agretha, his wife—so lamented and prayed-for in Seoftor—was ever a pennc pincher concerning worldly possessions. Her Religious austerity had annoyed him during their early married years. During their last years, however, he’d learned gratitude. And the beauty of careful accounting and planning.

Agretha never managed to bear healthy children who’d lived past their first weeks. However, she’d multiplied Rob’s fortune. He’d had enough to meet Seoftor’s extraordinary demands without hardship. Let Isolde give him an heir and he’d count the money well-spent.

Did the earl and Lady Cinnia believe his reluctance to accept Seoftor’s unexpected dictates? It meant the world to keep their good opinions—or restore them, as it seemed he must. The Vales’ hospitality had always offset his life’s miseries.

Here, Julaiin’s laughter and kindness lingered like gently echoing whispers. Rhaidr’s unfailing friendship... . Even now, Rob almost flinched to think of how much they’d lost in their disgrace.

For their sakes, his once-impeccable reputation bore traces of scandal.

Though Mai’dn Isolde’s burden far exceeded his.

Rob glanced past Countess Cinnia and Earl Nyle, at Isolde, then averted his gaze to avoid hers. The girl strongly resembled her beautiful mother, but appeared less spirited, more fragile—her complexion paler than Julaiin’s flawless rose-tinted olive skin.

No doubt, Isolde resented Seoftor’s unrelenting control over her life, and his acquiescence to the betrothal. Yet...

Isolde disrupted his thoughts, setting aside her knife and then standing, as if she’d lost her appetite. Her blue silk garments whispering, she curtsied to her grandparents, and to him. Low-voiced, she said, My lord, allow me the full three weeks to prepare for the wedding. Seoftor would undoubtedly recommend a quiet, dignified ceremony at Saint Garon’s. Grandpapa, Grandame, by your leave. The journey exhausted me—I’ll sleep early tonight.

The earl nodded as the countess murmured gentle agreement, though they both looked surprised. Rob watched the girl depart, her gown’s gold lacings accentuating her slender waist and delicate wrists. Hers was a fine, graceful figure. Obviously, she’d give him beautiful children. Healthy, he prayed. Granted, she hadn’t smiled, but she’d spoken to him, and accepted Seoftor’s decree.

He hid a smile, took a sip of wine, then bowed his head to Isolde’s unhappy grandparents.

TRAILED BY HER MINSTREL Cedrych and his mother—Grandame’s serving woman, Evadne—Isolde urged her laggard gray palfrey away from the Vales’ tempting pastures toward Saint Garon’s-by-the-Wood. The exquisite chapel’s pale crown-like spires gleaming above the surrounding trees, inviting Isolde’s admiration.

Bless Grandpapa for calling FitzHaiid to hunt at dawn, then conferring with him in the writing room afterward to forge a marriage contract. She’d needed peace this morning.

Saint Garon’s offered a quiet springtime ride away from the keep, then solitude in prayer, and she’d so many prayers tumbling within her thoughts. Seoftor, FitzHaiid, the wedding within three weeks .... How could she tell Teyrnon and his dear father, Lord Savtroi?

Teyrnon had pledged to visit her. When would he arrive? Hopefully after FitzHaiid departed. She’d never in her life dreaded seeing Teyrnon, nor his father.

With a nod to Cedrych and Evadne, Isolde dismounted, led her palfrey through the low wall’s gate, then paused, staring up at the chapel, lit by the warm afternoon sun.

Saint Garon’s was the only Religious structure she actually enjoyed seeing, and praying within. Usually. Saint Garon’s meant she was home.

But not for much longer, thanks to Seoftor. Isolde stared hard at the chapel’s stained-glass windows, the sunlight shadowing the fragile Chaplet-crown stone traceries. Evadne approached, prepared to follow Isolde inside as Cedrych guarded their horses. Her wide, slightly prominent brown eyes sympathetic, Evadne murmured, Good to see this place again, is it?

It is. And, in three weeks, I’ll have to leave it again. Voice weakening, Isolde added, For Seoftor’s next place of confinement.

Take hope, Mai’dn. Lord FitzHaiid’s sure to love you—who wouldn’t?

FitzHaiid wasn’t the man she’d dreamed of loving.

And if she said another word, she’d cry.

Inside the superb jewel-like chapel, amid gem-bright colors refracted from the six tall windows, Isolde genuflected and traced the prerequisite Chaplet Circle on her forehead, then knelt at the edge of the glowing marble Prayer Circle. Let the saints hear her prayers and plead her case before the Eternal. Was it wrong to pray for freedom when Seoftor held the cords binding her? The abbess would declare that Isolde must pay forfeits for such impious thoughts, and the Eternal would be displeased.

The Soul Hunter and his fiends would harvest her soul.

The gentle creak of a door scattered Isolde’s impious thoughts. Sir Mihael, the Vales’ appointed cleric and confessor, stepped into the chapel, his dark eyebrows lifting in his narrow, scholarly face. He studied Isolde for an instant, then retreated, leaving through the main door.

Was Sir Mihael a spy for Vrydn Abbey and the Bishop of Stauneston? Grandpapa vowed so. Likely, Seoftor appointed Sir Mihael to continue hunting for the old missing book no one had seen since before Isolde’s birth. 

She regathered her thoughts, finished prayers, then stood and crossed the chapel to gaze down at her Great-Grandmother Isolde’s white marble effigy, regally placed between her lord-father, Earl Jareth Valo-Treor, and her husband, Lord Evard Valo-Treor, who’d taken his wife’s surname. Earl Nyle often visited the tombs, though he’d said he didn’t remember his father or grandfather.

Isolde touched the elegant marble hands of her great-grandmother’s effigy, shivering slightly at their coolness. From outside, the bells chimed sonorously in the small tower house, reminding the villagers beyond the woods to pray.

Isolde smiled, genuflected again and traced the chaplet on her forehead in farewell.

Sir Mihael could report to Seoftor that she indeed remembered her prayers.

If only Viev were here. She should send for Viev, on the pretext of preparing for her wedding within three weeks. Her friend would welcome the change.

Followed by Evadne, Isolde stepped outside, then paused to gather her entangling skirts before descending from the porch. From the road, whickers of horses, and the metallic clinking of tack alerted her to visitors. Cedrych leaned through the gate, calling out, Lady, it’s Lord Savtroi and his son!

Teyrnon? Her heart raced, its rhythm accelerated by panic. She must warn them. Saints, be with me! Scooping up her layers of blue and gold skirts, Isolde ran to the gate.

Majestic on their dark warhorses, with rich crimson and green cloaks, Lord Savtroi and Teyrnon saw her within a blink. Both men