Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (7 page)

resignation that had settled over Syn-Jern Sorn's calm face.

“What am I going to do with him, Patrick?” Weir said.

Patrick let a full minute pass before he pushed away from the railing, put his back to the teak, and

braced his hands behind him. He watched Weir's men scurrying about the rigging. “He's as innocent of

what his father did as you are of what yours did, Weir."

Weir knew that, but he really didn't want to hear it. He turned his head and looked at Patrick. “You're

on his side, aren't you?"

Paddy shrugged. “There is no side, my friend.” He looked over at Weir.

“You think I should forget about making him pay, is that it?"

Patrick smiled sadly. “I think he's suffered enough, don't you? Do you think there's anything you can do

to him that will hurt him as much as what the Tribunal has already done?” He looked across the ship.

“Their cruelty can be far more exacting than a normal man's."

“And do you think you'd be so set on me pardoning him if you hadn't spent time where he did?” Weir

challenged.

“You've never been there, Weir, and pray to Alel you never do. That godawful hell-hole takes more out

of a man than I hope you'll ever experience."

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Genevieve Saur's look was as hot as the embers of hell's fire and as hard as flint. She watched Norbert

Tarnes and Jarl Stevens helping Syn-Jern Sorn up the companionway to the main deck. Her mouth

twisted as they eased him down on a coil of rope and then stood talking to him, smiles of encouragement

on their faces. She flicked her stare away, found Patrick Kasella watching her from his place at the helm.

She snorted and looked away as though the sight of him had offended her, as well. Her gaze went back

to where Sorn was sitting; his thin body slumped in weariness after the climb up from the cabin. She

hated the sight of him, but the way he looked at that moment infuriated her.

His face was pale, paler than the other men who trod about the decks of the Wind Lass were. If his

pasty complexion was due to long weeks lying in bed, it didn't matter to Genny. She compared his pallor

to the robust, sun-kissed flesh of her brother's crew.

He was thin, thinner than any man on board; and his shoulders were bowed. He had the look of defeat

about him.

She snorted again. This time it was an ugly sound filled with her emotions, and she saw him lift his head

and look her way. She stiffened as she stared back at him with coldness.

It was his eyes that bothered her the most, she decided. They were blank, lifeless, filled with misery. He

looked at her much as a lost puppy would have and it made her furious.

“She'll come around,” Tarnes said in a quiet voice, seeing where the young man was looking.

Syn-Jern shook his head. “To her, I'm the enemy."

“Give her time, lad,” Jarl Stevens told him. “Her brother's giving you the benefit of the doubt; she just

might, too."

He saw her toss her head, turn her back, and he felt her rejection to the bottom of his soul.

“It ain't been easy for you, has it, son?” Norbert Tarnes asked, laying his hand on Syn-Jern's slumped

shoulder.

Syn-Jern shook his head. “Once you've been labeled a convict, women will always look at you in a

wholly different light."

“I reckon they tend to be afraid of you,” Tarnes acknowledged.

“That little missy don't look to me as if she's a'feared of any manjack on board this here ship!” Stevens

sniffed. “A might uppity, I'm thinking."

With his penetrating gaze still locked on the back of the lovely woman standing on the aft deck, Syn-Jern

drew in a long breath. “She has reason to fear me,” he said, surprising both older men; but when they

asked why, he didn't reply.

* * * *

There was no word for how sore he was.

There was no word for how tired he was.

They'd been working on him for over two months now. He'd started out just strolling partway around

the deck, Stevens close at hand in case he stumbled. His legs had been weak, threatening to topple him

to the deck, but soon they were strong enough to do one lap. Then two. Then three. Sit-ups were next,

his legs held by whoever happened to be nearby. He couldn't do many of them at first, but it wasn't too

long before he could do ten. Then twenty. Then forty.

And the food!

He hadn't eaten so much food in his entire life. At first, he couldn't force down more than a few

spoonfuls, but within a few days; he was eating everything they set before him. It started out then to be

two meals per day. Then it became three. Now, it was four.

“We gotta put meat on your bones, boy!” the cook had scolded him when he had tried to refuse the

extra helpings. “If'n you want to pull your weight on the Lass."

A week later, he was doing pull-ups on one of the yards. He hadn't even blushed when on his first try he

couldn't put his chin to the teak once. The men laughed, taunting him, but he knew they were laughing

with him, not at him, and it made the next day's effort easier.

Then he'd been told to run around the deck instead of walking.

“Want me to show you how's it done, boy?” Neevens had snorted down to him one day as he lay

gasping for breath on the deck. The old man's rubbery lips had pursed in a smile. “Faith, boy! My old

granny can run faster than you!"

“And her petticoats down around her ankles, too, eh, Tarnes?” Stevens had joked, dancing a jig away

from Neevens as the First Mate had set out after him.

Now, at the beginning of his third month, with the ship only days away from her home port, he could do

two hundred sit ups, a hundred pull ups. He had filled out to the point that he was looked at by the other

men with admiration and just a tad more than envy, and could lap the ship at a fast enough clip that bets

were often laid on his time.

He was learning the life of a sea-going man to the delight and satisfaction of the crew. When he'd

conquered the intricacies of scrambling about the rigging as well as the other men, he became one of

them. Only one incident marred the occasion and that was when Neevens informed him he was going to

have to learn to swim if he planned on sailing with them.

“No, I don't want to learn,” Syn-Jern answered.

“Well, you got to!” Neevens began, but Stevens stood up and jabbed him painfully in the ribs. “Hey!

What'd you do that for, you old bastard?"

Stevens nodded his head toward Syn-Jern. “The lad says he don't want to learn right now.” He jerked

his head in Syn-Jern's direction. “He knows what's best for him."

“Most cowards do."

The men groaned, even Neevens, who had realized his error too late. They looked around to see Genny

leaning against the topmast, her glower steady on Syn-Jern's bent head. They watched as her face lit with

contempt when the young man raised his head and looked at her.

“Ain't you got something you need to be doing, Genevieve Grace?” Tarnes snapped, frowning at her.

“All that training for nothing,” she said, ignoring the looks aimed her way. “You know the old saying,

don't you?” Her eyes were on Syn-Jern, boring into him, but she wasn't speaking to him, hadn't spoken

to him since that last day in Weir's cabin. “You can drag a horse to the water, but you can't make him

drink?” Her face turned vicious. “Well, you can show a coward how to be a man, but you can't make

him one!"

“That's enough!"

Patrick Kasella trod heavily toward his best friend's sister. He reached out an unforgiving hand and

clasped Genny's upper arm in a cruel grip.

“Damn you, that hurts!” she spat, trying to pry his fingers from her arm.

“Aye, well, now you know what hurt feels like, don't you?” Paddy growled down into her angry face.

“Would you like to feel the cat-'o-nine on your pretty little back, Genevieve? Would you like to be

dragged under the keel of this ship?"

“Don't,” Syn-Jern said in a soft voice. No one but Stevens, who was standing near him, heard.

“Or how'd you like to be turned over to the Tribunal's torturers, Genevieve? Be stripped down and

examined like a piece of meat? Have some sadistic bastard torment you day and night and not be able to

do a gods-be-damned thing about it?"

“Paddy, leave her alone.” Syn-Jern got to his feet.

“You're hurting me, Kasella!” Genny spat through clenched teeth. “Let go!"

“Want to feel what it's like to be put in irons, Genevieve? Huh? Feel the iron locked around your wrists

and ankles? They're heavy, you know. So heavy you can't walk and you can't hardly lift your arms."

“She doesn't understand,” Syn-Jern said a bit louder. He took a step forward.

“Or what about being locked up in a cage? How'd you like that, Genny?"

Syn-Jern reached out and put a hand on Patrick's arm, but the man was so angry, he didn't bother to

turn around to see who was trying to interfere. Kasella shook off the hand and gripped both of

Genevieve Saur's arms in his strong hands.

“How'd you like to be hurt like he's been hurt, Genny? Have the flesh stripped off your body inch by

bloody inch and then have some snooty, arrogant little bitch rub salt in the wounds?"

“That's enough!"

Paddy felt himself being pushed none-too-gently away from Genny. He staggered, was kept from falling

by Tarnes’ quick thinking, and looked around to see Syn-Jern looking at Genny.

“He didn't mean what he was saying,” Syn-Jern told the girl. “He doesn't understand how you feel

toward me, but I do.” He was looking at her so intently, his thoughts on her well being, that he didn't

really see her face turning ugly with disdain. He made the mistake of putting his hand on her shoulder, to

comfort her.

“Don't you dare touch me, you bastard!” she shouted at him, jerking away from his hand. “Don't you

dare put your filthy hand on me!” She backed away from him, her body rigid with hate. “I'll castrate you

if you do!"

Every man on deck winced, seeing the pain and humiliation driven deep in Syn-Jern's already-tormented

soul. They watched as he took a deep breath, nodded acceptance of her threat.

“You thoughtless bitch!” Patrick shamed her, reaching out to take hold of Genny's arm, but she moved

back, well away from him.

“He might have all of you fooled,” she defended, “but I see him for what he is!"

“And what exactly is that, missy?” Tarnes growled.

“You don't get sent to the Labyrinth for no good reason!” she shouted.

“Aye, but you can!” Patrick argued. “I should know that better than anyone!” He jabbed his finger at his

own chest. “I made an enemy of the wrong man; he had me sent to Tyber's Isle for it!"

“Aye, well, you weren't a Duke, though, were you, Patrick Kasella?” Genny shot back.

“Dukes have enemies, too,” Neevens put in, then turned to look at Syn-Jern. “Don't they?"

A strange look passed over the younger man's face. “Very powerful ones,” he answered. He shifted his

gaze to Genny. “You want to know what I was in prison for, Lady Saur?” He didn't wait for her to

answer. “It was for killing a man."

There were mumbles from the men gathered.

“Then why didn't they hang you?” Genny sneered.

“Oh, they wanted to,” Syn-Jern told her. “And probably would have if my grandmother hadn't

intervened. But Monique Hesar is a very powerful woman in Virago."

“Hesar?” Tarnes questioned. “You be kin to the royal family? To Prince Innis?"

“Third cousins,” Syn-Jern answered, his gaze still locked on Genny. “But it didn't prevent His Highness

from having me flogged and deported. He didn't like me any better than Genevieve Saur does."

“Land ho!"

Heads turned, loud whistles of excitement exploded from the crew's lips and, the group scrambled

across the deck, forgetting the man and woman who still stood where they were, facing one another. As

preparations began for docking, the two seemed oblivious to what was going on around them.

“You should have been hung,” Genny finally said, breaking the silence between them.

“Aye,” he answered. “I agree."

“Perhaps we can grant your death wish, Duke Sorn,” she grated, then spun on her heel, and left him

staring after her.

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PART TWO

The southern coast of Ionary was a wonder to behold. Buff-colored dunes rose high along vast stretches

of sea-carved stone, pocked with ragged holes and soaring nature-made arches under the swirling waters

of the South Boreal Sea's rise and ebb. White caps surged inland along the clean sand beaches and

broke amongst the spindly sea oats growing at the foot of the dunes. High along the upper reaches of the

cliffs, gnarled and wind-bent pines and scrubs stood sentinel, looking out to sea, ever watchful of the

Ionarian coastline. The straggling section of Ionary, the southern-most tip of the country seeping down

between Serenia to the East and Virago to the West, held a certain splendor to behold.

Grass huts dotted the peaceful beach, some found inland. Some made this wild and beautiful coast their

home, manning the ships that plied the seas and plundered the vessels sailing upon her.

This ragged coast hosted the home base of at least eight pirate ships. The Wind Lass being one of the

ships sailing from this isolated port.

Not actually part of the kingdom of Ionary, the peninsula nevertheless Ionarian soil, bore the name of its

royal rulers: Montyne Cay. The village, itself, was governed by a council of five men, pirates all. They