PRINCE OF THE WIND

by Charlotte Boyet-Compo

  "You need not fear me, Guy," she said, guessing at the thoughts running through his mind. "I shall not require your presence at my court."

  Rather than feeling relief at hearing he would not have to dance attendance upon her, Guy felt uneasy. He studied her closely, searching for the source of the vengeance she no doubt meant to wreck on him.

  Suzanna smiled nastily. "I could take Downsgate." She obviously delighted in the look of fear her pronouncement had on her father’s best friend.

  "You would have to have good reason," Guy answered, a trickle of sweat easing down his backbone. "I have done nothing against the crown and was named your father’s executor at his death."

  A sly grin replaced her smile. "I could have you and your family murdered. I could even do it myself."

  Du Mer’s heart lurched in his chest. The lunatic was more inclined to do that than to try to wrest his ancestral lands from him. She had never liked him any more than he had liked her, and now she had even more reason to hate him—he had been instrumental in having her sent to Baybridge.

  "Or," she said, coming to stand directly in front of him, "I could simply banish you and allow your family to remain in control of Downsgate at my pleasure." Once more she cocked her head. "They would remain safe and sound on land you have owned for three hundred years, but you would not be there."

  Du Mer gaped at her. "You would exile me?"

  "I would."

  "For what reason?" He hated the tremor of hurt and helplessness in his voice.

  Suzanna did not answer, but unbuttoned the cuffs of her plain gray gown. She rolled back the sleeves until they were well above her elbows. "Look at my arms, Guy."

  Reluctantly, he glanced at the thin, reed-like arms and winced. There were old scars and fresh, livid bruises on her ghastly-pale flesh. He turned away.

  "My jailers were not born nor bred as gentlemen. Their hands are callused and careless of a princess’ tender skin."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Guy saw her unbuttoning the bodice of her shapeless gown.

  "They are men of huge appetites, and there used to be more of me for them to gobble up than there is now."

  Guy felt, rather than actually saw, her pull open the bodice. When she demanded he look, he shook his head.

  "Come now, du Mer!’ she scoffed, pulling the bodice further apart. "Your Overlordess has given you an order. Are you giving me reason to accuse you of sedition so I may safely and legally confiscate your lands?"

  Guy’s jaw tightened and he swung his head toward her, deliberately letting his gaze shift to her exposed bosom. He was shocked to see she wore no corset, no camisole to hide her nakedness, equally shocked to see dark bruises and teeth marks on her bare breasts. He forced himself to look into her face.

  "They will pay for what they have done to me." Her words fell like poisonous darts. "I can promise you that." She began to button her bodice.

  "And rightfully so," he whispered, keeping his gaze on her.

  She smiled. "Always the gentleman," she mocked. "The tender-hearted Romny."

  Du Mer inclined his head. He was proud of his gypsy heritage.

  "You have an escort with you?" she asked, changing the subject so quickly du Mer blinked with a moment’s confusion.

  "Aye," he answered. At her elevated brow and tilted head, he corrected himself. "Aye, Your Grace."

  The Princess of the Northwinds laughed huskily, then sat as gracefully as her bare feet and shapeless gown would allow.

  "I shall require adequate traveling clothes," she said, smoothing the wrinkled skirt around her legs.

  "Of course, Your Grace," du Mer said from between clenched teeth.

  "And a coach and four." She studied him. "Liveried servants to attend me."

  He sketched her a bow. "As you wish."

  "A basket of culinary delights that would thrill the most jaded taste." She put a finger to her lip. "And the very best wines you can find."

  "Certainly."

  She gazed sharply at him. "Are there still Chalean forces on Northwind soil?"

  Du Mer felt a twisting in his gut. He knew she was bound to inquire about the Chaleans. "There were forces from all three countries—"

  "Chale, Ionary and Oceania," Suzanna snapped, fanning her hand with dismissal. "I know that." She narrowed her hot eyes. "But are they still here?"

  "Olan Hesar and his Windwarrior’s were routed about three months after—" He looked away from her.

  "After my imprisonment?"

  Du Mer refused to take her bait. "The four allies, the Zones included, of course, were all set to attack him in return, but he had mined his harbors and any ship attempting to enter Viragonian water was blown to bits."

  "Well," she said, her brows moving upward. "I suppose that rather effectively keeps him in his own bailiwick, so to speak."

  "Aye, Your Grace. He has caused no mischief for more than a year."

  Suzanna regarded him for a moment, her tongue caught reflectively between her lips. At last, she tilted her head to the side and smiled. "So there is no need for foreign troops to be on Northzone soil?"

  The twisting in du Mer’s gut grew worse. "No, Milady. They left several months back."

  "What of him?" she asked, looking at her skirt and brushing away a piece of lint.

  Guy closed his eyes. He knew precisely whom she meant.

  He also wondered how she would take the news.

  "He is in Chale."

  "He is well?"

  "As far as I know, he is."

  Suzanna sighed—almost like a lovesick teenage girl—and ran her palm along her thigh. "He is nineteen, now?"

  "Just last week, I believe."

  She glanced up. "Of marriageable age, according to Chalean law."

  Du Mer didn’t comment. Instead, he watched her lower her head again as she continued to caress her thigh.

  "And has he married?"

  "No, Your Grace—"

  "Betrothed?" When he did not answer, she looked up. "Who is she?"

  Guy could not miss the iron in his Overlordess’ tone. He saw the bitterness behind the steady gaze and imagined he could detect the spark of madness that clung there.

  "Who is she?" Suzanna repeated, her palm ceasing its rhythmic motion up and down her thigh.

  Du Mer knew he had no choice but to answer. She would find out anyway, and he did not wish to give her reason to charge him with any kind of seditious act. That he would be exiled, he did not question. That his family would be allowed to remain on their ancestral lands depended upon how well he could pacify Suzanna and keep her hatred of him from spilling onto his innocent family.

  "She is of the royal house of Chrystallus," he stated. "The third oldest daughter."

  "Name?"

  "Miyoshi Shimota, I believe, Your Grace."

  "A love match?"

  "He has yet to meet her."

  Suzanna smiled. "Or touch her."

  Du Mer shook his head, unable to answer, for the evil look that had entered Suzanna’s sharp gaze terrified him.

  "Go see to my clothing and transportation," she ordered.

  Guy bowed and started to leave when her sharp voice stilled him.

  "Tell the warder who I am, Guy, then have him see me."

  Du Mer looked at her, perplexity creasing his forehead. "May I ask why, Your Grace?"

  Suzanna did not look at him. "Don’t forget the wine, du Mer. And I would like it slightly chilled."

  Chilled was exactly how Guy du Mer felt as he left the room. He shuddered as he closed the door and stood in the corridor. The warder and his own personal guards regarded him warily. He put up a hand and rubbed at his face. "I have to get word to him," he mumbled.

  "Who, Your Grace?" one of his bodyguards inquired.

  Du Mer’s gaze lifted to his man. "Riain Cree."

  The bodyguard, who had been at Vent du Nord the day Suzanna had been captured naked on the battlements, cast a look to the office. "She’s still obsessed?"

  Guy nodde
d. "And I would not be him for all the wealth in the Four Zones."

  The bodyguard moved closer and lowered his voice so the warder could not hear. "You think she’ll try to cause him harm, Your Grace?"

  The Duke sighed deeply. "She will do more than try."

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  Sitting high atop an emerald hill on Chale’s craggy west shore, Briarcliff Keep, with its high white granite walls and soaring dark oak timbers, was a breathtaking sight. Four towers, each sixty-foot high, circled a fifth tower just over eighty-feet high and crowned with a gleaming dome of polished copper. The four outer towers were connected by thirty-foot long, forty-foot high enclosed corridors, which housed the necessary shops and stables. Beyond the corridors lay the outer bailey. At the far edge of the outer bailey, forming a second concentric circle, stood the barracks of Chale’s military men. Beyond that, lay the inner bailey and, finally, the impressive domed tower where the royal family and their retainers resided. Briarcliff Keep was a series of three structures, one ringed inside the other, and all enclosed within a forty-foot wide, twenty-foot deep moat.

  "The keep was built by a man named Patrick O’Flannery," Sir Gerard whispered as he and Duke Guy du Mer crossed over the ten-foot thick drawbridge. "About fifty years after the Cataclysmic Wars."

  Guy looked to his traveling companion. "How do you know that?"

  Gerard shrugged. "Done some reading when I learned where it was you was going to be taking us to beg."

  Du Mer frowned at the ex-Master-at-Arms of Vent du Nord. "We are not begging, Gerry."

  "Don’t know what else you can call it." Gerard gripped his valise in his big, callused hand, refusing to allow a servant to take the only possessions with which he’d been allowed to leave the Northwinds.

  Guy ground his teeth. "I would call it ‘asking for political asylum.’"

  "Just another highfalutin’ word for ‘begging.’" Gerard bent toward the Duke. "And you don’t know these Chalean berserkers will even listen to us, more’n less invite us to stay. After all, ain’t nobody here that can make a decision like that until the Crees get back from the boy’s Joining in Chrystallus. And that will be a month or two."

  Guy sighed heavily. They had been having this conversation all the way across the North Boreal, and it was getting old. He was not going to remind the aging warrior that, should they not be offered sanctuary here, they would try Ionary and Oceania, even Chrystallus, until someone gave them refuge.

  "You gonna tell them?" Gerard asked after they crossed the drawbridge and passed the twin barbicans to either side. He stared at the mass of armed men milling about and looked uncomfortable.

  "They will have heard by now," Guy snapped, assuming the man was referring to Gunter’s death and who was now seated upon Northwind’s throne.

  "I meant about what she said when we was leaving."

  Du Mer winced. Aye, he thought dismally, he’d have to tell the Cree’s steward about the threat, but he knew nothing could be done about it until the royal family returned.

  "Pity they ain’t got a Tribunal," Gerard complained. "We could take the matter up with them."

  "The Cree is their law." Guy kept walking, then stopped, looking back at Boucharde, who was staring at the military barracks. "What is it?"

  "We don’t house our men in such splendor. If we did, maybe we would be the fighters these lads are."

  "Our warriors are the backbone of Chale," their escort remarked. "Our king would see them well-cared for."

  They glanced at the harbormaster who had allowed their small ship to dock and who had personally accompanied them to the keep. Although his friend, Gerard, stood a good foot taller than Taber Tarnes and had a good forty pounds on him, Guy decided there was something scrappy about the sailor and that Gerry might have a hard time taking the man in a fair fight. Yet, Guy also noticed there was a look about Tarnes that said he liked the cut of Gerard’s jib and respected him.

  "What are the chances of signing on with a troop like this?" Gerard inquired.

  "By the gods, Gerry," du Mer proclaimed, "you’re past sixty. How do you…?"

  "Sir Duncan would be the man to see," Taber cut in, seeing the flame of embarrassment lighting the old warrior’s face. "He’s always looking for a good man to help train the younguns."

  Speculation sparked in Gerard’s black eyes. He nodded thoughtfully. "I could do that."

  Taber smiled. "I’m sure you could."

  "If we’re allowed to stay," Guy warned.

  The harbormaster shrugged. "I see no reason why you won’t be." He started walking again, heading for the thick archway that cut through the circular structure of the barracks. The studded iron doors were thrown open to the inner bailey. He nodded at the two guards who stood casually at the archway. "You wouldn’t have been allowed to dock if there’d been a problem," Taber continued. "We’ve been expecting you."

  Guy’s eyes widened. "You have?" He gasped as he took in the sweeping thirty-foot high rise of stone steps leading up to the massive iron doors of the central tower. Guards were ranged along the incline—one on every third step—with wicked-looking pikes in their hands.

  Taber’s smile turned sly. "We do have spies at your court, now. Since the brat was there."

  Guy stopped dead in his tracks. "Then you know about the threats?"

  "We sent a ship after the king as soon as we learned of them."

  A long sigh of relief escaped Guy’s lips. He closed his eyes in thanksgiving to whatever god might have heard his fervent prayers.

  "I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Your Grace," Taber said. "The brat has been well-guarded from the moment he left Chalean soil."

  "You ain’t takin’ no more chances with him, are you?" Gerald asked.

  Taber pointed back the way they had come, sweeping his arm upward along the battlements of the four outer towers. Every five feet along the crenellated walls, armed warriors were staggered—one facing the inner bailey, one facing the sea coast.

  "The day the little prince was taken by Olan Hesar’s mercenaries is a day that will live in infamy," Tarnes stated. "We aim to see no such treachery happens again."

  Guy studied the archers on the periapts, their weapons at the ready, and fancied he could hear the song of their crossbow bolts thudding into the ground at his feet.

  "The drawbridge is never lowered unless there is a contingent of forty men at the ready in the outer bailey and the door of the barracks is locked and barred. The archers are on the battlements and the guards are on the steps of the central tower."

  "How was he taken that day?" Gerard queried.

  For a moment, Taber didn’t answer. When he did, there was anger is his hawklike glower. "We used to keep the drawbridge down during the daylight hours. It makes it easier for merchants and farmers to bring in their wares. Since the doors to the barracks were always locked during the day and only those with royal permission allowed beyond them, there was no concern of an enemy gaining entrance to the main building. And any time one of the royal sons ventured out, they were always accompanied by at least two bodyguards."

  "There had been threats?" Gerard inquired.

  "There had always been threats from the Viragonians." Taber grimaced. "That’s all those frigid fools know how to do is make threats, make war, and make a bloody nuisance of themselves."

  "So, that day one of them somehow got inside the royal residence?" Guy remarked.

  Taber shook his head. "No stranger has ever entered the central tower without receiving permission and having an escort."

  "A turncoat in your midst, then?" Gerard asked. "Someone he knew who rendered the boy unconscious, then carried him out?"

  Taber was watching a small boy playing in the inner bailey. "There was no traitor in our midst."

  "The boy came outside without a bodyguard?" Guy asked.

  Taber nodded. "He was thirteen, and like any lad just becoming a man, he could see no danger in passing among his own people. He knew
none of us would ever harm him or allow harm to come to him. He saw nothing wrong with sneaking out to watch the goings-on."

  Guy thought of his own son, Trine, and knew exactly what Taber meant. "But he didn’t count on there being enemies here."

  The harbormaster turned from his contemplation of the child and started up the steep incline of steps. "Riain had never had an enemy. He couldn’t comprehend what the word meant since everyone in the keep spoiled him and catered to him. He’d known nothing but love, and even the crusty old warriors who undertook his knight’s training weren’t as rough on him as they should have been because they adored him." He laughed. "He had to do two cruises on the Banshee as cabin boy when I was First Mate. He was all of about six or seven, as I recall." Another deep chuckle came from the harbormaster. "Clumsy little bugger, he was. Intentionally clumsy, if you get my drift."

  "Wasn’t all that fond of the sea, eh?" Gerard asked.

  "Hated long journeys. Thought if he could get Captain Van de Lar mad enough at his mistakes, the Cap’n would put him ashore at Shimota Cay whilst we went on to Chrystallus. Didn’t happen, though."

  Gerard gasped. "You had a Viragonian ship’s captain?"

  "Best sailing men there are, unfortunately. Van de Lar wasn’t like most of his countrymen—he was an honest man." Taber sobered. "Died last year of the grip, he did, and my son, Shea, became captain of the Banshee."

  Guy glanced at the harbormaster as they neared the top of the steps. "I was there when the boy was brought off the Storm Maiden. He was in bad shape."

  "I heard," Taber said, gritting his teeth. "I know the bastard what captains the Storm Maiden, and he’s a rough one. Treats his men like cattle. I once saw his handiwork on a sailor who tried to jump ship. The man’s back looked like raw meat."

  "Riain was whipped, too," Guy said softly and saw one of the guards flanking the tall iron doors narrow his eyes.