Page 16 of The Lionheart’s Bond (Bonds of Dusk and Dawn #1)

ISIDORE

H is throat began to hurt long before he stopped calling for the prince. Every time he yelled, he told himself this would be the one that worked; Judel was just around that corner, as upset as he was. He couldn’t blame him, not fully. After all, if he found out Judel had lied to him, he might be upset too. Angry even. But Judel wouldn’t feel as scared as he did.

He had to stop. How long had he been trying? It was time to accept reality. Judel wasn’t coming back.

Moving away from the door, he found a corner in which to hide and think. What was he going to do? Were they going to interrogate him? That other man looked like he had gone through hell in these dungeons. The bruises under his eyes, the swelling on his face, the odd angle at which his shoulder was set… He had held on all that time, not saying a word. And then, when he was finally ready to talk, she killed him anyway.

It had been so quick. One second he was begging, the next, his blood painted red lines on the floor.

A chill ran through Isidore.

That would be his fate too.

Surely, Judel wouldn’t let that happen. Did he care nothing for him? He had been angry enough on Isidore’s behalf to threaten murder only hours ago. Didn’t that mean he cared? Even if he could understand the prince’s feelings of betrayal, would they be such that he would let Isidore die? The bond they shared seemed too real to him, surely the prince would see reason sooner rather than later.

If it was at least true. But Lord Torell wasn’t his father! How could that awful man be related to him? His father had been kind and loving, and cared about him, about his education. He had read to him until he could read himself. He had made piles of books he thought he would like. And yet, Isidore couldn’t remember his name.

Or his mother’s name.

Or where their lands were.

He sighed, surprised more tears pooled in his eyes. There couldn’t be any left, now. Pulling his arms tighter around himself, he hid his face between them. It was so cold down there.

If only he could remember.

Alone in the cell, desperate for a solution, he tried. He searched his memory in earnest, random, useless thoughts coming to the surface. The melody of a song the soldiers liked to sing in the hall, once they were well and drunk. The colour of Bellarose’s eyes.

Bellarose.

She had been his only friend after all. With that thought in mind, exhausted, heartbroken, Isidore fell into an uncomfortable, unsteady sleep, sitting on the inhospitable floor of the Ilish dungeons.

Morning light woke him, opening his eyes with a start. Not sure where he was, the bare stone walls were unfamiliar, the straw on the floor, or the small window high, so very high on the wall. Straightening up pulled at his stiff back. His eyes were swollen from crying himself to sleep and he suddenly remembered the previous night.

No answers presented themselves when the same questions popped up to his lips over and over again. There was no escape from his current situation.

‘Stand for the queen,’ a stranger’s voice said from outside. He looked up, the face of the guard distorted through the bars. Confused, Isidore looked around, as if she might already be there. It was too early for this; part of him was still in the grasps of sleep.

Sluggish, feeling as if moving might break him, he stood up and waited. The door opened to reveal the queen in her usual leather trousers and blue tunic, her sword swaying at her hip as she walked, red hair billowing behind her. Her beautiful face smiled at him and for the first time in a long time, he saw her scar again. When had he stopped noticing it? In his eyes, the terrible marks had faded into her features, and all he saw now was her striking angles. Why was he tearing up again at that thought?

‘No need to cry,’ the queen said, her voice soft, ‘I’m just bringing you some food.’

The tray in her hands appeared as if it had been invisible until now. Just a cup of milk and a couple of bread rolls. He smiled despite himself. The dungeons, the danger, none of it mattered when the memories of his impromptu picnic with Judel came back to hack at his already devastated heart.

‘Your Majesty,’ he bowed, annoyed as his voice broke through the formality. His throat was dry and his voice hoarse.

‘Sit down, please,’ she said, handing him the tray.

Isidore set it on his knees, sitting on the cot he had forsaken the previous night. It wouldn’t have been much more comfortable than the floor, he thought.

‘Eat,’ the queen said, as a guard brought a chair for her. Crossing her legs, she stared.

Isidore drank. The milk was still warm from the cow, and soothed his throat, easing the raw feeling. The bread was still warm from the oven too. Fresh bread and fresh milk. He smiled.

‘You seem to smile a lot, for a prisoner.’

He looked up at her, smiling even more.

‘Even as a prisoner, I have better food here than I ever got in Lord Torell’s service.’

‘Your father didn’t treat you well? Is that why you left?’

He swallowed the bite of bread he already had in his mouth, the taste turning mouldy.

‘He’s not my father.’

‘Yet that man said you were his son. And you, yourself, admitted that’s where you came from.’

‘I told you; I was taken from my family.’

The queen tilted her head in that gesture that had become so familiar to him. A lot of their movements were similar, their mannerisms. They were both warriors, he realized. The queen might be a more merciless version of her brother, though.

‘What’s your father’s name?’ she asked.

Isidore looked down, pulled another piece of bread and pushed it into his mouth. Took another sip of milk, the cream sitting on his lip until he licked it off, before meeting her gaze. Her voice was quite, her tone nice , but her eyes were cold, as if she had an armour under the many layers of her personality. The flash of her blade slicing the man’s throat was still vivid in his mind.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘How long ago you think you were taken?’

‘Ten years,’ he said, feeling hopeless. He knew what it sounded like.

He was only repeating what he had already told them before. There was information to reveal, information he could negotiate with, but he would not play his cards just yet. At least not for now, not before he figured out what to do, or before he could speak to Judel. He needed to talk to him. If he spoke now, she might kill him before he could at least explain himself to the prince.

‘You were in your teens, then?’

He nodded.

‘Old enough to remember, surely.’

What could he possibly say to that? It was true. The fact he couldn’t give a single, relevant detail about where his family was, who they were, or what they did was upsetting enough as it was, but in these circumstances, it had gone well beyond frustrating.

All those years, at Lord Torell’s, he had relived many happy memories from his childhood home, daydreaming about it, but he realized now that not once had he thought of any feasible plan to run away, not once had he called his mother by her name, or had he thought of his father’s lands or coat of arms. It had only ever been images, scenes of their lives together. From eating together at the long table in the dining room, to getting breakfast in the kitchen, by the oven, to stay warm in winter. Learning to ride in the yard, on a tan pony with fair crins. Those things he remembered clearly. But it could also be his imagination, couldn’t it?

‘You don’t seem to be so talkative now,’ the queen said.

Blood ran cold through his veins.

‘I have been here for over a month; you’ve taken great care of me. In that time, I have been only grateful to you. I have been respectful, and I’ve helped in way possible. I have had a taste at what being free, having a connection with others feels like. And then, all of a sudden, a stranger comes and tells you that Lord Torell is my father, and you throw me in a dungeon.’

He stared at the queen, anger flooding through him like poison. He knew, somewhere, that it was not the right thing to feel. The right thing to do or say to the queen of Ilystra, but to expect him to be… what? Collaborative? He couldn’t even make sense of what was happening.

‘I know I am weak, and I don’t have any valuable skills. For some time now I have been a burden. I know all those things. But that doesn’t mean I will sit here and be grateful for being allowed to breathe when I haven’t done a single thing wrong.’

The words formed before he could even think about their meaning and it was now too late to take them back, so he swallowed the guilt.

There was one thing he regretted. He had, after all, lied. He was Kaletian, and so had his father been. It was a stupid lie, meaningless, really, but a lie, nonetheless, but that wasn’t the main source of his discomfort. He had done one thing wrong, though having kept that information to himself might play in his favour now.

‘I see,’ the queen said, standing up. ‘I will give you some time to think. Reflect on your situation and try to figure out what path you’re going to pick. This will all end very differently, depending on what you choose.’

Isidore found it hard to swallow and didn’t answer. The queen didn’t expect him to. She turned on her heels and walked out of the door, followed by the guard. The key clicked and clacked in the lock, as they left him behind.

The tension on his shoulders melted away as the sounds of her boots against the stone floor vanished down the corridor, leaving him alone with the distant echo of dripping and the occasional, eerie gust of wind rushing through the corridors.

Despite his irritability towards the queen, he was more heartbroken than angry. Only yesterday, they smiled and helped. Only yesterday, Judel had wrapped him in a tight embrace and had kissed him with such urgency. Only yesterday…

And now he was a criminal. For them, he supposed, everything had changed. They could resent him and hate him, and maybe that was a relief to them. But for him, he was the same person, and his heart was broken. Whatever outrage he felt was not enough to soothe his soul.

He sighed. None of that mattered. Nahel was right; he would have to figure out what to do. Only a couple of days ago, he had been willing to tell Judel everything, tell him about the prisoners, but he had become wrapped up in their relationship, wrapped up in being accepted and cared for and spoken to. He had simply forgotten.

He blushed with embarrassment. Those poor people would struggle further just because he had been so desperate to feel that happiness for a little longer.

He knew, didn’t he? He knew that as soon as he told them, there would be no going back. He had feared this was exactly what would happen if he came out clean.

Based on the bits he had overheard from conversations over the years, what he had seen when nobody was paying attention, —and nobody ever paid attention to him— what he knew of the places where Lord Toreell took his prisoners, could be helpful to the queen.

He would have to tell them, sooner or later, but right now ‘later’ seemed to be the most appealing, self-serving answer. After seeing that man’s throat split open right in front of him, he was too afraid.

With a faint spark of determination, he got off the floor and hung from the gate.

‘Guard!’

Nothing.

‘Guard!’

Steps echoed outside his cells.

‘What?’ said the man, now looking inside, way too close to the door.

‘Could you please give Prince Judel a message?’

The guard ran his tongue along the bottom of his dark moustache as his eyebrows rose in surprise. The man laughed, walking away from his cell. He didn’t look back.

For the second time that day, he woke up. The narrow opening at the top of his cell only revealed darkness outside. Exhausted from his many attempts to get the guard’s attention, he had lied down on the bench and inadvertently fallen asleep. There was nothing better to do other than ruminate about everything that had happened in the last two days.

He stretched, sore, trying to push away the thoughts fighting for priority in his head. He missed his bed.

The bed.

It was odd; he had only been sleeping in a proper bed for a few weeks and yet felt the loss of it so much more than the food or even the clothes. Back at Stonehollow, he slept on the floor more often than not, his so-called room too cold and humid to spend the winter nights there.

'Stand for the prince.’ The guard spoke so unexpectedly, Isidore jumped, pulling a muscle that was already sore, his heart pounding in his chest. His head ran wild with thoughts of Judel appearing through the now opening door.

It creaked loudly, but the man it revealed wasn’t the one he was so anxious to see. Instead, Prince Nel walked in.

Nel’s eyes smiled when he smiled; it made him look approachable. His hair was darker than Judel’s. Naran and he were the only ones with black hair. Where it granted Naran a delicate beauty, in Nel’s case, it added mystery to his composure.

There was something unique about Prince Nel that transcended his appearance. When he entered a room, he took more space than one would think given his size. He might be physically small, but his charisma was larger than any of his siblings’, the queen included.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ Isidore said, bowing deeply.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ Nel waved a hand in the air, as he walked in, pulling a chair in. ‘You can leave,’ he said to the guard, once he was sitting down, looking at ease.

He crossed his legs, resting his forearm on his thigh, his eyes wandering around the cell, taking in its shape and furnishings, as if he had never seen one before.

‘This is quite poor accommodation, really,’ Nel said, once the door was closed.

‘It’s a cell, Your Highness.’

Prince Nel smiled, but this one stayed on his lips. This was a smile that said he, of course, already knew that, and was just making conversation. Isidore wasn’t in the mood for that much small talk, though. If the Divine Lords had any mercy, Prince Nel would tell him what he wanted so he could leave him well and alone as soon as possible. Wallowing in self-pity was hard when others were staring and trying to be clever.

‘Can I help you in any way?’ Isidore asked.

‘I know you can. You’ve been keeping something to yourself since you arrived here. More specifically, since you realized where you were. I noticed straight away you were keeping a secret.’

‘Your Highness, I—’

‘Don’t bother to protest, you couldn’t fool me then and you can’t fool me now,’ Prince Nel waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss any outrage Isidore might express. The boy gritted his teeth in annoyance. ‘However, I do believe you when you say Lord Torell is not your father. At the very least, you don’t believe he’s your father, which really begs for a lot of questions we don’t have time for. No. Your secret is of a different kind.’

‘And you’re here to get my so-called secret from me.’

Prince Nel shrugged briefly, tilting his head.

Isidore didn’t respond to the gesture. As if Nel would understand.

‘I think it might be beneficial now, for you and us alike, to explain the situation we find ourselves in.

‘I’m sure you have heard some rumour or, rather, overheard some conversations, words being exchanged.’

Isidore nodded.

‘Some of your people have disappeared. Some important people?’ Isidore offered.

‘That is correct. Specifically, Lord Joceus. The Count of Aster is well known for his negotiating abilities, which we were in dire need of, in order to bring some of our most northern lords back in line. You might not be aware, but Kalye has been pushing into Ilystra for a few years now. Two of our northern lords have currently turned their backs on the queen and have pledged allegiance to Kalye. Lord Joceus was on a mission: to bring them back under Ilish rule, in accordance with centuries of loyalty pledged to the Ilish crown, as their forefathers had done before them. Lord Joceus, however, never arrived at his destination, nor did any of the emissaries travelling with him.’

None of what Prince Nel was saying made any sense to Isidore. Kalye invading Ilystra? Ilystra had taken those lands by force in the first place. Kalye had only taken back what was theirs. Then again, if the stories about their villainy were not true, that part of Kaletian history could also be a fabrication. Although Queen Nahel’s recent actions had reignited doubts in him. Maybe Kaletian tales of Ilish cruelty were not so farfetched.

‘How can I trust what you say?’

Overwhelmed, Isidore couldn’t take Nel’s words at face value.

‘That’s a good question,’ the prince replied calmly.

His words took Isidore by surprise. He had expected a certain level of outrage, common in the nobility and royalty when being doubted.

‘When evaluating if someone is telling the truth or not, it is good to imagine this: what would the person speaking gain from telling this one specific lie?’

‘That makes sense, but that also assumes that the listener is capable of envisioning all the potential reasons or outcomes from that specific lie.’

Prince Nel smiled, his eyebrows high.

‘That is a clever observation. We can only work with whatever intellect we are blessed with, indeed. By that I mean, of course, we can only do our best and hope everything works out the way we want it to.’

‘You could be lying to make me turn against Lord Torell.’

The prince lowered his eyes, staring at his hands, before he looked up again.

‘If only one thing is clear to me, based on what you have told us and, more importantly, based on your reactions, is that you hold no love for this Lord Torell. Your father or not, you definitely don’t feel any loyalty towards him.’

Isidore tensed with surprise, then relaxed with resignation. It was true, after all. No matter what Lord Torell was or wasn’t in relation to him, he would rather die as a snack for his bears than do anything to help him in any way right now.

‘Do you know what they say about Ilystra in Kalye?’

‘Nothing flattering, if I read your decisions and reactions correctly.’

‘They say you are monsters. That you mercilessly kill anybody who as much as gets close to the border. That you pillage and steal and rape your way through Kaletian lands. That you burn practitioners alive.’

‘Practitioners? You mean witches.’

Isidore nodded.

‘How does this affect Kalye?’

Isidore frowned.

‘Most Kaletians are practitioners,’ Isidore said. Kaletians capable of using power displayed their skills proudly. ‘Or they used to be.’

‘Channelers? Is that another word you use?’.

Isidore nodded.

‘And are you one such channeler, Isidore?’

‘I have as much power as that snail climbing the window up there.’ He scoffed.

Prince Nel chuckled.

‘That was a valuable piece of information you gave me, and yet you gave it freely.’

‘It’s hardly valuable. Everybody knows.’

‘Everybody in Kalye might, but not here. But that’s clearly not what you’re so resolutely keeping to yourself.’

Isidore should tell him. After all, he had been willing to tell Judel some time ago. What was the difference if he told Prince Nel now?

‘For the record,’ Prince Nel said, seeing as Isidore was not ready to speak yet, ‘we don’t burn witches. We don’t burn anybody, human or animal, in fact. Not for hundreds of years. It was our great-grandfather who led the charge against the then king and put an end to his fanatical views. Since, and to my knowledge, we have never pillaged or raped anyone. Not to say there are no bad Ilish people, but it’s not something we culturally encourage. Quite the opposite. Nahel would personally throttle anyone who dared as much as think of any such thing.’

Isidore’s eyes met with Nel’s sharp gaze. He didn’t need to assess whether Nel was lying or not. He believed it all.

‘I might have some helpful information.’ The words came out with difficulty. He was still considering if this was the right thing to do halfway through his sentence.

‘About our missing people?’

‘Yes.’ Isidore nodded. ‘However, I will only reveal it to Prince Judel.’

Prince Nel chuckled.

‘I don’t believe I told a joke,’ Isidore said between gritted teeth.

‘You didn’t, but I can’t help but find it amusing. Here you are, denying you’re a spy, and yet you find yourself negotiating with potentially vital information. You must appreciate the irony.’

Isidore smirked.

‘You want something from me and if I wanted nothing, I’d give it to you freely, but there is one thing I want, so what choice do I have?’

‘Only one thing?’ Prince Nel tilted his head.

‘Only the one.’