Boyett-Compo Charlotte - Wind Tales 01 (42 page)

pirate captain.

“Search the ship and find me this bastard's prisoner!” the red-haired thief ordered. “And anything else of

consequence!"

What the boarding party found was a man lying on his sick bed, deathly ill, and two sleepy, confused

young princes who had had the misfortune to sail the Boreal Queen.

“Ransom them, Cap'n!” an elderly fellow, whose white attire hung loosely on his shriveled frame,

suggested. “They be royalty and worth some gold, I'm a'thinkin'! Let's take ’em with us!""

The taller of the two princes had squared his shoulders and fixed the pirate captain with a steely glance.

“My father will not pay one copper piece for my return,” he snapped. “The only thing you'll get is a

longer neck when the executioner stretches it for you. The McGregor will not deal with the likes of you!"

“N ... nor will m ... my father,” the other young prince stammered, although not with as much conviction

as his companion.

“Then you'll rot out your lives in the belly of my ship!” the pirate had declared. He ordered the young

princes taken aboard his ship and cast into irons.

“I ... irons?” the Chalean prince had gasped, his face going white. “You said n ... nothing about..."

“You will regret this, sir!” the Serenian prince warned, cutting his friend off in mid-stammer.

Before the pirate could respond, two of his crew appeared, the sick man carried on a stretcher between

them. The red-haired captain glared hatefully at the priest, then looked down his nose at the man, his pale

green eyes filled with contempt. “This is how you treat your prisoners?” he demanded.

Noire had looked away, dismissing the question.

“Put this poor man in my cabin,” the pirate ordered his men. “There will be no more abuse of him.” He

turned his fierce gaze on the priest. “You would have let him die, wouldn't you have, priest?"

The priest had shrugged indifferently, turning his back to the men who carried the sick man to the other

ship.

“You are a sorcerer?” the pirate queried, becoming angry when the priest did not reply. When he

repeated his question and still received no reply, the pirate ordered the tall man taken on board the

Revenant.

“For what purpose?” came the immediate haughty reply as the Inquisitor spun around.

“I'll not leave you on the Queen to spin a curse on us,” the pirate snapped. “You will go with us."

Occultus Noire had straightened his thin shoulders and, in doing so, became taller still. “I most certainly

will not accompany you!” he hissed, his eyes flashing a dangerous warning the pirate ignored.

“Either board my ship or you'll go down with the Queen!” the red-haired thief proclaimed.

“NO!” the Boreal Queen's captain exclaimed. “Please, I beg you! She's a good ship. Do not sink her!"

The choice had been given the priest: either board of his own freewill or see the flagship of the Serenian

Empire set afire.

“Please, Your Worship!’ the captain whimpered. “She is the Queen's flagship!"

There had been unconcealed fury on the priest's face as he walked stiffly to the plank connecting the two

ships. He cast the pirate captain a look of utter contempt before crossing over to the Revenant. Once

across, himself, the pirate captain kicked the plank away and ordered the Boreal Queen to lower her

anchor until they were well away.

“If you do not,” the thief cautioned, “I will turn, fire, and sink you to the bottom of the Boreal Sea!"

The Boreal Queen dropped anchor immediately, took in her sails, and prepared to stay where she was

until the Revenant's white sails disappeared on the horizon.

“He's out of his head again."

The words broke into Occultus’ thoughts and he turned, the anger slipping quickly from his face. He

sighed, ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I will go to him."

Nick smiled. “I know you're tired, Your Worship."

“No more so than the rest of you,” Occultus returned.

“The men told me you've been at the rail all morning, glaring down at the water. Is something amiss?”

A closed look came over the priest's face, but he managed a parody of a smile. “Sometimes,” he said,

laying a hand on the young man's broad shoulder, “it is hard to be graced with the sight.” He looked

beyond Nick. “To know your future and not be able to change it."

“What will be, will be, eh?” Nick asked. “Our destiny can not be changed."

Occultus shook his head. “Destiny is not chance, though, young Nick; it is more often than not choice."

Nick frowned, sensing the other man's great pain. “But if that's the case, can't you alter what will

happen?"

The priest squeezed Nick's shoulder. “The people of the Outer Kingdom believe in the old god who

came to earth so that sins might be forgiven. Have you heard the tale?"

“I've met no Outer Kingdom warriors and know nothing of their beliefs,” Nick replied.

“It doesn't matter,” Occultus said. “What does matter is that when this god came, He was persecuted,

tortured, crucified, then killed by His own people. He knew that was His destiny from the day He was

born and, though He had the power to stop what would happen, did not lift one finger to stay His death."

“Why not?” Nick asked.

“His death served a purpose for the greater good,” Occultus answered. He lowered his hand from

Nick's shoulder. “I do not pretend to know the old god's reasons for what He did, but I can understand

them. I must sacrifice myself so that one day the Dark Overlord will come. He will not know his destiny

until it is cast upon him, but when it has settled on his shoulders, he will rise up from the ashes of his own

torture and persecution to rid the world of the Domination. Yet though I understand the reason, I can not

stop myself from being angered by the injustice of what must be done."

“And Kaelan?” Nick questioned. “What part does he play in this?"

Occultus smiled. “It will be from seed of his seed that the Dark Overlord will come."

* * * *

The fever was still high, the heat of Kaelan's body making it necessary to change his linens every hour.

Lumley and his son, Ned, bathed him in cool water each time the linens were changed and dribbled

lukewarm medicine down his parched throat.

“I will stay with him awhile,” Occultus told the two sailors.

Lumley put a finger to his forelock and ushered his son to the door, quietly closing it behind them.

Kaelan was semi-awake, his eyes too-bright and glowing with an unnatural light that revealed his

absence from the real world. He strained at the silk rags that bound his wrists and ankles to the captain's

bed.

“Easy, my son,” Occultus whispered and sat down beside the young prince. He laid a cool hand on the

heated brow, easing back the damp black locks that were in dire need of washing. But that would have

to wait until the sick man was better.

“GILLY!” Kaelan called and jerked against the constrictions around his wrists.

“She is safe,” Occultus comforted him. “As are you. Hush now and lie still.” He ran the back of his hand

down the brutal cuts and bruises which had turned the once-handsome face to a pulpy mess and frowned

deeply.

There had been too much to worry about since Kaelan Hesar had been brought onboard the Revenant

than the healing of the young man's face. His fever had worsened on the trip from Holy Dale to the

harbor at Wixenstead. His cough had become wet and his lungs rattled with every breath. By the time he

had been transferred to the hastily-painted pirate ship, he was raving, out of his head with the fever.

“Don't take her away from me again!” came the heartfelt plea. “Please don't take her away again!"

“Never again, Kaelan,” Occultus answered. “She will never leave your side again. I swear this to you."

“Gilly.” The word was a talisman against the demons which burned and tormented his body. The dark

eyes closed in agony and the battered face turned toward Occultus. “Help me,” he begged. “Please? I

can not let her see me like this."

“And she shall not, Your Grace,” Occultus seethed, hurt deeply at the request. He laid his palms on each

of the young man's cheeks, lifted his own face to the heavens, and began a rune to heal the awful damage

that had been done by Rolf de Viennes’ fists.

* * * *

Gillian smiled sweetly at the constable's wife when that gracious lady brought in Gilly's noontime meal.

She sat where she was, her feet drawn up onto the cot beneath her.

“Do you like stew, milady?” the constable's wife asked, setting the tray on the floor as she fumbled with

the huge ring of keys that would unlock Gilly's cell door.

“I find I like everything you cook, Madame Belvoir,” Gilly replied. “You've a way with spices."

“That's what my sons say,” Madame Belvoir beamed. “Did I tell you I have a new grandson? Born just

this morning. He be our first!” She sighed. “They named him André, they did. A fine, strapping lad, he'll

be, too!"

“Congratulations, then,” Gilly replied. “Long life and good health to him."

“Thank you,” the constable's wife said.

When at last she'd found the right key, Martha Belvoir opened the door and swung it wide. Over the

past two weeks that this young lady had been their guest—Martha refused to think of her as a prisoner

though Helmet swore she was—the girl had made no attempt to try and escape. Martha didn't think

today would be any different as she turned her back and stooped down to pick up the tray of food.

Gilly moved faster than she ever had in her life: pushing up like a kangabeast from her cot and racing to

the cell door before Martha could straighten up. It took only a second or two to gently swing the older

woman into the cell, pull the door shut, and lock it on the stunned expression that was just then settling

into place on Martha's lined face.

“Oh, dear,” was all the constable's wife could say as Gilly turned the key in the lock. She stood there,

tray in hand, and looked at Gilly with hurt confusion. “That wasn't very nice."

“My apologies, Madame Belvoir, but I've a ship to catch!” Gilly laughed, waving her goodbye as she

tripped lightly up the stairs.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” Martha Belvoir repeated. She looked down at the tray for a moment, shrugged,

then carried it and herself to the cot. Sitting down, she settled the tray more comfortably onto her lap and

began to eat, adding another pound or two to her already-plump frame.

* * * *

Thècion McGregor slipped quietly into Kaelan's cabin, trying not to disturb the priest who was obviously

working his magik on the ill man. The young Serenian kept well back, out of the way, and leaned against

the cabin wall, his arms folded across his chest, watching.

“How are you, young one?” Occultus asked, not even turning around.

“All right,” Thècion replied. He hadn't thought the man had heard him enter, but perhaps Dear Mutt was

right: Occultus Noire had eyes in the back of his head.

“I have often wished I did,” Occultus stated and turned to see the Serenian prince scowling.

“I'll not ever get use to having my private thoughts read,” Thècion complained. “It is unsettling."

Occultus laughed. “Then do not Join with D'Lyn, my son, for she is adept at reading minds."

Thècion's scowl deepened. “You know I will not be allowed to Join with her, Your Worship."

The priest reached beside him and took up a cool cloth that had been soaking in lime water, wrung it

out, then laid in across Kaelan's brow. “You can have that after which you are willing to go, young

McGregor,” he corrected.

“My father would have the whole of the Serenian Guard after my ass to find me and take me to the

Baybridge Sanitarium if I but hinted to him that I was after Joining with a gypsy girl.” He snorted. “And a

sorceress, at that."

“Then don't go home,” Occultus advised.

Thècion stared at him. “And where is it I am to live if I don't go home?"

Occultus shrugged. “Wherever you wish.” He cast a glance at Thècion. “If you really want to be Joined

with D'Lyn."

The young man's eyes narrowed. “Did you have something to do with me falling head over heels for her

the moment I saw her?"

“No."

“You sure?"

Occultus smiled. “Quite sure."

“Did she?” the young man asked suspiciously.

“Do you remember what she said to you when you first met?” Occultus asked him.

Thècion thought a moment. “She said: I knew you would come one day."

“Had you fallen so hopelessly in love with her before or after she made that statement?"

The heavy scowl smoothed out on the young man's brow. “Before."

“Then that should answer your question.” Occultus turned back to his patient.

“Answer me one more question and I'll leave you alone,” Destin countered.

“Ask,” Occultus replied.

Destin came to stand beside the bed, amazed at the difference in the battered face of the sick man.

Although there were still dark purple bruises and a nose that remained hitched to one side along a gashed

check, Kaelan at least was recognizable as being human.

“Ask,” Occultus stressed, eager to get back to his magik.

Thècion tore his attention from Kaelan's healing face. He took a deep breath then spoke on a long rush

of air: “What is my part in all this? Mine and Diarmuid's?"

Occultus looked over at him. “Diarmuid Brell is here because Thècion McGregor is here. There is no

other reason for him. He plays only a minor part."

“And me?” Thècion queried. “How big is my part?"

The priest locked eyes with the young man. “Your brother's wife has conceived a son,” he said. “Your