Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (29 page)

Now, hunkered down outside his wife's room, Syn-Jern strained to hear even the smallest sound, but

only silence filled the long, gilded corridor.

“Have any of you been over to the ship Master Pretorius is having fitted out for us?” Neevens asked,

drawing everyone's attention.

“Not now,” Weir hissed. “We aren't concerned with the gods-be-damned white ship right now!"

Neevens looked at Tarnes, then Stevens, then shrugged as the older men cast him a warning look.

Syn-Jern put his hands to his neck and threaded his fingers behind it. He rocked on his heels, making

tiny little hopeless sounds that irritated Kasella more than the waiting.

“Will you stop that?” Patrick threw at his friend. “You're starting to—"

The loud, piercing scream unnerved every man there, even the seasoned salts. Weir and Kasella stood

up slowly, their mutual stares going to Genny's husband. Syn-Jern was on his knees, his entire body

shuddering. When the second scream peeled from the room, he threw back his head and howled in

unison.

“Sweet Merciful, Alel!” Neevens prayed, crossing himself. “The NightWinds—"

“Shut up!” Saur, Kasella, Stevens, and Tarnes shouted in unison.

The third ululating shriek brought Sorn to his feet. “Genny!” Syn-Jern cried out, his hand out in pleading.

He stumbled to the door, but Patrick stopped him before he could go into Genny's room.

“You don't want to do that,” Kasella warned as another scream erupted from behind the closed portal.

“Milady!” Syn-Jern bellowed, trying to get past his friend. He touched the door. He locked gazes with

Kasella. “I have to go to her."

“No, you don't,” Patrick disagreed. “She doesn't need you right now."

“I have to help her!” Syn-Jern said.

“You've helped her enough,” Weir Saur snarled.

Syn-Jern opened his mouth to reply, but the next sound—the mewling cry of a newborn babe—made

his knees weak and he would have collapsed had Patrick not grabbed him.

“Easy there,” Kasella grunted, steadying his friend.

Tarnes sat down and popped his ever-present pipe in his mouth. Even though the obnoxious thing wasn't

lit, he drew on it as if it were. He smiled around the stem as Stevens and Neevens walked over to him.

“A shiny gold piece says it's a girl,” Stevens quipped.

“Two says it's a boy,” Neevens replied.

“I'll match your one,” Tarnes stated. “It's a boy."

Patrick held Syn-Jern's gaze. “Now, you can go in, Milord,” he said, smiling and stepped aside to open

the door for his friend.

Syn-Jern was hesitant to enter the room. He could see the Imperial Physician standing beside Genny's

bed, wiping his hands on a towel. On the other side of the bed was an elderly woman cradling a bundle in

her arms, her head bent over her burden as she crooned in the lyrical Chrystallusian tongue. Another

older woman, carrying a pile of soiled linen, glanced shyly at him as she made her way from the room.

“You may enter, Lord Sorn,” the Healer said softly.

Syn-Jern shuffled uneasily into the room, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cords. He cast a

quick glance to the Healer and when the man nodded easily, everyone in the room, and outside in the

corridor, heard Syn-Jern's sigh of relief.

Healer Ju'lin stepped back to allow his patient's husband to take his place at his wife's bedside. In

passing, he patted the nervous man gently on the back, meeting the worried eyes calmly. “She sleeps,

Milord, but she came through the birthing extremely well for a first timer.” He nodded toward the elderly

woman. “Would you like to see your son?"

Syn-Jern drew in a harsh gasp. “Son?” he questioned.

“Aye, Milord,” Healer Ju'lin acknowledged.

The elderly woman, whom Syn-Jern learned was the Healer's wife, eased the cover from the baby's

face, and smiled when she heard his father's groan of awe. “Would you like to hold him, Milord Sorn?”

she asked shyly.

He didn't know if he should; but the old woman didn't give him time to protest for she was presenting

him with the precious bundle, settling it firmly in his arms.

“As the old saying goes, Milord,” she said with a low chuckle, “he will not break."

The sweetest thing in the world to Syn-Jern Sorn at that moment was the negligent weight of his

firstborn. The wizened little face that peered at him from the folds of the blanket was red and wrinkled

like an apple left too long in a jar of water. But the crystal blue eyes that stared into his own were alive

and inquisitive and the rosebud lips were puckered as though in deep thought.

His right hand trembling, Syn-Jern lifted one finger to the tiny fist and almost instantly, the little hand

gripped his finger. Syn-Jern's smile could have lit the darkest night. He looked up at the older woman and

then at the Healer, pride rampant on his beaming face.

“What will you call him, Milord?” the Healer inquired.

Syn-Jern's eyes widened. “I don't know,” he said. “We have not talked of names. I think—"

“Dermot Patrick Weir Sorn,” was the sleepy mumble.

She was smiling lazily, her rumpled hair a dark halo fanned on the pillow. She was pale, but there were

two bright patches of color high on her cheekbones. Her voice was tired, but there was nothing weary in

the way she held out her arms for her child.

Syn-Jern eased onto the mattress, turning so he could hand this wonderful gift to the woman he loved.

He felt as though his heart would burst with pride when she bared her breast and put the infant to nurse.

Tears slid silently down his cheeks, yet he was unaware of their passing. He touched Genny's arm.

“Thank you, Milady,” he said, as unaware of the raw emotion in his words as he was of the droplets of

moisture falling from his eyes.

“Does the name agree with you, Milord?” she asked, searching his gaze.

He nodded, too overcome at that moment to answer. When she extended her hand, he took it, bringing

her palm to his lips and kissing her gently in the center of that soft flesh. He cradled her hand against his

chest, not realizing she could feel the hard tattoo of his excited heart.

“I want to give you many children,” Genny whispered, her tired eyes closing.

“There will be time to talk of that later,” the Healer said in his professional tone. He laid a hand on

Syn-Jern's shoulder, indicating he was to let his lady rest.

“I love you,” Genny said as she fell in a healing sleep.

He gently let go of her hand, laying it beside her on the bed. He stood, bent over her, and placed the

softest of kisses on her damp brow. When he straightened, he kissed his fingertips and laid them just as

tenderly on his son's wisp of dark curls. “I love you both,” he said.

In the corridor, each of the men came to him, congratulated him on the birth of his firstborn, then quietly

left, allowing him time to get accustomed to the magnitude of what had happened this day. When he was

alone, Syn-Jern closed his eyes tightly, his shoulders slumped, and he covered his face with his hands.

* * * *

When news came to the Empress Rowena of the birth of Lord Sorn's child, she rubbed the blossoming

mound of her own belly and smiled. “A fine strapping son you will be, Dermot Sorn,” she whispered.

“And a faithful brother and friend to your little brother and sister."

“They will get to know one another?” her husband inquired.

Rowena nodded. “Aye, for they will grow up here together.” Her lovely face crinkled with worry. “This

will be the only safe place for his family."

Emperor Akito knelt beside his wife and laid his head in her lap. He loved to have her stroke his hair for

her touch soothed the concerns that kept him awake most every night.

“Why does your Sisterhood put these men through such torment, Rowena?” he asked.

His wife's fingers threaded gently through Akito's thick black hair. “They are tested with fire, my

husband, because they are the Chosen. They are Princes of the Wind and each in turn must know the

burn of that harsh element. We protect them as best we can, but in the end, it is their strength, or lack

thereof, that will fulfill their destinies."

Akito shuddered. “I would not like to be one of your Chosen Ones, Milady,” he said with heartfelt

sincerity.

“And I am thankful you are not,” his wife told him.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Patrick, Weir, and Syn-Jern sat looking out to sea, watching the terns swooping over the waters. The

sky was a soft gray, anticipating rain, and the light breeze that rippled their hair was pleasantly cool. The

men had been sitting on the promontory for over two hours, keeping track of the workers who were

putting the finishing touches on Weir Saur's new ship, The Revenge. The black hull gleamed in the

lowering light and the black shrouds, though furled, looked intimidating even from a distance.

“What did she say again?” Weir asked, following the path one squawking tern was making as it stitched

the sky.

Syn-Jern sighed. “She thinks I'm not letting her go with us because I am tired of her. Was she dropped

on her head when she was born?"

Patrick snorted with amusement, then sobered when his two companions sent him a warning look.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It's the other woman,” Weir said, nodding.

Syn-Jern's forehead crinkled. “What other woman?” he asked.

Weir Saur shrugged. “Whatever woman you had before her,” he stated.

“Or women,” Patrick amended. When Syn-Jern turned a confused look to him, Patrick lifted his hands

from the ground and spread them wide in an attitude of ‘you-should-know; not-I'. “There was one who

betrayed you, wasn't there?"

Syn-Jern stared at him for a moment, then a light passed quickly over his face, and he looked away.

“Oh,” he said. The second word dropped like a rock into the conversation, “Her."

“Aye, her,” Weir stated. He craned his neck so he look past Patrick to where Syn-Jern sat propped on

his elbows on the grass. “We've been training here for two years, Syn and in all that time you've said

nothing of her to us.” He exchanged a look with Patrick, then returned his attention to Syn-Jern. “Have

you told Genny about her."

“Sweet Merciful Alel, no!” Syn-Jern muttered.

“You'd better,” Patrick advised, “else it's going to be hell leaving her here imagining you in Virago

humping some skack there."

“He humps one skack,” Weir snarled, emphasizing the Viragonian slang word, “and that will be the last

skacking he will ever do!"

Syn-Jern locked gazes with his brother-in-law then smiled nastily. “Skack you,” he said sweetly.

“You know precisely what I mean, Syn-Jern,” Weir warned.

“You'd better tell her about the woman,” Patrick said.

“Aye, he'd better,” Weir agreed in a menacing tone.

Syn-Jern sighed. He hadn't thought about Rosa-Lynn in a long, long time and the thought of her now

made his stomach churn.

“Go tell her, now,” Weir ordered. He glanced at the ship that would be taking them to Virago on the

morning tide two days hence. “Give her time to accept what you've got to tell her before you go."

* * * *

Genny looked up as her husband poked his head into the nursery. She put a finger to her lips, warning

him their child was sleeping. Covering her son, she tiptoed from the room, easing the door closed.

“How is the rash” Syn-Jern asked.

“Under control,” she replied. She went to her dressing table and sat. Her eyes met her husband's in the

mirror. “Don't you think you need to get dressed?” she asked, then wrinkled her nose. “After you

bathe?"

Syn-Jern frowned, then lifted his arm to sniff. His lip curled. “Aye, a bath is definitely in order I think."

“Aye, so do I,” his wife replied. She picked up her brush and began to pull it through her hair, not in the

least surprised when her husband eased it from her hand and began to draw the bristles down her long

tresses. She watched his face as he worked. “You have something to talk to me about, Syn-Jern?” she

asked quietly.

His gaze locked with hers reflected in the mirror. “You know me too well, Milady,” he complained.

“No, I know your moods,” she replied, retrieving the brush.

Syn-Jern thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches. For a long time, neither spoke, then he sighed

deeply, walked to the window, and stared down at the courtyard.

“All right,” his wife said, laying the brush on the dressing table. “Out with it, Syni,” she said with

exasperation. “What have the three of you done now?"

He looked around. “Nothing,” he said, surprised. When she cocked her head to one side in warning, he

shrugged. “Really, we've done nothing."

Genny searched the innocent expression on her unruly husband's face for a moment then decided he was

being truthful. “All right,” she sighed. “What are you three about to do that you know I won't like?"

He grinned. “You can't chastise me, Genevieve, until I've actually committed the crime."

She frowned. “Out with it, Syn-Jern!"

Her husband chuckled. “Your trust in my ability to be a grown-up leaves a lot to be desired, Genny,” he

told her.

“Humpf,” Genny snorted in reply, “your ability to be a grown-up is often in question, Milord."

He didn't reply to her taunt. Instead, he pulled his hands from his pockets and sat on the wide window

seat. Stretching out on the plump cushion, he lifted his knees and rested his arms on them. “We do need

to talk, Sweeting,” he said quietly.

In the three years she had known this enigmatic man, she had become accustomed to his moody silences