WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "I like tea,” she heard their overlaird mumble.

  "I doubt you're going to like this, but you need to drink it. All of it, Dek,” Guy said, hunkering down so he could place the rim of the cup to his commander's lips.

  Maire moved back to her rocker and sat. She was tired, sleepy and with all the confusion and drama of the day, her nerves were on edge. With her head resting on the rocker's tall back, she rocked gently as Guy coaxed the Baron to drain the cup. His grimace of disgust at the taste almost made her smile. She remained where she was when they finally lifted him out of what was now lukewarm water and carried him back to the bed, drying him off when they laid him down on the clean sheets that had been pulled over the wool blankets Andrew had fetched.

  "I'll see to the poultices. Tell me what to do, lass,” Guy said.

  "The rags with the egg whites are on the table,” she told Guy. “You need to plaster them to the soles of his feet then put his socks on him."

  "Old witchery shite,” Jules stated.

  "What does it matter if it works?” Guy inquired. He made for the table and the fever poultices.

  Two hours later—their bellies less empty after a small bowl of the rabbit stew—Giles, Rupert and Andrew left, making for the tent they shared with a fourth man. The snow was coming down so hard it was hard to see two feet beyond the door. Only the glow from the campfires lit the night. After finishing his bowl of stew, Jules settled down on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up and wrists resting upon them and tried to doze. Having no desire for the stew, Guy sat on the hearth near Maire who had fallen asleep, and whittled on a figurine he had taken from his pocket, the wood shavings falling into an old washbasin he'd discovered in the root cellar. The Baron alternated between muttering to himself and snoring lightly. His fever was down a bit when Guy checked him around midnight. Beginning to nod off himself, Guy finally stretched out between the rocker and the bed and tried to get comfortable on the hard, cold floor.

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  Chapter Three

  Just before the clock struck two, Deklyn Yn Baase opened his eyes and stared at the rough ceiling. Every bone in his body hurt. Every muscle, every inch of sinew ached with nearly intolerable agony. His head was a throbbing band of tight pressure and his chest felt as though someone had laid hot coals upon it. He tasted iron in his mouth and realized he had a high fever as sweat trickled down his temples.

  "Fool,” he muttered as memory came rushing back. “You were a gods-be-damned fool, Yn Baase."

  And now he was paying the price for having been so.

  Too caught up with meeting head on the horseman bearing down on him during the battle, he had failed to see the danger of the archer whose crossbow was aimed right at him. Not until he felt the sharp explosion of pain in his shoulder did he realize his inattention had most likely cost him his life as he fell to the ground. Luckily, Guy had pulled him out of the way of the speeding stallion only seconds before the Vardarian guardsman came thundering past.

  "Wounded,” he mumbled. He tried to move his right arm, but it hurt too much. “I'm fucking wounded."

  He remembered being slung onto Jules’ horse, jostled into oblivion as his cousin held him tightly and raced to get him to a Healer. The deafening tramp of hoof beats behind them told him his entire troop was following.

  Had they won the battle? Been defeated? He tried to ask but no words would come from his mouth, and he doubted he could be heard over the rush of wind anyway.

  "You're not going to die on me, Dek,” Jules had yelled. “I won't allow it!"

  He remembered Guy yelling, the horse changing course, Jules lowering him into waiting arms, the pain exploding to drive him into darkness. When he woke, there was a smell of wood burning, a lumpy—but thankfully stationery—surface under his back. He'd heard a feminine voice and it drove through him like an iron spike. They'd lifted him and he'd looked into eyes the color of a summer's sky.

  It was the face of the woman he'd dreamt of every night for the past ten years.

  It took a bit of effort, but he turned his head toward heat radiating on the right side of his body. He caught a glimpse of leaping flame before his gaze settled on a young woman sitting slumped in a rocker beside him.

  "Tarrishagh,” he called softly, and she stirred, turning her face toward him though she slept on.

  "How do you feel?"

  Jules’ face swam into view a second before Guy's joined it.

  "Pallet,” he whispered.

  "What?” Jules asked. He glanced at Guy. “What did he say?"

  Guy shrugged. “I don't know.” He leaned closer. “What do you need, Dek?"

  "Pallet,” Deklyn repeated. His throat felt raw, his words grating from his battered body. “For her. A pallet for my lady."

  Maire had awakened as soon as the horrid Jules bumped into her leg to get to the bed. Her view of the Baron was blocked by Guy's brawny body but she heard his words clearly enough.

  "There's no need,” she said.

  "Pallet,” Deklyn said again, this time in a firmer voice.

  "Consider it done,” Guy said. He turned and pushed past Jules to head for the door.

  "I am fine, Guy. Really, I am,” she called out to him, but he was already out the door. She switched her gaze to the bed. The injured man was looking straight at her and the force of that mesmerizing green gaze made her stomach clench.

  "Maire, isn't it?” he asked. His Tarryn brogue was thick as the ‘r’ rolled off his tongue.

  "Aye,” she said and got out of the rocker. She needed to put distance between her and that devastating stare. “Would you like some broth?"

  "Not really,” the Baron answered. “My head still hurts.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  "Your eyes are green now,” Jules said with a trace of wonder.

  "I figured as much,” Deklyn replied.

  "She's the one you've been searching for?” The question was asked with rancor.

  "She is."

  "Shite,” Jules said with a snort then seemed to shake off his frustration. “What the hell do you know? You've also got a terrible fever. You want some water?"

  "Aye."

  "I'll go out and get some snow."

  "Take your time,” Deklyn said and the tone of his voice made it more an order than a suggestion.

  When they were alone, Maire would not look at him. Her face was turned toward the fire, her hands like vises on the rocking chair's arms.

  "Do you hate me so much you can't bear to look at me?” he asked gently. “If you do, I understand. I have hated myself every day for the last ten years."

  She stiffened but did not look around. “You took what you wanted,” she said. “Why should you hate yourself?"

  "I asked if you wanted me,” he reminded her.

  She slowly turned her head to stare at him. “Aye, that you did, milord. You asked an inexperienced girl about something of which she had absolutely no idea."

  His face tinged with color. “I thought you were a loose woman. They were all over the streets of Ghraih,” he defended his actions. “I thought you were only pretending to be what I was sure you weren't because I was a Tarryn."

  "Did it matter?” she grated.

  "Aye, it did,” he replied. “I should have checked for a maidenhead. If finding out you had been a virgin hadn't thrown me off kilter so badly, I would not have left you alone. I swear it on my mother's grave."

  Maire sighed deeply and looked away from him again. “It makes no difference now. The damage was done long ago. You ruined me and your friend nearly killed me."

  He flinched. “And he paid for that crime. If he had not been of noble birth, I would have seen him hanged for what he did to you. As it was, all I could do was have him demoted in rank and then turn my back on him."

  "I'm sure that was a very exacting punishment,” she sneered.

  "More than you know,” he stated.

  She shook her head. “As I said, it makes no diff
erence now."

  "Where did you go?” he asked. “I searched the rest of the night trying to find you. I sent my men everywhere, but they learned nothing."

  "Two monks found me,” she said. “They took me to the monastery.” She looked down at her hands. “I was in bad shape."

  He flinched, her words causing his eyes to narrow with what appeared to be remorse. “The monastery,” he repeated. “That was the last place I would have thought to look."

  "The brothers believed as much,” she said, “and at any rate, should your troopers have come to the gate, they would have been turned away."

  "Had I known you were behind those gates, I would have knocked them down to get to you."

  She turned back to face him. “Why?"

  "Because I wanted to beg your forgiveness for what I allowed to happen,” he said. “I wanted to take you back to Tarryn with me."

  His words stunned her. “For what purpose?"

  It was his turn to look away. “You would not believe me if I told you."

  "Try me."

  He smiled at her brusque order. No woman other than his wife would dare demand he explain himself to her. He took a deep breath, exhaled then looked at her.

  "The moment I walked out of that store room, I knew,” he said. “I refused to admit it. I fought it every step of the way. I went to the rendezvous point and paced like a caged tiger—every drop of liquor in my system quickly evaporating until I was stone cold sober. The more I fought it, the deeper it sank its hooks into me. I stumbled over a broken mirror. I was terrified to pick it up but when I did, I saw my eyes had changed. Even as I stared at them, they changed back again but that was the telling point. I had to go back. I had to find you. I had to make sure."

  Maire's forehead creased. “I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Like my mother before me I am sheekagh,” he said. “A very powerful mind reader.” He scowled. “When I'm not three sheets to the wind and my abilities dulled by the drink. If I hadn't been intoxicated that night, I would have picked up on what Reese intended."

  "I would prefer we not mention him again,” she said. Once more, that name cut through her.

  He caught the thought and nodded. “I'll never say his name again in your hearing."

  The door opened and Jules started in.

  "Out!” Deklyn snapped. “She'll let you know when you can come back."

  "But Guy has the blankets for her...."

  "Get out, Jules!” The order allowed no argument and the door closed quickly.

  "That man has the manners of a swine herder,” she commented.

  "My sentiments exactly,” he mumbled.

  "Go on with your story,” she said, reaching for the mending by her chair to occupy her hands for she realized they were shaking. “What does being a mind reader have to do with that evening and why should your eyes have changed color?"

  "I feel things normal people cannot. I sense things."

  "I see,” she said although she truly didn't.

  "Do you know what the word Cochianglt means in the Tarryn tongue?” he asked.

  She shook her head as she concentrated on making tiny, almost-invisible stitches in the shirt's tear.

  "It means joined,” he said.

  Her brows drew together. “I thought that was Jovnal."

  "No, Jovnal means Joining, the act of marrying. Cochianglt is different. You can wed a mate but that doesn't mean he or she is your true bond-mate, your Cochianglt. A Cochianglt is the other half of you, the one who completes your being. I am married to Ynez, but she is not my Cochianglt.” He released another long breath. “You are."

  Maire's head came up and she turned a startled face to him. “Excuse me?"

  "I realized it, as soon as I was only a few feet from the door of that storage room,” he said. “I felt the pull, the bond between us, but I refused to accept it. I thought you were a woman of easy morals, unworthy of the heir of the WindWarrior clan. I thought the pull would go away. It never has."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I may not have been of noble birth, Baron Yn Baase, but I was not a whore!"

  "Nor did I call you one,” he said.

  "You might as well have,” she said. “Isn't that what a woman of loose morals is?"

  "I'm sorry I took you for a woman like that, but at the time I was drunk and.... “He had the grace to look ashamed of what he'd thought. “Just one more thing to beg you to forgive."

  Maire tore her gaze from his and returned it to the garment in her lap. “If it's forgiveness you seek, I give it, and we'll let it go at that."

  He was silent for a moment and when he spoke, she heard the weariness in his voice. “It's a bit more complicated than that."

  "I don't see that it is,” she said, aware her heart was beating much too fast and much harder than it should. “I have said I forgive you. That should be that."

  "No, it isn't."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why not?"

  "Because now that I've found you again, I won't allow you to get away. I can't. You know my eyes changed color and this time they'll stay green."

  She scowled. “You keep saying that. What difference does it make what color they are?” She lowered the sewing to her lap. “And how is it even possible that they could change?"

  He half-smiled at her exasperated tone. “When a male sheekagh finds his true bond-mate, his eye color changes from black to green. Black is a magic color. It is the color of solitude. Green is a power color. It is the color of beginnings, of togetherness. It signifies our lives together are just beginning."

  Her hands stilled. She lifted her head to stare across the room. “And that means what exactly?” she asked in a small voice.

  "When we leave, you will leave with us,” he stated.

  "Guy said as much."

  "It wasn't Guy's decision to make,” he snapped, and she could hear a tinge of jealousy in his tone.

  "It matters not whose decision it was. My life here is over. Because I gave you aid, the villagers would shun me or worse,” she said, lowering her eyes to the shirt once more, taking a small stitch. “Guy said he would find work for me in Tarryn."

  "You'll not work in Tarryn,” he told her and when she looked at him with eyebrows elevated, he shook his head. “I'll provide whatever you need—a house, clothing, food, an allowance."

  Her lovely face turned hard. “And just what will your lady wife think of that, milord?"

  "Ynez doesn't give a gods-be-damned warthog's ass what I do, tarrishagh,” he replied. “Our marriage is in name only. Once a cycle I go to her bed to do my duty, but I don't enjoy it and neither does she. It is a chore, an obligation that must be fulfilled. In the eight years since our Jovnal, she's not conceived, and it doesn't appear she ever will. If after ten years there has been no heir, I can set her aside and take another wife. She's looking forward to that tenth year as eagerly as I. She knows she'll be provided for the rest of her life. Let her irritate the hell out of some other man from that day forward. I don't care. I will be rid of her."

  "If you did not love her, why did you marry her?” she asked.

  "I wasn't given a say in the matter,” he answered. “Our marriage was contracted between our parents when she and I were little more than babes in swaddling. It has always been so—the melding of two great houses for political purposes."

  She had heard of such things with the nobility. It must be a frustrating way to live one's life, she thought.

  "What of you?” he asked. “You married."

  "I did and he was a good man. Ours was a happy Joining."

  Apparently, that wasn't what he wanted to hear for a muscle flexed in his clenched jaw. “Where did you meet him?” he asked.

  Maire looked into his glowing green eyes and realized the man was jealous. He wasn't even trying to hide his feelings from her. Though his face was pale from blood loss, two bright red fever patches stained his cheeks. He was looking at her with such intensity it was as though he had a han
d to her shoulder.

  "I was a nurse's assistant at the field hospital in Ghraih,” she said. “He was a patient I helped nurse back to health."

  "Something you seem good at doing,” he commented dryly.

  "We became close during his stay and when he was being discharged, he asked me to marry him.” Her voice lowered. “He knew what had happened to me and did not hold it against me as most men would have."

  Deklyn winced at the reminder. “I looked for you, Maire. As the gods are my witness, I searched everywhere for you,” he reminded her. “For weeks. I delayed my troops leaving Ghraih in the hopes of finding you. Why would those monks keep you hidden from me?"

  She shot him a surprised look. “Don't you think they knew who it was that was searching for me, milord? I am sure they thought you wanted to silence me. For the heir to the throne of Drogh-gheay to be searching for a lowly goat herder's daughter for any purpose other than to make sure she did not tell of the ravishment his...."

  "I did not ravish you,” he interrupted. “I asked you if you wanted me."

  "Call it what you will,” she said, chin up. “I did not venture into that alley on my own steam. I was pulled there. I did not willingly accompany you into that storeroom. You carried me into it. Aye, I said I wanted you, but it was coercion pure and simple. You were an experienced man, and I was an untried maiden. I had no idea such pleasure could be found in the arms of a man. No one had ever told me!"

  His eyebrows shot up into the tousled hair hanging over his forehead. “Your mother did not tell you the facts of life? I find that hard to believe—especially with you working in a hospital!"

  "Such things are not discussed in a field hospital, milord,” she said. “We tend sick, wounded, and dying warriors. We do not discuss their sexual lives!"

  "But your mother...."

  "Died when I was but two years of age and my father would never, never have brought up a subject such as what happens between a man and woman! He had a hard enough time explaining about my menstrual cycle when it began. I was sure I was bleeding to death and didn't understand what I'd done to cause it. He said it was a curse bestowed by the gods upon all women for having been born such. As for relaying the facts of life, he did not."