Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (31 page)

does she love me, but we are finally to be parents ‘fore the end of the month! Hell, she might even have

had the brat by now!"

A humorless smile touched Kaelan's lips. “My congratulations, brother,” he said. “What names have you

picked out for my niece or nephew?"

“Don't change the subject!” Duncan raked both hands through his hair and pulled. “What am I going to

do with you?"

“Don't have Elga here to advise you, Dunc?” Kaelan tutted.

Thunderclouds formed on Duncan's brow. “Do not bait me, I tell you! And do not bring that conniving

old biddy into this! I haven't been to her bed in two years!"

Kaelan glanced toward the stairs where the Duke of Warthenham had come to stand. How long the man

had been there—and just how much of the conversation he'd heard—

wasn't clear; but from the look on the older man's face, he had heard enough to disgust him. He cast

Kaelan a look of embarrassment, turned, and slowly went back up the stairs.

“Kaelan, Kaelan, Kaelan,” Duncan said, drawing his brother's gaze back to him. “You know adultery is

punishable by the lash."

“I know it very well,” Kaelan admitted, shifting in the chair. In his dreams, he could still hear the crack of

Justus Sinclair's whip being laid across his flesh. Gillian had assured him no scars were visible on his flesh

from the beating.

“And yet you took that girl's maidenhead with no care for her reputation nor your own safety,” Duncan

accused. “How am I to protect you from the Tribunal when they find out you have lain with a married

woman? That you took her maidenhead? You know de Viennes will accuse you of rape for that offense

alone! Five lashings of a bullwhip at Freddie's hand for fighting in the compound is nothing compared to

fifty passes of a cat-'o-nine at the hands of the Tribunal's executioner!"

Despite himself, Kaelan shuddered. “I would guess not, but it is not adultery when you sleep with you

own wife, Duncan."

“She is not...” Duncan went as still as a statue, his eyes flared, and his mouth opened on a long, fearful

intake of breath. When he exhaled, his voice was a near whisper: “What have you done, Kaelan?"

“Do you think I would shame Gillian Cree or her family, Duncan? I have been in love with her for years.

I have dreamed of her every night of my life since Anson died. Do you think me such a bastard that I

would dare lay hands to her unless I had been given that right by what I took to be a legal Joining?"

“Legal?” Duncan whispered. He blinked, blinked again. “How could it be legal? I did not give you

permission to court her nor wed her, brother!” He glared at Kaelan. “And besides, I betrothed her to

Rolf de Viennes over a year ago. Surely she told you that!"

“You betrothed her to him against her wishes,” Kaelan said.

“That ... doesn't ... matter,” Duncan stressed. He clenched his jaw. “Who dared perform the ceremony

for you, Kaelan?"

The younger man did not answer, but continued to look calmly—though somewhat apprehensively—up

at his brother. After a long moment of pregnant silence, the king shook his head.

“It doesn't matter; the Joining is invalid since she belongs legally to Rolf and has for a fortnight.” He put

his hands on his hips, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep, calming breath, then spoke

with quiet frustration. “You don't have any idea what you've done."

“I have married the woman I love,” Kaelan answered. “And she loves me. We want to be together,

Duncan. Annul her Joining to de Viennes and let it be."

Without looking up, the king stared at the grimy floor beneath his feet. “That can not be allowed.” He

kicked at the old rug beside his left boot. “Not ever."

Kaelan stopped breathing. The toe of his brother's boot had dislodged a section of the moth-eaten rug

and the recessed handle of the trapdoor had been revealed. He didn't think anything Duncan was seeing

was registering with him, but he couldn't take that chance.

“I would rather see her dead than have you hand her over to a man of Rolf de Viennes’ ilk!” Kaelan

shouted, wondering where that particular hell-spawned demon was at the moment. He knew damned

well the bastard would have come with Duncan.

Duncan looked up at him. “Be careful what you say; the man is just upstairs."

“I don't give a rat's arse where he is!” Kaelan sneered. He raised his voice. “Let the lecherous son of a

bitch come down here if he takes exception to my calling him a mule-licking jackass!"

There was a muffled snarl of rage from above stairs and the scuffling of feet, more muted explosions of

vitriolic protest, then a loud shout to ‘BE QUIET!'

Kaelan laughed. “Cree doesn't care any more for the man than does his daughter or I, does he,

Duncan?"

Duncan didn't acknowledge the jibe. He turned his head, looked across the cellar to where a large,

heavy-looking oaken table stood against one wall, then back down at the rug beside him.

Kaelan's heart began to thud hard in his chest. There was no mistaking the four indentations in what was

left of the old rug's nap: four indentations where four legs had held up the weight of a heavy table.

Duncan slowly lifted his gaze to Kaelan, then in a quiet, dangerous voice he asked Utley if they had

looked for the false cellar where it was rumored the Outlaw had often hid so many years before.

“Aye, Majesty,” Utley said, his brows coming together over the beak of his nose, “but we found no...”

He stopped for his king had bent down, tossed the rug aside, and was lifting what could be nothing else

but a trapdoor in the floor.

“And did you look here, Master Utley?” Duncan growled throwing the door back and peering into the

false cellar.

Utley stammered. “Nay, Your Grace, we did not."

“Get down there,” Duncan ordered, turning to look back at his brother. His expression was stern.

“Where is the bolt hole in there, Kaelan?” He wasn't expecting the younger man to speak, but when he

did, the king's face turned hard and bitter.

“You know damned well I ain't gonna tell you nothing Duncan,” Kaelan informed him.

The king just stared at him, waiting for Utley's report. Folding his arms over his chest, he simply stood

there and contemplated Kaelan with a look that would have shaken another man for it boded ill for that

man's future.

Utley poked his head up through the trapdoor hole. “The floor's dirt, Sire. Can't see any levers or such.

The lads are pushing on the walls for a sliding panel or the like. It may take awhile."

Duncan nodded, speaking without taking his eyes from Kaelan. “Take all the time you need, Master

Utley; it's there."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Thècion McGregor stared at the tall, lanky man in the russet robe who stood near the bow of the other

ship, contemplating the wake passing under the hull.

“I've heard he's to be the next Arch-Prelate,” Diarmuid said, shivering. He ran his hands over the sleeves

of his heavy jacket. “Do you reckon he'll be as dangerous as Caldonicus?"

“Probably even more so,” Thècion accused. “They seem to get worse and worse with each generation."

Diarmuid didn't like the intense cold that was pelting them. His land was one of green hills and dales,

sweet rain and crashing salt waves, wee folk dancing through the heather on a warm summer's night. This

blasted North Boreal Sea could not compare to his gentle Taran Bay at all.

“You know, Thècion,” he said, pulling the collar of his thick wool jacket up under his ears, “I came

across an old manuscript in my Grandda's trunk a few years back. Did I ever tell you?"

Thècion was staring intently at the High Priest whose name he had found out was Occultus Noire. “Nay,

you didn't tell me."

“I did,” Diarmuid stated. “It was called the Wind Legend Chronicle and had to do with the one the Wind

Warrior's call the Dark Overlord of the Wind."

The romantic mysterious title gained the Serenian prince's instant attention. Thècion's head jerked

toward his companion. “What of him?"

“It tells his name,” Diarmuid whispered, “though it made no sense to me."

“What was the name?"

Diarmuid blushed although the heat in his cheeks was hard to see for the roughness of the cold that had

already turned them red. He ducked his head. “Thècion."

Thècion stared at him. “Thècion?” he said, dropping his own name as though it were a heavy stone into

deep water.

“Aye.” Diarmuid blushed again. “That's what it said, and beside the name was the drawing of a big black

raven."

“Ah, well that explains it, then!” Thècion said with relief. “Thècion is Oceanian for ‘black-winged

scavenger', Dear Mutt,” he scoffed.

Diarmuid hated the way his friend often mispronounced his name and bristled against the playful insult.

He tilted his nose upward. “Well, They Shun,” he grated, using his own mangling of his friend's name, “I

knew gods-be-damned well it wasn't you to who the manuscript referred."

Thècion grinned. In Serenian High Speech, Thècion, was pronounced ‘thay zjun’ and meant lordly one.

The word thesion, pronounced ‘they shun', meant mighty warrior.

Diarmuid frowned at the grin. “What?” he asked suspiciously, wondering what he had said to amuse his

friend.

“To whom,” Thècion corrected. “It is ‘to whom the manuscript referred'."

Diarmuid rolled his eyes, refusing to comment on the correction. “But that's not to say that a generation

or two down the road, there won't be another Thècion who will become the Dark Overlord of the

Wind!"

“Or use the code name Raven as his own!” Thècion taunted.

“Bloody hell,” Diarmuid exclaimed, moving back from the rail. “He's looking at us!"

Thècion turned to see where his friend was looking and saw the tall russet-robed priest staring across

the widening distance between them. Without even thinking of what he was doing, the young Serenian

prince lifted his hand and waved, smiling as he did so.

“By the gods, you fool! Don't insult the man!” Diarmuid gasped. “He'll curse you for sure!"

A slight tremor of fear ran down Thècion's spine for he had certainly meant no insult, but then he blinked

with shocked surprise when the priest raised his right hand—palm toward the young men—above his

head, then slowly closed his fingers into a fist and brought it to his heart in a long-held salute before lifting

it again, fist skyward.

“I'll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian warthog!” Diarmuid whispered, seeing, but not believing the

exchange. He flicked his startled eyes to Thècion and found his friend smiling. “Do you know what he

did?” he asked Thècion with disbelief.

“Aye, I know,” Thècion said, bowing his head respectfully in the priest's direction, not surprised in the

least when the priest lowered his fist and also bowed his head slightly before turning once more to study

the waves. “He gave me the Sign of the Wind, the ancient salute of subject to Overlord: a greeting of

obedience."

“If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it,” Diarmuid breathed with awe. “The

men of the Brotherhood of the Domination do not extend such greetings, Thècion.” He studied his

companion with budding hero-worship. “But he actually saluted you! Maybe you will be the Dark

Overlord!"

Thècion shook his head. “Not me, my friend.” As the Boreal Queen tacked leeward—obstructing the

prince's view of the lanky priest—Thècion nodded. “But maybe one of my ancestors, eh?"

“It doesn't change anything, Thècion,” Diarmuid said, stamping his feet to warm them.

Thècion turned to him. “Change what?"

“That priest going after Kaelan Hesar."

There was a warmth spreading over the young Serenian warrior that was beginning to set his heart and

mind at ease. He cast one final look at the rapidly-disappearing Boreal Queen and sighed.

“Aye, I think it changed everything completely, Dear Mutt. Everything."

Across the waves, Occultus Noire smiled, hearing the conversation as clearly in his mind as if the two

young warrior-princes were at his side. He unbent his rigid back and leaned on the rail, folding his hands

together and staring once more deeply into the rolling sea. “How could you know that simple, mindless

gesture would decide me, Prince Thècion?” he asked softly. “That guileless act of friendly greeting to a

man by rights you should hate and fear?"

Occultus breathed in the cold saltwater air and continued to make plans that would one day bring

him-although he did not know it at that time-into very close contact with the man the Old Ones had

foretold:

The Dark Overlord of the Wind.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Duncan came back from his trek to the end of the Outlaw's tunnel in a black rage. His hands were

clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily with the force it took to keep his volatile temper under

control. By the time he climbed the steps up from the false cellar and reached his brother's side, there

was neither compassion nor brotherly respect left in his cold heart. “She will be found, Kaelan,” he spat.

“The tracks are easy enough to read in the snow.” A muscle jumped in his taut jaw. “I had not thought

they would try for Serenia, but that is of little count."

Kaelan reckoned Nick had at least thirty minutes to an hour's start on his trackers. Lumley Tarnes had

assured both men he knew the way to Ciona, eight miles or so down the coast of Virago. The seacoast