Delusions of Loyalty (The Braykith Series Book 2)

by Jennifer R. Kenny

  DELUSIONS

  OF LOYALTY

  DELUSIONS OF LOYALTY

  Book II in the Braykith Curse Series

  Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer R. Kenny

  Written and edited in New South Wales, Australia

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For information contact; address: www.jrkauthor.com

  Book and cover design by: Jennifer R. Kenny

  Image from unsplash.com

  First Edition

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  The hooves hit the dirt and kicked it back into the air. The rider was pushing the horse harder than it could possibly hope to go, but the animal moved steadily. He was well trained, and his rider cared for him, but the horse had no illusions regarding their partnership. The rider was dressed in what appeared to be rags, held together to form clothes. Somewhere in the past, the clothes had fallen out of repair and firmly settled on turning into scraps, but the rider was no better dressed than anyone else he lived with. Clothes were hard to come by, and residing in the elements meant they could not last forever. Stains that could no longer be identified individually among the fabric coloured them into a mottled green grey design, but just like everyone else in the rebellion, there was a distinct hint of yellow.

  For generations, it was known that the colour yellow was the designated emblem of Zorelian, but now it meant much more. The rebellion grew in strength under this colour and provinces from all over the lands of Accila banded together under a united symbol. Yellow was no longer the colour of a dead Kingdom, but the rebirth of new survival. There was a change in the air, and it was invigorating to know that after years of suffering the rebellion would bring about lasting change.

  Before the animal could come to a complete stop, the rider dismounted. Lachlan grabbed the horse’s reins and yanked the horse towards the cliff face. The world was full of illusions and the entrance to their safeguard was no different. Rock stained the colour of heavy rain clouds reflected back to the world an appearance of being solid. However, those in the know could find an entrance.

  The scout could have found the hole between the rocks while blindfolded if he needed to. The small band of rebels did not venture far from their homestead often, but his job was to run out to the world and keep his eyes on the comings and goings of Crimah and Braykith. Lachlan would collect the lies and find the truths in hopes of them aiding the construction a plan which might be useful. It was a job that took many hours, and many skills that so few had. It gave the scout the freedom to believe his job was safe.

  Someone with less belief in his security was Ronald. Their chieftain was not so fearless and seemed far more interested in keeping what remained of the rebels safe rather than fight for the land that was stolen from beneath their feet. Lachlan was supposed to be working for Ronald, but for the past year he had answered to one man. Rather than go to the home of Ronald, Lachlan took a sharp left and stopped outside the home of Christof. He knew that this was not part of his job, but the rumours he collected were not only outside the secret walls of their base. There were whispers from within.

  Christof was a heavily muscled man, his arms and legs had long since been sculpted by the war and growing up on whatever meat he could catch. Like most of the rebels, Christof’s hair was long. His dirty blonde locks sweeping at his shoulders flattened around his angular face that had been a side product of neglect. Although Christof did not worry about his hair, keeping it just short enough to not be a bother, his beard was roughly shaped to cover his lower jaw. It was something of a passion project no one understood, and no one asked him about. Christof did not have the greatest of temperaments.

  Without being weighed down by armour, many of the fighters from the rebellion were lean and fast on their own feet. However Christoph trained harder than most, and the results were evident even in this relaxing state he was found in by the scout. Christof sat on the floor of his tent, a small blade in one hand that reflected the light as he ran it over a stone. Most of the men were too young to remember a time before the rebellion, and the sharpening of a dull blade had quickly become a skill that everyone mastered with the crudest of instruments. The tent was one of the better ones, but that title was barely worth mentioning. Just like everything else, the fabrics had seen better days, and a large section had been stitched together rather than replace the entire panel. There was no fabric to spare on such trivial things.

  “Lachlan, my friend, come and sit. You have been out riding for so long,” Christof said, his voice jovial and loud, but there was a darkness to his piercing blue eyes. He saw more than he let on, and Lachlan knew Christof was not pleased to see him as a friend, but grateful for the information Lachlan had to deliver. “I have meat.” Christoph continued the charade, but Lachlan took the offering regardless of Christof’s intentions. Lachlan had been eating the crumbs he could find and the dried meat he had brought with him. A fresh kill was heavenly on his tongue.

  It appeared that there was no reason for the men to prove their false friendship. There was no attention being paid to the tent, and
as Lachlan ate quickly, he was wise enough to know that no attention now did not mean that attention would not come. He needed to deliver his news quickly. “I came to you first,” Lachlan said, and Christof nodded in his direction, encouraging the youth. “Although there is not much change.”

  Christof smirked, drawing back through his nose and spitting the results on the stone he was running his knife along. “I will be the judge of that.”

  Lachlan nodded. “Of course. Evangeline is still planning to be sent to Braykith. The dates have no changed.” Lachlan reported. “The problem lies with our own insiders. Our spies within the manor are reporting to me different times.” He revealed in a low voice, fearing he would be overheard. “Some say morning, other say closer to midnight. Yet another reports it will happen early afternoon.” He winced as he watched Christof’s face. He had continued to sharpen his knife during the report, but Lachlan did not feel safe. Christof was not one to hide his feelings. Bad news was often greeted with violence.

  “Could Barrett suspect spies?” Christof asked, and quickly held up his hand to silence Lachlan when the boy opened his mouth to speak. He had intended the question to be rhetorical. The suspicions of a small scout were not something Christof cared to know more than he did already. The evidence spoke for itself. Barrett was being careful and growing more paranoid with every passing day. Christof was waiting for the day Evangeline was supposed to depart to Braykith and for nothing to happen at all.

  He set his knife down and ran his hand over his beard. Christof’s index and thumb traced the tresses that made up his facial hair. He remembered his father having a well-cared for beard, the lengths kept exact and lines straight with a shape blade and a polished piece of metal to see himself. Christof had admired his father for many things, and since Christof was a child he had wanted a well-groomed beard of his own. But, there was no polished metal to see himself, and his blades were sharp enough but never precise. It was those little things that kept his hate alive.

  “Wait for Ronald to emerge from his tent and him tell this with witnesses.” Lachlan watched Christof, waiting for further instruction but Christof looked back at him with unblinking eyes. His plan was not for the scout to know. Christof had been scheming for too long to risk it all on one young man who didn’t know better. Lachlan had been born into the rebellion. He had no life to mourn, and he could not understand the hate the older members had for Crimah and Braykith.

  Uneasiness overcoming him, Lachlan left quickly before Christof could get into one of his well-documented rages.

  Staying seated in his tent, Christof continued to work on the edges of his blade, listening intently for the sounds of life outside. The trees were always full of woodland chatter. Small mammals lived with them, and the birds were known to sing in the early rays of the sun, but Christof heard none of that as he waited for the unmistakable sound of men. Christof did not have to wait for long. Ronald was the opposite to Christof in many ways. Still living on a diet that consisted of whatever one could catch, Ronald was thin with only enough muscle to keep himself upright. He was fast on his feet, and he could speak with an elegance and charisma that had forced people to flock to him in the first place, but he could not sustain the warrior spirit like Christof did.

  Ronald took greater care of his appearance. His dark hair was kept close to the scalp, and his clothes were washed more often than their cooking equipment. In Christof’s opinion, Ronald always looked too clean, seeming more like a man of leisure instead of the refugees and survivors they all were. Perhaps Ronald had been one of those people before the war. Christof did not bother to learn much about him.

  It did not matter to Christof where Ronald came from because the proof of his incompetence was evident. Christof would continue to mistrust the man even if he came to be from a farm or worse. The reputation which had gained Ronald the position in the first place was ruined quickly after he had assumed power as their chieftain. He was no leader and had no great deeds to his name. Many rumours surfaced to say that the initial claims had been false all along. Some say Ronald had not even witnessed the most significant acts of men, but only stole the best of the war stories he had overheard.

  Christof was slow to rise since his arrival was paramount in his victory over the chieftain on this day. Setting his belongings aside he listened as the news was reported from Lachlan. Christof emerged from the tent to see a small group of people were within easy earshot of the discussion. He was pleased to notice Yolanda sat between them. She would be a good ally for this confrontation. The rebellion held no gender bias, and the women fought and trained alongside their male brethren. She was a dangerous package of beauty and brawn, dark skinned with alert eyes that seemed to gather intelligence without her even thinking of it. Yolanda saw everything and never forgot the details. Christof liked her.

  “Uh, Lachlan, perhaps we can discuss this in private?” Ronald spoke the words which got Christof to move from bystander to active participant.

  “Why do you hide the truth from us?” Christof asked, and silence took hold of the small group which had gathered. While most had turned away from their leader, not all of them were supportive of Christof. This did little to deter Christof as he continued. “We have been sitting and waiting for this, and now you want to plan in secret? What do you have to hide?”

  Ronald did not know how to respond. It took a moment too long to brush off the intimidation from Christof’s questions, long enough for the men and women to notice. “I do not plan in secret to…”

  “Your spies have been become lazy, Ronald.” Christof interrupted him with the accusation many had thought in secret. “They have found a home at the Manor of Crimah. They forget our fight, and you refuse to remind them what is at stake.” Christof watched Ronald struggle with an answer, and for a moment Christof dared to believe this confrontation would amount to nothing. Just as Christof considered pulling Ronald into a new argument, he saw the man’s shoulders slump. Just enough for Christof to feel relieved.

  “We will attack her carriage. I will send six of you at first light and you will wait for her arrival by the crossways.” Ronald paused, and Christof smiled. Ronald knew he was acting with a haste that was not befitting of war, and yet he could not take it back now. Christof knew the men sent would be tired no matter when Evangeline would come to pass the point. This would be the last mistake Ronald would make. When next they met, Christof will claim the leadership, and a real rebellion will be mounted against the war criminals of Crimah and Braykith.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Her footsteps echoed, and Evangeline found the castle to be the most beautiful of prisons. She had laid claim to her sleeping chambers for the first days of her marriage, but there was no way for Evangeline to stay locked in that cage. Still, she lingered in her bedroom, avoiding her husband and receiving nothing from Wick. Her lady in waiting continued to be a shadow in her chambers and Evangeline was no better at ignoring Wick than she had been when she first arrived.

  It seemed that her position within the royal hierarchy was finally open for discussion and Evangeline had been introduced to some of the noble daughters of Braykith. None of them held her interest, and while she was polite to them all, Evangeline would never ask to see them again. She paused, seeing Adeline walk with her giggling group of friends and knew that no matter how lonely she felt, she would never stoop so low. Evangeline would rather be alone then tormented. Ignoring invitations to tea and local events was becoming easy for Evangeline to justify.

  Perhaps even harder to ignore was Thomas. The man seemed to find himself where she was, regardless of where she went. Evangeline had exchanged pleasantries with him on occasion, but there was a strain between them since her wedding. As Evangeline approached the limits of the castle now, she was not surprised that is was Thomas who greeted her. She smoothed down her skirts, the pale lilac colour moved freely in the wind as she walked, a contrast to the structured white bodice. A jewelled belt sat low on her hips and matched the beaded intri
cate work that made up her hair accessories. Her hair had grown since coming to Braykith, and now she had become accustomed to the demands of her father in law.

  The King demanded that all hair be kept long, and never restricted in an up style. It had been months of mild annoyance as the wind would pick up the strands and tease them over her face but finally, Evangeline was starting to create her own hand sweeps that all people of Braykith got in an effort to control their hair. She had paused only long enough to regain composure under the disguise of being fashion conscious when Thomas bowed.

  “Lady Evangeline,” he spoke, and Evangeline bit her bottom lip in response. It was growing harder to keep her impure thoughts to herself. The memory of Thomas gave her body a jolt as she looked at him. Thomas was dressed in his Braykith uniform, the black neatly pressed and framed his body. She knew it was the uniform of all the Braykith soldiers however she found that it was Thomas who looked the best in it. Perhaps some of her opinions were biased because she knew what the uniform looked like crumpled and forgotten on her chamber floors.

  “Thomas.” She forced a smile, and her hand on her basket flexed gently. Never had she experienced such desires, and for those desires to be fixated on a man who was not her husband only made it worse. Evangeline felt her cheeks flame every moment they were together. “I am going to the markets.” She offered him the explanation although he had not asked for her destination.

  “Be sure to keep to the main paths.” Thomas meant to let her pass, but his eyes lingered on hers. Evangeline felt the need in him and responded involuntarily. Licking her lips, she nodded, and Thomas had no other choice but to allow her to walk past him without daring speak the words he wished to whisper into her skin.

  Evangeline did not look back, but she felt his eyes on her as she walked through the large gates and towards the markets. She knew that Thomas would stand at his post and wait for her to return, but she secretly wished that he would not. Seeing him was worse than not seeing him. She regretted nothing, and forever Evangeline would defend her decisions with Thomas, but she did hold some tightness in her heart for the man.