“He didn't kill Marie Sinclair,” Nick grated.
“Nay, he did not,” Tarnes agreed, “but they blame him for it, just the same."
“Kaelan has suffered enough for five men's sins,” Nick snapped, getting up from the hearth. “It galled me to tell that pompous priest that he would confess his misdeeds before the Joining."
Tarnes clicked the pipe stem against his bottom denture. “Well, as I see it-and I don't really know the lad, you understand-Prince Kaelan might not balk overly much at confessing whatever might be saddening his heart.” He smiled gently at Nick, who glanced up at him with surprise. “What is it the Book says: ‘Rid thyself of unclean garments before donning the robes of matrimony'? Ain't that how it goes?” The old man nodded. “I reckon them ‘unclean garments’ be the rags of the young Prince's past, don't you, milord?"
Nick slowly grinned. “I think the Book is referring to soiled women in that commandant, Master Tarnes."
Tarnes sniffed, not at all concerned his analogy hadn't been understood. “Reckon the young Prince had a few of them, do you?"
“I know he did,” Nick chuckled.
“Then he'll have that to confess anyways,” Tarnes replied, puffing away on his noxious pipe. “Priest didn't say what he wanted the lad to be confessing, now, did he?"
“No,” Nick concurred. His admiration of the old man went even higher.
“And I'd think he'd want to confess to a wee bit of thievery,” Tarnes continued.
“Thievery?” Nick's brows drew together in a scowl.
“Aye,” Tarnes said, nodding thoughtfully. His wrinkled face beamed. “'Twas my son, Ned's, breeches the lad swiped off that clothesline that day.” His thin lips split into a lopsided grin around the pipe stem. “Not that Ned minded all that much."
Nick stared hard at the old man. “It was Ned who saw to it that Kaelan was able to escape his bonds that night, wasn't it?"
The smile slid slowly from Tarnes’ face. “Aye, and the lad regrets it, he does."
“Why?"
Tarnes looked away from Nick's probing gaze. “Figures if'n he'd left well enough alone, the Duchess wouldn't have died."
Nick went to the old man and put an arm around his thin shoulders. “In my homeland, we have a saying, Master Tarnes. It goes-arguably what any of us could have done-would not have changed anything."
Brother Herbert shuffled back into the room, his thick woolen traveling robe, fur boots, and bulky fur great cape with its high-peaked conical fur hat making him look suspiciously like one of the legendary Snowbeasts from the higher elevations of Chrystallus. “I am ready,” the priest told them.
Nick pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. While it was, indeed, cold outside, it was not the arctic environment for which the pudgy priest had prepared himself. “Do you think you'll be warm enough?” Nick forced himself to ask.
The priest frowned. “'Tis all the winter clothing I have,” he mumbled. He drew his woolen scarf tight under his numerous chins.
Tarnes snorted. “T'will be enough,” he said gruffly. “But there be one thing we will be asking of you."
Brother Herbert turned to the old man.
“'Tis about the prince. Don't you go insulting him, you hear? What you say to him will matter to the lad."
A confused look passed over Brother Herbert's fat face; he looked to Nick for clarification.
“What Master Tarnes means is—you being a man of the gods—we want to make sure you give Prince Kaelan the respect he is due."
Brother Herbert took in the direct look aimed his way by the younger man. “I would not dream of showing disrespect to a member of the royalty,” he defended. “Disowned or not."
“You'd best not,” Tarnes stressed. He gave the chubby priest a look that was as hard as steel and with twice the cutting edge of an Ionarian blade. “I'd not take kindly to it at all, at all."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Three
“Why haven't you tried to kiss me, yet?” Gillian asked as she sat down on the bed beside her patient and extended the bowl of thin broth she'd made from the pheasant Brownie had trotted in with earlier that morning.
Kaelan paused with the spoon halfway to his lips and looked at her through the wafting steam. “You want my cold, brat?” he muttered.
“I'm not susceptible to colds,” she snorted. “No one in my clan is.” She fused her gaze with his. “Why haven't you tried to kiss me?"
He ladled a spoonful of the hot broth into his mouth, chewing a sliver of meat carefully, then swallowed, wishing his throat didn't hurt so bad. “Do you have any notion what might happen if I do?” He watched her closely. “It has been five years since I've touched a woman, Gilly. Right not, I could break rocks with what's hiding beneath these covers."
Gillian's attention dropped instantly to the coverlet over his legs. Her face burned crimson as she took in the slight tent that had formed over his lap and had to look away. “Oh,” was all she could mumble.
“I guess it's a good thing Nick's going after a priest,” Kaelan admitted. “I'm not sure how long I can keep my hands off his little sister.” He forced another too-hot spoonful of liquid down.
A little smile twitched the corners of Gillian's mouth. “My thinking precisely, milord Kaelan."
Kaelan started to say something, but sneezed instead. He sneezed again, grateful when his nurse took the bowl of broth from him to keep him from spilling it. “Do you,” he asked before sneezing a third time, “have any notion of what Duncan will do once he finds out you've Joined with me, Gilly?” He sneezed once more.
“Oh, he'll attempt to annul the wedding, I suppose,” she said, handing him a handkerchief. She shrugged with unconcern. “My dear stepmother will egg him on by ranting and raving, as is her wont. She'll swoon gracefully into his oh-so-strong arms-hand to her forehead with dramatic feminine helplessness—and cry so brokenly it would seem her poor heart had shattered in her more than ample chest.” She scowled fiercely. “With my father-gullible lovesick fool that he is—she'll have a fit of apoplexy and curse me for the ungrateful child I am; you, for the licentious child molester she perceives you to be, and Papa will, of course, try to comfort her by putting her world back to rights again by promising her he will move heaven and earth to sunder our Joining."
“That's ... exactly ... what ... will ... happen!” Kaelan said, sneezing in between each word until he began to cough, his wracking explosions sounding dangerous even to Gillian's untrained ears. “They ... won't ... stop ... until...” He sneezed so violently, he shook the bed beneath him.
“Hush, Hesar,” Gillian commanded. Pounding him gently on the back as he coughed to help him bring up the heavy phlegm in his lungs, she used her free hand to push back a lock of limp hair from his forehead.
“Stop worrying about what might happen, Hesar,” she rebuked him while he was unable to argue with her. “I'll not let Duncan separate us again."
“Horses,” he managed to get out, pointing to the window. He tried to get out of the bed, but she wouldn't let him.
“I'll see who it is!” she scolded him. Going to the window, she saw Nick riding up to the manor house on a large roan. Behind him, were two riders atop massive gray Viragonian workhorses.
“Is ... it ... Nicky?” Kaelan asked, his voice tense.
“Aye,” she answered, wondering who the third man was. She'd had no trouble picking out the priest: he was the one wrapped in the expensive fur coat. “They're bringing in two pack horses, as well."
Kaelan relaxed against the head post, but her next words made his heart speed up: “There's someone with them."
Before she could protest, the prince was out of the bed and hobbling over to the window. She shooed him away, but he ignored her, hooking his fingers in the lace curtain and drawing it aside.
“Do you know him?"
Kaelan focused on the smaller of the three men; shook his head. “No."
“Well, Nick wouldn't have brought him if
he's a foe, Hesar,” she reminded him.
“He could be a bounty hunter,” Kaelan said suspiciously.
“How much bounty do you have on your head?” she asked with surprise.
“Not me,” he snorted, trying to get a good look at the older man's face beneath the brim of his wide hat. “I'd venture to say Duncan and de Viennes have offered a rather sizable price for your return, Gillian."
Gillian clucked away his remark and lifted her hand to answer her brother's wave for Nick had noticed them at the window. “He's smiling,” she stated. “If t'was a bounty hunter with him, he wouldn't be.” She moved away from the window, drawing a reluctant Kaelan with her. “Now, get back in the bed and let me go greet our guests."
“Our guests?” he questioned, obeying her for it had been ingrained in him since childhood that when a woman issued an order, you complied.
“And stay put,” she told him, tucking the covers under his armpits. “I don't want to be a widow longer than I am a bride."
“I ain't on my death bed, Gilly,” he complained, his lower lip thrust out.
“Don't you get up!” she warned, shaking a finger at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to tease him that his rock-breaking capacities seemed to have deserted him, but she thought better of it. Best not to get his mind back on such ‘physical’ things.
Kaelan sulked as she left him. ‘A widow longer than a wife', he mused. If Duncan caught up with them, that telling statement might well become fact. He only hoped his brother would be delayed by the winter storm that had just passed or else not think to look at Holy Dale for de Viennes’ runaway bride.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and the door was thrown open with gusto. Nick came bustling into the room, flinging his great cape off before hurrying to the fire. He stood before it—his beaming face lit with the ruddy glow of the flames—and rubbed his hands.
“By the gods, Hesar, but it's as cold as a Diabolusian witches teat out there!” He shuddered, holding his hands to the flames. “I'll not ever get use to this gods-be-damned wind of yours, either!"
Kaelan sat up straighter in the bed. “She won't let me get up,” he complained to his soon-to-be brother-in-law.
Nick glanced over at him. “Wise woman, my sister,” he laughed. He eyed his companion. “You look like shit."
“I feel like shit,” Kaelan admitted. He studied Nick. “How did you find things in the village?"
Nick turned around to warm his backside. “They don't like strangers in Wixenstead Harbor,” he answered, “but they don't mind taking a stranger's money and gossiping about the Demon Duke up at the manor house."
Kaelan winced. “I can imagine all too well the nice things they had to say about me down there,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you were the main topic of conversation practically everywhere I went, my friend.” Nick faced the fire again. “Only one man there took your side of it."
Kaelan looked up from his stony contemplation of the tattered coverlet. “Who?"
“Lumley Tarnes.” Nick put another log on the fire. “Ned's father. He came back here with me."
“He did?” Kaelan asked with surprise.
“Aye. He just got back from a three year voyage around the Cape.” Nick sighed dramatically, his eyes glazing wistfully. “Around the Cape, Hesar! Can you imagine it?” He turned his head toward Kaelan and his face was aglow with excitement. “All the way from Wixenstead to Odess in the Outer Kingdom!” He lowered his voice as though it was a great secret. “Through the Sinisters, Kaelan. Through the gods-be-damned Sinisters! Can you fathom it?"
Kaelan smiled. “Sounds to me like you'd like to make a trek like that yourself."
“I would, man!” Nick said forcefully. “I've always wanted to own my own ship.” He hunkered down before the fire and the heat of the flames gathered in his eyes as he spoke. “I've been saving for it since I came of age. I've even have a name for her."
The look on Nick's face was compelling. “What name would you give her, Captain Cree?” Kaelan inquired, smiling.
“The Revenant,” Nick announced proudly. “It means a person who returns after a long absence."
Kaelan's brow furrowed. “Is there a significance to that, Captain?"
“Aye,” Nick stated, firmly, nodding emphatically. “I would paint her white as snow-so white her lines will dazzle the eye-so that when those Diabolusian jackasses see her coming, they'll quake in their boots and thinks she's a ghostling come back from the grave to steal their souls!"
“Ah,” Kaelan said, nodding slowly. “You want them to think of the Outlaw.” He was referring to his great-granduncle, Syn-Jern Sorn, whose ship, The WindLass, had been all white and the scourge of the Seven Seas.
Nick grinned. “You should be proud to have such an illustrious ancestor. The Outlaw led a rebellious brood of Viragonians, didn't he?"
Kaelan shrugged. “Aye, and me about to join them tonight."
The grin left Nick's face. “You do want to Join with Gilly, don't you, Kaelan?"
“You know I do,” Kaelan answered, locking his gaze with Nick's. “I've never wanted anything more and never wanted anyone but her."
“That's good,” Nick said with relief, “because I don't think you have much choice!"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Four
Rolf de Viennes climbed back into his saddle. “If they came this way, we should have found some sign of their passing.” He glared at their tracker. “I see nothing to indicate we are on the right trail."
“It's been snowing, Rolf,” Duncan yawned. His dark eyes surveyed the landscape around them. “Snows tends to cover tracks or have you not noticed that phenomenon before?"
“All the same,” de Viennes complained, “if Cree brought her this way...” He flung his arms about the jagged peaks surrounding them. “...it was a foolhardy thing to do in the dead of winter. There is precious little shelter to be found among these crags!"
“My son is no fool,” Dakin Cree snapped. “If they passed this way, he both knew where he was going and how to keep them safe during the storm!” He had little faith in his own words, but his tone suggested he was not concerned. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Duncan yawned again and scratched at the wool around his neck. He surveyed the pass through which they'd come and knew they would have to make camp soon. They were all tired and it would be another day or two—at least—before they reached Holy Dale and what dubious comfort might be found there. Already the sun was lowering and the chill was seeping through his damp clothing. “We'll set up camp here, I think,” he said, climbing down from his mount and handing the stallion's reins to the tracker like more snow is on the way."
De Viennes glanced up at the steel-gray sky that was streaked with a glorious pink lemonade sunset to the east of where they had stopped. He ground his teeth. “I'm all for going on for a few more hours, Your Grace,” he seethed.
“I am not,” Duncan replied. He unbuttoned his fly and began to urinate against a rock. “I am tired and hungry, Rolf, and if Nick and the girl passed this way, they are more than likely safe and warm at Holy Dale."
“Holy Dale?” Dakin questioned. Why did that name sound so familiar to him? Was it a monastery? A house of religious?
Duncan ignored the Chalean ambassador. He looked at his tracker. “As soon as you've secured my nag, I want you to take two men and go on toward the estate."
“Aye, Your Grace,” the tracker said, although his heart was not in further travel that night. “And when we get there, Majesty? What are your orders?"
“If they're there, Utley, keep them there,” Duncan sighed. “Lock all three of them in the cellar where the Outlaw use to hide out when the Tribunal troops came raiding."
“The three of them?” Dakin dismounted. “To whom do you refer, Your Grace? Who is the third person?"
“He's there,” Duncan snapped with irritation as he stuffed himself back into the warmth of his cords.
“Wh
o?” The Chalean ambassador was confused.
“That idjit brother of mine,” Duncan replied nastily. “Kaelan is at Holy Dale."
Dakin stared at him. “He is back from Rysalia?"
“Fool!” de Viennes chortled. “The bastard was never in Rysalia!"
“Don't insult him, Rolf,” Duncan cautioned. “Kaelan is as legal as you. Much to my disgust."
“But I thought...” Dakin began, only to stop himself. He looked from the Prince Regent to de Viennes and back again, finally beginning to realize the evil these men—and no doubt his beloved wife—had wrought against Kaelan and Gillian. His shoulders sagged. “He's not married, either, is he?"
“Not anymore!” de Viennes chuckled.
Dakin looked away from the two men. “You lied to us,” he accused.
Duncan—instead of being angered by the remark—was amused. “Let's just say I bent the truth to the benefit of your daughter, Duke Cree."
Dakin shook his head. “Nay, not to Gilly's benefit.” He turned a narrowed gaze to de Viennes. “Rather to this man's, I'd wager. All Gillian got from such lies was heartache. She grieved long and hard over that second marriage."
“Didn't we marry him off several times, Your Grace?” de Viennes tittered. “How many wives did we say he had?"
Dakin winced. “Gilly cried many a tear when she heard Prince Kaelan had taken a harem."
Duncan fanned away the accusation. “Female vapors.” He could not understand how any woman could love so intensely, for none had ever graced him with such intensity of feeling. Although at long last, his drudge of a wife was breeding-nearing her term, thank the gods-she cared no more for him than he did for her. If truth were told, it was Kaelan whom Frieda loved.
“And I agreed to this Joining,” Dakin sighed. It would do no good to protest; he had given his oath to these two dishonest men and Chalean honor required he not go back on his word.
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