Page 6 of The Lionheart’s Bond (Bonds of Dusk and Dawn #1)

ISIDORE

A sharp pain pulled him out of an already uneasy sleep, a persistent jabbing at his shoulder growing from a simple nuisance to the unbearable, yanking him from the horse he was riding in his dream. Waking did nothing to relieve the heaviness in his body and he only vaguely registered the softness that embraced him. His eyes closed again before they had time to adjust and inspect his surroundings or the people now coming into the room.

‘Why are we fussing over this lad again?’ a young, masculine voice said.

‘Mind your manners or you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of the queen’s temper. And His Highness will have you whipped,’ came a stern warning from an older, softer voice.

‘He’s not the type,’ the young voice replied.

‘No he isn’t, but he should be, with ungrateful brats like you serving him!’ The softer voice sounded like that of an older woman. ‘You should thank your stars and pray to the Divine Lords every day for your luck that you serve the Royal family of Ilystra and not some of those lords out there, who think they can get away with anything just because they have a title.’

‘Right. We still have to serve them, though…’ And then, ‘Ouch! What did you hit me for?’

‘You get paid, you little shit. Now hold your tongue and help wash this poor soul. His kindness has earned our care.’

Ilystra. The name sent a shiver through his body. He was in Ilystra? It was impossible. The Ilish were ruthless murderers and tyrants, who hated Kalye, pillaging the border, jealous of their Power. He’d be dead, if he had been captured by Ilish bandits.

Wait.

His Highness?

Who was that?

And what kindness were they speaking of that would earn him their gratitude? He hadn’t done anything, nor did he want any favours from them.

The two servants worked with diligence, in concentrated silence, to change the bedding around him and wash him. They pulled his clothes offand wiped his body with a cloth soaked in fragrant warm water, as he struggled to remain still under the constant tickling and the shocks of pain.

‘He’ll be bedridden for some time,’ the woman said, finishing the job. Feeling refreshed, he was grateful for the blanket now sliding over him.

‘More work for us.’ The younger man sighed.

‘Stop it! It’s good to make use of the room. Prince Judel wouldn’t even allow us to clean it.’

‘Can you blame him? It must remind him too much of before.’

Footsteps echoed in the room, bringing the conversation to an early end.

‘Your Majesty,’ they uttered with reverence.

Heart hurtling in his chest, he remained as still as possible. Majesty?

‘Leave us,’ a youthful voice commanded.

The shuffle of retreating footsteps gave way to an awkward silence, as he didn’t dare check if he was alone or not. Having pretended to sleep all this while, he was forced to keep up the charade.

Concealed under the blanket, he wished he could be elsewhere.

The thud of heeled boots as they stepped on soft floors, maybe a rug, circled the bed. A scrape, a creak—maybe a chair being drawn. A presence to his left.

‘You can drop your pretence.’ The woman’s tone remained serene.

His eyelids twitched, almost yielding to the command in her voice. To reveal now that, as she had guessed, it was all an act would be embarrassing and even offensive to this woman. If she was the queen—the Ilish queen, the one they called the Blood Maiden, —it didn’t bear thinking what punishment his insult might gain him.

But persisting was beyond ridiculous. If only he could move, he might try to turn away from her, and keep faking it, but even as he tried to remain still pain shot through him, awake too. His entire body began to react, the pangs of hunger and thirst making him restless. His mouth felt like a pouch of dirt, dry and gritty.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she added, the chair creaking once more as his silence stretched on.

Isidore exhaled, weary as his eyes fluttered open. He intended to meet her gaze, explain himself, but his grand surroundings stole his attention. With barely any time to take in the space before the servants had arrived, every detail distracted him. It was a room of sober opulence, not like Lord Torell’s apartments that dripped with unnecessary gold and crystals. Here, the luxury shone through strength, quality and detail. The four posts at the corners of his bed rose in lavish, dark wood, the carved leaves stretching toward the beams crisscrossing above his head. Rich tapestries of vibrant colours kept the warmth of the roaring fire inside, guarding the interior against the chill of the stone walls and the elements beyond. Lodgings fit for a prince.

Prince Judel’s apartments, they said. But who was he and how had Isidore ended in an Ilish prince’s bed?

If they as much as suspected his father was a Kaletian Lord, they wouldn’t care about the years of abuse he had spent in Stonehollow. He was no better than the lowliest of servants there, where his father’s title was worth nothing. Isidore had no worth to the Ilish crown and a queen didn’t get called the Blood Maiden because of her tolerance and understanding. They wouldn’t care that he was poorer and more miserable than any other servant. Maybe even more than he had thought, if those who attended to him moments ago were to be believed. Maybe the Ilish queen was a paragon of magnanimity, as long as you were close to her and agreed with everything she said.

Still, none of that explained how he found himself in such a place. Struggling with his own confusion and fragmented memories was proving fruitless. Flashes of the piercing agony of that bolt in his shoulder. Was he escaping? If that was the case, it was only one part of the answers he needed. There had been something else. He hadn’t been alone, between those trees.

The lion!

His body jerked instinctively at the memory, as if to sit up, but pain lashed at his shoulder, as if his skin was tearing, a cruel reminder of his vulnerability. He collapsed back into the cushions, a stifled whine escaping his lips.

‘You should keep still and rest. The physician took a lot of pains to stitch your wound. You don’t want it to tear open,’ the woman spoke, her voice firm yet not unkind.

Isidore’s gaze turned to her at last. She was a vision in two halves. On one side, long, loose curls of red hair flowing over her chest like glowing lava, while on the other side it was neatly pinned braids weaved with gold ribbons. Her skin was smooth and delicate, stunningly beautiful on the right, but open and scarred on the left. The marks trailed in four, distinct edges of raised, lumpy skin, and joined at the end, converging towards her chin. The contrast between her disfigurement and her perfect beauty would make the Divine Lords cry.

‘I am Queen Nahel of Ilystra,’ she declared.

In the flesh. Her unyielding spirit had earned her the names that were only whispered behind her back. Her cruelty too. Unease pinched at his chest under her blue scrutiny, the urge to bow wrestling with his immobilized state.

‘What is your name?’ she asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

‘Isidore,’ he said, swallowing his embarrassment. He hadn’t even acknowledged her when she introduced herself. He sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears.

But he was weak and pathetic. Echoes of the insults and jeers thrown at him over the years, both under his father’s roof and at Stonehollow, taunted him.

‘Your homeland, Isidore?’ she pressed, filling the silence.

‘North,’ he replied, trying for his voice not to betray him, and unable to speak out the name.

‘Kalye?’ Her tone hardened.

He panicked, too scared to claim too close a relationship to their neighbouring kingdom. Even if the Ilish were perfectly kind people, —which by all accounts, they weren’t, —wasn’t their hatred to be expected? Wouldn’t the Kaletian hate the Ilish if Lord Abegnon pledged allegiance to Ilystra one morning?

And what if they believed him a practitioner? He would fall prey to their barbaric, cruel methods of torture. And if they didn’t, they would send him back. Isidore wasn’t sure what would be worse.

‘No. Yes!’ The words burst out of his lips, burdened with fear. 'North of Endalor.’ It was still part of Ilystra when he was young and it was close to where he was found, after all. Maybe that would be enough to keep him safe until he could leave.

‘My brother found you in Valecrest, though you don’t have their accent.’

Her brother?

There had been a man. He had forgotten about it. This man had lit a fire and taken care of him. Had he brought him here?

Was he an Ilish prince?

Why would an Ilish prince try to help him? And what would a member of Ilystra’s royal family be doing so far North?

There was a definite resemblance, though. Not in their hair or eye colour. Queen Nahel’s complexion was dark for having red hair. Judel was equally dark, but his hair had been brown, and his eyes dark, instead of his sister’s blue irises. But there was the shape of their nose, and the set of their jaws, the determination in their eyes.

The man had a stern face, Isidore had found at first, but there was something in his gaze that had made Isidore trust him almost at once. That he was weak and had no choice had probably played a part too.

Queen Nahel leant over, resting her elbow on her crossed legs.

‘I-I was seized. By Lord Torell, from my parents. We were travelling and they ambushed us.’

‘Lord Torell?’

‘The Duke of Stonehollow,’ he clarified.

Understanding softened her expression, though there was a veil of something else he didn’t quite recognize. ‘How long were you in Lord Torell’s power?’

‘T-ten years.’

‘And what did you do for him? Did he take you under his wing?’ The aura she radiated sparked fear in his heart. He wished he could shrink into nothingness.

‘No, of course not. I was a servant. I took care of the animals.’

‘The animals?’

He nodded, noticing only now the pain in his neck.

‘Lord Torell likes the sport of beasts in combat. The men bet, drink—’

‘Does he make you watch?’

Isidore shook his head.

‘No.’ The count didn’t care one way or another, and it had been one of his few reliefs, not to be forced to witness the savage butchery of the duke’s entertainment. ‘I took care of their wounds, after… if they came back.’

‘Would you have liked to watch?’ Queen Nahel asked, head tilted, her gaze upon him as if she could learn something by simply staring.

‘No,’ he answered quietly.

Queen Nahel made a show of picking at a speck of dust on her trousers. Direct questions would be preferrable to this constant circling. His body was taut with tension and his thoughts slowly became clouded, exhaustion winning the battle.

‘How did I get here?’ he asked, his voice weak.

‘My brother Judel found you wounded in the forest. My brother Hina treated your wounds until the physician came. You were unconscious though; you probably don’t remember any of it.’

A fleeting sense of warmth and gratitude settled in his chest. But their kindness might not have been that immediate if they knew he was truly and thoroughly Kaletian.

And yet, they probably thought he was just that in the first place. Why would they help him? It made no sense. They would sooner have killed him, or abandoned him to his fate, at the very least.

And yet this one man had decided to carry him all the way to Ilystead.

Maybe prince Judel was the exception to the scourge of Ilystra. Just like not all Kaletians were the same, chances were not all Ilish would be either.

The servants had treated him well, too.

‘Not much. Only as you mentioned your brother I thought I remembered a man by a fire.’

How had he transitioned from protecting a wild animal to being rescued by an Ilish prince? Nothing fit.

The queen’s gaze made him acutely aware of being in a borrowed bed, —borrowed from her brother at that,— in luxury so at odds with him, his position and his appearance. His presence must be offensive to her.

As his thoughts wandered in that direction, his fingers found the thread embroidering the bed covers. The silver designs of leaves and animals covered the deep blue fabric. Foxes, owls, stags and bears were embroidered amidst oak leaves and acorns, trees and tall grasses. His fingers ran the length of an elaborate bluebell, stem curling and curving in expertly laid out detail.

‘It’s exquisite, isn’t it?’ Queen Nahel remarked, following the movement of his fingers as they skimmed the foliaged that unfurled under his touch. ‘My mother’s craft. She made one for our older brother too… all of us. Or it was her wish to do so. Kan and the younger ones never got theirs. Her death stole so much of her time, stole so much from us.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Isidore muttered, his voice a thread as fragile as that of the cover. Her candour threw him, but his condolences felt almost inappropriate after her emotionless delivery.

The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow as he pondered how long the Ilish queen would sit at his bedside or why she was dragging it out. Was she suspicious of him?

Silence was his best option, he thought, as memories of Lord Torell’s stories came back to him.

‘They’re jealous of our power,’ he often ranted, a goblet of wine in his hand. ‘They call us witches and want to burn us, afraid of our channelling, that’s why they attack us mercilessly, to eliminate the threat of practitioners, but our great king keeps them at bay.’

Away from Torell’s drunken stories of Ilish cruelty, and with a moment to ponder about them, he struggled to recall a single incident during his lifetime. Were Lord Torell’s tales of horror old? Tired anecdotes, repeated so often over the years that they had multiplied in people’s minds?

The Kaletian king was a formidable being. Blessed by the Divine Lords with incredible power, it would be possible for him to successfully hold such evil forces at bay for this long without a single misstep?

Whatever the case, queen Nahel was nothing like how they depicted her in those stories. Her presence was calm, distant, not a threat in any detectable way. Her demeanour was not hostile but focused. No malice emanated from her gaze. She watched him with methodical insistence, but no hatred. The Queen of Ilystra he was meeting did not deserve the names they used for her.

Of course, her tranquillity could be only a facade designed to veil her true nature.

His head was beginning to hurt.

‘Your Majesty must have more urgent matters to attend to than talking to the likes of me,’ he said tentatively.

Her response, only a good-natured smile.

Thankfully their conversation was cut short by the arrival of a guard.

‘Captain Helge requests an audience, Your Majesty. The scouts have returned.’

‘Thank you, Naro. I’ll be right there.’

The guard left, bowing his way out, and the queen rose with poised, deliberate movements.

‘Isidore, it was a pleasure. I’m afraid duty calls, but I’ll order the kitchen to bring you some dinner. Judel has been feeding you blood broth, but maybe you’ll be ready for something more substantial. With thick bacon?’

The mere mention stirred a hungry chorus from his stomach, which prompted a chuckle from the queen.

‘I’ll make sure they get that to you fast, then,’ she said with a smile that, even distorted by the horrid scar on her cheek, infused the room with a bright light.

‘Thank you,’ he managed to say just before she left.

Her presence had put him on edge, so he welcomed her departure. But only at first.

Alone, his thoughts became too loud. The uncertainty of his immediate future weighed heavily on his shoulders, now he was no longer distracted. The conversation, while stressful, had been a welcome change from what he was used to, the hours of solitude, only animals for company. He loved them and was grateful for them, but they did not tend to reply when spoken to, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he could understand their feelings. In his panic, he had even believed Bella had communicated with him, forcing him to run away.

And now he didn’t even have them.

Bella was gone.

The thought chocked him.

Alone in enemy territory, he was not sure how he was going to survive. The only clear path ahead was that of the obvious. He must leave this place as soon as possible. Staying here too long only put him at risk. If they discovered he was really of Kaletian origin, they might suspect him of being a practitioner and kill him or experiment on him, even though he had no channelling ability whatsoever.

No, it was imperative he left Ilystra. He had to go home.

Determined, he set out to get dressed, the chemise they had lent him would do nothing against the cold winter winds, but there must be something else in the room.

His body protested loudly as a burst of pain radiating from his shoulder had him falling back down into the pillows before he managed to even swing one leg over the edge of the bed. Panting and nauseous, he stared at the ceiling, willing it to stop spinning.

His gaze turned to the window, the sliver of stars looking like a part of a different reality. As he sank into an anxious immobility, his mind never settled on a single thought in its efforts to untangle itself. Whatever future he had imagined for himself in the past seemed to dissolve between his fingers.

Returning home. Was that really what he wanted? After his antics the other night, Lord Torell would not welcome him with open arms. In the most ideal of situations, he would still see his return as an inconvenience. Or he’d be too happy, rejoicing in a plethora of punishments he would no doubt concoct for him. Better not to find out what exactly.

His stomach protested loudly.

His revery was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by a youthful voice, a cadence like mirth in its words.

‘Nahel wasn’t exaggerating, you are starving,’ said the young man now coming in.

Not quite an adult yet, he stood under the threshold, a bowl in his hands. Close behind him followed another boy, not far in age, bearing a jug and a goblet. The first one was shorter and had dark brown hair, his eyes of a spectacular blue, reminiscent of the queen’s. There was also the familiar shape of the nose, shared as well with the other boy, his eyes of a light brown that captured the amber reflection of the flames.

‘I’m Ponar, and this is Arte. You can use our given names when we’re alone,’ he continued, aloof and casual. ‘But when my sister or my brothers are around, or the guards, please address us as “Your Highness” and all that nonsense.’

Highness? Nonsense?

‘Are you both princes?’ Isidore asked, confused. The two boys nodded in unison.

‘We’re the youngest,’ the boy who introduced himself as Ponar explained. ‘With eight brothers and one sister ahead of us in the line of succession, we don’t care much for formalities.’ Ponar walked around the bed, leaving the bowl on the bedside table. He drew a chair closer.

The other boy, Arte, poured water into the goblet. A knee on the edge of the bed, he brought it to Isidore’s lips.

‘Wait, Arte!’ Ponar intervened, pulling him away. ‘Let me help him sit up first!’

Arte obeyed with a silent shrug.

‘He’s so thoughtless, sometimes.’ The young man leaned over and carefully slid an arm under him, lifting his upper body off the bed. Awkwardly, he rearranged his pillows to better prop him up. The movement tugged at his wound and prompted a gasp, the pain sharp, though not as severe as when he had tried to stand up. ‘Ah, sorry, sorry, sorry…’ Ponar’s anxiety at hurting him was palpable as he gently laid him down again.

‘Thank you,’ Isidore breathed in relief. ‘Hold on… Did you just say there are nine princes and princesses ahead of you in line for the throne?’

‘Eight princes, one princess,’ Ponar clarified. Arte smacked his arm with the back of his hand. ‘Sorry, eight princes, one queen.’ The young prince rolled his eyes.

‘There are eleven of you?’ Isidore’s eyes widened.

Arte and Ponar exchanged a look, something unspoken passing between them, before nodding silently.

How odd.

It was already unusual for Queen Nahel, a woman, to hold the throne. The existence of at least one older brother—she had said that, hadn’t she? —should have made that impossible. Only in cases where no male heir existed would a woman be allowed to rise to the throne, and there always was a male heir. A fifth cousin twice removed would usually do, even if there were six direct female descendants readily available.

At last, Arte was allowed to bring Isidore the goblet. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the cool water ran down his throat, a welcome relief after talking so much more than he had done in days.

Ponar approached with a spoon loaded with fragrant porridge, warm and infused with herbs and spices. Isidore savoured every bite. It warmed his insides and soothed his empty stomach.

‘Thank you,’ Isidore murmured. ‘Someone of your position shouldn’t be feeding me, really.’

Ponar’s eyes rolled.

‘You want to try to do it yourself?’ the prince asked.

Isidore nodded. Instinctively, he tried to lift his left hand, but pain shot through him like a spear piercing his flesh and cold sweat covered his brow. He bit down on it, closing his eyes tight against it, his breathing shallow.

‘Are you sure you—?’

Isidore nodded and reached with his right, ignoring how unnatural it felt. He grabbed the spoon and the awkwardness of it, added to his weakness, made him drop it. Porridge splattered on the blanket.

‘Maybe I’ll do it after all,’ Ponar said, frowning. At least, he didn’t laugh.

The prince cleaned up the mess, his brow tight. His movements were almost reverent, his concentration intense, as he cleaned the embroidered bed cover. When he finished, he contemplated his work, nodded to himself, and reached for the food again. ‘Nahel wanted us out of the way. She’s discussing royal matters with our brothers,’ he explained. ‘They don’t allow us to take part. With eleven of us, Captain Helge, the Scribe, the Scribe’s apprentice and the advisors, it’s a lot of people but still, it’s not fair that most of our brothers get to know what’s going on and we’re just constantly left out.’

The revelation struck Isidore. That they had a large family was already surprising, but to find out they had all survived... In Kalye, more than half might have perished to illness or even hunger.

Ponar brought another spoon to his lips. Isidore ate it absent-mindedly, these thoughts keeping him distracted.

Arte, sitting by the bottom of the bed, nodded at his brother.

‘Judel said you saved a mountain lion’s life. That’s a dangerous thing to do.’

Isidore’s cheeks flushed at the memory. To explain his behaviour he would need to make them understand his living circumstances, and how his only friends were the animals he took care of. He’d need to explain how his own emotional reaction had cost the lioness her life and had almost claimed his own too. It was too pathetic a story to share.

‘It-it was an accident. They were coming after me. I panicked, thinking they were going to shoot their crossbows at me. I tried to get out of the way but ended up in the way instead. I’m very clumsy.’ He chuckled with embarrassment, hoping it would downplay the danger of the situation and his own recklessness.

Ponar and Arte exchanged looks. Arte, still silent, shrugged at his brother, though the meaning of the gesture remained a mystery to Isidore.

‘Well, the lion was in luck, then,’ Ponar remarked casually, spooning more food.

Isidore blinked in surprise.

‘Did it survive? Did your brother see what happened?’ Isidore ventured.

The boys exchanged another look.

‘He most certainly did,’ Ponar confirmed. ‘And yes, the lion was fine.’

‘I didn’t see anybody else there,’ Isidore mumbled to himself.

Before the conversation got any further, a familiar man interrupted them. He stood taller than the boys, older as well. Maybe in his thirties, with short brown hair and brown eyes, his frame as large as the door. His commanding presence dimmed the light in the room as he entered. His glare was intense. He remembered those eyes. It was the man who had helped him. His presence felt oddly comforting out there. This was Prince Judel?

‘What are you talking about?’ The prince’s gaze remained fixed on Isidore.

‘Nothing important, relax, Judel, will you?’ Ponar replied, lifting the bowl in his hands as if to demonstrate there was nothing untoward in his actions.

Judel let a grunt escape his lips. Isidore couldn’t help but to smile, forcing him to cover his mouth.

‘Are they bothering you?’ The man demanded.

‘No. They’ve been really helpful,’ Isidore quickly reassured him.

Prince Judel extended an impatient hand to his brother. Ponar looked at the limb, bewildered, but eventually surrendered the bowl with a sigh of exasperation as he vacated his seat. Arte rose too, chuckling.

‘Let’s go, Arte. We can add this room to the list of places we’ve been kicked out of.’

Judel sat down, stirring the porridge distractedly, until the boys were out of sight.

‘Those boys are a menace,’ he said, the frown deep on his brow, but the inflection to his voice betrayed his affection.

Turning his attention to Isidore, he lifted the spoon to his lips.

Isidore’s confusion grew. He had only been conscious for a short time, and nothing was making sense.

Boasting, violent drunkards, that’s what they painted the Ilish Kingdom as. Negligent, self-centred, filled with hatred for Kaletian power and practitioners…

‘Eat,’ Judel said bluntly.

Isidore snapped out of his puzzlement, his eyes now focused on the man by his bed. His charisma was a force one couldn’t ignore, his physical strength evident, and a temper that left much to be desired. And yet, Isidore felt warmth blossom in his chest watching the prince try to feed him.

Unable to hide his smile anymore, he allowed the spoon in his mouth.