WinterofThorns

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  He turned to his side—unable to get comfortable on the hard ground. A rock was digging into his ribcage but he welcomed the discomfort. He kept him from screaming in frustration.

  They had to get Jana away from Vindan. That was now more imperative than ever. There was no way he could have her giving birth to the babe while still with Vindan. She had to be where Seyzon could take care of her, be with her, hold her hand and wipe her brow as she struggled to bring the child into the world. It didn’t matter whether that babe was his or Vindan’s.

  “It’s his, isn’t it, milady?” he asked quietly so as not to disturb the other men. “Were it mine, you would have told me first thing.”

  He wished to the gods it was his. The thought of the woman he loved giving him a child of their precious union brought tears to his eyes.

  The thought that child was Vindan’s made the tears fall.

  * * * * *

  Jana sat quietly on the window seat with her hands in her lap and stared out at the rain cascading down the glass pane. She was alone and terribly lonely for companionship. A servant had brought her breakfast under the hawklike glower of two armed guards but the woman had not spoken to her. Neither did the guards speak. No one had spoken to her in over a month. No one was allowed to.

  Nor had she seen Vindan since the early morning hours after they had left Dungannon. When he could not find Seyzon or any trace that his former friend had been at the keep, the prince had ordered his entourage to make ready to return to Wicklow. In the dead of night she had been forced into her husband’s carriage and spirited away under a doubly heavy guard of Vindan’s men augmented by Duke McGivney’s.

  Upon arriving at Wicklow, Vindan had shackled her wrist and all but dragged her from the carriage and into the keep, up the stairs to the tower. He’d said not a word to her the entire time. There was no need. The look on his face, the squint of his eyes, the rigidity of his body said more than words could have. He no longer trusted her. She had been thrust into the role of his captive and though the tower had been made comfortable for her, it was still a prison.

  A crack of lightning made her jump. Putting a protective hand to the growing mound of her belly, she rubbed absently. She had yet to feel the babe kick and was looking forward to it. The quickening should begin any day now.

  The healer made frequent visits to look in on her but no matter what she said to the man, no matter what questions she asked, he remained mute, his lips pursed. She could tell he wanted to speak to her but had been prohibited to do so. This being her first pregnancy she had so many questions. Not for the first time did she wish her mother were still alive or that the Lady Millicent would be allowed to visit her.

  Any woman who had given birth be allowed to visit her.

  She’d been provided e-books on pregnancy for her vid-pad—at least Vindan had made sure of that—but there were things she wanted to ask that the books didn’t cover.

  Sighing heavily, she eased her swollen feet from the window seat and went to the small writing desk in the corner of the room. A shelving unit held discs for the vid-pad that had been provided to keep her entertained. Music vids, e-books, movie vids occupied her time as did the crocheting and embroidery materials a servant had brought. An easel and set of watercolor paints sat beside the window opposite the one in which she sat most of the time. They were things to prevent her from going stark raving mad and she supposed she should be grateful for that small concession.

  What had thrilled her the most was to learn she could use the vid-pad to venture beyond the walls of Wicklow to eavesdrop on the rest of the world. She could receive news of what was going on and that was helpful. Though she couldn’t send or receive emails, had no way of contacting anyone outside Wicklow, at least she knew the Reivers were winning in their guerilla war against Meiraman. Hopefully it would not be long before they were in charge and she would be freed.

  * * * * *

  “So now we have bio matter retrieval capability thanks to the Burgon,” the border lord told Seyzon.

  “What does that mean in terms of our campaign against the Meiramanian?” Seyzon inquired.

  “Glad you asked,” Lord Bray said. Above the mask his blue eyes were merry—as they almost always were. “We can put that handy-dandy little transport unit aboard my shiny new Fiach and pluck whomever we have DNA from smack out of their chairs.”

  Seyzon’s eyes widened. “You can dematerialize someone then rematerialize them inside the craft?”

  “Indeed I can,” the border lord acknowledged. “And will.”

  “You can retrieve Jana?” Seyzon questioned.

  “Do you have a DNA sample of hers?” Lord Bray asked.

  “Ah…”

  “A hair brush? Toothbrush? Lock of hair braided into a bracelet?”

  Seyzon’s brow furrowed. “No, but—”

  “Then no, I can’t retrieve her, lad. Wish to the gods I could but without a DNA sample to feed into the bio matter unit, no.”

  “Had there been anything of hers left at Lavenfeld, that would have been a different story,” Dyson said.

  “What of her things at Riverglade?” Seyzon asked eagerly.

  “Unfortunately Riverglade was destroyed by the Meiraman Army when they found out Lord Reynaud was aiding us, or did you forget that, brat?” Dyson asked.

  “I feel bad about Alden losing his home,” Seyzon said. “I never thought he’d take sides with us.”

  “Which he wouldn’t have done were not his sister a virtual prisoner in Wicklow,” Hawkins said. “The prince ain’t treating her right.”

  “Don’t mention that bastard to me,” Seyzon snapped. He shook his head as though trying to rid himself of whatever thought had intruded. “So who’s the target you want to snatch? Assuming you have his or her DNA? Can you target someone of importance enough to do our cause some good?”

  Dyson scratched his stubbled chin. “Ah well there’s a problem with transporting targets from certain structures.”

  “Like Blackhall for instance,” Lord Bray said. “The palace and all government facilities—as well as quite a few of the castles of the upper class—have a network of resistors embedded within the foundations, roofs and walls to keep anyone from being able to snatch the high and mighty.”

  “But with some materials, those resistors don’t work. There is within the building blocks of certain types of stone or metal that is thought to block retrieval. As a matter of fact, copair acts as a conductor for the transport beams.”

  “Making it easy to extract bio matter from a structure that was built primarily with that material,” Lord Bray put in.

  Seyzon frowned. “The only castle I know that was built from copair is Wicklow. Can you get to Vindan, then?”

  “What good would it do to snatch him?” Dyson asked.

  “I could beat the living shit out of him,” Seyzon stated.

  “Would that get you your woman back?” the border lord questioned.

  “Mayhap not but it would make my fucking day to break his fucking neck.”

  “What if…” Lord Bray began then lifted his leg to put his muddy boot on a rock. “We could retrieve the kingy-poop and replace him with an imposter.” He crossed his wrists and laid them atop his raised knee. “Have that imposter set your lady free and sign the paperwork to have you reinstated in the Meiramanian army as his Commandant of Forces. You and the imposter could rule Meiramanian and set to rights all the wrongs Nolan and his rotten son Vindan have perpetrated against your country.”

  “Aye, and why not take a side trip to Diabolusia while we’re at it to watch the warthogs fly,” Seyzon scoffed.

  “Oh ye of little faith. We have the DNA of the kingy-poop himself,” the border replied. “Is he of enough value to do us some good?”

  Seyzon gaped at him. “You have the DNA of King Nolan?”

  “Aye, we do,” Lord Bray said with a nod.

  “But if you can’t get to him at Blackhall—”

  “The kingy-poop is at th
is moment on his way to Wicklow to see his rotten son who is—by all accounts—gravely ill,” the border lord told him.

  “Ill?” Seyzon repeated. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Do you care?” Dyson asked.

  “Of course I care,” Seyzon said.

  Lord Bray’s eyes bored into the younger man. “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Did I stutter?” the border lord inquired.

  “Didn’t appear to me that you did,” Hawkins mumbled. He’d been quiet for most of the meeting.

  “He may have wronged me,” Seyzon said. “But he was a friend for a great many years. I thought of him as a brother. Of course I would care that he is ill. I want to know from what?”

  “A rather nasty dose of a drug the Burgon provided us that won’t kill but will make him wish the Gatherer would take him sooner rather than later,” Dyson said with a chuckle.

  “He’s in no danger of dying but the healer has predicted that he will. Has warned the kingy-poop that if he ever wants to see his son alive again, he should come now,” Lord Bray stated.

  “A healer who owes his allegiance to us?” Seyzon asked.

  “Not so much to us as the Burgon but that’s neither here nor there. As long as he helps us, that’s all that matters,” Lord Bray responded.

  “All right,” Seyzon said. “I’m not going to ask how you got the king’s DNA. I assume someone at Blackhall provided it but what about the imposter?”

  “You know the king has many look-alikes,” Dyson said.

  “Doppelgangers is what they are,” Hawkins put in. “Strange word that.”

  “Most despots have political decoys. Better one of them gets assassinated than the dictator himself,” Dyson added.

  “They bear a striking resemblance to the bastard or they’ve had plastic surgery done to make them look like him,” Lord Bray said. “They are schooled in his mannerisms, the way he walks, his speech patterns.”

  “May even have had their vocal chords operated on so they sound just like the man they are risking their lives to impersonate,” Dyson suggested.

  “Kingy-poop has five such men,” the border lord.

  “And one is ours,” Seyzon said.

  “Give the brat a cookie,” Dyson said with a chuckle.

  “So, the bio-matter unit is installed in my Fiach and then I make a fly-by of Wicklow, suck up ye olde kingy-poop then drop the man who will be replacing his sorry ass safely in the castle,” Lord Bray concluded.

  “You’ll have to take him when there’s no one around to see him go,” Seyzon reminded him.

  “The bio-matter unit will track him for us. I’ll wait until he’s in the privy then snatch him and his stinky butt.”

  “Gives new meaning to catching a man with his pants down,” Hawkins observed.

  “Might work,” Seyzon granted.

  “Not might, lad,” the border said. “Will work. I guarantee it.”

  * * * * *

  Jana knew something was wrong by the way the servants who came to attend her kept giving her surreptitious looks. She knew questioning them would get her nowhere so she kept quiet but those looks worried her. Even the healer was acting strangely around her. It was almost as though he wanted very badly to relay something to her but he was never alone in the tower room with her. There was always two women soldiers standing at the door watching his every move.

  When the servant girl left, Jana looked at the tray of food then away. For last week she had been experiencing some very intense heartburn and just looking at the mid-morning meal made her mouth water in a bad way.

  She sighed heavily and walked to the window. The day was overcast with the sun struggling to get through the clouds. A light snow had fallen the night before and as cold as it was the blanket lay untouched across the fields and low-lying hills that she could see. There were a few deer tracks leading down to the stream but other than that the vista below her was barren of anything interesting. Turning, she went to the opposite window that looked down on the bailey and across to the barbican. From there, she could see the gently meandering road that led to the castle. She was surprised to see more guards than usual standing on the battlements and on the other side of the moat. There were soldiers along the road as well.

  “Now that is curious,” she said.

  Someone was coming. Someone important from the looks of things.

  The roar of an engine made her get close to the glass so she could look up. The moment the runabout came into view, she raised her eyebrows. The sleek dark-brown craft was hovering over the bailey and as she watched, it slowly began to lower. It wasn’t until she saw the name of the coat of arms on the starboard side of the runabout that she realized it had to belong to the king. Either he or his lady-wife had come to Wicklow.

  “Not only curious but very interesting,” she said as the craft came to a soft landing, kicking up snow in a contained cloud.

  Though she strained to see who exited the craft, she wasn’t at a good angle to do so. All she had was an impression of broad shoulders and a determined gait and deep indentions in the snow as the visitor disappeared into the keep.

  “The king,” she said. “I’ll bet you credits to cookies it is.”

  Will he insist on meeting me? She wondered. Or ignore her as her husband was ignoring her? Would he be curious enough to see what his daughter-in-law looked like to at least venture up to the tower or have her brought to the throne room for his perusal?

  She hoped for something of the sort for she was sick to death of being cooped up in the tower room like a political enemy of the crown. Although it could be argued she was.

  As she was turning from the window she thought she saw a shadow weaving its way through the low-flying scud above the far hills. She pressed closer to the window and caught sight of it again. It had to be another runabout for it was too large to be a bird. It disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds.

  Though she stood watch for a good ten minutes longer, the craft—if that was what it was—did not show itself again. With a shrug, she turned away, training her eyes on the door in the hopes someone—anyone—would come to see her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting in the co-pilot seat of the gray matte-colored Fiach, Seyzon was still trying to process what he had learned that morning. He cut his eyes to the man flying the runabout and when the border lord glanced at him, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks and looked away.

  “You want me to put my mask back on, boy?”

  “Nay, milord,” Seyzon mumbled.

  “If my looks bother you that badly I will.”

  Seyzon glanced behind him at the other man in the runabout. “Nay, milord. I’m good,” he said.

  “It’s just hard to fly with the mask on.”

  “I understand,” Seyzon said.

  “Don’t want me plowing into a mountain.”

  “Nay, milord, I truly wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, then,” the border lord allowed. He looked pointedly at the vid-com screen. “Check to see where the kingy-poop is now.”

  Seyzon ran his fingers over the keypad in his lap then looked up at the screen. “I’m reading two heat sigs so I’m guessing he’s still in with Vindan.”

  “Wish we had ears in that room,” the border lord said. “I’m dying to know what a man who hasn’t seen his son in a coon’s age has got to say to him.”

  “He believes his son is dying,” Seyzon said. “His son believes the same. I imagine they are discussing what will happen to the child.”

  “Ah yes the royal bun in the royal oven,” the border lord stated. “Most likely arrangements are being made to take the lady to Blackhall upon her husband’s demise.”

  “That’s the last thing we want,” Seyzon said. “I’d never be able to get to her there.”

  “Nay, you would not.”

  Once more Seyzon let his gaze wander to the border lord. If he stared at that face too long he was going to start screaming. He forced his mind back to the
hanger where the Fiach had sat in its docking harness and the moments just prior to leaving base camp.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Dyson, Hawkins and he were waiting for Lord Bray to arrive. The Fiach was fueled and the head engineer had gone inside to start the mighty engine. It was humming sweetly in the background as the border lord came clomping down the catwalk toward them.

  “Where’s the man we’re taking with us?” Seyzon asked for the man was alone.

  “Already in the runabout,” Dyson answered.

  Seyzon had been honored that the border lord had invited him along to help insert the imposter into Wicklow castle. He’d never learned to fly and was as excited as a child at being able to sit in the co-pilot seat beside Lord Bray. The only other time he’d flown had been lying flat on his back with his broken leg screaming bloody hell. He was looking forwarding to seeing the land from miles up.

  “Want to see something that will set you back a notch or two?” the man he knew as Lord Bray had asked before peeling the black mask from his face.

  The moment that mask came off, Seyzon stumbled back, putting a hand up to ward off what he was seeing. A hard shudder ran through him and he’d sat down hard in a metal chair Dyson shoved under his ass.

  “Damn, boy,” Hawkins said. “You’re as white as a fucking sheet.”

  “And shaking like a leaf,” Dyson said with a snort.

  “I know it’s a tough sight to see but it is what it is,” the border lord stated.

  “I…I…” He swallowed hard then ran a hand through his hair. “I…I…” Nothing else would come out.