WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Kaelan's eyes widened and his voice took on a hushed tone of awe. “He walks; he talks; he wields the power of a mighty kingdom in his right hand and can figure complicated mathematical problems in his mind!!” The wicked, vicious grin came back. “Is there no end to your talents, Duncan?"

  “Stop baiting me!” Duncan thundered. He stomped over to where his brother sat and pointed a trembling finger in Kaelan's face. “She was just a child, Kaelan! A mere babe when you began courting her!” He threw up his hands. “By the gods! What did you expect me to do when the Court was all atwitter about that little Chalean brat traipsing after you like a lovesick puppy. What was she? All of twelve?"

  Once more the humor left Kaelan's face. “She was sixteen before I ever kissed her cheek, Duncan,” he said stonily. “Seventeen before I ever put my lips to hers. Our own mother was fifteen when she married our father and seventeen when you were born.” His voice became softer. “Gillian is twenty-two; well-past the age of Joining and..."

  “That is why I Joined her By Proxy in Absentia to Rolf de Viennes!” Duncan interrupted him. “It is well-past the time she be married and with brats of her own!"

  “She does not love de Viennes,” Kaelan replied, shocked numb by the news that Duncan had forced marriage upon Gillian without her consent. He dared not dwell long on the fact that he, himself, was not Joined legally with her for fear he'd lose his sanity.

  “What does it matter whether she loves him or not?” Duncan shouted at him. “I do not love Freida nor does she love me, but we are finally to be parents ‘fore the end of the month! Hell, she might even have had the brat by now!"

  A humorless smile touched Kaelan's lips. “My congratulations, brother,” he said. “What names have you picked out for my niece or nephew?"

  “Don't change the subject!” Duncan raked both hands through his hair and pulled. “What am I going to do with you?"

  “Don't have Elga here to advise you, Dunc?” Kaelan tutted.

  Thunderclouds formed on Duncan's brow. “Do not bait me, I tell you! And do not bring that conniving old biddy into this! I haven't been to her bed in two years!"

  Kaelan glanced toward the stairs where the Duke of Warthenham had come to stand. How long the man had been there—and just how much of the conversation he'd heard—

  wasn't clear; but from the look on the older man's face, he had heard enough to disgust him. He cast Kaelan a look of embarrassment, turned, and slowly went back up the stairs.

  “Kaelan, Kaelan, Kaelan,” Duncan said, drawing his brother's gaze back to him. “You know adultery is punishable by the lash."

  “I know it very well,” Kaelan admitted, shifting in the chair. In his dreams, he could still hear the crack of Justus Sinclair's whip being laid across his flesh. Gillian had assured him no scars were visible on his flesh from the beating.

  “And yet you took that girl's maidenhead with no care for her reputation nor your own safety,” Duncan accused. “How am I to protect you from the Tribunal when they find out you have lain with a married woman? That you took her maidenhead? You know de Viennes will accuse you of rape for that offense alone! Five lashings of a bullwhip at Freddie's hand for fighting in the compound is nothing compared to fifty passes of a cat-'o-nine at the hands of the Tribunal's executioner!"

  Despite himself, Kaelan shuddered. “I would guess not, but it is not adultery when you sleep with you own wife, Duncan."

  “She is not...” Duncan went as still as a statue, his eyes flared, and his mouth opened on a long, fearful intake of breath. When he exhaled, his voice was a near whisper: “What have you done, Kaelan?"

  “Do you think I would shame Gillian Cree or her family, Duncan? I have been in love with her for years. I have dreamed of her every night of my life since Anson died. Do you think me such a bastard that I would dare lay hands to her unless I had been given that right by what I took to be a legal Joining?"

  “Legal?” Duncan whispered. He blinked, blinked again. “How could it be legal? I did not give you permission to court her nor wed her, brother!” He glared at Kaelan. “And besides, I betrothed her to Rolf de Viennes over a year ago. Surely she told you that!"

  “You betrothed her to him against her wishes,” Kaelan said.

  “That ... doesn't ... matter,” Duncan stressed. He clenched his jaw. “Who dared perform the ceremony for you, Kaelan?"

  The younger man did not answer, but continued to look calmly—though somewhat apprehensively—up at his brother. After a long moment of pregnant silence, the king shook his head.

  “It doesn't matter; the Joining is invalid since she belongs legally to Rolf and has for a fortnight.” He put his hands on his hips, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep, calming breath, then spoke with quiet frustration. “You don't have any idea what you've done."

  “I have married the woman I love,” Kaelan answered. “And she loves me. We want to be together, Duncan. Annul her Joining to de Viennes and let it be."

  Without looking up, the king stared at the grimy floor beneath his feet. “That can not be allowed.” He kicked at the old rug beside his left boot. “Not ever."

  Kaelan stopped breathing. The toe of his brother's boot had dislodged a section of the moth-eaten rug and the recessed handle of the trapdoor had been revealed. He didn't think anything Duncan was seeing was registering with him, but he couldn't take that chance.

  “I would rather see her dead than have you hand her over to a man of Rolf de Viennes’ ilk!” Kaelan shouted, wondering where that particular hell-spawned demon was at the moment. He knew damned well the bastard would have come with Duncan.

  Duncan looked up at him. “Be careful what you say; the man is just upstairs."

  “I don't give a rat's arse where he is!” Kaelan sneered. He raised his voice. “Let the lecherous son of a bitch come down here if he takes exception to my calling him a mule-licking jackass!"

  There was a muffled snarl of rage from above stairs and the scuffling of feet, more muted explosions of vitriolic protest, then a loud shout to ‘BE QUIET!'

  Kaelan laughed. “Cree doesn't care any more for the man than does his daughter or I, does he, Duncan?"

  Duncan didn't acknowledge the jibe. He turned his head, looked across the cellar to where a large, heavy-looking oaken table stood against one wall, then back down at the rug beside him.

  Kaelan's heart began to thud hard in his chest. There was no mistaking the four indentations in what was left of the old rug's nap: four indentations where four legs had held up the weight of a heavy table.

  Duncan slowly lifted his gaze to Kaelan, then in a quiet, dangerous voice he asked Utley if they had looked for the false cellar where it was rumored the Outlaw had often hid so many years before.

  “Aye, Majesty,” Utley said, his brows coming together over the beak of his nose, “but we found no...” He stopped for his king had bent down, tossed the rug aside, and was lifting what could be nothing else but a trapdoor in the floor.

  “And did you look here, Master Utley?” Duncan growled throwing the door back and peering into the false cellar.

  Utley stammered. “Nay, Your Grace, we did not."

  “Get down there,” Duncan ordered, turning to look back at his brother. His expression was stern. “Where is the bolt hole in there, Kaelan?” He wasn't expecting the younger man to speak, but when he did, the king's face turned hard and bitter.

  “You know damned well I ain't gonna tell you nothing Duncan,” Kaelan informed him.

  The king just stared at him, waiting for Utley's report. Folding his arms over his chest, he simply stood there and contemplated Kaelan with a look that would have shaken another man for it boded ill for that man's future.

  Utley poked his head up through the trapdoor hole. “The floor's dirt, Sire. Can't see any levers or such. The lads are pushing on the walls for a sliding panel or the like. It may take awhile."

  Duncan nodded, speaking without taking his eyes from Kaelan. “Take all the time you need,
Master Utley; it's there."

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  Chapter Ten

  Thècion McGregor stared at the tall, lanky man in the russet robe who stood near the bow of the other ship, contemplating the wake passing under the hull.

  “I've heard he's to be the next Arch-Prelate,” Diarmuid said, shivering. He ran his hands over the sleeves of his heavy jacket. “Do you reckon he'll be as dangerous as Caldonicus?"

  “Probably even more so,” Thècion accused. “They seem to get worse and worse with each generation."

  Diarmuid didn't like the intense cold that was pelting them. His land was one of green hills and dales, sweet rain and crashing salt waves, wee folk dancing through the heather on a warm summer's night. This blasted North Boreal Sea could not compare to his gentle Taran Bay at all.

  “You know, Thècion,” he said, pulling the collar of his thick wool jacket up under his ears, “I came across an old manuscript in my Grandda's trunk a few years back. Did I ever tell you?"

  Thècion was staring intently at the High Priest whose name he had found out was Occultus Noire. “Nay, you didn't tell me."

  “I did,” Diarmuid stated. “It was called the Wind Legend Chronicle and had to do with the one the Wind Warrior's call the Dark Overlord of the Wind."

  The romantic mysterious title gained the Serenian prince's instant attention. Thècion's head jerked toward his companion. “What of him?"

  “It tells his name,” Diarmuid whispered, “though it made no sense to me."

  “What was the name?"

  Diarmuid blushed although the heat in his cheeks was hard to see for the roughness of the cold that had already turned them red. He ducked his head. “Thècion."

  Thècion stared at him. “Thècion?” he said, dropping his own name as though it were a heavy stone into deep water.

  “Aye.” Diarmuid blushed again. “That's what it said, and beside the name was the drawing of a big black raven."

  “Ah, well that explains it, then!” Thècion said with relief. “Thècion is Oceanian for ‘black-winged scavenger', Dear Mutt,” he scoffed.

  Diarmuid hated the way his friend often mispronounced his name and bristled against the playful insult. He tilted his nose upward. “Well, They Shun,” he grated, using his own mangling of his friend's name, “I knew gods-be-damned well it wasn't you to who the manuscript referred."

  Thècion grinned. In Serenian High Speech, Thècion, was pronounced ‘thay zjun’ and meant lordly one. The word thesion, pronounced ‘they shun', meant mighty warrior.

  Diarmuid frowned at the grin. “What?” he asked suspiciously, wondering what he had said to amuse his friend.

  “To whom,” Thècion corrected. “It is ‘to whom the manuscript referred'."

  Diarmuid rolled his eyes, refusing to comment on the correction. “But that's not to say that a generation or two down the road, there won't be another Thècion who will become the Dark Overlord of the Wind!"

  “Or use the code name Raven as his own!” Thècion taunted.

  “Bloody hell,” Diarmuid exclaimed, moving back from the rail. “He's looking at us!"

  Thècion turned to see where his friend was looking and saw the tall russet-robed priest staring across the widening distance between them. Without even thinking of what he was doing, the young Serenian prince lifted his hand and waved, smiling as he did so.

  “By the gods, you fool! Don't insult the man!” Diarmuid gasped. “He'll curse you for sure!"

  A slight tremor of fear ran down Thècion's spine for he had certainly meant no insult, but then he blinked with shocked surprise when the priest raised his right hand—palm toward the young men—above his head, then slowly closed his fingers into a fist and brought it to his heart in a long-held salute before lifting it again, fist skyward.

  “I'll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian warthog!” Diarmuid whispered, seeing, but not believing the exchange. He flicked his startled eyes to Thècion and found his friend smiling. “Do you know what he did?” he asked Thècion with disbelief.

  “Aye, I know,” Thècion said, bowing his head respectfully in the priest's direction, not surprised in the least when the priest lowered his fist and also bowed his head slightly before turning once more to study the waves. “He gave me the Sign of the Wind, the ancient salute of subject to Overlord: a greeting of obedience."

  “If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it,” Diarmuid breathed with awe. “The men of the Brotherhood of the Domination do not extend such greetings, Thècion.” He studied his companion with budding hero-worship. “But he actually saluted you! Maybe you will be the Dark Overlord!"

  Thècion shook his head. “Not me, my friend.” As the Boreal Queen tacked leeward—obstructing the prince's view of the lanky priest—Thècion nodded. “But maybe one of my ancestors, eh?"

  “It doesn't change anything, Thècion,” Diarmuid said, stamping his feet to warm them.

  Thècion turned to him. “Change what?"

  “That priest going after Kaelan Hesar."

  There was a warmth spreading over the young Serenian warrior that was beginning to set his heart and mind at ease. He cast one final look at the rapidly-disappearing Boreal Queen and sighed.

  “Aye, I think it changed everything completely, Dear Mutt. Everything."

  Across the waves, Occultus Noire smiled, hearing the conversation as clearly in his mind as if the two young warrior-princes were at his side. He unbent his rigid back and leaned on the rail, folding his hands together and staring once more deeply into the rolling sea. “How could you know that simple, mindless gesture would decide me, Prince Thècion?” he asked softly. “That guileless act of friendly greeting to a man by rights you should hate and fear?"

  Occultus breathed in the cold saltwater air and continued to make plans that would one day bring him-although he did not know it at that time-into very close contact with the man the Old Ones had foretold:

  The Dark Overlord of the Wind.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  Duncan came back from his trek to the end of the Outlaw's tunnel in a black rage. His hands were clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily with the force it took to keep his volatile temper under control. By the time he climbed the steps up from the false cellar and reached his brother's side, there was neither compassion nor brotherly respect left in his cold heart. “She will be found, Kaelan,” he spat. “The tracks are easy enough to read in the snow.” A muscle jumped in his taut jaw. “I had not thought they would try for Serenia, but that is of little count."

  Kaelan reckoned Nick had at least thirty minutes to an hour's start on his trackers. Lumley Tarnes had assured both men he knew the way to Ciona, eight miles or so down the coast of Virago. The seacoast town was almost on that imaginary line that dissected Serenia and Virago. Once the Cree siblings were on Serenian soil, it would take nothing short of an act of war to get them back, for Nick planned upon seeing the town council immediately they arrived to ask for political sanctuary.

  “You want to risk going to war with Drayton McGregor?” Kaelan asked.

  Duncan's mouth became a thin line before he calmed himself enough to speak. “It will not be the first time our two families have shed blood over a foolish man's obsession with a pretty woman!"

  “I'd think long and hard before engaging the McGregors in this, Your Majesty,” came a steely voice.

  Kaelan and his brother looked toward the creaking of heavy steps coming down the stairs and found Duke Dakin Cree.

  The Duke paused at the last step. “My king is best friend to King Drayton McGregor,” he stressed “and would take sides with Serenia if war came.” He came off the last step. “As would Montyne of Ionary and Wynth of Oceania.” The Duke's chin came up. “It is my guess Virago would find herself alone against the might of the other six kingdoms."

  “A position we have been in before!” Duncan threw at him.

  “Aye, Majesty, you wer
e and was it not then that your mighty Jarl, Innis Hesar, lost Ciona to Prince Doran McGregor?” The Duke smiled hatefully. “Another war might even lose you the keep at Colsaurus. Norus, is it? It sits at a strategic point there close to Diabolusia. I would imagine the McGregors could make good use of it, don't you?"

  “That keep is a baronial estate of my family!” Duncan spat. “Four generations of Jarls were born there! Kaelan and I were born there!” His eyes widened. “The Outlaw was born there!”

  “Then it would be a shame to lose it, would it not, Sire?” the Duke pressed.

  “Calm yourself, Duncan,” Kaelan warned, alarmed at his brother's impassioned face, “else you'll have a stroke."

  “YOU SHUT UP!” Duncan spun around and pointed a rigid finger. “ELSE I'LL SIGN ORDERS FOR YOU TO BE EXILED!” he thundered.

  Kaelan shrugged as though the threat was of no consequence at all. “Where the hell do you think I've been these past five years, Duncan, if not in exile?"

  Duncan moved quicker than any man there would have thought it possible for him to move. In a flash, he was in front of Kaelan, fiercely gripping the arms of the chair in which the younger man sat, leaning over so that he was almost nose to nose with his brother.

  “YOU THINK THIS IS EXILE, LITTLE BROTHER?” he bellowed like an enraged bull, spittle flying from his mouth. “WHAT WOULD TRANSPORT TO TYBER'S ISLE BE TO YOU, THEN?"

  Lars Utley exchanged a quick glance with Landers. Hadn't the king-just three months past-signed the orders that sent five men from the Tribunal cells of Tempest Keep aboard the Borstal, bound for Tyber's Isle and the infamous penal colony known as the Labyrinth? The trackers shivered, wishing they could cross themselves to ward off the danger of such a thing happening to them.

  Kaelan stared up into his brother's enraged face and knew this was no idle threat. Their father had sent many men to that particular hell-hole; had taken great delight in signing the transport orders, if truth were known. To Landis Hesar, it was a mark of power to be able to wield such authority over other men; Duncan was of the same bent, it seemed.