Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (36 page)

“What?” Syn-Jern asked.

Patrick's forehead crinkled. “Is there a staircase rising from the center of the main floor at Holy Dale and

is the flooring black marble?"

Syn-Jern blinked. “Aye. Have you visited there?"

“With a huge rose-colored chandelier,” Patrick continued, his mind's eye looking back on his strange

dream, “hanging directly over a large mahogany table in the middle of the floor?"

“You've been there,” Syn-Jern said, wondering when.

Patrick shook his head slowly. “No, I have never stepped foot inside your ancestral home."

“Then how could you know?” Syn-Jern began, but Patrick interrupted him.

“I heard you mumbling about it when you had the fever,” Paddy lied. He shrugged. “How else would I

know?"

Syn-Jern knew his friend was lying and wondered why. But Patrick's privacy was not to be invaded so

Syn-Jern kept his thoughts to himself.

The ship was well into the harbor, now, the sails cascading down the masts to catch the wind. The

sounds of a ship and her crew making ready to sail made it impossible to carry on any further

conversation. Instead, Syn-Jern kept his attention on his lady until the only thing he could see was the

imposing palace of Binh Tae.

“Stay safe, my love,” Syn-Jern whispered. “I will come home to you."

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Trace Edward Sorn rolled over in his bed and draped a heavy arm over his wife's side. He wiggled

closer to the warmth of her and nuzzled his face against the nape of her neck.

“Are you sated, milord?” Rosa-Lynn sighed with annoyance.

“Aye,” Trace replied sleepily.

“Then kindly turn over and let me go to sleep,” his wife snapped, pushing his arm away.

“Fine,” he said and flipped over, dragging the cover from his wife's shapely shoulders.

“The demon take you, Trace Sorn!” Rosa-Lynn grated, jerking the covers.

“I think she did but a few moments ago,” Trace threw at her. He lifted himself on one elbow, punched

his pillow into submission then plopped down again.

“You can go to hell,” Rosa-Lynn said in a sweet voice.

“I am living in hell,” her husband snarled.

“'Twas your choice,” she told him. Snuggling into the covers, she cursed the chill of the room in which

they lay; the drafty old house in general; and the ineffectual fool to whom she was married.

“It was not my fault the Tribunal insisted we remain here as wardens to the property!” Trace reminded

her.

“Oh?” his wife drawled, turning over to stare at his back. “And where else were we to go, fool?"

“Tern Keep,” Trace declared. “I would rather live in Tern Keep than here in this great pile of stones with

only a handful of servants who curse me behind my back and mumble insurrection at every turn!"

“Tern Keep was confiscated, as well, or have you very conveniently forgotten it belonged to Syn-Jern?"

“Do not speak his name to me!” Trace thundered.

“Some plan you had!” his wife threw back at him. “Frame him for Playe's murder and he'll hang, huh?”

She hit him on his shoulder. “Did you not think he would fight back when Playe held him under the water,

fool?"

“He was supposed to be unconscious, bitch!” he yelled. “He was not supposed to wake up in the

middle of the drowning and turn the tables on his assassin!"

“Do not yell at me, Sorn,” his wife warned him in a steely voice.

“I'll do whatever the hell I feel like!” Trace responded.

“What think you the Tribunal would say if they ever learned ‘twas not Syn-Jern who strangled Playe?”

At her husband's threatening growl, she smiled savagely. “What think you they would say if I told them

you promised to kill me if I did not testify it was Syn-Jern who strangled the slimy bastard?"

“He believed he strangled Playe,” Trace said from a tightly clenched jaw. “He did not deny it."

“He woke with his hands clasped around Playe's neck, aye, but you and I both know the man was

already dead!” Rosa-Lynn said.

Trace snaked out his hand and grabbed a fistful of his wife's lovely hair and yanked as hard as he could,

smiling brutally at the shriek of pain his action brought. He ignored her as she gasped: “You're hurting

me!” as he wound the thick lock around his wrist and pulled her face close to his.

“Open that pretty mouth and say one word of how Playe died to anyone,” he snarled, “and it will be the

last word you ever utter, Rosa-Lynn.” He tightened his grip even more. “Do I make myself clear to you?"

“Aye!” Rosa-Lynn gasped, trying to pry his hand from her hair. She began to whimper with pain, but

stopped abruptly as her husband's hand moved from her hair to her neck. Her eyes widened as he

pushed her to her back and placed his other hand over her throat, his thumbs pressing into her windpipe.

“Do I make myself clear?” he repeated, his face filled with savageness.

“Aye.” It was a squeak of agreement, but it was enough to lift the strong hands from her throat.

Rosa-Lynn drew in a long, shuddery breath, knowing she'd pushed her husband too far.

And there was only one way to get back in the man's good graces.

Trace put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling as his wife went about soothing his

anger. He counted the cracks in the plaster over his head; studied a slab of paint peeling from one corner;

frowned at the tarnished appearance of the drapery rods.

As Rosa-Lynn's lips drew from him his forgiveness, he spied a spider web dangling from the ceiling to

the chandelier and ground his teeth. The slovenly servants did no more than they could to maintain Holy

Dale. He was forced to live in a pigsty with a sow at his side.

He lifted his head and looked down at his wife's silky hair as she worked at giving him pleasure.

He frowned even more.

Rosa-Lynn's talents—as were her beauty and usefulness—were fading.

Soon, he would have to find a female to replace her. Until then, he would just have to make do with

what he had.

Trace sighed.

Being lord of the manor was not what he had thought it would be.

* * * *

Sara Gill eased from the door of the Duke's bedroom and made her way silently down the corridor. It

wouldn't do to let the bastard know she'd been eavesdropping. Quickly making her way down the

servants’ stairs, she hurried into the kitchen and grabbed her brother, Drew's arm. “Come outside,” she

commanded, drawing her youngest sibling with her.

Drew tossed aside the cloth he was using to wipe the table and gladly accompanied Sara. “They be

fighting again?” he asked.

“Like cats and dogs,” Sara responded. “The same thing over and over again, every day.” She led her

brother to the stable, cast a quick look around, and then pushed him into the darkened interior. She

closed the door behind them and, although there was no one about to hear, she lowered her voice to a

whisper. “I want you to hightail it to the village and find Kerm. Tell him I overheard the Duke admitting to

killing Otis Playe this time."

“You did?” Drew gasped, his eyes wide.

“Well, not in so many words,” Sara said, opening the stable door a tad so she could make sure no one

was lurking about. Satisfied they were alone, she eased the door shut and turned to her little brother.

“Tell Kerm the Duke threatened to kill the Duchess if she breathed a word of what happened up there

that night."

Drew whistled. “Like as not that won't set well with Her High and Mightiness,” he chortled. “She'll find a

way to make him forget his anger."

“She's already taken matters into her own hands on that regard,” Sara sniffed. “You just go tell Kerm

what I told you and be quick about it. They'll be wanting supper a'fore too long so hurry back.” She

sniffed again. “Won't come down for the noon meal, but they'll be starved for supper."

“I brought up the wine like he ordered me yesterday,” Drew announced. “Opened the bottle so it could

‘breathe’ like he demanded."

“And pissed in it,” Sara smiled. At her brother's blush, she patted him on the back. “You done good,

Drew. If I could have, I'd have pissed in it, too!"

Drew scratched his head. “You know something, Sara?” he asked, his eyes puzzled. “There was

something not altogether right about that cellar.” He scratched his head some more. “I think there be a

room under there."

“There is,” Sara replied. She shushed him as he started to give his opinion on what might lie beneath the

thick oak flooring. “Go on with you, now, and tell Kerm what I said. He needs to get word to Ferris."

“Don't see what good none of this tattling has done us so far,” Drew grumbled as he pulled his cap from

his pocket and settled in on his mop of flaxen hair. “Tribunal wouldn't believe a thing any of the likes of us

might have to say."

“Maybe not, but the more ammunition we have, the more chance we got to have the right man sent to

Tyber's Isle for killing Otis Playe."

“Won't do His Grace no good,” Drew responded, thinking of the rightful owner of Holy Dale. He

ducked his head. “Makes me feel bad the way we treated him."

“Oh, go on with you!” Sara snapped. “You were but a wee bairn when His Lordship was taken to

prison. What would you know?"

“There's talk,” Drew said stubbornly.

“Aye, well,” Sara admitted, “there's always talk.” She cracked the door, peered out, then pushed her

brother outside. “You hurry back, you hear?"

“No wonder you can't find a husband, Sara Elizabeth Gill,” Drew complained. “You're too bossy by

far!"

Sara watched until her younger brother was out of sight, then walked back to the kitchen, casting a

suspicious eye on the balcony window behind which the Lord and Lady of Holy Dale lay sleeping.

“And it eleven of the clock on a bright day,” Sara snorted. She purposefully slammed the kitchen door

behind her, knowing how much the Duke hated the sound. With a fierce look on her pretty face, she

began to bang pots and pans and dishes as she prepared the noontide meal.

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“It was white as snow,” Kerm Gill, Sara's eldest brother, whispered to the men sitting at his table. His

voice was strained. “I tell you it was a ghost ship!” He reached for his ale, his hand trembling, and took a

large gulp.

Andrew Spiel turned to the man on his left. “Whatcha think of his tale, Dano?"

“Think he's too much of the drink taken,” Danny Dunne joked.

“Weren't drinkin’ a gods-be-damned thing!” Kerm snapped, banging his tankard on the table. “Were as

sober as sober can be when I saw it!"

“Ghost ship,” the fourth man at the greasy tavern table snorted. “Right out there in Wixen Harbor."

Kerm turned and whistled for the tavern wench. When she looked his way, he pointed at his empty mug,

then slumped in the chair, eyeing his drinking companions with contempt. “I don't care if'n you believe me

or not, Bryce Heil!” he growled. “I know what I saw!"

The men sitting with Kerm laughed, but a stranger at the next table over stopped them in mid-guffaw

when he spoke up.

“I saw her, too,” the stranger said quietly in a thick Ionarian accent.

Kerm and his friends turned their attention to the stranger. The man was sitting with his arms on the

table, his hands wrapped around a dented tankard. He was not looking at Kerm or his companions, but

seemed to be studying the contents of his drink. He wore a long robe of coarse black material, marking

him a Low Priest of one of the many Orders in Virago. His face was immobile, his profile appeared

chiseled as though from stone within the cowl of the robe.

“You seen it, Brother?” Kerm queried.

The stranger nodded and raised his head to stare across the room. “She dropped anchor about half a

mile down the coast from where I was camped. I saw her, but...” He turned so that one dark eye

regarded them steadily; the other eye was hidden behind an eye patch. “...I saw no one on board her."

“Neither did I,” Kerm whispered, shivering. He lifted his mug, realized it was empty and banged it twice.

“Gloria, get me my ale, bitch!"

The tavern wench flipped him the universal symbol of comment, then flounced to the tap to draw him a

fresh brew.

“I don't believe a word of it,” Dano Dunne stated. He turned his head and spat on the rush-strewn floor.

“A ghost ship my pimpled, hairy ass!"

“Believe what you will, friend,” the stranger said ominously, “but I've seen her likes before."

“Where?” Kerm whispered.

“Down near Hellstrom Point,” the stranger replied. He narrowed his one good eye. “I heard tell the

ship's name is The Revenant and that she's crewed by the restless spirits of all the prisoners who've ever

been transported to Tyber's Isle.” He lifted his tankard, took a long sip, then settled back in his chair,

bracing the tankard on his thigh. “They say that when you see her, she's come after the man who wrongly

accused one of her crew and sent him to the bowels of the Labyrinth to live out his days."

“The Labyrinth,” Kerm repeated. A hard shudder rippled down his lanky form. “That was where the

Sorn boy was sent. Only one hereabouts ever to go to that hellish place!"

Dano Dunne, his bravura slipping at the mention of the infamous penal colony nodded. “Aye and we all

know who sent the boy to Tyber's Isle, now, don't we?"

Andrew Spiel leaned over the table and spoke to the men in a lowered voice. “You think that ship's

come after Sorn?"

“Wouldn't surprise me none,” Kerm growled. “He sure as hell deserves the haints to come after his evil