Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (37 page)

will care if he lives or died."

“That ain't precisely true,” Royce reminded him. “There's Kymmie and Ned."

“SHUT UP!” Jasper ordered. The noose around his neck was cutting off his breath.

“The gods help us,” Royce moaned, grabbing his head where he could almost feel the ax descending.

“He's got to be dead!"

“Got to be,” Jasper echoed. “Just got to be!"

* * * *

“I don't see how you hope to get up there,” the stable owner said, shaking his head. “We had near to

eight inches of snow last evening. Can you not wait until morning when the roads are bound to be more

passable?"

Despite the man's obvious lineage—and the animosity that had always been there between his world and

Thècion's—the Serenian prince took a chance on Raine Jale.

“We've reason to believe Prince Kaelan's life danger,” he admitted. “To wait would be folly."

Diarmuid cast his companion a sidelong look, wondering at Thècion's motive for telling the Hasdu man

such a thing. With great effort, the Chalean prince kept his mouth shut, though, and let McGregor handle

things.

Raine Jale's black eyes bore into the Serenian. There was a directness in the young man's gaze that was

not always there from the Viragonians with whom Jale did business. Although no one in Wixenstead

village had ever dared show their mistrust to his face, Raine Jale knew it was there, nevertheless. They

had welcomed him, but had never made him part of the community in which he had lived since his exile

from his native home of Ventura.

“You are friends of the prince?” Jale asked, studying the taller and darker of the two men.

“Diarmuid is,” Thècion replied. “But I want to be."

Jale folded his arms over a thick, barrel chest. “Why?” he queried.

Thècion's left brow shot upward. “Why?” he repeated, both surprised and confused by the question.

“Aye, Your Grace,” Jale replied, firmly. “It is a logical question considering how many enemies the Duke

of Winterstorm has earned for himself here."

“We are not from here,” Diarmuid put in, fanning away his companion's objection to his interference.

“Nor do we approve of how Kaelan has been treated by his own kin."

Raine Jale's mouth lifted up at the corners in wry amusement. “But it has just now taken you until this

very moment to come to his aide."

“The Tribunal wasn't after him before now,” Thècion snapped. “I'd say that was reason enough to come

‘this very moment', wouldn't you?!"

Diarmuid gawked at his friend. Had McGregor lost his mind? Telling this man...

“I've two Rysalian mounts who are progeny of my own stallion,” Jale snapped as he began to stride

purposefully down the row of stalls, cutting Diarmuid's dismay off in mid protest. “And a stallion I've

been boarding for quite some time now.” He flung a hand toward the saddles along a far wall. “Find what

you need there, while I saddle His Grace's mount."

Even as his companion stood there with his mouth ajar and his eyes as wide as saucers, Thècion was

hurrying to a fine Ionarian-tooled saddle that had been draped over one of the stable's low partitioning

walls.

“Don't just stand there, Dear Mutt!” Thècion ordered. “Grab a saddle!"

Diarmuid snapped his mouth shut, shook away the shock that had frozen him in his tracks, and walked

to the group of saddles.

“Why is he helping us?” the Chalean prince whispered, casting a look down the stalls to where the

Hasdu was escorting a horse out of the last stall. Diarmuid's mouth dropped open again. “BY THE

GODS!” he exclaimed. “THAT'S REVENGE! THAT'S KAELAN'S PRIZE STALLION!"

Jale nodded curtly as he brought the sleek black horse toward the two men. “Aye, it is.” He had looped

a bridle over the steed's elegant head and was now tying the reins to an upright. “And you can't take that

particular saddle, Your Grace, because it belongs with this magnificent beast."

Thècion looked down at the beautifully-crafted leather and nodded; he threw the saddle over Revenge's

back. “A most fitting adornment, I'd say.” As Jale cinched the saddle into place, Thècion ran his hands

over the powerful steed. “How come you to have his horse, Raine?"

Jale looked up from his work-pleased by the use of his first name-and grinned. “Burgher Sinclair brought

the horse here just last week to be re-shod.” He winked. “Lucky for Prince Kaelan, eh?"

Diarmuid frowned. “I can't imagine Sorn doing anything for Kaelan,” he said. “Why so generous?"

The Hasdu straightened up; he narrowed his gaze. “Surely you know Burgher Sinclair owns Revenge?”

he inquired.

The Chalean blinked. “Naturally I did not!” He shook his head vehemently. “I can not believe Kaelan

would willingly give up this beast!” He locked his eyes on Jale. “Or did Sinclair just take it away from

him?"

“I can't see anyone taking anything away from Kaelan Hesar,” Thècion remarked. From what he had

heard of the man from Diarmuid, he was strong and given to stubbornness.

Jale leaned his forearms over Revenge's saddle. “Perhaps I should tell you gentleman of things I think

you need to know."

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Gillian stamped her foot at the inn's owner, cursed him for a coward, then spun on her heel only to find

herself looking right at her brother, who was standing a few feet away-his arms crossed over his brawny

chest. That Nick wore a smirk on his lean, handsome face only added to her vexation and she cursed

him, as well, before shoving past him and stomping back to the inn.

“Got a burr under her bustle, I reckon,” the innkeeper chuckled. His admiration of women with a fiery

temperaments was evident in the way his eyes glowed as he watched Gilly storming through the inn's

backdoor.

“She needs her ass paddled,” Nick commented dryly. He nudged his chin toward the Council House.

“How long do you think it will take for them to make a decision on our problem, Master Saur?"

Traer Saur, Kinion's father, shrugged. “Not long, milord. Considering the urgency of your request, I'd

say maybe an hour at the very most."

Nick unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick fur coat. His gaze went

beyond the stable to the high lands of Virago. “If I should need to make a trip back into Virago, would

you be knowing some tough men who'd feel up to making the journey with me?"

A wicked gleam sparked in Traer Saur's eye. “Men of a mercenary kind, you mean?"

Nick nodded. “Aye. Men just like that."

Traer bent over the hitching post and studied his companion. “My wife is from Wixenstead Harbor,” the

stable owner said in a soft voice.

Nick slowly turned his head toward Saur; his gaze narrowed. “Is that so?"

Saur nodded. “As a matter of fact, her sister Marguerite, worked at Holy Dale up until the night the

Duchess fell to her death there."

A stab of unease drove through Nick but he maintained eye contact with the stable owner. “So she

knows the Demon Duke, then?” he inquired as calmly as he could.

Traer Saur's face—which had been open and welcoming up until that moment—became closed and

forbidding. “Margie thought His Grace much maligned, milord,” came the staccato words. “I've heard

naught but good things of him from my sister-in-law's lips.” His own gaze became a squint of suspicion.

“Which leads me to wonder just why you've been spreading lies about him here."

Nick stiffened. “Lies?” he growled, drawing his right hand out of his pocket to place it on the hilt of his

dagger.

“From all accounts I've heard from over Wixenstead way,” Traer drawled, unconcerned with his

companion's militant stanch or the threat his accusations had brought down on him, “King Duncan

disowned his brother many years ago.” He smiled nastily at Nick. “I've heard the king would just as soon

have Prince Kaelan vanish from the face of the earth as have to deal with him again. All of which makes

me wonder why—all of a sudden—he'd try to force the Chalean ambassador's daughter into Joining with

a brother he despises. A Joining which can not provide him with any political pull by the doing."

For a long moment, Nick just looked at the man, then shrugged, taking his hand from his dagger. “I see

your point."

“And then there's the way you keep watching that road,” Traer Saur commented, jerking a thumb over

his shoulder. “Like you're waiting anxiously for someone."

“Most anxiously waiting,” Nick admitted quietly.

“Someone who might need help in joining you and your sister?” Traer asked.

Making up his mind that the stable owner could be trusted, Nick nodded. “My sister's husband."

Saur's eyes widened. “Legal husband?"

Nick shrugged hopelessly. “As legal as we could make it without the sanction of the king of Virago."

A low whistle came from Saur. His face had taken on a strained look. “And so that's why you're seeking

asylum in Serenia? The Joining could be re-done here and he'd be safe from any reprisals."

“I'll be honest with you,” Nick said.

“That would be nice,” Traer grinned.

Nick's answering grin was conspiratorial. “Duncan engaged her to Rolf de Viennes. He's..."

“I know who the bastard is,” Traer spat, his nostrils flaring as though a bad smell had rolled in from the

sea. “Go on."

“Gilly had no intention of joining with de Viennes.” Nick took a chance. “She is, and always has been, in

love with Kaelan Hesar and he with her. Fate took us by chance to Holy Dale in the middle of that last

blizzard and now that they are together again, I've of a mind to keep them that way."

Traer Saur nodded. “But you might need help in the doing of it,” he stated.

“Aye.” It was an emphatic agreement.

Saur scratched his chin. “What about your sister?” he wanted to know.

Nick sighed. “I'd like to say she'd stay here and wait for us, but as soon as I turn my back, the little bitch

will be hightailing it after us."

“Not good,” the stable owner declared.

“No,” Nick agreed. “Not good at all."

“A suggestion?"

“Anything you can come up with would be greatly appreciated,” Nick confessed.

“We've a jail."

Nick's heart slammed painfully against his ribcage, sent sour bile up his throat, and made him swallow

convulsively. To lock Gilly up—even for her own protection—was a notion he'd not entertained, but the

idea was one that bore consideration.

It also made him groan with the thought of what his sister might do to him once she was out of

confinement.

“The constable is of the old school of thought,” Traer continued with a twitch of his lips. “A man should

protect his womenfolk from harm no matter the cost."

“Oh, if I have her incarcerated, the price I'll wind up paying will be high,” Gilly's brother whined.

“But she'd be safe,” Traer reminded him. He fused his gaze with Nick's. “From herself as well as anyone

intent on taking her somewhere she's not of a mind to go."

Nick let out a sigh of resignation. “Aye, that she would be.” He looked toward the constable's office.

“Think you he'll cooperate?"

“Mention Rolf de Viennes to him and see what he says,” Traer suggested through clenched teeth.

Nick stared at the inn's owner, wondering what de Viennes had done to warrant such a venomous

reaction. “All right. That's settled. What about that help I'll need. I'm thinking four men besides myself."

“Well,” Traer said, taking off his hat and rubbing his forearm across his brow, “there's Riordan A'Lex

and his partner, Jess Patrick.” He settled the hat back on his head at a rakish angle. “And the twins, Tyler

and Taylor Dixon. All good men.” He smiled nastily. “Rough men, as you say."

“That's only four though,” Nick reminded him.

“And then there's me,” Traer grunted.

Nick's broad smile said he was hoping the man might accompany them. “How much do you think I need

to offer for their help in the Storm Country?” he inquired.

Traer shook his head. “You insult us by offering pay for doing what comes naturally to us, milord."

“And that being?"

Traer chuckled. “Bashing in Viragonian heads."

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D'Lyn Aubert trudged through the snow, keeping an eye on the hawk which flew above her in the chill

air. Now and again, the bird would glide gracefully down to a barren tree branch, perch there for a

moment as though testing its course, then, with a flap of reddish-brown wings, lift off in the dull gray sky

once more. Each time the hawk lit upon a branch, D'Lyn stopped and waited until the raptor flew on

again.

“Warm as flames in the welcoming hearth, comfort to him I wish to depart,” the witch woman chanted as

she pulled her feet from drift to drift.

Overhead, the hawk suddenly cut through the chill day and landed firmly on a high oak branch. It sat

there, its head shifting from side to side, then it turned its beak down toward D'Lyn.

“What is it, old friend?” the witch woman queried. She had heard nothing. There were no strange scents

carrying on the breeze and no glimmer ahead of her from the flash of a lantern or torch.

“Caaaaa!” the hawk shrieked and sat where it had landed.

“Those who would do us harm?” she asked.

The hawk lifted its sharp eyes to the horizon, then shook itself, its feathers rustling. It peered intently

down the pathway which led to Holy Dale's pond.

“Riders,” D'Lyn said to herself for she had at that moment heard the jingle of harness. Her mystical