WinterofThorns

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Jana tried twice to snatch her wrist from his hold but he kept tight possession of it. He would not give her a second chance to run. Though it pained him to admit, he would need to post guards on her at all times from now on. As soon as the Joining was over, he would send Seyzon’s mother back to Lavenfeld under heavy guard as well. She and the man he suspected was more than her Master-at-Arms would need to be placed under house arrest for the foreseeable future. He could not risk them trying to raise the money to pay the outrageous ransom the border lord was demanding for Seyzon’s release.

  “You can tell your master I have no intention of negotiating Lord Seyzon’s release. Montyne disobeyed a direct order, tried to flee his guards, and has been stripped of his rank and discharged from the Meiramanian Army. Mayhap his mother will pay to get him back. I will not!”

  Going over his conversation with the border lord’s emissary, he hoped his words had not signed Seyzon’s death warrant. He doubted Bray would hang him but he didn’t know that for sure.

  “You may force me to marry you but I will never be a wife to you,” Jana said, drawing his attention.

  “Don’t be so sure,” he told her. “You didn’t exactly lie there like a rock when I took you at Riverglade.” He flexed his fingers around her wrist. “You are a passionate woman and I am a determined man.”

  “You will regret forcing this,” she said. “As the goddess is my witness you will.”

  He stopped and snapped her to him, backing her against the wall to pin her there with his body. When she tried to push him away, he grabbed her other hand and dragged both her arms above her head. Before she could turn her face away, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her with all the pent-up anger striving to break free of his chest. Wedging his leg between her thighs, he pressed his lower body tightly to hers. Beneath his mouth she made protesting sounds but he ignored them as his kiss became punishment and a demand for capitulation. She was squirming in obvious outrage under his assault that the friction was arousing him. He had a wild desire to drag her to the floor and take her then and there.

  And would have had she not bitten him, drawing blood.

  “Son of a bitch!” he gasped, stepping back. She’d nailed him hard and he could taste the blood welling on his lip.

  “Try that again and I’ll take a hunk of your lip next time!” she hissed.

  He wanted to slap her but knew he wouldn’t. Gentlemen did not abuse women—no matter how angry they were at them. His godmother had drilled that rule into him at an early age.

  She was glaring defiantly at him and breathing hard. Her beautiful eyes were narrowed and her jaw was set, lips pressed tightly together.

  “I have changed my mind,” he said, releasing her hands and stepping well back from her. “I will pay the border lord’s ransom and then you know what I’m going to do, Lady Jana?”

  “I don’t give a warthog’s ass what you do!” she snapped.

  “I will have Seyzon taken to Utuk Xul. Do you know what that is?”

  He could tell from the look that passed over her face that she did not.

  “It is the most infamous maximum security prison in the Megaverse, far worse than the Labyrinth. Once interned there, prisoners never see the light of day again. The cells are a mile underground. The men who are sent there are the worse criminals there are. For the most part they are murderers, serial killers, terrorists but the prison has more than its share of pedophiles and brutal sodomists—men who like raping and torturing other men. As handsome as Seyzon is, he should be very popular with perverts of that ilk, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He saw the blood drain from her face.

  “You wouldn’t do that to him.”

  “The priest is waiting,” he said.

  “You—”

  “Make no mistake, Jana,” he interrupted. “Lady Millicent will go to Galrath and Seyzon will go to Utuk Xul. That is a certainty. This is the last time I’m going to caution you that I mean what I say. No more threats. No more warnings. No more discussion on the matter. I’ll simply issue the orders and see them carried out. As for you, you’ll have the dubious distinction of being my concubine instead of my wife. My whore with all that implies. So what’s it to be? Her in the convent and him in the prison or your hand in mine before the priest?”

  She stared into his eyes for a long time then seemed to accept his words for she hung her head and nodded twice.

  “Good,” he said then turned from her. He would not force her to come with him. She had to do that of her own accord. He started walking.

  A moment passed and then she was at his side, her fingers threaded together in front of her.

  “And if you ever bite me again, I’ll turn your ass over my knee. I promise you sitting will be out of the question for a good long while,” he told her.

  Chapter Eight

  He was fading in and out. At some point he screamed but he didn’t know why. There were people standing over him—hurting him—and he didn’t know why they were doing that. In between bouts of total numbness, he was in agony. Unable to move his left arm and leg, all he could do was stare at the ceiling until someone came to put him out into the darkness again. Faces were blurred but he knew two of those staring down at him were male and at least one was a female. Sounds were muted but he could swear he heard the skirl of a fiddle, the thump of a bodhrán and the plink of a banjo somewhere close by. Now and again, he heard men laughing and women shrieking but he knew the female sounds were ones of merriment and not terror. There were smells as well and they made him sick to his stomach. Somewhere near him was a kitchen in which greasy food was being cooked.

  “He’s awake again,” a woman said.

  “Put him back out.” It was a man’s deep voice.

  “When is Robbie gonna get here?” the same woman asked with a snort. “I’m tired of cleaning up after this one.”

  “Today if all goes as planned,” the man replied.

  “Won’t be soon enough for me,” the woman stated.

  “Don’t worry. With any luck you’ll be sprawled on your back and earning your keep again before the day ends,” the man told her.

  I am in a whorehouse, he thought. But why? He hadn’t entered one of the seedy establishments since he was a youth of ten and five and then only on a dare from Vindan. Was Vindan here as well?

  “Turn your head, blue eyes,” the woman said.

  He shifted his eyes to her face and tried to focus. “Where?” he croaked and tried to lick his parched lips but there was no moisture on his tongue.

  She sighed heavily. “I’ve told you too many times to count where you are. Now, turn you head. I ain’t got all day to fuck with you.”

  He didn’t understand why she was ordering him to look away from her. It wasn’t as though he could see her clearly. Her head was blocking the overhead light and all he saw was a halo of impossibly red hair sticking straight up in a circle around her face.

  “Just give him the tenerse and be done with it!” the male snapped.

  “Get that shit away from him.”

  It was another voice—one he was fairly sure he hadn’t heard before. The brogue sounded Chalean.

  “You been shooting him up this entire time? What the fuck’s the matter with you, Driskoll?”

  Yet another voice that had not been previously heard.

  “He’s been in pain, milord,” the man with the deep voice said. His tone suggested to Seyzon he was afraid of the man to whom he spoke. “We had to re-set his leg ’cause he fell out of the bed and—”

  “He just fell out of the bed?” the man with the Chalean accent demanded.

  “On my sainted mother’s grave, he did, milord.”

  The woman came to her companion’s defense. “He was trying to get up to take a piss. We thought he was asleep.”

  “As soon as we heard him hit the floor and—”

  “He screamed like a banshee when he did,” the woman put in.

  “You’d better pray no permanent damage
was done to him or before the gods I’ll take it out on your hide!”

  Seyzon strained to see the speaker but he could not make his eyes focus. His vision kept skipping, rolling way, dropping out of frame.

  “Saur, fetch a couple of the men and let’s get this boy out of here while he’s still breathing,” the Chalean ordered.

  What happened next plunged Seyzon into a nightmare that he’d just as soon never visited. Though the hands were gentle on him, as soon as his back left the bed, he screeched like a little girl down whose bodice a spider had dropped. Pain shot through his left shoulder and left leg.

  “See what I mean?” deep voice asked. “That leg is broken in three places, Lord Robbie. He needs to be in a TAOS.”

  “And he will be. As much as I hate doing it, give me the vac-syringe so I can knock him out.”

  There was a cool, gentle touch on his cheek as his head was turned to one side then fiery agony entered his neck and spread so quickly he barely had time to flinch. He whimpered from the pain of the injection.

  “That’ll be the last time, son,” the Chalean said, stroking hair from Seyzon’s forehead.

  Sinking down under the warm, mellow waves of the drug, Seyzon looked up into man’s face that was hidden behind a black mask. The only part of the man’s face he could see clearly were a pair of compassionate blue eyes.

  “Sleep now,” the man said and straightened up.

  Tall. Broad of shoulder. Wide of chest and narrow of hip. That was the impression of his savior that Seyzon took into dreamland with him.

  * * * * *

  There was heavy gunfire in the distance. Beneath his ass, the earth shook and the air was filled with the stench of acrid smoke. He shifted on the cold ground and tried to get comfortable but his leg was throbbing and his shoulder ached unmercifully. Since he’d awakened, he’d done nothing but try to hide the pain he was in from his captors. The young man who was caring for him spoke just enough Meiramanian for Seyzon to understand the men in whose hands he’d fallen were under siege from the Venturian militia. The ones who had rescued him from the whorehouse were engaged in a pitched battle.

  He remembered coming to as a wagon raced pell-mell across the bumpiest road he’d ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Despite the numbing drug flowing through his system, he felt every jostle, every bump and every rut the wheels rolled into. By the time he was lifted from the wagon and carried into what he later realized was a cave, the drug had worn off sufficiently enough the pain was raising its head. Now he half reclined with his back against the stone wall of the cave and wished he could pass out again. His broken leg was stretched out in front of him. The other was crooked at the knee. His injured arm lay limply in his lap. He was alone—where was he to go and how was he to get there?—listening to his stomach growl.

  There was one huge explosion that rattled the ground beneath him and caused dust and small rocks to rain down on his head and then a muted cheer. He could only hope it was the Venturians who had won the battle and that someone would come looking for him. Otherwise, he was going to starve to death in the hellishly cold cave.

  Idly he wondered if the Chalean had survived the encounter with his people. He hoped so. Though he hadn’t spoken to him since leaving the whorehouse, he was curious about the Reiver he suspected was the border lord himself.

  Time passed slowly so that by the time he heard the crunch of rocks outside the cave entrance, Seyzon’s nerves were stretched paper thin. Unable to move, he had a brutal headache for he was dehydrated and so hungry he was tempted to eat the mold growing on the side of the cave wall.

  The entrance darkened and a man came into the cave. It was the Chale and his face was still concealed behind the mask. In the glow from the phosphor light his young caretaker had turn on before he left, the tall man’s eyes gleamed blue fire.

  “We chased the Vents back to Rosemon. They’ll think twice before attacking us again.” The Chalean hunkered down a few feet from Seyzon. “How you feeling?”

  “Thirsty as hell,” Seyzon said. “That boy went to fetch a canteen of water and never came back.”

  “Nor will he,” the man said gravely. “Hold on.” He got to his feet, turned and ducked out of the cave. He returned with a canteen.

  “The boy is dead?” Seyzon asked, taking the canteen.

  “Aye. A sniper blew his head off.” He sighed deeply. “As far as I know, he was the only casualty on our side. I don’t know about the Vents. Gods-be-damned, lad. I told him to stay put.” His blue eyes bored into Seyzon. “He died with the full canteen still clutched in his hand.”

  Remorse shot through Seyzon and his hand stilled before his lips touched the rim of the canteen. He lowered it. “I am sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I shouldn’t have told you.” The Chalean motioned with his hand. “Drink. You look entirely too pale for my liking.”

  He felt lower than pond scum for being the cause of the young man’s death but he put the canteen to his mouth and began guzzling the water despite the fact it tasted heavily of sulfur.

  “Not too much,” the man said as he sat down in front of Seyzon, drew up his knees and circled them with his arms.

  Reluctantly, Seyzon lowered the canteen and swiped his forearm under his chin where the water had dribbled. He started to hand it back but the Chalean shook his head.

  “Just go easy on it. Are you hungry?”

  “Starved,” Seyzon admitted.

  “I’ve jerky and a chunk of sourdough bread in my saddlebags. We don’t dare stay here long enough to catch a hare or two and roast it.” He cocked a shoulder. “There are Meiramanian troops all over these hills. You’ll have to make do until we get to Newcomb. There’s a transport ship waiting for us there.”

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “Beyond the reach of your very powerful enemy.”

  “Don’t do that,” Seyzon asked. “My mother will pay to get me back.”

  “Lady Millicent doesn’t have anywhere near the amount I’m asking, boy.”

  “She can get it,” he said, knowing for a certainty the man to whom he was speaking was the border lord Robin Bray.

  “From whom?” Bray inquired.

  “Friends.”

  “Aye, she has friends but they won’t help her. She is the mother of a traitor, a warrior who has been given a dishonorable discharge from the Meiramanian Army. Anyone who comes to her aide will have their lands confiscated by the prince, rotten little shit that he is.”

  News of having been thrown out of the army didn’t surprise Seyzon but hearing that Vindan was responsible for seeing that his godmother had nowhere to turn to get help for her son rankled like a sore tooth.

  “Vindan Brell has a lot for which to answer,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “That he does,” the border lord agreed. “Like father, like son.”

  “He has my woman and I intend to get her back or die trying.”

  “At the moment, you are in no condition to do anything.” He reached up to scratch his shoulder. “Besides which, you forget you are my prisoner.”

  “No, I’m not apt to forget it,” Seyzon said bitterly.

  “Well, if you’re worried about me hanging you or tossing you into a rat-infested cell, I’ll disabuse you of that notion. If I was going to do either of those things I wouldn’t be having a TAOS unit flown to my transport. Why bother healing you?”

  “Why do little boys torment ants with a magnifying glass?” Seyzon countered.

  Deep laughter came from behind the mask and the blue eyes crinkled with amusement.

  “Do you plan on selling me to the highest bidder?”

  “Not sure there’s a market for used, discarded friends of Vindan Brell even if they are one of a kind,” Bray said. “No wonder you were his only mate.”

  “Then why keep me if I’m useless?”

  “Because when the time comes, I intend to help you get your woman out of Brell’s greedy hands,” was the answer.

/>   “Why would you do that?”

  “Ceart an chéad oíche. Brell took your woman under that ages-old right.”

  Seyzon stared at him. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s not a secret, son,” Bray told him. “I have spies in Meiraman.”

  “But it isn’t common knowledge.”

  “Mayhap not but I learned of it. The right hadn’t been exercised in nearly forty years until Brell took it in his mind to use it to hurt you. It is a vile right that needs to be outlawed and any man who practices it needs to be punished. The last time a royal claimed the right of first lord, the girl he raped perished.”

  “I didn’t think it had been used is this century,” Seyzon said.

  Bray snorted, his eyes turned ice cold. “Duke Eduard Llewellyn of Athendale took dozens of young girls on their Joining nights—and before in some cases—until I stopped him. If I have anything to say about it, it will never be used again. No man will ever have his woman taken from him at the whim of a royal.”

  “And the woman who died?” he asked quietly.

  “Girl,” Bray corrected. “She was sixteen but she looked much younger.” He lowered his head. “She was as tiny as a butterfly, as sweet as a newborn kitten and—”

  “She was yours.”

  The border lord raised his head. “Nay, not mine but my best friend’s wife-to-be. The duke’s men took her as she was on her way to the chapel. My mate and I stood there waiting for her, the priest and the families giving him sympathetic looks that didn’t register at the time. They knew.” He paused. “They knew why she was late coming to the Joining, but he and I were oblivious. It wasn’t until one of Duke Eduard’s men came to fetch us that we suspected something was wrong.”

  Seyzon watched the sharp blue eyes become tearful.

  “The guard had a shred of decency in him. After the duke was finished with Sofia, he ordered the man to get rid of her. The bastard knew he’d hurt her badly for she was sprawled on his bed in a pool of blood—not moving, with her eyes open but seeing nothing beyond the horror he’d put her through. The guard picked her up and brought her to the servants’ quarters before running to find me.” Bray’s voice broke. “When we got to her, it was too late for anyone to help her. She died in my friend’s arms.” He put up his hand and pinched his eyes with his thumb and middle fingers. “My friend hanged himself just before dawn that next day.”