Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (25 page)

came of age. I've even have a name for her."

The look on Nick's face was compelling. “What name would you give her, Captain Cree?” Kaelan

inquired, smiling.

“The Revenant,” Nick announced proudly. “It means a person who returns after a long absence."

Kaelan's brow furrowed. “Is there a significance to that, Captain?"

“Aye,” Nick stated, firmly, nodding emphatically. “I would paint her white as snow-so white her lines

will dazzle the eye-so that when those Diabolusian jackasses see her coming, they'll quake in their boots

and thinks she's a ghostling come back from the grave to steal their souls!"

“Ah,” Kaelan said, nodding slowly. “You want them to think of the Outlaw.” He was referring to his

great-granduncle, Syn-Jern Sorn, whose ship, The WindLass, had been all white and the scourge of the

Seven Seas.

Nick grinned. “You should be proud to have such an illustrious ancestor. The Outlaw led a rebellious

brood of Viragonians, didn't he?"

Kaelan shrugged. “Aye, and me about to join them tonight."

The grin left Nick's face. “You do want to Join with Gilly, don't you, Kaelan?"

“You know I do,” Kaelan answered, locking his gaze with Nick's. “I've never wanted anything more and

never wanted anyone but her."

“That's good,” Nick said with relief, “because I don't think you have much choice!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Rolf de Viennes climbed back into his saddle. “If they came this way, we should have found some sign of

their passing.” He glared at their tracker. “I see nothing to indicate we are on the right trail."

“It's been snowing, Rolf,” Duncan yawned. His dark eyes surveyed the landscape around them. “Snows

tends to cover tracks or have you not noticed that phenomenon before?"

“All the same,” de Viennes complained, “if Cree brought her this way...” He flung his arms about the

jagged peaks surrounding them. “...it was a foolhardy thing to do in the dead of winter. There is precious

little shelter to be found among these crags!"

“My son is no fool,” Dakin Cree snapped. “If they passed this way, he both knew where he was going

and how to keep them safe during the storm!” He had little faith in his own words, but his tone suggested

he was not concerned. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Duncan yawned again and scratched at the wool around his neck. He surveyed the pass through which

they'd come and knew they would have to make camp soon. They were all tired and it would be another

day or two—at least—before they reached Holy Dale and what dubious comfort might be found there.

Already the sun was lowering and the chill was seeping through his damp clothing. “We'll set up camp

here, I think,” he said, climbing down from his mount and handing the stallion's reins to the tracker like

more snow is on the way."

De Viennes glanced up at the steel-gray sky that was streaked with a glorious pink lemonade sunset to

the east of where they had stopped. He ground his teeth. “I'm all for going on for a few more hours, Your

Grace,” he seethed.

“I am not,” Duncan replied. He unbuttoned his fly and began to urinate against a rock. “I am tired and

hungry, Rolf, and if Nick and the girl passed this way, they are more than likely safe and warm at Holy

Dale."

“Holy Dale?” Dakin questioned. Why did that name sound so familiar to him? Was it a monastery? A

house of religious?

Duncan ignored the Chalean ambassador. He looked at his tracker. “As soon as you've secured my nag,

I want you to take two men and go on toward the estate."

“Aye, Your Grace,” the tracker said, although his heart was not in further travel that night. “And when

we get there, Majesty? What are your orders?"

“If they're there, Utley, keep them there,” Duncan sighed. “Lock all three of them in the cellar where the

Outlaw use to hide out when the Tribunal troops came raiding."

“The three of them?” Dakin dismounted. “To whom do you refer, Your Grace? Who is the third

person?"

“He's there,” Duncan snapped with irritation as he stuffed himself back into the warmth of his cords.

“Who?” The Chalean ambassador was confused.

“That idjit brother of mine,” Duncan replied nastily. “Kaelan is at Holy Dale."

Dakin stared at him. “He is back from Rysalia?"

“Fool!” de Viennes chortled. “The bastard was never in Rysalia!"

“Don't insult him, Rolf,” Duncan cautioned. “Kaelan is as legal as you. Much to my disgust."

“But I thought...” Dakin began, only to stop himself. He looked from the Prince Regent to de Viennes

and back again, finally beginning to realize the evil these men—and no doubt his beloved wife—had

wrought against Kaelan and Gillian. His shoulders sagged. “He's not married, either, is he?"

“Not anymore!” de Viennes chuckled.

Dakin looked away from the two men. “You lied to us,” he accused.

Duncan—instead of being angered by the remark—was amused. “Let's just say I bent the truth to the

benefit of your daughter, Duke Cree."

Dakin shook his head. “Nay, not to Gilly's benefit.” He turned a narrowed gaze to de Viennes. “Rather

to this man's, I'd wager. All Gillian got from such lies was heartache. She grieved long and hard over that

second marriage."

“Didn't we marry him off several times, Your Grace?” de Viennes tittered. “How many wives did we say

he had?"

Dakin winced. “Gilly cried many a tear when she heard Prince Kaelan had taken a harem."

Duncan fanned away the accusation. “Female vapors.” He could not understand how any woman could

love so intensely, for none had ever graced him with such intensity of feeling. Although at long last, his

drudge of a wife was breeding-nearing her term, thank the gods-she cared no more for him than he did

for her. If truth were told, it was Kaelan whom Frieda loved.

“And I agreed to this Joining,” Dakin sighed. It would do no good to protest; he had given his oath to

these two dishonest men and Chalean honor required he not go back on his word.

“I will be a good and loving husband to your daughter, Duke Cree,” de Viennes said. “For her, I have

changed many of my old ways."

Dakin looked at de Viennes, but wisely kept his counsel. It would be sheer folly to insult this man whom

the Prince Regent had named Court Chancellor. Instead, the Chalean resolutely turned his face from the

deceiving bastard.

“Oh, ho, Duncan!” de Viennes chortled. “I believe we have sorely disillusioned our fine ambassador!

Buck up, Dakin,” Duncan replied, his lips twitching with merriment as he accepted a flask of hot spiced

wine from his valet. “Your lovely daughter will fare better with the good Rolf than ever she would with a

rapscallion such as my poor besotted brother."

The Chalean ambassador did not reply to the comment. He had failed miserably his most beloved of

children and had sentenced her to a loveless marriage with a man neither he nor Gillian liked. Moving

away from the Prince and his Chancellor, he hunkered down before the fledgling fire that had been built

under a high overhang of rock. His eyes were bleak and his heart aching in his chest for there was nothing

he could do to right the great wrong he had helped to perpetuate.

* * * *

At precisely midnight on the eighteenth of November in the year now known as the Year of the

Whirlwind, Brother Herbert Welmeyer united in Joining Prince Kaelan Hesar, Duke of Winterstorm, and

the Countess Gillian Cree, daughter of the Duke of Warthenham, Ambassador to the Court of Tempest

Keep. Lumley Tarnes gave the bride away; Nicholas Cree was the best man; and Brownie was the

maid-of-honor.

[Back to Table of Contents]

His Eminence, Arch-Prelate Caldonicus Zein, looked up from his reading and frowned. A great sigh

came from his thinned lips as he settled back in his chair and fixed his stygian-dark stare on his visitor.

“You know what this means, of course,” the Arch-Prelate stated.

The tall man standing before Caldonicus’ desk shrugged. “I have some understanding of the workings of

the Higher Court, Your Eminence."

“We have not censured a member of this Brotherhood since one of our own tribe was brought up before

the Council of Peers fifty years ago.” The Arch-Prelate made a disgusted sound. “And even then, his

accusers were sentenced; not he."

“To be one of The People,” Occultus Noire acknowledged, “is to be One with Honor.” His dark eyes

glazed with hatred. “There is no honor in Coure and the Court will surely see that, Your Eminence."

“Despite this petition against him, I fear Tolkan Coure will ascend to this office eventually,” Caldonicus

complained. His frown deepened and thunderclouds formed on his wrinkled brow. “He is almost as bad

as Galbrieth Courne was and that man-may the Great God, Raphian, roast his soul in the Abyss for the

span of Time Known-murdered our first Arch-Prelate in his sleep to obtain the title for himself!"

Occultus nodded politely; he had heard this tale from His Eminence, Demonicus Bael, the then Cardinal

of Ordination, who had initiated Occultus into the secret sect of the Brotherhood of the Domination.

The Arch-Prelate's lips quivered with suppressed laughter as he read Occultus’ memories. “I believe that

is the way Demonicus took the throne and I've no doubt that if Coure ever makes it to this room, that will

be the way his end will come, as well!"

“Tolkan is a man to be watched,” Occultus ventured.

“And watched closely!” Caldonicus grumbled. “He would be the next Arch-Prelate, if he could!"

Once again, Occultus nodded in agreement. He knew he, himself, would be the next chosen to sit the

Throne of Raphian, although the thought did not please Occultus Noire. He was not sure he could ever

commit himself to the all-invasive evil that was required of the Cardinal of Ordination-the office just one

step removed from that of the Arch-Prelacy, itself and one to which he had recently been nominated. As

Cardinal of Proctors, he had already begun to question the goals of the Brotherhood.

“And as for this other matter...” Caldonicus threw up his hands. “What do we do about this man?"

The Cardinal of Ordination smiled slightly—the thin lips a mere slit of amusement in his dark, lupine

face—and arched one thick black brow.

“Despite the accusations against him, Your Eminence, there is no evidence of this man's involvement with

the Dark Arts.” Occultus’ smile became a wicked grin. “In all actuality, I would imagine he was just as

stunned by what happened after he cursed the village as were the villagers, themselves."

Caldonicus shrugged. “Could be. I am told the man was sorely provoked by their ill-treatment of him."

“Who would not be?"

“Still, as with every complaint brought Tribunal's attention, we, ourselves, must investigate.” Caldonicus

reached for a sheet of parchment, scribbled a few lines, applied his personal seal to the missive, then

handed it to Occultus. “Bring him in for questioning."

* * * *

On the morning of the nineteenth day of November, Occultus Noire with an accompaniment of seven

Tribunal guards boarded ship at Boreas Keep, Serenia. Their destination: Wixenstead Harbor in the

Principality of Virago.

From the window of his throne room, King Drayton McGregor watched the High Priest making his way

up the gangplank of the Boreal Queen. The taste of loathing flooded the Serenian king's mouth and his

hand tightened

“Do you think he is one of them?” his youngest son asked.

Drayton nodded. “Aye, the bastard is one of them! Can't you smell his evil, boy?"

Prince Thècion McGregor understood well the hatred in his father's voice and the gleam of vengeance in

the older man's eye. The Brotherhood of the Domination had been a scourge to the people of

Serenia—to the people of all the kingdoms—for six generations. Since the time of the Burning War. Little

had been done to check the momentum of the evil sect despite the efforts of men like the Outlaw,

Syn-Jern Sorn.

“One day,” the king prophesied through clenched teeth, “there will come a man who will wipe that filth

from the face of the earth!"

“I hope to live to see it,” Thècion said.

“As do I,” his father sighed, turning from the window. He plowed his hands through his thick sandy hairs.

“I have heard they are going after some poor unfortunate."

Thècion continued to watch the procession of guards boarding the Boreal Queen. “You think so?” He

felt a tremor of unease wiggle down his spine. “What happens when they do?"

Drayton sat down heavily on his throne and stared blindly across the magnificence of the Court of the

Winds. “What do you think will happen, Thècion?” he snapped. “They will take him into custody and

interrogate him!” He spat out a vulgarity that surprised his son for the king was not given to the use of

such words.

“You mean they'll question him?” Thècion asked.

“No, interrogate!” Drayton McGregor spat. “Torture is what it really is!” He pounded his fist on the arm

of his throne chair. “Who would not confess to anything those bastards wanted you to say when they

have finished with their hot irons and barbed whips?"

The king's youngest son came to stand beside his father. “Is there any way we can help, Papa?"

Drayton shook his head. “Not unless we know who they're going after and get to the man first!” He

glanced up at his son as he spoke—expecting to see pity on Thècion's lean face—and did a double-take;