Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (28 page)

“You had an uneventful journey through the Pass?” their host inquired as he folded his lanky frame upon

a cushion and tucked his crippled hands into the sleeves of his emerald green silk robe.

“We made excellent time, Master,” Koji informed him. “The snows have not deepened so much as yet."

“That is good.” Pretorius did not look at the young woman who silently entered the room. “Had you

come later in the season, it would have been more difficult to reach me."

The girl placed a teakwood tray on a low table that sat in the center of the ring of cushions. The smell of

strong tea filled the little room as she poured a small porcelain cup and extended it with respect to

Pretorius. When he sniffed the tea, then nodded, she handed the cup to Syn-Jern.

“It is rice tea,” Pretorius explained. “A special recipe I find relaxing."

“Thank you,” Syn-Jern told the girl.

“Was your summer productive, Master?” Koji asked as he received his cup of tea.

“Ah, most productive. Our pantries are filled to overflowing.” He waited until each of his guests had tried

their tea before sipping his own.

“A bountiful harvest is most appreciated,” Koji said wisely.

“Just as the destruction of a crop is devastating to the soul,” Pretorius sighed. He put aside his cup and

looked directly at Syn-Jern. “And the loss of one's property a bitter brew to swallow, is it not, Lord

Syn-Jern?"

“Aye, Master Pretorius,” Syn-Jern agreed. “A very bitter brew.” He knew the talk would now get to the

heart of the matter.

“I, of course, will help you in what you have set yourself to do,” Pretorius informed his guest. “There

was never a question of that.” He frowned slightly. “Even if my tutoring will be augmented by those of

whom I am not particularly fond."

“The Multitude?” Patrick questioned and received a fierce shake of the head from Koji.

Paddy blushed, remembering he was not to speak unless first spoken to.

Syn-Jern shot Paddy a withering look. “Can this power I have be controlled well enough to do us any

good, Master?"

“With proper training, it can,” Pretorius answered. “But it will take a great deal of time and work for you

to learn to harness that raw magik lurking within you.” He took up his teacup again. “Two years should

suffice."

“Two years?” Weir gasped, forgetting he, too, had been warned to be silent. “We don't have—” He

grunted as Syn-Jern's elbow dug into his ribs.

“You may not have two years, Lord Saur, but in order for your friend to best achieve the expertise with

which to fight his enemies, he will need two years of training."

Weir took the opportunity to speak since the older man had addressed him. “What do we do while

Syn's in training?"

Pretorius shrugged. “Stay here. Learn, also.” He arched a white-blond brow at his guest. “There are

things you could learn, as well.” He drained his cup and handed it to the young woman to re-fill. “If you

desire to be a good pirate, you have come to the perfect place to learn. Our pirates are the most

formidable in all the world."

“Well, that's all well and good, but—"

“As for you, Lord Kasella,” Pretorius interrupted. “We have a young man here from your own neck of

the woods who is in training with one of our fencing instructors. Perhaps you have heard of him? His

name is Robyn Brell."

Patrick's mouth sagged open. “Prince Robyn Brell? The Heir-Apparent?"

“One and the same,” Pretorius acknowledged. “For some time now, we have taught fencing to the heirs

of the royal house of Brell."

Patrick turned to Syn-Jern and smiled. “I think I'll stay."

“I am pleased,” Pretorius said. He looked at Weir.

Weir shook his head. “I can't. I've got a ship and men to look after. They can't be expected to cool their

heels here. They've got families back on Montyne Cay. Families who need them."

“A suggestion?” Pretorius injected.

“We would welcome any advice you give,” Syn-Jern said.

“Allow those who wish to return to Montyne Cay to do so. The Emperor will provide them with a ship

suitable to sail home.” He inclined his head. “A small gift of appreciation from the Chrystallusian people

for the task you have set for yourself, Lord Syn-Jern."

Syn-Jern put his cup aside. “You think I'm doing the right thing in fighting for what was mine?"

“Most assuredly, I do,” Pretorius replied. He, also, put his cup aside and held up his hands, palms

outward. “Do you know what these are, Milord Syn-Jern?"

Patrick and Weir exchanged a shocked look; Koji merely nodded for he'd seen such marks many times

before.

“Nail holes,” Syn-Jern said softly.

“Yes,” Pretorius sighed.

“When were you there?” Paddy asked.

“Oh,” their host answered wistfully, “many years before any of you were born.” He switched his gaze to

Koji. “Well, most of you, at any rate."

“Where were you sentenced?” Weir demanded.

“In Serenia.” He smiled at Syn-Jern. “I, too, killed a man with my power, Syn-Jern. And just as you, I

was sickened by what I had done. I swore to learn to control it, but there was no one who could teach

me. When, in a fit of jealous rage, I killed my lover, I was sentenced to deportation."

“You are from a royal family?” Weir asked quietly.

Their host was silent for a moment, then lifted one shoulder as though the answer was of little

consequence. “I am of the Boreal line, yes.” He held Weir's stare. “You understand, of course, that

Pretorius is not my true name?"

His mind working furiously. Weir tried to remember his Serenian history. He could think of no member

of the McGregor family who had been sentenced to Tyber's Isle for murder.

“As I have said,” Pretorius reminded him, “it was long before your time, Lord Saur."

There was a faint tick of a smile on the man's thin lips. “Have you not a connection to the McGregor, as

well?"

“We are distant cousins,” Weir answered sourly.

“Yes, I know,” Pretorius told him and this time there was a slight, obvious smile. “One day your family

will be even closer to the McGregor clan.” He dipped his head. “As close as brothers."

Weir shook his head. “There has never been any love lost between the Saurs and the royal family,

Master Pretorius. I doubt there will ever be any closeness."

“You'd be surprised,” Pretorius said with a twitch of his lips. “Even one drop of blood can be sacred

among families."

“How long were you imprisoned before you escaped?” Syn-Jern wanted to know.

“Five years,” Pretorius replied. “Out of the lifetime I was given.” He frowned. “I was caught right at the

landing site the first time and taken back. I never made it off the Isle.” He snorted. “The second time I

learned my lesson and made good my escape."

“And you came here?” Syn-Jern asked, intrigued.

“There was a man here, then. A very wise and powerful man named Yulin. He took me under his wing

and taught me all he knew. Between us, we established a training camp for those of like mind who

wished to see the Domination destroyed.” He ground his teeth. “Cockroaches that they are."

Syn-Jern smiled. “That's the second time I've heard those bastards likened to cockroaches."

Pretorius finished his second cup of tea, then relaxed. “I can scry into the future, Milord Syn-Jern. It is

not a talent I use often or at any great length; nor do I ever read my own destiny. Sometimes the things a

man knows about what is in his future can alter his present, and in the knowing, make that future come

into being."

“And what do you see for us?” Patrick asked.

“Glory for some, Lord Kasella; a high price to pay for others."

“But will we accomplish what we set out to do?” Syn-Jern questioned.

“Some will; some won't,” Pretorius said mysteriously. “But, all in all, your venture will turn out well."

“At what price will we succeed, though?” Paddy asked.

Pretorius turned his enigmatic gaze on the young Chalean. “Love and loyalty sometimes require great

sacrifices, willingly given, lovingly so, but done completely without regret.” He looked at Syn-Jern. “You

have a question, Milord?"

“I guess what I want to know is if what we accomplish will do any good. Will it make a difference?"

“Most assuredly so,” Pretorius nodded. “The Domination will lose power for three generations before

rearing its tentacles again."

Syn-Jern frowned. “But we won't destroy it?"

“No, I am afraid not. That distinction lies with a young man yet to be born and he will pay a very great

price for his victory.” Pretorius shuddered. “Men never learn,” he whispered. “So much pain and

suffering. So much tragedy for my family."

“Then this warrior,” Weir asked, sitting forward on his cushion, “will come from our homeland of

Serenia?"

Pretorius nodded grimly. “Aye, Lord Weir. He will be The Chosen. The Dark Overlord of the Wind.”

He mentally shook himself and turned his full attention to Syn-Jern.

“What's it to be, Milord? Do you train with us or not?"

“Do I have a choice?” Syn-Jern asked lightly.

“We all have choices, Syn-Jern Sorn,” Pretorius told him.

“If I am to reclaim what was mine...” He looked at Weir. “What belonged to others before the Tribunal

gobbled it up, then I don't see any other choice but to learn to use this damned power I don't want and

didn't ask for."

Pretorius smiled the first true smile. “Good. Be here at first light in the morning. We will begin your

training then!"

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PART FOUR

Syn-Jern paced the floor of the imperial palace like a caged tiger. Now and again, he would look up,

listen and, upon hearing only silence, stalk from one end of the hallway to the other.

“He's going to wear the carpet down to the matting,” Patrick commented with a snort.

“Shut up,” Weir snapped. He was sitting on a chair, his hands dangling between his spread knees, his

eyes glued to the intricate pattern on the carpet runner.

“What good does he think it does to...” Patrick began only to have Weir grasp him painfully on the knee.

“Shut up!” Weir insisted.

Realizing his friend's nerves were stretched thin, Patrick nodded and reached down to ease Weir's hand

from his leg.

“Why is it taking so gods-be-damned long?” Syn-Jern grumbled as he passed the two men

“Why don't you sit down?” Patrick countered, turning his head to follow Syn-Jern.

“It shouldn't take this long, should it?” Syn-Jern asked as he walked back the other way.

“How the hell would we know?” Patrick queried.

“First time is always a mite long,” Tarnes commented, drawing on his pipe. “Ain't uncommon for it to be

twenty hours or more."

Three sets of horrified eyes shot to Norbert Tarnes. One set belonged to a man who groaned with

irritation; one, to a man who shuddered hard then swallowed convulsively. The third man nearly passed

out as he assimilated the information and had to stop in mid-stride to grab a marble column for support.

“Twenty hours?” Syn-Jern repeated, his face pale. His attention went to the door of his wife's room and

held. “Twenty hours?"

“Or more,” Tarnes reiterated. He leaned back in his chair, exchanging a knowing look with Jarl Stevens.

“Might be tomorrow a'fore she has the bantling."

The men watched as Syn-Jern Sorn sank slowly to his haunches, squatting there in the middle of hallway

and looking as though he would throw up that morning's meal.

“Hell, son,” Stevens piped up. “Women are used to this sort of thing.” He looked at Tarnes, who was

nodding in agreement. “The gods made ’em to birth our children."

“She was in pain,” Weir whispered, having been the one to find his sister just after she had gone into

labor. Tears filled his green eyes. “She hurt.” He lifted his head and looked directly at Syn-Jern. “She

hurt,” he repeated, his jaw set.

Syn-Jern flinched. Not because his brother-in-law was blaming him for Genny's predicament, but

because he blamed himself. When news reached him on the training field that his wife was in labor, he

had whooped with joy.

It was only as he sped across the pasture to the palace that he began to understand the seriousness of

what was happening. Never having been around females giving birth, he had, nevertheless, seen horses

straining to push their young from heaving bodies; he had some idea of the birthing process. But as he

ran, he remembered one such animal panting in pain and he pulled up short, his eyes wide in his sweaty

face.

“Pain,” he had said, and the word was like a red-hot prod against his heart.

The thought of the woman he loved being subjected even to a bruise cut him to the quick. Knowing

there was nothing he could do to relieve her torment, was a torture more severe than any he'd ever

experienced.

“Milady, I would gladly take the pain from you,” he whispered.

He started walking toward the palace, his heart racing. When he reached the outer courtyard, a servant

ran to him, bowing and bobbing like a cork on the water.

“Your Lady has been taken to her room, Your Grace. You must hurry!"

Loping after the servant, he had hoped it would all be over by the time he arrived, but one look at Weir

Saur's face told him that was not going to be the case.

“Where the hell were you?” Weir threw at him.

“Training ... field,” Syn-Jern replied, out of breath. He looked from Weir's angry face to the stoic

expression on Patrick's.

“They say it will take awhile,” Patrick explained.