Read Chained (Chained Trilogy) Online
Authors: Elise Marion
Chained (Chained Trilogy)
Book One: Chained
Elise Marion
Chained
Elise Marion
Copyright 2014 by Elise Marion
Edited by Melissa Ringsted (There for You Editing Service)
Cover Art by Najla Qamber (
www.najlaqamberdesigns
)
Photography by Larry J. Stephens
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Houses and Histories of Alemere
Bound (Chained Trilogy Book 2)
Acknowledgements
There is nothing more invigorating than the start of something new. For me, the Chained Trilogy has been just that … my new and next big thing. As I immersed myself in the world of Alemere and the characters that lived there, I found myself more excited about this than I’ve ever been about any project of mine. It has all come together so nicely, just the way I envisioned it at the conception of the idea. Yet, it wouldn’t be possible without my support system, so now I want to take the time to thank those people.
To my faithful readers, who cheer me on in all of my endeavors and give me the freedom to express myself. You make this experience truly worthwhile, and provide me with the motivation to continue striving forward in this business.
To my best buds and partners in crime, R.K. Ryals and Carly Fall … what can I say that hasn’t already been said? Without you there to bounce ideas off of, or your shoulders to cry on, I don’t think I would make it through a single day.
I’d also like to extend a very special thank you to my cover models, Jason Lee Erickson and Nandi Ramesra. When I reached out to you about shooting for the covers of this trilogy, your enthusiastic response and willingness to work with me were incredible. From the start I knew you were the perfect choices to portray Gwen and Caden. Thank you for making a dream of mine come true. You have no idea what it means to me!
Special thanks to Larry J. Stephens for your brilliant photography. You’re the best photographer—and dad—in the world.
Kudos to Najla Qamber for your brilliant work on the cover design. You really caught hold of the vision and brought it to life. You also had a part in bringing the dream alive.
To my boo, Melissa, editor extraordinaire … thank you! You always manage to make me sound better than I suspect I actually am. Love you to pieces.
The Kingdom of Alemere: Consisting of the realms of Dinasdale, Daleraia, and the Isle of Camritte:
Prologue
Port Galaean, the Isle of Camritte, December 1274
The smells of salt and sand mingled with those of intrigue and secrecy on the night air. The evening was cool, made more so by the spray of the sea against the bearded face hidden within the folds of a simple black mantle and hood. Only the golden star pinned at his shoulder hinted at his identity—his clothing was otherwise plain. The mantle was black, dark as the night, the hood shadowing his face as the clouds eclipsed the moon. Still, King Merek Arudel II could do only so much to conceal his identity. Tall as an ash, and broad as the trunk of an oak, he was larger than most men, both in size and in superiority. Nevertheless, his business was urgent and secrecy more than compulsory.
With the wide fingers of his right hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, he waited, his eyes scanni
ng the crashing and rolling sea to his right, and the quiet waters of Gythe Bay to his left—separated by a small spit of land jutting out from the Isle of Camritte like a wandering tentacle. The docks had gone quiet for the night, with only the resonances of boots upon gangplanks disturbing the calm—sailors leaving their vessels in search of meat, ale, and the pleasure to be found between a woman’s thighs. No one of importance would witness the meeting he had arranged here tonight; he had taken great pains to ensure this.
To the we
st, the muffled cadence of hoofbeats over sand turned his head. A black, shapeless figure advanced upon him, sending clumps of sand flying up on either side of it. The form slowed as it neared him, revealing itself to be that of a man on horseback, his russet cloak swirling around his well-muscled legs when he dismounted. As he neared, Merek caught a glimpse the face within the shadowed hood, and Prince Theodric Maignart of Daleraia stood before him. His face was hard, as if chiseled from stone, even at the young age of five and twenty. He was possessed of the fair skin characteristic of Daleraians, though the sun had darkened it to a deep shade of fawn, not unlike the sand beneath their feet. The scruff of his beard was dark, a match for the ebony strands on his head—cut short in the Daleraian style. The mountain symbol of House Maignart held his mantle in place, clasped proudly on his shoulder. His dark eyes were wary and assessing as he neared King Merek.
“Your Grace,” Merek said jovially, hoping to put the boy at ease. “Thank you for your promptness. I trust you came alone, as agreed?”
“Your Grace,” Theodric responded with a slight nod. “I came alone, but not unarmed.” He parted the folds of his mantle, and a flash of steel glinted in the moonlight before disappearing again. Merek smiled, though the sight made him uneasy. It was said that the blood of the Daleraians ran as hot as liquid steel, and their hearts were hard as iron. If the young prince thought for one moment that Merek meant to betray him, blood would be shed this night.
He would so hate to have to kill th
e boy. Unlike his father, he showed promise in the area of leadership. If Merek had his way, all three men invited to this clandestine meeting would part ways unharmed.
“I would expect nothing less,” he said to Theodric’s display o
f steel. “Though, I hardly think you will have cause to use it. This is to be a peaceful meeting, as I wrote to you in my letter.”
Prince Theodric’s reply was muted by the clangor of the temple bells—twelve
peals to mark the hour of midnight. Just as the twelfth knell echoed from the looming tower of the temple, out over all of Port Galaean, the prow of a rowboat scraped the sand, bringing the third member of their party to the shores of the isle. From across Gythe Bay, King Percyvelle Toustain of Dinasdale had rowed alone under the cover of darkness. His boots splashed through the shallows as he stepped from the boat, nodding cordially to King Merek as he approached to help pull the vessel ashore.
“Your Grace,” Merek greeted the King of Dinasdale
. “Welcome to the Isle of Camritte. You are right on time.”
“I have come alone, under cover of darkness as you requested,” King Percyvelle answered in his deep, booming voice. His white teeth gleamed against the ebony hue of his dark skin, shrouded by the hood of his black mantle. The silver archer pinned to his shoulder gleamed in the moonlight, as did the ornamental glass beads fastened to the ends of his plaits. The dark locks were pinned back from his face behind his hood, falling to his shoulders in the style of the men of Dinasdale. The beads clanked together softly as he moved, trudging over the sand alongside King Merek.
“Excellent,” Merek replied. “I thank you for coming. Now that we are all here, we may begin.”
Merek stood between the two men, marveling at their differences. He supposed he represented a bridge of sorts between to the two. Ironically, House Arundel was a blend of both Dinasdale and Daleraia, as his father King Rowan I was a distant relation of the Maignarts of Daler
aia, and his mother a dark-skinned lady of Dinasdale. Merek himself was a blend of both his mother and his father, with skin like burnished bronze, hair a sandy brown, and eyes a deep, leafy green. The Isle of Camritte was a stunning tapestry of multiplicity, as marriages and mating had blended the heritages of two distinct peoples until the differences could no longer be found in the offspring.
If only the colors of their skin were all that separated these people,
Merek mused. Yet, there were far greater issues at hand than these, thus the reason Merek had gathered them here.
“Prince Theodric,” Percyvelle said, his tone indicating surprise
, “I was not expecting you.”
The prince’s jaw hardened as he stepped forward. “You were expecting my father, perhaps?”
Percyvelle shrugged. “Aye. On matters of import to his realm, one would expect the king to express interest, at the very least.”
Theodric’s hand shifted beneath his mantle, and Merek edged toward the young man, hoping to
stay his blade should the boy decide to bare his steel. “You should count yourself fortunate that I would favor you with my presence at all,
Your Grace
,” Theodric spat, “and that I am not greeting you with a steel kiss—which is no less than you deserve after the way my mother was killed.”
Percyvelle sighed, but Merek did not miss the barest hint of motion beneath his
cloak. He idly wondered if Theodric could unsheathe his blade quicker than Percyvelle could notch an arrow to his longbow. The people of Dinasdale were deadly archers—swift and accurate. The boy would be dead with an arrow in his throat before the glint of moonlight had even caressed his blade.
“Listen, boy,” Percyvelle answered in the superior tones of a man speaking to a child
; Theodric stiffened at the insult. “Your mother was not killed, the gods rest her soul.”
“What else would you call it?” Theodric countered. “Murdered by the bastard babe gnawing its way out of her womb, and all because your brother would not leave well enough alone.”
“Prince Favian acted foolishly,” Percyvelle relented, “and he paid for it with his life. All for the love of Queen Krea.”
Theodric snorted. “Love? Is that
what passes for love in Dinasdale—the kidnap and rape of a married woman, a queen?”