Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (6 page)

away, twisting his shoulder from the man's approach. “You can't blame the boy for what his father did!

You can't make him pay for another man's debt."

“I paid for my father's debt!” Weir snapped. “I lost my home; I lost my belongings; I lost my father! I

was blamed for what my father did! If that man is Giles Sorn's son, he has a debt to me!"

Stevens didn't like the sound of that. “What kind of debt?"

“I swore on my father's grave that I would make the Sorns pay for taking our land, for killing him, for

separating Genny and me.” A muscle in his jaw bunched. “You ask what debt?” Weir's voice went low

and deadly. “He owes me his life!"

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Patrick Kasella entered the cabin and felt something akin to true remorse well up inside him as he took in

the scene before him.

Lying asleep on the Captain's bunk, their unknown guest was hunched over the volume of short stories

Weir had loaned him. The book was clutched tightly to him; his head was tucked down, off the pillow,

his right cheek resting on the book's title. He had drawn his knees up to his chest, the edge of the book

pressed tightly between his legs as though he were guarding it even in sleep. Now and again, the man

would twitch, begin to straighten his legs and then stop as though he had encountered an invisible barrier,

and Paddy knew that was the legacy of the cage in that this man had no doubt spent countless,

uncomfortable hours.

Sitting down on the stool beside the bunk, Patrick watched the man sleeping, feeling to the roots of his

being the same unbearable loneliness he knew this man had experienced. He drew in a deep breath,

letting it out slowly, wishing to put off indefinitely what he must find out. As he exhaled, he saw his

companion awake and look at him with trusting, inquisitive eyes.

“You're Syn-Jern Sorn, aren't you?” Paddy asked before he could lose his nerve.

If there was surprise, it didn't show. The only emotion that seemed to pass over the man's face was one

of relief. The chiseled lips parted, trembled as though he was about to speak, then closed.

“Do you know who Weir is? The Captain of this ship?” Patrick felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut

when the man nodded. Patrick ran his hand through the thick ebony of his hair, stood up, and paced the

room.

It was difficult to speak, painful even, but Syn knew he had to try. It took him several attempts before

any intelligible sound came out. His voice was rusty with disuse, croaking, and grating. He wasn't

surprised that the man standing at the far end of the cabin waited patiently for him to speak, to get the

words out, to piece them together in a way that made sense.

“He's going to kill me isn't he?” came the hoarse, halting words.

Patrick shook his head. “I hope not.” He looked away. “I honestly don't know."

Again the effort was horrendous, excruciating. “But he's taken an oath to do so."

Patrick flinched. He was looking into a face that had resigned itself to death, whether quick and painless,

or lingering and hard, and it tore at his heartstrings, hurt him deep in his soul. He watched as Syn-Jern

Sorn, his best friend's sworn enemy, eased his legs out, and picked up the volume of short stories. He

seemed to be caressing the book as though it were a cherished lover, running the palm of his hand over

the pebbly texture of the leather binding before he extended it carefully to Patrick.

“Thank him for loaning this to me. It was always one of my favorites."

Paddy took the book and laid it on the desk where a dozen or more other novels were scattered. He

heard a soft sigh and looked back to see Sorn watching him, gauging his concern.

“Don't worry about me. No one ever has before."

The tone, the words, the look, cut Paddy to the quick. He felt his temper soaring, felt the fury at an

unjust world welling up inside him and his words were harsher than he intended, his own tone cruel and

snappish.

“How old were you when your father cheated Trevor Saur out of his lands?"

“It doesn't matter how old he was."

Paddy spun around and his face hardened with anger. “Weir promised me he'd let me handle this,

Genevieve,” he warned.

For a moment she didn't speak. Even from where he stood, Paddy could feel the anger directed Sorn's

way, feel the implied threat in the way Genny was standing, her hand on the hilt of the dagger at her thigh.

“You owe us, Sorn,” she said, her words tightly clipped, lethal as she glared at Syn-Jern Sorn. “You can

pay with your life!"

“Genny!” Patrick scolded, taking a step toward the young woman, intent on getting her out of the cabin.

She backed away from Paddy's advance, yanked the door open behind her, and then swung around the

heavy portal, banging it shut behind her.

Paddy looked quickly to the bunk. “I'm sorry,” he began, but he could see a faint smile on Sorn's face.

He was puzzled by it until the thick, emotionless words came.

“I have that effect on women."

“Genny's young. She sees things in black and white. Galrath was hard on her."

“The convent?” Syn-Jern asked with shock.

“Aye. She was there from the time she was three until just a few years ago. She's twenty-five, now."

“And Saur?"

“Fealst,” Paddy answered. “He had it real good compared to his sister."

Syn-Jern sighed heavily. “Tell him I'm sorry about his lands. Tell him if it's any consolation, they were

taken away from me, too."

“You couldn't have been more than eleven when Weir's lands were taken. How old were you when you

were sent to the Labyrinth?” He didn't wait for a reply. His agile mind remembered Stevens saying the

young man had been in the Maze ten years. He looked around. “Twenty-one, twenty-two."

“Twenty-one.” There was softness, hopelessness in the voice.

“You're thirty-one now?” He saw Syn-Jern nod. “So you must have been sent to the colony right after

your father died on board the Lady Tasha."

“Aye,” came the soft reply.

“What happened to the lands? Who took control of them when Giles Sorn died?"

The first real emotion showed on the sad face. “Me."

“Did you know they had been stolen from Trevor Saur?"

“I knew they had been his lands."

“How did you think your father had come by them?” He had to find out and he hoped against hope Sorn

would give him something to work with, something to take to Weir that would prevent a tragic ending to

all this.

Sorn took a long breath, seemed to gather his thoughts. “I was told he was awarded the land for

payment of back taxes."

“Who has control of them, now?"

At first Paddy didn't think Sorn was going to answer. He was silent for so long, he began to wonder if

the man was trying to think of some plausible lie; if he was fabricating some excuse that would clear him

of any of his father's wrong doing. But the words he spoke at last, the look on his features, gave evidence

that his words were true, if painful.

“As far as I know, the Tribunal has all the lands.” There was bitterness in the words, hatred in the tone.

“They took everything when I was sent to Tyber's Isle. I have nothing to give him, Master Kasella.

There's nothing left.” He lowered his eyes.

“But..."

“But, what?” came a sharp question from the doorway. Weir stood there, his mouth tight.

“If you want my life, I will gladly let you take it. I have no further use for it."

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Weir Saur had grown up in an atmosphere of love in the orphanage at Fealst. The Charitable Sisters of

Compassion who ran the home for abandoned, orphaned and abused children, had done a marvelous

job of raising the rambunctious boy. They had afforded him every opportunity to grow in wisdom,

tolerance, truthfulness, honor, and compassion; and they had taught him the basic rule of humanity: treat

others as you would like to be treated. Although blessed with a mischievous nature that oftentimes made

the Sisters grit their teeth in exasperation, he had garnered their love and respect because of his innate

sense of fairness and leniency toward those less fortunate than himself. Having his mother die while giving

birth to his sister, Genevieve, and his father murdered, having known terrible loneliness and pain at an

early age, it was understandable the boy would look to the Sisters for the affection he craved. Although

he had tried to hide his need when first sent to the orphanage, the Sisters had recognized the little boy's

silent cry for help. The one thing that the Sisters had not taught him, had not even tried to teach him, was

the ability to recognize that hidden pain in another human being. That was a talent, an ability, with that

Weir had been born, and an ability that had been finely honed from his own years of heartbreak.

Despite the elation he felt at having Giles Sorn's son in his grasp, Weir saw deep pain in Syn-Jern Sorn.

He felt it to the bottom of his soul.

And it made him furious.

“Was your crime so terrible that you wish death over life?” Weir snarled, stalking to the bunk. “Do you

think you will be redeemed if I kill you, Sorn?"

Patrick moved closer to the bunk, wanting to put himself between the two men.

“I don't blame you for hating me,” Syn-Jern whispered, his voice getting stronger, less halting. “Do what

you need to."

“Don't tell me what to do!” Weir yelled. His eyes blazed, his body quivered with fury. “I'll decide what

should be done to you!"

“Weir.” Paddy's voice was soft, a quiet warning, and a gentle plea for sanity.

Saur's head snapped around and he fixed his friend with a sharp, penetrating stare. “If I want to kill him,

Kasella, you can't stop me!"

“I can try."

Syn-Jern looked over at the Ionarian and saw the set face filled with challenge. He knew if it came right

down to it, Patrick would intervene if Saur tried to do him harm.

“You know what his family has done to mine! You know! I have every right to avenge my father!” Weir

exploded.

“Even if this man did nothing to warrant your hatred?"

“He's a Sorn!"

“Aye. He hasn't denied that, but why don't you ask yourself why, if he has the protection of that family,

he wound up in the Labyrinth."

Weir turned back to Syn-Jern. “Who did you cheat out of their lands? Somebody who could fight back?

Somebody important, who had the Tribunal on their side?"

“I...” Syn-Jern began.

“Did you have your men kill for that land, too?"

“No, I..."

“Or did you just have them thrown off the land, have the children sent to orphanages and hell-hole

nunneries?"

Syn-Jern shook his head, wanting to explain, but Saur's violent outburst made him cringe back against

the pillow as Weir drew back his fist.

“Or did you do the deed yourself? Huh? Did you?” He shot his arm forward only to have his hand

caught in a fierce grip.

Paddy's hand was strong, immobile as he clutched Weir's fist in the wide palm. His chin was set, his

body poised to do more than just keep Weir from hitting a defenseless man. His words were soft, but

there was underlying steel bracing them.

“Give the man a chance to answer you, Weir."

Syn-Jern's voice was low, gruff as he answered. “It doesn't matter why I was sent to Tyber's Isle, Lord

Saur. I was innocent of the crime, but..."

“I don't care about any of that!” Weir glared at Sorn. “What happened to my family's lands? The lands

your father stole from us?” Weir spat.

“He said the lands are now in Tribunal hands,” Patrick informed Weir. “Taken as punishment for his

crime."

Saur snorted. “From one thieving bunch to another! What difference does it make? I'll never get them

back until I have enough money to bury the Sorn family and any other bastards who try to stand in my

way!"

“If the lands still belonged to me, I would gladly give them back to you,” Syn-Jern told him, flinching at

the hiss of disbelief that issued from Saur's twisted mouth. “I would, Lord Saur; I swear to you I would.

If I had known there were members of your family still alive, I would have tried to return them to you

long ago; but they told me Trevor Saur's children were dead."

“Aye!” Weir snarled. “It wasn't because of a lack of diligence on your father's part that we weren't!"

Paddy put a calming hand on his friend's shoulder. “Chances are the Tribunal wouldn't have allowed him

to return the lands if he'd been able to find you or Genevieve.” He looked hard at Weir. “You know that.

Your father had been declared a vagrant when he couldn't pay the taxes; the land would have reverted to

the Tribunal if Giles Sorn hadn't paid the levy."

“None of that matters now, does it?” Weir shouted. “The lands that were in my family for hundreds of

years, land on which Genny and I were born, are gone from us forever because of that man there!” He

pointed his finger at Syn-Jern. “You give me one good reason why I shouldn't slit your thieving throat!"

Syn-Jern shrugged. “I can't.” He leaned back against the pillow. “As a matter of fact, if you did slit my

throat, you'd be doing me a favor."

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Paddy leaned over the railing next to his friend and looked down into the water rushing past the Wind

Lass’ hull. He glanced at Weir's set face and decided to let him open the conversation if there was to be

one. It had been well over two hours since Saur had walked silently from his cabin, away from the