WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Dek took up the pen again. “Until I'm a toothless, hairless, sightless old man, it seems,” he said, snatching another page from the slowly dwindling pile. He perused the page then cursed, crumbled the page into a ball and tossed it at the overflowing wastebasket beside the desk. “You wouldn't believe some of the shite the Tribunal in all its senile glory has come up with for me to approve this go-round.” He snorted. “Separate drinking fountains for the Geddynian refugees. Whose jackass idea was that?"

  "Most likely Lord Gael,” Jules replied. “He always has been prejudiced to the extreme."

  "Well, he fucking isn't going to get separate drinking fountains,” Dek grumbled then reached for another page. “Are you here on business?"

  There was a long pause before Jules said, “Unfortunately so."

  Dek looked up. The expression on his cousin's face made him slowly set the pen down. He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, shite. I know that look,” he said. “That's your Dek's-not-going-to-like-this look."

  Jules shrugged—eyebrows lifting.

  "Just tell me,” Dek said, bracing for whatever bad news his captain of the infantry was about to deliver.

  "I received word from the harbormaster that a ship has been sighted heading our way,” Jules said.

  Dek blinked then scowled. “Jules, a lot of ships come to Drogh-gheay harbor."

  "A big red ship with big red sails."

  The color drained from Dek's ruddy face and his lips parted. He stared at Jules with growing horror then squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck! That's all the hell I need!” His eyes popped open so he could shoot his kinsman a hard look. “Are you sure it's his ship? Maybe the lookout saw sunlight glinting off the hull, and it just looked...."

  "Hard to mistake a big red schooner with scarlet sails bearing down on you, Deklyn,” Jules drawled. “And to my knowledge he's the only man we know with a big red ship."

  The Baron's head dropped to his chest. “No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated in a near-whisper, shaking his head.

  "I've already informed Yn Ghurn that we have important personages on their way for a visit. I told him to make up ten rooms for the gods know how many lickspittles he'll have with him this time."

  "No less than eight,” Dek said, ashamed his voice was filled with a whine. He lifted his head. “How long do you think the bastard will stay this time?"

  Jules crossed his arms. “Last time it was three weeks."

  "Fuck!” Dek exploded, shooting out of his chair. He slammed a hand through his hair, grabbing a handful and tugging. “I was hoping my memory had failed me, and I just thought he'd put us out for only a day or two."

  Jules snorted with disdain. “You know better. If we get lucky maybe he'll be gone in two weeks but Yn Ghurn reminded me he's never stayed less than three weeks and a few times it was a solid month of enduring his presence. The longest he's ever stayed was six weeks."

  "Fuck!"

  Going to the window, Dek stared down into the harbor where the activity was already bustling. Word was spreading that he was coming so there were certain protocols that had to be met. Hands on his hips, Dek let his head drop again, his shoulders slumped. He squeezed his eyes closed again. “He's heard, hasn't he?” he asked.

  "That would be my guess."

  A long, weary sigh left Dek's lungs.

  "You should go to change. You know how he likes all the pomp and circumstance when he arrives,” Jules said. “I sent Guy out to Sheidaghan to let Maire know you won't be coming out for awhile."

  Dek opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his cousin. “Did you tell him to explain why?"

  Jules nodded. “She'll understand."

  "I wish I did,” Dek said.

  * * * *

  He was an immense man with an enormous gut that strained the scarlet cummerbund that banded his girth. From the broad brim of the large red felt hat with its round crown to the tips of his highly-polished red shoes, the man who came down the gangplank was a very imposing sight. His face was round with a large bulbous nose, a nearly lipless slit of a mouth and beady eyes that moved constantly, missing nothing. He was as pale as freshly-drawn milk and had three layers of jowls that hung beneath his neck and wobbled with every step he took. The sausage-like fingers of his left hand were curled around the handle of a six-foot long black walnut crozier—the symbol of his office.

  Lord Assyl Fyrryn—the Senior Judge of the Tarryn Tribunal—stepped forward, bowing respectfully. “Welcome back to Tarryn, Your Beatitude,” he said then took the hand extended to him and kissed the ornate gold ring adorning the pudgy hand of the Patriarch of the WindWarriors.

  His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee inclined his head, the brim of his hat quivering. “It is a pleasure to grace your homeland once again with our presence,” he replied. He turned to the man standing slightly behind him and to his right. “You know, of course, His Eminence Archbishop Grouig."

  "Welcome, Your Eminence,” Lord Assyl greeted the stick-thin man who nodded but did not speak.

  The Patriarch turned to the man on his left. “And His Eminence Archbishop Mongey."

  "It's good to have you with us again, Your Eminence."

  This Archbishop did not speak, either, but surveyed the Tribunal judge with barely-concealed laughter lurking in his blue eyes.

  "Where is your Baron?” the Patriarch inquired in a sharp tone. “Could he not be bothered to attend us?"

  "I am here, Your Beatitude,” Dek said, stepping from among the crowd that had gathered to welcome the shepherd of their religion. The warrior came to the Patriarch then genuflected before him, keeping his head down, awaiting the Blessing of the Patriarch. The moment the Patriarch laid his palm on his head, Dek felt his skin crawl. He hated having the man touch him, but it was custom, an integral part of the beliefs he called his own.

  "Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat,” the Patriarch pronounced, bestowing the time-honored blessing beseeching the Wind to be at the Baron's back.

  "Thank you, Your Beatitude,” Dek answered. He cringed as the fat man's hand smoothed over his hair.

  "You need a haircut, Deklyn,” the Patriarch stated then removed his hand. “You may rise before us."

  Dek got to his feet, stiffening as the large man hooked his arm through Dek's and bid the young man, “Walk with us, my son."

  The crowd dropped to its knees as the Patriarch passed. He graciously inclined his head in the direction of the people with a tight smile pulling his mouth. Not once did he stop to accept the gifts held out to him—he had servants following in his wake to do that—nor did he speak. Despite his enormous weight, he walked well enough with the aid of the crozier and the sturdy shoes he wore although by the time the procession—the archbishops, two auxiliary priests, the Tribunal judges, and various officials right behind their shepherd—crossed over the lowered drawbridge to venture into the outer bailey, the Patriarch was wheezing.

  "You should have allowed me to send a carriage,” Dek said quietly.

  "The people must see us, Deklyn,” the Patriarch insisted. “It is the joy of their day to observe our passing."

  Dek ground his teeth. The pomposity of the man irked him almost as much as the fondness His Beatitude had for touching. Reminding himself it was his own distaste for being touched by those for whom he did not care rather than any inherent evil within His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee did little to settle his nerves. He wanted to shrug off the heavy arm imprisoning his but to do so would be a grievous insult.

  As they entered the inner bailey, the Patriarch stopped—turning his head to the place where once the whipping post had stood. “What has happened here, Deklyn?” he asked. “Where is the post upon which your ancestor Tuirc Yn Baase bled out his life and why has it been removed from the courtyard?"

  Dek knew the Patriarch was aware of what had transpired in the courtyard. The man had spies everywhere who reported even the most insignificant matters to the au
xiliary priests who in turn handed them up the chain of command to the archbishops who then appraised the Patriarch.

  "It was past time the post was laid to rest, Your Beatitude,” Dek replied. “It was taken down, burned, and the ashes scattered over Tuirc Yn Baase's grave as was fitting."

  "But not before it was well-used once last time, eh, Deklyn?” the Patriarch queried.

  "A woman deserving of the lashes was punished here, aye,” Deklyn agreed. “I am sure you were told my lady-wife was included in the punishment though hers was not corporeal."

  The pudgy hand resting on Dek's wrist tightened. “On that matter I am not entirely sure your lady-wife would agree.” He looked away from the empty spot where the post had stood and stared directly into the Baron's green eyes. “Is not what you have been engaging in as part and parcel of her punishment not physical, my son?"

  Knowing he was treading on very thin ice, Dek held the intense stare of the Patriarch.

  "My lady-wife had reminded me earlier that I had been lax in providing her with the requisite number of Seedings called for in the contract she and I signed on the day we were married. You are an astute man, Your Beatitude, and you know the way of it between Ynez and me. She is loath to have me touch her at any time and if you, in your infinite wisdom, know of a way I can perform the Seedings without physically touching her, I would be most appreciative of learning of it."

  The thin flaps of flesh that passed for lips on the Patriarch quivered for a moment and Dek wasn't sure if the man was going to laugh or chastise him.

  "I am sure you would,” was all the fat man said before starting forward once again, tugging gently on Deklyn's arm.

  Servants flanked the steps into the keep, going to their knees on the hard stone as the Patriarch passed. Once inside the vast reception hall, the man released Deklyn's arm and handed the crozier to Archbishop Grouig. He then headed toward the library. “Join us, Deklyn,” he commanded though the Archbishops and auxiliary priests made no move to follow.

  Anticipating the Patriarch's demands, a crystal decanter of Tarryn whiskey and two glasses had been placed on a table that sat between two overstuffed chairs. The fat man took one chair and motioned Dek to the other.

  Surprised the Patriarch was not asking for the whiskey, Deklyn took a seat—feeling like a child being called to the office of the head master.

  "Remind me again of the name of the woman you have decreed your Cochianglt."

  Cold fear shifted down Dek's spine. He knew the Patriarch had to know of Maire's existence but hearing him ask of her was unsettling.

  "Maire, Your Beatitude. Maire Barnes,” he answered.

  "I am told she is a widow?” It was a question, not a statement.

  "Aye, Your Beatitude, she is."

  "And that you were the one who lanced her maidenhead."

  Dek's eyes widened, his mouth parching of all moisture. He tried to swallow and couldn't. The blood rushed through his ears. His heart was thudding so violently he put a hand to his chest.

  The Patriarch turned his head toward the young man. “Do you fear I might take her from you, Deklyn?"

  "If you do my life will end,” Deklyn replied, barely able now to draw breath for terror was crawling through his veins.

  Waving a dismissive hand at the statement, the Patriarch informed him only weak men died of a broken heart.

  "With all due respect, Your Beatitude, I am not a weak man, but if I lose Maire, I would not want to live,” he replied.

  "You might not want to, my son, but you would,” the Patriarch said. “Was it not you who said ‘I am Drogh-gheay'? As such, your life is pledged to your people and your country above all else—which includes your personal happiness. Your heart might break but you would not die of it."

  The terror increased until it was a dark shadow hanging over Dek's head. He had to know before that terror completely overwhelmed him.

  "Is that what you're planning on doing?” he asked. “Are you going to take her from me?"

  "What we plan to do is visit with this young woman to ascertain for ourselves her acceptability as your potential Cochianglt. If we are satisfied she is, indeed, your chosen bond-mate then, no, we will not take her from you. Of course until your marriage is set aside—if it ever is—you will not be allowed to have relations with this woman.” He held up his hand when Dek would have spoken. “We know you have not lain with her since you found her in Geddyn and are pleased that you have showed wisdom and restraint, adhering to Tarryn law. However, if when we visit her, we find she is not what you believe her to be, we will take her with us, and you will never see her again. Temptation is ended when it is removed from sight."

  So hurt by those words he forgot himself, Dek bolted from his chair. He wanted to smash his fist into something. His head was pounding so fiercely he felt as though it would burst. His face was clenched with such obvious agony, the Patriarch rose to his feet.

  "Do not start borrowing trouble where there is yet to be any, Deklyn,” he advised. “We have every confidence the woman is as you represent her else your eyes would not have changed color."

  "I know but...."

  "And of course we will need to speak with your lady-wife. Considering the numerous Seedings you have implemented, it is quite possible she could conceive, and if she should, that would make this entire conversation a moot point, now, wouldn't it? You would be forced to set the Cochianglt aside whether or not she is your true bond-mate."

  Dek felt tears burning behind his eyes. He wanted to drop to his knees in front of the Patriarch and would have if he had thought it would do any good. He would do anything necessary to keep Maire with him.

  "Speak to us, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said, not unkindly. He reached out to put a heavy hand on Dek's shoulder. His hand flexed. “Tell us what is in your heart. Hold nothing back."

  Dek stood beneath the weight of that touch—hating it—but too afraid to shake it off.

  "You know how it has been with Ynez,” he said. “She has made my life a living hell since the day we Joined. She doesn't want me—she never has—anymore than I want her, but if she can do anything to ruin my life, she will. I wouldn't put it past her to move heaven and earth to see me kept from the woman I love just to spite me!"

  "Then do not give her a reason to cause trouble. Stay away from the woman until the marriage has been set aside."

  Dek groaned for he had feared that would be the Patriarch's command. “I can't,” he said.

  "You can't or you won't?"

  There was a hard, uncompromising look in the fat man's beady eyes. They were locked on Dek like searchlights. He raised his chin.

  "I love Maire,” he said. “I won't give her up easily."

  "You aren't being asked to give her up as yet, Deklyn,” the older man said. “You are simply being told that we do not wish you to visit her until our questions are answered."

  "And just when will that be?” Dek snapped, fear being pushed aside by anger.

  "Do not question our timetable, young sir!” the Patriarch warned though he did not raise his voice. “It could be in a day or two, a week or two or it a year or two.” He narrowed his porcine eyes. “It could even be in a decade or two. That is up to you."

  The warning was clear. The hand on his shoulder tightened.

  "We will drop the matter for now. Think about what we have discussed with you then make your decision.” He removed his hand to pat Dek's cheek as though the Baron were a tempestuous little boy. “We are sure you will make the right one."

  * * * *

  At the Patriarch's request, Ynez was allowed from her room and told to make a presentable appearance at the formal dinner that was being served in the dining hall. She was warned to be at her most polite and to only speak when spoken to. Any quarreling in which she might feel inclined to indulge would not be looked upon with leniency. She was to behave as the daughter of a Viscount and the wife of the Baron had been brought up to behave.

  Or there would be consequences
.

  Dressed demurely, her head down, her face expressionless, she sat to the right of her husband—her usual place at the other end of the table taken by him, since he had vacated his rightful place out of respect for the Patriarch's rank—Ynez toyed with her food. She ignored the conversation in which the men were engaged and silently waited for permission to leave the table. She was hoping she could find a way to either see or get word to Miriam or—at the very least—learn something of how her companion was fairing. The guards outside her door had intercepted two messages sent to her from Miriam and the servant who had dared to circumvent Jules’ orders for no contact between the two women had been dismissed.

  "His Beatitude asked you a question, Ynez,” Dek said in a tight voice.

  Ynez look down the length of the table—past the Archbishops and auxiliary priests as well as the three Tribunal judges and two Councilmen. She forced her lips into an apologetic smile.

  "I beg your pardon, Your Beatitude. I fear I was woolgathering as you gentlemen discussed the war,” she said, batting her lashes coquettishly at the obese man.

  The Patriarch did not answer her smile. Instead he pursed his lips and directed his gaze to Dek, raising one eyebrow.

  "His Beatitude asked if you would like to retire from table,” Dek said, not bothering to look at his wife.

  "If it would please you, husband,” she said sweetly.

  "It would please me if you would drop dead,” he said loud enough only she could hear his words.

  "I am sure it would,” Ynez hissed in reply. She glanced around at the servant who suddenly appeared behind her to draw back her chair. She got to her feet, curtsied to the Patriarch, wished him a good evening then left the table.

  "A most disingenuous woman,” Archbishop Mongey declared, lifting his napkin to blot at his thick lips.

  "My sentiments, exactly,” Archbishop Grouig agreed.

  "I am glad Your Eminences can see through her act,” Dek said. He took a sip of the fine claret that had been a present from Lord Gael.

  "As we see through yours,” Archbishop Mongey said gently. “I have been watching you all evening and though you were polite to the lady, the anger in your eyes was almost sentient.” He braced his elbow on the cleared space in front of him to rest his chin on his fist. “Tell me, Your Grace. What did she say to you that caused you to look so murderous upon her arrival at table?"