Divided Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 4) Read online

  Divided Enchantment

  ~ Unbreakable Force Series Book 4~

  by Kara Jaynes

  To my dad. Thank you for your unconditional love.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Sneak Peek of Book 5: Twisted Enchantment

  About the Author

  1

  Bran

  “Let’s run away together.” Grace Flores lay on her back, next to Bran. The two of them were in the Flores attic, a dusty room filled with old relics from her family’s past. She passed him another apple, filched from the kitchens. “Like Aaric and Adaryn.”

  Bran snorted. “Your father would kill me.”

  “It doesn’t matter what Father thinks.” Grace’s voice took on a frosty edge. “I’m from Ruis, remember? Women here don’t have to ask permission for marriage.”

  Bran sighed regretfully, biting into the crisp apple. Eloping with Grace did sound tempting. With relations strained between their people, the two of them had resorted to planned, secret meetings together. If they were found out, it would only add fuel to the smoldering flames of potential war. “We can’t, Grace. You have your people to take care of, and I have mine.”

  “Hang the people,” Grace muttered under her breath.

  Bran grinned at her. He loved her temper. “Give it time, Grace.” He shifted so he was lying on his side and kissed her cheek, taking her slim hand in his. “Perhaps the people of Ruis and the nomads can come to some kind of treaty.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Grace grumbled, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “We’re talking about Ruis, Bran. Slavery has been part of our ways for generations. How can that change?”

  “You changed,” Bran protested. “Aaric did too.”

  “That’s true,” Grace conceded.

  She sighed and gestured with her free hand to take in their surroundings. “We’re like children. Hiding in attics, meeting in secret at the market. Mother is going to get suspicious, you know.”

  “We’ll just have to be more careful.”

  “I’ve been turning away suitors. That isn’t like me at all.” She narrowed her eyes at him in mock suspicion. “Have you cast a spell on me?”

  Bran laughed. “Maybe.” His lips brushed hers. “Be patient, Grace. We’ll figure something out.”

  He stood, brushing dust from his trousers and strode over to the large window he’d come through. They’d been in the attic for over an hour and it was now dusk. He pushed open the windowpane.

  “You know if you moved up here we could see each other more often.” Grace sat up, smoothing her skirt. “I could sneak up apples and pastries.”

  Bran chuckled, summoning a thin thread of magic, and fastened it to an old bedpost like rope. “Would you empty my chamber pot, too?”

  Grace made a face, folding her arms. “Not a chance.”

  “Let’s meet in the marketplace a week from now.” Bran walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him.

  “All right,” Grace sighed, laying her head on his chest. “But consider my plan about running away. I think Sen Altare would do nicely for us. Aunt Luna would definitely let us stay with her until we could figure things out.”

  Bran cupped her chin in his hand, pulling it up until she looked at him. “In one week, Grace.” He brought his mouth to hers, breathing in her scent. She smelled like floral soap. “I’ll be near the old crone selling turnips.”

  Grace smiled. “Take care, Bran.”

  Stepping away from her, Bran wove shadow and light around himself, becoming invisible. He climbed through the window and lowered himself down. Once his feet touched solid ground, he released the strand of magic he’d twined into rope and strode away through the wintry Flores gardens. He didn’t have to look up to know Grace had closed the window and was hiding any traces of his being there. His smile faded the further away from her he walked. He’d have to return to the nomad camp sooner or later. Being the clan chief was much more difficult than being the chief’s son, and it was made even more burdensome ever since the clans had combined, one of the changes since Aaric had destroyed the Tower.

  Bran thought of Aaric. The former Oppressor had married Bran’s childhood best friend, Adaryn, and the two had left together a few months earlier. Adaryn was tired of living with the nomad stigma and looked to find change beyond the mountains to the East. Bran wished her the very best, and hoped she was happy. He didn’t suppose he’d see her again though.

  A faint thread of magic floated across his senses. Bran froze. A few freed nomads had stayed in the city as paid servants, but not very many. Sensing magic in the city now was rare. He felt another strand and looked around, trying to pinpoint it. He couldn’t identify anyone in the crowd as a magic user, however, and the magic faded almost as soon as he sensed it. He shrugged uneasily, holding the threads of his own magic closer, keeping himself invisible to anyone who couldn’t wield enchantment. Any nomad would be able to see him though, and he felt strangely exposed as he walk down the tangled streets toward the gates. He would have to be more careful. If his clan learned he was seeing a magistrate’s daughter, there would be trouble.

  With great relief he finally exited the city and entered the dark shelter of the woods.

  2

  Grace

  Standing in the upstairs hallway, Grace stared out one of the large windows that overlooked the courtyard. A light snow fell, making the afternoon darker than it should be. She could only see part of the street from this view, but it was enough to see angry people marching the streets, shouts muffled through the glass windowpanes. Rioters. Grace suddenly felt cold and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “You should come away, Gracie.” Calling her by her pet name, her father walked up to stand beside her. “You don’t need to trouble yourself with the city’s problems.” He smiled reassuringly down at his daughter.

  “Why are there riots?”

  Lord Flores sighed, running a hand distractedly through his dark hair. “People are upset with the changes Mr. Wright has brought, destroying the Tower and ending slavery. Many people want to rebuild the structure and collars and act like nothing ever happened. They think we’re superior to the nomads and should act accordingly. Others—not as numerous, but still quite a few—believe that we need to move on and adapt. Some have even suggested that slavery is a sin. I suspect people are feeling a little braver with Kingsley gone.”

  Kingsley had been a magistrate in Ruis, and a ruthless supporter of enslaving the nomads. Grace couldn’t manage to feel any compassion for the now-dead man, even if she’d shared his views on slavery before meeting Bran.

  “What do you think?” Grace looked up at her father.

  Brows furrowed, Lord Flores watched the rioters move down the street. Their property was well protected with stone walls and an iron gate. Even if the rioters and looters could breach it, there we
re the guards her father had hired. “We’re fools if we think we can rebuild the Tower fast enough to undo what has been done,” he replied. “It was built before anyone currently alive was born. It will take months, if not years, to rebuild. I believe it’s time to adapt and move on.”

  Grace arched an eyebrow quizzically. “That’s not what I meant. Do you think slavery is wrong?”

  Her father didn’t answer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Ruis won’t be safe for some time. If you leave the house, please make sure you’re properly escorted and go by carriage.”

  “I will.” Grace bit her lower lip, thinking. She planned on meeting Bran at the market in a couple of days. It wouldn’t do to miss their appointment. Losing the guards would be tricky, but she’d think of something.

  Grace studied her father out of the corner of her eye. He was still watching the streets. He had dark wavy hair and a face that was heavily lined—less as a result of age, but rather from his station as a magistrate. With Kingsley’s death he was now head magistrate of the city. There was a time when Grace would have been ecstatic at her father’s climb in rank. Now she only felt concern. He looked exhausted.

  He caught her worried look and smiled. “Don’t fret about me, Grace.” His smile wavered. “But I do worry about your mother.”

  Lady Flores had been a bundle of nerves with the destruction of the Tower, and expected an army of nomads on her doorstep at any given moment. Grace sighed inwardly. “I will take care of her, Father.”

  Lord Flores patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl.” He turned and walked down the hall, leaving Grace alone. She tapped her lips with a finger, thinking of Bran. She hoped he didn’t get caught up in any of the riots. He had enough troubles to worry about.

  3

  Bran

  Returning from the city, Bran saw Donell sitting at the edge of the sprawling camp, knees drawn up and head down. He was grieving for his sister. Ember had been a slave to one of the Oppressors in the city. An attempt had been made by Aaric, Adaryn, and Bran to end slavery, and while they’d succeeded, Ember had died in the attempt, giving her life to save Aaric’s.

  Bran moved past Donell quietly, not wanting to shame the younger man, but a small twig under his boot betrayed him.

  The red haired youth’s head snapped up as he hastily scrubbed tears off his face. He glared reproachfully at Bran before looking away. “I miss Ember,” he said simply.

  Bran stood silently. He understood the pain Donell felt, and knew that there wasn’t anything he could say to ease the sting of loss.

  “I hate them, Bran,” Donell continued, his voice strengthening. “I hate the Oppressors.”

  “I—” Bran stopped. He was going to mention some of the rumors he’d heard about some of the Oppressors siding with the nomads, but decided now wasn’t the time to say anything.

  Donell stood, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. “We should end this.” He peered through the trees in the direction of Ruis, as if he could see the dark factories and smoke. “Wipe the cursed city off the face of the earth. We could do it, now that they don’t have the means to collar us.” His gaze flicked to Bran’s throat. “And we have the sky jewel.”

  It was an effort not to reach up and finger the blue shard that hung by a leather cord around his neck, but Bran forced his hands to remain at his sides. “Revenge would be pointless, Donell.” He looked the younger man in the eyes until Donell’s gaze slid away to look toward Ruis again. “We’ve fought enough.”

  The young nomad’s jaw clenched. “Maybe so, but the Oppressors haven’t suffered enough.”

  Bran shook his head. “I’m not starting a war, Donell. I understand your pain, but—”

  “No, you don’t,” Donell interrupted, lip curled. His eyes held a fevered intensity, the tears he’d initially tried to hide making tracks down his dirty face. He stalked off before Bran could respond.

  But Bran did understand, didn’t he? Not having his father was like a hole in his heart he wasn’t sure would ever heal. Though the reason his father wasn’t alive was because he—no. Bran pushed the thought away. What was done was done. Bran had done everything he could.

  He shook his head, trying to banish the painful memory of Oisin, and resumed his walk to the center of camp. It was a huge ramble of makeshift tents made of furs and canvas, the scent of cook fires hanging in the air. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to disperse the nomadic clans now that the danger of enslavement was past, but despite their independent spirits, the clans stuck together. While Ruis had no means to collar the nomad, now there was strength in numbers.

  He watched the clan members he passed. The women sewed, cooked, and watched children as usual, but there was wariness in their eyes, their gazes often scanning the edge of camp. Men stood clustered in groups, talking in low voices, their expressions dark. Everyone was worried about repercussions from the people of Ruis.

  Kenroc was close to the center of camp, arguing in a circle of several men. Seeing Bran, he excused himself from the group and walked over to greet him. Tall and thin, he had brilliant blue eyes that matched his daughter Adaryn’s. Bran wondered again how she and Aaric were doing. They should be in the mountains by now. He hoped they were all right.

  “What’s going on?” Bran asked.

  Kenroc shrugged. “Many of the clansmen are angry with Ruis. They speak of war.”

  Bran eyed the group of men. “We can’t do that, Kenroc.”

  “I know.” The older man nodded. “While I’d like to see justice served to the Oppressors, I don’t think things would end very well for us.” His gaze fell on the sky jewel for a moment before he looked away. “But some think with the aid of the sky jewel, victory would easily be ours.”

  Bran didn’t respond. He didn’t care for the city of Ruis, but he did care about Grace. He couldn’t destroy her city, her people.

  “Have you considered my plan?” Kenroc asked.

  Bran fidgeted. “A little. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, yet.”

  Kenroc’s expression was puzzled. “We haven’t taken the clan south for some time. Getting everyone away from Ruis would be good for them, and we would avoid a fight.”

  “Perhaps, but here we have good hunting and more farms and villages to trade with,” Bran said. “Business and hunting are better here, always have been.”

  Kenroc nodded. “True, but we’ve been here long enough that trade would still be decent if we travel south. We could go to Sen Altare.”

  Bran didn’t reply. Kenroc noticed his hesitation and tilted his head to the side, studying him. “There’s something else that makes you wait. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Bran spoke too hastily and the older man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ll give it more thought,” Bran promised. “But the clans still haven’t split, Kenroc. It’s a big decision, trying to lead all the nomads. I feel like we’re our own city.”

  Kenroc nodded in understanding. “Think on it, Bran. The longer we stay, the more we risk straining the already tense relations between us and the northerners.”

  He began to walk back to the other clansmen when Bran remembered something. “Were you in Ruis this morning?”

  Kenroc shook his head. “No.”

  “Was anyone else from the clan?” Bran pressed.

  Kenroc shook his head again. “Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?”

  “I felt someone working magic in the city, but I couldn’t see who.”

  The older man shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “It was probably one of our people who refused to leave Ruis.” His face darkened. It was shameful to think that a clan member would choose a life with the Oppressors over their own people.

  Bran nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

  Kenroc rejoined the group of clansmen he’d left earlier, leaving Bran to mull over his words. Donell wanted to go to war, and Kenroc wanted to leave. It shamed Bran to think it, but with Grace mired in his affections, neither option was pleasant. There had to be a way to stay
close to Grace and find security for his people. Bran just didn’t know how.

  4

  Grace

  “Thank you for inviting me to tea, Lord Flores, Lady Flores.” Mr. Jameson lounged in a mahogany chair across from Grace, and smiled at her in what he probably thought was a disarming fashion. Grace smiled back stiffly, smoothing her white silk skirts. The man had come to discuss business with her father. Talk of business seemed to be over, and the two men had joined Grace and her mother over tea in one of the parlors.

  Today was the day Grace was supposed to meet Bran at the market, but her mother had unwittingly put an end to those plans when she’d insisted Grace stay for tea.

  Mr. Jameson was a handsome man, tall and thin, with perfectly combed straw-blond hair and mustache. His eyes were pale blue, his gray jacket tailored in a way that emphasized his broad shoulders.

  Handsome, but not Bran, Grace thought idly. She stirred a silver spoon delicately in her teacup, watching the lump of sugar dissolve.

  “So what are your thoughts on the recent events of Ruis?” Mr. Jameson asked her father. “Terrible, wouldn’t you say? What that crazed inventor was thinking, I never hope to know. He must have been mad.”

  “Perhaps,” Grace’s father mused, his tone bland. “Who can say?”

  “I can, for one,” Mr. Jameson replied, biting into a buttered crumpet. Grace tried not to wince at the crumbs left his in mustache. “The whole city is in an uproar, Lord Flores,” the man continued. “Work is being left undone because there’s no one left to do it. The slaves who have stayed have done so on the condition that their masters pay them. Pay them! It’s an outrage.”

  Grace’s mother tittered in agreement, and it was all Grace could do to not roll her eyes in exasperation.

  Mr. Jameson continued. “Collars or not, we need to grab these barbarians by the scruffs of their miserable necks and show them who’s boss, that’s what. What do you think, Miss Grace?”

  Grace started in surprise, staring back at the man. He smirked, showing the confidence of a man who was sure his audience would agree with him. “Well,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, “I don’t think paying them would be as bad as all that.” Mr. Jameson’s snort of disbelief made her lift her chin a fraction of an inch, and she arched an eyebrow. “Why not? If we try to force them to serve us, it won’t work nearly as well as it has in the past. We have superior weapons but they have magic. It will be full-out war, and neither party may emerge victorious.”