Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (24 page)

He stood up then ambled off, his sandal-shod feet making little slapping sounds against the stone floor.

While Brother Herbert was dressing for the long ride out in the crisp winter air, Nick sat brooding by the

rectory's roaring fire. His fist was clenched tightly under his chin and his gaze was steady on the leaping

flames. Everything about his posture bespoke tension and anger.

“What ails you, milord?” Tarnes inquired, lighting his pipe with a taper from the fire. He drew on the

stem, fanned out the taper then pitched it into the flames. “Your spine could get no stiffer if'n I poured

starch ‘pon it.” As he puffed away, he narrowed his gaze against the smoke and waited for his

companion's answer.

“Kaelan was right about how the people feel about him,” Nick finally muttered. “Not a one of them,

save you,” he looked up at the old sailor, “had a good thing to say about him."

“Well, milord,” Tarnes drawled, “there are people in this world who rejoice at the misfortunes of

others.” He drew deeply on his pipe, then blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “I reckon

Wixenstead ain't no worse than most little villages in that regard.” He removed the pipe stem from his

mouth and gestured with it. “There be close kin down there; most be related in some fashion or another

to the Sorns and Sinclairs, either legal or otherwise. Most have worked at one time or another up to the

manor house or had kin what did. When the Duchess died, they lost their livelihood and blame it on the

poor lad. They reckon it be his fault that they have to trek as far as Colridge to make a living nowadays."

“He didn't kill Marie Sinclair,” Nick grated.

“Nay, he did not,” Tarnes agreed, “but they blame him for it, just the same."

“Kaelan has suffered enough for five men's sins,” Nick snapped, getting up from the hearth. “It galled me

to tell that pompous priest that he would confess his misdeeds before the Joining."

Tarnes clicked the pipe stem against his bottom denture. “Well, as I see it-and I don't really know the

lad, you understand-Prince Kaelan might not balk overly much at confessing whatever might be

saddening his heart.” He smiled gently at Nick, who glanced up at him with surprise. “What is it the Book

says: ‘Rid thyself of unclean garments before donning the robes of matrimony'? Ain't that how it goes?”

The old man nodded. “I reckon them ‘unclean garments’ be the rags of the young Prince's past, don't

you, milord?"

Nick slowly grinned. “I think the Book is referring to soiled women in that commandant, Master

Tarnes."

Tarnes sniffed, not at all concerned his analogy hadn't been understood. “Reckon the young Prince had a

few of them, do you?"

“I know he did,” Nick chuckled.

“Then he'll have that to confess anyways,” Tarnes replied, puffing away on his noxious pipe. “Priest

didn't say what he wanted the lad to be confessing, now, did he?"

“No,” Nick concurred. His admiration of the old man went even higher.

“And I'd think he'd want to confess to a wee bit of thievery,” Tarnes continued.

“Thievery?” Nick's brows drew together in a scowl.

“Aye,” Tarnes said, nodding thoughtfully. His wrinkled face beamed. “'Twas my son, Ned's, breeches

the lad swiped off that clothesline that day.” His thin lips split into a lopsided grin around the pipe stem.

“Not that Ned minded all that much."

Nick stared hard at the old man. “It was Ned who saw to it that Kaelan was able to escape his bonds

that night, wasn't it?"

The smile slid slowly from Tarnes’ face. “Aye, and the lad regrets it, he does."

“Why?"

Tarnes looked away from Nick's probing gaze. “Figures if'n he'd left well enough alone, the Duchess

wouldn't have died."

Nick went to the old man and put an arm around his thin shoulders. “In my homeland, we have a saying,

Master Tarnes. It goes-arguably what any of us could have done-would not have changed anything."

Brother Herbert shuffled back into the room, his thick woolen traveling robe, fur boots, and bulky fur

great cape with its high-peaked conical fur hat making him look suspiciously like one of the legendary

Snowbeasts from the higher elevations of Chrystallus. “I am ready,” the priest told them.

Nick pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. While it was, indeed, cold outside, it was not the

arctic environment for which the pudgy priest had prepared himself. “Do you think you'll be warm

enough?” Nick forced himself to ask.

The priest frowned. “'Tis all the winter clothing I have,” he mumbled. He drew his woolen scarf tight

under his numerous chins.

Tarnes snorted. “T'will be enough,” he said gruffly. “But there be one thing we will be asking of you."

Brother Herbert turned to the old man.

“'Tis about the prince. Don't you go insulting him, you hear? What you say to him will matter to the lad."

A confused look passed over Brother Herbert's fat face; he looked to Nick for clarification.

“What Master Tarnes means is—you being a man of the gods—we want to make sure you give Prince

Kaelan the respect he is due."

Brother Herbert took in the direct look aimed his way by the younger man. “I would not dream of

showing disrespect to a member of the royalty,” he defended. “Disowned or not."

“You'd best not,” Tarnes stressed. He gave the chubby priest a look that was as hard as steel and with

twice the cutting edge of an Ionarian blade. “I'd not take kindly to it at all, at all."

[Back to Table of Contents]

“Why haven't you tried to kiss me, yet?” Gillian asked as she sat down on the bed beside her patient and

extended the bowl of thin broth she'd made from the pheasant Brownie had trotted in with earlier that

morning.

Kaelan paused with the spoon halfway to his lips and looked at her through the wafting steam. “You

want my cold, brat?” he muttered.

“I'm not susceptible to colds,” she snorted. “No one in my clan is.” She fused her gaze with his. “Why

haven't you tried to kiss me?"

He ladled a spoonful of the hot broth into his mouth, chewing a sliver of meat carefully, then swallowed,

wishing his throat didn't hurt so bad. “Do you have any notion what might happen if I do?” He watched

her closely. “It has been five years since I've touched a woman, Gilly. Right not, I could break rocks with

what's hiding beneath these covers."

Gillian's attention dropped instantly to the coverlet over his legs. Her face burned crimson as she took in

the slight tent that had formed over his lap and had to look away. “Oh,” was all she could mumble.

“I guess it's a good thing Nick's going after a priest,” Kaelan admitted. “I'm not sure how long I can

keep my hands off his little sister.” He forced another too-hot spoonful of liquid down.

A little smile twitched the corners of Gillian's mouth. “My thinking precisely, milord Kaelan."

Kaelan started to say something, but sneezed instead. He sneezed again, grateful when his nurse took

the bowl of broth from him to keep him from spilling it. “Do you,” he asked before sneezing a third time,

“have any notion of what Duncan will do once he finds out you've Joined with me, Gilly?” He sneezed

once more.

“Oh, he'll attempt to annul the wedding, I suppose,” she said, handing him a handkerchief. She shrugged

with unconcern. “My dear stepmother will egg him on by ranting and raving, as is her wont. She'll swoon

gracefully into his oh-so-strong arms-hand to her forehead with dramatic feminine helplessness—and cry

so brokenly it would seem her poor heart had shattered in her more than ample chest.” She scowled

fiercely. “With my father-gullible lovesick fool that he is—she'll have a fit of apoplexy and curse me for

the ungrateful child I am; you, for the licentious child molester she perceives you to be, and Papa will, of

course, try to comfort her by putting her world back to rights again by promising her he will move heaven

and earth to sunder our Joining."

“That's ... exactly ... what ... will ... happen!” Kaelan said, sneezing in between each word until he began

to cough, his wracking explosions sounding dangerous even to Gillian's untrained ears. “They ... won't ...

stop ... until...” He sneezed so violently, he shook the bed beneath him.

“Hush, Hesar,” Gillian commanded. Pounding him gently on the back as he coughed to help him bring up

the heavy phlegm in his lungs, she used her free hand to push back a lock of limp hair from his forehead.

“Stop worrying about what might happen, Hesar,” she rebuked him while he was unable to argue with

her. “I'll not let Duncan separate us again."

“Horses,” he managed to get out, pointing to the window. He tried to get out of the bed, but she

wouldn't let him.

“I'll see who it is!” she scolded him. Going to the window, she saw Nick riding up to the manor house on

a large roan. Behind him, were two riders atop massive gray Viragonian workhorses.

“Is ... it ... Nicky?” Kaelan asked, his voice tense.

“Aye,” she answered, wondering who the third man was. She'd had no trouble picking out the priest: he

was the one wrapped in the expensive fur coat. “They're bringing in two pack horses, as well."

Kaelan relaxed against the head post, but her next words made his heart speed up: “There's someone

with them."

Before she could protest, the prince was out of the bed and hobbling over to the window. She shooed

him away, but he ignored her, hooking his fingers in the lace curtain and drawing it aside.

“Do you know him?"

Kaelan focused on the smaller of the three men; shook his head. “No."

“Well, Nick wouldn't have brought him if he's a foe, Hesar,” she reminded him.

“He could be a bounty hunter,” Kaelan said suspiciously.

“How much bounty do you have on your head?” she asked with surprise.

“Not me,” he snorted, trying to get a good look at the older man's face beneath the brim of his wide hat.

“I'd venture to say Duncan and de Viennes have offered a rather sizable price for your return, Gillian."

Gillian clucked away his remark and lifted her hand to answer her brother's wave for Nick had noticed

them at the window. “He's smiling,” she stated. “If t'was a bounty hunter with him, he wouldn't be.” She

moved away from the window, drawing a reluctant Kaelan with her. “Now, get back in the bed and let

me go greet our guests."

“Our guests?” he questioned, obeying her for it had been ingrained in him since childhood that when a

woman issued an order, you complied.

“And stay put,” she told him, tucking the covers under his armpits. “I don't want to be a widow longer

than I am a bride."

“I ain't on my death bed, Gilly,” he complained, his lower lip thrust out.

“Don't you get up!” she warned, shaking a finger at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to tease him that

his rock-breaking capacities seemed to have deserted him, but she thought better of it. Best not to get his

mind back on such ‘physical’ things.

Kaelan sulked as she left him. ‘A widow longer than a wife', he mused. If Duncan caught up with them,

that telling statement might well become fact. He only hoped his brother would be delayed by the winter

storm that had just passed or else not think to look at Holy Dale for de Viennes’ runaway bride.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and the door was thrown open with gusto. Nick came bustling

into the room, flinging his great cape off before hurrying to the fire. He stood before it—his beaming face

lit with the ruddy glow of the flames—and rubbed his hands.

“By the gods, Hesar, but it's as cold as a Diabolusian witches teat out there!” He shuddered, holding his

hands to the flames. “I'll not ever get use to this gods-be-damned wind of yours, either!"

Kaelan sat up straighter in the bed. “She won't let me get up,” he complained to his soon-to-be

brother-in-law.

Nick glanced over at him. “Wise woman, my sister,” he laughed. He eyed his companion. “You look

like shit."

“I feel like shit,” Kaelan admitted. He studied Nick. “How did you find things in the village?"

Nick turned around to warm his backside. “They don't like strangers in Wixenstead Harbor,” he

answered, “but they don't mind taking a stranger's money and gossiping about the Demon Duke up at the

manor house."

Kaelan winced. “I can imagine all too well the nice things they had to say about me down there,” he

mumbled.

“Oh, you were the main topic of conversation practically everywhere I went, my friend.” Nick faced the

fire again. “Only one man there took your side of it."

Kaelan looked up from his stony contemplation of the tattered coverlet. “Who?"

“Lumley Tarnes.” Nick put another log on the fire. “Ned's father. He came back here with me."

“He did?” Kaelan asked with surprise.

“Aye. He just got back from a three year voyage around the Cape.” Nick sighed dramatically, his eyes

glazing wistfully. “Around the Cape, Hesar! Can you imagine it?” He turned his head toward Kaelan and

his face was aglow with excitement. “All the way from Wixenstead to Odess in the Outer Kingdom!” He

lowered his voice as though it was a great secret. “Through the Sinisters, Kaelan. Through the

gods-be-damned Sinisters! Can you fathom it?"

Kaelan smiled. “Sounds to me like you'd like to make a trek like that yourself."

“I would, man!” Nick said forcefully. “I've always wanted to own my own ship.” He hunkered down

before the fire and the heat of the flames gathered in his eyes as he spoke. “I've been saving for it since I