WindFall

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Dakin Cree glanced up from his morbid contemplation of the packed snow beneath his horse's hooves and started. Prince Diarmuid? Here? Why?

  And the young McGregor lad, as well?! What the hell was going on? Quickly the Chalean ambassador dismounted and hurried toward the young princes.

  Duncan nodded a curt greeting to Diarmuid, then turned his full gaze on Drayton McGregor's insolent little brat. “May I ask why you two boys are traipsing about in the middle of the worst storm to hit Virago in twenty years?” he growled in way of greeting.

  “We were on our way to the Winter Solstice festival in Serenia,” Diarmuid lied as he joined them, hoping to keep Thècion from asking any too-direct questions of the king until a polite, respectful opening had been made.

  “Thought maybe we'd see if Kaelan would like to go along with us this year,” Thècion quipped, ignoring Diarmuid's small groan of dismay.

  There was a general rumble of voices as the townsfolk, who had stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop on the peerage, expressed their shock over such a statement.

  “Kaelan?” Duncan asked, his brows knitting; shocked although he tried not to show it.

  “Aye, Sire,” Diarmuid hurried to say. He inclined his head toward Dakin in greeting, then stepped a little between his friend and the Viragonian king. “Kaelan and I are old acquaintances. I heard he was home from Rysalia."

  Duncan recovered his composure and schooled his face into a mask of polite inquiry. “What made you think of my brother?” he questioned. He looked around him at the inquisitive faces of the townspeople and was irritated. “Have you people business with the Court?” he called out in a stern voice. “If not, be about your business else I'll have reason to think you are waiting to volunteer for my army!"

  There was an instant gasp, then the people ducked their heads and scattered, mumbling to themselves in low tones and casting one another worried looks.

  Duncan returned his attention to Thècion. “Why did you come looking for Kaelan? Hadn't you heard he's been living like a hermit all these years since his wife's untimely demise?"

  Thècion heard the sneer beneath the civil question and smiled nastily. “We thought it time he rejoined the living,” the young prince answered. “Don't you, Majesty?"

  “Why are you here, Duke Dakin?” Diarmuid interrupted for he had seen the insult make a direct hit on the king.

  “My daughter...” Dakin began, but the king cut him off.

  “My brother will no doubt welcome your visit, young McGregor."

  If Thècion was surprised at the offer, he didn't show it. He politely declined with a shake of his golden head. “Thank you, Sire, but we don't wish to put you out in any way."

  Rather you don't want to be beholding to the bastard in any way, eh, young McGregor? Dakin thought with a smile. He had never met the youngest son of King Drayton, but already liked the lad a thousand times better than he did the eldest.

  “We will be leaving almost as soon as we can gather up Kaelan,” McGregor was saying. “The festival has been touted as being one of the very best entertainments this season."

  The Viragonian king's face had tightened at the refusal of his help, but he managed a set smile. “When you leave, then,” he inquired, “will it be by yon ship?” He pointed toward the Boreas Wind. “Providing Kaelan will want to go with you?"

  “Aye,” Thècion replied, his forehead puckering. “Why do you ask, Sire?” He sensed something not quite right in the way the Viragonian king was looking at him and in the tenseness that had suddenly stiffened the Chalean ambassador's shoulders.

  Duncan smiled genially. “We have booked passage back to Tempest Keep on the Aubaine, Duke Antoine du Mer's private ship, but she does not sail ’til the end of the week. As much as there is to do in Wixenstead,” he drawled, sweeping a hand about the small village, “my men would rather return home as quickly as possible. If we could impose upon you to have your ship drop us off at Ciona, we would be most grateful."

  “Why not just order the ship to be at your disposal, Sire?” Thècion asked, knowing no ship of the line would dare refuse a royal edict. “After all, you are a king while du Mer is a mere Duke."

  A wry grin pulled at Duncan's mouth. “Perhaps that is the way the McGregors would handle such an inconvenience, but the Hesars take into consideration-owned ship would cause its owners in time and revenue."

  Thècion squinted at the deliberate insult. His head came up and he matched Duncan's wry smile. “Were you here visiting Kaelan, Majesty, or just out and about inspecting your holdings? I have heard your treasury was almost depleted by the floods again this year."

  Tit for tat, lad! Dakin chuckled to himself. A pity it wouldn't be this boy who would sit the Serenian throne.

  A muscle jerked in the king's jaw and his gaze hardened. “We are very solvent, young sir, I can assure you! The treasury has never been more so. We were here looking for Dakin's runaway daughter!” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “As if that were any of your business!"

  “Why would you...?” Thècion began but Diarmuid elbowed his friend sharply in the ribs.

  “With your permission, we need to find lodging for the night, Your Grace,” the Chalean prince told the king. He grabbed Thècion's arm and starting pulling him toward the opposite side of the street. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.” He nodded at his father's ambassador. “And you, Duke Dakin. May the Wind be at your backs!"

  “Will you allow us to travel with you or not, McGregor?” Duncan called out.

  “Tell him you will!” Diarmuid growled.

  “I most certainly will not!” Thècion shot back.

  “McGregor?” the king repeated, losing his temper as the two young men hurried away.

  “We'll be most happy to have you travel with us, Sire!” Diarmuid assured him over his shoulder as he yanked hard on Thècion's suddenly stiff body.

  “What the hell are you about, Dear Mutt?” Thècion was grumbling as he was being yanked away from his target, but his companion was making low, urgent shushing sounds. “I will not be quiet! Why are we...?"

  “We'll take an extra horse with us to Kaelan's place just in case and go by land to Ciona,” Diarmuid suggested. “The king is far too anxious for us to take him there by ship."

  “Then let me go tell the captain of the Boreas...."

  “We can't deny the man passage, lumphead!” Diarmuid spat. “He'll know something's wrong for sure, then! The Wind won't sail ’til sunset tomorrow and by then we'll be in Ciona and on Serenian soil."

  “But if Duncan knows about what the Tribunal's planning, we should....” Thècion began, but Diarmuid's grip tightened.

  “I know why they're here, idiot!” Diarmuid hissed again. He smiled tightly as he dragged Thècion along in his wake. “And it ain't got nothing to do with the Tribunal!"

  * * * *

  Jasper and Royce Kullen had been among the townsfolk loitering within hearing range of the king and the foreign princes. The two woodcutters had exchanged a knowing look and Jasper had been quick to admonish his son into silence.

  “We know what them two will find when they get to Unholy Dale, boy. All hell's gonna break loose soon's they find Hesar! Best we don't say nothing to nobody, now; not let a living soul know we was out there or making plans to go!"

  Royce didn't hide his disappointment, but he understood his father's concern: murder had been done, no matter how you looked at it.

  “Can't nobody place us at the manor house, Pa,” Royce whispered. “And the snow last night covered our tracks."

  Jasper chewed on his lip, tried to remember if the man had ever opened his eyes at all while they were stringing him up. “He weren't awake, was he, Pa?” he asked worriedly.

  Jasper turned a gaping mouth to his son. “Why do you ask?"

  Kullen's son shivered. “'Cause if he saw us and he somehow managed to get free....” He let the words hang in the frigid air like a pendulum poised over its victim's belly.

  Jasper flung
his grizzled head from side to side. “Nay, boy. Nay! He weren't awake.” But the old man wasn't sure. “Couldn't have been. He just couldn't have been!"

  Royce wasn't so sure, either. He had a vague recollection of one swollen amber eye peering up helplessly at him as he'd stripped off Hesar's torn shirt.

  “Besides,” his father was stating with something less than true assurance, “he couldn't have gotten free even if he did see us. I made them knots tight as a virgin's legs, I did! He couldn't have worked his hands out of them."

  Royce shuddered, a thought coming to him that made his testicles shrivel and cold sweat form at the base of his spine. “But what if he had been awake, Pa?"

  “He weren't!?” Jasper spat at him, beginning to feel the hangman's noose around his own neck and running a dirty finger under his collar to relieve the tightness.

  Royce lowered his voice and said his piece in a whisper: “What if someone came along and helped him?"

  Jasper gaped at his son. “Like who? Don't one soul in the whole of the village like the man! None who will care if he lives or died."

  “That ain't precisely true,” Royce reminded him. “There's Kymmie and Ned."

  “SHUT UP!” Jasper ordered. The noose around his neck was cutting off his breath.

  “The gods help us,” Royce moaned, grabbing his head where he could almost feel the ax descending. “He's got to be dead!"

  “Got to be,” Jasper echoed. “Just got to be!"

  * * * *

  “I don't see how you hope to get up there,” the stable owner said, shaking his head. “We had near to eight inches of snow last evening. Can you not wait until morning when the roads are bound to be more passable?"

  Despite the man's obvious lineage—and the animosity that had always been there between his world and Thècion's—the Serenian prince took a chance on Raine Jale.

  “We've reason to believe Prince Kaelan's life danger,” he admitted. “To wait would be folly."

  Diarmuid cast his companion a sidelong look, wondering at Thècion's motive for telling the Hasdu man such a thing. With great effort, the Chalean prince kept his mouth shut, though, and let McGregor handle things.

  Raine Jale's black eyes bore into the Serenian. There was a directness in the young man's gaze that was not always there from the Viragonians with whom Jale did business. Although no one in Wixenstead village had ever dared show their mistrust to his face, Raine Jale knew it was there, nevertheless. They had welcomed him, but had never made him part of the community in which he had lived since his exile from his native home of Ventura.

  “You are friends of the prince?” Jale asked, studying the taller and darker of the two men.

  “Diarmuid is,” Thècion replied. “But I want to be."

  Jale folded his arms over a thick, barrel chest. “Why?” he queried.

  Thècion's left brow shot upward. “Why?” he repeated, both surprised and confused by the question.

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Jale replied, firmly. “It is a logical question considering how many enemies the Duke of Winterstorm has earned for himself here."

  “We are not from here,” Diarmuid put in, fanning away his companion's objection to his interference. “Nor do we approve of how Kaelan has been treated by his own kin."

  Raine Jale's mouth lifted up at the corners in wry amusement. “But it has just now taken you until this very moment to come to his aide."

  “The Tribunal wasn't after him before now,” Thècion snapped. “I'd say that was reason enough to come ‘this very moment', wouldn't you?!"

  Diarmuid gawked at his friend. Had McGregor lost his mind? Telling this man...

  “I've two Rysalian mounts who are progeny of my own stallion,” Jale snapped as he began to stride purposefully down the row of stalls, cutting Diarmuid's dismay off in mid protest. “And a stallion I've been boarding for quite some time now.” He flung a hand toward the saddles along a far wall. “Find what you need there, while I saddle His Grace's mount."

  Even as his companion stood there with his mouth ajar and his eyes as wide as saucers, Thècion was hurrying to a fine Ionarian-tooled saddle that had been draped over one of the stable's low partitioning walls.

  “Don't just stand there, Dear Mutt!” Thècion ordered. “Grab a saddle!"

  Diarmuid snapped his mouth shut, shook away the shock that had frozen him in his tracks, and walked to the group of saddles.

  “Why is he helping us?” the Chalean prince whispered, casting a look down the stalls to where the Hasdu was escorting a horse out of the last stall. Diarmuid's mouth dropped open again. “BY THE GODS!” he exclaimed. “THAT'S REVENGE! THAT'S KAELAN'S PRIZE STALLION!"

  Jale nodded curtly as he brought the sleek black horse toward the two men. “Aye, it is.” He had looped a bridle over the steed's elegant head and was now tying the reins to an upright. “And you can't take that particular saddle, Your Grace, because it belongs with this magnificent beast."

  Thècion looked down at the beautifully-crafted leather and nodded; he threw the saddle over Revenge's back. “A most fitting adornment, I'd say.” As Jale cinched the saddle into place, Thècion ran his hands over the powerful steed. “How come you to have his horse, Raine?"

  Jale looked up from his work-pleased by the use of his first name-and grinned. “Burgher Sinclair brought the horse here just last week to be re-shod.” He winked. “Lucky for Prince Kaelan, eh?"

  Diarmuid frowned. “I can't imagine Sorn doing anything for Kaelan,” he said. “Why so generous?"

  The Hasdu straightened up; he narrowed his gaze. “Surely you know Burgher Sinclair owns Revenge?” he inquired.

  The Chalean blinked. “Naturally I did not!” He shook his head vehemently. “I can not believe Kaelan would willingly give up this beast!” He locked his eyes on Jale. “Or did Sinclair just take it away from him?"

  “I can't see anyone taking anything away from Kaelan Hesar,” Thècion remarked. From what he had heard of the man from Diarmuid, he was strong and given to stubbornness.

  Jale leaned his forearms over Revenge's saddle. “Perhaps I should tell you gentleman of things I think you need to know."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Gillian stamped her foot at the inn's owner, cursed him for a coward, then spun on her heel only to find herself looking right at her brother, who was standing a few feet away-his arms crossed over his brawny chest. That Nick wore a smirk on his lean, handsome face only added to her vexation and she cursed him, as well, before shoving past him and stomping back to the inn.

  “Got a burr under her bustle, I reckon,” the innkeeper chuckled. His admiration of women with a fiery temperaments was evident in the way his eyes glowed as he watched Gilly storming through the inn's backdoor.

  “She needs her ass paddled,” Nick commented dryly. He nudged his chin toward the Council House. “How long do you think it will take for them to make a decision on our problem, Master Saur?"

  Traer Saur, Kinion's father, shrugged. “Not long, milord. Considering the urgency of your request, I'd say maybe an hour at the very most."

  Nick unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick fur coat. His gaze went beyond the stable to the high lands of Virago. “If I should need to make a trip back into Virago, would you be knowing some tough men who'd feel up to making the journey with me?"

  A wicked gleam sparked in Traer Saur's eye. “Men of a mercenary kind, you mean?"

  Nick nodded. “Aye. Men just like that."

  Traer bent over the hitching post and studied his companion. “My wife is from Wixenstead Harbor,” the stable owner said in a soft voice.

  Nick slowly turned his head toward Saur; his gaze narrowed. “Is that so?"

  Saur nodded. “As a matter of fact, her sister Marguerite, worked at Holy Dale up until the night the Duchess fell to her death there."

  A stab of unease drove through Nick but he maintained eye contact with the stable owner. “So she knows
the Demon Duke, then?” he inquired as calmly as he could.

  Traer Saur's face—which had been open and welcoming up until that moment—became closed and forbidding. “Margie thought His Grace much maligned, milord,” came the staccato words. “I've heard naught but good things of him from my sister-in-law's lips.” His own gaze became a squint of suspicion. “Which leads me to wonder just why you've been spreading lies about him here."

  Nick stiffened. “Lies?” he growled, drawing his right hand out of his pocket to place it on the hilt of his dagger.

  “From all accounts I've heard from over Wixenstead way,” Traer drawled, unconcerned with his companion's militant stanch or the threat his accusations had brought down on him, “King Duncan disowned his brother many years ago.” He smiled nastily at Nick. “I've heard the king would just as soon have Prince Kaelan vanish from the face of the earth as have to deal with him again. All of which makes me wonder why—all of a sudden—he'd try to force the Chalean ambassador's daughter into Joining with a brother he despises. A Joining which can not provide him with any political pull by the doing."

  For a long moment, Nick just looked at the man, then shrugged, taking his hand from his dagger. “I see your point."

  “And then there's the way you keep watching that road,” Traer Saur commented, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Like you're waiting anxiously for someone."

  “Most anxiously waiting,” Nick admitted quietly.

  “Someone who might need help in joining you and your sister?” Traer asked.

  Making up his mind that the stable owner could be trusted, Nick nodded. “My sister's husband."

  Saur's eyes widened. “Legal husband?"

  Nick shrugged hopelessly. “As legal as we could make it without the sanction of the king of Virago."

  A low whistle came from Saur. His face had taken on a strained look. “And so that's why you're seeking asylum in Serenia? The Joining could be re-done here and he'd be safe from any reprisals."

  “I'll be honest with you,” Nick said.

  “That would be nice,” Traer grinned.

  Nick's answering grin was conspiratorial. “Duncan engaged her to Rolf de Viennes. He's..."