WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Make sure the guards are told not to allow that bitch in to see him,” Guy said.

  "Believe it or not, she and that praying mantis of hers left here just after first light,” Daragh said.

  Guy blinked in surprise. “You're joking! Where'd they go?"

  Daragh shrugged. “Didn't care enough to ask and don't care if either of them ever comes back.” He grinned nastily. “Maybe they won't."

  "From your lips to the gods’ ears!” Guy declared.

  * * * *

  After speaking softly to the guards regarding who could and could not have access to the Baron, Daragh went into Dek's chambers carefully for the heavy drapes had been pulled over the wide casement windows, and he had no desire to bump into the furniture. As quietly and unobtrusively as he could, he lit a candle on the desk and—cupping the bright flame—brought it over to the bed.

  "You think you're being quiet but trust me when I tell you you're making as much noise as a stampeding bull elephant,” Dek said in a near whisper.

  "Fuck you and the jackass you wobbled in on, Deklyn Yn Baase,” Daragh groused. He placed the candle on the night table, braced his forearm on the headboard and looked down at his patient with the deep affection that had begun in childhood. “How's your head?"

  "It feels like Ynez is stomping around in there with hot pokers strapped to the toes of her riding boots."

  "Delightful image,” Daragh said, straightening. He turned to the night table, poured a cup of water from the carafe sitting there into a cup then rummaged in his black bag. He took out a dark green glass bottle and poured a generous amount of the powerful narcotic pairilis into the water. “Here, drink this delightful brew and go back to sleep."

  Knowing it would do him no good to argue with the healer, Dek released a long breath. “I need to get word to Maire,” he said, struggling to sit up.

  "I'm heading out there as soon as I'm done with you. I'm looking forward to meeting her.” He held the cup to Dek's lips.

  Obediently downing the liquid before he realized what he'd drunk, Dek cursed softly. “You're a prick, Frazier, and you play dirty."

  "You need to sleep this off or you'll be in bed another day or two,” Daragh reminded him. “Now, lie back down and close your eyes. By the way, I like that green color. It suits you for they are actually glowing in the near-dark."

  "They are clouding from that shite you tricked me into drinking,” Dek complained.

  "Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Daragh mimicked in a falsetto voice.

  "And speaking of which, I don't want Ynez in here,” Dek mumbled, already feeling the effects of the highly potent drug.

  "You don't worry about her. She's not going to be bothering you. Now, go to sleep!"

  Dek closed his eyes as the warm, fuzzy blanket of the drug pulled over his mind to shut him off from reality. Although he hated being vulnerable to the brew, he had to admit he enjoyed the rush that spread through him as it took effect. He didn't feel Daragh smoothing his covers or hear him blow out the candle. He was already in a place where there was nothing but darkness.

  * * * *

  Maire had spent a very restless night tossing and turning, hoping for Dek to come to her in her dreams but her phantom lover had not put in an appearance. At one point she'd sat straight up in bed to stare into the darkness—her mouth flooding with a bitter cherry flavor she thought tasted like tenerse. She'd thrown the covers back with the intention of getting out of bed but her head swam unmercifully, and she lay down again with a hand to her forehead.

  "Dek?” she questioned, feeling foolish for calling out to him.

  Disappointment filled her as she turned to her side, wondering about the strange, lethargic feeling that had suddenly gripped her. She had the strangest feeling that the man she had so unwillingly fallen in love with had been trying to reach out to her but something had stopped him—something that had severed the link between them as effectively as a sharp blade through ribbon.

  Whatever the odd sensation was that made her close her eyes it lulled her into a deep sleep that lasted long past the daybreak so that when she awoke, she was shocked at the lateness of the morning hour.

  Flinging aside the covers, she hurried through her morning ablutions, dressed in a sturdy gown, and—barefoot—went down the stairs to find Caro and Hank waiting for her.

  "Why didn't you wake me?” she asked. “I never sleep this late.” Her attention went to the coffeepot on the stove and that was her next destination.

  "I didn't know whether to or not, milady,” Caro answered. “I'll know to do so tomorrow."

  "You must have been real tired, milady,” Hank said, observing the dark circles under his new mistress’ eyes. “What with all that moving in and the like."

  "I was tired but I didn't sleep very well until the wee hours,” Maire admitted, taking a cautious sip of the strong brew. She closed her eyes. “That is delicious!"

  "I brew it with eggshells,” Caro said.

  "That's the second time I've heard of doing that,” Maire said. “I'll have to remember."

  Caro smiled. “What would you like to eat to break your fast?"

  "I don't normally eat breakfast but of late His Grace has insisted. I suppose a plate of scrambled eggs on toast wouldn't be amiss."

  "I'll fix your plate straightaway,” Caro told her.

  "If you'll show me the dimensions of the gardens, I'll get started on that,” Hank said.

  "Let's do that now,” Maire said, padding barefoot to the back door.

  "Don't you want your boots?” Hank asked.

  Maire shook her head. “I'm used to going barefoot in the summer."

  "'Tis just about always summer in Tarryn,” Caro said.

  Following Maire outside, Hank took some small stakes and marked off the herb garden first since that was where his mistress told him she would be planting that morning. Next he staked off the large vegetable garden and set to work with the shovel to turn the ground for the herb garden.

  Sitting down on the steps of the back porch to drink her coffee, Maire reveled in the warm sunshine caressing her face. When Caro called to tell her breakfast was ready, she asked the servant to bring the plate to her. “It's too nice a day to be inside."

  "You should have a little table and chairs out here,” Caro suggested. “That would be good for when the watermelons are in season."

  "I'll ask Guy if he'll fetch me one,” Maire replied. She used her fork to pick up a piece of piece of toast covered in creamy yellow eggs. She nodded as she chewed—lifting her thumb to Caro to let the older woman know the food was excellent. In no time she had consumed the light breakfast and was on her second cup of coffee when the rattle of harness was heard at the front of the house.

  "Dek!” Maire exclaimed and jumped up to run through the kitchen and great room to the front door, pulling the lock back and throwing it open in a flash. She raced onto the front porch only to realize her visitor was a stranger. She felt the frustration all the way through her heart.

  "Good morn!” the red haired man called to her as he tied his buggy to the hitching post Hank had erected the day before.

  "Good morn to you, milord,” Maire said. She walked to the edge of the porch.

  "I'm Daragh Frazier,” he said as he walked across the grass. “I'm the healer at Drogh-gheay.” When he saw her eyes widen and her face pale, he held up his hand. “I came to welcome you to Tarryn and to let you know Dek is fine, but he'll be out of commission at least for today."

  She came off the steps, meeting the healer halfway and took the hand he held out to her. “Is it his wound? Did he have an accident? Was he hurt badly? Was he...?"

  The healer kissed her hand then released it. “He has a particularly nasty megrim,” he told her. “Has had those pesky things since he was thirteen. This one just doesn't seem to want to go away. He's fine but my guess is the stress is what brought this headache on."

  She searched his face, obviously seeing something he was trying to hide. “His wound?
” she repeated.

  Daragh smiled. “You're an observant little lass, ain't you?” He looked down at her bare feet and made a tsking sound. “Let's get you inside before a snake comes slithering over your toesies."

  Maire wasn't to be appeased. “I'm not afraid of snakes,” she said, lifting her chin. “What of his wound?"

  "Aye, the wound broke open but I stitched it closed again and there is no infection. It's draining as it should and the flesh isn't red surrounding it.” He cocked his head to the side. “I understand you are something of a healer, yourself. Perhaps you would consent to be my aid on occasion?"

  She nodded absently. “If you have need of me, just ask,” she agreed. “How did his wound come undone?"

  Daragh sighed heavily. “Let's go inside, milady. I need a cup of coffee and the smell wafting out that door is driving me insane with want."

  "I'm sorry,” she said. “Where are my manners? Of course, come in!” She hooked her arm through his when he crooked it in invitation. “Please call me Maire."

  "I'm Dar,” he offered as they climbed the steps.

  Extending an invitation for him to sit on the new settee, she asked Caro to bring him a cup of coffee. “How do you like it?” she inquired as she took a seat for the first time in one of the two chairs flanking the settee.

  "Black,” Caro said for him with a wink.

  "I've no secrets with this one. She knows me too well,” Daragh said.

  "I ought to. You delivered three of my five boys,” Caro said as she brought him the coffee.

  "The wound?” Maire insisted, refusing to get sidetracked although she was curious to know about Caro's boys.

  "His lady-wife grabbed at him and inadvertently raked her nails over the wound,” Daragh stated.

  Maire winced. “They were fighting?"

  "No,” Daragh said. “She wanted to talk, and he was in too much pain with the megrim to do so. He was trying to go up the stairs, and she reached out to stop him. If it's any consolation to you, she apologized to him. She didn't mean to hurt him."

  "Now, that has to be a first! How many times has the woman bloodied his nose?” Caro said. The older woman must have realized she shouldn't interfere and put up her hands before turning back toward the kitchen.

  "She's bloodied his nose?” Maire asked.

  "He'll sleep through the day,” Daragh said to get her mind off that image. “I hadn't planned on giving him any pairilis unless the pain lasted ‘til noon but it was sufficiently brutal enough this morn that I felt it prudent."

  "I understand,” Maire said although she was keenly disappointed that she would go another day without seeing him.

  "And Caro?” the healer called out. When she answered, he told her what Jules had said about the noon meal.

  "'Twas just gonna be sandwiches anyway,” Caro said, “but that's good to know."

  "Jules is coming out later this morning?” Maire inquired.

  "Bringing your livestock and I heard from the stable boy when I fetched my carriage that they are also going to stop by the nursery to buy a few fruit trees and cuttings.” He grinned. “It seems you would like to not only take in sewing and make the occasional poultice, you want to sell jams, jellies, and cheeses.” He shook a finger at her. “You're an industrious woman but don't spread yourself too thin."

  "People are talking about my plans?” she asked, surprised.

  "If Jules Yn Baase knows something, the entire barony knows it,” Daragh said. “The man is a veritable one-man gossip enterprise. Never say anything around him you don't want repeated."

  "I'm not sure he should have done that,” Maire said.

  "Well, don't be surprised when after a few weeks people start showing up at your door with their sewing and hurts,” Daragh said. “Already I'm hearing you're an Angel of mercy, and they've yet to make your acquaintance but that's good. That means you are being accepted without question."

  Maire's fingers were twisting in the fabric of her gown. She looked down at them then smoothed her skirt. “I was afraid they would think me an interloper and would distrust me, dislike me. I feared...."

  "Everyone within shouting range knows Deklyn has decreed you his Cochianglt, Maire,” he said gently. “They'll honor you as such."

  "But what of his lady-wife?” she asked. “He will be married to her for another few years. Won't there be those who will think ill of me for daring to take a husband from his legal wife?” she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.

  "Hell, no, they won't!” Daragh said. He left the settee and came to hunker in front of her chair, reaching for her hands to hold them for they were once again making nervous ramblings in her lap. “Maire, our people have long wanted Deklyn to be happy. They know he is not with Ynez. They hate one another so vehemently I'm surprised one hasn't murdered the other in his or her sleep! If you make Dek happy, if you are what he wants and needs—and obviously you are or his eyes would not have changed color and he would not have proclaimed his Cochianglt—then the people of Tarryn will welcome you with open arms and generous hearts.” He lifted her hands to his lips and placed kisses on each of them. “Don't think for one minute you are not wanted here. You are and I've a feeling everyone you meet is going to love you as much as Deklyn does."

  * * * *

  Ynez looked with distaste at her surroundings. She had been to this vile place several times before, and it held very bad memories for her. The first time Miriam had brought her there had been unpleasant, for the old woman who lived in the hovel was ugly enough to stop a clock and her pox-ravaged face had frightened a young Ynez.

  "First, ye must wear this at all times,” the toothless hag said in a voice as dry as parched corn. She extended a grimy hand with long, yellow, curling fingers to Ynez, opening her wrinkled palm to reveal nestled there a small leather pouch on a velvet string.

  "What's in it?” Ynez demanded, with her upper lip arched as she plucked the offensive thing from the hag's hand.

  "Nothing to draw thy disdain, Your Grace. Just gems of amethyst, clear quartz crystak, chyroprase, and adventurine,” the woman said.

  Slipping the little pouch over her head, Ynez shot Miriam a strained look.

  "Next, ye must wait until the waxing of the moon. ‘Twill be in three days on Monday eve—a most auspicious day. On that night at the stroke of midnight, ye must gather a freshly laid brown egg.” She wagged an arthritic finger. “Not white, mind ye, but brown."

  "We understand Mother Maude,” Miriam said. “Continue."

  "On that egg ye must draw the sign of the goddess and the sign of the god, a sun, a pentagram...."

  Ynez rolled her eyes but she knew better than to berate the old woman with how she was supposed to put all the drawings called for on a little brown egg. She kept her mouth closed, looking from time to time at Miriam.

  "All must be drawn in green ink,” the old woman concluded. “When ye be done and the drawings be dry, bury the egg in a clay pot filled with fertile earth. Bury it deep with acorns and hazelnuts then put it where the sun will shine hot upon it. Sow on its surface seeds of grass and water them well for nine weeks. At the start of the tenth week, gather the crop of grass and tie it with a blue thread. Hang it above your bed until the deed is done. Thirdly...."

  "There's more?” Ynez queried, annoyed and aching to leave the smelly confines of the old woman's squalid hut. The glass jars lining the walls, the stench of whatever was brewing in the cauldron in the corner, the unblinking stare of the black cat lying under the bed and glaring at her were beginning to take a toll on the Baroness’ nerves.

  The hag went on as though she had not been interrupted.

  "Each day ye are to drink a quart of red clover infusion.” She looked to Miriam. “You know how to prepare the blossoms?"

  "Aye,” Miriam agreed.

  "Do not skip a day drinking the infusion, Your Grace. ‘Tis most important. Then each night ye must fill a warm bath to which you have added three drops each of lemon oil, orange oil, and lime oil. Sta
y in the water until it cools then drink a half cup of very strong tea."

  "Is that it?” Ynez snapped.

  "One last thing,” she was told. “Before ye go to him, ye must use a special douche."

  "Miriam!” Ynez complained, whining like a teenage girl.

  "Shush,” Miriam warned. “Do you want to keep him or not?"

  Ynez exhaled loudly. “Unfortunately I have no choice but to do so."

  The old woman got up from her chair—joints creaking as she made her stooped way to a shelf. Her house slippers scuffed across the wooden floor as she walked. Reaching her destination, she straightened as much as her humped back would allow, studied the jars lining the shelf then reached for a pint jar filled with some greenish-gray material. She handed it into Miriam's keeping.

  "This be moss from the Tarryn hills. Take ye a pot and boil this in fresh water. Strain it and then mix in two tablespoons of red raspberry tea leaves and three drops of tea tree oil. Ye'll no doubt need a few jars more before all is said and done. Send my grandson to fetch it if ye do."

  "Once a month is all that bastard ever touches me,” Ynez said.

  "Then ye should make sure he comes to your bed more often, Your Grace, if ye want the spell to work,” the hag told her.

  Ynez shuddered at the thought of Dek pawing her. She pursed her lips, casting Miriam a woebegone look.

  "There be a chant ye need to say at rising each morn and just a'fore ye go to bed. Ye must chat it three times."

  Listening to the words, Ynez shuddered again. She remembered the last time she had made this journey into the backlands four years earlier. The pain she had endured that morning had been horrific as the seedling her brutal husband had planted in her womb was drawn out, the abortion necessary if she was ever to be free of him. The cramping had brought screams and the bloody mess that had oozed from between her thighs later that afternoon had sickened her as she stared at it. Despite all the precautions she'd taken not to conceive a bairn by Deklyn Yn Baase, she had but with the old hag's help the bratling had never drawn breath. The first abortion she'd had four years before that one had not been all that bad. Subsequent ones had each grown in degree of discomfort until that last one that she thought might kill her. Now, today, here she was doing the exact opposite and hoping against hope the spell to conceive his unwanted child would take. After six abortions she wasn't sure she could conceive.