A Lamentation of Swans

  A Lamentation of Swans

  By

  Desiree Acuna

  © copyright by Desiree Acuna, July 2008

  Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, July 2008

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Chapter One

  Gwyneth had never seen an elf—no magical beings of any kind. Of course, she’d heard of elves, but she’d never expected to actually see one. They rarely left their magical realms to walk among mortals and she’d never been beyond the castle gates in her life, doubted she ever would. A mixture of curiosity and awe filled her as she studied the one currently testing the chains that bound him, momentarily diverting her from the tempestuous emotions roiling inside of her. The long black hair that hung halfway to his waist was as inky as a starless night. She’d caught a flash of bluish highlights when they’d dragged the would-be assassin through the castle gates and across the bailey, like the glint of sunlight on a raven’s wing, which proved it to be a profound black and not merely a very dark brown. His skin was golden brown.

  She wondered if he was one of those referred to as a dark elf, or if it had nothing to do with coloring at all but rather a dark heart. She shouldn’t have been in any doubt, she supposed, since he’d been caught in the very act of committing the most treacherous of deeds, but she was far more filled with awe and admiration than revulsion, and that was before she’d seen him.

  Now that she’d seen him—well, she could barely catch her breath. She felt dizzy and hot and completely confused. Her heart was palpitating at a frantic pace, her ears ringing. It almost felt like fear, except she knew it wasn’t. It felt like—desire, but she could hardly credit that, could’ve more easily accepted the fear. Why would she feel want or need for that –with him—when she could think of few things she found more disgusting, frightening, and painful?

  It confused her, but she was more certain that it wasn’t fear that was making her feel so strange. She supposed it was wicked of her that she didn’t see his attempt on the king’s life as proof of a dark heart, but she didn’t. The truth was, she was far from alone in despising the king. There would’ve been far more folk of the realm who would’ve considered him a hero if he’d succeeded than a villain and she was one of them.

  It was one of the things that had nerved her to approach him, the possibility, however vague, that he was nothing like the men of the castle, nothing like a mortal man, all of whom seemed to be nothing more than slight variations of the king, who was a vile creature as far as she was concerned.

  It was almost disappointing to see that, beyond the very distinctive ears, there was not a great deal to set him apart physically from the men she saw every day. He was as near naked as he could possibly be and still retain even a bare modicum of decency. He’d arrived shirtless and barefooted, his breeches shredded until there was almost nothing left to the imagination.

  She was a little disturbed that the ‘little’ that had been left to imagination had made her breathless with conjecture.

  She couldn’t fathom why.

  If there was anything she hated more than men’s quick tempers, quicker fists, and nasty habits, it was their ‘nasty sticks’. She would’ve been a happy woman if she’d thought it possible she would never encounter another.

  She couldn’t deny that the elf’s form was pleasing to her senses, but she wasn’t even certain of why she found his form pleasing. He was tall and lean. Maybe it was the fact that he was still muscular for all that when the men she was more familiar with than she’d ever wanted to be were either skinny sticks with virtually no muscle at all, or beefy and hauled around as much fat as muscle?

  There was no doubt in her mind that he had plenty of muscle to make him physically powerful, and yet that lean form must also make him swift and nimble.

  A wave of nausea abruptly shunted her eager curiosity aside, for almost the moment her imagination supplied her with an image of that handsome face above hers, that pleasing body striving above hers, her mind supplanted them with real memories that were far from pleasant.

  Thom had managed to corner her before she could slip out of the great hall only a little earlier when she’d helped to serve the evening meal. She’d become adroit at avoiding the men-at-arms, but she’d been distracted—by him. She’d allowed her mind to stray at the most dangerous of times and she’d paid for it in flesh.

  She’d been witless enough to struggle on top of the stupidity of allowing herself to get cornered and now it wasn’t just her woman’s flesh that was battered. She was bruised and battered all over from his roughness. Her face was still throbbing where he’d cuffed her with his fist.

  She could thank her stars he wasn’t the brute Bradford was, she supposed. Otherwise he might have killed her instead of merely rattling her brains in her head. Then again, she might’ve been able to elude Bradford. He wasn’t as young as Thom and he was a sight heavier. She’d managed to elude Bradford’s clutches the last time he’d tried for her when she’d accidentally planted her foot in the midst of his genitals.

  Of course, she’d had to hide for nigh a month to avoid the lesson he’d promised and poor Meg had ended up having to endure instead, but as badly as she’d felt about it she’d never been able to bring herself to simply endure as the others did.

  She didn’t think she could bear it anymore at all—not another moment, not another day.

  She hadn’t even had her first menses when the men-at-arms had noticed her budding breasts and commenced to laying in wait for her. The first time had been the absolute worst, but she couldn’t say that any time since had been a great deal better beyond not being as painful in her woman’s place. For the most part, she managed to avoid capture, but she had her duties. Cook would beat her and chase her from the kitchen if she tried to hide to avoid having to help with serving and every meal since that first time she’d been caught had been a living nightmare.

  “Do you have a purpose for skulking there in the shadows? Or have you merely come to gape, mortal?” the elf growled, jerking Gwyneth from her thoughts, startling her so badly that she nearly dropped the peace offerings she’d brought to try to help her bribe the assassin.

  Gwyneth clutched the wine skin and the bundle of cheese and bread a little more tightly, wrestling with the craven urge to run away. As unnerving as the elf was, though, her desperation won out.

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked in a low voice.

  He turned his head when she spoke and she could see him focus on the wall she stood behind, almost as if he could see the thin crevice she was peering through.

  His lips curled. “I could smell you.”

  The insult jolted through her in a shockwave. Anger slowly flickered to life in the wake of it.

  Truthfully, she smelled the stench on herself—not hers, but Thom’s. At least, it hadn’t been hers before he’d shoved her to the rushes and coupled with her like a dog. She’d been trying to close her mind to it because it reminded her too strongly of what had happened and made her feel sick to her stomach.

  It was hard to ignore the fact that he hadn’t actually looked toward her until she’d spoken, however.

  The anger began to war with the fear and desperation churning inside of her. Beyond the fact that he’d insulted her without provocation, she wondered if it wasn’t a strong indication that he was no better than those she’d hoped he would help her escape from. It seemed unavoidable that he was merely angry and lashin
g out at the nearest object handy as they so often did.

  As tempted as she was to simply turn around and leave the way she’d come, though, there was no hope behind her. It remained to be seen if there was hope before her. “I brought you something to eat,” she said finally, swallowing her anger and her fear with an effort.

  He was silent for so long she thought he’d decided to ignore her. “You’ve taken a strange route to bring food.”

  There was a question in the comment and she realized much, if not all, of his anger had vanished. It had at least diminished and it made hope rise in her that she’d been mistaken.

  “They didn’t send me to bring it to you,” she confessed at length.

  She had his full attention and wondered as she stared at his shadowed face if he could pierce the darkness. Surely not? The cell itself was dim, lit only by a meager amount of light from the torch in the sconce on the wall beyond his cell. Where she stood, she could barely see her hand in front of her face. She’d found her way by memory along the passages she’d traversed many times, fearful of taking a candle as much because she thought it might be missed as from the anxiety that the telltale glow might be detected through some crack and give her away. Most of the castle’s inhabitants were dead to the world, true, the men-at-arms having drank themselves to sleep as was their habit and the servants having worked themselves into a stupor, but in Belmor Castle there were always some people stirring.

  “I cannot reach it from there,” he responded finally.

  Gwyneth hesitated, but she’d come this far. If her courage failed her now she might never get another opportunity to escape. “You won’t … you won’t hurt me if I come near enough to give it to you?”

  She couldn’t tell anything about his expression in the shadows, but she could tell he was mulling over her question.

  “Who are you?”

  Nobody. “A serving maid.”

  “There would be no benefit in harming you, then, would there?”

  Oddly enough, both his tone and the remark reassured her. “Except to vent your ill humor.”

  She saw a muscle work in his square jaw.

  “There is only one I would care to vent my ill humor on and, as he is not around, I believe I can contain it.”

  “A moment,” she responded, moving away from the peep hole through which she’d studied him. Guiding herself with one hand along the wall, she counted her paces until she’d reached the secret door that led into the dungeons. Despite the antiquity of it, the device that worked it had been very cleverly designed. The door swung open soundlessly. After peering around to be sure none of the guards were near enough to spot her, she made her way quickly along the passage until she reached the assassin’s door.

  Kneeling on the floor, she very carefully tore off a piece of bread about the size of her fist and a chunk of cheese about half again that big. Her heart was thundering in her chest when she pushed her hand through the small slot at the bottom of the door designed for feeding prisoners when the guards felt like it.

  “It’s not very old at all,” she murmured.

  “It smells appetizing enough from here,” he responded dryly, “but I am chained to the wall. I still cannot reach it.”

  Gwyneth sat back on her heels in consternation. She hadn’t counted on them chaining him—he’d been manacled when they’d brought him in. She’d thought they would only toss him into a cell.

  She would have to try to lift the guard’s keys, she realized, feeling cold terror wash over her. In the back of her mind, she’d realized that all along, that she would have to open the door to free him and there was no way to do that without the keys. She just hadn’t wanted to think too hard about the obstacles that stood between her and her goal.

  Moreover, she’d envisioned pleading her case before she set him free. She’d thought she might wring a promise from him while she had something to bargain with. Once she’d freed him, she wouldn’t have anything at all.

  Retrieving the food she’d offered, she licked her dry lips and took the plunge. “By what name are you known?”

  He seemed a little disconcerted by the turn in the conversation, and suspicious.

  “Caelin. What is your name, little maid?”

  She doubted he had any idea of her size or age, but she appreciated his effort to soften her with words. It was a small thing, true, and no doubt an attempt to deceive, and yet, even though it cost little, kind words were as rare as hen’s teeth. “Gwyneth.”

  He was silent for several moments. She did not know why, but there was something in his silence that disturbed her. It was almost as if the name was familiar to him—no great surprise, she supposed since it was a common enough name, but still it bothered her, that silence that seemed to indicate that he was thinking. “Only Gwyneth?”

  She ignored that. He had to know she was of Belmor. “If I help you escape, will you take me with you?”

  Contrary to what she’d more than half expected given the fact that the king had ordered him drawn and quartered at dawn, he greeted her question with a prolonged, thoughtful silence. “I came to kill King Gerald. If you set me free, I am honor bound to try again. I do not think you want to be with me when I do, little maid.”

  Gwyneth digested that in shocked silence. She thought what shocked her most was his honesty. She’d been prepared for him to lie, to readily agree regardless of what he planned to do. She hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that he’d so boldly refuse. She didn’t actually understand it if it came to that. He was an elf and she knew, although they weren’t immortal, that they lived many times as long as mortals. Mayhap their lives weren’t as precious to them? Even if that was true, though, it was completely incomprehensible that he’d risk such a horrible death if he had a chance at freedom.

  But then, maybe he thought he could free himself? “Couldn’t you … take me someplace safe and then come back?” she asked plaintively.

  “Where in all of the realm of Wynsmere is a safe place?” he growled sardonically. “You are an innocent if you believe there is such a place in these lands since Gerald, ‘the impaler’ seized the thrown.”

  His sarcasm was biting, particularly since he had to know she was no innocent. There was no such thing for anyone who lived in the shadow of Belmor Castle. Truthfully, she couldn’t recall a time when she had been. Even as a small child she had seen such things at King Gerald’s principle seat, Castle Belmor, that sickened her, gave her horrible nightmares, made her so fearful that many nights she was afraid to close her eyes.

  She swallowed with an effort against the knot of fear and frustration that formed a hard, unswallowable knot in her throat. “They will make a place for me on the executioner’s platform if I help you to escape and we are caught.”

  “They are likely to if they catch you down here,” he said harshly. “Run back to your corner, little maid, and turn your mind from this business.”

  Defeat settled on Gwyneth’s shoulders. She didn’t know why it had even occurred to her to think for a moment that there was any escape for her. She was doomed to live out her days in the shadow of Belmor Castle—however many days that numbered. Death almost seemed preferable—so long as it was a swift one. Few folk had that blessing, though.

  The urge to weep washed over her, but she squelched it. Nothing could be more useless. He wasn’t likely to unbend, even a little, because she shed tears. It would only get her caught.

  For a time she wallowed in the misery of defeat, too caught up in the death of her hopes to turn her mind elsewhere. As the pain eased, though, her mind turned again to the fate that awaited him. She felt bile rise in her throat at the thought.

  She couldn’t simply leave, she realized. She couldn’t turn her back on him and allow so horrible a fate to overtake him when she might prevent it. Rising decisively after a few moments, Gwyneth set her ‘bribery’ down and moved quietly to the corner, peering around to see if she could see any sign of the guard who generally patrolled the dungeons. When s
he saw no sign of him, she tilted her head to listen. Faintly, she could hear a chorus of snores, but it was hard to say if any belonged to the guard or if all belonged to the other wretched souls rotting within the dungeon. She heard nothing that indicated he might be awake, though, and finally gathered the nerve to creep down the passage for a better look.

  He was slumped across the rickety table in his little cubby hole, she saw, a mug of overturned ale near his hand, his cheek in the puddle that had formed on the rough top and was dripping through the cracks and onto the stone floor. After studying his face for a long moment, she scanned him for the keys and discovered without much surprise that the ring of keys was hooked to his belt.

  Anywhere but that, she thought, feeling her belly cinch a few knots tighter than before. Again, she hesitated, wondering if she’d lost her mind, but the image of the stranger rose in her mind again, the elfin man who called himself Caelin. She couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen to him come morning if she did nothing. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t.

  Dragging in a sustaining breath, she held it, let it pass slowly between her lips as she began to inch closer to the guard. A thick stream of drool dripped from his thick lower lip to join the puddle of ale on the table. His entire face was slack.

  Reaching him, she curled her fingers around the keys to keep them from jingling when she lifted them from the hook on his belt. He uttered a snort as she lifted the ring. She froze for a split second and then completed the action, slipping the top of the ring free from the hook. Before she could release a sigh of relief, he snorted again and lifted his head, staring at her bleary eyed. “Wha’s this?” he slurred.

  Gwyneth stared at him wide-eyed, praying he’d settle his head and drop back into his drunken stupor, searching her mind frantically for a reason for her presence. She finally managed to force her lips to curl when she saw, contrary to her hopes, that he was scanning her length speculatively. “I brung you a bit o’food an’ some wine ta wash it down,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I din like ta wake you, though.”