Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (24 page)

unjustified.” He shook the letter, the pages rattling in his hand. “This is nothing more than high praise for a

man for whom the town of Haines City has only the greatest respect. It is a request to have that man

permanently assigned to their town and—as best we can tell—was signed by every inhabitant of that

town who could wield a signature or make an X.”

Stunned, Cynyr felt moisture creeping into his eyes. His presence had never been wanted in any of the

towns through which he’d passed, and certainly no one had ever wanted him to return. The idea that

Brady and the others had asked for him brought a lump to his throat.

“Do you think you will make a good resident of Haines City, Lord Cree?” Lord Naois questioned.

Cynyr’s gaze shifted to that Shadowlord. “I would do my best, Your Grace.”

“Then you have no objections to being assigned to the town?” Lord Dunham asked.

“No, Your Grace. I have no objections.”

The Shadowlords consulted amongst themselves for a moment then Lord Kheelan decreed Cynyr would

be assigned to the town near the Exasla Territory.

“With one provision,” Lord Kheelan stressed. He held Cynyr’s gaze with a look that made it clear to the

Reaper the provision was of the utmost importance. “You must not—under any circumstances—make

contact with or cause problems for—Donal Greeley.” At Cynyr’s look of puzzlement, the high

commissioner reminded the Reaper of who the man was. “Your mate’s first husband.”

Cynyr had long ago decided to make Aingeal’s husband pay for having cast her off, trading her for a

brace of animals. That and the abusive way he had treated Aingeal while they were married had made for

Donal Greeley a lifelong enemy in Cynyr Cree.

“The High Council granted the annulment though we were unaware the man had such nefarious plans for

his wife,” Lord Dunham said. “Had we known, we would not have agreed to the annulment.”

“A good thing for you, though, wasn’t it, Cree?” Lord Naois asked. “Else you would not have been able

to Join with the lady.”

“You are to stay clear of Donal Greeley,” Lord Kheelan said. “Is that understood?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Cynyr said, though every instinct screamed at him to demand vengeance in his

lady’s name.

“There are two other matters which we will need to address before you return to Haines City, but for

now, that is all,” Lord Kheelan said. “You are dismissed.”

Cynyr quickly saluted the Shadowlords then pivoted on his heel and marched to the door, Arawn

Gehdrin right behind him. As he passed the other five Reapers, he was relieved to see respect in their

eyes and not censure.

Aingeal was waiting outside the High Council chamber when Cynyr came out. She would have run to

him but the stern look on his face pulled her up short. She came sedately forward, wringing her hands as

she searched his face for signs of what punishment he would be made to undergo.

“
Mo tiarna
?” she questioned so softly, her voice was nothing more than a breath of sound.

“I have some good news and some bad news, wench,” Cynyr said. “Which do you want first?”

Aingeal’s face fell. “The bad.”

“Aye, well, the bad is the Council has decreed you watch my punishment,” he said as though the matter

was of little import to him.

“W-what kind of punishment?” she asked.

“The good news,” he said, ignoring her question, “is they have decided we may stay together and have

reassigned me to live in Haines City.”

Aingeal’s eyes widened. “Truly?” she gasped.

“It seems the good citizens of that city requested Cree’s presence, though for the life of me, I can’t

imagine what he could have done to cause such affection for himself,” the Prime Reaper said, his grin

belying the severity of his words.

“He’s a good man!” Aingeal snapped, raking her eyes over the tall man at Cynyr’s side. “Why would

they not want him?”

Gehdrin’s eyes flashed at her ready defense of her mate and he reached out to slap Cynyr on the back.

“You’ve a hellion far worse than any revenant worm with which to contend, Cree. I don’t envy you,

brother.”

The other Reapers chuckled at the remark and Aingeal turned a withering glare to them.

“You will need to report to Level One within the hour, Cree,” the Prime Reaper said, the smile slipping

from his handsome face.

“Aye, milord,” Cynyr agreed.

“What is Level One?” Aingeal asked.

“The lowest part of this building. It is where the Containment Cells are located.”

“Containment…? What are they going to do to you?” Aingeal demanded. She paid no attention to the

other Reapers as they walked off.

“I am to be imprisoned for—”

“What?” she shouted.

“For a month, wench,” Cynyr said, glancing up at the Reapers who had turned at the outburst. “Only a

month then we’ll be allowed to return to Haines City and Moira McDermott’s god-awful grits.”

Something in her lover’s face unsettled Aingeal, and she tried to slip past his guard and read the sentence

in his mind, but he was blocking her just as the lead-lined walls behind which the High Council met had

blocked her ability to
hear
what was transpiring in the chamber.

“What aren’t you telling me, Reaper?” she asked, her heart racing.

He reached for her hands and lifted them to his chest, holding them captive against his heart. “Wench, I

broke a Council rule by taking you to mate without permission.”

“Would they have granted that permission?” she snapped.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I also broke Council law by Transferring one of my parasites to you. That

is the reason for my punishment, and I am prepared to meet that punishment as it is meted out.” He lifted

her hands to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “You, as my wife, must be prepared to stand beside me no

matter how you feel about the sentence.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

Cynyr took a deep breath. “My stay in the Containment Cell must be without Sustenance or tenerse,” he

stated.

“But you’ll Transition,” she said.

“Aye, I will.”

At first she didn’t understand why such a sentence would be punishment. Reapers Transitioned four

times a year, more if they made themselves change. Then she thought perhaps it was because she was to

be a witness to his changing and he did not want her to view the shape-shifting.

“I don’t see—” she began, but he laid his finger across her lip.

“When you Transition, it is generally for the space of a week. Rarely do we go beyond eight days,” he

said. “During that time, most of us are either on assignment and change out amongst animals from which

we can feed or we lock ourselves in a place where we can not harm any stray humans. If we’re roaming

free, tenerse isn’t a priority because we are feeding the parasite what She needs. We take tenerse only to

control the Transition to keep us from shifting out of cycle.”

“I’m not sure—”

“You have experienced what it is like to need the tenerse,” he said gently. “You know how

uncomfortable it can be when the parasite is demanding to feed.”

She nodded slowly, beginning to suspect what he was about to say.

“You have seen the pain I had when I needed to feed.”

“Oh, Cynyr!” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “No.”

He was being bombarded by her misery, for the reality of his situation was being brought home to her.

“I can handle it, wench,” he said, gathering her to him.

“I’ll go to them! I’ll talk to them,” she said, trying to pull free of him but he wouldn’t allow it.

“And shame me before them?” he asked quietly. “Have them think I sent my woman to plead my case?”

He shook his head. “No, wench. You’ll stand by and watch me take my punishment and not show the

first sign of weakness. You are not only a Reaper’s mate, you too are a Reaper now.”

She wanted to rail against the men who were forcing her love to go through impending torment. Her

minor discomfort when she’d needed tenerse had not seemed particularly bad but she could well imagine

what it was going to be like for Cynyr to spend an agonizing four weeks in the throes of such suffering.

“Don’t dwell on it, wench,” he said. He kissed her on the top of her head then released her. He stepped

back. “Now, smile for me before I go.”

“Cynyr…” she began her face pinched with misery.

“Smile for me,” he bid again, and when she managed to do so tremulously, he chucked her under the

chin, turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the corridor, her heart in her tearful eyes.

Aingeal was sitting despondently in the center courtyard when Arawn Gehdrin found her. He had been

dispatched by the High Council.

It had been well over three weeks since she had last seen her husband and every waking hour, every

sleepless night was an agony for her. At first, she had tried to deny herself both the Sustenance and

tenerse that had been provided for her, but had been unable to endure the building pain. She was angry

that she was such a weakling and could not go more than a day without taking the substances.

She had felt the Prime Reaper coming but chose not to speak to him. As he came to stand beside the

long marble bench upon which she was seated, she didn’t bother to glance up at him or acknowledge his

presence.

“They say we’re going to have an early winter this year,” the Prime Reaper said as he put a foot on the

bench and leaned an elbow on his crooked knee. “It’s good you’ll be out of here long before the snow

flies.”

“I am accustomed to snow, Lord Arawn,” she said.

“I’d never seen snow before I came here,” he said. “On Rysalia, the climate is always temperate. I’ve

been here over twenty years and have yet to accustom myself to it.”

“You can get used to anything if you but try.”

Arawn looked out over the beautiful lake where geese were lazily paddling across the glassy surface.

The cherry trees were bare of fruit now, but the memory of them in full bloom—when they were at their

most majestic beauty—always delighted him. The petals falling to the ground like snow and floating upon

the lake water was a sight that never failed to calm him.

“Why have you sought me out?” Aingeal asked, fearing she knew the answer.

“The Shadowlords have sent for you.”

“They are going to let me see him now?” She’d tried several times to get in to see the High Council but

had been turned away, the last time with a stern warning not to come again until sent for.

“Aye,” Arawn said quietly. “His Reaper brethren will accompany you to Level One.

Aingeal was watching a family of geese waddling past. She’d brought bread crumbs with her each time

she’d come to the courtyard, but now her bag was empty and the geese paid no attention to her.

“I am carrying his child,” she said.

“We know.”

There was no need for Aingeal to ask how the Reapers and Shadowlords knew. They were as adept at

reading minds as she was becoming. Rarely, though, did she use her newfound ability, for others’

thoughts were their own and she did not like to intrude. Some minds—like that of the man standing

beside her—were closed and locked against her probing.

“Is our child to be taken from us?” she asked, her hands twisting in the bag on her lap.

Arawn turned his face toward her. “Why would you think such a thing?”

Aingeal shrugged. “It seems Cyn and I have little say over our lives. Nothing the High Council does

would surprise me.”

The Prime Reaper was silent for a moment then skirted the bench and came to sit down beside her.

“Aingeal, yours will be the first Reaper son born on Terra since before the War. The High Council is as

delighted as my men and I are.”

Aingeal looked around at him, her face showing her surprise. “I forgot Cyn had said there were Reapers

here before the War,” she said.

“Half a dozen or so,” Arawn answered. “They and their families were evacuated before the War

started.”

“Did they run?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Morrigunia swept them up and took them away along with those who were close to

them. It was Her decision to do that, not the Reapers’. I am told my brethren were quite furious that She

had not allowed them to remain on their adopted world to help rebuild it.”

“She knew what was going to happen?”

“She is the goddess of Life, Death and War. She knew.”

“Where are the Reapers now?”

“No one but the Triune Goddess knows, but I suspect wherever they are, they are safe. They earned

their rest whether they thought so or not.”

“To be a Reaper is not to be the captain of your soul,” Aingeal said quietly.

“It sometimes feels that way,” Arawn agreed.

The two were silent for a moment. Aingeal—though anxious to see her husband—was afraid of what it

was she’d see. She had gloried in her own Transition and found it exhilarating. Despite the pain of her

shifting, she was looking forward to her next cycle.

“He most likely will not know you,” Arawn said. “He will be more animal than man and in a great deal of

pain.”

“Don’t,” she said, and stood up. She let the bag fall to the ground as she crossed her arms protectively

over her chest.

Arawn stood up as well. “I am only trying to prepare you for what you’ll see, my lady.”

“There is no need,” she said, lifting her head. “I’ve imagined the horror of it many times over the last few

weeks.”

“I am sure you have.”

She took one last look at the tranquility of the lake then began walking back toward the building, Arawn