WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Begging your pardon, Majesty," the man's wife spoke, "but we got no wagon to be hauling nothin' with."

  "Silence, hag!" one of the Temple guards snarled and would have struck the old woman had Teal not stepped in his path.

  The guard sneered at the King's Counselor and shoved away du Mer. Three other guards hooted with laughter, for none ever showed the half-breed respect. They nudged one another as the gypsy stumbled, having to reach out to one of the servants to keep from falling.

  Legion ground his teeth, for he had no more authority here than did his friend. The real authority lay with the Temple guards—hand-picked by Kaileel Tohre—who had escorted Legion to Jedry.

  "Be thankful you will have a plot of land on which to be buried," the guard sneered. "Next!"

  Legion locked eyes with the old man. "I will see what can be done, Grandfather."

  "That be all we can ask, Majesty." The man bowed, took his wife's arm and hobbled away.

  Teal shook himself, retrieved the plot map, dusted sand from it and looked at his king.

  "Make a note of the gentleman's name, Lord Teal," Legion said. "I believe it was McHatton."

  Teal nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  For more than three hours, Legion met with the displaced inhabitants of Jedry. He assigned seckets of land that measured 100 by 100 feet while all the time wondering what manner of hovel could be erected on such a meager plot.

  "It don't take much for them," one of the guards said. "They've been sleeping in alleyways and under viaducts for years. A roof over their head is a luxury they thought never to possess."

  At the end of the day, Legion was weary and heartsick, his soul burdened by the plight of those to whom he could give no land. He looked into the eyes of those he'd had evicted from land the Temple desired and knew these people hated him as much as they hated the Domination.

  "You can't blame them, Legion," Teal said softly when one woman spat at Legion's feet as her home was being torn down. "Some of them have lived in these places, hovels though they may be, for generations."

  "I don't blame them. I blame me, you, and all the others who fought the rebellion and lost."

  The two men were walking alone, the guards having trouped to a tavern to while away the remainder of the day. The inn where Legion and Teal were lodged was crowded with Temple guests and neither man wanted to be near the Domination's sycophants.

  They had taken their evening meal at a small tavern whose inhabitants had fled as soon as they realized who the two men were.

  "I think you scared them away, du Mer." Legion chuckled, but he was hurt deeply by the rejection. Many of those who had rushed from the tavern had cast him a murderous look.

  "Nay, Sire," Teal grunted. "They must have heard you were planning on giving a concert this eve. That's enough to scare the bejimminy out of the staunchest warrior."

  Legion snorted as he threw a leg over a chair and sat at one grimy table.

  "What's it to be?" the tavern keeper asked. "Ale, mead, or a piece of advice?"

  Legion thought to quell the man's rudeness, but the barkeep was leaning on the bar, his chin propped in his hand, smiling.

  "Advice about getting the hell out of your tavern before we're poisoned?" Teal snapped, his hand on the dagger at his hip.

  "Advice about a meeting I'm thinking Lord Legion should attend."

  "It's King Legion, fool," Teal grated, "or haven't you heard the news out here in the sticks?"

  "Ain't but one king of Serenia to my way of thinking, and I'm reckoning one day that one will be sitting on the throne at the Palace of the Winds."

  "And who would that be, friend?" Legion inquired.

  The barman shrugged. "Prince Coron, or Prince Dyllon. I never did know which was the oldest. The man lifted his apron to polish the top of the bar.

  "Coron is the oldest," Legion said, getting up to walk to the bar. "Rumor has it the two young princes died during the rebellion. Do you know something I, as their uncle, do not?"

  The barman chuckled. "You know as well as I them two be safe with their aunt in Chrystallus, Lord Legion." He locked eyes with Legion. "Just as you and I know there be men willing to fight to put a McGregor on the throne."

  Legion quirked one brow. "And say you do put a McGregor on the throne, what then?"

  The man lowered his voice. "Go to the crossroads to the north, Milord. Take the road to Edenson. Just a'fore you come to the cromlech marked Beliech Aschendaie, there is a pathway through the grass. Follow that path to the clearing. There'll be men there this evening."

  "To cut our throats and take our purses," Teal scoffed. "Do you take us for bumpkins?"

  Legion held up his hand. He searched the barman's eyes. "What's to keep your men from murdering us, friend? We're strangers to your town. We could be Tribunal spies for all you know."

  The tavern keeper smiled. "You are his brother. His memory is as dear to those of us who were there that day in the courtyard as it was before the Tribunal took him from us." He gripped Legion's forearm. "You say his name, Lord Legion, and not a man at the meeting place will challenge you."

  Legion looked at the hand on his arm. Slowly, his gaze lifted to the barman's. "That's the ancient symbol."

  Teal came over to the bar and craned his neck to see what was on the barman's hand. His eyes widened and he turned to exchange a look with Legion.

  "Aye, it is the mark of the Dark Overlord," the barman said quietly.

  Teal grunted. "No one believes those old wives' tales."

  "I do," Legion stated as his gaze returned to the twin crescents tattooed on the barman's hand. The two lines bisected so they resembled a bird in flight.

  "Say his name when they ask who you be and I guarantee your safety. They'll be waiting for you, Lord Legion."

  "You're a bigger fool than…" Teal began, but Legion grabbed Teal's arm and started pulling him toward the door.

  "You aren't serious!" Teal gasped, stumbling along. He pulled his arm free. "We aren't going out to that—"

  "Shut up," Legion snapped, venturing into the night.

  "Legion, for the love of Alel! We're walking into a trap."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why the hell not?"

  Legion turned to Teal. "Any man who would dare to have a tattoo of the Black Ascendancy on his hand where a Tribunal guard can see it is one helluva brave man."

  "He could have had that tattoo since before the rebellion."

  "He could have, but I don't think so." He lowered his voice. "I have heard rumblings of a resistance outside of Serenia. This could well be it."

  "The Dark Overlord is a myth. You really don't think a godlike creature is going to hop down from the heavens and lead us out of bondage!"

  "But we may one day have a man with the courage to do it."

  Teal stared at his friend of so many years, almost plucking the thoughts from A'Lex's head. "If he'd lived," Teal said, finishing the thought.

  "If he'd lived."

  The two stood in Jedry's dusty street for a moment more, then turned toward the North. An hour later, they came upon the cromleck whose Ionarian name was translated into Black Ascendancy in Serenian High Speech. Without a word, they took the path cutting through the tall grass.

  As they came to a clearing, an unseen speaker's voice broke the stillness. "Who be ye?"

  "Legion A'Lex and Tealson du Mer," Legion answered.

  "Who sent ye?"

  Legion straightened his shoulders. "Conar McGregor."

  From out of the tall grass, men ventured forth, most with pikes or rusty broadswords clutched in their fists. Scarves covered their faces, revealing only their eyes. One man came to stand before Legion and Teal. "It is in his memory we have gathered."

  Legion smiled, recognizing the barman's voice. "And it is in his name we ask to join you."

  "Welcome, Lord Legion. We are the men of the Dark Overlord of the Wind."

  * * *

  Legion was in Ionary for more than fiv
e months. In service to Tohre, he traveled from Jedry to the capitol at Derbenille where, at the keep of Ravenswood, he was passed in secret a roster of cities throughout the seven kingdoms where the Dark Overlord's men could be contacted.

  "This will be vitally important to Brelan when he returns," Legion told Teal. "He can contact these men and perhaps we can find a way to overthrow Tohre and his bunch."

  Teal did not reply. He doubted any bunch of ragtag farmers and shopkeepers could do what princes and warriors had not been able to do during the rebellion.

  Upon arriving home to Boreas, Legion had a surprise waiting for him. He was stunned to find his wife big with child. "How?" Legion gasped.

  "I believe it might have been something I ate," Liza said with a serious face. "Or perhaps something you ate. I can't remember which."

  Legion threw his arms around his lady. "By the gods, you knew when I left, didn't you?"

  "Aye, but I knew you'd worry so I didn't tell you." Easing away from him, she looked into his bearded face. "I did not know the negotiations would keep you so long from my side."

  "You could have sent word and I would have been home quicker."

  Liza did not tell him she doubted Tohre would have allowed him to return sooner. Instead, she laid her cheek against his wide chest. "I am so glad you are here."

  Legion tensed. "You are well, are you not?" he asked, his heart suddenly pounding.

  "But I have missed your arms and needed your body beside me in our bed. I do not sleep well when you are away."

  "I'll not leave again," he swore, and as he did, he felt the babe move against his abdomen. He drew in a quick breath and looked down at the mound of her belly. "It will be a son," he said, his gaze shifting to her face.

  "Perhaps."

  "It will," he said with conviction. "We will have a son."

  Her love gleaming in her eyes, Liza stroked his dear face. "If that is your heart's desire, how can the gods not make it so?"

  Legion again pulled her into his embrace. Never had he known such overwhelming bliss. "There is much I have to tell you, Liza. You will be heartened at what I have found in Ionary."

  * * *

  "You have a son," Cayn told Legion. The Serenian healer's face beamed with pleasure. "And a lusty son at that!"

  For a moment, King Legion A'Lex's throat closed up with joy. "Is she all right?"

  "Our lady is fine." Cayn put a heavily wrinkled hand on his monarch's shoulder. "What will you name your new Prince?"

  "She's chosen Jarad, I think." He grinned. "Can I see her?"

  "She is sleeping, but go on in. If you wake her, I'll pluck out the hairs on your beard, one by one!" He laughed.

  Gezelle opened the door for Legion as he scratched lightly on the panel. Her face was tired. "She had little trouble, Highness."

  He patted the girl's cheek. "And when will we be seeing the little one you carry?"

  Gezelle blushed. Her marriage to Sean Cruise, a Chalean in Legion's personal guard, had been a spur of the moment union. Both lonely, neither with a family, they had rushed into marriage. A month later, she'd found herself with child. Although she was fond of Sean, her real affections had been taken long ago by a man she knew she could never have. Prince Chand Wynth of Oceania. When she learned Chand had been taken to the Labyrinth, Gezelle had been inconsolable for days. Meeting Sean a few weeks later, having him flirt outrageously with her, court her with such single-minded purpose, had gone a long way in helping her deal with Chand's predicament.

  "Soon enough, I would imagine," Gezelle said, patting her rounded belly. "Sean keeps asking every day when his son will be joining us."

  "I know the feeling, Madame!"

  "He's picked the name Petra." She frowned, then shrugged. "But we'll call him Christos."

  Legion laughed. The child, if a boy, would be named whatever this stalwart girl wanted him to be named. "Would you tell Marsh to send word to Ivor to let Teal know he's a new god-uncle."

  "He'll be pleased." She turned to go, then thought of what she had wanted to ask for more than a week. "Has there been any word from Lord Brelan?"

  Legion shook his head. "Give him time, 'Zelle."

  "I worry about them."

  "One in particular, I would think."

  Gezelle's face turned red. "About all of them, Highness." She sniffed when she heard his snort of disbelief.

  "Stop teasing her, Legion," Liza said as he closed the door.

  His face lost the smile that had been hovering over it. "Did I wake you?"

  "I wasn't sleeping. Have you seen him, yet?" She tried to push herself up.

  "No, you don't!" He pulled the covers up to her breasts and sat beside her. "You are to rest."

  "Have you seen him?" she repeated. She laid her hand on his cheek.

  Legion turned his lips into her palm. "Not yet." He looked up at her through the heavy sweep of his lashes. "My loving thanks for our son, Milady."

  " 'Twas my pleasure, Milord."

  Legion claimed his wife's lips with a sweet, tender caress, pulling back to gaze into her warm green eyes. "I love you."

  Her lips were warm against his own. "As I love you."

  "Forever?" he teased, easing the back of his hand down her flushed cheeks.

  "And a day."

  In the distance, a ragged bolt of lightning sped to earth and a mighty echo of thunder shook the windows of the King's Master Suite.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Holm looked at the saucy tavern wench who brought him ale. He let his attention wonder down her neatly turned backside wiggling beneath the scarlet skirts of her dress and over her more-than-ample cleavage. "Good tips tonight, sweeting?" he asked, smiling.

  The woman's ageless eyes leapt to his; her red lips formed a teasing pout. She looked him up and down and apparently liked what she saw, for her pout stretched into a seductive smile. "Depends on what kind of tips you mean, Captain," she said saucily, one shapely brow raised in challenge.

  Holm laughed, sending her a hardy smack as she swayed past. He felt a tightening in his groin the instant he touched her and drew back his hand as though he had been seared with a red-hot flame. His manhood reminded him that he was still very much a man and that it wouldn't mind bedding the wench, but the controlling part of him brushed away such a passing fancy, for Holm's wife was as dear to him as the air he breathed. And just as necessary. In the years they had been married, and that numbered some thirty-odd now, he had never once strayed from his lady or the vows he'd made on his joining day.

  Women like this beauty were a copper a dozen; women like his Mary were few and far between.

  "You'd better keep her, then," the wench said as though she had read his mind.

  Holm stared at her as she walked away, peering at him over the perfection of one creamy shoulder.

  "What time be it, Cap'n?" Gilbert Tarnes asked, wiping his mouth on the already dirty sleeve of his tunic.

  Taking out his pocket watch, Holm squinted to see the numbers. Damn, he thought with frustration, it was getting harder and harder to see the thing anymore. Old age had many disadvantages—losing your eyesight was among the most aggravating. He sighed and replaced the watch in his vest pocket. "Quarter past seven. Three hours to sailing."

  "Not soon enough for me." Tarnes, first mate of the Boreas Queen, sniffed as he looked around the alehouse.

  Holm smiled. "In a hurry, are you?"

  "You might say so," another young man answered, grinning.

  "He's yet to be blooded," another man remarked, tousling the young man's hair.

  Holm marveled at the resemblance between the two men. Wyn Luz could have passed for Coron McGregor's brother instead of his nephew. Despite the dark brown dye hiding the bright blond of his hair, and the deep tans the sea had granted them, the two were still stamped with the indelible McGregor lineage; it was a wonder no one at the alehouse had noticed.

  "We do have enough men?" Wyn asked.

  Holm sighed and answered, as
he had many times before. "Aye, brat. We have enough."

  A crew was already on board the Boreas Queen. A hand-picked crew who knew where they were going and why. A crew loyal to Holm, but even more importantly, to the McGregor family.

  "I win!" a cheerful voice called from the next table.

  Holm swung his gaze to where Dyllon McGregor was sitting with three of the other crew members, one of them Andre Belvoir, former Master-at-Arms of Norus Keep in Serenia. Despite the dark brown dye, a rather rakish black eye patch over his perfectly good left eye, and the juice of many mulberries used to darken a skin that refused to darken naturally with the sun, Dyllon did not look like the sea pirate he thought himself to be. Instead, he looked, Holm reflected, a little like a child at play. His one unconcealed blue eye twinkled as he raked in his winnings.

  "Boys must be boys," Coron said dryly.

  "You do have the charts?" Wyn asked, drawing Holm's attention.

  Holm could have turned the boy over his knee and fired his backside. "Aye," he mumbled, patiently, remembering whose boy this was. "I have the sea charts that will lead us through those treacherous coral reefs you been worrying about since you came on board. And aye, I have the necessary additional instructions needed to decipher them charts, and aye, I have all the other necessary instructions your uncle, Lord Brelan, left with me." He looked at the boy from beneath shaggy white brows. "Any more useless questions you need to be asking?"

  Wyn blushed and turned to his uncle Coron, who looked at him with a blank, carefully bland, gaze. "No, sir."

  "Good!" Holm snarled. "Then be done with your questions, lad!"

  "It's the waiting that's getting to me," Wyn confessed, red-faced and sheepish as he glanced up at Mister Tarnes' snort.

  "You've never been one for patience," Coron reminded him.

  Holm tipped back his tumbler of ale to drain it. He slapped the tankard on the table and wiped the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Seems to me," he said as he folded his arms over his wide expanse of chest, "that none of you younguns have much in the way of patience."

  Dyllon laughed as he joined them, tossing his winnings in his palm. "Must be a family trait!"