Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (10 page)

suddenly lifted off the ground and flung hard against a nearby tree. He hit the trunk with brutal force and

slid to the ground.

“Syn-Jern, no!” Weir shouted, moving forward only to be thrust back by an invisible hand. He stared at

Syn-Jern, saw the rigid finger pointed his way.

“Stay out of this, Saur, or you will be next!"

Patrick was jerked to his feet by the same invisible hands that had stopped Weir from interfering. He

was thrown across the training yard, punched and pounded by vicious blows the men could hear, but not

see. Blood spurted from Kasella's nose, dripped down his chin. His lips split, his eyes swelled nearly

shut. He was receiving a beating such as these men had never seen, all done by a force none of them

could see.

“Syn-Jern, stop! You're killing him!"

It was Genny's pleading that finally pierced the blood-red fog that had seized his mind. One moment he

was two feet off the ground, the next he was crumpled on the grass, his face buried in his hands, his body

trembling so violently he could barely catch his breath. He turned hopeless eyes to Weir Saur.

“Now, do you see? Do you understand why I don't fight back?"

* * * *

“What happened when you were eighteen?” Weir had to know.

Syn-Jern took in a long breath, let it out, and turned to face Weir.

“That's when I killed my father and Alicia."

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Her hands were soft, gentle on his face. Her fingertips smelled of lemon oil for she'd been dusting the

furniture when they brought him in. Her lovely face was full of compassion.

And fire.

“He could have killed you, Patrick!” she said through clenched teeth as she washed away the dried

blood under his nose.

“But he didn't,” Patrick answered, wincing as his broken nose throbbed under her careful scrutiny.

“I warned you he was dangerous, but you and Weir wouldn't listen!” She clucked her tongue, amazed at

the rapid swelling around his right eye. She bent closer to him, studying the bruised and scraped flesh.

“Maybe now the two of you will get rid of that bastard."

“No,” Paddy managed to say before a gasp of pain took his breath. Even though her fingers had stilled

instantly at his sound of pain, he could feel the pressure on his aching cheek and turned his head away

from her touch.

“Men!” she spat, getting up from the side of the bed where she had been sitting. She picked up what

was left of the roll of bandages, with which she had tightly wrapped his bruised ribs and spun them into a

thick tube, her hands turning the material viciously over and over until the last inch was confined. “I

suppose you think what he did to you was justified.” Her lips pressed into a prim, unforgiving line.

“I knew better,” Paddy grunted, trying to heave himself up in the bed only to find pain waiting to lash out

at him. He stopped, sighed, and lay back down. “He had every right to fight back.” He glanced at her.

“That's what being a man is all about, Genny."

Her snort left no doubt as to what she thought of Kasella's remark. She ran a straight pin through the

material to secure it then tossed the roll into the medicine bag on the nightstand.

“Genny?” he asked softly, “Please try to understand. This man has been through hell; I added to that hell

this morning. I deserved what I got."

She jerked her head around, stared down at him. Her flashing eyes widened. “He could have killed

you!"

“But he didn't!” Paddy said, forcefully.

“Well,” she hissed, “it wasn't from lack of trying on his part!” She snapped the medicine bag shut,

picked it up, and thrust it under her arm. Her face was set, a stony vessel of anger serving up a dish of

hot revenge. “Maybe next time he'll finish the job.” She stalked to the door, peered back over her

shoulder at him. “Maybe next time none of you will be able to stop him!"

Weir passed his sister on the gravel walkway leading from their hut to the storage sheds. He opened his

mouth to speak to her, but the look she gave him as she hurried past made him snap his lips shut. He

shook his head. Genny was going to be more difficult than ever, now.

He opened the door to the hut he shared with his sister, smelled the heavy scent of lemon oil and

frowned. He had always associated the odor to the orphanage where it was his job to polish all the

armoires. It wasn't a job he relished doing.

“Paddy?” he called out.

“In here."

Weir sighed. She'd put him in his room, he thought. Not either of the two guest rooms built off the main

room, but in his room at the back of the hut, under the only shady tree in the compound. Somehow he'd

known she'd put Patrick there.

Shrugging out of his shirt as he entered his sleeping chamber, he glanced at Paddy's face and whistled.

“He beat the shit out of you, didn't he?"

“Do I look as bad as I feel?"

“Think about Cookie's meatloaf and you'll know how you look,” Weir chuckled as he drew a fresh shirt

from the armoire. “Want a mirror?"

“No."

“Probably just as well,” Weir mumbled as he pulled the fresh shirt over his head. “Nothing major broken

or smashed, I hope.” He ran his fingers through his hair to bring it back to some semblance of order.

“Only my gods-be-damned pride.” Paddy took a deep breath and managed to gasp his way up in the

bed until he was leaning, panting, against the headboard. He frowned. “I made a mistake."

“A rather bad mistake, I'd say.” Weir sat down gingerly on the foot of the bed. “One I don't suppose

you'd care to make again?"

Patrick threw him a disgruntled look. “Did you talk to him?"

Weir nodded. “He feels bad about it. As I suspected, that anger isn't something he can control."

“God, I hope not!” Patrick growled. “If he could direct that power at will, he'd be the dangerous man

Genny thinks he is."

Weir looked down at the woven mat that covered the wood flooring. “Well, he's killed with it before.”

He raised his eyes to Paddy's. “He was responsible for four deaths with that power of his."

Patrick flinched. He'd come closer than he'd thought that morning.

“Paddy.” Weir didn't know how to say what had to be said. He took his time, thinking of the right

words, not wanting the wrong impression to settle on Patrick's mind. He chose his words very carefully,

then looked across the room, unable to meet Paddy's gaze. “One of the people he killed was his father."

Patrick stared at his friend. “How could he? He wasn't with them that day, was he?"

Weir shook his head. He finally turned his worried gray gaze to Patrick. He drew in a ragged breath and

then exhaled in a rush of words: “Apparently he doesn't have to be anywhere nearby. He can send his

thoughts like we can send carrier pigeons. He directs the anger where he wants it to go and it destroys.

That's how he killed his father and stepmother."

Kasella knew the story, of course, of how Giles Sorn and his pregnant wife had died in the explosion on

board the Lady Tasha. Of the twenty-seven crewmembers and four passengers on board the brigantine,

all survived save the Duke and his lady. There was never a trace of the Sorns found among the

wreckage.

“But why would he kill his parents? What the hell had they done to him?"

Weir looked at him. “Well, for starters, either Giles Sorn or his second wife had hired a man to kill

Syn-Jern right after Syn-Jern's mother died, when he was nine. The bastard tried to drown him."

A shadow passed over Patrick's face. “To kill his own son? Why in the god's name did he want

Syn-Jern dead?"

“So Trace could inherit instead of Syn-Jern. They're half-brothers and apparently the old man hated

Syn-Jern's mother and loved Trace's. There were a lot of so-called ‘accidents’ that befell him over the

next few years, but the man must have led as charmed a life back then as he does now; all the mishaps

failed."

“Did he know what was happening? I mean, did he suspect what his father was trying to do?"

“He says he didn't. At least not until he overheard one of the servants talking about the ‘accident’ that

the Duke had paid to have happen while he and his wife were sailing to Oceania on the Lady Tasha.”

Weir stood up and walked to the window, pulled the curtain back and stared out. “He was supposed to

fall from the balcony of the manor house.” He looked back at Paddy. “His father would stop at nothing

to have Syn-Jern out of his life."

Patrick understood. “So when that realization hit him, he directed that lethal anger at his father."

“I think there was more to it, but I didn't press him. He didn't know he'd actually killed them until news

came of the explosion.” Weir shrugged his wide shoulders. “To him, it's like a wish fulfillment, something

he thinks about and then when it happens, he knows he caused it. He was horrified at what he'd done the

first time it happened, when he was nine, but this second time revolted him. He had killed his own father,

had committed patricide."

“Sounds to me like the bastard deserved it.” Patrick eyed Weir. “I would imagine you think so."

“Oh, he deserved it, all right. There's no doubt about that."

“What happened today brought it all back to him, didn't it?” A thought crossed Paddy's mind. “Why

didn't he use it when that son-of-a-bitch Janssen had him keelhauled?"

Weir stared blindly out into the compound. “He said he was terrified of going under the water, of having

it close over him, but then he realized that if he drowned, he'd finally be free of all the pain. He just gave

up, wanting it all to end."

Patrick nodded. “I can understand that. He was more than ready for you to kill him that morning when

you found out who he was. He was so gods-be-damned calm about it. Too calm. I think he really did

want to die."

“But not anymore.” Weir turned from the window. He fused his gaze with Paddy's.

“He's made up his mind to go after his brother and that High Priest. He asked what it would take to get

his own ship."

“He wants to go a'pirating?"

“He wants his manhood back, Paddy. And the only way he sees himself gaining it, is if the people who

helped to destroy him, pay for it."

“Did you ask him if this power only comes when he's threatened like that? Does the water have

something to do with what triggers it?"

“I don't understand..."

“Think about it, Weir! If he can learn to control that power, to direct it, he'd be formidable!” Patrick

pushed himself higher in the bed, his enthusiasm overriding the agony of his bruised ribs. “He'd be a man

to reckon with!"

Weir shook his head. “He doesn't want to use it, Paddy. He's afraid of it."

“But if he can harness it, would it have to go full circle? Would he have to kill with it?"

“I've wondered about that."

Both men jumped. They turned guiltily to see Syn-Jern standing in the doorway.

“The only way to control it is if I learn from someone who knows exactly what it is I have.” He

advanced into the room, blanching with guilt as he looked at Patrick's face. He was about to apologize

when Patrick held up a hand.

“I was at fault and I don't blame you. We won't mention it again."

Syn-Jern looked at him for a long moment without speaking. The two men understood one another;

they'd been in the same hell; they'd lived the same hell.

“What can we do to help, Syn-Jern?” Weir asked, drawing Sorn's regard.

“I've heard there is a man in Chrystallus. He is a magic-sayer and I'm told he was once of the

Domination. If I can get to Chrystallus, maybe he can help me."

“And if he can't?” Patrick asked.

Syn-Jern shook his head. “Then I'll ask him what I can do to rid myself of this curse."

“What if you can't rid yourself of it?” Weir questioned.

A slight smile touched Syn-Jern's full lips. “Then I learn to swim."

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To sail from Montyne Cay to the Far East was a journey that would take at least four months. Provisions

for such a journey had to be gathered, a crew picked who were willing to make what would be

something more than just a cruise. Most of the men about the Cay were there to make their livings from

raiding the ships of the Seven Kingdoms; they could not be expected to board a ship bound for a foreign

port without any real assurance of gold in their pockets. Weir Saur thought it unlikely that many men

would agree to sign on with just promise of an occasional pilfering amongst the ships that chanced upon

on the high seas, but he gave in to Tarnes’ suggestion of putting up a poster to ask for volunteers.

“Let the men know it's for Syn-Jern,” Tarnes told him, “and see how many you get that want to go

along. You'll be turning them away; just you wait and see!"

Weir hadn't been so sure. Since that day on the training grounds, most of the men of Montyne Cay

walked a wide circle around Syn-Jern Sorn. Oh, they greeted him friendly enough, but there was a

wariness in their attitudes, a superstitious gleam in eyes careful not to stare openly at him, that were sure

signs they feared the man to some extent.

“It ain't fear,” Stevens grumbled to Weir. “It be respect!"

“Nay, it be fear of the NightWind,” Neevens disagreed. “Sorn be one of that kind."

Whatever the reason, Syn-Jern was totally unaware of the way the village men felt about him. He

worked hard to learn to box, a task Tarnes cheerfully taught him. He had to strive hard to learn the more