“I will be a good and loving husband to your daughter, Duke Cree,” de Viennes said. “For her, I have changed many of my old ways."
Dakin looked at de Viennes, but wisely kept his counsel. It would be sheer folly to insult this man whom the Prince Regent had named Court Chancellor. Instead, the Chalean resolutely turned his face from the deceiving bastard.
“Oh, ho, Duncan!” de Viennes chortled. “I believe we have sorely disillusioned our fine ambassador! Buck up, Dakin,” Duncan replied, his lips twitching with merriment as he accepted a flask of hot spiced wine from his valet. “Your lovely daughter will fare better with the good Rolf than ever she would with a rapscallion such as my poor besotted brother."
The Chalean ambassador did not reply to the comment. He had failed miserably his most beloved of children and had sentenced her to a loveless marriage with a man neither he nor Gillian liked. Moving away from the Prince and his Chancellor, he hunkered down before the fledgling fire that had been built under a high overhang of rock. His eyes were bleak and his heart aching in his chest for there was nothing he could do to right the great wrong he had helped to perpetuate.
* * * *
At precisely midnight on the eighteenth of November in the year now known as the Year of the Whirlwind, Brother Herbert Welmeyer united in Joining Prince Kaelan Hesar, Duke of Winterstorm, and the Countess Gillian Cree, daughter of the Duke of Warthenham, Ambassador to the Court of Tempest Keep. Lumley Tarnes gave the bride away; Nicholas Cree was the best man; and Brownie was the maid-of-honor.
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Chapter Five
His Eminence, Arch-Prelate Caldonicus Zein, looked up from his reading and frowned. A great sigh came from his thinned lips as he settled back in his chair and fixed his stygian-dark stare on his visitor.
“You know what this means, of course,” the Arch-Prelate stated.
The tall man standing before Caldonicus’ desk shrugged. “I have some understanding of the workings of the Higher Court, Your Eminence."
“We have not censured a member of this Brotherhood since one of our own tribe was brought up before the Council of Peers fifty years ago.” The Arch-Prelate made a disgusted sound. “And even then, his accusers were sentenced; not he."
“To be one of The People,” Occultus Noire acknowledged, “is to be One with Honor.” His dark eyes glazed with hatred. “There is no honor in Coure and the Court will surely see that, Your Eminence."
“Despite this petition against him, I fear Tolkan Coure will ascend to this office eventually,” Caldonicus complained. His frown deepened and thunderclouds formed on his wrinkled brow. “He is almost as bad as Galbrieth Courne was and that man-may the Great God, Raphian, roast his soul in the Abyss for the span of Time Known-murdered our first Arch-Prelate in his sleep to obtain the title for himself!"
Occultus nodded politely; he had heard this tale from His Eminence, Demonicus Bael, the then Cardinal of Ordination, who had initiated Occultus into the secret sect of the Brotherhood of the Domination.
The Arch-Prelate's lips quivered with suppressed laughter as he read Occultus’ memories. “I believe that is the way Demonicus took the throne and I've no doubt that if Coure ever makes it to this room, that will be the way his end will come, as well!"
“Tolkan is a man to be watched,” Occultus ventured.
“And watched closely!” Caldonicus grumbled. “He would be the next Arch-Prelate, if he could!"
Once again, Occultus nodded in agreement. He knew he, himself, would be the next chosen to sit the Throne of Raphian, although the thought did not please Occultus Noire. He was not sure he could ever commit himself to the all-invasive evil that was required of the Cardinal of Ordination-the office just one step removed from that of the Arch-Prelacy, itself and one to which he had recently been nominated. As Cardinal of Proctors, he had already begun to question the goals of the Brotherhood.
“And as for this other matter...” Caldonicus threw up his hands. “What do we do about this man?"
The Cardinal of Ordination smiled slightly—the thin lips a mere slit of amusement in his dark, lupine face—and arched one thick black brow.
“Despite the accusations against him, Your Eminence, there is no evidence of this man's involvement with the Dark Arts.” Occultus’ smile became a wicked grin. “In all actuality, I would imagine he was just as stunned by what happened after he cursed the village as were the villagers, themselves."
Caldonicus shrugged. “Could be. I am told the man was sorely provoked by their ill-treatment of him."
“Who would not be?"
“Still, as with every complaint brought Tribunal's attention, we, ourselves, must investigate.” Caldonicus reached for a sheet of parchment, scribbled a few lines, applied his personal seal to the missive, then handed it to Occultus. “Bring him in for questioning."
* * * *
On the morning of the nineteenth day of November, Occultus Noire with an accompaniment of seven Tribunal guards boarded ship at Boreas Keep, Serenia. Their destination: Wixenstead Harbor in the Principality of Virago.
From the window of his throne room, King Drayton McGregor watched the High Priest making his way up the gangplank of the Boreal Queen. The taste of loathing flooded the Serenian king's mouth and his hand tightened
“Do you think he is one of them?” his youngest son asked.
Drayton nodded. “Aye, the bastard is one of them! Can't you smell his evil, boy?"
Prince Thècion McGregor understood well the hatred in his father's voice and the gleam of vengeance in the older man's eye. The Brotherhood of the Domination had been a scourge to the people of Serenia—to the people of all the kingdoms—for six generations. Since the time of the Burning War. Little had been done to check the momentum of the evil sect despite the efforts of men like the Outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn.
“One day,” the king prophesied through clenched teeth, “there will come a man who will wipe that filth from the face of the earth!"
“I hope to live to see it,” Thècion said.
“As do I,” his father sighed, turning from the window. He plowed his hands through his thick sandy hairs. “I have heard they are going after some poor unfortunate."
Thècion continued to watch the procession of guards boarding the Boreal Queen. “You think so?” He felt a tremor of unease wiggle down his spine. “What happens when they do?"
Drayton sat down heavily on his throne and stared blindly across the magnificence of the Court of the Winds. “What do you think will happen, Thècion?” he snapped. “They will take him into custody and interrogate him!” He spat out a vulgarity that surprised his son for the king was not given to the use of such words.
“You mean they'll question him?” Thècion asked.
“No, interrogate!” Drayton McGregor spat. “Torture is what it really is!” He pounded his fist on the arm of his throne chair. “Who would not confess to anything those bastards wanted you to say when they have finished with their hot irons and barbed whips?"
The king's youngest son came to stand beside his father. “Is there any way we can help, Papa?"
Drayton shook his head. “Not unless we know who they're going after and get to the man first!” He glanced up at his son as he spoke—expecting to see pity on Thècion's lean face—and did a double-take; his son's eyes were boring into his with the light of battle blazing in the pale blue depths.
“No,” Drayton said, emphatically, spitting the word out like a pit from a prune. He twisted around in his chair. “You will not!"
Thècion's pale brows jumped up into the mop of tawny hair that fell in tousled waves around his face. Despite his twenty-nine years, the young man looked far younger—and far too innocent—as he met his father's stare. “What, Papa?” the prince questioned.
The king's gaze became twin slits of paternal and monarchical warning. “You will not board that ship and try to find out who they are going after, Thècion!"
“Who are going after what, M
ajesty?” came a gruff voice from the far end of the room.
Drayton gritted his teeth. Despite the numerous times he had chastised his eldest son for using the title, Blasdin ignored him. The king snapped his head around and fixed the Heir-Apparent to the throne of Serenia with a murderous glower, but before he could berate his son still once more, his youngest boy intruded.
“Those Tribunal guards sailing on the Queen,” Thècion replied.
Blasdin hated his brothers—both of them—but despised the younger of the two more. Most of the time, he ignored the brats. When forced to engage in conversation with them, it was all he could do to be civil and then only when in the company of either of his parents.
“You mean Noire and his bully-boys,” Blasdin quipped, casting a quick look at his father; he saw warning on the old man's face, but ignored it. “They're going after the Hesar's black sheep."
The king had opened his mouth to stop his son from speaking—knowing Blasdin would have made himself privy to the goings on of the Tribunal—so that Thècion would not find out the name of the man Occultus was after. At the mention of their life-long enemies, the Hesar clan of Virago, Drayton stilled. “Why?” the king whispered. He knew of the marriage between Justus Sinclair's only child and the youngest Viragonian prince. As a close friend to Prince Sean Brell of Chale—who had an ambassador at Tempest Keep—he had been kept apprized of the goings on at the Court there.
Blasdin shrugged with contempt. “Well for one thing, the man murdered his wife."
“I seriously doubt that,” his father snapped. “I never heard anything bad said about the boy up until he married Justus Sinclair's daughter."
“That is beside the point, Majesty,” Blasdin argued, knowing his use of the word would needle his father. “There were witnesses to the lady's murder."
Drayton's jaw clenched, as did his hands on the arms of his chair. “Or so Sinclair says,” he grated. He squinted fiercely at his son. “That was five years ago. Why are they just now going after the man?"
A look of amusement rippled over the eldest McGregor brother's face. “The demented fool put a curse on the village at Wixenstead and...."
“Is that where he lives?” Thècion interrupted, ignoring his brother's snort of disgust at both his interference in the conversation and his ignorance.
“The man lives at Holy Dale,” Blasdin replied haughtily. “If you knew your Viragonian history, you would also know that Wixenstead was where..."
“The Outlaw was based,” Thècion finished. “I know my Viragonian history well enough, Blast It."
Blasdin's lips peeled back from his teeth and he actually snarled. If there was one thing he hated more than the disrespect both Ronan and Thècion bore him, it was his brothers’ use of that vile nickname. “Do not call me that, Thècion,” he warned.
The king sighed. “So he cursed the village,” he stated, sighing again. “If what I have heard is true, the man had just cause to do so."
“You have only that drunken sailor's words to go by, and that when you, yourself, were far gone in your cups!” Blasdin sneered, walking to the display of armor that lined the south wall of the Court. He missed the anger that flushed immediately across his father's face. “I would be suspect of anything heard under such conditions!"
Drayton pushed himself slowly from his throne and stood glaring at his eldest son's back. He waited until Blasdin—made uneasy by the sudden silence that had invaded the room—looked around at him. The Serenian king lifted his right hand and pointed a rigid finger at his successor, then lowered his arm until his index finger pointed to a spot at the base of the throne's dais.
Blasdin risked a quick look at his younger brother and saw dark amusement lighting Thècion's pale blue eyes; there would be no help from that quarter. The Heir-Apparent swallowed nervously, squared his thick shoulders, then walked with seeming nonchalance to the spot to which his father-and king-pointed.
Thècion tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down tightly to keep himself from laughing. Blasdin might think he was hiding his fear of their father behind his careful facade of non-concern, but there was no hiding the trembling of his hands, nor was the man aware that he was beginning to sweat.
“Aye, Your Majesty?” Blasdin questioned.
The king looked to his youngest. “You may be excused, Thècion."
Forcing himself not to snicker, Thècion nodded respectfully to his father, then with less politeness to his brother and future king. He backed away from the duo, then turned—his face breaking into a wide grin—and started from the throne room.
“And Thècion?” his father called after him.
Thècion quickly wiped the humor from his face and turned around. “Aye, Papa?” He almost lost it when he saw Blasdin stiffen at the use of the endearment, knowing full well the pompous ass would never deign to be so familiar even with his own father.
“Do not board that ship, my boy,” Drayton warned with a stern look. He nodded as an afterthought. “The Boreal Queen, Thècion.” He wanted to be as precise as possible with this most recalcitrant of his legal sons and bastard offspring; Thècion had a habit of sidetracking rules and orders if one were not absolutely precise in their issue.
“No, of course not, Papa,” Thècion agreed.
Drayton didn't like the look in his son's eyes. The boy was a rebellious little bastard and a hellion of the first order. “And do not go to Holy Dale, either!"
“Wouldn't dream of it, Papa,” Thècion promised, his hand to his chest in pledge.
There should be another order, but Drayton could not think of it at the moment since his anger at his eldest son—who was smirking up at him with high rancor—took precedent. With a final warning for his youngest not to get into mischief, he turned his full fury on Blasdin's slowly slumping shoulders.
Once outside the keep, Thècion poised on the steps and looked down toward the docks. The Boreas Wind was in the harbor for loading; she would be sailing not long after the Queen.
A slow smile began to ease over the young prince's face. The Queen was a cargo ship; the Wind was a clipper. It would take the Boreal Queen four days to reach Wixenstead Harbor for she would have to stop first in Chale to off-load whatever cargo was going there. More than likely the Wind was going straight across the Boreal Sea to Ionary, taking home that gods-be-damned Montyne ogress the King of that arid land had sent over to give Ronan a once-over.
Thècion shivered. Thank the gods, he thought, it hadn't been him they were after to link the two kingdoms. Blasdin was shackled to Hestia Diaz from Diabolusia and that marriage had surely been made in hell. If his eldest brother's Joining, and Ronan's seemingly irreversible engagement to the Ionarian princess, was any indication, Thècion feared for his own peace of mind and freedom.
“The women of Virago are wild!” his friend, Prince Diarmuid Brell had related after a visit there the summer past. “I would not mind being tied to any one of the ladies I met at Tempest Keep; they are beautiful and they love to do it!"
“But are they accommodating in other matters?” Thècion had wanted to know. He needed a woman who would at least be as much a partner to him as a mate; unlike Hestia and that damned rude Ionarian whelp, who sought to rule Blasdin and Ronan and who were as ugly as a horse's arse.
“You can find whatever you want there!” Diarmuid had promised. “Why, there are some who are as meek as those little Chrystallusian maids of your mother's!"
Diarmuid, he thought as he watched the Boreas Wind preparing to follow in the wake of the Queen which was already well out to sea. Now there was a man who liked adventure and whose father was not as strict and forbidding as his own.
And the middle Brell boy was in town for the Festival of the Winter Solstice come day after tomorrow.
His thoughts were interrupted by a plaguing memory: “Torture is what it is!” he heard his father say.
“I met him,” he remembered Diarmuid saying once. “Kaelan Hesar? He's Seamus’ age-five years older than m
e-but he let me come with him to watch him race that hell-steed of his down to Hellstrom Point and back."
The Chalean prince had frowned mightily. “I don't believe a gods-be-damned thing they say about Kaelan! I'll tell you here and now, Thècion McGregor, he didn't murder that manhater of a wife of his. I've heard rumors of how they abused him afterwards and I'll tell you..."
Diarmuid's voice had become thick with anger and his black eyes glowing with the berserker passions of his ancestors as he spoke of the man he had once known at Tempest Keep.
“Torture is what it is."
Thècion's vision clouded with compassion as he took in the lines being tossed off from the Boreas Wind. He had an allegiance to one of his own breed of royal sons—of which he had no doubt Kaelan Hesar was one though he'd never met the man—and an intense desire to thwart the machinations of the Brotherhood of the Domination. His Serenian blood began to pulse with the need for action and he called out to a pair of passing groomsmen.
“Bradley?"
The men turned and looked at him; they smiled warmly liking this young prince far better than his royal siblings. “Aye, Your Grace?” one answered back.
“Will you go down to the docks and tell the Captain of the Wind I'd like a word with him before he shoves off and I'd be obliged if you'd hurry?"
The shorter of the groomsmen arched a finger respectfully to his forelock and took off running to do his prince's bidding.
“Know you Prince Diarmuid Brell of Chale, Henry?” Thècion asked the other groomsman.
“I do, Your Grace.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder. “He's down to the stables looking at Prince Blasdin's new fold. Want me to fetch him for you, Highness?"
Thècion winced at the title. “Aye. Tell him it's a matter of life and death!” He smiled as the groomsman's head bobbed once in acknowledgment and the lanky man began loping toward the stables.
Chewing on his lip, the young Serenian waited until he saw Diarmuid coming out of the stables at a near-run. Once he knew the Chalean had seen him, he let the memories plague him again.
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