Bonded (Chronicles of Cilicia #1)

Chapter 1 Neirin

NEIRIN

Eyes of peridot gleamed, their facets reflecting the early dawn light. The pale green stones contrasted with the milky white statue in which they were embedded. But beyond their beauty, the gems held meaning.

The peridot symbolized rest and was often set in the monuments of wealthier lords and ladies when they passed. People believed the stone would ease a soul and help it find quietude in its endless sleep. The gem was a token of harmony between mind, body, and soul.

I let out a breath, considering. Each time I came to Mother’s grave, the stones drew me in, yet their very existence contradicted all I was taught to believe, all I’d seen with my own eyes.

As a man of the castle guard, I’d witnessed countless deaths, taken lives with my own blade.

Though time had hazed the men’s features, I could never forget the void in their eyes as their last breaths left them.

No, there was no continual sleep. No afterlife to be perturbed by one’s conscience or regrets.

Death was finite, and the weight people put in beliefs of stones and legends was all folly.

Kneeling before the marble statue, I settled into the stillness of the quiet wood and fought to clear my mind.

I filled my lungs with the brisk morning air, and when I exhaled, a cloud of mist formed, drawing my attention to the cold.

Even in the depth of winter, I rarely noticed the temperature.

Another mystery I’d long since stopped searching for answers to.

I breathed into my hands, paying attention this time to the contrast of warmth and the dampness on my nose. I returned my focus to the monument, and as I did, chided myself for visiting each year on the anniversary of Mother’s death, even as I denied belief in an afterlife. Why did I come?

The statue stood amid a patch of pale, cream-colored flowers that bloomed year-round. When the wind caught, the younger, unopened buds danced, reminiscent of little bells. The monument itself was made of marble, a rare stone imported from the western lands. Expensive.

The figure carved into the shape of a fox sat with its back sloped between its shoulder blades and its chest puffed out.

The tail swept across its back haunches, and its two front legs ended in intricately sculpted paws.

The animal’s head was raised slightly as if looking up to the sky, and both of its tipped ears were perked.

My chest ached with dull longing as memories washed over me.

At five, I’d wept before the monument. At seven, I’d begged for answers.

At three and twenty, I was wise enough to know asking anything of stone was futile.

Yet still, I came. Still, I gazed into the riveted eyes as if they could give me some kind of guidance.

I gritted my teeth, irritation prickling.

Heavy steps and the noisy disturbance of a branch drew my attention.

My hand went to my waist instinctually, grasping for the familiar, worn leather hilt of my guard’s sword.

When my fingers found only air, they curled into an empty fist, and I hardened my jaw.

I’d left the damn thing in my quarters. But this was the King’s woods, heavily fortressed and guarded.

Only one man aside from myself entered this quiet sanctuary, and he was no threat to me.

Brambles snapped, accompanied this time by a slur of curses.

It was barely past daybreak, and already he was drunk.

Not surprising, though, for what this day meant to him.

What it meant to us both. I kept my attention on the statue as the King knelt beside me with all the grace of a new foal learning to walk.

His head tipped, and from waves of umber hair his crown fell to the dirt.

“Damn thing.” He reached again, fingers grazing the air, but he fell short.

I let out a snort of annoyance, uncaring if it was disrespectful.

Though the man was often seen with a goblet of wine in one hand, he was rarely out of control.

It was pitiful and disgraceful. In truth, I had no right to judge.

By night’s end I would likely drink twice his intake, yet I would not waver as he did.

Like the cold, alcohol affected me differently than it did others.

On his second attempt, the King’s searching fingers found their mark, and he adjusted the crown back on his head.

We knelt in considerate silence for some time.

Around us a breeze blew in, sending stray strands of silver hair in front of my eyes and rustling the quivering leaves of the aspens, their song akin to a passing shower of rain.

“Your mother loved that sound,” the King said in a breath.

My heart twisted even as bitterness rose in my throat. He so rarely spoke about Mother.

“When she …” His words faltered. “When she passed, I buried her here amid the aspens so she could listen to them in her endless sleep. Shortly after, the blooms sprouted.” He nodded to the delicate cream flowers, the feather-like tendrils at their bases fluttering on the breeze as they swayed. “As if in remembrance of her.”

The King adjusted his crown resting haphazardly atop his mop of unkempt hair. Breaking my gaze from the statue to address him, I furrowed my brows, taking in the extent of his disorderliness. He was something to be seen, truly.

He wore dark breeches with laces left untied about his calves.

His boots appeared to be on the wrong feet, likely accounting for his difficulties walking.

About his right bicep he wore a decorative leather armlet with metal embellishments, something fit for formal wear.

Yet his wrinkled long-sleeved top was nothing more than a nightshirt.

Whether it was the alcohol that kept his blood warm or simply his numbness to life I couldn’t be certain, but he did not shiver despite his lack of cloak or robe.

“You’re a mess,” I told him bluntly.

The King narrowed his eyes. With a blank expression, I met his gaze, unwavering.

His title meant nothing here in the woods, and his face provided me with a looking glass to see twenty years into my future.

We shared the same strong jawline, straight nose, and angled features, though the shadowing of his short beard marred some of our resemblance.

Of course, the pale silver sheen of my hair set us apart as well, as did its style.

My hair curled as his did, but I’d left mine long and braided back in sections, decimating the natural curl with the weight of length and braid.

Though he was a decent ruler and I honored his knowledge of our lands, the view I held of him was tainted.

He made fair and thoughtful choices for the people of Cilicia, but he was detached from relationships and an inadequate father to the prince.

He meant nothing more to me than what we shared once a year before Mother’s grave.

His brows smoothed, and his expression softened as his eyes lowered. “What happened?”

Noting his gaze, I pulled at my tunic’s dipped collar and traced my thumb over the angry, raised tissue that started at my collarbone. A slight flare of pain tingled at my touch, oddly grounding.

“Our carriage was ambushed,” I replied flatly, not wanting to go into details about the attack after spending the night prior under the scrutiny and questioning of Rion, the commander of the castle guard, when we’d arrived later than expected.

The King’s eyes widened. He hadn’t heard, then. Likely, the commander was simply keeping quiet about things he thought the King didn’t need to burden his mind with. “Lord Emeric? His daughter, Clara?”

“They are fine,” I reassured him, knowing his concerns lay both in the notable silk import Lord Emeric’s estate provided and the arrangements for Lady Clara’s betrothal to my half-brother.

I doubted the King held any care for Lord Emeric himself—a drawn and bitter man. “A few bandits. I handled it.”

The King exhaled a breath of relief. “How many were there?”

Though shame tugged, I fought the instinct to look away.

The east road from Urandun—so rarely traveled by anyone who might catch the eye of thieves—was considered a safe route.

Yet the more often staged pass through the Edthiel Mountains would be too thick with wagons traveling to the upcoming festival to ambush successfully.

With wealthy merchants heading to the capital from all regions of Cilicia, I should have suspected trouble would branch out.

“Five,” I said. At first I’d only seen four.

Distracted by the flood of emotions that always plagued me upon returning to the castle after a short time away, I’d let my guard down.

It was my stallion—a sturdy, well-trained mount—who had detected the threat first and alerted me with nervous snorts—even outnumbered, the first three thieves fell easily, life ebbing from their eyes each the same hollow way.

But as I turned my focus on the fourth at my side, I’d left my chest defenseless.

A fifth man had leapt out from the brush, taking advantage of my weak spot.

The fact that a thief had got the better of me—I swallowed hard, forcing down the scorn, the shame of it.

The King’s eyes hazed as he turned back to the statue, and for a moment, quiet enveloped us again.

Yet there was a firmness in the set of his jaw that told me he wanted to say something more.

Fingers tapped on his thigh, lacking any semblance of rhythm or purpose.

He was holding something back, but he was drunk, and that made him loose-lipped.

“Speak your mind,” I pressed.

A muscle twitched at his jaw and his fingers stilled.

“That wound,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Are you like her—like your mother?”

And there it was. In three and twenty years, he’d not once asked if I was a shifter like my mother. Not once. Berating myself for pushing the subject, I turned my gaze back to the marble fox before us.

It shimmered as light hit its chest. Had Mother’s fox been white like the statue?

Or, like my own fox’s form, had she been mottled shades of silver, gray, and black?

The King’s line of questioning suggested he knew of her healing abilities.

His consideration was reasonable, for though the slash struck too high across my chest to gut me, the blood loss alone would have killed a mere human.

Had Mother’s fox been a monster like my own?

I pondered the question, comfortable amid the unsaid words that drew the King back to his uneasy tapping.

Surely a King would not have fallen for her had she been any semblance of the nightmare I saw each time I caught my own reflection.

No—whatever she was, I was nothing like my mother.

Perhaps it was rude of me not to give an answer, but it was better he didn’t know. And it was none of his damn business anyway. It was too late for him to care, and he didn’t. He was only curious and drunk.

The King stilled in one anxious habit and turned to another, spinning a black band on his index finger. After a moment he removed it, sighed heavily, and held it up to a sidelong ray of light. "Your mother gave me this," he said, holding it out. I hesitated, then shook my head.

“You should have it.” He leaned forward, insistent, and nearly lost his balance.

As he reached out to steady himself, the sleeve of his shirt pulled up revealing a band of intricate black design that wrapped his wrist. A tattoo.

An unexpected risk—it was well known the chance of disease or infection was high from such a practice.

It appeared fully healed—not new, then, though the starkness of it was bold against his skin.

With a sigh, I took the ring from him and he drew back, steadying the crooked crown atop his head.

The ring didn’t have the cool touch characteristic of metals.

It could have been bone, but I’d never seen black bone.

Its surface was matte and intricately sculpted.

Knots and hatches made up the design, with the figure of a running fox interwoven.

I clenched my jaw and held it back out to him. “I don’t want it.”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” the King scolded.

He never lectured me, never parented me.

His words brought an unexpected heat to my cheeks.

Then he hiccuped, reminding me he had no ground to look down on me from.

Still, he wasn’t wrong. If the ring was Mother’s, it was impudent to renounce it before her grave.

“Astraea is in one of her moods.” His words were no surprise, yet my breath hitched at the mention of the Queen’s name.

“Because of the festival?” I asked. It wouldn’t change anything to know, but the chill in my blood drove my responses.

The King grunted his reply.

Consider it the cruelness of fate, perhaps, that the day of my birth and Mother’s death coincided with Ayrenven.

Even after all these years, the King spared no expense in preparations for the festival.

It was not a jump to believe the Queen saw this as a way for him to honor his late mistress and what she was.

Come the time of the festival she would veil her emotions and compose herself as she always did, hiding behind the guise of the great philanthropist that she was.

“She will be the air of royalty,” I said, my tone dull, edging on sarcastic.

I got to my feet, my legs stiff from the chill of the damp ground. I wasn’t scheduled for duty until midday, and I wanted to visit Nyana in the kitchens to see if she needed any help preparing for the festival. Though I’d only been gone from the capital a few days, I missed her.

“Neirin, there is one more thing.”

Gritting my teeth, I kept my eyes on the marble statue. “What is it?”

“Lord Raeran has requested a guard to train his sons. I’m sending you to Valio after the festival.”

I curled my fingers into fists. The only purpose I had was here in the capital. “A decision you came to this morning?” I challenged. Rion hadn’t mentioned it when I arrived the night prior.

As if picking up my implication, the King let out an exaggerated breath. He rose rather ungracefully. Standing before me, we came to the same height, though his crooked crown gave him another few inches on me.

“Remember your place,” the King cautioned, jaw set. His eyes, however, remained hazed by the alcohol.

I straightened, rolling my shoulders back. A curling twinge of panic took root, but I forced it down and remained poised. There was no point in arguing; it would do no good.

“You should sober up, Kaius.” I addressed the King by his first name, bitter emotion seeping into my tone.

The King flinched. It was disrespectful, even if I was half his blood, but I didn’t give a damn. I’d long since given up caring what my father thought of me.