PRINCE OF THE WIND

by Charlotte Boyet-Compo

  "If there is any chance he is one of them," Ortega said, fear of the Crees obviously curing him from any unnatural interest in the boy he may have had, "you’d best kill the bastard and be done with it! Bury him quickly and quietly and hope no word of it reaches Cree’s ears!"

  "If you do," the lad shouted, "you will have the entire might of Chale and Oceania down around your miserable hearts! I am legal-born!"

  "Legal-born?" Du Mer’s brows came together over his pug nose, then he sucked in a stunned breath. "By the gods, Gunter, don’t you see who he must be? He is the one they’ve been looking for." He turned a strained look to the prince. "Aidan’s youngest boy. The one Hesar kidnapped a year ago!"

  De Viennes had already made the connection and he felt his stomach beginning to knot with unease. "We’ve no intention of doing harm to you or any other Cree," the Northwinds prince assured the lad. "Our fight is with Olan Hesar. We thought you were one of his."

  The boy staggered, his grimy face losing the color of anger. Apparently his outburst, and a year of whatever starvation and physical abuse he had suffered, seemed to have taken its toll.

  "If you are who you say you are," the prince continued, "we will care for you until word can be sent to your father to fetch you."

  "I can take myself home," the child stated with an arrogance that was obviously more bravado than fact. "Just give me a mount."

  Guy du Mer grinned. "And you’ll row yourself to Chale on board him, will you?"

  "I will find a way across the river," the lad spat. He looked wildly about him, backing slowly away from the threat Sir Gerard posed, never taking his eyes off the shimmering point of the knight’s blade.

  "You’re ill, son," du Mer cautioned and started forward. He put up both hands when the boy seemed ready to bolt. "I’ve no doubt you would try for home, but you’d die in the trying."

  "What do you care?" The boy had gotten as far as the door and was fumbling for the handle.

  "How far do you think you’ll get?"

  "As far away from you thieving Zonelanders as I can get!"

  "You would dare call us thieves?" a baron challenged, his beefy face nearly purple with rage. He started to say something else, but du Mer shushed him.

  "I’ll take you home," du Mer promised. "You may hold me personally responsible for your safe conduct."

  Riain Cree angrily shook his head. "My father is looking for me." He cracked open the door and started backing out of the room. "He’ll be—"

  From outside, two guards appeared and grabbed him from behind. One sent a brutal blow to the back of the boy’s head to still his struggles.

  "The gods damn it!" Guy du Mer leapt forward, his lips drawn back from clenched teeth.

  The teenager collapsed into Guy’s arms.

  "By all that’s holy," du Mer whispered. "He’s burning up with fever!"

  Men cautiously shuffled forward, their faces as anxious as du Mer’s. Sir Gerard sheathed his weapon and hunkered down beside the Duke.

  "Is…is he dead?" de Viennes could barely say.

  Du Mer put two fingers to the boy’s filthy throat. "Not yet, but unless we get him to your Healer, he’ll not see morning."

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  She thought he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. His skin was a dark golden tan that brought out the rich luster of his midnight curls. Beneath his closed eyelids, edged with long, thick, ebony lashes, were twin cauldrons of fathomless molten gold. His lips were soft and voluptuous, a ripe shade of peach that looked as luscious as the fruit and just as sweet. His teeth, as white as the snows high atop Mount Serenia, were straight and even behind those heavenly lips.

  He smelled of cinnamon and spices too rare for her to know their taste. The heat given off his thin body from the high fever, which had nearly taken his life, brought his scent to her from clear across the room. She breathed in the smell, her belly doing funny little clutching spasms as she did. That a boy-child of fifteen or sixteen should so arouse a woman of her advancing years did not concern her; there were virile young men of thirteen and fourteen roaming the corridors of the Four Zones who were fathers many times over. That she had never encountered one who would give her a second notice did, however, concern her, and she had made up her mind that this one would be different.

  "Maeve?"

  Suzanna looked up from her mending as another soft groan came from the boy. She laid down her father’s shirt to go to the bed. She placed the back of her hand against his cheek and frowned; the fever was still high.

  "Milady?" he begged, his eyes twitching beneath the blue-tinged lids.

  "Hush, now, Riain," Suzanna ordered in a stern voice. She wondered who "Maeve" was, this woman he called for in his fever. "I am here. You need no other."

  The boy struggled to open his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, plastering the silken curls to his flesh. The febrile color on his cheeks seemed to actually pulse with heat. Although he was better, the fever still raged, still took a heavy toll on his strength.

  "Help me," he whispered. His lids fluttered open. His gaze was unfocused, steaming hot as he looked into her face. "Lady, please. I have to get home."

  Suzanna swept the curls from his face and sat beside him. She reached for a cloth soaking in iced water on the bedside table, rung it out, then dabbed the sweat from his face and neck.

  "You have Labyrinthian Fever." She dragged the cloth over his pathetically thin chest. "It must run its course. You’ll not go anywhere for a time yet."

  "Am…I…going to die?" His hoarse voice was almost painful to hear.

  "You are not," she answered crisply.

  * * *

  Riain closed his eyes, only vaguely disturbed that the woman hovering over him was running the cloth under his arm, then down his side in a manner decidedly not nurse-like. Though the icy water helped to relieve his aches and wash the sticky, clammy feel off his flesh, he felt unclean where she touched him.

  "My father?" he asked.

  The woman pursed her lips, not answering. Instead, she twisted on the bed, tossed the covers from his legs, and began to wash his belly.

  Riain felt the cold wash of air across his legs. He did not need to look to know he was naked, and acute embarrassment made him lift his hands to cover his manhood.

  "There is no need for misplaced modesty!" the woman snapped, pushing away his hands. She turned and fused her gaze with his. "I have bathed you every day, three times a day, for nearly two weeks, young man. There is naught of you I have not seen nor touched." She lifted a thick brown brow in amusement. "Or watched with keen interest."

  Her bold words made Riain blush. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed her to finish with her work.

  "You do not like being touched?"

  "Nay, Lady. ’Tis unseemly what you do." He tucked his lower lip between his teeth to keep it from trembling

  She laughed. "You have much to be taught, Sweeting." She reached out to touch his shoulder, but a firm rap on the door stopped her.

  "Come!" she ordered, throwing the covers over Riain.

  Prince Gunter de Viennes entered the room ahead of his steward. "How is he?"

  The woman folded her hands in front of her. "He is awake and fussing about being bathed, I’m afraid, Father."

  The prince grinned and strode to the bed. "Then he’s feeling better!"

  "Shall I stay, Milord?"

  The prince waved a dismissive hand and pulled up a chair to sit beside the bed. "Has he eaten?"

  "A little broth earlier this morn," the woman replied at the door. "He needs to eat more."

  "Aye, much more before Cree’s man comes to fetch him."

  At the mention of his father, and despite the wicked headache plaguing him and the illness that made him feel as weak as a kitten, Riain pushed himself up. "You have notified my father of my whereabouts?"

  Prince Gunter smiled hesitantly. "Not exactly." He looked away, cleared his throat, and dusted an imaginary speck of lint from
his breeches. "We have not yet been able to get word to your clan, but we will keep trying."

  Riain frowned. Did they mean to hold him ransom as had Olan Hesar? Were they afraid of what the Clan would do once they found out Riain had been mistreated at the hands of these Northzoners?

  "You need not fear reprisal from my father for what your man did," Riain said. "I did not tell him who I was, therefore you cannot be held accountable for the beating he gave me."

  Gunter winced, obviously uncomfortable. "I have heard many tales of Chalean vengeance. I would not welcome war with your people. We have managed to avoid it for two generations."

  Riain understood the man’s dilemma. The son of a powerful man—a prince in his own right—had been brutally treated by this man and his court, threatened with death, had been even on the verge of being lashed and sold into slavery. It was not a situation that was conducive to good relations with an already unfriendly kingdom.

  "I will defend you to my father, Your Grace. You have my word as a Chalean prince."

  A long, relieved breath came from Gunter. "I am most thankful, Milord." He hesitated, then put out a beseeching hand. "But what of Sir Gerard?"

  Riain’s eyes narrowed. "What of him?"

  "Boucharde is a good man. He wholeheartedly regrets his actions. As you said, he had no notion of who you were, and was only obeying my orders."

  "A little too well."

  The prince sat forward. "He is fully prepared to pay for his mistake—"

  "And pay he shall."

  Gunter’s shoulders slumped. "Tell me what I can do, Milord, to keep my man from having to die by a Chalean executioner’s ax."

  This surprised Riain. All his life, he had been given to understand that there was no honor in the Zonelanders. They were thieves and poachers, pirates and slavers. He had been told of how they were almost as bad as the Viragonians, the scourging terrors of the sea lanes. Of how the princes of these lands were vicious and cruel, treating their people like cattle and having no regard for any life other than their own.

  But here was the Northwinds’ Prince Regent begging for the life of a mere servant? Even given that servant was a knight and Master-at-Arms, such behavior was not in keeping with the way Riain had been led to think of these people of the Four Zones.

  Yet, his father’s own man, Sir Duncan Brell, Briarcliff Keep’s Master-at-Arms, was much beloved of the Cree clan. So beloved, in fact, Riain suspected his father would give his life for the man if the need arose.

  "You care for this man?"

  Gunter nodded eagerly. "We were suckled at the same teat, Milord—"

  When Riain blushed, the prince was quick to amend his remark.

  "I mean, Gerry and I were born three days apart and his mother was my wet nurse." He smiled affectionately. "She was truly more a mother to me than my own dame. I have always thought of Gerry as the brother I never had."

  "Be glad you didn’t have one," Riain muttered.

  The prince seized upon the remark. "You are the youngest of nine, are you not, Milord?"

  Riain snorted. "Actually, the youngest of twenty-two."

  Gunter shook his head with obvious amazement. "I had heard Chalean men are allowed more than one wife."

  A snort of derision brought on a fit of coughing, but Riain waved away the prince’s help. He struggled up, feeling better by the moment, and folded the sheet down to his lap.

  "I will tell you what my mother once said to my father—‘Any Chalean male foolish enough to dally with more than one woman at a time would not be dallying long. Nor would a Chalean woman so betrayed leave him anything to dally with when all was said and done.’"

  "Yet you are one of nearly two dozen. Surely your mother did not breed you all!"

  "Eighteen were born ere my father wed my mother. To twelve different servant girls."

  The prince nodded as if satisfied by the answer, although he likely found such behavior appalling. Riain had heard that, in the Zones, the warriors practiced restraint in the begetting of offspring.

  "Is it true your raiders take women captives?" the prince asked. "We have all heard tales of Chalean sea raiders who rape and ravage their way along the coast."

  Riain clucked his tongue with annoyance. "You have us confused with those bastard Viragonians. The only women our raiders bring home are those willing to wed their raider and live in Chale."

  "Ah," the prince commented, looking somewhat disappointed, probably because the wild, ugly tales of Chalean buccaneers were exaggerated. He leaned back in his chair. "Has your father betrothed you, as yet?"

  "No!"

  "But don’t the Chales betroth their children at a young age in order to make sure the bride remains pure and chaste?"

  "Sometimes, but not always." Riain thought of Riordan, his nineteen-year-old brother who was about to marry an Ionarian lass.

  The prince cocked his head. "Your eldest brother is…?"

  "Tiernan."

  "Aye. He is joined to one of the Wynth girls, is he not? A princess of the house of Oceania?"

  "Her name is Rebecca."

  "And that brother will be king."

  "When my father goes to make his Peace with the Wind," Riain said.

  Gunter de Viennes scowled. "He is a Windwarrior?"

  "Every Chalean male takes the vow when he reaches the age of reasoning." Riain thumbed his chest. "I am to be inducted into the Society this year."

  The prince got up from his chair and went to the window. His scowl grew darker as he pushed aside the curtains and stared out. "We are at war with the Windwarriors."

  It was the first Riain had heard of it. "All of the Windwarriors, Your Grace?" he asked, suddenly feeling somewhat uneasy.

  "Do you remember that we asked certain questions of you the day you were brought here?"

  Riain remembered all too well, and at the time, the questions had made no sense to him. "You asked about an attack and wanted to know how many men would be coming."

  De Viennes looked at him. "You know nothing of such things? Of an invasion planned by Hesar and the Windwarriors?"

  Riain fisted his right hand and placed it to his heart in the Chalean pledge of one warrior to another. "As Alel is my witness, I do not."

  "Alel. Your god?"

  "The god of us all," Riain corrected, as sure of it as any priest or brother in the Order.

  "Sometimes," the prince said, looking out the window again, "I wish I could make myself believe in the existence of a benevolent supernatural deity." He lifted a hand and plowed his stubby fingers through his graying brown hair. "Our gods are Destroyer-Gods. The only benefit we may draw from Them is revenge."

  "Then perhaps you should investigate other gods, Your Grace. Ones who help instead of punish."

  "Perhaps we should," the Northwinds prince said.

  Riain tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and drew his brows together. "Have you sent word to my Clan?"

  "We dared not send a ship to Chale for fear of being blown out of the water before they knew what we were about. Instead, we sent a ship to Oceania to let them know you are safely out of Hesar’s hands."

  At the mention of the man who’d had him kidnapped and held for more than a year, Riain’s voice sharpened. "Now, they can attack the fool without worrying for my safety."

  A hard look passed over de Viennes face. "I am told Hesar asked five-hundred thousand gold sovereigns for your safe return, but I’ve heard nothing of the Cree clan having paid the ransom."

  "My father would have never paid that robber one thin copper, for he knew the ransom was only a blind. It was never Hesar’s intent to return me. I was to be held there until of age to marry one of his gods-be-damned ugly little haglets so he would have a hold over our Clan. My father and his men knew that. The paying of a ransom was merely to insure that I was not mistreated, but Papa knew he could never trust Hesar to keep his word on that account, either."

  "I have seen the marks on your flesh."

  "The whippings, aye,"
Riain acknowledged. He ground his teeth. "For that alone, Hesar will rue the day he ever laid leather to a Cree back!"

  "I have no doubt of that," the prince replied with a smile.

  "I don’t believe my father would cause you grief if you sent a ship to Briarcliff under a white flag."

  "Even white flags are not safe in this day and age, young sir. I would be suspicious of a Chalean ship flying such a banner." He cocked his head. "Perhaps a personal signal from you?"

  Riain pondered a moment. "There is a signal the Clan will recognize. It is never to be used unless there is an emergency." He hesitated, knowing such a secret could be used dishonestly, even cause massive problems for his people, if Gunter de Viennes was not the man Riain thought him to be.

  "On my honor," the prince said, bringing his right fist up to his chest as Riain had done earlier. "I understanding your hesitation. But I have no sinister motive. I wish only to return you to your father—safe and sound—and not have him an enemy."

  Riain had been taught to be a good judge of character, and he trusted this Northwinds prince. "Do you have paper and quill? I will draw you the emblem. I cannot wait to get home."

  * * *

  In the corridor outside the sickroom, Suzanna de Viennes drove her nails into the palms of her hands. Her lips pursed tight, while her eyes squinted in anger.

  "You’re not going anywhere, my precious," she whispered. "I will never allow you to leave Northwinds!"

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Sir Duncan Brell took the stairs two at a time, his boot heels slamming hard against the rough stone. Without bothering to knock—a social amenity he found ridiculous—he threw open the heavy mahogany door and burst into his Overlord’s bedchamber, startling the king out of a sound sleep atop the creamy peaks of his wife’s bosom.

  "We’ve found the brat!" Duncan bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  Christina Cree was more awake than her husband, and she threw back the covers, heedless of her nudity and Duncan’s quickly averted eyes.