Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (45 page)

he always was when he had to take her shopping.

“It's about time you brought my vittles, woman,” Kerm snapped as soon as his sister pushed open the

stable door.

“You know, Kerm,” Sara quipped, “as mean an old bear as you are, it's a wonder you don't hibernate

during the winter time!"

“It's a wonder I don't toss you o'er my knee and wallop your backside good like Pa used to do,” Kerm

mumbled, snatching the plate of ham, fried eggs, and mush from her. He began shoveling the food into his

mouth with grim determination.

“You're just pissed that he didn't let you go with him,” Sara said, understanding her brother's fury.

“He's gonna need every hand what he's got!” Kerm snarled. “What if'n someone recognizes him down at

the harbor whilst he's a'waitin’ for his hardheaded woman to come sailing in?"

“Bryce will watch his back,” Sara replied. “So will Fiels and Dano."

“Ain't the same as having me along,” Kerm complained. “I'm more've a warrior than the two of them

bumpkins put together!” He poked a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chewed without relish. “And me

havin’ to take you to market don't set well with me at all!"

“We'll need decent food for his lady, Kermit,” Sara reminded her brother. “We can't feed her the same's

we feed the reptiles."

“Humpf,” was Kerm's answer. He crammed the last of the ham into his mouth, then stood. “Let's get

goin’ so's I can get you back.” He grabbed his hat, slapped it angrily against his thigh, and yanked open

the stable door.

Sara clucked her tongue as she followed him. The horses were already saddled—probably had been for

quite some time. She hated the massive beasts, feared them, and had never been good at riding. She had

hoped Kerm would hitch the buggy, but when she asked why he hadn't, her brother had turned furious

eyes on her.

“The Eel had me up ‘fore dawn hitching it, woman! You didn't know he weren't to home?"

Sara had not. She frowned. “Where in tarnation did he go so early of the morn? Ain't like him to venture

outta bed a'fore two of the clock!"

“Don't know and don't care where the bastard went!” Kerm spat. He stomped to his sister, put his

hands on her lean waist and hefted her into the saddle. “And don't you be fallin’ off again, you hear me,

Sara Elizabeth?"

With that said, he vaulted onto the back of his own mount and put heavy heels to the steed's rib. Sara

had no choice but to follow behind him at an uncomfortable, frightening pace.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Dano walked the length of the quay and back again, talking with the sailors working on the two ships in

dry dock at Wixenstead. He sauntered casually to the harbormaster's office and took his sweet time

walking back to the tavern where Fiels and another man sat in the shadows of the smoky room. Ordering

a jug of mead, he ambled to the hearth and held his hands to the flame, seeming not to notice Fiels and

his companion.

“The Serenian Star is scheduled to dock here at eight of the clock this evening if the weather holds,”

Dano whispered. “She had trouble in Fealst so's she's running behind time."

Syn-Jern snorted. “When I get my hands on Genny Sorn, she'll rue the day she ever defied me."

Fiels grinned. “The most you'll do is grab her and squeeze her ’til she yelps, boy,” he chuckled.

“I'll make her do more than yelp,” Syn-Jern swore. He snatched the cup of black coffee from the table

and drained it.

“She missed you, son,” Fiels—older and wiser—commented.

Syn-Jern did not reply. He glared across the room. He narrowed his eyes at the five Tribunal guards

who were having their breakfast. His palms ached at the sight of the bastards and it was all he could do

not to physically attack them.

“Steady as she goes, mate,” Fiels cautioned, picking up on the tension in his young companion. “We

don't need no trouble with them men."

“They're here to escort the new ark priest,” Dano whispered.

“What's an ark priest?” Fiels inquired.

“Arch-Prelate,” Syn-Jern corrected Dano. The hairs on the backs of his arms tingled and he risked a

sidelong glance at Dano. “What's the bastard's name?"

“Demonicus,” Dano reported and out of the corner of his eye saw Syn-Jern stiffen.

“He's coming here?” Syn-Jern asked urgently.

“Due to arrive on the morning tide,” Dano answered. “In about half an hour or so."

For the first time, fear drove straight through Syn-Jern and he reached up to pull the cowl of the robe he

was wearing closer to his face. He was dressed in the robes of a StormWarrior priest, but if Demonicus

saw him, the game would be up for no priests were assigned to Wixenstead and the Arch-Prelate would

know that. It was one thing to explain to the locals that the priest was passing through; Weir had used the

disguise, himself. But it would be folly of the worse kind to be caught by Demonicus, a man who knew

Syn-Jern by sight.

“I have to go,” Syn-Jern said, his face carefully concealed within the folds of the cowl. “Demonicus

knows me."

Dano heard the fear in their leader's voice. He wasn't the smartest of Syn-Jern's men, but he had an agile

mind that had always held him in good stead in times of need. Without missing a beat, he knew what he

had to do. “Whatcha mean I cheated you last evening?” he snapped, turning from the hearth. He glared

at Fiels. “I don't have to cheat to win, old man!"

“The hell you don't!” Fiels exclaimed, catching the cue. “You had an ace up your sleeve, you braying

ass. I knowed you did!"

The Tribunal guards paused in their eating and looked toward the argument. None of them would

intervene unless the two combatants became physical. Only one of them paid attention to the priest

walking slowly to the front door.

“The Storms stay behind you, Your Grace,” the Tribunal guard called out.

Syn-Jern stopped, half-turned and nodded silently in acknowledgment of the greeting. He lifted a hand in

blessing to the soldier. As he left the tavern, he was smiling grimly at the heated argument between Dano

and Fiels that covered his exit.

* * * *

Demonicus Voire barely glanced at the Tribunal guards who fell into step behind him as he came down

the gangplank. He ignored those waiting for him on the pier. His hooded gaze swept the town and his lip

lifted in scorn. The village had changed little in 20 years. It had been a pest-hole when he had arrived

here to try Syn-Jern Sorn and it was still a pest hole. The smell, alone, was enough to drive a man insane.

Plucking the silk kerchief from the sleeve of his scarlet robe, he held it under his nose, breathing in the

scent of jasmine that was his personal favorite.

“Welcome to Virago, Your Worship,” the leader of the Tribunal guards said, bowing deeply.

“Have you found him?” Demonicus demanded.

The Tribunal guard shook his head. “I am sorry to report we have not. Prince Tiernan also has..."

“Tiernan McGregor is a fool!” Demonicus stated. “And not to be trusted.” He swung his disgusted

glower around the wharf. “I was informed the Serenian prince is staying at Holy Dale with Sorn.” He

turned to the Tribunal guard. “Why are they not here to greet me properly?"

Anson Loure, the leader of the Tribunal guards, felt a shiver of loathing go through his belly as the direct

stare of the Brotherhood's highest ranking member settled on him. He could almost feel the cold hands of

the man sliding over his flesh and he shuddered.

Demonicus smiled brutally. “Have you a wish for me to lay hands to you, Loure?” he asked.

Anson's heart slammed against his ribcage. “I ... I am married, Your Worship,” he stammered.

One thick black brow lifted in challenge. “And you believe that would stop me if I wanted you, Loure?”

the Arch-Prelate inquired in a silky tone laced with venom. Before the Tribunal guard could reply,

Demonicus turned away. “You are not pleasing to my eye so therefore you have nothing to worry about."

A relieved sigh of breath was all Anson could manage. Had the Arch-Prelate ordered Anson to his bed,

there was nothing the guard could do about it.

“Where is Sorn?” Demonicus asked.

“I sent word to him you were arriving, Your Worship, but I have heard nothing from him,” Anson

replied, reaching up to wipe away the cold sweat that had formed on his brow. “Prince Tiernan is still at

Holy Dale, laid up with a cold I am told and—"

“And wouldn't come to greet me if his very life depended upon it,” Demonicus sneered. “And it just

might one day!"

“I have a carriage for you, Your Worship,” Anson told the priest. “Whenever you are ready to travel to

Holy—"

“I am ready this very moment,” Demonicus snapped. “Since neither your men nor McGregor's can lay

hands on Syn-Jern Sorn, I have been sent to arrest him, myself!"

“Arrest him?” Anson asked, his forehead creasing. “We were not given orders to arrest him, Your

Worship, only to detain him."

“Who do you think is behind the raids of your coffers, fool?” Demonicus demanded.

Anson groaned. It made sense, he supposed, but the thought had never crossed his mind.

“Fool!” Demonicus snapped, easily reading Loure's mind. He shoved the Tribunal guard out of his way.

“My valet has come down with fever and will not be able to assist me. Find me a servant to see to my

needs else you will find yourself carrying my chamber pot, Loure!"

“There is a priest from the StormWarriors in town and...” Anson got no further before Demonicus

snaked out a thin hand and grabbed him by the neck.

“What priest?” the Arch-Prelate hissed. When Anson did not answer immediately, he lifted the hapless

guard from the ground, cutting off his air and strangling him. “What priest?"

Anson was choking, but he dared not scratch at the steely hand enclosing his throat. His eyes bulged and

his face began to turn blue before he was tossed aside like a child's toy.

“Answer me!” Demonicus thundered.

Anson huddled on the ground, his hand to his bruised throat. “I ... do not k ... know his n ... name, Your

G ... Grace!” he managed to say.

Demonicus turned to his personal guards. “Find him!"

From the doorway of the tavern, Fiels and Dano watched the Tribunal guards disperse, throwing open

the doors to the establishments along the wharf. Saying nothing, the two sauntered toward the swayback

horses that had brought them to town and casually mounted.

“You there!” one of the guards shouted at the men. “Have you seen a priest?"

“Ain't needed one in quite some time,” Fiels returned.

“No, no, no!” the guard snapped. “A priest here in town. Have you seen one about?"

Anson pushed from the ground, still holding his battered throat, and listened to the two villagers denying

having seen a priest. He opened his mouth to call them liars for he had seen the priest sitting with the old

man, but he turned to look at the Arch-Prelate who was striding furiously toward the waiting carriage,

and managed to shut his thoughts down just in time. He saw the priest glance at him—eyes narrowed into

malevolent slits—then continue on his way, no doubt believing the wayward thought he'd partially

intercepted was one of dislike.

And it was.

Anson Loure despised the Brotherhood of the Domination, yet he had been forced to serve them many

times in his role as Tribunal guard. Keeping his mind carefully blank lest the priest ‘hear’ his thoughts, he

joined his men in searching for the man he hoped they did not find for he was pretty gods-be-damned

sure the man they sought was the Outlaw.

And the Outlaw was surely Syn-Jern Sorn.

* * * *

Lin Su rode ahead of Genny Sorn as they passed beneath the arch of the Carbondale Gate. Once more,

the rains had started just as she and her sentinel were about to board the Serenian Star. The morning tide

was coming in with such violent surges; the ship's captain had announced a delay in the departure, citing

the next day as the probable time for sailing.

“No,” Genny had groaned and turned to her companion. “Find us some horses, Lin Su."

Despite the warrior's disagreement and his ‘vocal’ renunciation of the plan, eventually he had set off in

search of mounts.

An hour later, the two were on their way, the rain pelting them unmercifully and both were soaking wet

though they wore oilskin slickers.

Miserable, her head aching, her teeth chattering with the cold, Genny managed to speak to the man and

woman who passed them. “Miserable day, isn't it?” she called out.

Sara Elizabeth Gill agreed. “Aye, Milady. Good only for ducklings!"

Kerm grunted. He hated going to market, especially in Ciona, though the prices there were cheaper than

in Wixenstead. Since he got to pocket the difference in what they paid, he shouldn't complain too much,

he thought. Shrugging into the relative comfort of his own slicker, he sighed heavily, wishing himself with

his leader in the village.

“Take care, then!” Genny said, waving. She turned to Lin Su. “Pretty lady, isn't she?"

Lin Su gave a noncommittal shrug. To his way of thinking, women of his lady's race could not hold a

candle to the delicate beauty of the Chrystallus woman.

Sara twisted in the saddle to take another look at the lady and her escort. “Why would someone of her

rank be out and about on a day like this?” she asked her brother.

“Ain't none of our concern, I'm sure,” Kerm replied.

Sara frowned. “You don't think..."