Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (27 page)

done?” When she shook her head, he took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “We met on the

island."

“What island?"

“Genny!” he snapped. “You promised—"

She held up her hand. “Explain with names, dates and times, Syn-Jern, and there will be no reason for

me to interrupt for clarification."

“I don't know the name of the gods-be-damned island, Genny,” he snapped. “It was where we stayed

during the hurricane."

That answer was not what his wife had been expecting, but she managed to hold her tongue, nodding for

him to go on.

“It was while we were apart.” At her arch look that told him she understood that much, he ducked his

head. “I was captured by her women.” When there was no outburst, he looked up, searched his wife's

face for disbelief or humor; there was none.

“Go on,” she said but there was no inflection in her voice to let him know what she'd felt at his words.

“There were a dozen or more of them. They had weapons they damned sure knew how to use and...”

He blushed. “I didn't have a chance."

Genny continued to stare at him. Her look was disconcerting, accusing, but she did not speak.

He winced. “They tied me up."

“All night?” she asked sarcastically.

“Well, no,” he answered, guiltily. “Not all night."

“I see."

Her tone told him she saw something that wasn't there. “They had weapons, Genny. Spears, daggers,

swords..."

“So you've indicated.” She crossed her legs. “These were warrior women, I take it?"

“Aye!” he said, grabbing at the word. “And very good warrior women. They overpowered me before I

had time to react. The two Necromanian women who tied me up—"

“Necromanian?"

“Aye. They were Necromanian, Oceanian, and Ionarian. Rowena is Chalean. I don't know if there were

any Viragonian women there, but one or two had Serenian accents."

“A conference of all nationalities on that little un-named island,” she mumbled. “How quaint."

Syn-Jern cocked an annoyed brow at her. “You said you wouldn't interrupt."

“Sorry. Go on."

“These women are all part of the Multitude.” He searched her face. “The Daughters of the Multitude?"

“I know who they are, Milord. All women know of their sect."

“They were there for some kind of gathering. The place is sacred to them."

“One of their Shadowlands,” Genny acknowledged. She remembered her dream. “I've heard tales of

such places."

“I was still tied up when Rowena arrived,” he hurried to say.

“She's their Great Lady or some such title.” Syn-Jern hesitated. “You're not going to like this,” he finally

said.

“You slept with her,” Genny said flatly. “I've heard such women have powers they can use over men."

He shook his head. “No, not exactly."

“Not exactly?” came the growl.

His face flooded with color. “I had been tied up, Genny, but they untied me then...” He couldn't look at

her. “They held me down. Then..."

“Then what, Milord?” she asked, her voice a lethal whisper.

“She raped me,” he answered in a small voice.

When the explosion didn't happen, he risked looking at his wife. She was sitting on the edge of the bed,

staring at him, her face perfectly blank. For what seemed like hours, she just sat there, unblinking, staring,

her breath easy and controlled, her hands relaxed in her lap.

“Genny?” he questioned, worried. “Say something."

She didn't.

“Genny, please,” he begged. He didn't dare touch her for fear she'd claw his eyes out. His lovely wife

had a violent temper he'd seen in action too many times. Her unexpected calmness in the face of his

confession was unnerving. “Genny?"

Genny stood. Her face was devoid of expression, her head cocked slightly to one side.

The silence was torture.

“This is why I didn't want to tell you,” he said, coming to his knees on the mattress. “I was afraid of your

reaction.” He reached out to her, but she stepped back.

Genny looked down at his nakedness then settled her gaze on his hurt face, but she could not find

words. If her life had depended on it, she could not have uttered one syllable. She just pointed at his

nudity.

Syn-Jern snatched the sheet up to cover himself, suddenly mortally ashamed. The sheet was a barrier he

wanted to hide behind, to protect himself from the look on his wife's face. He was of a mind to fling the

damned silk fabric over his head, lie down, curl up, and die.

But life isn't as easy as that and if he wanted to salvage the moment, he had to make her see why he'd

kept this piece of vile news from her.

“They held me down, Genny. I couldn't get away. I tried, but I couldn't. There were too many of them

and she had planned this for a long time."

“She? This Rowena?” she asked.

Encouraged that she had spoken, he nodded. He scrambled from the bed, dragging the sheet with him.

“I should have told you what happened that morning, but..."

“Aye,” she said. “You should have.” She squinted dangerously. “That was four days ago, Milord. Why

have you said nothing before now?"

His heart was thudding madly in his chest. “Because I didn't want to see you looking at me the way

you're looking at me right now!"

“How am I looking at you?” she asked.

“Like every woman who's ever known me has looked at me,” he answered. “With contempt. With utter

hatred.” His voice broke. “With disgust."

She shook her head, ignoring his words. “Did you go looking for that woman that day?"

“No!” he said. “I had no idea they were even on that damned island. If I had...” He shivered. “If I had

known what would happen, I sure as hell wouldn't have left Patrick Kasella's side!"

“Did you help that woman in any way to do what she did to you?"

He stared at her. “I fought them, Genny! I—"

“They held you down,” Genny said in a matter of fact voice.

“Aye, then—"

“Then this Rowena person did what?"

His face flamed. He tore his gaze from her. “She straddled me."

“Straddled you, then impaled herself upon you?"

Syn-Jern flinched. “Aye."

“Is that all?” she asked, suspecting it wasn't.

“Well..."

“That isn't all.” Genny clenched her hands. “What else? Tell me all of it before you lose your nerve."

His mortification couldn't have been any worse if he'd been forced to run stark naked through the streets

with a red bow tied around his shaft.

“She's pregnant,” he said in a voice so soft, so low, it was no more than a breath of sound, but his wife

heard it, nevertheless.

“She told you so?” Genny snarled.

He searched her face for any sign of forgiveness. “Aye. This morning."

“And being The Great Lady, she would know,” Genny said on a long breath. “Boy or girl?"

There was nothing left to do but answer her questions. “One of each."

“Twins?” Genny rasped. “And just precisely what is it she intends for you to do about the matter?” A

horrible thought interrupted. “Does her husband know?"

Syn-Jern nodded miserably. “And isn't all that damned happy about it, either.” He shrugged. “But the

man desperately wants children and he can't give her any."

“So she steals them from another woman's husband!” Genny snapped. “I take it since her husband

knows of her perfidy, she has no plans for you to acknowledge the babes as your own."

He closed his eyes to the bitterness in his wife's voice. “She has absolved me of any responsibility."

Genny's mouth twisted. “Isn't that thoughtful of her. So, does that also mean she has absolved you of any

further recourse with her, as well?"

“Not exactly,” he whispered.

Genny came to him in a rush of fury. “What exactly does it mean, then, Syn-Jern?” She pummeled his

chest, staggering him. “Does she mean for you to be at her beck and call to do stud service for her

again?"

He caught her wrists, held her even though she struggled wildly against him. “No, Genny! She doesn't

want anything like that.” She kicked him on the shins and he yelped with pain.

“Then what?” she shouted, tears falling down her cheeks. “What does she want from you?"

Despite her struggling, he drew her to his chest and held her, stilling her angry fists, kissing the top of her

head, feeling her trembling down the entire length of his body.

“Shush, now,” he soothed, running his hand down her back. “I am yours. Don't you know that?"

“She raped you!” Genny cried, her body sagging against her husband. She clung to his neck, her anger

replaced by abject sorrow. “She raped you."

“Genny, stop,” he said. “You'll make yourself sick.” He cradled her, planting small kisses at her temple.

On her forehead.

“What does she want with you?” Genny whispered, fearing the worst.

“My sword arm, Sweeting,” he said. “Just that, nothing more."

Genny pushed away. She could see the pain on his face as he took in her ravaged visage. He would

have spoken, but she put her hand over his lips.

“As her Consort?” she whimpered. “Oh, Merciful Alel, Syn-Jern, you can't—"

“Her champion and nothing more,” he said firmly. “I made her swear on her honor."

“A woman who would take what is not hers has no honor!” Genny hissed.

“Listen to me,” he said, pulling them both to the floor and kneeling there with her. “I love you, Genny

Sorn. You are my life. If I were to lose you, I couldn't bear it, lady. Do you think I would do anything to

jeopardize how you feel about me?” He shook his head vehemently. “I spent my entire life searching for

you. I knew I'd found what I had been craving from the moment I saw you on the Wind Lass.” He

squeezed her arms. “I knew I would do anything, try anything, endure anything, to make you mine. I

swore I would move heaven and earth to have you. Do you think I'd ever allow anyone or anything to

come between us."

“She will...” Genny began, but he shushed her.

“Have my sword arm and nothing more,” he stressed. “The Multitude needs a warrior to help them fight

the spread of the Domination's evil, Genny. I would be stupid not to accept her offer of help to do what I

had already planned: to crush the Viragonian Tribunal, if I can. Rowena's help in doing that is all either

she or I want from this unholy union of ours. This I swear to you on the child you carry within you! Our

child!"

“You know?” she gasped. She had not known how to tell him.

“Aye,” he said, smiling. “I know."

Genny's face crinkled. “She told you?"

“No, Lin Su did,” he replied and pulled her to him. The sheet slipped from his lower body and the feel of

her against him was glorious. “It pleases me beyond telling, Sweeting."

“You aren't angry?” she asked in a small voice.

“Why would I be? I have never been happier."

“I can't tell you what sex it will be,” she pouted.

“Nor would I want you to if you could,” he laughed. “That would take the mystery from it, Dearling."

“Truly?"

“Whatever it will be—boy or girl—what matter as long as it is healthy?” He smoothed the hair from her

damp cheeks. “I love you. Don't you know that?"

“I won't have her putting her hands on you, Syn-Jern Sorn!” Genny snarled.

“She will not. I swear it to you."

“Nor being anywhere near you, either!"

“There is no reason for me to be—” He stopped, thinking, then bit his lip.

“What?” Genny barked.

“That might be a problem."

His wife pushed at his chest. “What kind of problem?"

“She intends to join with Pretorius in teaching me how to harness the powers within me."

Genny could see the usefulness of having the Multitude's most powerful sorceress instructing her

husband. After all, when Syn-Jern went against the Tribunal, and in essence the Domination, he would

need all the strength at his command.

“As long as I sit in on the lessons, she may do so,” she decided, eyeing her husband closely.

Syn-Jern smiled. “Agreed although Rowena may object."

Genny ground her teeth. “Let that homely red-haired husband molester object all she will!” she told him.

“You are mine, Syn-Jern Sorn and the gods help any woman foolish enough to try to take you away from

me. For any reason!"

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He was well over six feet tall, thin as a rail, with long arms and crippled arthritic fingers that curled

painfully toward his large palms. His shock of long white hair was thinning, but sleek, worn combed

straight back from his high forehead. His nose was beak-like; his cheekbones bony and protruding with

deep eye sockets where pale blue orbs, the color of frost on a winter's day, held little warmth, but

mirrored the man's vast intelligence. He walked with a rigid control of his thin shoulders and stiffness to

his long, stick-like legs.

“I am Pretorius,” he said in a deep, husky voice as he entered the room. He did not extend his twisted

hand for greeting, but bowed elegantly in the Chrystallusian fashion.

“Forgive us for not sending word of our arrival, Master,” Koji said respectfully, bowing just a fraction

lower than their host.

“I knew you were coming,” Pretorius answered as he nodded his head at Syn-Jern Sorn. He swept his

arm to the thick cushions scattered about the room. “Please, sit. Refreshments have been ordered."

Syn-Jern bowed, motioned for Weir and Patrick to sit before he did. Koji had warned them to let him

do the talking, get the social amenities out of the way before they got down to the real business of why

they were there.