WinterofThorns

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  King Nolan Brell sat beside his son’s bed quietly talking to him though Vindan was asleep. He loved his son though he did not particularly like him, had little respect for him, but the thought of losing him filled Nolan with a grief so wild he was having trouble drawing a decent breath. He desperately wanted his son to open his eyes, to acknowledge him in some way. For nearly two hours he’d been perched on the edge of his chair, waiting, but Vindan lay as still as death.

  “Your Grace, may I get you something?” Commander Vashteel asked.

  “Where is his lady-wife?” the king asked. “Why isn’t she at his side?”

  “She is in the tower, Your Grace,” Vashteel answered. “Prince Vindan had her confined there.”

  The king looked around at him. “For what reason?”

  Vashteel shook his head. “No one knows, Your Grace. He escorted her there himself and has forbidden anyone in the keep to speak to her.”

  “He is abusing her?” the king demanded.

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty, not at all!” Vashteel was quick to reply. “He would not abuse his lady-wife.”

  “Then fetch her so we may see ourselves,” came the order. “Her place is here with him.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  As the door closed behind Vashteel, the king got to his feet to stretch. Putting his hands to the small of his back, he groaned at the tension forming there. He walked stiffly to the window and looked out. The sky was blanketed in cloud cover so thick the sun was only a lighter shade of gray. Snow was coming again and he hated snow.

  It had been snowing on the night Vindan was born and it had snowed the next day when he had bundled the babe tightly to carry him back with him to Ionary and the bitch who was being forced to be his mother.

  “That was a fucking joke,” he mumbled. He laid his forehead on the cold glass of the windowpane and thought of Bertrice’s reaction to being presented the infant.

  “What am I to do with that?” she’d demanded in that harsh, braying voice that never failed to set his nerves on edge.

  “Raise him. He is your son,” he’d told her.

  “He is no son of mine! He is your whore’s brat,” she thrown at him. “Find the little prick a wet nurse. Just get him out of my sight!”

  It hadn’t helped that Vindan was screaming his little lungs out. He’d often wondered if the babe had somehow known he was being rejected.

  Exhaling loudly, he turned from the window. He’d been sitting for so long he didn’t realize he needed to piss until the constriction on his bladder had eased with his walking. He went to the bathing chamber door and was about to go inside when the door to his son’s bedchamber opened and a young woman—a very pregnant young woman—entered the room. She was about to curtsy to him but their eyes met and he watched hers widen and her lips part.

  “Aye, we are your king,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “Your name is Jana, is it not?

  She simply stared at him and he wondered if perhaps she was mentally challenged and that was why his son had sent her to the tower. Not being of an adequate mind would be reason enough to lock her away. As pretty as she was—and she was very pretty—her paleness wasn’t the least bit attractive. There was no color whatsoever in her cheeks and even her lips were pallid. Her gaping mouth, wide eyes and silence irritated him and he growled.

  “See to your husband while we piss.” He closed the bathing chamber door behind him.

  Jana was so stunned she could only stare at the door to the bathing chamber. The man inside looked nothing like Vindan but the resemblance to Seyzon was so strong there could be only one explanation. He was Seyzon’s biological father. There could be no doubt.

  “Mother of the gods,” she whispered, putting a hand to her lips. Her eyes strayed to the bed. For a moment she couldn’t move but her husband lay so still, she grew concerned and took hesitant steps toward him.

  He is so pale, she thought. Was he ill? Gravely so? Was that why his father had deigned to come to see him? She hated Vindan but she didn’t wish him dead. Not only because it would be morally wrong to do so but because her fate was tied to Vindan Brell.

  A strange sound in the bathing chamber—a sizzling, sparking sound—made her look that way. She saw a brief, bright pulse of light under the door and frowned. What was the man doing in there?

  “Jana?”

  She whipped her head around. Vindan was looking at her with bloodshot eyes and an expression that frightened her. His hand fluttered on the mattress and she took it in hers.

  “I am dying,” he told her.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You are not dying.”

  “Not even the TAOS unit could cure me, dearling,” he said weakly. “The healer has exhausted all options. I can hear the wings of the Gatherer coming for me. That is why they sent for my father.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, stroking his hand. She brought it to her cheek, alarmed at how cold his flesh was. “Your father has come.”

  His brows drew together. “He’s here?”

  “In the bathing chamber.”

  “That confirms what I already know. I am not long for this world.”

  The door to the bathing chamber opened and the king strode out, flexing his shoulders as though the clothing in which he was attired were too tight. She noted that he walked exactly as Seyzon did—with the same stride that bordered on being a strut. His eyes settled on hers and there was a sparkle in them that had not been there when first she looked into them.

  “So you decided to wake up, did you, brat?” he asked. He reached into the pocket of his pants and seemed to have some difficulty getting his hand out again. When he did, there was a small purple flask in his grip. “This is from the Burgon, himself. He swears it will cure you.” He unscrewed the cap on the flask and extended it to Jana. “Here, give it to him.”

  She took the flask, hesitated a second or two, and then held it to her husband’s lips. From the pinched look that overtook Vindan’s face whatever was in the flask had a horrendous taste to it.

  The king laughed and Jana could have sworn there was wicked glee in the sound. “Not prime Chrystallusian brandy, son, but it will keep you from death’s door.”

  “By the gods that was awful,” Vindan proclaimed, his lips twisted with distaste.

  “Aye, well, what does it matter if it works, eh?” his father asked.

  Jana felt the older man’s steady gaze on her and looked up into blue eyes that were identical to Seyzon’s. They were the same color as Vindan’s but the shape and tilt of them was not. The king’s eyes were carbon copies of Seyzon’s.

  “Might I have a private word with you, milady?” the king inquired.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she said. She had difficulty withdrawing her hand from Vindan’s for he didn’t seem to want to let her go. She tried to reassure him with a smile.

  The king walked to the bedchamber door, opened it and stepped into the corridor. When she joined him, he closed the door, took her upper arm in a light grip and ushered her a few feet from the door.

  “We don’t have much time,” he told her. “Tell me that was your hairbrush I found in the bathing chamber.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”

  “Woman, answer me!” he said. “Is that your hairbrush?”

  “I would think so,” she said.

  “Well, it better be for it is being analyzed and entered into my ship’s computer. I’d hate like hell to have some other women snatched up instead of you.”

  “Snatched up?” she repeated. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t have time to explain it to you,” he said then put his free hand to his ear. “Are you locked on her, Arch?”

  “Arch?” she echoed, looking around for whomever it was he was addressing but found no one near them.

  “It’s her? Excellent! Will you be able to bring her up when the time comes?”

  “Your Grace, who are you talking to?” she asked, fearful of the man’s sanity. />
  “Good. That’s all I needed to know.”

  She gaped at him as he lowered his hand then flinched as he pulled her back toward Vindan’s bedchamber.

  “Don’t let on what I asked you,” he whispered.

  Believing the man deranged, she could only shake her head. She let him lead her back into Vindan’s room and was relieved when he let go of her arm.

  “How are you feeling, brat?” he asked Vindan.

  “Better,” Vindan said. There was a hint of color to his lips and his gaze wasn’t as bleak or dull as it had been when first she’d looked into his eyes. “What was in the flask?”

  “Who knows?” his father replied. “The Burgon wouldn’t say but he swore by it.”

  “Then thank him for me, Papa,” Vindan said. “I will be eternally grateful to him.”

  “As well you should be,” the king muttered. He slapped his palms together—making Jana and his son jump—then grinned. “Well, we’ve matters of state to see to.” He turned and headed for the door. “Papers to draw up and sign.” He locked eyes with Jana. “Pardons to give.”

  “Pardons?” Vindan questioned. “What pardons, Papa?”

  “You don’t worry about that,” the king said. “Just lie there and get better. Let your lady-wife take care of you. Sit, Lady Jana. Sit. Take a load off that shapely little ass. We are sure you are all too happy to be out of the tower.”

  “Aye, Your Grace, I am,” she said, casting Vindan a knowing glance.

  “Does it seem as though he’s acting a bit strangely to you?” Vindan asked after the king left them. He was trying to push himself up in the bed but was too weak.

  Jana helped him to sit up. “I wouldn’t know. I had not met him until today.”

  “His behavior is out of character for him.” He put a shaky hand to his forehead. “He actually smiled at me. I can’t ever remember him smiling at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “As though he is the happiest man on the face of the earth,” Vindan answered.

  * * * * *

  Kellan Brell was whistling as he skipped down the stairs and headed for the throne room he hadn’t been in since he was a boy. He’d always liked Wicklow Castle and would have enjoyed taking up residence there had his father allowed it. The castle had belonged to Queen Martha, Kellan’s mother. Instead, his father had given the castle to Nolan who—in turn—gave it to his favorite son.

  “Well only son that he knew of,” Kellan said with a laugh. “Wish I could see your face when you wake up on my ship, you thieving bastard!”

  He’d transported down right behind his twin who had sprayed urine all over the wall as a hand came down hard on his shoulder. The startled prick had barely gotten his head around far enough to see who had touched him when Kellan drove the vac-syringe of pairilis into Nolan’s neck. Within seconds, Kellan had lowered his brother to the floor and began stripping him. Once he’d hurriedly exchanged clothes with Nolan, he was about to give the order for Welling to retrieve him when he’d seen the hairbrush lying on the vanity. The dark-burgundy hair certainly wasn’t Vindan’s. He prayed it belonged to the Lady Jana. It had taken him only an extra heartbeat to stuff the brush in Nolan’s pocket before contacting Welling.

  “He’s all yours and look in his pocket. I think we need to analyze the DNA you’ll find on the brush. It may belong to Zonny’s lady. If you can lock onto her from it then enter the data into the computer.”

  Passing servants and staff who bowed or curtsied deeply to him, his cheeks were beginning to ache from the broad smile he could not hide. He knew there were those who looked at him strangely but he didn’t care. He was their king and they dared not think too hard or long on his behavior.

  Entering the throne room, he stopped as his gaze fell on the gilded seat at the north end of the room. The plush green velvet vibrant against the gold leaf. He did not have time to look his fill before the Castilian of Wicklow was at his elbow.

  “Shall I convene the Council for you, Your Majesty?” the man asked.

  Kellan reached out to drape a comradely arm around the speaker. “Aye, Silus, do that for your king, willya?”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, Your Majesty,” Silus Murphy replied.

  “I’ll just take a seat up there while I await the Council,” Kellan stated.

  Silus inclined his head then turned to be about the business he and the border lord had planned well in advance of the young prince taking ill from the drug the Castilian had dropped into his wine several days earlier.

  Slowly walking the length of the throne room, Kellan kept his eyes on the prize. That ornate chair held nearly as much authority as the men who had plopped their asses on it. Far older even than Kellan’s maternal grandfather had been when his grandfather sat the throne, the fancy seat had been crafted of the finest oak and carefully hand painted by a master artist. It was an ugly piece of furniture—as had been many a man who’d perched upon it—but it was a seat of power and he who sat upon it wielded that power.

  Reaching the dais upon which the throne sat, he leisurely climbed the six steps carpeted in a deep, rich red wool edged in gold. He reached out to run his fingers over the carved arm, trailing them up the thickly padded arm and—walking behind the throne—along the arch of the back and down the opposite arm before taking his seat. His hands resting on the chair arms, he raised his head and looked to the south where two members of the Council had just entered the room. He said nothing as the men came forward, went to one knee with their right fists doubled over their hearts.

  “Your Majesty!” they said in union.

  Still he said nothing. He motioned them to rise then waited for the other six members to arrive. Normally the men would have been in their own keeps but they had been summoned the day before in anticipation of meeting with their king. They no doubt feared grave news was about to be imparted.

  When they were all there, he looked to Duke Peirce Chamberlain, the Council’s Judge Advocate. The man came forward with a respectful expression upon his aged face.

  “Milord Advocate,” he said. “We wish papers to be drawn up immediately vacating all charges that were brought against Lord Seyzon Montyne, Duke of Lavenfeld.”

  He watched as the Council members turned shocked eyes to one another and when Chamberlain would have spoken, he raised his hand.

  “Aye, we are bestowing that title upon him and this is why. We have been engrossed in this latest problem with the Selwyn Reivers and did not know until learning of our son’s illness what had transpired here at Wicklow. We take responsibility and accept the blame for what has befallen Duke Montyne. He did not deserve such treatment for he is a true and loyal member of our Council. Therefore we want him reinstated with full rights of Meiramanian citizenship, his property restored to him, his commission in the Meiramanian Armed Forces restored and him promoted to the rank of General. We will have another announcement to make regarding him in the days to come but for now we are appointing him our Commandant of Forces.”

  Shocked faces met his words but not a man among the Council dared naysay their king’s edict. But if they thought they’d heard the most surprising things they could, what he said next staggered them.

  “And we are setting aside the Joining of our son Prince Vindan Jameson Brell to Lady Jana Reynaud and returning her to her rightful husband, the Duke of Lavenfeld.”

  “But Your Majesty!” Chamberlain spoke up. “The lady is carrying the prince’s—”

  “The child is not our son’s,” Kellan said and had to keep from laughing at the gasps and the bulging eyes of the men before him. “The child was conceived before our son forced her to wife. The child belongs to the Duke of Lavenfeld.”

  Silence.

  Complete, utter silence.

  So silent the proverbial dropping pin would have been like a clashing cymbal.

  The men dared not dispute their king’s words. They dared not question his assertions. They must take what he said as the gospel truth. Tha
t was the way of the royal toady.

  “You will see to our demands, Milord Advocate?” Kellan pressed.

  Chamberlain cleared his throat. “Aye, Your Majesty. I will attend to it posthaste.”

  “Then be about it. We wish to return to our son’s bedside where…” He smiled indulgently. “He is expected to make a full recovery thanks to an elixir provided to us by the Burgon, himself.”

  A murmur ran through the men and Kellan couldn’t tell if that signified relief or regret. He was betting on the latter.

  He stood and the men bowed as he came down the dais steps. Clenching his jaw tightly to prevent even a snicker from escaping, he walked sedately from the room but took the stairs two at a time with a gleeful smile on his lips.

  * * * * *

  Sitting quietly at the table with her husband across from her—not his usual seat for the king had taken that one—Jana tried not to meet Vindan’s eyes. He was well enough to come downstairs and have his meal in the informal dining room but his complexion was wan, the flesh of his face tight with tension, and his hand trembled from being abed so long. He had spoken few words to his father after the shouting match the entire castle had been privy to.

  Upon leaving the Council and the upheaval of his commands in his wake, the king had returned to his son’s bedchamber. Ascertaining Vindan was well enough to hear the news, had proceeded to tell him what he had set in motion.

  “You can’t do that!” Vindan had shouted.

  “Oh, but I can and I have,” his father said sweetly, his lips twitching as though he was trying not to smile.

  “I am legally Joined to her!”

  The king had shaken his head. “No, my son, you are not. There was no reason to set aside Duke—”

  “Baron!” Vindan dared correct. “He is a fucking baron!”

  “No, he is a fucking duke,” the king stated firmly. “We have made him so.”

  “He is a traitor!”

  “No, he is a patriot whose leigelord gave him no alternative to protect his lady-wife except try to escape with her. He did nothing illegal and we have decreed it so.” The smile finally broke through. “Live with it, brat.”