Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (54 page)

banged twice more before the door opened.

As soon as the door closed behind Rosa-Lynn, Patrick took his hand from Syn-Jern's mouth. “Listen to

me very carefully, Syn-Jern,” he said, wasting no time. “There's no way in hell I can get you out of here,

but I can make damned sure you will suffer no more abuse at the hands of these bastards.” He fished a

hand into the sleeve of his robe and drew out the red vial. “This is Maiden Briar's. Do you understand?"

Although the room was spinning, Syn-Jern's thought processes were returning to normal. He understood

very well what Patrick Kasella was offering him. His vision jumped to the vial, skidded off, and returned.

“It is painless, Syn-Jern,” Patrick assured him. “You will feel nothing."

The room tilted crazily then straightened and as it did, Syn-Jern's vision cleared somewhat and he was

able to see Patrick's face. He sucked in a gulp of air that almost sent him back into unconsciousness with

the pain of it.

“You recognize my friend Brother Yul?” Patrick said, his voice filled with a touch of humor.

“Patrick?” Syn-Jern questioned and was rewarded with his friend lifting the mask just long enough for

Syn-Jern to be sure it was Patrick beneath the horrid apparition.

“Good disguise, eh?” Patrick asked.

“Aye,” Syn-Jern agreed. “I can see how you were able to get in here."

“We have Rosa-Lynn Sorn to thank for that.” At Syn-Jern's look of disbelief, Patrick shrugged. “The

woman is beside herself with guilt and was more than willing to help me."

“Don't trust her,” Syn-Jern warned.

“I don't,” Patrick answered.

Syn-Jern's gaze went to the ruby red vial. “No pain?” he asked.

Patrick bit his lip, then answered, his voice breaking. “I promise you, on my love for you, there will be

no pain."

Despite the agony in his battered ribs, Syn-Jern lifted a hand and touched Patrick's cheek. He smiled

sadly as Patrick turned his lips into the palm and kissed the dirty flesh.

“I never meant to hurt you, Patrick,” he said.

Patrick took Syn-Jern's hand in his own. “You did not.” Tears cascaded down Kasella's face. “I knew

you could never love me. I—"

“I do love you, Patrick,” Syn-Jern said. “As the brother I never really had."

Patrick drew in a strangled breath and his grip tightened on Syn-Jern's hand.

“Give me the vial, Patrick,” Syn-Jern asked. “Before I change my mind."

Patrick was trembling so violently he almost dropped the vial as he uncorked it. With infinite care, he

lifted Syn-Jern's head and placed the rim of the vial against his friend's lips. As Syn-Jern's eyes met his,

Patrick whimpered with grief and had to look away as the dark blue liquid flowed into the mouth of the

man he loved.

The taste was sweet, but it burned Syn-Jern's mouth and made his eyes water. Almost immediately, his

world began to shut down. The room grew fuzzy; the floor beneath him seemed to melt away. “Hold

me,” he asked.

Patrick sat down beside Syn-Jern and drew the limp man into his arms. He cradled him against his chest,

rocking him, crooning softly. He stroked the damp hair from Syn-Jern's dirty face then lowered his head

to place a gentle kiss on the other man's brow.

“Patrick?” Syn-Jern said, the word slurred. He found the strength to touch Patrick's forearm.

“Aye, my beloved?” Patrick answered.

“Take ... care ... of ... her ... for ... me."

“I will."

The hand on his arm fell away and Patrick threw back his head and sobbed.

* * * *

“I ain't touching that diseased beastie!” the guard gasped. He pointed at the priest lying on the floor of the

Outlaw's cell. “I ain't doing it! Ain't my fault he keeled over dead!” He looked at the prisoner sitting so

still in the corner of the cell and wondered how the man could sleep through all the noise the Duchess

was making.

Rosa-Lynn snorted with contempt. “Then go out and find someone who will!” she demanded. “You

can't leave him there!"

“Who you gonna get to touch one of them things?” the guard demanded.

The Duchess pushed past the man and stomped down the hall. “Open the gods-be-damned door, fool!”

she yelled to the man on the other side.

The door opened, but the man who had admitted her stepped well back from the woman, afraid she

might be carrying the vile disease on her clothing.

Rosa-Lynn did not stop until she was at the double entry doors of the Tribunal Hall. She flung them open

herself, went out into the courtyard, and looked about her. “Five gold pieces for the one of you who will

help me!” she said to the raggedy-dressed men loitering there.

“What we'uns gots to do to earn it, Your Grace?” a stooped beggar asked slyly.

“Carry my priest from the cell of the Outlaw!” she snapped.

The beggar sidled closed. “What's wrong wid ’em?"

Rosa-Lynn ground her teeth together. “He is one of the Brethren and—"

“The hell you say!” the beggar snarled. “I ain't touching none of that!"

“Six gold pieces!” she called out as the man moved away. When he kept walking, she upped the price

to eight.

“Nah,” the beggar spat.

“The man is dead. He can't harm you!” Rosa-Lynn ground out. “Nine!"

The beggar turned, his grimy face pocked with acne. He walked back to her, scratching at the stained

crotch of his breeches. “Make it twenty and I'll do it,” he countered.

Rosa-Lynn curled her lip, but she knew if Demonicus found Patrick Kasella in Syn-Jern's cell come

morning, the priest would be after her. “Done,” she said, knowing she had no other choice. “Follow me."

The beggar ambled slowly behind her, twice telling the uppity woman to hold her water when she bade

him hurry. Once inside the Tribunal Hall, he grinned at the guards. “Gonna have me plenty of the drink

tonight, boys!” he chortled.

“You better drink your fill, then, fool,” the sergeant warned, “for you'll catch what that one has sure as

shit!"

A maniacal laugh erupted from the filthy man as he sidled down the corridor after the Duchess.

“By the gods, will you make haste!” Rosa-Lynn threw at him.

“You want me help or not, woman?” the beggar asked her.

“He's in there,” Rosa-Lynn said, pointing.

The beggar found the priest lying on the floor. He looked at the body, turned to look at the prisoner who

was sitting slumped in the corner, then stooped down to heft the priest into his arms. “By the gods, but

this'n stinks,” he said.

The guards who had followed at a safe distance moved back into the interrogation room. They wanted

no contact with the woman, the beggar, or the priest.

“Lock that door behind you, Your Grace,” the sergeant called out.

Rosa-Lynn glared at the man, barely able to see him he was so far away from her down the torch-lit

corridor. Leaving the cell behind the beggar, she turned and pulled the cell door shut. Muttering a filthy

word beneath her breath she reached for the key and turned it in the lock. She turned away from the

door, took a step or two down the corridor, then stopped. She stood there for a moment, then her proud

shoulders slumped.

Behind her was the only man who had ever really loved her. Though she had betrayed him and been the

cause of his death, she found she could not simply walk away without asking for his forgiveness. He

would not hear her in this world, but she had to believe he would hear her from the next. She could not

live with herself otherwise.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked back to the cell door. Through the dim glow of the torchlight, she

stared at him for a long moment, then very quietly, she asked his pardon for the sins she had committed

against him and his.

“Your Grace!” the sergeant called. “You're time is up with the prisoner. Come away now!"

Rosa-Lynn knew she would hold the image of Syn-Jern Sorn sitting in the darkened corner of his cell for

the rest of her life. She would see his splayed legs, his hands lying curled—palms up—in his lap. Her

dreams would be filled with the tousled blond hair that covered his lowered head, shielding the face she

so longed to see, even in death.

“Your Grace!"

“All right!” Rosa-Lynn yelled back, turning to send an angry glower to the beastly man. “I'm coming!"

With the intention of taking one last look at the man she had helped destroy, Rosa-Lynn directed her

attention into the cell once more and found herself looking into the amused eyes of Patrick Kasella.

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The hard-faced men positioned about the Bone Yard were heavily armed, their steely eyes glued to the

crowd gathering for the hanging. No weapons were allowed beyond the wrought iron gates of the

punishment yard for fear the peasants would revolt and try to free the Outlaw as he was brought to meet

his fate. No ships were being allowed into the harbor for that same reason. Ships loaded with primed

cannons blocked the entrance to the harbor and the guns on the battlement of the Tribunal Hall were

pointed out to sea.

The roads into town were manned with checkpoints and identity papers were checked thoroughly.

Those who could not be vouched for, were not allowed into the village and were turned away at sword

point.

“A fine day for a hanging, eh, Your Worship?” the magistrate, Karl Krueger, commented. “The people

will learn a lesson here this day!"

A muscle in Demonicus’ jaw tightened. No one but he, himself, knew the prisoner being hanged this day

was not the Outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn. It would have been disastrous to let the townspeople know their

hero had managed to escape the noose. Infuriated beyond endurance, upon finding a stranger in Sorn's

cell, the Arch-Prelate had ordered the guards who had allowed this perfidy to occur, executed on the

spot.

“But why, Your Worship?” the magistrate had asked, horrified when he'd heard the news.

“They allowed him visitors without consulting me!” Demonicus had roared. “That is unacceptable!"

Though the Duchess had managed to escape his net, the priest had no doubt he would eventually find

her and she would die screaming in agony for her part in the deception.

What enraged Demonicus more than the escape of Sorn, was the calm way in which the man being

hanged this day had stood the tortures inflicted upon him. Not once did he scream during even the most

excruciating torments and he had not revealed his identity. Even the graduated rods could not spur him to

reveal his secrets.

“Do you think they'll try to rescue him?” Krueger inquired, casting a sidelong glance at the angry

Arch-Prelate.

“No,” Demonicus sneered. “They'll not try."

Why should they? The priest thought viciously. They had their hero and the sacrificial lamb that had

taken his place was going to his death without remorse.

The bell on the steeple of the temple rang once.

The magistrate rubbed his hands together. “It's starting!"

The bell tolled again with a ten seconds pause before the next peel.

The drums could be heard as the procession from the Tribunal Hall commenced. Heads turned in that

direction and fingers pointed as the double black doors opened.

Two guards marched from the Tribunal Hall, their pikes at the ready. Behind them came the prisoner,

shuffling along in the heavy manacles that bound him hand and foot. More guards followed the

procession.

“He don't look none the worse for wear considering,” the magistrate remarked. He couldn't help wincing

at the terrible bruises and cuts on the prisoner's face.

“There is nothing I hate more than a brave man!” Demonicus spat. He narrowed his eyes. “Unless it is a

man who would give his own life for another out of a misguided notion of justice!"

“True,” Krueger sighed. “So very true, Your Worship."

Patrick Kasella was so detached from the goings on around him, it was all he could do not to giggle. The

Maiden's Briar he had ingested the night before had numbed him to the world and enveloped him in

cottony warmth. His nerve endings having been destroyed by the potent drug, pain was not something he

could even feel. A sip or two more would have killed him, but that would have defeated the purpose.

“The Wind be at your back, Your Grace!” someone called to him from the crowd.

Patrick smiled. If there were any of these people gathered who realized he was not Syn-Jern Sorn, they

would never admit to it. Here and there, he saw shocked expressions as he passed, but he wasn't sure if

that was because his face had been mutilated by Demonicus’ wrath or if those people knew he wasn't

Syni.

Ah, Syni, he thought as he stumbled against the weight of the heavy lead chains dragging his shoulders

down. Syni, my love. My heart. Are you safe, my beloved?

He lifted his head and looked about him, searching for that one face, that one friend whose presence he

needed to see.

“Get up there!"

The crowd hissed as the lash was laid to the prisoner's back. Angry voices pulsed through the gathering.

Patrick climbed the stairs of the scaffold clumsily, the heavy weight of his shackles threatening to topple

him from the structure. Had the black-masked executioner not put out a hard hand to keep him from

doing just that, Patrick knew he would have fallen into the ranks of the guards flanking the apparatus.

There was no need to read the charges against him for there had been no trial.

There would be no last words allowed for it was no longer possible for Patrick Kasella to speak; the