Windfall

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Twilight Times Books www.twilighttimesbooks.com Copyright ©1999 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo First published by Twilight Times Books, November 2002

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Twilight Times Books POB 3340 Kingsport TN 37664 http://twilighttimesbooks.com/ All rights reserved. Except for very brief quotes in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the author.

Electronically published in the United States of America. A special note to TT Books readers. All contents of this ebook are copyright by the author. If you discover any artwork or writing published here elsewhere on the Internet, or in print magazines, please let us know immediately. The staff of Twilight Times Books feels very strongly about protecting the copyrighted work of contributors. Credits: Cover Artwork—Ardy M. Scott Managing Editor—Ardy M. Scott Publisher—Lida E. Quillen [Back to Table of Contents] WindFall Charlotte Boyett-Compo

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. [Back to Table of Contents] Dedication To Patty Mele: Sister of my heart, a sprinkler of stardust; Always there when I need a friend. ...Charlee

[Back to Table of Contents]

CONTENTS

[Back to Table of Contents] Chapter One

It had been days since Nicholas Cree and his sister, Gillian, had eaten. Their bellies rumbled; their heads ached with hunger; their fingers and toes were numb with cold, their lips blue. The snows through which they were wading had turned their limbs stiff and they could no longer drag themselves through the building drifts. It had been foolish to try to escape in the dead of winter; they knew that now. The horses had run off the second day, frightened away by the snarling of timber wolves. Nicholas had lost his direction in the blowing snow and they had been wandering uselessly for several hours. In the whiteout that encased them, there was no glimmer of hope; no light toward which they could guide their tired bodies. Now, almost to the point of exhaustion, the two young people took refuge beneath a low rocky mountain overhang and sat shivering as they huddled together, trying desperately to blend the dwindling heats of their rapidly chilling bodies. All that was left was the heartless, icy death that awaited them during the long, frigid night. “I'm sorry, Gilly,” Nick croaked through cracked and bleeding lips. Gilly Cree used what was left of her strength to squeeze her brother's hand. “You did the best you could, Nick,” she answered him. Nick pressed his face against the wet wool of her coat and sobbed, his tears freezing on his chapped cheeks as he cried. He could not feel the trembling of his sister's cold fingers as she stroked his damp hair. “I don't blame you, Nicky.” she whispered. “You tried to help." The wind whipped past them, sending clumps of pristine white flakes, heavy and damp, cascading over the overhangs its protests to the world around them. “I didn't want it to end like this,” Nick sobbed. “Oh, God, Gilly! I didn't want it to end like this!" She began to hum to him, a lilting tune from their Chalean childhood, hugging him to her as best she could. Her voice broke now and again as happy memories of their growing up together flitted unbidden across her mind's eye. As she let the tune dwindle away, she imagined she could hear someone calling to them from out of the wind. But that was just a painful wish, she thought with bitter regret, for no one knew where they had gone. No one, not even their beloved sister, Adele, had been made privy to their hasty plans to spirit Gillian out of Hellstrom Point and away from the unwanted attentions of Rolf de Viennes. He'll not find us in Serenia,” Nick had sworn to her as he had helped her pack her small valise. “We'll find work in Boreas; change our names. Everything will be all right. You'll see!" They had left Virago on the night before her wedding to the man her father had decreed she spend the rest of her life with, despite the fact that he hated the de Viennes family almost as much as Gilly hated Rolf. “It's a matter of honor,” her father had shouted at her. “You'll take him to husband and not argue about it!"

“The man is vile!” Gilly had argued with her father. “I can not walk the corridors of the Keep without him trying to paw me!" “It is past time you were married,” her stepmother had said icily. “The de Viennes family is important in the Realm. They are people of means. You could do worse than Rolf de Viennes." “How so?” Gilly had shouted at her stepmother. “He has asked for the hand of every eligible maiden at court and has been turned down. Can you not see the man is...." “IT IS SETTLED!” her father, the Duke of Warthenham, had hissed at her. “I owe the Hesar family a debt of honor and I will see that debt paid!" No amount of honor could force Gilly to accept Rolf de Viennes or make her even consider spending her life at his mercy. His reputation alone, one of cruelty and viciousness, had turned Gilly's heart to stone with fear; but every argument she had made to her father, every tear, every tantrum, every pleading, had been met with stony silence. “I won't let Papa give you to that lecher, Gilly,” Nick had pledged. “Not if my very life depends on it." As the guests began to assemble two months later at Tempest Keep, the mighty fortress of the Hesar family where members of the peerage had taken their marriage vows for generations, Nick and Gilly had made plans for her escape. Now, here in this godawful cold; in this desolate place where nothing stirred and warmth was just a fleeting memory, Nick's life might well end because he had loved his sister too much to see her shackled to a man she could not abide. Gilly lifted her head, hearing the phantom calling once more. she tensed, hoping against hope that it was not a posse sent to bring them back Praying as she hugged her brother closer to her breast that no trackers had been close on their heels when they had crossed over into Serenia. If they had crossed over into Serenia. Nick was not sure. For all he knew, they might well still be in Virago. “Do you hear that, Nicky?” she whispered to him, bending down so she could place her lips to his ear. Above the keening of the arctic wind, she doubted if he could hear her otherwise. “Do you hear it?" “What?” he asked tiredly, his eyes closing against the spreading warmth and lassitude that was beginning to envelop him. Again the ghostling voice came out of the wind and Gilly pushed her brother away, too tired and cold herself to notice the languor that was claiming her own body. “Listen, Nick!” she told him. “Do you hear someone calling for help?" “Trackers,” Nick stated in a flat, emotionless voice. “They've found us." “No,” Gilly disagreed. “I don't think so.” Easing her brother out of her arms, she wrapped her heavy coat closer around her shivering body and leaned out beyond the overhang, ignoring the fat clumps of snow which fell heavily on her quivering shoulders. She squinted into the bright white swirl of snow that spun around her and imagined for a moment she saw an arcing light off to her right.

“Come back, Gilly,” Nick pleading. His teeth were clicking together so hard he had to clamp his jaws shut to control them. “H..el..p m..e p..l..e..a..s..e!" “There! Did you hear it?” Gilly cried out. “Someone is in trouble, Nick!" “No more so than we are,” Nick mumbled as he pressed his back against the unbearably cold rock behind him. Once more Gilly saw the flare of light, closer now, and she reached back for Nick's arm. “We've got to try to help, Nicholas!” She dragged on her brother's sleeve. “Nicky, please!" A part of Nicholas Cree wanted to stay where he was; to close his eyes and sleep; to let the frigid wind lull him into the arms of the Gatherer and keep him there for eternity, but another part of him was touched by the pleading in his sister's voice and he stirred, coming to his knees in the snow, reaching out to restrain her from venturing out from under the overhang. “How do you know it isn't them, Gilly?” he asked, listening intently for the ghostly voice he, himself, had heard calling for help. “I just do,” Gilly said forcefully. “Whoever it is, he's in need of assistance, Nick, and so are we. Maybe he can lead us to safety." “He may well be just as lost as we are, Gilly,” Nick sighed, but he crawled out from under the overhang, stood, then held his hand out to his sister. “Come on, then. We might as well freeze out here as under there." Lowering their heads against the onslaught of the pummeling snow and biting wind, brother and sister began trudging their way toward the bobbing light. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Two

Jasper Kullen lifted his lantern once more toward the thrashing sound coming from the frozen pond and then shrugged indifferently. He turned his head slightly to follow the bolting doe as it wove through the tall spruces and disappeared into the forest beyond, wishing he had his crossbow with him. The doe would have fed his family for several weeks, had he been able to bring her down in the force of the blizzard's wind. Kullen looked back toward the pond just in time to see the man's head disappear beneath the surface of the water. The broken chunks of ice around where the man had vanished, bobbed for a moment as a struggling hand pushed up from the water, clawing at the ice floe. The grasping fingers slid away from the slippery ice, grabbed frantically at the floe, missed, then disappeared beneath the churning waves. “Die, you sorry bastard,” Kullen spat. “Do us all a favor and die!" The crack of ice breaking away shot over the howling wind; the pond water heaved, splashing over the

ice floe as the man tried desperately to claw himself out of the water once more. Unable to lever himself up, the man sank heavily beneath the waters, thrashing as he did, his hand grabbing feebly at the ice to keep himself from going under again. More ice broke off from the main floe and the struggling man disappeared one last time below the surface, his hand, descending slowly through the cold water, still clutching a jagged section of ice in its rigid fingers. For a long time, Kullen stood watching the waters subside. When at last the ice was still and the surface began glazing over, freezing solid once more, he let a vindictive smile slowly spread over his weathered face. “Good riddance,” Jasper Kullen said, nodding. “And may the Demons roast you o'er a slow spit." Hitching up his shoulders into the relative warmth of his great cape, the woodcutter turned and headed back up the path to his hut. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Three

He had no idea in hell where he was. Beneath the surface of the frigid water, his world was pitch black and suffocating. It was all he could do to push his rapidly dying body through the murky wetness of the pond. Above him, the dark water slapped against the surface of the ice. Precious pockets of cold air had been trapped in the space between water and ice, and he strained to press his face into the space, gasping for breath, though the chill of the air he sucked in brought intense pain to his depleted lungs. “You're going to die for your sins,” he had heard the woodcutter shout to him, and he was terribly afraid that for once Jasper Kullen was telling the truth. The deer had been saved, he thought as he managed to arch his body away from the thick ice overhead and dive toward the bottom of the pond, his feet tangling in the reeds as he swam. Even if he died, the animal would see another day's light before some ruthless hunter brought her down. His sacrifice would have meant something to at least one living creature. A patch of a lighter hue hovered just beyond him and it was to this sanctuary he guided his frozen body, plowing through the darkness with the last of his fading strength. If he could only gather enough speed in the water, he might be able to push through the ice as he surfaced. He might even be able to beach himself on the floe, then claw his way onto the ice and drag himself out of the pond. Kicking out with every last bit of power in his long legs, he knifed through the slushy water and shot toward the lighter shade of dark gray above him. The ice broke with a resounding crack, the force of his upward momentum carrying him high into the air. Although the sharp edges tore through his sodden shirt and cut shallow furrows into the flesh of his forearms, he did not feel it. All he felt was the whipping wind that caught at his body and hurled him sideways, on to his side, atop a thicker, sturdier piece of ice. Scratching frantically at the floe, clawing, kicking, digging his booted feet forward on the ice, he scrambled up onto the solidly frozen pond and into the frozen reeds at the edge. Grabbing handfuls of the

thick clumps, he dragged himself out onto the bank, coating his soaked clothing with layer after layer of wet snow until he lay gasping on solid ground. A hard shiver ran through his tired, numb body and he lay still, all the fight drained away. Gilly stumbled over a half-buried tree stump and went down heavily in the snow. Her teeth clicked together painfully and she tasted blood where she had bitten the inside of her right cheek. “The gods-be-damn it!” she grunted. “Are you all right?” Nick shouted at her over the skirling wind. “Aye!” she said with disgust, spitting away the salty taste in her mouth. “There's a pond over there!” Nick yelled. “Keep well away from it!" Gilly nodded as her brother helped her to her feet. She dusted the snow from her knees and slapped her arms around her chilled body. “Do you see the light?" Nick looked about them. “It's gone.” And with it all hope, Nick thought as he urged Gilly forward. There was a trail of sort, a shallower indentation in the snow that had to be a trail, and he hoped it led to the source of the light they had seen earlier. “This way!” he shouted. Beyond the place where they walked, the conical shapes of fir trees were shadowed against the bright glare of the snow. They were close enough to actually smell the tar scent of spruce and cedar. The lake was off to their left, a darker white against the pristine drifts. “Nick!” Gilly suddenly yelled, dragging on his arm, her own pointing north. “Is that a house?" Snow stung his eyes; the wind lashed against his face like shards of glass. It was hard to breathe in the polar air, harder still to talk for his lips were frozen hunks of meat. “I don't know,” Nick answered, narrowing his eyes to the much darker gray shape that had suddenly loomed out of the gathering darkness. A gusting gale of wind slapped against them, and with it came the unmistakable smell of wood smoke. “IT IS A HOUSE!” Gilly exclaimed, her grip tightening on Nick's arm. “NICKY, IT IS!" They were heading right into the teeth of the winds, being devoured by the biting cold that sank through their clothing and clamped down to their bones. Bent over to protect their faces, they struggled toward the squat black mass that might well mean life and death for them. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Four

By the time they reached their destination, darkness had obliterated the front of the mansion, casting the twin oaken portals in shadows so sinister they resembled the yawning entrance way to hell. The wind which gusted over the courtyard and through the denuded shrubs and trees, skirted eerie, unholy music-shattering.

Gilly glanced nervously about her, taking in the loneliness of the place, the darkness behind its windows, the unkempt courtyard where brambles and debris lay huddled against the fieldstone walls, and scraggly branches scraped at cracked and shattered window panes. “The place looks deserted!” Nick shouted as they pushed their way to the entrance. Far off to the south, a dog howled in frustration at being left out in the biting tempest, and a wolf answered in commiseration. “Nick....” Gilly began, unnerved by the deadly quiet which emanated from the mansion, but her brother was already pounding on the portal, wincing as his frozen fist struck the wood. “HELLO!” Nick yelled, pounding with all his strength. “WE'RE LOST! LET US IN!" No light came on behind the darkened windows. No answering cries of greeting, or warnings to go away, issued from the silence within. “HELLO!!” Nick kicked at the door and tried the handle only to find it locked. “DAMN!” he spat. “Maybe we should just leave, Nicky” Gilly said, growing more uneasy with every passing moment. “And freeze to death out here when there is shelter available?” her brother snapped. He wedged himself between a scraggly shrub and the mansion wall and cupped his hands to a dirty, glazed window pane. “Do you see anything?” Gilly asked, stamping her feet. “Not a gods-be-damned thing!” Nick snarled. He tried the next window, but the accumulation of grime and neglect very effectively blocked his view of the mansion's interior. “There's got to be a stable,” Gilly suggested. She did not wait for her brother to answer. Dragging the sodden hem of her skirt out of the snow, she plowed through a knee-deep drift and started around the side of the mansion. “Gilly, wait!” Nick growled, squeezing between two bushes to follow in her wake. The stable was locked and barred with a heavy padlock that had not been opened in a long while. Rust caked the metal hasp and bolt. A peek through a gap in some boards gave mute evidence that the place had long since been deserted by man and animal alike. “We could pull out some of the boards; at least get in out of the snow,” Nick advised. He put his foot up to the stable planking and was about to wedge his thick fingers through the gap in the boards to lever them apart, when Gilly touched his arm, drawing his attention. “There's smoke coming out of the chimney, Nicky,” she told him. “Maybe whoever we heard calling for help is unable to come to the door.” She shuddered as she peered through the gloom at the mansion, then tried to put aside her fear. “Shouldn't we try to get inside and see?"

Nick glanced at the mansion, looked up at the billows of white, wafting smoke coming out of a far chimney and shrugged. “It's worth a try, I suppose." Every ground floor window was either too small to accommodate entry or else was enclosed with iron bars. The servant's entrance was locked, as was the kitchen. A complete circuit of the mansion proved the place to be inaccessible to anyone without key or ax. “There's got to be a way in,” Nick fumed as he looked about the long-neglected flower and vegetable gardens. Nothing with which to batter their entrance in could be found among the discarded implements scattered about. “What about those?” Gilly asked, pointing. Nick followed her direction and looked up to the second story and saw a set of double doors, their mullion panes opaque in the gloom. There was a small wrought iron balcony which looked out over the ramshackle flower garden. It would be a hazardous climb, what with the fieldstone walls being slick with the driving snow, but it was at least worth a try. “Can you get up there?” Gilly asked as her brother waded his way through the snow to the kitchen door where an overhang blocked the weather. Nick did not answer, but reached up to take hold of the overhang's support where it met the wall. He knew if he could get up on the overhang, and if it would hold his weight long enough for him to get a toe-hold in the fieldstone, he might be able to crab-walk his way to the balcony. He had no doubt his boot could make quick work of the fragile-looking mullions. Gilly held her breath as her brother pulled himself up to the overhang, the strain of scrambling over the contraption's edge making his face dark. His feet skidded on the roof tiles, sending small chunks of the material rolling down the incline until he could lever himself up onto the roof. He crouched there, no doubt testing the safety and stability of the overhang then inched forward, his fingers digging into the fieldstone to keep the wind from dragging him out into space. “Be careful!” Gilly called up uselessly and was instantly contrite as her brother looked down, frowning at her. The light had almost gone, but she could not help but see the irritation on Nick's stubborn face. “Sorry,” she mumbled, knowing he could not hear her. The going was tougher than Nick could have imagined. The fieldstone was slippery, slick and ice-cold to the touch. It was all he could do to wedge the toes of his boots into the joints and find any purchase at all along the thick stone. After what seemed to Nick to be an eternity, he could finally reach out and grasp the flooring of the balcony. “God!” he drew in a harsh breath as the wrought iron grating stuck instantly to his hand. He had not thought about that, he reminded himself as he jerked his burnt flesh back from the contact. “What is it?” Gilly called. “What happened?" Nick clenched his jaw and mentally cursed his forgetfulness at leaving his gloves back at Tempest Keep. He drew his right hand into the sleeve of his coat, scrunched up the material in his fist, then reached once more for the grating. With a mighty heave, he managed to get close enough to hook his entire arm through the grating.

Gilly slapped her arms around her body, trying to find some warmth. The wind had died down to a low mournful dirge and the snow was tapering off, but with the night's coming, the temperature would drop drastically and she knew if they did not find shelter soon, they would freeze to death. Praying the balcony would not come crashing down with his weight, Nick dug his toes into the fieldstone and pushed himself up, straining to get his left hand up to the top rail of the balcony. Swinging his arm up, he was able to hitch his crooked arm over the rail. Dangling precariously for a moment, his feet scrambled for purchase on the stone. “NICK!” Gilly gasped. Her hands were up as though she could catch him should he fall. “DON'T FALL!" “I'M NOT TRYING TO!” he shouted back, at last finding a toe-hold in the stone. With one heavy intake of breath, he unhooked his right arm from the grating, simultaneously pushing away from the wall with his feet and swung out. With the momentum of his swing, he was able to drape his free arm over the rail. It was then only a matter of hoisting himself over the railing and onto the balcony. As soon as he did, he headed for the door and took hold of the handle through the cloth of his coat. “Thank you,” Gilly muttered, looking to the heavens. “The gods-be-damned door ain't locked!” Nicky called down, his voice rife with pleasure. Gilly looked back to the balcony in time to see her brother disappear into the mansion. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Five

It had taken the nearly-drowned man over thirty minutes to make his way back to Holy Dale. His wet clothing had frozen to his flesh as he stumbled through the blowing, blinding snow. He had begun to pray, not really believing any god would ever hear him again or even want to; but he had to try. His upbringing had demanded it. When at last he had reached his home, he had staggered gratefully through the servant's entrance, managed to lock the door behind him, and had then collapsed on the stairs, unable to go any further, not sure he really wanted to, although the only warmth in Holy Dale was in his bed chamber on the third floor, and he was chilled to the very marrow of his bones. After a few attempts to haul himself up the stairs, he'd given up. Not even Brownie's excited barking or lapping tongue could rouse him from the stupor into which he allowed himself to drift. “Go away, girl,” he mumbled to the dog, feeling the slick, wet tongue slathering over his chaffed face. The bone-jarring chills had yet to come; but he knew they would soon arrive. His lungs felt heavy, laden with water, full of pond scum, and he could hear the wheeze that was already beginning as he drew in harsh gasps of breath through his opened mouth. First would come the chills; then the raging fever, the wracking cough that produced blood-flecked sputum, the violent convulsions, vomiting, the gasping for breath, and finally....

He'd watched his little brother, Anson, die in just that way. The illness had claimed the young boy in only two days. His dog barked, backed up and spun around in a circle. When he didn't respond, the animal snared the sleeve of his wet coat and, digging in her hindquarters, pulled. “No,” he said, too weary to put up a hand to fend off his only companion for these last five years. Brownie barked once more, then suddenly lifted her massive golden-brown head and swung cinnamon eyes to the doorway which led to the interior of the house. A low growl erupted from her throat and she spun around, padding heavily through the doorway and out of sight. He tried once more to move, to push himself up, but the effort was too great and already his teeth were beginning to chatter. He had never been so cold in his life, and not even the thought of the warmth of that fire blazing in his bed chamber hearth could give him the strength to get up. The bare floorboards, the built-up dust of many months of neglect now streaked with melting snow, were cold to his cheek, but the sensation felt good. His face felt as though it were close to a fire, although his body still shivered with the sodden clothes clinging to it. For one fleeting moment he thought he heard pounding on the door, someone calling out, but he dismissed it. There was no one who cared whether he lived or died. A tiny smile stretched his cracked lips. No, that wasn't exactly true. The entire village wanted him dead, but he doubted seriously if any of them would come to see if his swim in the pond had produced that most devoutly wished state. And he knew damned well Kullen wouldn't mention witnessing his plunge into the pond until the spring thaw. The pounding came again and when, with supreme effort, he lifted his head to listen, he heard the unmistakable command to: “Let us in!". Who would dare to come to Holy Dale to see if, by some strange quirk of fate, the Lord and Master still lived? No one he knew, that was for sure. A stranger, perhaps, lost in the blizzard, in need of help? There could be no other explanation. Some passing fool who had heard his own cries for help as Kullen watched him drowning, and whose conscience bid him come to a stranger's aide? He struggled to get up, realizing his life might well depend on his finding out who was seeking entrance to his home on such an afternoon. But no matter how hard he tried to raise himself up, his flagging energy would not permit it and he slumped down once more, his fevered cheek pressed against the cold, wet floor. Brownie came lopping back into the servant's hall, her tail held low; her massive sharp teeth bared. A menacing growl throbbed and the hackles on the golden back lifted. “Easy, milady,” he calmed the animal as the mutt came to him and sat with its back to its master, its keen eyes intent on the servant's entrance. He saw the shadow peering in at the windows, tried to call out, but found his voice had deserted him. All that came out was a wet, rattling croak, and murky, foul-tasting pond water bubbled out of his lungs, out of his mouth, and spewed onto the dusty floored. Even as the door to the servant's quarters rattled, the blackness was reaching up to claim him. [Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

What struck Nick as odd, other than the total silence and the intense cold, was the loneliness of the room through which he stumbled. He knew the room was a library for he could smell the familiar odor of bookbindings: an aroma Nicholas Cree had enjoyed since childhood. But he could tell the place had not been used for many months, even years, for the stench of mold and mildew and neglect wafted just under the pleasant smell of parchment and glue. As he bumped into what appeared to be a desk, he could feel layers of dust come away on his palms and he hissed with disgust, running his hands down the front of his coat. It didn't take him long to find the right door out into the second floor hallway, despite opening two closet doors and a third door into a small room that must have been a privy from the smell of it. The hallway was equally silent, cold, and so dark Nick was almost afraid to step away from the wall to which his hands were plastered for fear he'd go plummeting down an unseen staircase. He carefully put one foot beside the other as he slid sideways down the hall, reaching out to feel with his toe for empty space. “Hello?” he called out. “Is there anybody here?" What greeted him was the howling wind which screamed through the rafters and shook the loose panes in the windows of the rooms he passed. When at last he came to the stairs, he felt the blasting chill of the wind whirling up the staircase and grimaced, thinking if someone were living here, why hadn't they boarded up the broken windows to keep out the draft? He found it lighter below stairs and had no difficulty making his way to the kitchen. Light reflecting off the snow outside cast the spacious room in paler shadows and he didn't once stumble into cabinet, table, or counter on his way to the door. There was no furniture to stumble into: the place was devoid of furnishings. Gilly heard the bolt sliding back and was relieved to see her brother's face in the opening as the door was pulled back. She hurried inside. “If there's anyone here,” Nick told her as he reached out to take her arm, “I haven't found him, yet, and he must have burned his furniture ‘cause there ain't none." “The fire?” she asked, aching to warm her chilled body before the roaring flames. Nick shrugged. “I haven't even seen the first glimmer of light. Maybe upstairs." “Can we look for a lantern?” Gilly inquired. “A candle? Anything?" Nick knew well his sister's fear of the dark and he nodded. “Let's look.” And when he had found Lucifers and an oil lamp, he made quick work of lighting it. The lamp cast eerie shadows on the bare walls, devoid of any kind of adornment, even curtains, and filled the air with the scent of whale oil. Nick's face was cratered with dark hollows, his blue eyes glowing with unearthly brightness.

“Which way?” Gilly asked, shivering badly now that she was out of the blasting chill of the wind. He led her back the way he had come. Holding the lamp high as they ascended the stairs, he was surprised to see paler shades of rectangles, ovals, and squares on the wall beside them. “Looks as though all the fripperies and family portraits have been taken down or sold,” Nick commented. “Or stolen,” Gilly answered. Nick nodded. If the mansion had been deserted for as long as he suspected, that was a logical explanation as to why the place was bare of the usual accouterments. He looked at the long hallway down which he had entered the mansion from the library and shuddered. Part of the balcony overlooking the main hall had fallen away, a portion cocked at a dangerous angle as though someone had crashed through the railing and plunged to the stone floor below. If he had not been so careful traversing that hall, he might well have ended up doing the same thing. The stairs leading to the third floor were at the far end of the hallway and he took hold of Gilly's arm and pulled her close to the wall, not trusting the gaping hole in the balcony they passed. “What could have happened?” his sister asked as she stared at the broken wood railings. “Accident, maybe?” Nick surmised. “But long ago." “How can you tell?” she asked. “If it had just happened, the wood would be paler in color where the breaks are.” Nick took one last look at the balcony and resolutely turned his head away. As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, they could smell the tell-tale aroma of burning wood. Even though there was no light at the top of the stairs, or along the balcony above their heads, the scent wafted down to them on an errant draft. “You stay here,” Nick said as they gained the third floor landing. He pushed her gently against the wall and opened his coat, reaching his hand inside for the dagger that he always wore strapped to his thigh. “Nick?” she questioned, suddenly afraid for his safety. “Stay here,” he repeated. Easing carefully toward the first closed door on the landing, he opened it slowly, to darkness. Shutting it again, he went to the next door, then the next, until finally he found the right one. Swinging the door to the bed chamber open slowly, Nick was greeted first with enough sufficient warmth to make him draw in a deep, longing breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of coffee brewing. Cautiously he entered the room, somewhat relieved to find it empty, and looked about him. “Gilly?” he called. The bed chamber was large, though sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a straight chair, small writing table flanking the bed, a large built-in armoire, and one trunk taking up space. There was no settee, no tub. There was no rug upon the floor nor draperies at the windows. No pictures hung on the walls,

although the same pale shadows gave silent proof that once there had hung adornments of some sort. In one corner was a large wooden barrel filled with water. “Gilly?” Nick called again turning to look toward the door. “It's all right. Come on in." He walked to the bed and frowned, somewhat surprised to see only a sheet and thin blanket covering the mattress, the blanket folded neatly back over the worn sheet. There was a single pillow, without covering, feathers poking through the fabric. A small lamp sitting at the corner of the writing desk vied with the blazing fire to light the room. Logs were piled up beside the hearth in a neat pyramid; enough logs to last only a few hours in this kind of weather. Inside the firepit, a coffee pot hung, its blue enamel surface glowing a dull red. “Gilly?” Nick called, his eyes falling on a thick book, the only one in the room, lying on the writing desk. He was about to open the book, when he realized his sister had yet to answer him or join him. He turned, frowning heavily, and trod heavily to the door. “Gilly?" She was right where he had left her. Her eyes were on the stairs, her body pressed so tightly to the wall she might well have been one of the missing portraits. “Didn't you hear me?” Nick challenged her as he stood in the bed chamber doorway, holding up the lamp so he could see her. When his sister didn't answer, he took a step out of the room. “No,” Gilly said in an urgent whisper. Nick stopped, noticing for the first time the rigid way she was standing and the strained look on her face. “What is it?” he asked. He took another careful step toward her. “Nick, no!” she said. “Stay where you are!" Then he heard it: the low, menacing growl coming from the direction of the stairs. Nick began moving slowly down the hallway toward his sister. “Nice boy." “It's a girl,” Gilly breathed. “A BIG girl, Nicky." “Just don't move,” he told her. His hand went to the dagger at his belt and he carefully withdrew it. Getting a good grip on the handle, he nearly dropped the weapon when a demanding bark shattered the silence. “Nick!” Gilly gasped. She was staring fixedly at the forty pounds of menace on the stairs. “Stand still,” her brother ordered from between clenched teeth. As he continued toward her-feeling the slight wetness that had stained his breeches when the animal had barked-he kept his own gaze on the darkness below the stairs. Brownie barked again, then thumped her thick tail on a step. Once, twice, three times. She shook her mane of golden-brown fur then barked once more and took a deliberate step backwards. “What's she doing?” Gillian whispered.

“I'll be sure to ask her when I get the chance!” Nick snapped. He could now see the massive animal perched between two risers, tail swinging slowly from side to side. The dog's tongue was hanging out one side of its large mouth. “Hey, girl.” Nick moved in front of his sister, shielding her. “Good girl." The dog barked again, but the sound was different, almost playful; she took another step down the stairwell. “What did Papa say about a wagging tail?” Gilly asked quietly. “Something about a wagging tail means a friendly wave from an animal." “What you want, girl?” Nick asked, watching the dog retreat another step. He cautiously lifted his gaze from the animal to peer into the darkness. “Is your master down there?" Brownie barked excitedly, turned and leapt off the stairs. She stopped, spun around-facing Nick-then sat down, her large tail making loud thumps on the uncarpeted floor. Once more she barked, swung her head toward a doorway nearby, then looked back up at Nick. “Is he in there, girl?” Nick asked, taking a step down the stairwell. “Nick, be careful!” Gillian cautioned. The dog barked again, then got up and trotted through the dark opening of the doorway. “You stay put,” Nick ordered his sister as he continued on down the stairs. He still gripped the dagger tightly in his free hand, the lantern held high in the other. Gillian held her breath as Nick stepped gingerly down the stairs. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, and she half-expected the beast to leap out of the darkness and attack her brother. But their father's words came back to reassure her: “If you happen to approach a strange dog, look to his rump, Gilly. If the tail is wagging, he's just waving you a good morn. If the tail is tucked down between his legs, that's his way of saying keep away." Nick's heart was none-too steady as he made his way to the last step. He flexed his fingers around the dagger's grip and tried to crane his neck to look into the blackness beyond the door. “Hello? Is anyone there?” A bark came in answer. Gillian's brother glanced up at her, shrugged his thick shoulders, then ducked through the door. She put her hands up to her mouth, felt them trembling, and almost fain'ted when Nick's excited shout came from below stairs: “Gilly, come quick! I've found him!" The sight that greeted Gillian as she ventured into the darkness brought her up short. Nick was bent over a prone figure lying on the servant's stairs. As his hands moved over the stranger, the big dog sat beside him, one massive paw on Nick's broad shoulder. “He's soaked through, Gilly,” Nick said with disgust. “And half-frozen into the bargain.” He shook off the dog's paw and shrugged out of his thick coat. After wrapping the heavy wool around the unconscious man on the stairs, he thrust his hands beneath the stranger's body and lifted, struggling to his feet as the dog reared up on its hind legs. “Get the lantern and let's get him to that room upstairs. We've got to get these clothes off him before he freezes to death!"

Gillian moved almost without thought as she stooped to pick up the lantern Nick had set on the floor. She followed her brother up the servants’ stairs. “It must have been him I heard calling for help,” she said. “Aye,” Nick agreed. He was struggling to make it up the stairs. Lack of food, the cold, and the miles they'd walked through the hip-deep snow had all but taken a toll of his strength. By the time he gained the landing, he was panting and the dead weight lying in his arms was almost more than he could carry. “Get the fire roaring hot, Gilly,” he ordered. Gillian moved around her brother and went into the bedchamber out of which he'd come earlier. She swept her eyes about the vast chamber, somewhat surprised at the austerity of the place, then placed the lantern on the mantle before stooping to add more logs to the fire. “We're going to need more wood, Nick,” she said, feeling her brother come into the room. She threw the last log on the fire and turned to see Nick depositing the unconscious man on the floor beside the bed. “Help me strip him,” Nick asked. He flung his own coat away then set to work to pull the sodden lightweight jacket from the stranger. “Get his boots.” As he worked to pull the icy material of the man's cambric shirt away, he cursed viciously. “What the hell was he doing out in this muck with no more on than this?" “Maybe it's all he has,” Gillian remarked as she shook her head at the rundown condition of the stranger's boots. The heels were worn down; there were patched places on the leather soles and paper had been stuffed down inside the boot itself. She frowned when she noticed the holes in his socks. “By the gods,” Nick snarled. “The man's a gods-be-damned icicle!” He clucked at the mottled blue condition of the stranger's flesh. “How's his toes?" Gillian pulled the wet socks away then cupped the man's feet in her hand. “There doesn't appear to be any frostbite but they're like ice." “Heat some water,” Nick ordered. “We've got to bathe him. He's got pond scum all over him.” His hands went to the man's belt and he made quick work of the buckle and the buttons holding a pair of patched breeches in place. “He must have fallen in,” Gilly said as she set about to do as her brother asked, filling a cast iron kettle with water from the barrel, then placing it in the fire to heat. “He's alive only by the grace of Alel,” Nick growled as he tugged the breeches over the stranger's lean hips. His heart ached when he saw the hipbones sticking up through the taut flesh. “When was the last time you ate, my friend?” he whispered. Gillian looked around, then blushed as she saw that her brother was pulling the man's breeches off. Quickly, she averted her gaze. “You want me to see if I can find something to make broth from, Nicky?” she asked. “Aye, that would help,” her brother agreed. “If we're to save this one, he'll need more nourishment than he's been getting of late.” He glanced over at his sister. “He's fair starved, Gilly." Spying another lantern, Gillian retrieved it, lit the wick, then told her brother she was going down to the

kitchen. “I'll bring in some more wood, too.” She saw Nick nod absently. Brownie had been sitting in the doorway of the bedchamber, avidly watching her master being cared for. At the female's approach, she stood up, wagged her tail once, then moved toward her. When the female froze, she sidled up to her, sniffed at her legs, then moved out of her path as though granting her permission to leave. “The mutt won't hurt you,” Nick said as he stood up from the stranger and moved to the heating water in the grate. “She's just a big pussycat, ain't you, girl?" The big dog sniffed as though in disdain, then trotted over to the warmth of the fireplace. Lying down, she lowered her massive head to her paws and lay watching Nick, alternately switching her gaze from her master to the human the dog instinctively knew was helping. Gillian didn't breath easy, though, until she was well away from the monster dog. Her legs were still weak from all the walking she and her brother had done in the last few days and her stomach was rumbling with hunger. Lightheaded with the need for food, she moved about the vast kitchen, disappointed when all she could find were a few shriveled potatoes and carrots and a mushy rutabaga. A search of the pantry revealed a basket of hedge apples, more shriveled root vegetables and a few handfuls of wormy flour and meal. “That's it?” she said, searching every cabinet and bin in the place. “That's all there is?" A snort came from behind her and Gillian spun around, her eyes going wide. Sheon heavy paws over to the outside door. She paused, looked around, then turned her attention to the door. “You want to go out?” Gillian asked, seeing where the dog's gaze was glued: the latch. When the dog snorted again, she carefully slid her back along the table, then reached out to unhook the latch. “How about bringing back a rabbit while you're out doing your duty,” she said dryly as she pulled the door open an inch or two. The big dog bobbed her head as though in agreement, wedged her wet nose in the opening, then loped outside into the swirl of snow. Gillian sighed heavily, hating to go out again, but they would need wood for the fire and she'd rather do that than be upstairs bathing a strange man. Pulling her scarf more closely around her throat, she followed the dog out into the blizzard, hoping she remembered where she'd seen the small woodpile. Nick lifted the unconscious man and laid him-naked and as still as death-on the bed. He piled every available piece of cover over the stranger, then wadded up a few loose pieces of ragged clothing and sat them in front of the fire. Once the clothing was sufficiently warm, he would wrap the man's feet with them. “There isn't much wood, Nick,” Gillian informed him as she entered with an armload of snow-speckled logs. “But there's an ax in the kitchen." “I'll see to it,” Nick answered. “Did you find any food?" Gillian shrugged. “Precious little.” She couldn't see the stranger's face from where she stood, but her tender heart had already gone out to him. “I found some root vegetables and I can boil them down to broth, but there was no meat or lard, only a handful or two of flour."

“Poor sod,” Nick mumbled. “He's been living like this for quite awhile.” He looked about the room. “All alone, except for the dog." “Surely this isn't his home,” she replied. “Aye, but it is,” Nick said. “How do you know?" “Come and have a look at him, Gillian,” Nick said. Gillian stood up from wedging another log in the grate and went to the bed. She looked inquisitively at her brother, then turned her gaze to the unconscious man. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my god!” she gasped. “It can't be!" “Aye, but it is,” Nick said, nodding. “It's him, all right." Gillian turned shocked eyes to her brother. “Then that means...” She shuddered, violently. “Oh, Nick!" Her brother nodded again. “It means we're still in Virago.” He plowed his hand through his damp hair. “About ten miles from where we thought we were." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eight

He was shivering so badly he could barely draw breath, yet his body was engulfed with flames that licked at his flesh and peeled it away from his bones. His chest felt heavy, laden with weight, and every intake of over-heated air into his lungs took effort. The loud buzzing in his ears drowned out the comforting words washing over him; he couldn't make out what was being said. Not that it mattered: he knew he was imagining the voices just as he had imagined them time and again for the last five years. Just as he was imagining the gentle touches; the cool hands on his cheeks and foreheads; the trickle of clean, chilled water that seeped past his dry, cracked lips. Just as he imagined the lovely face floating above him, smiling down with tearful eyes as he wheezed and tried to cough up his very lungs. When the shivering became bone-wracking convulsions, he imagined he felt warm, hard flesh pressing against him on his right side, tender sweet flesh on his left. Slowly, he turned his head toward the wrenching smell of gardenias and inhaled. The action cost him dearly, for his chest was so laden with congestion, he started to choke on it. And the imagining continued as helpful hands lifted his head and held him as he coughed, spewing up dirty water and mucous. A warm cloth was applied to his mouth to wipe away the spittle; the cool rim of a cup was placed against his lips and that sweet, sweet voice bid him drink. Those imaginary hands laid him down again, smoothed the wet hair from his forehead, trailed down his cheek. He fantasized that he heard someone tell him to rest and he snuggled against a soft, smooth shoulder and buried his face in a neck that smelled wondrously of springtime flowers on the heath.

But fantasies hurt and his heart had been broken long ago. There was no kindness in this world for him and he doubted there would be any in the world beyond. Each time he allowed himself to indulge in these imaginary ramblings and wishful thinking, another part of him died. But then again, perhaps that was just as well. **** “Does he appear cooler to you?” Gillian asked as she shifted her position. Nick ran a hand over the man's face. “Perhaps.” He tugged the covers up around them. “I wish that monster would move." Gillian lifted her head and looked at the dog which had stretched out over their feet. “I don't believe she's of a mind to, Nicky.” She laid her head down again and frowned. Her right arm was asleep yet she wouldn't move it. “I believe we have usurped her normal place beside her master." “You know,” Nick said, listening to his stomach growling, “Papa would pay a princely ransom to have a hunting dog like this one." Gillian smiled. She had been astounded when, upon answering the mutt's insistent scratching at the door, the dog had trotted inside with two rabbits clamped delicately between her fierce canines. Her mouth had sagged open as the dog had dropped the rabbits on the floor at her feet, then regally turned to leave again. “How about pheasant this time?” she'd called after the dog as it bolted into the whiteout beyond the kitchen door. And pheasants it had been. A brace of them. After delivering her gift, the big dog had cocked a massive head to one side, and Gillian would have sworn on her life, a bushy eyebrow had lifted in question. “Okay, then. One of these is for you my bonny girl,” Gillian had said, hunkering down to scratch the big mutt behind her golden-brown ears. “You think the stew's ready?” Nick asked, bringing Gillian back to the there and then. “Should be,” she answered. Gently, she eased her arm from beneath a damp, sweat-soaked head, feeling the chill of the air wash over her flesh as she got up. Nick turned his eyes to the pillow as his sister left the warmth of the bed he and she had shared with the man wedged between them. “When you've eaten, you really need to get more wood, Nick. The room is still cold.” Gillian threw an old cotton wrapper around her and belted it. Shivering, she went to the fireplace and stirred the pot of rabbit stew bubbling away in the black cast iron kettle. The aroma drifted over her and she inhaled deeply. “It's ready." Nick hated to leave the comfort of the bed even though the heat of the other man's body was making him sweat. He eased out from beneath the covers and quickly drew on his breeches, feeling his testicles shrivel as the chill of the still-damp breeches touched them. “By the gods, but I hate the cold,” he shuddered.

Gillian ladled some broth into a chipped bowl and set it aside to cool. Spooning a large helping of the stew into another cracked bowl, she handed it to her brother. “You eat,” Nick ordered even as he shoveled the hot stew into his mouth. “Hopefully he'll be waking soon, and I'm too clumsy to feed him." Gillian ladled stew into a third bowl, drew the cotton wrapper closer around her, then slid gracefully to the floor in front of the fireplace. “Why do you suppose they've allowed him to live this way, Nick?” Gillian asked, glancing up at the unconscious man before cautiously taking a sip of the stew. Nick shrugged. “Why do the Hesars do anything, Sweeting?” he sneered. He thoughtfully chewed a thick morsel of rabbit for a moment, then shrugged again. “There never was any love lost between Duncan and Kaelan, I've heard. And besides, the Hesars aren't known for their forgiving natures, as you might well remember." “But to make him live like this,” she protested. “It's cruel, Nick." Nick Cree sighed. “We don't know the whole of it, Gilly.” He held out his empty bowl for a refill. “I'm of a mind that no one outside the Hesar clan, themselves, know the whole of it." “The Sinclairs do,” Gillian argued. “Aye,” Nick agreed. “They would, I suppose." “Do you remember her?" Nick nodded. “Only too well,” he grumbled. A picture of a stunning blonde vixen flitted across his mind, but he deliberately erased it. “Too many men remember that one, I think." A groan from the bed brought sister and brother their feet: Nick with an immediate frown of concern. He went to the bed and leaned over, his gaze assessing the consciousness of their patient. “He's coming ‘round,” Gillian heard him say. Taking up a cup of water, Gillian brought it to the bed. She sat down on the coverlet and slid her hand under the man's hot neck. Placing the rim of the cup against his parched lips, she let a trickle of water seep into his mouth. “Drink, dearling,” she said quietly. Nick watched the man's face carefully. There was a drawing together of thick dark brows as confusion replaced unconsciousness. The eyes remained shut, but the lips parted to allow the cool water to enter. “He's still burning up,” Gillian pronounced. She was bracing the man's head against her breast, her arm around his thin shoulder. “He needs a poultice,” Nick explained. “Camphor for his chest.” A deep frown etched Cree's face. “He's mightily congested. I sure as hell don't like that wheezing." “I'll have a look about the kitchen when you come back with the wood,” Gillian told him. Nick sighed, sharply. “How many times are you going to remind me about the gods-be-damned wood, Gilly?” he complained.

She looked up at her brother. “How many times do I need to remind you before you realize none of us will survive without it, Nicholas?" Neither Nick nor Gillian saw the man's eyes flutter open. As they glared at one another, they missed the look of stunned surprise that passed over the febrile face. “I haven't eaten all I want, yet,” Nick snapped. “Then be about it, man!” Gillian shot back. “The wood in the grate won't last all evening!" Dark brown eyes shifted from the creamy underside of a smooth chin to a belligerent square-jawed face that was flushed with the room's heat. Perplexity made those dark orbs narrow. “I know that, woman!” Nick responded in kind. He cast a murderous glare at the remaining wood snapping and crackling in the fireplace. “Well?” Gillian challenged. She continued to stare at her brother until he snatched up his coat and stomped heavily to the door. “I don't care to venture out in this muck,” Nick grumbled as he jerked the door open and plowed out into the hall. “It's gods-be-damned cold out there." “And bring back some more snow!” Gillian called out. “The water in the barrel ain't fit to drink!” She grinned at the nasty expletive that came back to her as Nick's heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. She glanced down at her patient then blinked. He was staring up at her, his soul lurking just behind the dark umber of his eyes. There was an odd expression on his thin face and breathless wonder in the weak voice which spoke. “Who are you?” came the hoarse request. “Gillian, Your Grace,” she whispered automatically although she had been captured-and was being held spellbound-by the shifting motes of gold moving through his irises. “Have you forgotten already?" “My Gillian,” he sighed and long dark lashes slipped slowly downward to hide the fevered intensity of his gaze. His breathing grew deep as he returned to the netherworld in which he'd spent most of the day. She sat there—holding his head braced against her chest—and stared at him. Was it really him? She wondered as her gaze slid slowly over the taut features that were now composed in sleep. Although his face was flushed from the fever and his cheeks sunken from lack of proper nourishment, he was just as handsome as the first day she had seen him over nine years before. “Kaelan,” she said and trailed her fingers down his lean cheek and under his too-warm chin. He would be thirty-two, now, she thought, this prince of the Hesar clan, and yet he looked much older. No doubt the life he had been forced to live had aged him so. Anger rose up in Gillian's heart and she drew him closer to her, holding him, protecting him against the vile world that had made him an outcast. ****

Nick was grumbling fiercely as he dropped the load of firewood beside the hearth. “By the gods, but it's turning colder out there!” He thrust his hands to the fire and rubbed them vigorously together. “And I'll warrant there's been another three inches of snow fallen since we came inside.” Stamping the feeling back into his numb toes, he turned his backside to the fire. Gillian glanced at her brother. “He woke for a moment and asked who I was." Nick chuckled. “You must have seemed like a dream to him, I suppose." “The fever's broken,” she told him. “But there's still a lot of congestion in his lungs." “Best see if you can find some medicines down below,” her brother advised. “The fever may be leaving him, but he could yet die." “He won't,” Gillian stated and Nick nodded. If his little sister said the man wouldn't die, he wouldn't. “I spied the sign whilst I was out,” Nick said. When Gillian turned a questioning brow to him, he nudged his chin toward the man on the bed. “The estate sign,” he explained. “It had been torn off the post." “Holy Dale,” Gillian said softly. She had always thought the name beautiful despite the ugliness that had become attached to it. “Some fool had changed it to Unholy Dale,” Nick snorted. He faced the fire again and held out his hands. “And I don't think it was the young prince, there, what done it." “Probably not,” Gillian agreed. “Do you want more stew, Nicky?" “Aye,” her brother said, sitting down on the hearth. “Just as soon as I thaw myself out." “Watch him, then,” she said, handing her brother another bowl of stew. “I'll see what I can find downstairs." Nick wrapped his hands around the steaming bowl of stew as he sat watching their patient. He smiled at the big dog who was still draped across his master's legs. “You don't go far from him, do you, girl?” Nick asked. Brownie lifted her massive head and shook the golden-brown fur as though she were answering. She turned her face toward her master, studied him for a moment, then lowered her head to her paws once more, her cinnamony eyes flicked from side to side, reconnoitering the chamber, then closed. Nick chuckled to himself. A good friend to have, he thought as he spooned a large helping of the stew into his mouth. Probably your only friend, eh, Prince Kaelan? he thought. As he ate, he thought back to the autumn equinox nine years earlier when he and his family had Journeyed to Virago and been presented at the court of the Hesars. It had not been a particularly happy occasion, for none of the Crees had wanted to leave their native Chale for the wilds of the stormy north country. But their father, Duke Dakin Cree, had been posted as Chale's ambassador to the windswept cliffs of that cold land and his family had reluctantly accompanied him.

On the very day of his presentation at court, the long-widowed Duke of Warthenham had met the Countess Elga Junstrom and, after only one month in Virago, had taken her to wife. Their father's marriage to the gold-digging Countess had added more fuel to the fires of contempt in which the five Cree siblings held Virago and the barren coldness that was Tempest Keep. The cold weather was another deterrent. That had been when Prince Landis, Prince Kaelan's father, was Jarl. The elder Hesar was a stern man who never smiled and who seemed to bear the Crees a particular dislike. Barely civil to the Duke, openly contemptuous of the ‘brats’ the Ambassador had brought with him from Chale, Landis had made life at the Keep most unpleasant. Perhaps having to hand over his favorite mistress into the keeping of a minor Chale nobleman had been reason enough to find disfavor with the Duke, but the Prince's dislike of the Cree children puzzled even the most jaded among the court's hangers-on. Why? Nick thought as he set aside his bowl. Why had the old man hated them so? He supposed no one would ever know, for Landis was long since in his grave and Duncan, Kaelan's older brother, was now Jarl at Tempest Keep. Things had changed drastically for the Cree family when Landis and his youngest son, Anson, had both succumbed to the lung fever eight winters past. The twenty-six year old Duncan had not shared his father's contempt for the Duke and his offspring, though he was not as warm to them as he was to some others assigned as emissaries to the Court of the Storm. He had shown the Crees a better time of it than his father had and had even made good matches for the two eldest Cree daughters: Adele and Adair. He also found a most enchanting wife for the eldest son, Ruan. The marriages had elevated the Cree siblings to a much higher rank within the court and had, fortunately, brought much happiness to those involved. But unhappiness for me and Gillian, Nick remembered with a bitter frown. Duncan had found a bride for the sixteen year old youngest son of Dakin Cree. Ruan's wife, Brigid, had a younger sister of marriageable age and it was to Nicholas, that Prince Duncan engaged her. Without Nick's knowledge or consent. When Nick discovered himself engaged to a girl he thought flighty and perhaps more than a little stupid, the young man balked and refused to allow the marriage to take place. “I'll join a monastery before I'll shackle myself to that empty-headed chit!” he'd ranted at his father. “You just might have to!” the Duke had shouted back. “How can I tell His Grace you find this betrothal not to your liking? He's done well with your sisters and brother! He has only your best interests in mind!" “My brother and sisters,” Nick had seethed with disdain, “can be led like cattle to the market. I can not!” He had flung out his hand. “I WILL not!" “Nor will I!” a thirteen year old Gillian had vowed before being sent from the room by her irate father. “Prince Duncan can make my tenure here impossible!” the Duke had tried to reason with his son, but Nick had been adamant, vowing that when he took a woman to wifemany years down the road, he hoped-she would be from Chale and a sight better endowed than the scrawny bitch that was Ruan's sister-in-law.

But Duncan had merely laughed at the Duke's dismay when Dakin had worked up sufficient courage to confront the man about his son's engagement, surprising many of those within listening range. “Do not concern yourself, my friend,” Prince Duncan had said. “If he doesn't wish to marry Alinor, I shan't make him." “Ask anything else of me, Your Grace,” Dakin had promised, “and I shall do it. Nicholas’ behavior has sorely embarrassed us and we would atone for it!" Had the elder Cree realized he was being used, that just such a brash promise as the one he'd just made had been what Duncan had been after in the first place, Dakin would have torn out his tongue by the roots. But the harm had already been done. Duncan now had a potent hold over the Duke. Nick doubted Duncan had even given thought to Gillian at that time. The gangling thirteen year old child with the long reddish—gold tresses and wide green eyes looked more elfin than womanly and certainly had not-at that time, anyway—caused lust in the heart of Rolf de Viennes. It was not until Gilly's twentieth birthday that Rolf laid claim to her hand and Dakin Cree, despite a virulent hatred of the de Viennes clan, could do nothing about it. “You swore obedience to my desires,” Duncan had reminded the Duke not long after the betrothal was announced-again without prior knowledge of the Cree family. “Are you an honorable man or are you not, milord?" The betrothal had stood and Nick had joined with Adele and her husband to spirit their unfortunate sister away. For Adele was married to Rolf's cousin, Gunter, and Gunter hated Rolf almost as much as Gillian did. “Get her as far away from that beast as you can, Nick,” Gunter had warned. “If she were my sister, I'd rather see her in Galraith Convent than married to that vile lecher!" Nick stood up from the hearth and stretched, wincing at the pulled muscles in his arms. Chopping wood was not something he was accustomed to doing and he knew he'd be stiff and sore from his labors come morning. He looked down at his hands and frowned. Already, there were blisters forming on his tender flesh. “They'll heal." Nick's head snapped up and he found himself being observed. A tentative smile formed on his face and he took a step toward the bed. “I'm happy to see you awake, Your Grace,” he said. Dipping his head in respect, he introduced himself: “I am Nicholas Cree.” He took another step, encouraged by the calm look on the other man's face. “I know you don't remember me, but..." “You are Gunter's friend,” came the hoarse reply. “Aye!” Nick said, his grin broadening. “He married my sister, Adele." The man lying on the bed tried to sit up and couldn't. He was too weak and the heavy weight of the dog lying across his ankles didn't help. Collapsing back on his pillow, he turned pleading eyes to Nick, but he didn't ask for help.

“Let me,” Nick said, rushing to aid him. He put his hands under the older man's armpits and lifted him up in the bed. “Shoo!” he told Brownie and never once doubted the big mutt would obey. The dog dropped to the floor with a grunt of disapproval at the ejection. “Thank you. How bad are your hands?” the ill man inquired. Nick glanced down at his palms, then shrugged. “Like you say: they'll heal.” He tugged the covers up around his patient's chest. “Hard work never hurt anyone." “There is salve.” A trembling hand lifted to point at the large armoire on the other side of the chamber. “Don't concern yourself, Your Grace,” Nick said, blushing. “Kaelan,” was the response. “Just Kaelan." “Oh, I couldn't possibly.” Nick stopped as he recognized the hurt which began to form on the other man's face. He could have bitten off his tongue; instead, he laid a comforting hand on Kaelan Hesar's shoulder and squeezed lightly. “I'd be honored to call you by your given name, milord." A ghost of a smile briefly tugged at Kaelan's mouth before the grim lines of despair settled once more into place. “You are the Duke's son, are you not?” he asked quietly. “Aye,” Nick agreed. “His youngest son." “How do you come to be here?" Nick's face turned scarlet red. “We were looking for shelter.” He looked away. “We heard cries for help and made our way here. I'm afraid I had to break in." “Doesn't matter,” Kaelan replied, sensing the man's discomfort. His eyes closed wearily. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you like." There was in those eleven words, years of crushing loneliness and fading hope. How many years had it been since Kaelan Hesar had known human companionship? Five? Six? When had Marie Sinclair died? “For as long as you need to,” came the amendment. “They'll be looking for us, milord,” Nick said without pausing to think of the consequences his words might cause. “Perhaps we should move on when the storm is o'er." Kaelan Hesar opened his eyes and looked at the man standing over him. “Who will be looking for you?” he asked. “The Jarl and Rolf de Viennes.” Nick lifted his chin. “She was not enamored of the Jarl's choice." Another ghostly smile laid brief claim to Kaelan's parched lips. “A wise lady, your sister." “I will not see her bound to that libertine,” Nick swore. “Gillian,” Kaelan named her on a breath of sound. “I remember her well."

“Aye, milord,” Nick said. “I thought you might." “And does she remember me?” he asked sadly. “All too well, milord,” came the answer from the doorway. Both men looked at Gillian as she came toward the bed. One watched her through the adoring eyes of an older brother while the other watched her with wariness. Gillian laid down the medicines she had found in the pantry and stepped up to the bed to feel his forehead. “How do you feel, milord?" “I could feel worse,” he mumbled. “Now that you're back, Gilly,” Nick said, turning away from the obvious emotion on both his companions’ faces, “I think I'll bring in some more of that gods-be-damned wood." Kaelan turned his gaze toward Nick and watched the man leave. “Did he ever marry?” he asked when they were alone. “No,” Gillian said with a long sigh. “Unfortunately he has never found the one love of his life." The Viragonian prince looked up at Gillian. He stared at her a long time before finally glancing down at the wrinkled coverlet. “It was not my decision to make, Gillian,” he said softly. “So I was told,” she answered crisply. Turning away, she picked up the medicines and took them to the fireplace. He watched her brewing the mixture in which she'd soak the poultice she would later plaster on his naked chest. Although she did not speak as she worked—and neither did he—each was very aware of the other. The tension in the room was as thick as the bubbling stew, which sent wafts of spicy aroma through the room. “Are you hungry?” she asked, glancing down at the cooled broth she had set aside for him. “Aye,” he answered quietly. “But I can wait." Gillian turned her head and looked back at him. “For some things you can; for others you can't." Kaelan flinched as though a barbed whip had been laid to his flesh. He hung his head. “Had it been my choice to make, Milady Gillian, I surely would have...." “What is your beast's name?” she asked, cutting him off. She took up the bowl of broth and brought it to the bed. “Can you feed yourself or are you too weak?" “Brownie,” he answered on a tired sigh. “And nay, I'm not to weak to feed myself.” He took the bowl from her, drawing in a quick breath when their fingers touched. She snatched her hand away, did not see the hurt come into his eyes when she wiped it down her skirt as though his touch had befouled her in some way. “Here, Brownie,” Gillian called, turning her back to him.

The big dog ambled over to the hearth, tag wagging, and gently accepted the choice morsels of stewed rabbit Gillian fished from the pot. Brownie gobbled them up then looked up for more. When Gilly wasn't as quick to respond as she'd like, the big dog nudged her leg with its massive head. “Shameless beggar,” she laughed, reaching down to pat the dog. “Give me time.” She plucked more tidbits from the pot to cool. “Brownie's not used to food anywhere near this good,” Kaelan told her. He sipped more of the delicious broth and closed his eyes as the taste rocketed over his tongue. “Your cook must be a slovenly sort,” Gillian sniffed. “The kitchen is filthy and the pantry is in even worse condition." “I have no cook,” he replied. When she arched a brow at him, he shook his head. “I have no servants here, milady." She refused to feel sorry for him even though his shame was blazing across his face for her to see. “That's what comes of paying too low a salary, Milord Hesar,” she quipped. “Had I the entire Court Depository at my command, milady, I could find not a single person in all of Wixenstead Village who would be willing to come here to work.” His voice bore a great sadness as he spoke. Gillian shrugged. “Then it is your reputation which must keep them away.” She gave Brownie her food. “Are you that poor an employer Milord Hesar?" “Gillian!” Nick scolded as he came into the chamber. His dark green eyes flashed with anger as he flicked them over his sister. “If you've no civil comment to make to His Grace, keep your mouth shut!" “She has a right to her opinion, Lord Cree,” Kaelan reminded him. “Aye,” Nick bit out as he dumped an armload of wood on the wide hearth, “yet that does not give her permission to voice it!" “He knows how I feel about him,” Gillian snapped. “All too well,” Kaelan admitted. He held up a hand when Nick would have reprimanded his sister again. “I find I need to ... Lord Cree, would you...?" “Nick!” the other man emphasized. “If I am to call you by your given name, I request the same thing of you.” He waved his hand at his sister. “Go." Gillian's back stiffened. “Why?" Nicholas Cree squinted at her. “Care you to see him pissing, Milady Gillian?" A brilliant flush passed over Gillian's face. “I think not,” she muttered. “Then wait in the hallway,” Nick ordered. He looked about for a chamberpot, spied it in the corner and went to retrieve it as his sister slammed the door behind her. “That woman can be as stubborn as a

Diabolusian mule.” He brought the chamberpot back and placed it on the floor. “Do you need help in getting up?" Kaelan shook his head. He smiled his thanks as Nick threw the covers from him, only vaguely ashamed of his nakedness as he swung his legs from the bed and over the side. He sat there a moment, his head swimming, then reached up to grip the head post, but found he was too weak to pull himself up. “There's no disgrace in asking for help,” Nick reminded him. Kaelan didn't respond. He finished, then looked around for his clothes. “Where are my breeches?" “They are drying,” Nick said. “I'll get you some clean ones." “There are no clean ones.” Kaelan met Nick's questioning gaze. “I'm not all that good at household chores. There are breeches in the armoire but they're soiled." Astonishment made the other man's mouth sag open. “You've been doing your own laundry, milord?” Nick snapped his mouth shut, sensing the shame that was flooding the prince's soul. “Bloody hell!” Dark green eyes flared with fury. “I'll be a Diabolusian warthog if I'll not find you a woman to see to your needs, milord!" Kaelan eased himself from Nick's hold and sat back down on the bed. “You'll not find a single woman in all of Harbor Province who'd come here, Nick." “Why the hell not?” Nick snarled. He was mortally offended that a member of the royal family should be treated in so despicable a manner. “They hate me,” was the answer as Kaelan laid down. He locked his calm gaze with Nick's furious one as the other man bent to cover him again. “As far as the village folk are concerned, they'll celebrate the day I leave this world." Before Nick could comment, there was an impatient knock on the door. “What?” he thundered. “It's cold out here!” his sister shouted back. An exasperated expulsion of breath came from Nicholas Cree. “Then come in, you silly chit!" Gillian flung the door open, flashed her brother a nasty look, then hurried to the fire. She was shivering and her cheeks were bright from the cold. The thin cotton wrapper she'd found did nothing to protect her from the biting chill. Holding her hands out to the flame, she cast a mutinous look at the chamberpot. “I'll not empty that, Nick,” she stated. “Have I asked you to, woman?” her brother shot back. He stooped over, took up the pot and went out. The silence which settled over the room was palpable. Only the crackling of the flames and the gentle bubbling of the stew broke the stillness. Gillian turned her backside to the fire, studiously avoiding looking at the man on the bed, who was watching her intently. Finally, his unwavering contemplation of her unnerved Gillian and she cast him a narrowed look. “Has no one ever told you it is impolite to stare, Milord Hesar?"

Kaelan lowered his gaze. “Your pardon, milady,” he replied. He felt her rejection to the very bottom of his heart. Yet, he thought as he still watched her out of the corner of his eye, there had been a time when she had sought out his company... [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Nine: Nine Years Earlier: Tempest Keep

Kaelan drew in his steed, bent forward in the saddle to rest his forearms on the pommel, and sat watching the harvest activities going on in the valley below. From the crest of the hill on which he rested, he could look out over all of Tempest Village and even observe most of the mighty fortress of Tempest Keep d the dogged authority of his father and brother. Here, he could dream the dreams he wasn't allowed to dream at Tempest Keep and have some brief peace of mind in which he could consider himself his own man; that was not possible at the Keep. Revenge, his jet black stallion, snorted, tossed its sleek ebony head, then pawed the rocky ground impatiently. His mount wanted a sort of freedom of its own: the wild rush of passing wind along its powerful body. “In a minute, boy,” Kaelan said softly, patting the horse's long neck. He straightened in the saddle as he caught sight of a barkentine just off the Point. The ship, its billowing sails straining, was tacking toward the harbor. “That would be the Chalean Ambassador,” he said aloud. His steed pawed the ground again, snorting its displeasure at being held still. “All right!” Kaelan laughed. He pulled on the reins, turning his mount, then kicked Revenge gently in the flanks. “You want to run? Then run!" From the deck of the Banshees, thirteen year old Gillian Elizabeth Cree spied the dark rider racing along the top of the hill. She braced herself against the rail and sighed. Horses were her passion—she'd yet to discover boys—and even from this distance she recognized good bloodlines in the steed that stretched its powerful body over the heath. “That be His Grace, Prince Kaelan, most likely,” the first mate told her as he came to slump against the rail. The little bow-legged man pointed the stem of his pipe toward the distant rider. “Gonna break his fool neck one of these days, I'm thinking." Gillian narrowed her gaze. She'd been watching the horse. As she focused on the blurred form of the rider, she shook her head. “No. He knows what he's doing." “Hell-steed that beast be,” the first mate pronounced. He sniffed, knocked the bowl of his pipe against the rail to scatter the ashes, then pocketed it. “Born under as evil a star as its owner, I reckon." The teenage girl glanced quickly at her companion. “How so, Mister Stevens?" Hobert Stevens shrugged. “The prince was born on the Winter Solstice, he was. Bad luck, that. Revenge be born on the same night fifteen year after." Gillian turned her attention back to the horse just as it disappeared over the rim of the distant hill.

“Revenge? That's the steed's name?" “Aye,” Stevens answered. “Young Kaelan named him so ‘cause he said he'd finally found a horse that could best his brother's Rysalian mount, Sirocco." Intrigued, the teenager turned eager eyes to the old man. “And had he?" Stevens chuckled. “Aye, he did, Lady Gillian. Five lengths worth of besting, or so I was told, when they raced one another last year!" Admiration glinted in the brilliant green orbs that looked up at Hobert Stevens. “Do you think I could ride him, Mister Stevens?" The old man drew in a breath. A beauty she'll be, this one, the first mate thought. One had only to overlook the gangling arms and legs and scrawny body, the flame-gold hair and waif's eyes to see the beautiful woman she would one day become. All the right curving was there to fill out. Whoever won the heart of this woman-child would have his hands full. “Mister Stevens?" Hobert shook himself. “Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “The prince don't let nobody, not even his brothers, ride that beastie.” He smiled indulgently when the young girl thrust out a pouting lip and vowed she would. **** Kaelan bowed his head in greeting to the brace of titian-haired beauties who stood hovering together beside the staircase. “Ladies,” he said, smiling. “Your Grace!” they said in unison, bobbing him a clumsy curtsy in tandem. The prince grinned to himself as he took the stairs two at a time, for he could hear their giggling and hushed whispers, knew they were watching him. They were two of the Duke of Warthenham's brats, he thought as he strode across the balcony to his chambers. Glancing over the rail, he saw them staring up at him with looks that bordered on ravishment. He chuckled as they ducked under the balcony overhang, embarrassed that he had caught them ogling him. “Good morn, Kaelan,” Gunter Eriksen called out. “Have you seen them?" Kaelan didn't need to ask the seventeen year old boy who he meant. “Aye.” He gripped Gunter's wrist as they met. “Which have you chosen for your bride?" Gunter lifted his chin. “Adele. She's the middle girl.” He winked. “You can have Adair, if you're of the notion. She's not as pretty as my Adele, but she'll not make you ashamed of her." “And if I want Adele?” Kaelan teased. Eriksen snorted. “You'll not get her.” He released the prince's wrist. “I've already laid claim." Kaelan's left brow rose. “And them here but a scant two hours, Gunter?"

There was steel in the young man's direct blue gaze. “I've spoken to the Jarl already." If that surprised Kaelan, he didn't show it. “Then I wish you well in your pursuit, my friend.” He continued on, glancing back only once to see Gunter swaggering confidently down the hall. Whatever the eldest son of the Eriksen clan wanted, he was apt to get from Kaelan's father. “You'll not get Adair, either." Kaelan stopped. The childish voice that had challenged him had come from somewhere behind him. He turned around and found himself looking at a tall, thin teenage girl who was glaring back at him from the doorway of one of the guest chambers. He cocked an inquisitive eye at her. “And why not, mam'selle?” he asked politely. Gillian ventured out into the hallway. “Because she likes blond-haired men,” the girl replied. Her gaze passed over his thick, curly brown hair, settled on his caramel-colored eyes. “With blue eyes." The prince ambled back to her and stood looking down at her elfin face. “Is that so?" “Aye,” she said, lifting her chin. “That's so." Kaelan folded his arms across his chest, totally ignorant of the sudden interest in boys his powerful physique had just awakened in the girl standing before him. “Then,” he asked, “how do you explain the way your sister was mentally undressing me when I came upstairs, little one?” He had meant to shock the nosy little brat, but her words to him served only to stun him. “I suppose it's because they know good breeding stock when they see it, Your Grace.” She flicked her attention from his broad shoulders, across the wide chest straining at the silk of his shirt, down the long legs encased in black leather breeches, then back up again to settle on a face she found—much to her amusement—blushing. She was fascinated by the mole on his lean left cheek and stared at it. “You're a bold one,” he finally managed to say after he regained use of his tongue. “Has no one ever told you it's impolite to stare?" “My pardon, milord,” she said, bobbing him a condescending curtsy. Tossing her long reddish-gold braid, she went back into her chambers, shutting the door with a decided snap. Kaelan stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed portal. The saucy little chit had done something few people had ever done before her: shocked Kaelan Rylan Hesar to his foundation. **** The state dinner held that evening had brought out the beauties of the Court in all their finery. There was enough perfume floating through the air to cover up the stench of a cesspool. Jewels flashed green and red, blue and white between smooth powdered bosoms. The snap of a silk fan, the tinkling laughter from a long swan-like neck, the swish of satin skirts were the warnings signals that alerted every eligible bachelor in Tempest Keep that the horde was moving in for the feast. As the music trilled softly from the pavilion set up at the far end of the Great hall, Kaelan sipped his goblet of plum wine and surveyed the women floating by with a jaundiced eye. Most glanced his way with perky little moués and fluttering lashes they hid behind the spread of their pastel fans. A few were

actually bold enough to engage him in conversation although he extracted himself from their chattering as hastily as good manners allowed. He found their incessant mutterings boring and their innuendoes insulting. Not that he hadn't sampled a good many of their charms, he thought as he moved away from the fireplace, dodging the advance of a matron and her two overly-ripe daughters. He never lacked for female companionship, but it was always of his own choosing, not theirs. He spied Gunter with his chosen and nodded, smiling woefully at the girl. To anyone who didn't know him well, it looked as though he sorely regretted another man claiming her before him; to those who knew and understood Kaelan Hesar, the look was one of relief. “Your Grace? Have you met Lady Adair Cree?” someone asked and Kaelan paused. Reluctantly, he turned from the speaker and found himself on eye level with a stunning raven-haired woman in her mid-thirties. “Milady,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the woman's name, but gave her a brilliant smile anyway because he'd once spent an entire weekend in her bed. “Lady Adair,” the woman said, “this is His Grace, Prince Kaelan Hesar." Adair Cree dipped into a graceful, seductive curtsy, then held out a milky-white hand as she rose. Her eyes locked with the prince's. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace." Kaelan slipped his hand around hers and brought it to his mouth, lingering over the coolness of her young flesh, judging her to be near his own age or close to it. “Are all the women in Chale as lovely as you and your sister, Milady Adair?” he asked, staring deeply into orbs the color of emeralds. “She is quite lovely, isn't she, Your Grace,” the woman beside him sighed. “Ah, how I wish I were still her age with my whole life ahead of me." Elga Junstrom, Kaelan remembered of a sudden. The widow of Count Brithe Junstrom. He flashed her a charming smile. “Milady, your beauty is timeless.” When he saw her run her tongue over her lips, he read the invitation as clearly as though she had spoken it aloud. Before he could say something that would make her think him still interested, he dipped his head. “I was on my way to meet your father, Lady Adair. With your permission?" “Certainly, milord,” Adair sighed. He could feel the young woman's eyes on his back as he moved through the crush of the crowd. Holding his half-empty goblet aloft as he skirted those assembled, he smiled greetings to his father's guests, spoke a word here and there. When he'd finally moved out of the press of warm bodies and suffocating perfume, he made straight for the double doors which opened to the long balcony that overlooked the harbor. As inconspicuously as possible, he ducked out into the chill night air and blended into the night shadows cast by the soaring walls of the Keep. “It stinks in there." Kaelan nearly dropped his goblet in surprise. Spinning around, he peered into the darker reaches of the balcony. “Stinks from what?” he asked, recovering from the surprise. Moving toward a lighter shape he

saw huddled against the far rail, he thought he recognized the voice of the speaker. “All that bloody perfume!" “Ah, the youngest Cree brat!” he chuckled. When he reached her, he looked with amusement at the man's great cape in which she had wrapped herself. “Aren't you cold, mam'selle?" “I'm no brat,” she snapped. “And I ain't cold!” She pulled the thick fur collar closer under her sharp chin. “But I'd wager you are.” Her gaze flicked over his lightweight corduroy jacket and breeches, the silk of his shirt. “A bit,” he admitted, draining the goblet. Placing it on the rail beside him, he leaned out over the wrought iron and gazed down into the crashing waves pounding the lower reaches of the Keep. “But I'm used to it." “I'll never get use to this hellish cold,” Gillian snapped. Her lips were trembling. “Aye, you will,” he answered. He turned and leaned his rump against the rail, crossed his arms and studied her shadowed face. “You don't like perfume; you don't like the cold; you don't like brown-haired men with brown eyes." “I didn't say that,” she defended herself. “What do you like, mam'selle?” he continued. “Horses.” The answer was quick and stated with emphatic assurance. “Horses?” he asked. The right side of his mouth lifted. “Any particular breed?" “Rysalians are, of course, the most beautiful,” she said, not sure if he was being condescending or not. “Serenians are the fastest." “I have a Serenian stallion,” Kaelan told her. “Revenge,” she threw at him. Kaelan's left eyebrow lifted. “You've heard of him?" “Seen him,” she said. When he continued to look at her with that elevated slash of a brow, she shrugged. “This morning. From the ship." “Ah,” he drawled. He smiled. “And what did you think of him?" “He has power,” she said. “He's fast." “As the wind,” Kaelan interjected. “How's he at stud?" The question so shocked Kaelan, he couldn't answer. He simply stared at this waif of a girl standing there blithely discussing the sexual capabilities of his mount and felt his face turn beet red.

“You've not tried him?” Gillian pressed, unaware of the reaction her innocuous questions had created. “Not put him to a mare?" “N ... not yet,” Kaelan managed to stammer. He uncrossed his arms and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches. He was freezing, but uncharacteristically reluctant to leave the young girl's company. Normally, children made him uneasy and girls the age of this one were a nuisance. “You should,” Gillian was saying. “I would wager he'll give you magnificent progeny.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Should you find him a mare suitable to his temperament and size." “S ... size?” Kaelan stammered, feeling something happen to him that had never happened before in the presence of a young girl. “Well, you wouldn't want him to hurt her, would you?” Gillian snapped. “Oh, god!” The Prince blinked away the embarrassment that was flooding his soul. “You shouldn't talk like that in front of a man, brat!” he chided her. “What way?” she challenged. “Get yourself inside,” he ordered her. “It's too cold out here." Gillian shrugged, thinking grown ups never really said what they meant. Tugging the great cape closer around her thin body, she looked him up and down, wondering why he half-turned away from her. “Unless you're of a mind to catch your death of cold, Your Grace, you'd better go get yourself warm!” With a toss of her head, she darted back into the Great hall. “Warm,” Kaelan breathed. He shook his head. Nay, he'd stay right where he was until the cold could do away with the problem her bold words had engineered. **** It wasn't until the eve of the Duke of Warthenham's joining to the Countess Elga Junstrom—one month to the night after that disastrous chat on the balcony—that Kaelan saw the youngest Cree girl again. By then, he knew her name: Gillian. As he made his way to the Temple for the ceremony, he thought he heard crying coming from one of the deep recesses along the corridor. He stopped, listened, and frowned when the unmistakable sounds of a breaking heart came to him from out of the darkness. Not stopping to consider his actions, he followed the wretched sobs. “Go away!" The command brought him up short. Kaelan sighed. “Gillian?” he questioned, knowing that petulant voice anywhere. “I don't need your help, Hesar!" Hesar? he echoed silently. By the gods, but the little brat was discourteous. He frowned and squeezed himself through the narrow aperture where the young girl was hiding.

I told you to go away!” Gillian hissed at him. She was sitting huddled on a ledge, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her entire posture gave off the impression of bleak despair and the fat candle sitting on the floor cast dark shadows under swollen, tearful eyes. “Whatever it is, it can't be this bad,” he said, coming to hunker down before her. “Do you want to talk about it?" “Why can't you just go away and leave me alone?” she sobbed. “Because it hurts me to hear you crying like this,” he said and was surprised that he was speaking the truth. “Why should it?” she flung at him. “No one in this bloody cold hell cares anything about me!" Kaelan had always felt the same way, himself. Her words could well have been echoes of his own from long ago. “Why do you say that, brat?” he asked quietly. “Stop calling me brat!” she spat at him. “Is it the Joining?” he asked, knowing full well that it had to be. “She's a witch!” Gillian stated. Kaelan smiled. “I've often thought so, myself." “She's a whore, too!" The young girl's words stung him. Had he not been one of the men who had added to the Countess Elga's reputation? Not that it mattered. But to a young girl whose father was no doubt the center of her universe, the potential of betrayal would always be there. “Have you told your father how you feel?” Kaelan asked. Not that that mattered, either. Hadn't Kaelan tried talking to his own father when the old man had married Anson's mother, Ensula? “He loves her!” Gillian said, as though it were the greatest betrayal of all. “Don't you want him happy?" The teenager's head snapped up and she fixed him with a murderous glower. “Of course I want him happy, Hesar! But I'll wager that bitch won't be the one to make him so!" “But what if she does?" His words were like a slap to Gillian's face. She stared at him—her hurt there for the world to see. Her mouth trembled. “Won't happen!” Gillian sobbed. Kaelan dropped to his knees and opened his arms. “Come here, Sweeting."

There had been only a moment's hesitation before the young girl flung herself into his waiting arms and buried her face against his strong shoulder. Her sobs were wracking convulsions that shook them both as she cried out her misery. His arms cradled her to him as his right hand soothed her back. He didn't tell her not to cry, only absorbed her sobs, and allowed her to vent her misery. When her tears stopped, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean linen kerchief. “You can't go into the Joining looking like a gypsy wench, can you?” he asked, blotting her eyes and holding the kerchief to her nose for her to blow. Gillian had allowed him to comfort her until her pride had reasserted itself. At last, she pushed away from his arms, rearranged her rumpled gown, and lifted her chin. “I never said I didn't like brown-eyed men,” she stated, missing the confusion on his handsome face. Without another word, she moved past him and was gone. Kaelan knelt where he was, his arms feeling strangely empty and wondered what was wrong with him. There had to be something wrong with him for a twenty-two year old man did not have the thoughts he was having about a thirteen year old child. **** Prince Duncan Hesar snorted with disgust as he watched his brother racing Revenge along the hillside with the Cree brat bouncing behind. The child was clinging to Kaelan's waist as though he were her lover and Duncan wondered that no one else at the Keep had noticed the girl's growing infatuation with Kaelan. Not even Kaelan, himself. “Fool,” Duncan pronounced. “Who, my love?” Duncan turned and gave his mistress a steely-eyed glower. “That idiot brother of mine." Oh,” the woman said flatly as though that explained it all. There was no need to ask which of Duncan's two brothers was causing his indignation. “What's he doing, now?" “It's what he might do that concerns me!” Duncan spat. He turned back to view the scene that was irritating him. “And just what might he do, dearling?" “Do you suppose he is so stupid he doesn't know that child is after him?" Elga Junstrom Cree perched herself up on one shapely elbow and peered through the bushes. She viewed her stepchild and her companion for a moment, then shrugged. “It seems innocent enough, love." “Innocent, my ass!” Duncan hissed. “It's indecent the way that child follows behind Kaelan, and him so bloody naive he can't see the forest for the trees!" “Believe me,” the older woman laughed, “your brother is far from being naive, Duncan!" The elder of the Hesar brothers snorted with contempt. He knew Elga had slept with Kaelan. If truth be told, the Jarl's middle son had slept with each and every woman Duncan had ever had and some he hadn't gotten around to yet.

“Do you want me to speak to her?” Elga asked. “You'd better!” her lover stressed. “Before there has to be a forced Joining!" Elga sighed deeply, then sat up, rearranging her bodice. “It's past time Kaelan were wed, anyway,” she said. “Not to a mere child!” Duncan gasped. He speared his mistress with a look that gave the woman chills. “And have you not already chosen brides and grooms for the bratlings, Lady?" “I have researched suitable mates for them, aye. Those I've chosen will elevate my stepchildren to a more acceptable rank among the Court." “And garner you a higher standing, as well?” Duncan sneered. Elga smiled. “That, too." The prince took in his mistress’ scowl. “What sort of problem?" “She is her father's favorite,” Elga answered. “My choice will not be to his liking, so I will have to come up with a way to ensure the betrothal will be impossible to break." Duncan's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “Who is the lucky bridegroom?" “I'll keep that to myself for now,” Elga replied. She looked toward the Keep. “But it won't be Kaelan Hesar." **** Kaelan felt the cool hand slipping into his own and felt a moment of comfort. Although he had not loved his father—nor, if truth be told, respected him—he had loved his little brother dearly. Standing beside their caskets listening to the priest prattling on and on about the hereafter, he had been lost and alone in his grief. But when Gillian slipped up beside him and placed her little hand in his, he drew solace from the touch and returned the light squeeze she gave him. “Unto the soil from which you sprang,” the High Priest was chanting, “we deliver your worldly body. May your spirit rise up with the Wind to the Great God, Alel." Gillian glanced up at Kaelan's strong profile and her heart swelled with love for the man. It had been over a year now since she had first seen him strutting so self-importantly down the hallway to his chambers and waylaid him. Over a year since she had discovered in his gaze a kindred spirit. Over a year since she began to have strange, breathless dreams about the brown-eyed warrior who slept only three doors away. “May the Wind be with you!" The young girl ignored the High Priest's words, but zeroed in on Kaelan Hesar's echoing response. His voice was bleak with misery and his eyes sad, but the words he spoke were soft and lilting despite the gruffness of his grief. She drew his hand against her side, instinctively knowing he needed the closeness.

Elga Cree frowned as she saw her stepdaughter's actions. Perhaps there was something in what Duncan had intimated, after all. It had been three months since the two of them had had their rendezvous on the hillside above the Keep and she had yet to speak with Gillian. Making up her mind that today would be as good a time as any, she swung her gaze from the child to the man standing beside her. Can he not know? Elga wondered. When Kaelan draped an arm around his young companion and pulled her to him, Elga sucked in a shocked breath. “Aye,” she said beneath her breath. “He knows full well what he's about!" “Do you see?” Duncan whispered. “Hush!” Elga cautioned, looking around, but those gathered were intent on their shows of grief for the dead Jarl and his young son. “Something must be done!” the new Jarl stressed. “And will be,” Elga said. The crowd was beginning to disperse. A few had stayed close to the caskets, watching as sleek mahogany boxes were being lowered into the hillside. Kaelan, Elga noticed, had turned away, Gillian at his side as he walked away from the others. “Where does he think he's going?” Duncan gasped. “Do not, I beseech you,” Elga snapped at him, “create a scene, Duncan. ’Tis unseemly for a Jarl to behave so at his father's funereal!” She put a hand on his arm. “Go! Allow the mourners to comfort you!” Turning, she sought out her husband, leaving Duncan to grumble his way back to the Keep. Gillian sensed he seemed to need her close to him. “Are you all right, milord?” she asked. “Aye,” he answered absently. His gaze was on the far distant Serenian Alps which were capped with a fresh layer of snow from the night before. “I am sorry about Anson,” she said. “He was a good child,” Kaelan replied. “And loved you very much,” she told him softly. She looked up when he stopped abruptly. Tears formed in her eyes when she saw his own spilling silently down his cheeks. Kaelan threw back his head and glared up to the heavens. “WHY?” he shouted. “WHY?" Gillian was stunned when he snatched his hand from hers and dropped to his knees. She bit her lip to keep from crying when he buried his face in his hands and began to weep like a lost child, his shoulders shaking beneath his sobs. “Oh, my sweet milord,” she whispered and knelt down beside him. Putting her thin arms around his shoulders, she pulled his head to her chest. “I am so sorry for your loss." Kaelan wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though she were the life preserver thrown to him

through the crashing waves. He pressed his face between the soft, budding mounds of her fourteen year old's breasts and gave in to his grief. His tears soaked her woolen bodice and his wretched sobs made her tremble beneath their force. Her hands smoothed over the silky softness of his jet-black curls, her fingers threading themselves through the thick mass. Deep in her belly, she felt a stirring she could not put a name to, but knew this wondrous man was surely the cause. She breathed in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and closed her eyes against the sensation it caused between her legs; needing something she neither understood nor could have. “Never leave me, Gillian,” she heard him saying as he clung to her. “Swear you will never leave me." “Never,” she promised. Her arms held him against the cruelty of the world around them and she felt powerful, omnipotent. A woman, at last. “I could not bear it, Sweeting,” he sobbed. “To lose you as I have lost Anson." “You will not,” she stated. “You will never lose me!" It never crossed Kaelan's mind as he knelt there in the comfort of Gillian's arms that it was not brotherly love as he had had for Anson that made him ask such a vow of her. That it was not brotherly love that caused him to fear being separated from her. He never once recognized it as pure, undiluted love for Gillian Cree. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Ten: Holy Dale Manor

“Is he sleeping?” Nick asked. He looked at Kaelan and watched the steady slow rise and fall of his chest. “I suppose,” Gillian answered. She put another log on the fire then walked to the bundle of rushes and old blankets she had placed near the fire. “What is that for?” her brother asked. “I'll not sleep in that bed again, Nick,” she said, kneeling down. “You slept beside him not three hours ago,” Nick reminded her. “To give him body warmth, aye,” she grumbled. “To keep him from dying, just as you did, but I told you then, as soon as his fever was gone, so was I!" “The floor will be cold,” Nick reminded her. “No colder than that one's heart,” Gillian snapped. Her words cut Kaelan like a sharp knife, but he could expect no more from her. She would rather sleep on the floor like a servant than place her body next to his again.

“You'll be stiff and sore in the morning,” Nick whispered to her as he climbed into the bed beside Kaelan. “Don't concern yourself, Nicholas,” she growled. She jerked the makeshift covers over her shoulders and turned her face into the musky old blanket she had wadded up for use as a pillow. For a long time, Gillian lay there staring at the rough material of the blanket. The wood popped in the fire; a rat rustled inside the wall; a lone wolf howled in the distance. The floor was acutely uncomfortable, but, then again, so were her thoughts. Thoughts she had not entertained for three years. Sighing with disgust, she turned over, annoyed with a lump beneath the pallet that was digging into her spine. She stared at the ceiling, frowning at the peeling paint and cracked plaster. How can he live like this?she wondered. Alone. No doubt lonely. No company save a mongrel beast who even then was lying in front of the door as though guarding it from intruders. No comforts. She turned her head toward the large armoire at the far end of the room.Where are all your clothes? she wondered. The fine silk shirts? The cords? The soft-as-silk wools? The fine Ionarian boots of hand-tooled leather? The armoire was empty except for a few filthy patched cambric shirts and rough-spun breeches. All the socks—what few there were—had been darned numerous times; each had at least one new hole in them and stunk to the heavens. The one pair of boots looked as though they had come from a trash heap. The solitary jacket was torn at one sleeve, missing its buttons, frayed at the collar; it, too, looked like a refugee from someone's castoff bin. And where was the food? Surely the village did not hate him so much they refused to sell him food! Or was there even money to buy food?she wondered. Looking about the room at all the faint outlines where portraits had obviously hung, she had to entertain the notion that he had sold what he could in order to survive. But why? Surely in five years time he had not gone through his wife's entire estate! The Lady Marie Sinclair had come from a filthy rich family. Was it not her sumptuous dowry that had purchased Kaelan Hesar's hand in marriage in the first place? The mere thought of Marie Sinclair drove a stake of brutal jealousy through Gillian's heart. It still hurt after all these years. After all the tears she had shed that June night five years ago.... [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eleven: Five and a half years earlier: Tempest Keep

“When are you going to speak to Papa?" Kaelan swiveled his head toward her. “Speak to him about what?" “Our marriage, silly." The Viragonian prince shrugged. “When you're old enough."

“I am seventeen years old, now!" “Sixteen and a half,” Kaelan corrected. He reached up to tug on her braid. “Going on twelve." Gillian batted his hand away. “Be serious, milord. Adair's been married a full year; Adele, two. And Ruan will be wed before the end of the month." “And you can't wait to walk down that aisle, can you, brat?” he chuckled. “No, I can not!” She tossed him a cunning look. “And neither can you." Kaelan shrugged. “I suppose not now that you've caught me, child." “Me? Caught you?” she gasped, her young womanhood offended. “Aye!” he laughed, propping his head up on the palm of his hand. He looked up at her where she sat beside him on the grass. “You chased me like a hound to stag and look where I am.” He jerked his thumb toward the grass. “Run to ground as you would have me." “I did nothing of the sort,” she said, ignoring his snort. She looked out over the stream, smiling as a fish jumped in the deeper water. “Although I must admit you were like that fish in yon stream: you jumped around, poking your head up until the right fisherwoman came along to reel you in.” She heard him chuckle and turned to glare down at him. “You wanted to be reeled in, milord; admit it." “I'll admit nothing to you, brat,” he guffawed. “'Tis dangerous to do so." “Not even your affection for me?" Kaelan sobered. “That I will gladly admit.” He tweaked her nose with his free hand. “Yet for the life of me I don't know how you managed to get me to the point of contemplating marriage to a harridan such as you." “Come to think of it,” she said, putting a finger to her chin, “you've yet to kiss me to seal the betrothal." “There is no betrothal until your father agrees to it, brat,” he reminded her, although deep in his heart he knew he'd challenge Dakin Cree to a to-the-death duel rather than allow the man to forbid the betrothal. “Why,” she went on, pointedly disregarding his words, “you have not even asked me if I care to be shackled to a man such as yourself for the rest of my life!” She gasped, looking down at him with mock horror. “An old man such as yourself, at that!" Kaelan wagged his brows evilly at her. “Old man, is it?" “Aye,” she lamented. “Thirty, isn't it?” She shivered delicately. “My god, but that's practically middle age!" “Thirty, my ass,” he snarled. “I'm twenty-six and well you know it, brat." “Still,” she said with a long, drawn out sigh, “Rolf de Viennes is only...."

He had came up off the ground and over her in one lithe bound, pushing her down amongst the heather and covering her with his powerful body. “No man,” he said from between clenched teeth, “will have you save me, Milady Gillian!" “Is that so?” she teased, her eyes sparking fire for the mere weight of him was a joy she had long wanted and dreamed of. “Aye, that's so!” He clasped her wrists in one strong hand and brought them up over her head, shifting his body so that he lay between her slightly parted legs. “Swear it, Gillian,” he growled, gripping her chin with his free hand. “Swear it!" Her lips had parted from the hunger that had suddenly coursed through her belly. “I swear it,” she whispered. Naive in the ways of love, ignorant of the passions racing through the grown man poised above her, she ran her tongue over her upper lip. Her eyes flared wide as a fierce groan rumbled from Kaelan's chest only a fraction of a second before his mouth slashed across her in a kiss so savage, so possessive, it took her breath away. Kaelan was as mindless to what he was doing to the young, untried body lying beneath his as he was of the storm clouds that had gathered overhead and were, even then, racing pell-mell across a suddenly-dark sky. His only thought was of the pulsing need in his shaft and the soft curves upon which he rested. Driving his tongue deep into Gillian's mouth—his eyes squeezed tight in concentration—he did not see her own eyes fly open with stunned surprise, nor cloud with intense desire as she instinctively thrust her hips up toward him. But he felt that submissive action to the very depths of him and his hand slid from her chin to her breast: cupping, caressing, molding her flesh through the fabric of her gown. A loud crack overhead startled them both and Kaelan jumped as though he'd been prodded by an electrical current. Or his conscience. His eyes snapped open and he looked-really looked-into Gillian's eyes and saw the mistake he'd almost made. “Oh, god!” he gasped, rolling off her and into the safety of the grass. He pressed his rigid member against the ground, causing himself acute pain. “God!” he repeated. “W ... what's wrong?” she asked, reaching out to touch him. “DON'T!” he ordered. Gillian stared at him where he lay plastered to the grass. “Did I hurt you?” Adele had told her all about where to aim a kick at a man who might be pestering her; she thought perhaps she'd somehow injured Kaelan in that most vulnerable of male places. “Is it your cock, Kaelan? Did I...?" “Gillian, hush!” he breathed. He turned horrified eyes to her. “Where did you learn language like that?" “Adele says..."

“I should have known!” he bit out, cutting her off. “Don't ever use that word again, do you hear?" “Aye,” she said, somewhat hurt. What was so wrong about a mere word? “Gunter should know what his wife has been discussing with her innocent sister,” Kaelan grumbled. How dare the woman tell Gillian about the effects of arousing a man! “Would you have me defenseless, then, against men like Rolf de Viennes?” she snapped. Nothing else the young woman said could have caused the intense reaction that de Viennes’ name did in Kaelan. He reached out and snagged her hand, jerking her toward him. “Defenseless, how, Milady Gillian?” he bellowed. Gillian flinched, for his fingers were biting into her flesh. She tried to pried his hand away, but he tightened his grip. “You're hurting me, Kaelan,” she told him. “How, Gillian?" “He's always pestering me!” she shouted back, trying to twist her hand from his hold. “Adele said if I kneed him in the c...” she stopped at his look of warning, “It wasn't important!” She jerked on his hold. “Damn it, Hesar, let go!" The steel of the erection that had pained him so greatly had fled. He let go of her hand, glancing down to see if he had, indeed, bruised her, and winced: her flesh was a mottled blue color, the sight of which filled him with shame. But the overall emotion he was feeling at that moment was absolute fury. Getting to his feet, he held out his hand to her. “Did you tell your brothers about this?” he demanded as she allowed him to draw her up. “No,” she grumbled, dusting the grass from her gown. “I saw no need to do so. They'd only call him out and...” she stopped, seeing the thunderclouds that had not only formed on the horizon but on Kaelan Hesar's brow. She ignored the ones overhead and put out a restraining hand to the man she loved and whose life she dearly cherished. “You won't call him out!" “Aye, I will!” Kaelan growled. He bent down and snagged his jacket. “Kaelan, no!” she protested. “It's not worth it." “It's worth it to me!” he shot back. He took her hand and started walking to where he had tethered their horses. “But it's not important!" “The hell it isn't!” Before she could mutter another word of protest, he gripped her waist and propelled her upward, onto her mount. “Kaelan, please..." She might as well have saved her words, for nothing standing between heaven or hell could have kept Kaelan Hesar from going after Rolf de Viennes.

And paying dearly for it. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twelve: Holy Dale Manor

Kaelan could not sleep. Nick's snores were bad enough-they matched Brownie's snorts and snuffs in almost perfect harmony; but Gillian's tossing and turning left no doubt in his mind that she could not sleep, either. Finally, after two hours of battling his conscience and the pain in his heart, he tossed aside the covers. The room was cool; not yet, cold. The fire had died down to a deep red glow. If they weren't to freeze during the long night, more wood would have to be brought in from the pile Nick had stocked just inside the kitchen door. He didn't know if he was up to the long climb up the stairs, but he hated to wake Nick and ask him to perform the menial chore; the man had done more than his share already. Heaving a long, tired breath, Kaelan got up, drew on his rough shirt-now almost dry from the soaking he'd taken in the pond-and looked for his breeches. “What are you doing?" He glanced around and found Gillian propped up on her elbows watching him. “We need wood for the fire,” he answered. “Nick!” she called out. “Don't wake him!” Kaelan ordered in a voice more harsh than he had intended or had used in a long, long time. “I can get the gods-be-damned wood, woman!" “Can you, indeed?” she snorted. She was watching him standing there, wavering, his shirt barely covering his naked ass. “And are you going out dressed like that?" “Where are my breeches?” he hissed. “I washed them,” she said. Kaelan turned an astonished face to her. “You did what?" “They were dirty; I washed them,” she said. “The other clothes, as well." “When?” he gasped. “While you slept this afternoon.” She lifted her chin. “I have no compunction about doing physical labor if the need arises." “I'll not have you washing my dirty clothes!” he spat at her, surprised by the venom in his words.Where had the anger come from? he wondered. “Who else was going to do it, Milord Hesar?” she shot back.

Who, indeed? He had not been able to for quite some time but there was no need for her to know that. He shook his head. “Don't do it again, Gillian,” he said. “Don't worry, Your Grace, I won't!” she threw at him. “What are the two of you arguing about, now?” Nick grumbled. He sat up in the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles, much as a little boy would have. “We need wood, Nick,” Gillian grumbled. “And I told you I could get the gods-be-damned wood!” Kaelan spat. “You told me a lot of things but most of what you said proved to be untrue!” Gillian shouted. “None of it was untrue!” Kaelan retaliated. “No?" “NO!" “What of your love for me, Kaelan Hesar?” she said, coming to her knees. “What of that?" “That was true!” he thundered. “By the gods, that was true!" “And our betrothal?” she asked, missing Nick's look of stunned surprise. “I had every intention of Joining with you, Gillian. I told you...” There was physical pain in the voice that spoke. “I said..." “You told me not to worry,” she accused, interrupting him. “You told me everything would work out!" “I swear to you, Gillian, I did not lie to you.” He was holding out his hand to her, heedless of her brother staring at him with mouth agape. “You made me swear I'd never have another save you, Kaelan Hesar.” Tears were running down Gillian's cheeks. “But did you swear such to me, milord?” She flung her head wildly from side to side. “You made no such vow to me, did you?" He moved around the bed, reaching out to grab the foot post to keep from falling. “You have to listen." “I waited all evening, Kaelan Hesar!” she sobbed, throwing a loose branch of mountain laurel at him. “All eve and you never came for me!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Thirteen: Five years and eight months earlier: Tempest Keep

Kaelan Hesar was livid. The black eye Rolf de Viennes had given him during their fight hurt like hell and only served to underscore the growing hatred between the two men.

“Look at you!” Duncan shouted at him. “Brawling in the street like a common thrall! I'll not have it, Kaelan!" “De Viennes started it!” Kaelan shouted back. He flung his hand to the two burly servants who had dragged him off his enemy. “And I'd have finished it if your two lickspittles hadn't jumped me!" “Enough!” his brother, the Jarl, thundered. “You're lucky I don't have you thrown into the dungeon for disobeying me again, Kaelan!" “Try it!” came the mutinous reply. Duncan threw up his hands. “There's no reasoning with you, man!” He flung himself down upon his throne chair and glared at his brother. “What you need is a wife to keep you too busy to pick fights with honest men." “Honest?” Kaelan bellowed. “Rolf de Viennes is a fucking horse thief, among other things!" “Say that word again and I'll have you whipped,” Duncan warned him. He knew his brother understood it hadn't been the vulgarity he had objected to; calling a man a horse thief was dangerous business. Kaelan spun around and started to leave, his shoulders hunched, fists clenched. Then Jarl's words registered though he didn't stop as they were thrown at him: “Stay away from Rolf or I promise you, Kaelan, I'll lay the whip to your stubborn hide myself!" The servants scattered as Prince Kaelan stormed out of the Great Hall. They'd seen that look on the young man's face before-two months earlier-and cared not to see it again. All hell had broken loose that day and no one had been safe from royal wrath. “ROLF DE VIENNES!" Those gathered at the training grounds stopped what they were doing and stared at the enraged young man heading toward Duke de Viennes. It was the look on Kaelan Hesar's face that made men much older and bigger than he move out of his way. The Master-at-Arms of Tempest Keep dropped the sword he'd been using to instruct a novice and turned his troubled gaze from the advancing prince to the smirking nobleman who lounged beside the water trough; the Master-at-Arms knew there was going to be trouble; he wondered briefly if he should intervene, but thought better of it when he saw the murderous glint that shone in Hesar's eye. “I WANT A WORD WITH YOU, DE VIENNES!” the prince bellowed. “You don't need to shout, Your Grace,” de Viennes sneered dryly. “I, along with the rest of the Keep, can hear you." “Then, they'll be able to hear me call you a lecherous woman molester, won't they?” came the snarl that was only slightly less loud than the bellow had been. Shocked gasps ran through the assembled men. One man turned and ran for the Keep; another was foolish enough to dare to step between Kaelan and his objective. “Milord, you know you can not,” he

began, only to be knocked aside like a leaf in the wind. The poor man went sprawling among a group of others, knocking them down, as well. Rolf de Viennes drew himself up, his hand going to the dagger at his hip. “Who dares to tell such lies of me to you, Prince Kaelan?” he demanded. “It is no lie!” Kaelan flung at him. “The lady tells the truth." “She lies,” de Viennes began. “I would not...” He got no further for the wind was knocked from him as Kaelan Hesar plowed headfirst into his belly, sending them both flying over the water trough. The fight was savage; the hits loud and telling. No one dared interfere for Kaelan Hesar was of the royal family and not one man there could lift a hand to him without the Jarl's permission. Had it not been for one man's quick thinking-going after Duncan to stop what was sure to come-Kaelan might well have killed Rolf de Viennes that afternoon. It took three men to subdue the enraged prince, another two to hold him to keep him away from Rolf. “WHO STARTED THIS?” Duncan shouted. Fighting among the warriors was strictly forbidden at the Keep, barely tolerated on the training ground. It was a punishable offense. “He attacked me!” de Viennes hissed, spitting blood and part of a front tooth away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Some slut told him I had abused her." “GILLIAN IS NOT A SLUT!” Kaelan screamed in rage. Nicholas and Ruan Cree looked at one another. Both men stepped forward. “Our sister accuses this man?” Ruan asked. “Aye!” Kaelan spat. “She said he'd been pestering her!" “Oh, for the love of Alel!” Rolf de Viennes laughed. Despite the pain in his face and belly, he doubled over with laughter. “I was but complimenting the silly chit!" Kaelan opened his mouth to challenge the man, but Duncan slapped a hand over his lips. He turned to de Viennes. “I'll have your side of it and stop that braying! You sound like a Diabolusian jackass.” He ignored the muted shouts behind the hand he had clamped over his brother's mouth. De Viennes sobered, shaking his head as though vastly amused. “'Tis true I've been pestering the girl, but not like he thinks!" “Pestering her is pestering her!” Ruan snapped. “Your sister is of an age to be wooed, is she not, Lord Cree?” de Viennes chuckled. “I've been attempting to woo the girl!” He held up his hands in all innocence. “I swear before the entire Pantheon, I have not tried anything indecent with the girl and have no intention of doing so." Kaelan was furiously trying to free his mouth, but Duncan's hand was clapped firmly across it. “I wondered why she was immune to my advances,” Rolf drawled. “Have you been courting that child?” He removed his hand.

“She's not a child!” Kaelan spat at him. “And if she says de Viennes was pestering her, he was!" “Stop belaboring the point, Kaelan,” Duncan commanded. “I'll hear no more tales of what the child thought. She obviously has no concept of what pestering truly means." Kaelan shook his head furiously. “She knows full well. She..." “I SAID TO STOP IT!” It was the Jarl, not Kaelan's brother who spoke. He took Kaelan's chin in his hand. “I asked if you'd been courting the girl, Kaelan. That is all I need to know!" A flash of worry came over Kaelan's face. He was twenty-six, ten years Gillian's senior. Rolf was nineteen and more apt to receive permission to court her than he was. “Answer me!” Duncan snapped. “We've an understanding,” Kaelan said, not liking the way his brother's stare flared with triumph. “An understanding?” Duncan questioned. “What kind of understanding would that be?" Kaelan swallowed. He looked at Gillian's brothers but saw no encouragement there. No doubt they thought him too old for the girl, too. He looked back at his brother. “That I will seek permission to court her when she's of age." Duncan shut his eyes in annoyance and when he opened them, he stared at Kaelan for a long, silent moment as his jaw clenched and unclenched. At last, he turned to de Viennes. “He was defending the lady's honor as he saw it." Rolf de Viennes nodded, smiling. He could afford to be magnanimous; he knew what was coming. “I can certainly understand that, Your Grace. I have no quarrel with his motives." “Nevertheless, such gallantry does not excuse his blatant breaking of our rules,” Duncan declared. Whispers ran through those assembled; knowing looks met other knowing looks and heads bobbed. “Remember what happened to Kurt Sobern?” Ruan asked his brother quietly. Nick glanced at Ruan. “Nah!” he drawled in denial. At Ruan's silent nod, Nick turned back to the man being held. The Jarl was shaking his head in disgust. “I've no choice, Kaelan,” he said. He looked toward the Master-at-Arms. “Sir Nellis?" Frederick Nellis had known all along what would happen as soon as the Jarl found out about the fight. He should have stopped the thing from ever beginning, but it was too late now. He nodded his acceptance of what his Jarl sought and headed for the training room. “Duncan,” Kaelan said, trying to shake off the men holding him. “The bastard is lying. He made improper advances to her else she would not have mentioned it to me." The Jarl held up a staying hand. “That matter is settled. ’Tis the fighting that is the issue now. You knew better."

Nick Cree would remember that day for as long as he lived. He'd never seen a man whipped before and would never have dreamed he'd ever see royal flesh seared by the lash. Even as the men holding Kaelan Hesar walked him to a thick oak tree and tied the young man to it, could Nick believe he was actually going to witness such a thing. The ripping of the prince's shirt-exposing a broad, tanned back-set Cree's teeth on edge even before the Master-at-Arms stepped back, unraveled the whip and let the first lash fly. The prescribed punishment for fighting was ten lashes. Kaelan Hesar took every one of them without ever uttering a word. By the time they cut him down, his back and shoulders were criss-crossed with raw, red welts-some dripping blood onto his cords. Men stood silently watching the young prince shrug painfully out of his torn shirt and throw it away, wincing as they saw the agony such an action caused the young man. “If you're expecting an apology from me, Duncan,” they heard him tell the Jarl, “you'll not get it." Duncan nodded. “I expected nothing from you, little brother.” He pointed toward the Keep. “Leave us and go to your room. You will stay there until I decide you may leave. And I'm warning you, Kaelan: disobey the rules again and I'll tack on another ten lashes if I have to have you whipped again, is that clear?" Kaelan ground his teeth. “Perfectly!" **** News of Kaelan's punishment spread like wildfire throughout the Keep. Everyone knew he was in his room; the Jarl had sent the Healer to see to his brother's back. And just as the inhabitants of the Keep knew of the fight, they knew well the reason behind it. Eyes followed Gillian and her sisters and sister-in-law as the four women tried to gain audience with the Jarl. That they were denied was telling. But their stepmother was, miraculously, granted permission to speak with the great man. While the younger women waited outside the doors of the Great Hall, Duke Dakin Cree was in route to Prince Kaelan's chambers. “He can not have visitors, Your Grace,” the guard Duncan had posted outside Kaelan's door informed the Chalean Ambassador. “Might I inquire why he can not?” Dakin asked, his concern showing on his florid face. The man had defended his most precious of daughters and had paid a dear price for having done so. The least he could do was to thank him. “The Jarl's orders, Your Grace,” the guard apologized. Dakin nodded, turning away, then stopped. He looked back at the guard. “Between you and me, sir: do you believe Duke de Viennes’ version or the prince's?" The guard never blinked. “I believe Prince Kaelan, milord." Duke Cree smiled. “So do I. Will you tell him as much?" “Aye, milord!” the guard agreed.

**** “Something should have been done long ago,” Gillian's stepmother reminded her lover. “I know,” Duncan sighed. He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “You did what you could; the fault lies with that silly twit of a brother of mine!" Elga smiled. Aye, she thought, it does. She'd talked to Gillian, telling the girl Kaelan was far too old for her, hinting at a better betrothal, but the girl had merely stood there and listened politely, never once taking the lecture to heart. Elga knew she wouldn't. The fault lay with Kaelan Hesar; not an impressionable teenage girl. “You realize the entire Keep will be behind him in this folly, now,” Elga hinted. She cocked her head to one side as he turned to stare at her. “The man sacrificed flesh and blood for his maiden, Duncan." The Jarl groaned. “I'd not thought of it in that light.” He resumed his pacing, thrusting his nervous fingers through his thinning hair. “But a woman surely would." “Of course, there is a way out of this,” Elga said slyly. Duncan stopped his pacing. “There is?” he asked, hurrying to her. “What?" Elga tapped her fingernail against the pearly white surface of her front teeth. “Did you not tell me the Depository was low on funds due to the floods this past summer?" “Aye,” Duncan drawled. “What of it?" “And since the only way you have to replace those used funds that were needed to help the farmers is with a good bride price for Kaelan's hand in Joining...” She paused, smiling. “That's not the only way...” Duncan stopped. He saw her line of thinking. “A good bride price,” he whispered. “From a wealthy family willing to overlook a young man's momentary lapse of good judgment in courting a child half his age." Duncan drew her down onto the settee with him. “Have you such a family in mind?” His smile was predatory. Gillian's stepmother smiled. “There are several, my love,” she answered. The Jarl's smile slowly faded to be replaced with a fierce scowl. “But how are we going to make Kaelan ask for another woman's hand?" “We don't need to,” she replied. “But I don't see how we can make him do what he is not inclined to do, Elga.” Duncan's face showed his confusion. “As Jarl,” Elga said in a voice like that of a parent to a small child, “you need only issue a royal edict. Kaelan dare not refuse. He may be your brother, but he is also your subject. And as such, he is subject

to your wishes, is he not? If he disobeys, you can send him to prison, can you not?" “Aye, but I never would.” He smiled nastily. “But Kaelan doesn't know that, does he?" “Then it is settled,” Elga said, standing up. “What is settled?” Duncan rose slowly. “You shall issue a royal edict stating it is necessary to offer Kaelan's hand in Joining to satisfy the depletion of the Depository funds. You'll show great remorse at having to do this, but it must be done if the Keep is not to be bankrupted this winter." “But how will I decide on the right bride for him?" Elga grinned. “That's the easiest part, my love. We simply sell your brother to the highest bidder!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Fourteen: Holy Dale Manor

“Gillian, listen to me!" “No!” she yelled. “Just leave me be, Hesar!” She snatched up her half-dry wool coat and ran out the door. “GET BACK HERE!” Nick shouted. He cast an apologetic look at Kaelan, then tore after his sister. The sound of his heavy footfalls tripping down the stairs shook the walls. Kaelan's shoulders slumped and he eased himself to the bed. He thrust out his right leg, massaged his thigh where the pain always dwelt when the weather turned cold. Listening to the angry voices coming up from below stairs, he knew Nick had caught Gillian before she could venture out into the blizzard. Lifting his head, he stared at the window where snowflakes clung to the cracked glass. It was night-most likely close to midnight-and beyond the portal was a darkness almost as deep as the agony in his soul. “I took the bloody coat away from her!” Nick snarled as he came stomping back into the chamber. He heaved the offending garment across the room. “But she refuses to come back upstairs!" “Leave her be, Nick,” Kaelan sighed. “She'll come up when the cold gets to her." “Stubborn little twit,” Nick proclaimed. He plopped down in the straight back chair. “Consider yourself lucky you didn't....” He stopped as Kaelan turned an anguished face to him. Nick shook his head. “By the gods, but you still love her, don't you?" Kaelan turned away from the sympathy he saw in Nick's eyes. “With all my heart,” was the quiet reply. Nicholas Cree sat there for a long moment, just watching the slumped posture of his companion. A part of him warned him not to dredge up the past; that it would do no one any good if he did. But another part of him was torn between a need to know what had really happened that summer night and the desire to understand why it had happened at all.

“There's been no other, milord,” Nick said softly. “I doubt there ever will be." Kaelan lowered his head. “Another sin for which I have to atone." “When Elga came to me,” Nick said, “and told me what you had said to her, I wanted to come after you." A faint smile touched Kaelan's lips. “You should have." Nick looked down at the floor. “Would it have changed anything?" “No.” The one word was a heartbreak of a whisper. Hurt passed over Nick's broad face. “Why, milord? Just tell me why." Kaelan rubbed his thigh, kneading the bone-deep pain that plagued him. He stared across the room: past the peeling wallpaper, the mildewed wood, the cracked plaster. Not seeing any of it, but rather the magnificence of his brother, the Jarl's, bedchamber where pure gold and crystal fixtures vied with the finest Chrystallusian silk and Chalean lace to adorn Duncan's sleeping quarters. If he but drew in a breath deep enough, he thought he might could smell Frieda's perfume and the incense his brother's wife always burned there. “Duncan always hated me,” Kaelan said, remembering a childhood full of slights and cruel practical jokes. “I would imagine he still does." Nick looked up from his contemplation of the scuffed bare wood floor. “You're never mentioned at Court, milord." A soft, self-contemptuous laugh came from the Viragonian prince. “Out of sight; out of mind, eh, Nicky?" “There are those of us who remember you and still speak well of you." Surprised, Kaelan looked around. “Who?" “Gunter. Me. Our father.” He shrugged. “My brother, Ruan.” He raised his chin. “We might not have understood why you did what you did, but we don't condemn you for it, either. “Gillian does,” Kaelan reminded him with a hurt look. Nick lifted his hands as though to ask: who can tell what a woman is likely to do? Kaelan shook his head. “I did the one thing I swore I would never do.” He returned his gaze to the far wall. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Fifteen: Five years and nine months earlier: Tempest Keep

“No."

Duncan looked up from his writing desk. “I beg your pardon?" “I said no." The Jarl leaned back in his chair. “Did you hear me give you a choice, Kaelan?" Kaelan Hesar stared his brother down, knowing Duncan was not of the bent to keep eye contact with someone he knew he was misusing. When the Jarl looked away, Kaelan nodded. “Who put you up to this, Duncan? De Viennes?" Angry that he could not maintain the posture of authority, Duncan threw his pen down and pushed back from the desk. “No one runs the Court, but me!” He got up and strode heavily to the mantle to retrieve his pipe. “You couldn't possibly have come up with so grand a scheme on your own, Duncan,” Kaelan scoffed. “You're not that intelligent." Duncan had been about to light his pipe from a blazing piece of fat lighter, but stilled, jerking his head around to glare at his brother. He straightened and pointed the stem of his pipe at Kaelan. “Insult me once more and I'll have them take the hide of your back piece by bloody piece!” He slammed the pipe back into its rack. “I am tired of your disrespect, boy!" “Boy?” Kaelan hooted. “I am two years your junior, Duncan!" “And I am also your Lord and Master or do you still, after nearly three years, conveniently forget I am Jarl?” Duncan roared. “I've not forgotten,” Kaelan snarled. “Nor are you likely to ever let me do so!" Duncan's eyes narrowed. “Be careful how you speak to me, Kaelan Hesar. I grow tired of your insolence." The younger man flung his head back, the dark sweep of his raven hair flying away from his forehead. He stared at his brother. “Insolence?” he questioned with disbelief. “Insolence, my arse!” he snapped. Lady Frieda Hesar glanced at Kaelan. A tremulous smile hovered on her pale lips. “Good eve, Kaelan,” she said. She cast a look at her husband's stiff back, then left. “By the gods, but I hate that woman!” Duncan sneered from between clenched teeth. “And yet you'd have me shackled to one I detested, as well?” Kaelan growled. “At least Frieda is good-natured." Duncan turned and fixed his brother with a look that brooked no misunderstanding. “My Jarl chose Frieda Reghur for me to wed. I did not love the drudge; I did not even like the bitch; and I cannot abide her to this very day, but I did as the Jarl ordered and Joined with her.” He moved away from the fireplace and jabbed an angry thumb at his chest. “It was my duty, my obligation to my Jarl, that shackled me to Frieda Reghur. I had no say in the matter and even had I dared to voice an objection, Father would have laughed it away!"

“You are not Father,” Kaelan reminded him. “NO, BUT I AM JARL!” Duncan thundered. He strode to his brother and grabbed Kaelan's arm. “AND YOU, JUST LIKE ME BEFORE YOU, WILL DO AS YOUR JARL DEMANDS!" “You'll see me as unhappy as you, is that it?” Kaelan asked, shrugging off Duncan's hand. “I,” Duncan said in a low, deadly voice, “will see you do your duty to Virago, Prince Kaelan." Kaelan's eyes flashed dangerously. “There are other ways to restore the monies to the Depository, Duncan, and you know that! Binding me to a woman I neither want nor desire should be the last choice." “You will do as you are told,” Duncan stressed, his own eyes as cold as the snow on the Serenian Alps. The two men stood there-nose to nose-staring at one another. The clock ticked on the mantle; the fire snapped in the hearth; the old Keep's timbers settled now and again with a pop and groan. Outside, a wind had risen and was skirting along the eaves, pressing leaves against the window panes. “You will do as you are told,” the Jarl repeated, his gaze shifting among the golden flecks in his brother's dark orbs. Kaelan's jaw clenched tightly as did his fists. “Don't count your money before it's paid into the coffers, Duncan,” was all he said before spinning around and stalking to the door. “What does that mean?” Duncan sneered. When his brother did not answer, but jerked the door open instead and flung it back with enough force to crack the plaster upon which it hit, Duncan's long stride took him to the gaping doorway. “WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN, KAELAN?” he shouted after his brother's retreating back. **** “But I don't understand,” Gillian said. She followed behind Kaelan, her arm tight in his grip. “Just change your clothes,” he ordered as he continued on down the corridor toward her room. He looked around them, then lowered his voice. “Don't tell anyone what we're about, Gillian.” He shook her. “Do you understand me? No one!" “But, Kaelan...” Gillian gasped as she was jerked up to him and his mouth swooped down to claim hers in a heady kiss that made her toes curl. When he released her, he set her from him and gave her a warning look. “Meet me at the Farthane Bridge at eight o'clock and make sure no one sees you leaving the Keep." “Farthane Bridge,” she repeated. “Aye, but..." “Tell no one, Gillian,” he stressed, then spun around, heading for his own chamber. “Kaelan?” she called after him, but he'd already entered his chambers. She stood where she was, worried. He had seemed so cold, so furious when he'd found her in the stables. She rubbed her arm where he had taken hold.

“We're leaving,” he'd said. “Go put on your riding clothes." He'd dragged her out of the stable and up the servants’ stairs, cautioning her not to speak as they went. She doubted anyone had seen them anyway. “Kaelan, you're frightening me!” she'd whimpered as she had looked up into his stony face. “I'll not let anyone tear us apart, Gillian,” he'd said, cryptically. “No one!" “Who do you mean?” she'd asked as they climbed the stairs. He'd stopped and turned her toward him, gripping her shoulders in a hold that was almost painful. “I'll never hurt you, Gillian,” he said. “Nor will I ever allow anyone else to hurt you!" Before she could question his strange statement, he had continued on up the stairs, propelling her along in his wake. “What is happening?” Gillian asked. She slouched against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest. Had some man asked the Jarl for her hand? The mere thought of something like that having happened jerked her away from the wall to rigid attention. Surely that had not happened! Fear gripped her very soul. She would not allow herself to be parted from Kaelan. There was only one person in the entire Keep who knew everything that went on there. If a betrothal request had been made, that person would know. In the absence of her father-who was at that very moment making the crossing to Chale—there was only one other who could help; who could stop the betrothal from being acted upon. Without another thought to the warning Kaelan had given her, Gillian snatched up her skirts and ran for the stairs. She had to find Elga! **** Elga Cree opened the door and blinked. “My dear! What's wrong?” She ushered her stepdaughter into the chamber. “You are as pale as a ghost." “You have to tell me!” Gillian pleaded with her, taking Elga's slender hands in her own. “I have to know!" “Know what, Gillian?” Elga helped her husband's daughter into a chair and felt the girl's forehead. “Are you ill?" Gillian shook her head furiously and grabbed both Elga's hands. “I am fine!” She was gripping her stepmother's hands so tightly the older woman was wincing with the discomfort and lowered herself gracefully to the floor beside Gillian's chair to loosen the pull. “You have to tell me!" Dakin's wife's thoughts were flying. Surely the girl didn't know about the planned betrothal yet. Kaelan would not have been so foolish as to mention it and Duncan was certainly not likely to. “Gillian,” she said

sternly “you must calm down and tell me what is troubling you!" Gillian's eyes were bleak. “Has someone asked for my hand?" Taken aback by the unexpected question, Elga could do no more than stare. She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. She shook her head to clear away the confusion. “Are you sure?” Gillian pleaded for denial. “Aye, I am sure,” Elga managed to say. “I would certainly know had someone sought the Jarl out for such a request." Gillian's shoulders fell beneath the weight of her own confusion; she searched her lap for answers. “Then what is this all about?" Elga stood up, eased her hands from Gillian's forceful grip then pulled a chair up beside the girl's. “Tell me,” she ordered. The young woman's bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she sat there. There were two bright spots of color on her otherwise ashen face and the pulse in her slender neck was drumming against the porcelain skin. Elga put a comforting hand on her stepdaughter's shoulder. “You must tell me what has upset you so." Gillian looked up, guilt blazing now in her green gaze. She studied her stepmother's kindly face for a moment, then dropped her eyes. “It concerns Prince Kaelan." Elga almost hissed with exasperation; she knew that much. Why else would the girl be in such a dither? “What of him, dearling?” she forced herself to ask in a motherly tone. “I know you told me not to see him...” Gillian's voice trailed off as she plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Aye,” Elga agreed. “And I told you why: the man is too old for you." Gillian lifted her head and looked fiercely at Elga. “There is less age difference between he and I than there is between you and Papa." Elga nodded. “True, but that is different.” When her stepdaughter would have argued, she held up a staying hand. “Your Papa and I were both widowed. I had been married ten years to my husband-the gods be good to him-and was no untried girl who knows nothing of the brutish ways of men." Gillian could have argued that Elga knew more about men than most women ever would, but she held her tongue. Her stepmother's reputation was not the issue here. When the girl didn't speak, Elga reached out to lift her chin so she could look into her stepdaughter's face. “I take it you've been seeing him anyway,” she said in a clipped voice. “I love him,” Gillian replied with a hitching sob. Elga sighed heavily. “And I suppose he has told you he loves you, as well?"

“Aye,” Gillian confessed. There was a sad shake of Elga's lovely head. “They all say that, Gillian." “It's true!” her stepdaughter cried. “I know t'is, else why would he want to...?” she stopped, catching her lip once more between her teeth. “Why else what?” Elga said, squinting. “You'd best tell me the whole of it." Gillian felt the tears clouding her vision. One single salty drop fell down her cheek and she reached up to bat it away. “I promised him I would not speak of it." Elga folded her hands in her lap. “Let me see if I can guess what it is that is occurring here,” she said on a long breath. “He has asked you to run away with him, is that it?" The young woman looked up sharply. “How did you know?” she gasped. Striving to keep the triumph from her red lips, Elga schooled her face to a careful sadness. “My dear child,” she said in a heavy tone of sympathy, “such happens all the time. She sat forward, took Gillian's hands in her own and brought the girl's knuckles to her lips where she planted a soft kiss, then gave her stepdaughter a sad smile. “You say he loves you, but has he given any care to your reputation?" “W ... what do you mean?” Gillian asked. “Why, dearling,” Elga said with slight annoyance, “if he truly loved you, he would not be asking you to run away with him in the middle of the night.” She narrowed her gaze. “I take it this will happen tonight?" The older woman had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud. “And he instructed you not to tell anyone, am I right?" Gillian's hand flew to her mouth and her stare filled with guilt. She would have spoken, but her stepmother laid a restrictive finger over her lips. “Nay, it is of no matter. I won't tell anyone,” Elga lied. “But I would have you think, Gillian." “Think?” the girl echoed. Elga cocked her head to one side. “If he loves you as much as he vows, why has he not come to your father or, for that matter, to the Jarl to ask for your hand?" The younger woman blinked. She had not thought of that. Why were they running away? Why had he not made his wishes known to his brother, the Jarl? Why leave in secrecy? Telling no one? Dakin's wife saw the wheels turning in her stepdaughter's head and almost smiled. Elga knew she had put doubts there; she could see them forming behind those vivid green eyes. Thinking quickly, she drew from her vast array of deceitful tricks to firm up those doubts. “Gillian,” she said, getting up and starting to pace, “I have held my tongue concerning Kaelan Hesar for I know how infatuated you are with him, but I think now is as good a time as any to tell you something about him you may not know."

“What do you mean?” Gillian asked. She watched her stepmother pacing before the sweep of windows that overlooked the garden of Tempest Keep. “I have debated this for quite some time,” Elga said, as though the girl hadn't spoken. “I do not like to spread gossip and I was afraid you would think less of me if I told you what I personally knew of the prince.” She turned and fixed her young ward with a look of misery. “He and I were ... close ... once.” She saw the shock pass over her stepdaughter's face. “He told me things he would not tell others." Elga's blush came on cue. “The affair lasted for two years." Kaelan had slept with this woman? Gillian gasped. Surely not. She would not believe it of him. Her face said as much. “Has he shown you how well he kisses, dearling?” Elga inquired, knowing almost for a certainty that Kaelan had been the only man to kiss the girl and banking on Gillian not having discussed such things with her sisters. “Has he shown you how adept he is at using his tongue to imitate the act of sex?" Gillian's sharp intake of breath told Elga all she needed to know. She drove the stake deeper in her stepdaughter's heart: “I've been kissed many times, but no man has ever done that to me save him." She lowered her gaze as though in embarrassment. “Though I've heard other women saying the same thing about Kaelan Hesar." The young girl stood up, her entire body trembling. What if Kaelan had made love to the woman? What did it prove except that Elga Junstrom Cree was the whore Gillian had once named her to Kaelan. Had he denied it that night? He had not! She lifted her chin and fused her gaze with Elga's. “That is in the past." “Aye,” Elga agreed, wanting to shake the stupid chit. “And I did not mean to infer our relationship had continued. I told you of the affair simply to have you understand I know the man well. Intimately well.” Before Gillian could defend her love again, Elga went to her and took her by the shoulders. “You must know all of it, though, before you make up your mind to meet with him this eve!” She pushed Gillian down in the chair again and sat in front of her, her attitude one of breathless haste. “You know, of course, about the missing money?" Gillian's brows came together. “Money?” she repeated. “Aye,” Elga said, waving a dismissive hand. “The money that was taken from the Depository.” She locked eyes with Gillian. “No doubt you heard there was a depletion of funds due to the floods last summer." “Aye. What has that to do with Kaelan?"" “Duncan thought it best the Court be given that lie rather than the truth,” Elga went on, spinning a tale that was rapidly forming in her devious mind, and did not give the girl a chance to speak. “The Master Treasurer knows, of course; he was the one who brought the perfidy to Duncan's attention. Neither of them wanted to see Kaelan imprisoned for the crime."

“Crime?!” Gillian gasped. “Of course, if the money can be replaced before the Tribunal's next audit,” Elga stressed, “there will be no question of Kaelan being brought to trial." Gillian jumped up from the chair. “Kaelan is no thief!" “I did not say he was!” Elga told her. “I merely tell you what has happened and that Kaelan is the one who has been blamed." “He is no thief,” Gillian repeated. She pushed her stepmother out of her way and headed for the door. “Don't you see how his running away will look, though, Gillian?” Elga called after her. “It will make him appear guilty." “I don't care!” Gillian shouted. She yanked open the door and fled, headlong rush; was mindless of heads bending together in mumbled whisperings as she reached the prince's door and pounded on it. “Kaelan!” she shouted, her fist striking the door with enough force to bruise her flesh. “Kaelan!!" Gunter stepped out of his and Adele's chambers, the loud noise having disturbed his pregnant wife. “He's not in there, Sweeting,” he told his sister-in-law and was startled as she flew toward him, grabbing his shirt front in a vicious clasp when she reached him. “Where is he?” Gillian hissed, yanking on his shirt. “I have no idea,” Gunter grumbled. He put his hands up to pull hers away from his clothing. “I saw him leave with a traveling satchel not more than half an hour ago." Satchel? The word flew through Gillian's brain. He had told her to bring nothing with her. Why was he taking a satchel? “Has something happened?” Gunter asked. He saw people milling about in the hall, staring. “Can I be of assistance?" “No,” Gillian snapped. She pushed away from him and ran to her chambers. The hall clock was just then chiming seven and she had to be dressed and at the meeting place on time. As she slammed the door behind her, her stepmother's words came back to haunt her: “Don't you see how his running away will look?" Was the missing money in that satchel Gunter saw Kaelan carrying?Gillian wondered as she tore off her gown. Was that why they were leaving Tempest Keep? To escape the chance of being charged with the crime of embezzlement from the Depository? To be free of the imprisonment that would follow should he be found guilty? Gillian stopped. “But why would he take money from the Depository in the first place?" “I'll not let anyone tear us apart, Gillian,” he had said. “I'll never hurt you nor will I ever allow anyone else to hurt you!"

There was more to this than she'd been told, Gillian realized. But one thing was for certain: only Kaelan could provide the answers to the puzzle! [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Sixteen: Holy Dale Manor

“He was waiting just this side of the bridge,” Kaelan was saying. “I had no idea how he could have found out.” He plowed his hand through his hair. “I knew Gillian wouldn't have told anyone." Nick got up to put another log on the fire. If anyone was to tell Kaelan how his brother had found out, it would have to be Gillian. “I was furious when I saw him walking out of the fog toward me.” Kaelan massaged his aching thigh. “The bastard had three of his personal guards with him." “Intent on taking you back?” Nick inquired, sitting down again. “Which they did,” Kaelan answered heatedly. His eyes glazed with remembered bitterness. “I did my best to get away, but they were among his toughest Elite and I didn't stand a chance against them." “Sinclair, I was holed up in the filthiest, most remote dungeon cell my brother could find for me!" “He jailed you?” Duncan growled. “And took great delight in doing it, too,” Kaelan snorted. “Shackles and all." Nick's mouth dropped open. He could barely credit the evil done this man simply because Kaelan Hesar had fallen in love with a woman his brother thought inappropriate for him. That that woman was Nick's sister made the whole thing even worse to his way of thinking. “He told me he was going to keep me there until I agreed to his plan." A long breath escaped Nick. “We were having such a time with Gillian right about then, I don't remember much of what was happening at Court." “Oh, Duncan gladly came down to visit me to give me all the gory details!” Kaelan hissed. “He positively quivered every time a new bidder came forward to make an offer.” The disgust in the prince's voice was sentient. “Gilbreths offered 200,000 gold pieces; the Redmonds offered 275,000. I felt like a piece of meat!" “I remember the day Justus Sinclair came to Court, though,” Nick quipped. “One look at that precious only daughter of his and every man there went hard as a rock." Kaelan snorted. “Aye, I can see how she would do that to a man if he didn't know her for the bitch she could be." “How did he finally settle on Marie?” Nick asked. “I know the Redmonds outbid the Sinclair's.” He thought a moment. “The last I heard, the bidding was up to 700,000 gold pieces and Justus Sinclair was bemoaning the fact that he hadn't that much loose capitol to work with."

“That might have been true, but he had Holy Dale,” Kaelan reminded him. “His dead wife's estate." “Ah,” Nick said. “So Duncan was given title to this mansion.” Kaelan nodded. “What were you given, then?" The prince shrugged. “Marie." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Seventeen: The night Kaelan was jailed: Tempest Keep

The fog was thick. It wrapped Gillian in damp arms and hid her-she hoped-from the night beasties who prowled in the pearly glow. Beneath her feet, the swift water of Farthane Creek bubbled and lapped at the old wooden pilings of the bridge; the sound made her want to pee so badly her teeth ached. When the man stepped out of the fog, she nearly eased the ache in her teeth. “Who's there?” she whispered, praying it was Kaelan although by her watch, he was nearly an hour late. “Duncan Hesar." The name jolted her and she took a step back from his advance. The Jarl was alone, she saw; minus the usual company of Elite who dogged his every step. But if he were here to help her and his brother, he would want no prying eyes to witness his actions. She strained to see if Kaelan was with him. “He's not coming, dearling,” he told her as though he'd read her mind. Gillian felt a cold chill run down her spine. “Where is he?" Duncan's face materialized out of a patch of wafting fog and his eyes were sad. “On his way to Serenia by now, I would imagine." Nothing he could have said would have shocked her as much. She put a hand up to her throat. “Serenia?” she questioned. “Elga told me where you would be,” he said. He looked for all the world as if his heart were breaking. “I knew I had to be the one to come tell you." “Tell me what?” Gillian challenged. Already she was dying inside. He had left her? Sent his brother to bid his farewell? “As much as it pains me to tell you this, Gillian, my brother is a thief.” He let the words drop like poison into the susceptible recesses of the young woman's mind. “He took the money; spent it on his horse farm to purchase those Rysalians last summer. He had expected to sell them for a goodly price, I suppose, but when the floods hit and the animals drowned, he lost the entire investment." That much was true. Kaelan had spent a great deal of money—albeit his own from the small inheritance he'd received from their mother's estate—on horses he'd purchased from the Ben-Alkazar family. When the flash flooding began, there had been no way to rescue the seven stallions and four mares in the far pasture; the poor animals had been swept downstream along with half of Kaelan's spring colts.

“When he realized he couldn't replace the money, he made plans to run,” Duncan sighed. “Knowing the Master Treasurer would eventually find out who had stolen the money. There are only three men who have access to the Depository: the Master Treasurer, the Jarl, and the Jarl's Designee; in this case, Kaelan." Gillian turned and stared out over the dark, swirling waters. The thought crossed her mind to jump into that black abyss for she was surely as dead at that moment as she would be when the Gatherer came to claim her. “I know you care for him, dearling,” Duncan said sadly. “I wish he had not hurt you in this callous manner." “I love him,” she corrected the Jarl. Duncan went to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulder, fearful the girl was silly enough to plunge to her death in the icy waters of the Farthane. “I'm afraid there's more,” he said gently. Gillian shook her head. “Nothing I care to hear,” she whispered. She swiped angrily at the treacherous tears that were falling from her eyes. “I believe you should,” Duncan insisted. He turned her from the railing and held her by the shoulders. He took a deep breath and put what he hoped was the final nail in Kaelan's coffin. “He meant to ransom you back to your father once he got you to Serenia." “No!” she shouted, jerking away from him. “That's not true!" Duncan held a hand out to her. “Why would I lie, dearling? He needed 100,000 gold pieces to replace the money he took; your father would gladly have paid that for your safe return and Kaelan would have saved himself a possible prison sentence." “I don't believe you!” Gillian tried to get away from him, but he held on to her. “You want to make Kaelan look bad!" “Why would I do that, Gillian?” the Jarl asked with a sad smile. “What have I to gain from it?" What, indeed?she wondered as she stood there-trembling and heart-sick-staring back at him with tears streaming down her face. Duncan drove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I love my brother, milady, but I do not hold with the things he does. He sometimes acts as though there will be no consequences to his actions; for the hurt he has caused you-hurt I saw coming, I fear-I am going to make him atone." Gillian drew in a ragged breath. “Make him atone how?" “He offered to give back the money as soon as he could sell Revenge." “Revenge?” Gillian gasped. “But he surely would not!" Duncan nodded quickly. “Aye, he would to keep me from ordering what I've already ordered."

A sharp pain of fear pierced Gillian's heart. “What do you mean?” She stepped closer so she could better see the Jarl's face through the mist of fog. “I told my brother he would have to pay—and pay dearly—for his crimes this time.” The Jarl looked out across the water. “It is past time he took responsibility for the things he does; he is no longer a green boy to be excused of his mistakes.” He turned to face her once more. “I informed him I would not stay the Tribunal's hand when they seek to prosecute him for the theft of depository funds if should he find a way to pay them back." Gillian reached out to him, took hold of Duncan's jacket lapel. “Your Grace, no!” she begged. “He could not stand to be put into prison! We will pay the money for him! I will do anything to keep him from such a fate! I could not bare to see him locked away!" For one brief moment, Duncan saw true, unselfish love flitting through the young woman's eyes and his heart lurched. If only he could find the same kind of blind devotion Kaelan had stumbled into ... He shook his head, knowing such love was rare, indeed, and he would never be on the receiving end of it. The thought turned his mouth bitter and his words hard and brutal. “Have no fear of that happening, mam'selle,” he sneered. “My brother has already found the solution to the problem and—true to form—he will benefit from the plan. To avoid the disgrace to the family a public trial would surely bring, the Tribunal has agreed to what he proposes although I, myself, find it deplorable." “I don't understand,” she replied, her forehead crinkling. “He told me to offer him on the marriage market,” Duncan snapped, looking away from her lovely face. “To the Lord with the highest Bride Price." “What?!” Gillian breathed. “One with land and holdings equal to a Jarl's kin,” Duncan lied. “A Lord willing to reimburse the Depository and still have enough left over to replace the horses that were killed in the flood.” He watched her face crumble and felt a momentary stab of guilt, but he threw it aside. “Kaelan doesn't care who the woman is as long as she has enough money to keep him in style, and hails from his homeland." “A Viragonian woman?” she questioned, stung deeply by Duncan's words. The Jarl lifted his chin. “He can not marry a foreigner, dearling, and keep the bloodlines of the Principality pure; he said so, himself." “But he asked me to marry him!” she protested and felt like screaming as Duncan slowly shook his head in regret. “To get you in his bed, Mam'selle, he would have promised you the moon and stars and planets. That is his way." Gillian backed away from her tormentor. She held up her hands when he would have spoken again. “Tell me no more of your lies, Duncan Hesar!” she warned. “I'll not hear them!" “If you do not believe me,” the Jarl said softly, “go speak with the Duchess. It was she who sent me here. The lady loves you like her own."

Elga love her? Gillian thought hatefully. The woman loved no one but herself. But the mention of her father's mate brought about the effect Duncan had intended: it made Gillian stop to wonder what reason either she or the Jarl would have to put an end to tonight's plan unless at least a portion of what Duncan said was true. If Kaelan had really loved her, would he not have come? Even if he were guilty of the things of which his brother had accused him, would he not—if he even cared for her—have come anyway to spirit her away with him? Into exile? Even with so dishonorable an intent as simply bedding her as the Jarl suggested? Had he any feelings for her at all, would he not have made the effort to seek her out instead of running to Serenia? “Sweet merciful Alel,” she cried, burying her face in her hands. “I don't know what to believe!" “I am aggrieved at the hurt Kaelan has caused you,” she heard the Jarl saying. “At least allow me to make amends to you." “And how would you do that?” Gillian asked, bitterly. Duncan came to her and stood staring down into her ravaged face. “The announcement of my brother's availability will go out on the morrow.” He smiled ruefully. “I would wager to say there will be emissaries from every great house throughout the Realm speeding toward Tempest Keep within an hour of the news’ release. There will be a great hue and cry as the Lords seek to ally themselves closer to the House of Hesar. I would not think you would care to be here to watch the circus that will surely come." Gillian shook her head. “It doesn't matter,” she mumbled. “Nor would you,” Duncan continued as though she hadn't spoken, “care to be present when he takes his Joining vows with the lady whose dowry will bring the highest bid." A stab of jealousy and irrevocable hurt turned Gillian's tearful face to stubborn anger. “No, I think not." Duncan reached out and took her into his arms, feeling her body stiffen even though she made no move to stop him. He drew her to him—made heady by the sweet perfume of her hair and the softness of her young body—and held her head cupped in his right hand. “I will have the Windlass readied,” he whispered. “You can sail to Chale and stay there until this whole sordid mess is over." “How soon?” she asked, and her voice was a mere sigh of defeat. “A week, perhaps,” he answered, his heart hammering in his chest. “Aye,” she said, and the Jarl would have been stunned had he been able to see the hard glitter of hate forming in the young woman's pretty green eyes. “Make your ship ready, Prince Duncan. I would like nothing better than to leave this heathen place!" **** Kaelan looked up as the door to his cell opened. He was surprised to see the Duchess Elga. Standing quickly, he felt his heart slamming heavily against his ribcage. “Milady?” he questioned, hoping against hope she was here to help him.

“May I have a moment of your time, Your Grace?” she asked. She held her satin skirts up and away from the dust of the cell's floor. “A moment is all I am left with, I fear,” he answered. He looked about, realized he could not offer a seat on his grimy bunk. “It's of no matter,” she said, understanding his lack of amenities. “I've come to discuss Gillian with you." His heart nearly burst from his chest. “Gillian?” He went to her. “Does she know where I am?" Elga Cree held up a hand to stop him. “We saw no need to tell her you have been incarcerated,” the Duchess stated. “It would only hurt her the more." That his lady had been hurt by all this, he had no doubt. From the look in Elga's eye, he knew she was as much a part of the cause of that hurt as his brother, Duncan, was. The thought nearly lifted his hands to circle the woman's slim neck and squeeze until there was no life left in her whoring body. As it was, he turned away from her and plopped down on the cot. “So you are the power behind the Jarl,” he sneered. It had often occurred to him that Duncan was far too weak and wishy-washy to do the things he had since becoming Jarl; he knew there had to be someone advising the bastard, for Duncan had not the mental facilities to come up with such diabolical schemes as the one in which Kaelan found himself trapped. “I have some influence at Court,” Elga granted and chose to ignore the snort of contempt that came from the young prince. “What do you want?” Kaelan growled. “I would ask your opinion concerning Gillian." He looked up. For the first time, he saw what might well have passed for worry on the older woman's face. “What of her?” he asked, feeling uneasy. Elga stared hard at him. “What do we say to her?" “Say to her?” His tone was incredulous. “You help to destroy her life as well as mine, and ask me how to explain your evil to the woman I love?" Elga fanned away his words. “She cries the day long,” she snapped. “And who is responsible for that?” he hissed at her. He had no idea what lies they had told Gillian, but he hoped she knew him well enough to know they were just that: lies. “She will be leaving at the end of the week,” Elga told him and was pleased at the flinch that shivered through his strong young body. “She does not wish to be here when your bride is chosen. Until she leaves, I would see her at least calm, if not so near to despondency as she is now." “How could you hurt her like this?” he asked. “What ill has she done to you, Elga?" “No ill, at all,” the woman said. “In my way, I care deeply for the child.” She smiled hatefully. “It is you I wish to hurt, Kaelan."

“Oh, I've no doubt of that!” he shot back. “You and your spineless lover!" “You've spoiled her for other men,” Elga complained. “A woman does not ever get over her first love; he will always be there at the back of her mind: a yardstick by which she will measure every other man." “And I ain't what you have in mind for her, is that it?” “She needs a husband who is powerful; whose sword hand the Jarl can count upon to defend the House of Hesar." “De Viennes,” Kaelan sneered. He almost came off the cot to throttle the witch. “You aim to give her to that son of a bitch!" “Only if you do not do as your Jarl wishes,” Elga warned him, cutting him off and smiling at his wary look. “Either bow to Duncan's authority or we will gladly give her hand to Rolf de Viennes.” She dusted a fleck of lint from her sleeve. “Surely you must know the man has been after Duncan to do just that." “I'll kill that bastard before I will allow you to hand Gillian over to him!” Kaelan told her. “We'll not, unless you give us trouble, Kaelan,” she cautioned. “Either way, you'll not be seeing Gillian again, so do for her now what you can before it is too late." “Too late for what?” he whispered, suddenly fearful for his lady's safety. “She cries for you, Kaelan!” Elga said with annoyance. “I have already explained that to you. We can not have her mourning you.” She pointed a finger at him. “For one thing, you are not worth it; and for another, she is so furious at you for abandoning her." “I did no such thing!” he bellowed. “It was you who tore me away from her!" “So furious, I fear she will never trust another man,” Elga continued spitefully as though she hadn't heard him. “How can she allow herself to love again if she does nothing but wail over you?" Kaelan was stunned to hear himself say: “She'll get over it." “Will you?” Elga shot back, pleased with the intense pain that shot through her former lover's eyes. The young prince laughed sardonically. “It can not be said that Elga Cree does not cut right to the heart of the matter. You know I won't!" “Tell me what to do for her, Kaelan,” Elga snapped. “How to explain your leaving in terms she will accept." “You mean other than telling her the truth you are incapable of telling?” he threw at her. “Or which isn't in your best interest to tell?" Elga glared at him. She would have to make doubly sure this man was sent as far away from Tempest Keep as they could get him. “Do you wish to have the flesh removed from that strong back of yours!" “Nothing you do to me can hurt even a fraction as much as losing Gillian!” he spat. “That is an agony far

worse than any physical pain you or that hateful brother of mine can inflict!" “Care you to see if we can not inflict a much greater pain upon you, Kaelan Hesar?” she challenged. Kaelan snorted. He drew his feet up onto the cot, circled his legs with his arms and simply stared at the woman, hating her with every fiber of his being. “I wish you joy of Duncan, Elga,” he chuckled. “You are two of a kind." “Just answer me!” she hissed, stamping her velvet-clad foot. “What do I do to make Gillian happy again?" “Let me out of this wretched place and let us leave!” he threw back at her. “Out of the question,” she told him through clenched teeth. “I suppose it is,” he sneered, “since you won't make any money off that, you conniving harpy!" “Gillian is crying herself to death because of you!” she flung at him. “She has not eaten since night before last! The Healer worries for her health. Do you not care at all?" “And who is the cause of her despair, Elga?” he growled. “Ultimately you are, you selfish little bastard!" When he just sat there—continuing to glower at her-she threw up her hands. “This is useless! You care not one whit for that poor girl's health. She is making herself sick and all you can do is throw epitaphs of hate at me!” She went to the cell door and kicked it. “Guard!" “Tell her I'm a bastard,” she heard him say softly and turned around to look at him. Kaelan lowered his forehead to his raised knee. “Make me out to be the villain you've no doubt already have.” His shoulders slumped. “I'll not challenge what you say." “How do we make her believe us?” Elga demanded. “Nothing we've said has worked." Hot, burning grief washed over Kaelan's soul. “Tell her,” he said, having to stop when his voice broke, “tell her that it was never my intent to ask her father for her hand. Tell her I only wanted....” A wretched sob came from deep within his aching chest. “Tell her I only wanted to bed her." A gleam of victory glinted in Elga's eye. Kaelan had no way of knowing those had been Duncan's very words to the girl. “And you'll not deny the explanation?" It was on the tip of his tongue to take back all he'd said, but he knew he couldn't. One way or another, he would do all he could to protect Gillian. He would never be allowed to have her to wife; Duncan would make damned sure of that. As long as Gillian was spared the danger of becoming Rolf de Viennes’ mate, nothing else mattered. “I'll not deny it,” he whispered, “on one condition.” He lifted his head and stared into Elga's eyes. She was stunned to see bright tears in the depths of his brown gaze. “What condition?” she asked, suspiciously.

“That when you choose a mate for her, he be a man of honor. One you know will love and cherish her as you would have yourself loved and cherished, Elga Cree.” His gaze pleaded with her for help. “A man as unlike Rolf de Viennes as there is to be found in the Seven Kingdoms." Elga tucked her bottom lip between her pearly teeth. He would never know, she thought, what mate she would choose for Gillian. She would make sure Duncan sent him to the farthest reaches of the realm and kept him there for as long as he lived. Out of touch with the Court and away from anyone who could tell him differently. She smiled, gently, went to him and laid a placating hand on his stooped shoulder. “I swear it on my love for your brother,” she said. “I'll give her into the keeping of a man who will take as good a care of her as you, yourself, would." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eighteen: Holy Dale Manor

“I had given my heart into Gillian's keeping,” Nick listened as Kaelan explained. “And I knew it would be hers alone ’til the day I died. If she was to ever know happiness again, I had to set her free of me. What I did, I did for love of her." “So it was not your intent to simply bed me without benefit of vows." Nick jerked around, not having heard his sister return. He frowned at her sarcastic tone. “You are very rude to eavesdrop on a private conversation, Gilly. How much did you hear?" “Of course, not!” the prince stated, ignoring Nick. “I meant for us to Join. I told you as much." “What of the money?” she sneered. “Money?” was Kaelan's echo. “And the ransom." Kaelan's brows drew together. “Ransom?” he echoed again. “What are you talking about, Gillian?” Nick challenged. “The money you stole from the Depository!” she threw at him. “The ransom you planned to seek from my father for my safe return after you'd had your fill of me! The ransom with which you were going to replace the money you took so the Tribunal would not send you to prison!" “WHAT?” Kaelan gasped. His face had drained of color only to become suddenly infused with a scarlet rush of rage, as perfect understanding took hold of him. His eyes flew to Nick. Kaelan saw full realization of what must have happened already forming on Gillian's brother's face and clenched his hands into fists. “SON-OF-A-BITCH!” he exploded. “Oh, Gillian,” Nick mumbled. He ran a hand over his tired face. “Dearling, they lied to you."

“He did not meet me at the bridge!” Gillian protested, already beginning to have suspicions of her own. “He couldn't” Nick sighed. “Obviously you didn't hear the entire conversation else you'd have learned where he was and why." “Who told you I took money from the Depository?” Kaelan growled, his gaze snapping with burnt amber fire. “Both of them,” she answered. She looked from Nick's sad face to Kaelan's enraged visage. “Elga and Duncan." “And just why was I supposed to have taken this money?” When she explained to him, Kaelan's face became even more livid with fury. “And you believed this?” he questioned so softly his words were nearly inaudible. “You were not where you said you would meet me!” she defended. “When I got there, Duncan came not long after. What else was I to think? He knew of our meeting place. How else did he know if you were not the one to tell him?" “What exactly did my loving brother tell you that night?” Kaelan demanded. Gillian could not look at him. Her voice was tiny and filled with shame. “He said when he caught you, you were running away to Serenia to keep from being charged with the theft of the money." “I was running away so we could be together!” the Viragonian prince shouted at her. “So I wouldn't be forced to marry another woman!" “I didn't know where you were,” she said lamely. “I was in a dungeon cell,” he grated. “Placed there until Duncan could sell me, like the breeding stock you once named, me to the highest bidder!” He clung to the footpost of the bed. “I stayed there until you sailed for your homeland, milady! I was on the battlements, watching the Windlass take you out of my “They lied to you, Gilly,” Nick stressed, “for their own evil reasons." “But why?” she cried, swiping at the tears that were beginning to fall. “To eventually do what Elga swore to me they would not: hand you over to Rolf de Viennes!” For as long as he lived, Kaelan would hate Duncan Hesar, if for no other reason than that. And for no other reason than that, he vowed then and there to take de Vienne's life. “I would never have Joined with de Viennes,” Gillian whispered. “You had no reason to be concerned that I would." “And I was to know this?” he asked. He came limping around the foot of the bed. “I gave up my life to keep you out of that bastard's hands, only to have Duncan hand you over anyway!" “Why do you think we ran away in the dead of winter?” she beseeched him. “There has never been—nor will there ever be—another man save you for this woman, Kaelan Hesar!” She was growing angry at the disgust she was viewing on his hard face. “I had made a vow never to marry if it was not to

be you who would be my mate!" “Really?” he flung back at her. He hobbled toward her, mindless of the agony in his thigh. “You heard of Marie's death, did you not, Gillian?” He snaked out his hand to grab the footboard. “That was five years ago. Did you write me a letter of condolence expressing your sorrow? Did you send a messenger to see if I was still alive?" Nick was watching him with a dark scowl. There was something odd about the way Kaelan was standing-or trying to-braced against the foot of the bed. “I didn't know where you were!” she shouted. “The hell you didn't!” Kaelan bellowed. “The entire realm knew where I'd been exiled, Gillian Cree!" “Actually, we were told you had left Virago,” Nick said, catching a look of annoyance at his interruption as Kaelan's glower flicked over him for a brief moment. “They said...” Gillian began. “WHO SAID?” Kaelan thundered at her. “DUNCAN AND ELGA!” she gave him right back. “And what lies did they tell this time?” Kaelan scoffed. Gillian didn't reply. She was already feeling immensely guilty for having listened to Duncan and Elga, to those at Court who had always resented Kaelan Hesar and wished him ill. Deep in her heart, she knew he'd been terribly wronged by them all and she had added most to his misery. “What did they tell you, Gillian?” Kaelan pressed. Nick cleared his throat, gaining the prince's attention. “That after you buried Marie, you had gone to live in Rysalia, to breed horses with Ben-Alkazar,” he answered for his sister. “And?” Kaelan questioned, squinting dangerously, suspecting more. “That you'd taken three Hasdu women to wife,” Gillian answered, watching the incredulous, stunned expression settling on Kaelan's ashen face as he turned to stare at her. “And you believed that nonsense, too?” he whispered. “How was I to know any differently?” she asked. When he continued to stare at her, the emotions crossing his face alternating between hurt and anger, she flung out a dismissing hand. “At that time, I thought you capable of just about anything, Hesar!" Kaelan flinched, but his words were steady and filled with sadness. “What a despicable bastard you must have always thought I was, Gillian,” he said. “I thought no such thing!” she shot back. “No?” he guffawed. “To have believed me capable of such perfidy, there had to have been suspicion of my honor there in the back of your empty little head in the first place!"

“My empty...?” Gillian shot up from the cot. “How dare you say such a thing to me, Kaelan Hesar?" “Calm down, the both of you,” Nick said, getting up from the chair. He was still frowning heavily at the way Kaelan was standing. “Did you hurt your leg when you fell into the pond, Kaelan?” He put out a hand to the prince. “What difference does it make?” Kaelan snarled. He shoved past Nick, lurching toward the door, almost falling. “Who cares about what happens to me anyway?" Nick reached out to stop him, but Kaelan flung the door open and staggered through. “Damn it, Kaelan! Come back here!" “Let him?” Gillian cried. “He'll only resent us the more if you go after him, Nick." “He's hurt,” Nick protested. “Did you see the way he's limping?" “He'll not stay long below; it's freezing down there,” she said in a tired, forlorn voice. She sank down on the cot and curled into a ball. “Can't you hear him coughing?” Nick fumed, his eyes glowing with anger. “The man is close to having lung fever." “Leave him be, Nicholas,” Gillian pleaded. Nick slumped to the bed. “How could things have gone so wrong?” he moaned. Gillian began to sob and turned her face into the pillow so her brother would not see or hear. She was so ashamed of herself for having taken what Duncan and Elga had told her as truth. Not to have given the man she loved the benefit of the doubt was bad enough; to have actually believed the lies told about him was worse. He would never forgive her and she wasn't all that sure she would ever forgive herself. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Nineteen

Pain was something Kaelan Hesar had grown accustomed to feeling. From the moment his brother had condemned him to a loveless marriage, the young prince had begun to experience an agony of the soul from which he had seen no escape. He had learned to endure; to put aside his dreams and needs and desires; to hide his unhappiness as best he could; to try to make the best of what he had. But pain is a constant reminder and, although broken bones will eventually heal, a broken heart will not. You can not splint a broken heart. You can not expect the pieces to knit together again. Once broken, a man's heart remains that way and the pain is a never-ending torment that plagues with ‘what could have beens'. Kaelan sat on the servants’ stairs and gazed out the window at the falling snow. He was shivering, and the wracking cough that had now sprang up was a misery unto itself. He could feel the congestion in his lungs, hear the rattling his breath caused, and knew he was going to have one hell of a chest cold by morning.

“That's what comes of going out in this kind of weather, fool,” he grumbled. Sitting hunched over the pain in his thigh, he continued to watch the pristine flakes tumbling down beyond the window and wondered briefly if he and Nick might not have to dig out come morning. Already the snow was up to the window ledge. He coughed wetly, feeling the rattling in his chest getting worse, and sighed. Why was he punishing himself by sitting there getting sicker by the moment? There was a roaring fire in his chambers by which he could warm his chilled body, if not his cold heart. “Stubborn man,” he labeled himself. Sighing tiredly, he pushed up from the stair, grunting as a sharp, unrelenting pain drove through his leg. He stood there for a moment, letting the pain dissolve, squeezing his eyes shut against the bone-deep agony, then resolutely turned to pull himself wearily up the stairs. How he loved her still, he thought, as he climbed, wincing with the effort. It wasn't the warmth of the fire he sought; it was Gillian's beloved face. Even to fight with her, to hear her scorn him, was better than the solitude with which he'd lived these last five years. He'd gladly suffer her waspish tongue if for no other reason than to hear her speak. To hear anyone speak to him. He had to pause now and again, to suck in the agony in his thigh, to endure it, to go on. The pain was worse than usual and he couldn't help but wonder if the cold had not invaded even his bones. “Do you need help, Kaelan?" Startled, the prince looked up. Nick was at the top of the stairs; his face was filled with concern. Kaelan shook his head. “I can make it." “Why didn't you tell me you had hurt your leg in the fall this morning?” Nick grumbled. He wanted to go to the prince's aid, but knew the man wouldn't appreciate it. Kaelan shrugged as he continued to make his way slowly up the stairs. “It wasn't important.” He gained the last two steps, tightened his grip on the banister as his leg threatened to give out under him. He managed to grin at Nick Cree. “I'm used to it." “Stubborn man,” Nick unknowingly echoed with admiration. Only a blind man couldn't see the effort it had taken for Kaelan to climb the stairs. He matched his pace alongside Kaelan's as they walked to the prince's chamber. Hesar's limp was very pronounced and it worried him. “How bad did you hurt it?" Pretending he hadn't heard Nick's question, Kaelan opened his chamber door and went inside. His attention went straight to Gillian's cot and he frowned. “We've got to bring in one of the trundle beds from down the hall, Nick. She can't sleep on the gods-be-damned floor like that." “She could sleep in the bed with us ’til tomorrow,” Nick snorted. “If she wasn't as gods-be-damned stubborn as you are." Gillian lifted her head, unaware of the tear tracks which stained her cheeks and the red puffy eyes. “I'm fine where I am,” she told them.

The sight of her swollen eyes and still-damp cheeks hurt Kaelan. He wished with all his being he had the courage to go to her, take her in his arms, make her see how much he still loved her; but he doubted she'd allow such contact. Instead, he sat down heavily on the bed-only a few feet from her-and fused his gaze with hers. “This thing needs changing, Mam'selle” he said, shrugging his shoulders around the sticky discomfort of the camphor-soaked flannel poultice she had had Nick plaster on his chest. “It's cold." “No one told you to go traipsing down the gods-be-damned stairs to get it cold, Hesar,” she grated, flinging aside the covers. “Berate him tomorrow,” Nick warned her. “The man's wheezing as badly as a distempered dog." “Worse,” Kaelan mumbled. He sneezed hard, then sneezed again, reaching up to run the sleeve of his tattered shirt under his nose. “Oh, stop that!” Gillian commanded and threw him a rag to wipe his nose. “That's so disgusting, Hesar!” She went to the fireplace, bent over, and poured more camphor into a small pot. Holding the pot over the flames to warm it, she glanced over at Kaelan. “Well, take the gods-be-damned rag off, Hesar, and give it to me lest you want me to pour this brew on you.” She looked away from him. “Which I'll gladly do if you so desire it." A slight grin tickled the corners of Kaelan's mouth as he reached up under his shirt and pulled out the offending flannel square. He handed it to her. “I'd prefer you re-wet it over there, Lady." She took the rag and dipped it in the pot. “By the way,” she said, her teeth clenched tightly together, “I am sorry." “For what?” he inquired. She cast him an exasperated look. “For not having had more faith in you, Hesar." “I am sorry, as well,” he replied, letting his gaze drift over her lovely profile. Gillian wrung out the flannel and stood up. “What have you got to be sorry about?” she muttered. “'Twas not you who lost faith in me, was it?" He looked up at her as she came to him, motioning for him to lift his shirt. “No, I never lost faith in you,” he answered, pulling up his shirt. “I lost faith in myself." Nick stood by the door—his arms folded over his massive chest-and watched the sparring. He wondered if either of these two knew what it was they were doing. There was wonder on Kaelan's face as Gillian dropped to her knees to paste the flannel rag to the prince's chest; there was intense guilt and hope on Gillian's as she lifted her head from her work, her hands plastered on the flannel she had placed against the sick man's chest, and looked up into his eyes. “How did you lose faith in yourself, Milord?” she questioned softly. Nick's left brow eased up beneath the sweep of his tousled hair as Kaelan put out a hand to cup Gillian's face. The prince's hand was trembling. “For not having had the courage to come after you when Marie died,” the prince told her. “I should have. I wanted to."

Gillian lowered her gaze. “And risk the Jarl's punishment? That would have been foolhardy, I think.” Still looking at the floor, her next words were nearly inaudible. “Why did you not get word to me, milord? I would have come to you." “I feared for you, dearling,” Kaelan replied gently. “For what Duncan might do to you should you try; for what he might force you to do. I had no fear for my own well-being.” He caressed her chin. “Inside, I was already dead. Seeing the Windlass tack southward to Chale, watching it disappear on the horizon, taking you from me, was like having a dagger driven into my heart that day." Gillian looked up, her face filled with hurt. “I did not want to stay at the Keep and watch you take your vows to another woman." “And I did not want you there to see it,” he replied. He moved his hand to the mussed braid over her left shoulder, lifted it, enjoying the silky feel of her hair through his fingers. “It was bad enough I had to be there to endure it. I was with the wrong woman on my Joining night. Pretending she was you didn't work." She blushed, took her hands from his chest, and stood up. The thought of him making love to Marie Sinclair still had the ability to make Gillian furious and it caused her great hurt. “Did she care for you?” That was a question she had always wanted answered. “About as much as she cared for a toothache,” he replied and met her gaze squarely. “Marie despised me." “Then why did she marry you?” Gillian asked. “What choice did she have?” he countered. “Her father wanted his house allied to the Jarl's. It was a match made in heaven for Sinclair. He gave as much care to Marie's objections as Duncan gave to mine." “I heard she went kicking and screaming to the altar,” Nick commented. He shrugged at Gillian's look of surprise when she turned to stare at him. “We thought it best you didn't know." “What else did you and Papa keep from me, Nicholas?” she snapped. “Only that,” Nick groused. “Papa thought if you knew the match wasn't gladly met, you'd have found a way to find Kaelan.” He cast the prince an apologetic look. “That wouldn't have been a very wise thing." “No,” Kaelan agreed. “It wouldn't have." Gillian drew in a long, calming breath. “I suppose." “Would you have?” Kaelan asked. He eased his leg out in front of him, striving not to show the pain the action caused. “Come after you?” she inquired. At his nod, a rueful smile touched her mobile mouth. “I might have.” Her gaze slid over his fever-glistening face like a potent caress. “I loved you enough to have done so, Milord." “Loved?” he asked, his face mirroring his hurt.

“Stop baiting her,” Nick chuckled. “My little sister still loves you, Kaelan. Just as you still love her." Gillian blushed again and went back to her cot. Sitting down with her legs bent to one side beneath her, she nodded her chin toward Kaelan. “Best see to his leg, Nick." “There's no need,” Kaelan said too quickly It was the guilty look on his face that brought an instant scowl to Nick's. “You didn't just hurt it this morning, did you?" Kaelan gave a careless wave of his hand. “No, but having a swim in that frigid pond did nothing to make the gods-be-damned thing feel better.” He gave up his pretense and rubbed vigorously at the pain in his thigh. “Sometimes it hurts worse than others." “What happened?” Nick asked. Kaelan sighed. “I broke it." “When?” Gillian demanded. The prince looked away from her lovely face. “Awhile ago, dearling. What difference does it make?" “When?” Nick stressed. Kaelan continued to knead the ache in his leg. He couldn't look at either of them as he answered: “Five years ago.” His voice fell to a whisper. “The day I killed Marie." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty: Five years earlier: Holy Dale Manor House

Marie Hesar stamped her foot angrily. Her china-blue eyes were snapping with fury as she regarded her husband. “I wish you were dead, Kaelan Hesar!” she flung at him. “Aye, I bet you do,” Kaelan agreed. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the door jamb of their bedchamber, watching her. “You'll forgive me if I don't accommodate you, won't you, my love?" “The demons take you to the Abyss!” she shouted. “You and that Chalean whore you mumble about in your sleep!" Kaelan's eyes narrowed. “Be careful what you say, Marie,” he warned her. He could forgive his wife anything, save the vile epitaphs she aimed at Gillian Cree. “If you were a real man,” Marie sneered, “you'd be with your precious Gilly this very moment.” She dropped her contemptuous gaze down his lean frame. “But a man is not something you will ever be, Kaelan." “Why, Marie-love,” he replied silkily, “you've seen to that, haven't you?” One corner of his mouth lifted in taunt. “I believe the term they use to describe males like me is ’emasculated', and don't they call females like you ‘ball-breakers'?” His grin widened at her snort of disgust.

“As though you had balls before we married!” she threw at him. “I had no complaints,” he chuckled, pushing away from the door. “Some women will mate with mongrel dogs when they're in heat,” she insulted him, enjoying the instant frown her vulgar words brought to her husband's handsome face. It annoyed her that she found him so beautiful of countenance. “Is that why you slept with Rolf de Viennes?” he challenged. Finding out his wife had not been a virgin on their wedding night was just one more reason he hated this woman so much. Marie lifted her chin. “It was either give my maidenhead to a man I respected and admired or let you break it with your bumbling,” she sniffed. “At least he knew what to do with a real woman! He took care when he relieved me of my maidenhead!" “He should have;” Kaelan scoffed. “He's broken enough of them in his bed." Her blue stare enveloped him with seething hate. “Just as he will eventually break that of the Chalean whore?" Kaelan went still as death. His gaze narrowed to pinpoint flames of fury. “Don't,” he told her. They'd had this self-same conversation before, for Marie knew he despised de Viennes, and the mere thought of his precious Gillian in that knight's arms—not to mention his sin-stained bed—was more than Kaelan could tolerate. “He'll have her one way or another,” Marie laughed, thoroughly enjoying the look of hurt she saw on Kaelan's face. “He is Duncan's best friend and has the Jarl's ear." “No,” Kaelan snapped, shaking his head in denial. “That won't happen." Marie pursed her lips into a pout. “Continue to abuse me, Kaelan, and I'll personally see to it." “Abuse you?” he snorted. “How do I abuse you, Madame?" “By living!” she tossed at him. “Why don't you just take yourself off somewhere and die?" “My apologies, then, for daring to draw breath!” he threw right back at her. Without another word, he spun around on his heel and strode away from her. As he skipped down the stairs, ignoring the servants who plastered themselves against the stairwell to get out his way, he cursed his wife. Slamming out of the house, he stormed toward the stable, yelling for Revenge to be saddled. Marie watched him from the window of their bedchamber. She could not help but admire the male beauty of him: the lean hips, flat belly, wide shoulders and muscular chest. His face was finely-wrought—even more so than Rolf's—and his thick dark hair and burnt umber eyes could make her heart flutter when she allowed such a treacherous thing to happen. But still she hated him with every fiber of her being. “Even some snakes are beautiful to look upon,” she had often reminded herself, and Kaelan Hesar was lower than any snake she'd ever seen.

Flinging the drape away from her, Marie went to the bed and sat down. Her fists were clenched in her lap and she strove to keep her heart from racing. Putting up a hand to the slight pain in her left shoulder, she winced as her chest constricted once more. She held her breath against the nagging pain, flexed the fingers of her left hand where the numbness had spread. “Good morn, Your Grace,” a servant girl greeted her as she tapped respectfully at the opened door. “Shall I help you dress?" “Go away,” Marie snapped. “Did he upset you again this morning, Your Grace?” the girl asked in a fierce, protective voice. Marie glanced around at the servant. “Doesn't he always?” she grunted. “The man lives to spite me!" The servant dared to venture a ways into the chamber. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed last week, Milady?" A smirk settled on Marie's porcelain face. “Oh, I've thought much about it, Hildy!” she grated. The pain in her chest was diminishing, but the numbness lingered in her hand and fingers. “I've thought of little else." Marie knew the servants at Holy Dale—loyal to the House of Sorn, thus the Sinclairs—had been chosen specifically for their keen dislike of the Viragonian ruling family. Hand-picked by her own grandmother, Constance Sorn, there wasn't a man or woman in Marie's household who liked the prince. Most found him beneath contempt, and it was their mistress’ attitude toward the man that encouraged their own rudeness toward Kaelan Hesar. “It would not be difficult, Your Grace,” Hildy whispered seductively. “All you need do is give us your permission and it will be taken care of." A long sigh came from Marie. “If I only had the courage to do it,” she replied. Hildy came to the bed and dropped down before her mistress. “He makes you so unhappy, Your Grace,” she said, daring to put a comforting hand on the Duchess’ knee. “If he were gone, you could be with your love." Marie sighed again. “Rolf,” she answered. “Aye,” Hildy agreed. “Just say the word, Your Grace, and I'll have Kullen see to it.” Kaelan's wife sat there for a long moment and stared at the servant. It would be so easy to give the girl her permission; to say the words that would sweep away the only thing Marie perceived as an obstacle to her ultimate happiness. To have Kaelan out of her life.... “I can not,” Marie said at last. “I wish I could, but I can not." Hildy nodded sagely. “You are a good woman, Your Grace.” A militant gleam sparked in her sherry-colored eyes. “Too good for the likes of him." Marie smiled and preened. “I think I'll dress, now, Hildy.” She stood up, her chest pain all but gone. “The lavender silk will do."

The servant girl made a quick curtsy and hurried to the large armoire where only Her Grace's clothing was kept. “He took himself off riding on that hell-steed of his,” Hildy grumbled as she brought the gown back to her mistress. “A pity he can control the beastie as well as he does.” One side of her thin-lipped mouth lifted. “I would imagine a nasty fall from that steed would most likely break his neck, don't you, Milady?" “Enough!” Marie laughed. It was good to know the servants hated Kaelan almost as much as she, herself, did. When the time came for her to send him packing, the servants would stand behind her; throw him out if needs be. “At least let me get with child before we kill him off, Hildy Jamerson!" Hildy sniffed. Everyone in the manor house knew the Prince and his lady-wife did not share the same bed. It was a rare occasion, indeed, when the Duchess of Windstorm relented and allowed her husband the brief interlude with her person which might conceivably culminate in the seeding of a babe in her womb. To Hildy's recollection, it had been nigh on three months since that last grudging permission had been granted. If a babe was to come of this unholy union, the Lady would have to make herself more available to her husband's base desires. “I know what you're thinking,” Marie said, eyeing Hildy's deep frown. “As much as I hate his hands on me, it may well take a year or more for me to get with child.” The Duchess of Windstorm shuddered delicately. “I just simply can not abide his rutting.” Her eyes turned dreamy. “If only it were Rolf...." “If you want a babe, Your Grace...." “I don't!” Marie said, stamping her foot. “But Papa does. He wants a grandchild. And before he will allow me to live at Holy Dale without Kaelan Hesar, I have to give him that grandchild to cement the bond between the two houses!" It was on the tip of Hildy's tongue to ask what would happen if her mistress were incapable of breeding a child from the prince. The fault—the servant girl knew—would lie solely with Her Grace since the prince had had two bastard children by Tempest Keep women, and his fertility proven. But there was no need in borrowing trouble. To Hildy's way of thinking, if, within a year's time, Her Grace had not conceived, matters would have to be brought to a head at Holy Dale. “I don't care to discuss this further,” Marie snapped waspishly. “It fair gives me indigestion to hear that man's name spoken!” She rubbed at her belly where the corset was creating acute pain, but fashion-and a noblewoman's good upbringing-dictated she wear the torturous devices “He'll get his due one day, Your Grace,” Hildy prophesied. “See that he don't." **** Kaelan drew in his steed atop the hill beyond Holy Dale manor. He stood up in the stirrups and looked down at the wide pond where geese paddled to and fro across the silvery surface. Overhead, two hawks rode the thermals, dipping gracefully in a lazy duet. The day was warm; the air sweetly scented with jasmine and honeysuckle. Winter was a vague unpleasant thought three months away. The Viragonian prince hated winter. It had been winter when he'd wed Marie Sinclair, and this winter would mark their first anniversary. It had been a year filled with so much anger. So much unhappiness for the both of them. So many recriminations thrown back and forth between them. Winter was a time for staying indoors and brooding; staring at the stone walls and feeling the chill of Marie's dislike; suffering the icy sting of her tongue that drew blood every time she lashed him with it; burrowing beneath layer

upon layer of bedding, shivering, miserable, when-by rights-he should be lying beside the warm body of his wife. But Marie had made it clear to him on their Joining night that he would not be sharing her bed when they arrived at Holy Dale. On that ill-fated night, he hadn't wanted to ever share the woman's bed; the thought of it made him physically ill. Now, almost a year later, his loneliness was telling and thoughts of a willing body beneath his own filled his daydreams and kept him awake when he should be sleeping each night. It was the loneliness that ate at Kaelan Hesar. Few of the servants ever instigated a conversation with him and those who did, did so to complain about one thing or another. Most of them ignored him, when they weren't staring at him with a rudeness that bordered on insolence. Had their churlish behavior really mattered to him, he might well have ordered one or two of the worst offenders whipped, although he'd been wondering of late if he could find even one servant among them willing to take his side on anything. And as for Marie: she deigned not to speak with him or be near him any more than was absolutely necessary. The few times she'd allowed him to mate with her—and he could count the times on one hand in the last eight months—she had lain beneath him like a frozen corpse. At first her attitude had infuriated him, then insulted him, then ultimately hurt him. Now, he took her as quickly and with as little foreplay as was possible, simply to relieve the terrible ache that came over him at times. But even as his seed spurted deep into her unresponsive body, he was ashamed of his need to lie with her. Had it not been for the crushing loneliness that plagued him, he would deny himself the need to seek her out for those humiliating encounters from which he gained neither pleasure nor true relief. Nor could he push aside the tremendous guilt he felt for having taken her at all, although he had every right to do so. It wasn't just his still-burning love for Gillian that made him feel so guilty, it was the need for human contact that drove him to Marie. A movement in the trees to his right caught Kaelan's attention and he turned to see two deer frolicking beyond the copse of birches. He watched the doe sidle close to the buck, smiled as she tossed her white tail in invitation, then leapt away as the male turned to nip at her. ‘Catch me if you can!’ she seemed to tell him as she bolted back through the trees and out of sight. The buck stood where he was, looking at the spot where she'd vanished, then turned to give Kaelan what appeared for all the world like an exasperated look. The prince grinned. “What can I tell you, fellow?” Kaelan said softly. “It's your job and if you don't do it, some other guy will.” His grin widened as the buck seemed to sigh before turning resolutely toward his teasing mate. With a graceful bound, the buck merged into the forest and was soon out of sight. Revenge nickered, gaining a gentle pat on the neck from his master. The stallion pawed impatiently at the ground; it had caught Kaelan's own restlessness. With a toss of its magnificent head, it let its feelings be known. “What's at the manor house for us?” Kaelan questioned as he continued to pat his mount. Oats and hay for the stallion; more brooding for him. At least one of them would find satisfaction at Holy Dale. With one final, fleeting and wistful look at the spot where the deer had been playing, Kaelan straightened in the saddle and sent his steed homeward. ****

Kymmie Kullen looked up from the pot of stew she was stirring as the master of Holy Dale came through the kitchen door. The sight of the prince never failed to bring a hard lump of desire to the young woman's chest and she blushed furiously as his gaze slid hopefully toward her. “Would it be too much trouble to get some lunch, Mam'selle?” he asked her, placing his gloves on the servants’ table. “No trouble at all, Your Grace!” Kymmie assured him, ignoring the hateful look the cook sent her way. She laid aside her ladle and hurried to get a clean bowl. “Her Grace ate over an hour ago,” the cook grumbled as she threw a handful of peeled potatoes into a pan. “Well, His Grace didn't,” Kymmie responded, glancing back to see the prince staring down at the table top and pretending he didn't hear what was being said. “If'n he had been here when he was suppose to,” the cook snarled, “he'd have been fed then.” Kaelan did not mistake the anger in the old woman's tone nor could he overlook the venom with which she spat out her bold words. He lifted his head and turned to look at her, half-expecting her to look away. When she didn't, but continued to glare back at him with a mulish, arrogant twist to her almost non-existent lips, he simply stared at her, allowing her hatred to wash over him. After an uneasy moment, the old woman snorted, then turned her back on him as though he were of no importance to her at all. “She's a mean old cuss,” Kymmie said as she placed a bowl of stew and a large chunk of freshly-baked bread on the table before him. “Don't pay her no mind, Your Grace." Kaelan had lost his appetite. The old woman's attitude had chilled him and had only served to underscore the dislike that was aimed at him daily by his wife's servants. He pushed the plate away. “Your Grace!” Kymmie said with exasperation. “You should eat." “The man ought to know if he's hungry or not, Kymmie Kullen,” the cook snapped. “Leave him be about his business!" “And what business would that be, Madame Clark?” Kaelan asked, growing angry at the old woman's baiting. Jonelle Clark twisted her head around and fixed him with a haughty glare. “Whatever business gets you out of my kitchen, I'm a'reckoning, Milord." “Your kitchen?” Kaelan repeated. “Aye!” The old woman turned around and pointed the knife in her hand toward him. “It sure ain't your kitchen, now, is it?” She lifted her chin. “No more than is the rest of Holy Dale, I reckon!" Seeing the absolute spite on the cook's face touched some vital chord in Kaelan's gut and he pushed back from the table, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “No, I suppose it isn't,” he snapped. He pushed past Kymmie and left.

“Don't you do it!” the cook warned Kymmie as the girl snatched up the prince's gloves and ran after him. “You get your arse back here, Kymmie Kullen, or I'll tell your pa!" “Tell him, then!” Kymmie threw at her as she flew out the kitchen door. Kaelan wasn't surprised to find Revenge still tethered where he'd left him. The stallion was standing at the post, hungrily eyeing the oat bucket sitting beside the stable door. With five long, angry strides, he reached the steed and vaulted onto the broad sleek back. “YOUR GRACE! WAIT!" He was drawing on Revenge's reins as the servant girl ran toward him. Her headlong rush made the big stallion jittery and it moved back, tossing its thick tail in annoyance. Kaelan had to saw on the reins to keep the animal from rearing up. As it was, the beast sidestepped away from the advancing girl and jerked on the bit in its mouth. “Has no one ever told you not to rush an animal like that, Mam'selle?” Kaelan scolded her. “It's a dangerous thing to do." Kymmie's face turned red as she thrust out the prince's gloves. “You left these behind, Your Grace. I thought you might need them.” She looked up into his face and smiled. The smile took Kaelan's breath away for Kymmie Kullen was a very lovely young woman. Her reddish-gold hair hung in two long braids down her slender back and the dusting of golden freckles on her sun-kissed face made her seem younger than her twenty-odd years. A pair of vivid green eyes sparkled with warmth as she gazed up at him and he was reminded painfully of Gillian. “Thank you,” he said, reaching down to take the brown leather gloves from her. As his fingers touched hers, he felt a jolt of desire spear through his lower belly and he flinched, wanting nothing more than to sweep her up behind him and gallop away with her. “Any time, Your Grace” he heard her say and the invitation was there in her husky voice for anyone to hear. From the library window, Marie Hesar was watching the interplay between her virile young husband and the whorish servant girl. She understood the looks that passed between them and was not appeased when Kaelan jerked on his stallion's reins and left the girl standing before the stable, staring after him. Only a fool would not know what that was all about, she thought with fury. “So that is why you do not seek me out any more than you do, Kaelan,” she mumbled, her hand tightening on the window latch. She turned her attention to the servant girl who was walking dejectedly back to the kitchen door. “GIRL!” she yelled and wasn't surprised to see Jasper Kullen's daughter flinch with guilt. “COME HERE!" Kymmie bit her lip as she walked to the library window. “Aye, Your Grace?" “Where is my husband going?” Marie snapped. “I ... I don't know, Your Grace,” Kymmie responded. “But I would wager I could tell you where he's been!” the Duchess of Windstorm snorted.

“Pardon?” Kymmie asked, suddenly very wary of the wild look in her mistress’ eye. Marie flung a dismissive hand at her. “Be about your work! You do have other things with which to occupy your time other than to ogle my husband, do you not?" Kymmie dipped a quick curtsy. “Aye, Your Grace!” Her feet fairly flew to the kitchen door and she had to force herself not to look back at the mistress as she ducked inside. Had anyone seen the look that passed over Marie Sinclair Hesar's pretty face at that moment, they would have known it boded ill for the guiltless man who had caused it. **** Jasper Kullen stood before his mistress and smiled sweetly at her. He'd known the woman all her life; in fact, he'd personally fetched the midwife the night the bairn was born. If truth were told, he loved Little Marie almost as much as he loved Big Marie, the young woman's sainted mother. “Ain't nothing going on twixt them, Your Grace,” he explained. “I'd know it if there was.” He shook his head of carrot-cropped hair. “Kymmie ain't exactly the brightest star a'twinkling in the heavens, but she ain't the dullest, either. She wouldn't dare to do nothing immoral with the prince." “You're sure?” Marie said, almost disappointed. “I'd put a wager on it,” Jasper stated. Marie's shoulders slumped. “I was hoping she was the one.” She sighed. “If it's not Kymmie, then it's another girl." Jasper's back stiffened. “You think he's up to no good with one of the girls, Milady?" “As you say, Jasper,” Marie said dryly, “I'd put a wager on it." Jasper wagged his head. “No, Milady. I'd of heard of it.” He twisted his wool cap between two massive, callused paws. “I been a'watching him like you asked me to do." “He's fornicating with one of my girls, Jasper!” Marie shouted at him. “If you haven't caught him, yet, it's simply because the man has been too careful!" The woodcutter didn't want to argue with the mistress He knew for a fact that if His Grace was playing pass the meat with one of Holy Dale's servants, he'd have heard of it. As for the girls from the village, none would come near the prince for they'd been warned what would happen if they did. But he wanted to soothe the worry lines from his precious Little Marie's face. “I'll find out who it is, Milady,” Jasper assured her. “When you do,” Marie snarled, “don't confront her with it and don't let the prince know you are on to him." “Then what should I do?” Jasper asked, scowling. “Just give me the name,” she snapped. “I'll see she is punished!"

Jasper clutched the cap tighter. “And the girl? What would you do with her, Your Grace?" Marie's smile was chilling. “Make her wish she'd never put hands on Kaelan Hesar!" **** It was after sunset when Kaelan returned to the manor house. He had been riding the hills behind Holy Dale and had spent several hours just staring blindly out across the silvery-green waters of the pond. He hadn't wanted to come back to the manor house, but there was nowhere else for him to go. Duncan had seen to that. “You shall not be coming back to Tempest Keep,” the Jarl had warned him. “So take what you want now. Whatever you leave behind will be disposed of." After almost a year, Kaelan still marveled at how easy it had been for his brother to disown him. How quickly the Jarl had seized his assets and confiscated the remaining money from their mother's estate that had gone to Kaelan, leaving Kaelan virtually penniless. And to know Duncan could do all that without a moment's hesitation had been a stunning blow. To know he could do nothing about the Jarl's perfidy, had been crippling. Now, for all practical purposes homeless and bankrupt, Kaelan was at the mercy of his wife for his food, his lodging, and the very clothes on his back, which she had bought to replace the ‘rags’ he'd worn at the Keep. “We have a certain standard by which we live,” her father had said, looking down his nose at the cambric shirt his son-in-law was wearing. “Such dress will not suit." When he'd gone to his room-furious with the interfering old bastard-he had found his old clothes gone. The silks and brocades and velour hanging in his armoire had made him groan with desperation. But with no money of his own, he had had no way to have other clothes made. He'd had no choice but to wear the foppish clothes his wife had ordered made for him. Climbing the stairs to his chamber, Kaelan passed Hildy Jamerson, Marie's personal maid. The woman looked right through him as though he were a beggar on the streets of Hellstrom Town. Her upturned nose and the way she swept the skirts of her gown away from contact with his dusty breeches, made him want to push her over the railing to the marble floor below. As though she'd read his mind, she stopped on the next to the last stair and stared up at him with a murderous glint in her frosty sherry-brown eyes. He paused on the balcony, looking down at her, until she flounced her skirts and continued on. “Snooty bitch,” he named her. As he passed his wife's door, he saw her primping before the mirror and shook his head. For a woman as lovely as she was, her soul was as ugly as a pit viper's. “Where have you been?” she asked, not bothering to face him. Her hands were plumping up the fat sausage curls at her ears. “Do you really care?” he countered. Marie laughed and said no more. She bent toward the glass and dabbed at a smudge of lipstick on her pouting lips. She turned her head to see her profile from first one side to the other, then straightened her gown, smoothing down the front. She turned, walked to her chamber door, then slammed it in her

husband's face. Kaelan heard the lock engage and snorted. The last thing on his mind that evening was making an assault on Marie Keep, but the insult had been hurled at him and it was all he could do not to kick the gods-be-damned door down and take her like the bitch she was. Maybe if he were to do just that, he might stoke a fire in her frigid body. “Not fucking likely,” he scoffed. The only thing he'd stoke by raping Marie Hesar was the fire her father would light under the faggots that would burn Kaelan Hesar alive. **** The moon was a sliver of gold high in the southern sky when Kaelan felt the bed dip beside him. He came instantly awake, out of a deep, troubled slumber, as a hand crawled over his bare arm and slid unerringly to his belly before soft, cool fingers threaded themselves upward through his chest hair. “Marie?” he questioned, unable to believe his wife would dare venture into his chamber. “Shush,” came the answer. The soothing fingers plucked at the furring on his chest, then smoothed over his nipples, bringing them instantly erect. A nail grazed the left pap and sent a shiver of urgent desire racing through Kaelan's body. “What are you doing?” he asked, knowing whoever this was in his bed was not his wife. The only touch he'd ever received from Marie had been one attached to a stinging slap that had made his ears ring. “Quiet.” The command was firm. The woman's hands moved over his chest: touching, caressing, stroking. Her fingers glided silkily over his shoulders and up his neck, played across his lips, silencing him once more, then splayed themselves through his thick, dark hair, tugging playfully at the scalp before descending once more to his belly. He was being seduced, he thought, and didn't care. He was as randy as a teenage boy and twice as hard. What she was doing to him felt good-wonderfully good-and it had been a long time since he had known the sheer pleasure of a gentle touch. “Turn over,” she ordered him and he obeyed. She straddled his naked hips and he could feel the coarseness of her nether hair grazing his backside; her nakedness made him harder still. Kaelan closed his eyes as she leaned her weight on his back. Her fingers were strong and sure as she massaged the tight muscles, working out the soreness, easing the tension. She worked on his neck, massaged his scalp, gently squeezed his biceps. Her legs gripped his thighs as she pressed into him, kneading the recalcitrant muscles, making him hard and wet with her ministrations. “Where did you learn to do this?” he asked, but became silent as she bent over him and placed her finger to his lips once more. What she was going to do to him would be done in silence, he thought as he gave himself up totally to her gentle hands and warm body. The feel of her on his back, riding him, her sex pressed against the cleft of his rump, was so delicious, he groaned with the pleasure of it. He was lost the moment she slid further down him and her hands found the sharp upturn of his buttocks. His low growl seemed to amuse her and

she laughed: a low throaty laugh that made the hair stir on his arms. Her fingers dug almost painfully into the firm flesh of his rump. Kaelan jerked as her fingers slipped between the cleft of his ass. He tensed, tightening the muscles there, and she hit him hard enough on his naked flesh to make him grunt. “Don't,” she warned and hit him again, this time more gently, but her demand was met and he relaxed the muscles of his rump and allowed her fingers to slide downward again. The tip of one nail grazed his opening and Kaelan nearly shot out of the bed. He wanted nothing more than to twist over, grab his tormentress and impale her on the hard length of him. It was all he could do to keep himself perfectly still, although by then he was panting and beginning to feel droplets of sweat forming on his upper lip. She slid her hand beneath him and cupped his shaft, holding him in that way only an experienced woman can. Her thumb raked over his testicles and he squirmed, so hard he thought he well might burst if she but squeezed him one more time. “Ready?” she whispered and her hand traveled to the tip of him and one blunt nail drove delicately down into the opening. “God, yes!” he groaned. Before she could deny him, he flipped over and reached for her, grabbing her under her armpits and throwing her down to his bed. He covered her and splayed her thighs apart with his knees in one violent movement that left no doubt of his intent. His hand went to his shaft and he guided himself to her with an animalistic grunt. “Now!” she ordered him. “NOW!" He drove into her with a mindless thrust that arched her back and slammed her upwards in the bed. Her legs came around his hips and she met him: thrust for thrust; grunt for grunt, her nails raking down his back in ten long grooves that drew instant blood. With her breasts pressed tightly against his sweaty chest, she rode him even as he rode her and her legs tightened painfully around his waist, driving him deeper into her need. Kaelan's only thought was of the fulfillment he sought. It had been many months since he had known total abandon such as this. Since a woman had willingly given her heat to him; her fire matching his own. He slammed into her, thrusting up to the hilt, holding himself until he heard her grunt with the pain of it, then retreating an inch or two before thrusting forward again and again. The heat was building in his loins and her hot sheath was sucking him in, drawing on him, demanding his spill. “Yes!” he heard her telling him. “YES!” Her nails gouged into his back, raked down his side, leaving stinging trails in their wake. “YES!!!!!" He spilled his seed in a long, blinding torrent of utter pleasure. His flesh jerked inside her, felt her answering quiver, then the sharp tugging sensations of her climax that pulsed around his shaft. He heard her muffled cry of release against his shoulder, felt her sharp teeth nip him as she bit down into his flesh; the sensation made him spurt again and he threw back his head, needing to howl his own and he sank into the soft padding over her breasts and belly and lowered his head to the fragrant perfume of her neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, utterly drained. “Any time, Your Grace,” she answered and he knew into whose flesh he had buried himself. When Kaelan woke the next morning, the silky soft pillows of flesh were gone from beneath his cheek, but the servant girl's scent remained. He breathed in the clean scent of soap and lilac water where her head had rested on the pillow beside his own; he stroked the pillowcase and closed his eyes to the marvel that had happened to him the night before. Not even the harsh sunlight filtering in through the window could break the mood into which he allowed himself to sink. It had been a long time since he had known such glorious bliss in the arms of a woman. To have her touch him and take him willingly into her flesh for the sheer pleasure of it and not the onerous duty Marie made the act seem. He relived the night again and again as he lay there-ignoring the bark of orders coming from Hildy as she set the morning maids to work. Even a tight little smile flowed over his lips as he realized the woman was right outside his chamber door as she issued her strident commands; no doubt to aggravate him, he thought. But he didn't think anything could break his mood this morning as he reluctantly threw back his covers and swung his long legs from the bed. The smell of spent semen wafted up from the sheets and the first frown of the day marred his handsome face. It wouldn't do for a maid to make this bed and catch that tell-tale scent, he thought, for Marie never deigned to set foot inside his chamber. He was debating what to do when there was a sharp rap on his chamber door only a fraction of a second before it was thrown open. Hildy paused when she saw the prince standing beside his bed, naked as the day he had been born. Of their own accord, her gaze crawled hungrily over that lithe frame—missing nothing—then slowly settled on Kaelan's face. “I know you have about as much respect for me as does your mistress, Madame Jamerson, but would you mind giving me time to bid you enter before you barge in here next time,” he said dryly, turning his back on the hot look of lust he had been stunned to see developing in the servant woman's eyes. He snagged his breeches from a chair and calmly stepped into them. The sight of the prince's naked body made Hildy shiver. Even as he drew the cords up over his rump—the firm cheek muscles tightening—she felt a quick stab of intense desire spreading through her lower belly. Her Jamie was considered to be one of the best looking men in the County, but he could not hold a candle to the man whose back muscles flexed so desirably as he tugged the breeches into place on his lean hips. So intent was Hildy at viewing that delectable body, she did not note the long scratches down that muscled back. He turned around, his shirt in his hand, oblivious to the slight gaping of his breeches where dark crisp hair nestled. The woman was gawking at him like she was starving and he were the main course. Shrugging his arms into the sleeves, eager to hide himself from her avid gaze, he scowled as his nimble fingers buttoned his shirt. “Was there something you wanted, Hildy?" Hildy had been staring at his heavily-furred chest and the washboard ridges of prime male muscle that striped his belly. As his strong fingers made quick work of the shirt buttons, she shook herself, amazed at the lascivious thoughts there were speeding through her head. Almost wistfully, she let her gaze lift to his stony face. “She wants to see you,” the servant woman said, somewhat surprised at the sultry purr in her voice. She

cleared her throat. “In the front parlor." Kaelan tucked his shirt into his breeches then buttoned his fly, careful not to look at the woman whose hot gaze was once more crawling over him. “When?” he asked as he threaded his belt through the loops at his waist. “When?” Hildy repeated dreamily. The prince sighed heavily, then raked his fingers through his hair. “When does Milady wish for me to meet with her?" His hair was tousled so attractively, hanging low on his neck, curling around his ears. The dark gleam—like rich brown silk-glowed in an errant shaft of sunlight. Hildy wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through that lush mane. “Hildy?" She shook herself, stamping down the lust that had come so unbidden and unwelcome. It took every ounce of self-discipline she possessed to force all wayward thoughts of this man from her mind. “As soon as possible,” she replied, locking gazes with him, not in the least surprised to see contempt filtering through his. She raised her chin. “Right now" Kaelan nodded as he watched the woman's hatred return. “I'll be there in a moment." Hildy sniffed. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to keep Her Grace waiting, but such blatant disrespect was not wise. Instead, she dipped her head in acknowledgment of his words then turned to go. She was almost out the door when she caught the smell. She stopped, looked around, and found the prince staring guiltily at the bed. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared with disgust. Before Kaelan had time to react, the woman turned back around and marched to the bed. He opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late. She was bundling the coverlet up in her arms, throwing it aside, and dragging his sheets from the mattress. “It is written in the Book of Morality that seed should not be wasted upon barren soil!” Hildy proclaimed as she rolled the offending sheets into a ball and tossed them out into the hall. Her furious glare impaled him where he stood at the foot of the bed. “It is a sin!" Kaelan stared at her as though she'd lost what little mental capacity she had left. Then, as her meaning registered, he began to laugh. The snotty hell-hag thought he'd been masturbating! “'Tis nothing humorous about this!” Hildy told him, offended even more by his laughing. “Get out of here,” he laughed, shaking his head at the conclusion Hildy had reached. A perverse little imp lurking at the back of his mind urged him to tell the woman he hadn't done what she was accusing of him doing since he was twelve years old, but he knew it was better for her to think him a pervert than to suspect him guilty of adultery. “The Book says: ‘He who practices self-abuse gains for himself a special place in torment where no gratification of the body may ever be known again!'” Hildy's face was filled with self-righteous indignation.

“Leave, Hildy,” he chuckled, “before I take matters into my own hands right here in front of you.” He laughed even harder at her gasp of outrage. When she would have protested, continued to lecture him, he took her by the shoulders-ignoring the instant stiffening of her offended person-and ushered her from the room. Hildy spun around as the door shut in her face. She opened her mouth to condemn his vile actions once more, then thought better of it. It was best Her Grace knew what demonic pleasures her husband was taking. Hurrying away to find her mistress, Hildy came to the conclusion that perhaps she'd found the reason why the Duchess of Winterstorm had not conceived: her husband was throwing away precious, vital sperm! “The evil man,” the servant woman mumbled as she tramped briskly down the stair. “The devilishly evil man!" **** By the time Kaelan finally joined her in the front parlor, Marie had worked herself up into a fine state of pique. Her eyes had slit with fury when Hildy had informed her what the prince had been doing and she had agreed with her servant that such a thing was evil, indeed. “No gods-fearing, respectable man would do such a despicable thing, Your Grace!” Hildy had informed her. “Only those whose feet are set on the path to the Abyss would dare.” She had lowered her voice. “It is written in the Book: ‘Let those who practice the abhorrent act be cast into the Fires of Eternal Damnation and be made clean lest they infect the godly with their debauchery'." “The man has no shame,” Marie agreed. She clenched her fists. “Does he call that Chalean bitch's name when he spills his seed, I wonder?" “He is a demon in manly disguise,” Hildy stated. “How else to explain the look of him, Milady?" Marie lifted one finely-sculpted brow. “The look of him?" Hildy shuddered. “He bewitches; he entices; he lures the chaste with his comeliness! The maids have remarked on it, Your Grace.” She dipped her head in abject apology. “Even I have had impure thoughts when in his company." “You?” Marie gasped. Such a thing was certainly not possible. Hildy was a godsfearing woman who had always upheld Marie's own condemnation toward Kaelan Hesar. If she was being affected by the man.... “You wanted to see me, Marie?" The Duchess of Winterstorm flinched, bringing her anger back to the present. She glared at her husband. Her lips pursed into a thin line as she took in what he was wearing and the way he looked: Kaelan's breeches were so tight across his hips the bulge of his manhood was made more prominent. The silk shirt he wore was stretched tightly across his wide shoulders and had been left unbuttoned half-way down his chest. Dark chest hair spilled from the opening and drew the eye there as a matter of course. His hair had not been combed; he looked as though he had just risen from bed. The dark brown leather jacket slung over his right shoulder—the collar of which was hooked on the middle finger of his right hand—brought out the swarthy coloring of his skin and the amber glints in his brown eyes. When he

spoke, the white gleam of his teeth was dazzling. “Marie?" “You are evil,” she whispered. Her belly was doing little flips and she could feel the rapid pounding of her heart as she looked at him. Heat infused her face; her breathing became erratic; and she felt an urgent need to tear off her husband's clothes and impale herself upon the steely length of his shaft. The prince recognized all too well that look he saw forming on Marie's pretty face; he'd seen it there four times in the last eight months. Whenever that look came over her face, she would begrudgingly allow him to consummate their Joining-lying beneath him as stiffly as a board as he did it-then berate him for the rutting beast he was when she had been fulfilled. He doubted the woman even knew what it was she was feeling when orgasm came. To her, the sensations bombarding her were no doubt disgusting, vile, and evil, and he was to be condemned for making her feel such things. She had once as much as said so to him when—in the midst of their mating—she had forgotten herself and clung to him as a wife should, thrusting her lower body against his in wild abandon; the experience had left her shaken and mortified. “You have made me unclean with your lust, Kaelan Hesar!” she'd ranted at him. Her hand had connected violently with his unprotected cheek. “You have defiled me, you beast!" Watching his wife warily, Kaelan held up a hand to ward her off. “I am in no mood to service you, Marie." “Service me?” she screeched at him, coming away from the window where she'd been standing. “Service me?” She picked up a vase and threw it at him. “Am I a mare to be bred by you, Hesar?" Kaelan ducked, turning his head to watch the vase hit the far wall and shatter. The lovely Chrystallusian vessel scattered over the carpeting, its delicate porcelain pieces glinting sadly in the cascade light from the fan window overhead. He looked back at his wife, reluctant to speak for fear she'd throw something else at him. “Is it true?” she hissed. She advanced on him, grinning cruelly as he took a step back, unsure of her motives. “Is what true?” he asked. He watched her eyes for it was always there-like a warning flare-that her insane hostility built. Marie would not sully herself to say the words to him. There was no need; she could see the guilt. Instead, she nodded knowingly. “You are evil,” she repeated. It was too early in the morning for the fighting to begin, he felt, so he didn't bother to deny her accusation. He just stood there, waiting, knowing she'd get around to telling him what had put this latest burr under her saddle. He tossed his jacket to a chair and folded his arms. It was always best to have his hands free just in case she took it in her mind to try clawing him as she had in the past. “I'll not have you trying to work your conjuring on my women!” she snarled at him. So, he thought with a mental sigh of irritation, she was back to accusing him of being a warlock. He had been faintly amused the first time she'd done it, but-over the long months-it had begun to annoy him. Such

words were dangerous in these times, for there were those about who fancied themselves messengers of the gods; emissaries chosen to stamp out all forms of Magik. “What am I suppose to have done now?” he drawled. “I'll not have you enchanting my women!” she threw at him again. Her mouth twisted in disgust. “They know you for the incubus you are, Kaelan Hesar. They will take steps to protect themselves against you." “I'm sure you'll make sure they do, Marie,” he said tiredly. “Be careful I don't set the Inquisition on you, husband,” she challenged. “Caldonicus might take pleasure in questioning you!" Kaelan's mouth tightened. He unfolded his hands; his voice lowered. “Is that all or are you going to demand I shuck my breeches here and now for you to whack it off so you can make gods-be-damned sure I can't get even a modicum of pleasure out of this hell you've put me in?" “You admit to the perfidy?” she gasped. “You dare stand there and admit to spilling good seed?" The prince spoke before he had time to consider the effect of his words: “Aye, I admit it! I'd damned well rather do that than suffer through another of your guilt-ridden matings. A man could find more pleasure in a rotting corpse than from what he gets from a frigid virago like you!" She flew at him, her fingers curved into vicious talons. He barely had time to grab her wrists before she could go for his eyes. There were already faint scratch marks along the ridge of his chin and down his neck from the last time she'd attacked him. He twisted to avoid the knee she aimed at the juncture of his thighs and hefted her against his hip, spinning her away from him as he let her go. She stumbled into a settee and fell half-way over the wide arm, grunting as her belly connected with the obstacle. Almost immediately she straightened, spun around and would have gone after him again, but he was striding out of the room, his leather jacket gripped fiercely in his left hand. “YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU MANHANDLED ME, KAELAN HESAR!” she shouted after him. “I'LL MAKE YOU SORRY!" “THEN DO IT, YOU CRAZY BITCH, AND BE DONE WITH IT!” his words came back to her. “BEFORE ONE OF US KILLS THE OTHER!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty-One

Gillian drew her knees up into the circle of her arms. “Did anyone hear the two of you arguing?” she heard her brother ask. “The entire manor house heard us arguing, Nick,” Kaelan said. He rubbed his thigh, shaking his head when Nick offered to take a look at his injury. “There's nothing you can do." “What happened, then?” Gillian asked Kaelan drew in a long breath, held it for a moment, then slowly exhaled. “I left.” He stared across the

room. “I was gone almost a week." “If the village folk disliked you so much, where did you stay?” Nick inquired. “I bedded down in an abandoned barn near Heathton,” Kaelan answered. “But it was winter, wasn't it?” Gillian asked. “Aye,” Kaelan confirmed. “But it wasn't yet so cold I couldn't stand it. I had taken several good wool blankets from the stable when I left. And my greatcape. I had my crossbow so I didn't lack for food. Things weren't so bad.” He smiled ruefully. “Anyway, the cold in the barn wasn't nearly as cold as that woman's heart." “What happened when you finally went back?" “Marie wasn't there,” Kaelan said, remembering. “She'd gone to complain to her father about my disappearance. I think she thought I'd gone back to Tempest Keep, although she should have known damned well I wouldn't be welcome there.” He rubbed absently at his thigh. “Duke Sinclair carted her with him to the Keep only to have Duncan tell them he hadn't seen me; father and daughter were gone close to a month supposedly searching for me near Colridge, of all places." “There's a large coven of warlocks there,” Gillian said quietly. “Maybe that's why they went looking where they did." Kaelan stared at her for a moment, wondering how she knew of such things, then shrugged. “At any rate, by the time she got back—grimacing as he did so—then twisted around so he could bring his legs up to the mattress, stretching them out in front of him and lying back against the headboard. “Did she continue to come to your room while your wife was gone? That girl, Kymmie?" Nick glanced at his sister. He had wanted to ask the same thing, but didn't think it polite. Leave it to Gilly to get right to the heart of the matter. “Aye,” Kaelan said softly. He laid his head back on the headboard and looked up at the ceiling. “She did." “That was fairly dangerous, wasn't it?” Nick mumbled. “Adultery among the royalty is still punishable by flogging. Had anyone found out...” He shuddered, remembering the time Duncan had ordered his brother whipped and knowing Kaelan was remembering it, too. “There are punishments and then there are punishments,” Kaelan answered, cryptically. “Lashing was a much easier sentence for the crime I committed against my marriage than the one the gods meted out to me." I don't understand,” Gillian told him. Let the man finish,” Nick grumbled. “I think a part of me must have wanted Marie to find out,” Kaelan said. He closed his eyes. “I never meant for Kymmie to be hurt, though."

“Was she?” Gillian asked. “Will you let him talk without interruption?” Nick spat at his sister. “We didn't hear the carriage when it arrived,” Kaelan went on as though he were all alone in the room. “I always locked the door once Kymmie had come in. She would stay until first light, then quietly leave. No one knew what we were doing; we were always very careful not to give anything away during the day. Hildy might have suspected had she been here, but she had gone with Marie. That night I forgot to lock the door.” He opened his eyes and stared blindly across the room. “I've often wondered if I somehow knew Marie was going to come back that night and wanted her to catch us. Sometimes I think that must have been in the back of my mind." Both Nick and Gillian sat quietly as their host continued to stare unseeingly out over the room. His eyes were glazed and his hand was moving almost of its own volition atop his aching leg. When they thought he wasn't going—needed breath of cleansing air. The brother and sister started, looked at one another, and had to strain to hear him as he finished his tale. “The door crashed open and Kymmie screamed. I sat up in the bed, saw who was standing there, and tried to shield Kymmie as best I could. I could feel her trembling against me, her naked breasts pressing into my back, her hands clutching my shoulders, but all I could hear was Marie's labored breathing as she stood framed in the doorway, staring at me with this look of absolute amazement. Hildy was beside her, holding a lantern, and the look on that bitch's face was like looking into the Abyss. Death entered the room with Hildy Jamerson that night." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty-Two: Five years earlier; Holy Dale Manor House

Kaelan held up his hand to block the glare of the lantern. He squinted, blinking against the brightness. Behind him, Kymmie Kullen was shivering so badly the bed was shaking beneath them. Her fingers were like ice on his shoulders and the sex-glaze of sweat that stuck her naked breasts to his back was clammy. “You bastard!” he heard Marie hiss. “Get out of that bed, girl!” Hildy ordered, advancing on Kymmie. “I won't let them hurt you, Kymmie,” Kaelan said. He reached out to knock Hildy's hand away as she made to grab the frightened girl's arm. “Leave her alone,” he ordered. “You bastard,” Marie repeated, coming further into the room. “It wasn't his fault!” Kymmie cried, scooting away from him and getting out of the bed before he could stop her. “I seduced His Grace. It was me what started it. I wanted to give him pleasure!" “SHUT UP!” Hildy thundered. She snagged the poor girl's wrist and started back across the room with her, dragging a stumbling Kymmie in her wake. “You stupid little slut! Have you a desire to have yourself whipped?” Hildy pulled her from the room and into the hall, slamming the door shut behind them. Kaelan threw the covers away from himself, briefly wondering why he felt no shame at his wife seeing him naked from his adulterous bed, and jerked up his breeches. “She's not to blame for this,” he said,

keeping his eye on Marie as he drew on the breeches. I won't allow her to be punished for it." “I know who's to blame,” Marie countered. She took another step into the room. “That girl won't suffer for the sorcery you've spun this night, Kaelan Hesar, lest you've plumped her belly with seed that rightfully belongs to me!" “Is that all you care about?” he shouted at her. “By the god, woman! There is more to life than making babies!" A muffled scream from below stairs brought Kaelan's head up and his lips drew back in a snarl of pure rage. Without bothering with a shirt, he pushed past Marie, jerked the door open and fled the room, tripping down the stairs as fast as his bare feet could take him-her naked body turning blue from the chill-cowering on the floor at her father's feet as Jasper Kullen wielded his heavy leather belt, repeatedly slashing the defenseless girl's back, brought a bellow of fury from the prince and he plowed into the older man, sending them both crashing through the lower hallway and into the front parlor. Marie heard the loud crashes from below and the meaty thuds that told her there was a fight in progress. The tinkling of glass and the sharp crash of furniture splintering didn't phase her. She stood where she was, staring at the rumpled covers of her husband's bed, and experienced a murderous rage that knew no limits. The smell of him—and the musky scent of his bodily fluids—was like a file rasping along her nerve endings and she cocked her head to one side, marveling at the anger that was quickly building in her very core. She had never known such violence of purpose as she was feeling at that moment. Her hands itched-sweating for the feel of a cat-o'-nine clutched in her palm. Instead of the sound of tearing drapery that came to her from the front parlor, she longed to hear the sound of those barbed lashes striking her husband's naked back, tearing through flesh and muscle and scoring bones. Instead of the grunts of the fighting men, she ached to hear Kaelan's screams of pain as she laid the lash to him herself. Instead of that bellow she knew had come from her father-demanding an end to the destruction being wrought downstairs-she needed to hear that one last agonized shriek from her husband's throat at the moment she relieved him of that offending growth between his lying, cheating thighs. “Your Grace?” Hildy questioned. “How much damage did they do?” Marie asked idly. “A fair amount,” Hildy said with disgust. “The girl?" “Your father has ordered Jasper to take Kymmie home, but warned him there had better be no further abuse done to her.” When her mistress looked around with a raised brow, Hildy shrugged. “A few welts, nothing more." “And my husband?” Marie locked gazes with her servant. Hildy's lip lifted in scorn. “His Grace ordered two of the footmen to take the prince to the stable. The warlock didn't even attempt to fight them.” She lifted her chin. “He knows he's guilty and what his punishment is to be.” She shrugged indifferently. “He went with them on his own steam. Your father has called for the lash." “No, that will not do,” Marie said in a matter of fact tone. She moved so quickly past her servant, the

woman barely had time to step back out of her way before being bowled over. “Milady?” Hildy called after her, running to catch up. Marie was breathing heavily by the time she reached the stable. She pressed her right fist against her chest, willing away the sharp pain there. Pain was radiating down her left arm, paralyzing the fingers of that hand, but she ignored it and jerked open the stable door. The first thing Marie saw was Kaelan being tied between two uprights, his bare back glistening wetly in the harsh glow of several lanterns being held by the men servants of Holy Dale, his wrists stretched high above his head. She saw him turn his head around and knew he'd seen her. It didn't surprise her in the least when he turned away again, stoically facing the rear of the stable as his captors finished tying his wrists to the uprights. “Go back to your room, Marie,” she heard her fat-haired man who stood nearby. “This is not what I want,” she said. “This is what will be,” her father snapped. “Adultery is punishable by the lash; he will be lashed." “Cut him down,” Marie ordered. “Now. This instant." Kaelan looked around again. He was panting from the exertion of the fight—and the fear of the pain he expected to feel-and every breath he took seemed to be torn from him. “He's hurt,” Marie said, guessing correctly that her husband had at least one broken rib from the fight. “He's going to hurt more,” Sinclair growled. He strode up to his daughter, gripped her upper arm and attempted to lead her to the door. “NO!” she snarled, jerking her arm away. “I don't want him whipped!" “It is not a matter of what you want, Marie,” her father retaliated. “It is a matter of Tribunal law!" “You can't do this!" “I can and will,” Sinclair countered. He glanced around, found one of his personal bodyguards, and motioned for the man to take his daughter. Marie tried to slap the burly bodyguard, but the man easily—and gently—batted her hand away. Before she could try to maul him again, he hefted her onto his shoulder and took her screaming and kicking from the stable. “She isn't well,” Hildy said, flinging a look at her mistress’ father. “Then see to her,” Sinclair barked. He put a hand in the middle of the servant woman's back and ushered her out of the stable. Once she was beyond the opening, he closed the door and shot the locking bar into place. ****

Forty lashes. Forty vicious applications of red-hot agony that dragged down his back and laid the flesh open to bleed and tear further apart. Forty stinging fingers clawing their way through muscle to sear forty paths of excruciating sensation to the very marrow of his bones. And forty days of lying on his belly: fever-ridden and close to death while Marie, herself, tended his wounds with a Healer-prescribed astringent that was almost as painful as the lash had been when it was poured on his lacerated back. “When you are well,” he would hear her say over and over again as he lay semi-conscious and in so much pain, her words came to him in waves of distorted sound, “I will have them string you up and I will do the lashing myself this time, Kaelan Hesar." He didn't doubt her words. They became a litany she spoke each and every day and held the ring of truth that told him she meant to see him suffer far more at her hands than he had at her fathers. That she cared for him so diligently did not make him think for one moment that she would not carry out her threat. She would see him hail and hearty before she crippled him for good. “I am going to castrate you, Hesar,” she chanted. “I am going to castrate you." He didn't doubt that, either. Now and again, she would reach under him, clasp his shaft, and hold him as though weighing what it would take to slice the member from his body. And there was nothing he could do to keep her from doing as she'd said-even had he had the strength and health to do it—for he was bound spreadeagle on one of the guest room beds: wrists and ankles tied tightly to the four posters. The only time he was released was when he begged them to allow him to use the chamberpot. Four times a day they would untie him, turn his agonized body over, drag him up—dangling weakly between two massive guards—and allow him to relieve himself. Most of the time, the pain would be too much and he would pass out even as his urine trickled down his legs. “Have you no shame?” Hildy would rant at him as though he had done it on purpose. Her hands were like vices on him as she cleaned him. He saw no one else save the guards, Hildy and Marie. Marie's father had decided to stay with her awhile and now and then Kaelan could hear the man railing at his daughter. “You could have killed him!” Marie had once shouted at her father. “If he dies, he dies,” Sinclair had quipped. “All the better for you, I suppose, if he does." Kaelan had wanted to die. That first night as his torn body seeped blood and his wounds were cleansed and the hellish astringent worked into the lacerations, he had screamed until he was hoarse. He had prayed for death as Marie's long nails had trailed down his wounds. “Did you enjoy your coupling, Kaelan?” Marie whispered in his ear as he sobbed. “I hope you did, for it will be the last you ever do, my love." He had wanted to die.

On the forty-third day after his lashing, he woke to a grim gray dawn where snow pelted the windows and a cold draft flowed over his naked back. Only his hips were covered with a thin blanket and he was shivering. Since he had no pillow, it was somewhat easy for him to lift his head and peer around the room. He was alone and he had to urinate so badly his teeth were aching. There was no way for him to call the guards; with his hands tied, he could not reach the bell pull. He laid his head back down, hoping someone would come soon. An hour passed and he had all but made up his mind to piss on the damned bed. Even lying in cooling piss was better than the ache in his bladder. When at last the door opened, he looked around and found Marie coming toward him with the bottle of astringent. “I've got to pee,” he told her. “That can wait." “No, it can't,” he said, stubbornly. “I've decided I won't lash you after all,” she said as though he hadn't spoken. Kaelan barely heard her. “Marie, please. I've got to pee." “Nor shall I castrate you this time." He craned his head around. “This time?” he questioned, his attention caught. “I have decided that I shall keep you here. In this bed. Tied as you are.” She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “Except on your back.” She poured some of the astringent on a rag; the smell was sharp and biting . “Keep me here?” he repeated. “Why?" Marie smoothed the astringent-soaked rag over his backs. “To mate with you, of course." Kaelan went as still as death. “You can't be serious." If she had heard him, she gave no sign. Her hands worked gently over the deep scars that had already formed. “I shall come in twice a day, perhaps three times a day, and get you ready.” She didn't see the look of incredulous shock that remark was generating on his face. “Then I shall straddle you and have you until you fill me." The prince's mouth dropped open. He pulled against his bonds, suddenly angry at the way she was talking to him and the robotic way she was acting. “Have you lost what mind you had, Marie?" “I shall keep you like this until I have conceived and then I will castrate you.” she said it in such a matter of fact voice, the words were chilling. Kaelan had long suspected Marie was barren. He doubted any man could get her with child and he certainly had no desire to do so. The thought of having to lie there at her mercy, day after day, month after month, or—the gods forbid—year after year until she realized she was infertile, made a shiver run down his spine.

Marie looked away from his back, met his shocked gaze and took it for one of sheer ecstasy. “You will like that, won't you, Hesar?” she mocked him. “To be serviced like the priceless stud you believe yourself to be?" “You're insane,” he told her. “I've heard she's married, now,” Marie purred. “Your Chalean whore." Kaelan's world tilted slightly off kilter. Each time she mentioned Gillian, his heart still lurched in his chest and he felt the pain of what could have been even more keenly than ever. “A Rysalian nobleman, I've heard. From the House of Ben-Alkazar.” She put a finger to her lip. “Vashon, I believe his name is." Kaelan closed his eyes and lowered his head. The pain in his bladder could not equal the pain in his heart. He knew Vashon Ben-Alkazar well; the man was honorable and considered to be a prime catch in his homeland. If he, himself, had had to pick a husband for Gillian, he might well have chosen Vashon. But the thought of Gillian in another man's arms, lying beneath another man's body, hurt Kaelan far deeper than the searing lash had hurt him and he groaned. “You have to urinate, don't you?” Marie said, as though she had just remembered his request. “Ned! Stefan!" The two guards entered and, without asking, came to the bed and began to untie Kaelan. Their stony faces never revealed any emotion and their steely eyes were completely devoid of compassion as they moved to Kaelan's ankles and untied them. “When he has finished, turn him to his back and tie him down,” Marie ordered. “He is healed enough to lie that way." “Does your father know what you're planning to do, Milady?” Kaelan snarled from between clenched teeth. Stefan kept Kaelan's arms in a cruel grip behind the prince's back as he dragged him from the bed and Ned retrieved the chamberpot. “I doubt he would care,” Marie said sweetly. She was staring avidly at Stefan's bulky physique. “What if you don't conceive, Marie?” he asked. “I will,” she said. Her gaze slid to her husband. “I will keep trying until I do." Kaelan was weak from the loss of blood as well as the great physical pain he'd suffered at Sinclair's hands. There was no way he could escape these two burly men and he knew it. He clenched his jaw throughout the humiliating ordeal of pissing in front of these two strangers even though neither man acted as though the situation was beyond the normal. “He's finished,” Marie said. “Tie him."

Kaelan was manhandled to the bed again. He knew it wouldn't do him any good to fight so he lay stoically still as his hands and feet were re-tied to the four posters of the bed. Ned reached down and drew the covers over his nakedness and for the first time made eye contact; there was something akin to pity in the beefy man's face before he turned away. “Did you know,” Marie asked as the door closed behind the two guards, “I experienced something very strange when Papa brought you back from the stable that night?” She sat primly in the chair beside his bed, folded her hands in her lap, and cocked her head to one side as she looked at him. “What was that?” he grumbled. He wished she'd go away and leave him alone for the bond on his right wrist—the hand Ned had tied—was loose. “It surprised me, actually,” she continued. Her lips stretched into a slow, wondering smile. “I found I have feelings for you, Hesar." Kaelan's brows came together. “What? Utter loathing, Marie?” He eased his right hand around within the confines of the rope and almost whooped with delight when he found he could more than likely slip his hand free with a little maneuvering. “When Rolf took my virginity, he did not make me feel the bad feelings you do when you take me,” she said. The prince looked at her. “Virgins rarely feel anything except minor pain, Milady and I doubt Rolf de Viennes would have taken care to provide you with any pleasure, anyway." “His touch was glorious,” she said, thinking of the tall blond man. “Most respectful.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not like the vile groping I experience at your hands." He could have told her of de Viennes’ reputation. Of how the man kept a tally of the virgin blood he'd shed over the years. Of the man's boasts that he could pierce a maidenhead and be done with it in less time than it took to spit. But from the wistful look on his wife's face, he knew she wouldn't believe him. “But you,” Marie said, staring at him, “make me feel the bad feeling." “It isn't bad, damn it!” he snapped at her. “It is a normal feeling you have when we mate, Marie." “My grandmother warned me I would not like what my husband would do to me.” Marie nodded. “She said I would endure the filthy act in order to get with child. She said only whores took pleasure in coupling." Kaelan grunted. So that was why the woman was so torn about sex. On the one hand, she felt the pleasure and satisfaction of the act and on the other, she felt guilty about enjoying it because her beldame of a grandmother had told her she should not. “I may find what you do to me disgusting, but the pleasure it causes I can not deny.” She stood up and looked down at him. “You will have served your usefulness when you get me with child." The prince ground his teeth as he stared up at her. He waited for her to say more, but she simply turned away and walked to the door. As soon as she was gone, Kaelan began to work his hand free of the rope.

[Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty-Three: Holy Dale Manor: The Present

Kaelan had fallen asleep as he told his tale. His fever was back for his face was shiny with sweat. Nick eased him down in the bed and covered him, motioning Gillian to silence, then he joined his sister by the fire. “He's had a bad time of it,” Nick commented as he stroked Brownie's head; the big mutt was lying with its muzzle on Nick's knee. “She died on Kaelan's birthday, on the Solstice as I recall,” Gillian said. She stoked the fire and pulled an old shawl she'd found downstairs around her shoulders. “Five years ago this week." “Aye,” Nick replied. He glanced at the man on the bed. “I wonder why he stayed." “Where was there for him to go?” she asked. “If Duncan took his inheritance, how was he to pay for his travel? You've seen the state of this place. There is nothing of value here. If he still had Revenge, I would wager the beast would be housed here with him." “I had not thought of the steed,” Nick answered. “I can't see him letting anyone take that beastie from him." “I couldn't care for him,” was the slurred reply from the bed. Gillian stood and went to the bed. She laid her palm against his forehead. “You are burning up, Kaelan." “Don't feel all that well, either,” he quipped. Pushing himself up in the bed, he asked for a cup of water. “What happened to the well?” Nick asked as Gillian held a cup of melted snow to the prince's lips. “I drew up a bucket and the mess tasted of salt. The pond water was worse yet." Kaelan nodded. “Let me finish telling you what happened that night and you'll understand.” He patted the mattress beside him and Gillian sat down, taking his hand in hers, knowing he needed the contact in order to go on. “It took me awhile, and before I was finished, my wrist was bleeding from all the twisting, but the blood helped slip my hand from under the rope. The rope on my left wrist was tied tight, but I managed to work the knot loose. Untying my ankles didn't take much time at all." “Ned left your wrist loose on purpose,” Gillian said. “Aye,” he answered. “I believe so." “So you were able to get free." The prince armed away the sweat on his brow, smiling guiltily as Gillian scolded him then took a rag to wipe his face. “Go on,” she said as she wet the rag in a bowl of tepid water and wrung it out. “There was no one about at that time of night. I thought to get dressed and leave this hellish place."

“But someone saw you." Kaelan's eyes took on a glazed look. “Aye. Marie." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty-Four: The night Marie died; Holy Dale Manor House

His boots were in his left hand; his shirt clutched tightly in his right. He had just made it to the top of the stairs when Marie's voice brought him to a standstill. “Where do you think you are going, Kaelan?" The prince jumped and swung his head toward the shadows there on the balcony. Marie was standing in the doorway of her chamber, her voluminous nightgown draped around her slim body from throat to toe to wrist. The lantern light behind her cast the lush curves of her body into strong relief beneath the white cotton nightgown. “I won't be your prisoner, Marie,” he said, his voice low to keep anyone from hearing. He could have bellowed with frustration when a sound from below stairs drew his attention and he found himself staring down into the wrathful eyes of his father-in-law. “You're not leaving this house,” Sinclair shouted at him and called for his personal guards who were never far from the Duke's side. No doubt the four of them—Master and bodyguards—had been in the gaming room for Sinclair carried a brandy snifter in one hand and a spread of cards in the other. “You are Marie's husband and as such you will not be permitted to shame her by sneaking away in the middle of the night, Hesar." The three guards came to stand at the foot of the stairs, but one was sent hurrying around to the other side of the parlor where the servant stairs were located, just in case Kaelan attempted to leave that way. “I told you what was going to happen, Kaelan,” Marie said as she came out of her chamber. Her bare feet made no sound on the smoothly polished wood of the balcony. She clutched the bodice of the nightgown in her fist. “Did you think I was lying to you?" “Perhaps another lashing will help him see the truth of your words, Daughter” Sinclair chuckled. He motioned for the thicker set of his two remaining bodyguards to climb the stairs. “Get him back to bed and make sure he stays there." “I told you I had feelings for you,” Marie said. Her hand was squeezing the material of her gown, pressing it tightly against her chest. “I can't live like this, Marie,” Kaelan said, backing away from the top of the stairs. The two guards were advancing on him, grinning from ear to ear at his predicament. “I won't live like this!" Hildy had joined the Duke at the foot of the stairs and was staring up at Marie with a look of genuine concern. “Your Grace, you should be in bed.” She held up her hand. “I have the elixir.” Gathering up the folds of her nightwrap, she started after the guards.

Marie was only ten feet away from her husband. In the striated shadows that fell about her, her face looked ghostly white, too pale, and it glistened with a sheen of sweat. She paused under the dome of the great skylight overhead and the silvery beams of moonlight fell around her, giving her an ethereal glow, but then her face twisted with pain and she drew in a harsh breath. Kaelan recognized the way she was clutching at her chest. His gaze shifted to her left arm and realized it was hanging limply at her side. “Marie?” he questioned. He threw the boots and shirt away, ignoring the guards who were now at the top of the stairs “DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM!” Marie yelled as the men started toward her husband. She staggered and gasped, bending over with pain. “Marie!” her father cried out, hurrying up the stairs, himself. “Are you ill, girl?" The guards stopped, understanding something strange was happening here. Hildy pushed past them and would have gone to her mistress’ aid, but Marie flung out her right hand-palm outward-denying her. “This is between Kaelan and me,” Marie whispered and her voice was slurred. She straightened up. “Between my husband and me,” she amended. “You've got to go back to bed, Milady!” Hildy pleaded with her. She threw Kaelan a frightened look. “She's been having pains all evening." Kaelan barely heard the servant woman. He started toward his wife, his hands out to her. “Marie, you're ill. Let me take you back to bed." “Aye,” Marie whispered, her hand at her chest once more. “Take me to bed, my husband.” Her face filled with light. “Take me to bed and make me feel the terrible things you make me feel, Kaelan Hesar." Sinclair shoved his two guards away. “Marie! That is a disgusting thing to say!” He would have pushed Kaelan aside, but the prince stopped him, turning on the older man with a fury that shocked the Duke into silence. “Haven't you and that prissy mother of yours done enough damage to this girl?” Kaelan yelled. “I love him,” Marie said, drawing both men's eyes to her. “How can that be, Kaelan? You are an evil man. How could I come to love an evil man such as you?" “He has bewitched you, Milady!” Hildy cried out. “The Demon Duke has bewitched my lady!" Marie held out her hand again, keeping the servant at bay. “'Tis true, he has,” she whispered. “But I can no longer fight him, Hildy." “You are in pain, Marie,” Kaelan said, coming closer, but stopping when she held her hands out toward him. “As you were in pain, my husband,” Marie said. “I sat with you, night after night, hearing you moan. Watching the blood seep from your wounds. Caring for you.” She cocked her head to one side. “I felt pity for you. I hurt when you hurt; I cried when you cried. I wanted nothing more than to ease your suffering. Why was that, Kaelan?"

“The man has bewitched her, Your Grace!” Hildy turned to beseech her mistress’ father. “He is a warlock. Did I not tell you so?" “Come, Kaelan,” Marie said, turning her hand so that her palm was up to him. “Come and take me to your bed, husband." Kaelan went to her, took her hand, and was surprised when she threw her arms around him and held him to her. He stumbled under the force of her clutch and felt the balcony railing touch his hip. He tried to move them away from the precarious position, but she was like a steel column, immobile in her fevered grip of him. “I am dying, Kaelan,” he heard her saying as her lips touched the growing whiskers beneath his chin. “You are ill, true,” he said, barely able to breathe because her arms were so tightly wrapped around him, “but you are not dying." “Aye, I am,” she said and her tongue made little spirals on his throat. “But I will not spend my eternity alone." Even as she twisted, even as he knew what she meant to do, he didn't try to stop her. He heard the railing crack—loud as a slice of lightning being hurled down from the heavens. He caught a final glimpse of the skylight above him as he began to tilt out over the balcony rail. He felt her hands release him, knew he was going over the railing, knew she was murdering him. “MARIE!” Sinclair's shriek of horror was a death knell as the railing gave way from Kaelan's weight and allowed the prince to plummet to the hard marble floor below. Kaelan hit the floor on his belly, the breath knocked from him. For one brief instant he was amazed that he hadn't died in the fall. He tried to push himself up, heard Sinclair's scream, turned his head to see Marie falling toward him, a look of supreme surprise on her face. She landed face down on his back and he heard the snap of his leg as the weight of her body broke it, felt the intense pain that shattered his thigh, then the awful squishing sound of her head hitting the marble; flinched as her blood sprayed his face. He knew she was dead. The last thing Kaelan heard before plunging into unconsciousness was Hildy's strident scream of rage: “MURDERERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty-Five: Holy Dale: The Present

“When I woke, I was alone.” Gillian felt his hand tighten on hers. “I was lying on the floor, her blood all around me. Everyone was gone. I don't know how long I was out, but the fire had either died in the grate or they had put it out hoping I'd freeze to death if I didn't eventually die from the fall." “Oh, Kaelan,” Gillian whispered. Her eyes were glistening with tears. “When I tried to get up, I screamed from the pain of it,” he said. His palm rubbed along his thigh. “The bone was through my flesh, splintered."

“What did you do?” Nick asked in a breathless voice. “I pushed it back in—fainted from the doing of it, too—then splinted it as best I could with a piece of the balcony rail. It took me until morning to drag myself to the kitchen where a feeble fire was still going. It's a wonder I really didn't freeze to death without a shirt and socks.” He closed his eyes. “For two days I lay in front of the fire, throwing in what was left of the wood, eating apples and raw potatoes from the bins. I tried to get up but the pain was too bad." “It didn't mend right,” Nick commented, looking at the prince's leg. “Did it?" Kaelan shrugged. “I didn't know what I was doing. It needed to be set, but who was there to set it?" “How could they have just left you like that?” Gillian demanded, hating the people who had caused this man so much grief. “They didn't care, Gilly,” Nick snorted as though she should have known the answer to that stupid question. “Four days after Marie died, Sinclair showed up with six wagons.” Kaelan used his free hand to cover Gillian's. “He came in and, without a word to me, started stripping the house of everything that wasn't bolted down. He even took up the carpets.” He smiled ruefully. “Though he left me a few pieces of furniture he didn't seem to want." “He didn't say anything at all to you?" “What was there to say? By law, Holy Dale belonged to the House of Hesar, but the furnishings he considered to be Marie's. He had buried his daughter the day before and had come to take back all that he thought of as hers.” A grim smile touched Kaelan's lips. “Hildy was with him and she even made sure the clothes Marie had bought for me went into the boxes. Since all my old clothes had been thrown out right after the Joining, they left me with only the stained breeches I was wearing and an old shirt I'd salvaged from the rag bin in the kitchen." “Bastards,” Gillian hissed. “They took everything that wasn't nailed down. I begged him to take Revenge because I knew I couldn't care for my horse. I thought for a moment he would refuse, but then he just nodded once and turned away, then they all left. You can't imagine how silent this place was." “Or how lonely you must have been,” Gillian said quietly. “It took me over a month before I could even half-way walk,” he explained. “I lived off what was left in the kitchen, which wasn't much; I learned to ration the food." “No one from the village came to see if you were alive or not?” Nick mumbled. “They believed I had murdered my wife,” Kaelan told him. “But she tried to kill you!” Gillian protested. “Aye, but they still blame me for her death. They always will."

“What happened when the food ran out?” Nick wanted to know. “Could you hunt or fish at all?" “It was dead of winter, Nick,” Kaelan smiled. “Not much fishing: but, aye, I had my crossbow and I bagged a few rabbit. A pheasant or two. By then, I fairly reeked. Those clothes were getting ripe. So I decided to make it down to the village. As soon as they saw me coming, people went inside their huts and shut the doors, closed and bolted the shutters. I had a little money I'd managed to bring with me from the Keep and I had hoped to buy a few shirts and breeches.” He shook his head. “But no one would even answer me when I called.” The wry smile returned. “So, I just stole some clothes off someone's clothesline.” He plucked at his shirt. “They were baggy, but they were warm." “It's a wonder they didn't come after you and whip you for being a thief,” Nick grumbled. “Oh, they came after me, all right,” Kaelan said. “But not until spring.” He gazed past Gillian. “I doubt they thought I'd survive the winter up here without adequate food. I'd catch them spying on me now and again, laughing at me as I hobbled around, bringing in wood." “That must have been pleasant,” Nick snapped. “I couldn't have cared less,” Kaelan lied. The hurt was in his voice whether he realized it or not. “It wasn't until they started to really create mischief that I began to get angry." “They salted the well,” Nick said. Kaelan nodded. “They set traps in the forests so no game could get close to the manor house.” He twisted his head and looked at Nick. “You see they knew I couldn't walk far on this leg of mine and I suppose they might even have thought I'd stumble across one of those vicious traps and get caught myself." “I take it they broke the windows, too,” Nick said. “Aye and tried to burn down the stable and storage sheds.” Kaelan drew in a long breath. “That was the final straw: trying to burn the place down around my ears.” He shook his head. “I'm afraid I did something then that was utterly insane and it's a wonder I'm still alive." “You went back to the village?” Gillian gasped. “I was furious,” he answered. “I don't know if the solitude was getting to me or if I just woke up that morning mean as hell. Either way, I went down to the village and I cursed them." “Cursed them in what way?” Gillian asked, warily. “Oh, the usual,” he said, blithely “A pox on their houses; a plague on them; disease on their cattle; destruction of the crops." “Oh, that was a wise thing to do,” Nick chuckled, “considering they already thought you were a warlock, man!" “Wasn't it, though?” Kaelan grinned. “Can you imagine my surprise when later that night hell opened up and let out its demons?"

Gillian stared at him. “The curse worked?" “Well,” he drawled, “kind of.” He sighed. “There was a freak storm in the early morning hours. Lightning was zapping around here like crazy." “In the winter?” Nick gaped. “Aye, in the winter. The wind started howling like a Chalean banshee and flash floods came down from Mount Serenia. The villagers barely had time to get out of their huts before this wall of water poured over them and swept their houses away." “'A pox on their houses',” Gillian breathed. “Then after the flood,” Kaelan said, “the drinking water was contaminated so most of them got very ill." “'A plague on them',” Nick chimed in. Kaelan had the grace to look shamefaced. “Some of the cattle began dying. It was hoof and mouth disease, I'm sure, but that got blamed on me, as well." “You're lucky they didn't come up here and drag you out to their bonfire, Hesar, muttered. “Well, I had laid one other curse on them and, unfortunately that one came to pass, as well,” he answered. At her look, he shrugged. “I told them that the next person who dared show his face at Holy Dale, I'd turn him into a frog." “You turned a man into a frog,” she stated with disbelief. “Some poor foreigner came to the door one afternoon,” Kaelan smiled. “He spoke very little Viragoinan High Speech, but knew enough to tell me he had lost his way. He was a most unfortunate looking fellow with warts all over his hands and face.” The prince shuddered. “I felt sorry for him. He asked directions to the Serenian border and I told him. I wanted him to stay longer, to talk, but he was in a hurry to reach Ciona before week's end.” He chuckled quietly. “Apparently he misunderstood my directions and wound up in Wixenstead. In trying to explain how he'd arrived South of where he should be, he told the villagers I'd turned him inside out, no doubt meaning he got turned around by my directions. They thought I'd changed him into the pitiful wretch he was.” A wicked light came from Kaelan's eyes. “Later that night, a rock sailed through one of the windows and attached to it was a note that assured me the villagers would not be seeking me out again and for me not to go around changing innocent folk on their account." “And they've left you alone ever since,” Nick chuckled. “Except for my protector,” Kaelan answered. When brother and sister cocked their brows in unison, he smiled. “Someone comes once a week and leaves a basket of food on the back steps. Freshly-baked bread, fruits and vegetables, milk every now and then." “Kymmie.” Gillian smiled. “Aye, I think so, though I've never seen anyone out there.” Kaelan drew in a long breath. “At least there was one person in the village who cared whether I lived or died."

“What's going to happen to me when I go into the village tomorrow?” Nick asked. Kaelan started. “Why on earth would you want to?" “Well, milord, There's not enough food to feed us and, from the looks of you, you're going to be sicker tomorrow than you are tonight.” Nick grinned. “I've got a pocketful of coins so there's no reason I shouldn't go down and buy us some necessities." “As long as they don't know you're from Holy Dale,” Kaelan said speculatively, “they might not give you a hard time of it.” He glanced at Gillian. “Don't be telling them you've a woman with you, though." “You really don't think Duncan will send men here to search for me, do you?” Gillian asked, reading his mind. “Aye, he would,” Nick answered for Kaelan, “if he thought you might have reason to come looking for Kaelan." “Serenia is less than eight miles from Holy Dale” Kaelan said. “I can usually hear riders coming long before they pass the pond. If he should think to look for you here, there will be time for you to leave. There's a hidden pathway through the foothills that leads almost right up to the Carbonham Gate." “I'm not leaving without you!” Gillian said firmly. The prince reached out to cup her cheek. “And just how far do you think you'd get with a cripple slowing you down, Sweeting?" Up until that moment, neither Gillian nor Nick had considered the implications of Kaelan's story. That he was crippled, hit them like a bolt from the blue. Nick looked away, unable to face the guileless amber eyes that shifted to his. Gillian turned her lips into his palm. “Kaelan...” she began, but he shushed her with his fingers. “I am damaged goods, Gillian,” Kaelan said gently. “Not to me!” she said indignantly. “One thing's for certain,” Nick said, wanting to get the conversation away from the source of Kaelan's embarrassment. “If we stay here, we'll damned sure have to get the two of you, as well." “There's not a priest within fifty miles of Holy Dale who would burden a woman with me, Cree,” Kaelan said bluntly. “I've a dagger that says one will, Hesar,” Nick retorted. He touched the jeweled weapon at his thigh. “You force a priest to Join me with your sister and Duncan would certainly have grounds to annul the marriage,” Kaelan reminded him. “Not if, when we get to Serenia, you have a priest there redo the Joining ceremony,” Nick stated. He squinted at Kaelan. “You haven't alienated the entire McGregor clan, too, have you?"

“Not that I know of,” Kaelan muttered. “But even the McGregors will have heard of Marie's death." “I doubt Drayton McGregor gives a shit about what goes on in Virago,” Nick scoffed. “He's reinstated the title of King of Serenia and as Headsman, took it for himself, did you know that?" “How could I?” Kaelan snapped. He narrowed his eyes. “Is Duncan going to do the same thing and declare himself King of Virago." “I'd wager he eventually will.” Nick snorted. “For the moment, he has declared us a Principality with himself as Prince Regent. The title of Jarl wasn't prestigious enough, I guess." “He made Rolf de Viennes his Chancellor,” Gillian added. “Next to Duncan, he is the highest-ranking man in Virago." “Elga thought him a most fitting husband for her youngest stepchild,” Nick spat. The mentioning of de Viennes’ name turned Kaelan's mouth bitter and gave his eyes a decidedly wicked gleam of jealousy. Seeing the reaction, Nick rubbed his hands together. “Then, it's all settled." “What is?” Kaelan grumbled. Just knowing how close Gillian had come to being shackled to Rolf de Viennes set his teeth on edge. “I bring you two back a priest tomorrow!” Nick beamed. [Back to Table of Contents] Part Two Chapter One

Nick buttoned the top of his coat, adjusted the fur hat Gunter had given him for his last birthday, and opened the kitchen door. He frowned. Ahead of him lay a waist-high drift that blocked his exit. Sighing regretfully, he looked back at Gillian, his face like that of a sad little puppy's. “He was right." Gillian nodded as she dropped the last of the shriveled apples into the pan. “Be sure and get cinnamon and cloves if you can find then, Nicky." Her brother sighed again. “I'll have to dig out." “He told you you would,” Gillian confirmed. When her brother continued to stand in the doorway, the icy cold wind whipping into the kitchen, she glanced over at him. “Either go or shut the door, Nicholas." Nick took in a long, tired breath, then exhaled slowly. “Where did he say the shovel was?" “Oh for the love of Alel!” Gillian complained. She put down the pan of apples and snatched up a big tin basin. “The shovel is to the right of the door, Nick. Here, take this.” She handed him the basin and

picked up another for herself. “Why do you suppose he left the shovel outside?” Nick inquired as he began to scoop snow away from the doorway so he could find the shovel. “Where else would he have left it, dimwit?” Gillian snapped as she, too, dug into the drift and threw the snow out beyond the steps. “He brought the ax inside,” Nick retorted. “Axes rust,” she countered. Angrily, she packed snow into the basin. “Shovels do not. Besides, Papa always said it was bad luck to bring shovels and rakes into the house." Nick stopped scooping. “Well, he doesn't need any more bad luck." “He certainly does not,” his sister snapped. “The poor man has had quite enough." “You think someone might have cursed him?" “I don't know!” Gillian exclaimed with annoyance. “If someone did, they were gods-be-damned good at their conjuring." He looked sharply at his sister. “Why are you so out of sorts this morn, Gilly? Anyone would think you had caught your tit in a wringer." “I hate it,” she seethed through her clenched teeth. “The snow?” he inquired with a cocked brow. “The sn....?” she glared at him. “No,” she replied as though talking to the village idiot, “what these bastards have done to Kaelan!" “Ah,” Nick replied. He turned back to his scooping, bending lower now. “And what do you plan on doing about it?" “You know gods-be-damned well what I plan to do, Nicholas,” she shot back. Nick sighed. “Aye, lass; I do, indeed.” He shuddered. “But can you wait until we leave this place before you start in on it?" Gillian snorted and left her brother digging at the drift. Grabbing up her pan of apples, she stomped up the servant's stairs. Kaelan was sitting on the side of the bed, coughing. He looked up as she came into the room. His eyes were red and watering; his nose was as equally red and running; and his cheeks were flushed with febrile brightness. “I wish you'd quit running around downstairs, brat,” he grumbled. “You're gonna catch cold, too." “I've a fire going in the grate down there,” she informed him snidely. “Actually, it's warmer in the kitchen than up here.” She laid the pan down and went to him, felt his forehead, frowned. “Are you feeling any better at all?"

“No.” He leaned against her, shivering as her arms enclosed him. Laying his head against her chest, he sighed deeply as her hands smoothed his hair. “You don't know how many times I've dreamed of this." “What? Catching your death of cold” she teased. Kaelan grinned. “That, too,” he agreed. His cheek nuzzled her belly. “When I woke just now, I thought I'd dreamed you being here until I couldn't find Brownie and sat up to find her asleep on your cot." “The tart,” she laughed. “She slept half-atop me all night!" “I would have, too, if I could have.” When she had no comeback for that remark, he pushed away from her just enough to look up at her face; he was relieved to see her smiling back at him. “You thought I was going to protest Nicky bringing back a priest, didn't you, milord Kaelan?” she asked. “All you had to say was no,” he told her. “All you had to say was no,” she countered. “Not me, Mam'selle. Joining with you has always been my most fervent desire." “You're sure?” she pressed. “Aye, I'm sure. Are you?” His look said he was prepared for her rejection. She nodded. “I've never been surer of anything in my entire life, Hesar.” Removing her arms from around his shoulders, she stepped back. “Do you need help with the chamberpot, milord?" “No!” he exclaimed, his face turning a deeper red. Gillian shrugged. “All right.” She turned to leave him, then looked back over her shoulder, giving him a look as hot as the flames in the hearth before she exited. **** “What's the world a'comin’ to?” the innkeeper asked, shaking his head. “To steal a man's pack horse while he's out in a mess like what we had yesterday!” He shook his head again. “A sorry state of affairs, milord. A sorry state of affairs." “Well,” Nick answered, belching and rubbing his belly as he'd seen many a peasant fellow do, “I've a coin or two to buy another mount and provision it.” He glanced around the tavern. “Where would you send me, Titus?" Titus Neils answered without hesitation: “Van de Lar's for the provisioning.” He polished the already-gleaming bar top with a damp rag. “He's my wife's only brother, he is, and I don't lie when I say he's as fair as the day is long." “What about a horse?"

“Raine Jale,” a man spoke up from the hearth across the room. He took his pipe from his mouth and motioned with the stem. “Don't let his looks fool you; he's as fair a man as is Giles Van de Lar." “His looks?” Nick questioned. Leaning forward, the innkeeper lowered his voice. “Raine's a Hasdu, but we don't make mention of it to him; ’Tis a sore point, you see." “We're a very tolerant lot here in Wixenstead,” the other fellow snorted. Nick looked around at the man and saw disgust in the stranger's gray eyes. “That's good to know,” Nicky said, draining the last of his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned his elbows on the bar, mischief turning his eyes dark as sin. “Tell me: who owns that fancy mansion up on the hill?" Titus Neils’ eyes darted to the other man and then away. He set about briskly polishing the bar top once again. “What mansion is that, lad?” he mumbled. “You got more than one here?” Nick chuckled. “A most prosperous place is Wixenstead Village!" “How come you to remark on that mansion?” the other man countered, moving away from the hearth. He narrowed his gaze. “Did you stop there, friend?" Nick nodded. “I did, but no one came to the door." The innkeeper crossed himself. “Lucky for you he didn't,” Titus stressed. “Who?” Nick inquired. “Stay as far away from that evil place as you can get,” the innkeeper warned Nick. “The Demon Duke lives there with his familiar!" “Familiar?” Nick looked from one stony face to the other, then smiled. “You don't mean that big brown dog, do you? S-hound if ever there was one, and she weren't grinning at you. She was more like sizing you up for her belly." “Where was you a'seein’ that hound, friend?” the other man queried. “At the window,” Nick replied and elevated one dark red brow when the innkeeper gasped. “What's wrong?" “You dared to get close enough to peer in the Demon's window?!” Titus breathed. “Lucky he didn't turn you, lad!" “Turn me?” Nick asked. “Tell him, Titus!” the other man laughed. “You tell him!” the innkeeper snapped through clenched teeth. “You know well as me!" “Last man that stopped at Unholy Dale got turned into a lizard!” the other man chortled.

“Frog, Lumley,” Titus corrected. “He turned the poor sod into a frog." Nick hid his grin beneath a pretend yawn. “Well, nothing came of me peeking in. All's I saw was the dog standing there wagging its tail at me. Never saw this Demon Duke you mentioned." “Like I said: t'is lucky for you that you didn't gain his notice, lad,” Titus answered. “Actually,” Nick said, slapping a silver piece down on the bar top to pay for his last ale, “I didn't think anyone was living there. The place was so rundown and empty.” He narrowed his eyes at Titus. “What happened to all the furniture." “Merciful Alel!” the innkeeper gasped. “How long did you dare stay at his window to notice that, friend?" Nick shrugged. “Not long. Like I said, I thought the place deserted until I saw the mutt." “You were born under a lucky star, you were,” Titus breathed with awe. “Don't be going back that way if'n you want to stay lucky, son!" “What's the fellow there done?” Nick asked. “Nothing,” Lumley Tarnes snorted. He grinned nastily at the innkeeper. “I don't mind telling you if Lum's too scared to,” Titus said, lowering his voice again although he, Nick and Lumley Tarnes were the only people in the tavern. “The Demon Duke is as evil as they come. Murdered his wife, he did." “Pshaw!” Tarnes scoffed. “I'm of a mind to think if he did, the conniving little shrew drove him to it. ‘Twas justifiable homicide if anything at all!" “He be one of the wicked ones, you know that, Lum!” Titus opined. “Murdering fortunes,” Titus muttered. “You was off sailing." “What befell him?” Nick demanded. Titus lowered his voice even more. “There be those in the village what didn't like the man, you see? He married well, don't you know?" “Well, hell, Titus!” Tarnes snorted. “He was a prince of the Jarl's house. You expected him to marry a kitchen wench?" “He probably wished he had!” Titus chuckled. “There be those of us who still has respect for him.” Tarnes snapped. “Who don't believe he done nothing wrong at all, at all!" “She's dead, you nasty old man!” Titus shouted. “She didn't do herself in!"

Lumley Tarnes’ lips peeled back from his teeth. “If there was evil at Holy Dale, Titus, it came from that spoiled brat of Sinclair's.” He locked his angry glare on the innkeeper. “And what you people did to that poor boy was even more evil! That curse you're so fond of telling folks he laid at your doorsteps most likely came from the gods, Themselves, for harming a fine, upstanding man like the Prince!" “Hildy says...” Titus began, but Tarnes’ furious explosion of breath cut him off. “Hildy Jamerson is a vicious she-devil! Any sorcery in these parts, you'd be wise to lay it at her doorstep!” Tarnes growled, flinging out a hand. He turned his anger to Nick. “You asked what happened to all the furniture? Duke Sinclair came and took it all, he did. Every last stick of anything worth having; whatever weren't nailed down. Even took the poor lad's clothes and him a'lying there with a broken leg unable to stop ’em!” He stabbed a finger at Titus. “And our godfearin’ townsfolk-so tolerant of Raine Jale's kind-left that young man out there in the dead of winter with no clothes, no food, nothing! They even put out the fires in the hearth in the hopes he'd freeze to death!" “I had no part in that,” Titus said, drawing himself up. “Nay, but your son did,” Tarnes accused. “Wasn't it him and Kullen's boy what salted the lad's well and pulled up his garden?” The sailor made a crude noise. “Hell, they even tried to burn the poor boy out!" “Well, we wanted him gone from here!” Titus defended. “Well, he ain't left!” Tarnes countered. “And more's the power to him for having more guts than any of you bastards gave him credit for having!" “He would have hightailed it if it hadn't been for you and your son and the Kullen girl!” Titus shot back. “My Ned is a good boy,” Tarnes snarled from a tight jaw. “And don't you dare to say nothing ‘bout my daughter-in-law!" Nick smiled as he looked from one man to the other. Kaelan would be pleased to find out that the only two people in Wixenstead he'd ever trusted were now married to one another. “You mark my words,” Titus said, moving away. “This ain't over with yet. The Demon Duke will cause this village more trouble before he's done." “Not if'n you leave the man alone, he won't!” Tarnes defended. He raised his voice as the innkeeper disappeared through a door behind the bar. “Not if'n you leave him alone!" Silence settled on the tavern as the sailor snatched up his near-empty mug of ale and went back to his table. Plopping down into his chair, he turned his head and looked at Nick. “Not all of us are superstitious fools, friend. If you're of a mind to stop back at Holy Dale, you go on and do it; the lad would most likely welcome the company." Nick strolled over to Tarnes’ table, but lowered his voice as he spoke. “Do you go to visit him, Master Tarnes?" Lumley Tarnes shook his head. “I ain't usually in port,” he said. He motioned Nick to sit down. “I'm First Mate of the Whirlwind, Captain Nyberg's clipper. This be the first time I've been home in three year."

“But your son and daughter-in-law go to see this Demon Duke?" Tarnes winced. “Please, don't call him that.” He shook his head. “To answer your question: no, they don't dare go visit him.” He looked past Nick. “But they do take the lad food now and again. As much as they can afford.” He smiled ruefully. “They ain't rich, you understand." Nick leaned back in his chair and shot his long legs out. He studied the older man's face for a moment, then smiled. “What if I were to tell you I'm a friend of Kaelan Hesar's, Master Tarnes?" Tarnes’ gaze narrowed. “I'd ask how you knew him,” he replied. “From court,” Nick answered. “My father is Duke Cree, the Ambassador." “You're Chalean!” Tarnes said, slapping his thigh. “I thought I recognized that brogue of your'n." Nick grinned. “And here I thought I'd hid it well." Tarnes shook his head. “Not altogether.” He glanced once more toward the door behind which Titus Neils had hidden himself. “What be you here for, friend?" The smile left Nick's face. “That's personal, but I will tell you this: I didn't know Kaelan was here until I broke into the manor house. Now, I'm of a mind to get him the hell out of there." The Whirlwind's First Mate bobbed his head in agreement. “That would be a godsend for him, Milord Cree.” He leaned toward Nick. “How can I help you?" Nick's smile returned. “Can you tell me where I can find a priest?" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Two

“I'm not sure I should do such a thing." Nick laid another gold coin to the stack already on the table. “The villagers might object." Another coin joined its brethren. The priest licked his lips, then looked up from the growing pyramid of gold. He wore a pained expression. “There are those who'd say my very soul would be in jeopardy should I even step foot inside Unholy Dale." Nick thumbed two more gold coins onto the stack. A small groan came from the priest. “You are making this very hard for me, milord." “Seems to me,” Lumley Tarnes remarked, “you and the other priests are always a'sayin’ how you need more money for the coffers.” He smiled slyly, then cocked his chin toward the stack of gold coins.

Nick cast an amused look at Tarnes then reached out to scoop up the bribe. “I can see Brother Herbert is not to be swayed, Master Tarnes. Perhaps if we try the next village...." “WAIT!” the priest protested. His hand had shot forth to grab Nick's wrist. Nick waited politely, not speaking. “What's it to be, Brother Herbert?” Tarnes inquired. The priest forced his avaricious stare from the gold to Nick's calm face. “You say he was wrongly accused?" Tarnes nodded. “That he was, Brother." Brother Herbert Welmeyer looked back down on the coins. From the pained expression on his beefy face, he seemed to have developed a case of acute indigestion. “Do you think he will make an act of contrition for those sins he has committed against Our Lord Alel?” the priest asked. He tore his admiration from the gleaming gold to look once more at Nick. “He must do so if I am to perform a Joining." “Even if he was innocent of the crimes for which he was accused?” Nick snapped. “There is always some truth in any accusations Milord,” Brother Herbert replied. “If he was not directly responsible for his wife's death, neither was he entirely guiltless. I can not, in good faith, Join him to this wench of whom you've told me unless I know he has unburdened his sins before Alel." At Tarnes’ suggestions Nick dared not tell the priest who the “wench” in question really was until he agreed to perform the Joining. It was best no one in the village know they had been there or where they were going once they left. “If it will set your mind at ease,” Nick said through gritted teeth, “I'm sure His Grace will unburden his sins on you." Brother Herbert let out a long sigh. “This is highly irregular,” he said, raking the coins toward him, then pocketing them. “But since Prince Kaelan has been disowned by his brother, there will be no need for Prince Duncan's permission for the Joining to take place." Nick exchanged a quick look with Tarnes. That, too, had been the older man's suggestion. “You'd best tell him the lad's been disowned, friend,” Tarnes had warned him. “It's against the law for royalty to marry without the Jarl's permission." “I know,” Nick had replied. “But it won't matter for once we're in Serenia, we'll have the McGregor's priest re-do the ceremony." “Well, if'n you want the Joining to take place a'fore you leave Virago, you'd best be thinking of doing a wee bit of lyin',” Tarnes had responded. “The priest surely won't be performing no Joining if'n he thinks he'll be punished for it!" “The Prince Regent has washed his hands of his young brother,” Nick said and that wasn't a lie.

“Cast him out without a shill to his name,” Tarnes commiserated. The priest shook his head with pity. “'Tis a shame when families come apart." “Will you perform the Joining, then, Brother?” Nick asked. Brother Herbert sighed. “Aye, I will. If you will wait here a moment, I will ready myself for the journey.” 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] Chapter Three

“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 came of age. I've even have a name for her." The look on Nick's face was compelling. “What name would you give her, Captain Cree?” Kaelan inquired, smiling.

“The Revenant,” Nick announced proudly. “It means a person who returns after a long absence." Kaelan's brow furrowed. “Is there a significance to that, Captain?" “Aye,” Nick stated, firmly, nodding emphatically. “I would paint her white as snow-so white her lines will dazzle the eye-so that when those Diabolusian jackasses see her coming, they'll quake in their boots and thinks she's a ghostling come back from the grave to steal their souls!" “Ah,” Kaelan said, nodding slowly. “You want them to think of the Outlaw.” He was referring to his great-granduncle, Syn-Jern Sorn, whose ship, The WindLass, had been all white and the scourge of the Seven Seas. Nick grinned. “You should be proud to have such an illustrious ancestor. The Outlaw led a rebellious brood of Viragonians, didn't he?" Kaelan shrugged. “Aye, and me about to join them tonight." The grin left Nick's face. “You do want to Join with Gilly, don't you, Kaelan?" “You know I do,” Kaelan answered, locking his gaze with Nick's. “I've never wanted anything more and never wanted anyone but her." “That's good,” Nick said with relief, “because I don't think you have much choice!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Four

Rolf de Viennes climbed back into his saddle. “If they came this way, we should have found some sign of their passing.” He glared at their tracker. “I see nothing to indicate we are on the right trail." “It's been snowing, Rolf,” Duncan yawned. His dark eyes surveyed the landscape around them. “Snows tends to cover tracks or have you not noticed that phenomenon before?" “All the same,” de Viennes complained, “if Cree brought her this way...” He flung his arms about the jagged peaks surrounding them. “...it was a foolhardy thing to do in the dead of winter. There is precious little shelter to be found among these crags!" “My son is no fool,” Dakin Cree snapped. “If they passed this way, he both knew where he was going and how to keep them safe during the storm!” He had little faith in his own words, but his tone suggested he was not concerned. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Duncan yawned again and scratched at the wool around his neck. He surveyed the pass through which they'd come and knew they would have to make camp soon. They were all tired and it would be another day or two—at least—before they reached Holy Dale and what dubious comfort might be found there. Already the sun was lowering and the chill was seeping through his damp clothing. “We'll set up camp here, I think,” he said, climbing down from his mount and handing the stallion's reins to the tracker like more snow is on the way." De Viennes glanced up at the steel-gray sky that was streaked with a glorious pink lemonade sunset to

the east of where they had stopped. He ground his teeth. “I'm all for going on for a few more hours, Your Grace,” he seethed. “I am not,” Duncan replied. He unbuttoned his fly and began to urinate against a rock. “I am tired and hungry, Rolf, and if Nick and the girl passed this way, they are more than likely safe and warm at Holy Dale." “Holy Dale?” Dakin questioned. Why did that name sound so familiar to him? Was it a monastery? A house of religious? Duncan ignored the Chalean ambassador. He looked at his tracker. “As soon as you've secured my nag, I want you to take two men and go on toward the estate." “Aye, Your Grace,” the tracker said, although his heart was not in further travel that night. “And when we get there, Majesty? What are your orders?" “If they're there, Utley, keep them there,” Duncan sighed. “Lock all three of them in the cellar where the Outlaw use to hide out when the Tribunal troops came raiding." “The three of them?” Dakin dismounted. “To whom do you refer, Your Grace? Who is the third person?" “He's there,” Duncan snapped with irritation as he stuffed himself back into the warmth of his cords. “Who?” The Chalean ambassador was confused. “That idjit brother of mine,” Duncan replied nastily. “Kaelan is at Holy Dale." Dakin stared at him. “He is back from Rysalia?" “Fool!” de Viennes chortled. “The bastard was never in Rysalia!" “Don't insult him, Rolf,” Duncan cautioned. “Kaelan is as legal as you. Much to my disgust." “But I thought...” Dakin began, only to stop himself. He looked from the Prince Regent to de Viennes and back again, finally beginning to realize the evil these men—and no doubt his beloved wife—had wrought against Kaelan and Gillian. His shoulders sagged. “He's not married, either, is he?" “Not anymore!” de Viennes chuckled. Dakin looked away from the two men. “You lied to us,” he accused. Duncan—instead of being angered by the remark—was amused. “Let's just say I bent the truth to the benefit of your daughter, Duke Cree." Dakin shook his head. “Nay, not to Gilly's benefit.” He turned a narrowed gaze to de Viennes. “Rather to this man's, I'd wager. All Gillian got from such lies was heartache. She grieved long and hard over that second marriage." “Didn't we marry him off several times, Your Grace?” de Viennes tittered. “How many wives did we say he had?"

Dakin winced. “Gilly cried many a tear when she heard Prince Kaelan had taken a harem." Duncan fanned away the accusation. “Female vapors.” He could not understand how any woman could love so intensely, for none had ever graced him with such intensity of feeling. Although at long last, his drudge of a wife was breeding-nearing her term, thank the gods-she cared no more for him than he did for her. If truth were told, it was Kaelan whom Frieda loved. “And I agreed to this Joining,” Dakin sighed. It would do no good to protest; he had given his oath to these two dishonest men and Chalean honor required he not go back on his word. “I will be a good and loving husband to your daughter, Duke Cree,” de Viennes said. “For her, I have changed many of my old ways." Dakin looked at de Viennes, but wisely kept his counsel. It would be sheer folly to insult this man whom the Prince Regent had named Court Chancellor. Instead, the Chalean resolutely turned his face from the deceiving bastard. “Oh, ho, Duncan!” de Viennes chortled. “I believe we have sorely disillusioned our fine ambassador! Buck up, Dakin,” Duncan replied, his lips twitching with merriment as he accepted a flask of hot spiced wine from his valet. “Your lovely daughter will fare better with the good Rolf than ever she would with a rapscallion such as my poor besotted brother." The Chalean ambassador did not reply to the comment. He had failed miserably his most beloved of children and had sentenced her to a loveless marriage with a man neither he nor Gillian liked. Moving away from the Prince and his Chancellor, he hunkered down before the fledgling fire that had been built under a high overhang of rock. His eyes were bleak and his heart aching in his chest for there was nothing he could do to right the great wrong he had helped to perpetuate. **** At precisely midnight on the eighteenth of November in the year now known as the Year of the Whirlwind, Brother Herbert Welmeyer united in Joining Prince Kaelan Hesar, Duke of Winterstorm, and the Countess Gillian Cree, daughter of the Duke of Warthenham, Ambassador to the Court of Tempest Keep. Lumley Tarnes gave the bride away; Nicholas Cree was the best man; and Brownie was the maid-of-honor. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Five

His Eminence, Arch-Prelate Caldonicus Zein, looked up from his reading and frowned. A great sigh came from his thinned lips as he settled back in his chair and fixed his stygian-dark stare on his visitor. “You know what this means, of course,” the Arch-Prelate stated. The tall man standing before Caldonicus’ desk shrugged. “I have some understanding of the workings of the Higher Court, Your Eminence." “We have not censured a member of this Brotherhood since one of our own tribe was brought up before

the Council of Peers fifty years ago.” The Arch-Prelate made a disgusted sound. “And even then, his accusers were sentenced; not he." “To be one of The People,” Occultus Noire acknowledged, “is to be One with Honor.” His dark eyes glazed with hatred. “There is no honor in Coure and the Court will surely see that, Your Eminence." “Despite this petition against him, I fear Tolkan Coure will ascend to this office eventually,” Caldonicus complained. His frown deepened and thunderclouds formed on his wrinkled brow. “He is almost as bad as Galbrieth Courne was and that man-may the Great God, Raphian, roast his soul in the Abyss for the span of Time Known-murdered our first Arch-Prelate in his sleep to obtain the title for himself!" Occultus nodded politely; he had heard this tale from His Eminence, Demonicus Bael, the then Cardinal of Ordination, who had initiated Occultus into the secret sect of the Brotherhood of the Domination. The Arch-Prelate's lips quivered with suppressed laughter as he read Occultus’ memories. “I believe that is the way Demonicus took the throne and I've no doubt that if Coure ever makes it to this room, that will be the way his end will come, as well!" “Tolkan is a man to be watched,” Occultus ventured. “And watched closely!” Caldonicus grumbled. “He would be the next Arch-Prelate, if he could!" Once again, Occultus nodded in agreement. He knew he, himself, would be the next chosen to sit the Throne of Raphian, although the thought did not please Occultus Noire. He was not sure he could ever commit himself to the all-invasive evil that was required of the Cardinal of Ordination-the office just one step removed from that of the Arch-Prelacy, itself and one to which he had recently been nominated. As Cardinal of Proctors, he had already begun to question the goals of the Brotherhood. “And as for this other matter...” Caldonicus threw up his hands. “What do we do about this man?" The Cardinal of Ordination smiled slightly—the thin lips a mere slit of amusement in his dark, lupine face—and arched one thick black brow. “Despite the accusations against him, Your Eminence, there is no evidence of this man's involvement with the Dark Arts.” Occultus’ smile became a wicked grin. “In all actuality, I would imagine he was just as stunned by what happened after he cursed the village as were the villagers, themselves." Caldonicus shrugged. “Could be. I am told the man was sorely provoked by their ill-treatment of him." “Who would not be?" “Still, as with every complaint brought Tribunal's attention, we, ourselves, must investigate.” Caldonicus reached for a sheet of parchment, scribbled a few lines, applied his personal seal to the missive, then handed it to Occultus. “Bring him in for questioning." **** On the morning of the nineteenth day of November, Occultus Noire with an accompaniment of seven Tribunal guards boarded ship at Boreas Keep, Serenia. Their destination: Wixenstead Harbor in the Principality of Virago.

From the window of his throne room, King Drayton McGregor watched the High Priest making his way up the gangplank of the Boreal Queen. The taste of loathing flooded the Serenian king's mouth and his hand tightened “Do you think he is one of them?” his youngest son asked. Drayton nodded. “Aye, the bastard is one of them! Can't you smell his evil, boy?" Prince Thècion McGregor understood well the hatred in his father's voice and the gleam of vengeance in the older man's eye. The Brotherhood of the Domination had been a scourge to the people of Serenia—to the people of all the kingdoms—for six generations. Since the time of the Burning War. Little had been done to check the momentum of the evil sect despite the efforts of men like the Outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn. “One day,” the king prophesied through clenched teeth, “there will come a man who will wipe that filth from the face of the earth!" “I hope to live to see it,” Thècion said. “As do I,” his father sighed, turning from the window. He plowed his hands through his thick sandy hairs. “I have heard they are going after some poor unfortunate." Thècion continued to watch the procession of guards boarding the Boreal Queen. “You think so?” He felt a tremor of unease wiggle down his spine. “What happens when they do?" Drayton sat down heavily on his throne and stared blindly across the magnificence of the Court of the Winds. “What do you think will happen, Thècion?” he snapped. “They will take him into custody and interrogate him!” He spat out a vulgarity that surprised his son for the king was not given to the use of such words. “You mean they'll question him?” Thècion asked. “No, interrogate!” Drayton McGregor spat. “Torture is what it really is!” He pounded his fist on the arm of his throne chair. “Who would not confess to anything those bastards wanted you to say when they have finished with their hot irons and barbed whips?" The king's youngest son came to stand beside his father. “Is there any way we can help, Papa?" Drayton shook his head. “Not unless we know who they're going after and get to the man first!” He glanced up at his son as he spoke—expecting to see pity on Thècion's lean face—and did a double-take; his son's eyes were boring into his with the light of battle blazing in the pale blue depths. “No,” Drayton said, emphatically, spitting the word out like a pit from a prune. He twisted around in his chair. “You will not!" Thècion's pale brows jumped up into the mop of tawny hair that fell in tousled waves around his face. Despite his twenty-nine years, the young man looked far younger—and far too innocent—as he met his father's stare. “What, Papa?” the prince questioned. The king's gaze became twin slits of paternal and monarchical warning. “You will not board that ship and try to find out who they are going after, Thècion!"

“Who are going after what, Majesty?” came a gruff voice from the far end of the room. Drayton gritted his teeth. Despite the numerous times he had chastised his eldest son for using the title, Blasdin ignored him. The king snapped his head around and fixed the Heir-Apparent to the throne of Serenia with a murderous glower, but before he could berate his son still once more, his youngest boy intruded. “Those Tribunal guards sailing on the Queen,” Thècion replied. Blasdin hated his brothers—both of them—but despised the younger of the two more. Most of the time, he ignored the brats. When forced to engage in conversation with them, it was all he could do to be civil and then only when in the company of either of his parents. “You mean Noire and his bully-boys,” Blasdin quipped, casting a quick look at his father; he saw warning on the old man's face, but ignored it. “They're going after the Hesar's black sheep." The king had opened his mouth to stop his son from speaking—knowing Blasdin would have made himself privy to the goings on of the Tribunal—so that Thècion would not find out the name of the man Occultus was after. At the mention of their life-long enemies, the Hesar clan of Virago, Drayton stilled. “Why?” the king whispered. He knew of the marriage between Justus Sinclair's only child and the youngest Viragonian prince. As a close friend to Prince Sean Brell of Chale—who had an ambassador at Tempest Keep—he had been kept apprized of the goings on at the Court there. Blasdin shrugged with contempt. “Well for one thing, the man murdered his wife." “I seriously doubt that,” his father snapped. “I never heard anything bad said about the boy up until he married Justus Sinclair's daughter." “That is beside the point, Majesty,” Blasdin argued, knowing his use of the word would needle his father. “There were witnesses to the lady's murder." Drayton's jaw clenched, as did his hands on the arms of his chair. “Or so Sinclair says,” he grated. He squinted fiercely at his son. “That was five years ago. Why are they just now going after the man?" A look of amusement rippled over the eldest McGregor brother's face. “The demented fool put a curse on the village at Wixenstead and...." “Is that where he lives?” Thècion interrupted, ignoring his brother's snort of disgust at both his interference in the conversation and his ignorance. “The man lives at Holy Dale,” Blasdin replied haughtily. “If you knew your Viragonian history, you would also know that Wixenstead was where..." “The Outlaw was based,” Thècion finished. “I know my Viragonian history well enough, Blast It." Blasdin's lips peeled back from his teeth and he actually snarled. If there was one thing he hated more than the disrespect both Ronan and Thècion bore him, it was his brothers’ use of that vile nickname. “Do not call me that, Thècion,” he warned. The king sighed. “So he cursed the village,” he stated, sighing again. “If what I have heard is true, the

man had just cause to do so." “You have only that drunken sailor's words to go by, and that when you, yourself, were far gone in your cups!” Blasdin sneered, walking to the display of armor that lined the south wall of the Court. He missed the anger that flushed immediately across his father's face. “I would be suspect of anything heard under such conditions!" Drayton pushed himself slowly from his throne and stood glaring at his eldest son's back. He waited until Blasdin—made uneasy by the sudden silence that had invaded the room—looked around at him. The Serenian king lifted his right hand and pointed a rigid finger at his successor, then lowered his arm until his index finger pointed to a spot at the base of the throne's dais. Blasdin risked a quick look at his younger brother and saw dark amusement lighting Thècion's pale blue eyes; there would be no help from that quarter. The Heir-Apparent swallowed nervously, squared his thick shoulders, then walked with seeming nonchalance to the spot to which his father-and king-pointed. Thècion tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down tightly to keep himself from laughing. Blasdin might think he was hiding his fear of their father behind his careful facade of non-concern, but there was no hiding the trembling of his hands, nor was the man aware that he was beginning to sweat. “Aye, Your Majesty?” Blasdin questioned. The king looked to his youngest. “You may be excused, Thècion." Forcing himself not to snicker, Thècion nodded respectfully to his father, then with less politeness to his brother and future king. He backed away from the duo, then turned—his face breaking into a wide grin—and started from the throne room. “And Thècion?” his father called after him. Thècion quickly wiped the humor from his face and turned around. “Aye, Papa?” He almost lost it when he saw Blasdin stiffen at the use of the endearment, knowing full well the pompous ass would never deign to be so familiar even with his own father. “Do not board that ship, my boy,” Drayton warned with a stern look. He nodded as an afterthought. “The Boreal Queen, Thècion.” He wanted to be as precise as possible with this most recalcitrant of his legal sons and bastard offspring; Thècion had a habit of sidetracking rules and orders if one were not absolutely precise in their issue. “No, of course not, Papa,” Thècion agreed. Drayton didn't like the look in his son's eyes. The boy was a rebellious little bastard and a hellion of the first order. “And do not go to Holy Dale, either!" “Wouldn't dream of it, Papa,” Thècion promised, his hand to his chest in pledge. There should be another order, but Drayton could not think of it at the moment since his anger at his eldest son—who was smirking up at him with high rancor—took precedent. With a final warning for his youngest not to get into mischief, he turned his full fury on Blasdin's slowly slumping shoulders. Once outside the keep, Thècion poised on the steps and looked down toward the docks. The Boreas

Wind was in the harbor for loading; she would be sailing not long after the Queen. A slow smile began to ease over the young prince's face. The Queen was a cargo ship; the Wind was a clipper. It would take the Boreal Queen four days to reach Wixenstead Harbor for she would have to stop first in Chale to off-load whatever cargo was going there. More than likely the Wind was going straight across the Boreal Sea to Ionary, taking home that gods-be-damned Montyne ogress the King of that arid land had sent over to give Ronan a once-over. Thècion shivered. Thank the gods, he thought, it hadn't been him they were after to link the two kingdoms. Blasdin was shackled to Hestia Diaz from Diabolusia and that marriage had surely been made in hell. If his eldest brother's Joining, and Ronan's seemingly irreversible engagement to the Ionarian princess, was any indication, Thècion feared for his own peace of mind and freedom. “The women of Virago are wild!” his friend, Prince Diarmuid Brell had related after a visit there the summer past. “I would not mind being tied to any one of the ladies I met at Tempest Keep; they are beautiful and they love to do it!" “But are they accommodating in other matters?” Thècion had wanted to know. He needed a woman who would at least be as much a partner to him as a mate; unlike Hestia and that damned rude Ionarian whelp, who sought to rule Blasdin and Ronan and who were as ugly as a horse's arse. “You can find whatever you want there!” Diarmuid had promised. “Why, there are some who are as meek as those little Chrystallusian maids of your mother's!" Diarmuid, he thought as he watched the Boreas Wind preparing to follow in the wake of the Queen which was already well out to sea. Now there was a man who liked adventure and whose father was not as strict and forbidding as his own. And the middle Brell boy was in town for the Festival of the Winter Solstice come day after tomorrow. His thoughts were interrupted by a plaguing memory: “Torture is what it is!” he heard his father say. “I met him,” he remembered Diarmuid saying once. “Kaelan Hesar? He's Seamus’ age-five years older than me-but he let me come with him to watch him race that hell-steed of his down to Hellstrom Point and back." The Chalean prince had frowned mightily. “I don't believe a gods-be-damned thing they say about Kaelan! I'll tell you here and now, Thècion McGregor, he didn't murder that manhater of a wife of his. I've heard rumors of how they abused him afterwards and I'll tell you..." Diarmuid's voice had become thick with anger and his black eyes glowing with the berserker passions of his ancestors as he spoke of the man he had once known at Tempest Keep. “Torture is what it is." Thècion's vision clouded with compassion as he took in the lines being tossed off from the Boreas Wind. He had an allegiance to one of his own breed of royal sons—of which he had no doubt Kaelan Hesar was one though he'd never met the man—and an intense desire to thwart the machinations of the Brotherhood of the Domination. His Serenian blood began to pulse with the need for action and he called out to a pair of passing groomsmen.

“Bradley?" The men turned and looked at him; they smiled warmly liking this young prince far better than his royal siblings. “Aye, Your Grace?” one answered back. “Will you go down to the docks and tell the Captain of the Wind I'd like a word with him before he shoves off and I'd be obliged if you'd hurry?" The shorter of the groomsmen arched a finger respectfully to his forelock and took off running to do his prince's bidding. “Know you Prince Diarmuid Brell of Chale, Henry?” Thècion asked the other groomsman. “I do, Your Grace.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder. “He's down to the stables looking at Prince Blasdin's new fold. Want me to fetch him for you, Highness?" Thècion winced at the title. “Aye. Tell him it's a matter of life and death!” He smiled as the groomsman's head bobbed once in acknowledgment and the lanky man began loping toward the stables. Chewing on his lip, the young Serenian waited until he saw Diarmuid coming out of the stables at a near-run. Once he knew the Chalean had seen him, he let the memories plague him again. “Is there any way we can help, Papa?” he had asked. Do not board the Boreal Queen. Well, he couldn't; the ship was already tacking out beyond the far reefs. Do not go to Holy Dale! Never let it be said that Thècion Conar McGregor ever ignored a direct order from his monarch. Thècion's lips began to twitch. “But you didn't say Diarmuid wasn't to go, now, did you, Papa?” Thècion whispered, chuckling to himself. “What's up?” Diarmuid asked breathlessly as he took the steps two at a time. “A matter of honor,” Thècion said cryptically. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his cords, the youngest Serenian prince skipped down the steps and began walking toward the docks, whistling merrily as he went, his childhood friend close at his heels. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Six

Sated with a passion he had not known in five long years, Kaelan Hesar stared up at the cracked ceiling of his bedchamber and felt the tears easing down his temples.

“Can't you sleep?” his wife asked. “I haven't tried." Gillian knew he was crying; she knew why. She also knew she should not acknowledge what she knew her husband would consider as a great weakness. Instead, she threaded her fingers through his and snuggled against his shoulder and arm, breathing in the special scent of him that always made her heart flutter. “Neither have I,” she admitted. Kaelan turned his head just a little-feeling one hot tear slid unerringly into his ear-and looked at the top of his wife's head. “Did I hurt you?" Gillian giggled. “Did I hurt you?” she countered. Despite himself, Kaelan laughed. How could he admit to the woman that she had not only hurt him with her eagerness for their mating, but that she had shocked him to the very core of his masculinity by practically raping him in the process. “You didn't enjoy it?” she asked, still not looking up into his beloved face. “Oh, I enjoyed it, milady,” he assured her in a voice that still held the wonder of the gift she had granted him. “I enjoyed it well and truly." “And often,” Gillian added with no little degree of pride. Kaelan unlinked their hands and turned toward her, lifting his arm so she could lie in the crook of his shoulder. He felt her sweet lips against his throat, her tongue tasting him still once more as though he were a treat concocted especially for her enjoyment. He settled her firmly against him and laid his cheek on her head. “Do you know I love you, milady?” he asked softly. “Aye, I know it,” she replied with some annoyance. “And I love you!" And how she loved him, he thought. They had barely made it up to their room before her hands were on him. She had unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open before he could stop her or slow her intent. Her fingers had splayed over his chest—her nails thrusting themselves through the coarse pelt of curls covering him—and her lips had found the hollow at the base of his throat. “I don't know if I can wait,” she had warned him, raking her nails over his nipples. “GILLIAN!” he had rasped, sucking in a harsh breath before pulling back from her and staring down into a face he recognized well as being one that was filled with lust. She had ignored his shock and had thrust her hands through the opening of his shirt and around his back, drawing the ragged garment out of his patched breeches. “Milady, you shouldn't!” He'd tried to voice his astonishment at her bold behavior, but already his shaft was rigid and full, aching for release, more than willing to break a whole quarry of rocks. “Be quiet, Hesar,” she'd challenged. “You talk too much.” Her fingers moved unerringly to his belt

buckle. “Oh, god!” he'd gasped. “Don't!” His moan had been lost in her firm answer: “Shut up!" The buckle had come undone with ease. She slid it from his waist and the removal of that last bastion of safety all but unmanned him then and there. “Gillian, I don't think..." “And you think too much, as well, Hesar!” she huffed. As her fingers moved to the top button of his fly, he had moved to stop her, but she had batted away his hands and hushed any further objections. “Be quiet, Hesar!” she ordered. She made quick work of the buttons and soon the fly was open and she was spreading it open, her hands snaking over his too-lean hips to push the breeches down. When he opened his mouth, she looked up, locked her gaze with his. “Stand still,” she told him. “Don't speak; don't move; don't even think!" He swallowed and did as he was ordered, although the thinking part was harder than anything he'd ever done in his life. Second only to standing still as the breeches fell down around his ankles and her hand reached out to grasp the object she'd been after all along. He had gasped and begun to pant, unaware that he was doing so. Her eyes were fused with his as her fingers molded themselves around him. He knew the exact moment in which she understood he had surrendered to her for her eyes blazed red-hot and her mouth took on a militant firmness. “As sure as the sun rises and sets, Kaelan Hesar,” she had warned him, “you belong to me and me alone." He wasn't sure when he had finally asserted himself; taken charge; shown her the man he had once been and wanted desperately to be again. It might have been when he'd kicked off his breeches and grabbed her up, carrying her quickly to the bed, his shaft rigid between her quaking thighs. Or it might have been when he'd covered her unresisting body with his own—dragging up her skirts and thrusting his fingers—gently, but firmly—into the warm dampness between her legs as his lips nuzzled her neck. Could even have been the moment he had finally impaled her upon his turgid flesh, going as deep as her protesting maidenhead would allow at first, then resolutely deeper as her legs went around his waist and her nails raked the flexing muscles of his back as he pumped into her. But he suspected it had been at that moment when—her body filled with his seed—she had looked up into his eyes and sighed with utter contentment, fulfillment, and said the words that would bind him to her

for as long as he lived: “I have waited a lifetime for you, milord." “Are you gathering wool or fuel, Hesar?” Gillian asked, bringing him back from that moment over four hours—and three lovings earlier—when he had first claimed her as his own. “You amaze me,” he admitted. “How so?" “Where did you come by such brazenness, woman?” he asked, hoping she didn't hear the gratitude in his voice. “I told you,” she said, bringing up a hand to twist a thick curl on his chest, “I have waited a lifetime for this night.” She wound the curl around and around her finger, reveling in the texture and the silkiness of it. “And I have dreamed of this very moment since the first time I spoke to you." Kaelan blinked. “You were rude to me!" She shrugged away his memory. “So? You were showing interest where I didn't want it to go." “I was not!” he protested, pulling away just enough so he could look down at her. “Your sisters were pretty enough little fluffs of spun sugar, Gillian, but I would never have entertained the idea of courting either of them." Gillian arched her brows upward. “And what did you think of me?" He answered before he had time to consider: “That you were a sharp-tongued brat who should have your backside heated.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, knowing his insult was bound to anger her. He was surprised when she remained silent and opened his eyes to look down into his wife's amused face; she was just staring at him, her lips pursed. “Well?” he finally said, reluctant to begin an argument, but unsettled by her silence. “Like you heated it a few minutes ago, milord?” she asked. Kaelan's face turned a deep scarlet color. The last time they made love, it had been from behind for Gillian had wanted to experiment with every way there was for a man to love his woman. As she wiggled against him—trying to get him to be more forceful in his thrusting and not so gentle with trying to initiate her into this new sexual position—he lost a small amount of patience and rammed none—too gently into her. The only problem was, his shaft had not thrust into her vagina. Her sharp cry of pain—coupled with a sensation Kaelan knew somehow wasn't quite right and Gillian's wild bucking to rid her body of the agonizing intrusion—had brought him to such a violent climax, his wife had instantly stilled, fearing to be hurt further. His acute embarrassment and profuse apology afterwards had made her stare at him with wonder. “But it can be done that way?” was all she'd asked after he'd explained what had happened.

“Aye, but..." “And does it always hurt so bad? I mean if you do it often enough?" He had been shocked, but had managed to shake his head. “No, I suppose not, Gillian, but..." “I suppose,” she had said, considering, “that's the way men do it to one another, huh?" Kaelan had nearly choked to death on his own gasp. His wife had pounded him sharply on the back until his face was no longer red and his breathing was normal. “Well, there's nothing wrong with doing it that way is there?” she'd demanded. “Gillian!” he'd protested, mortally embarrassed by her question. “You're such a prude, Hesar,” was her only comment. Looking at her now, knowing she was waiting for him to say something foolish or act like a green boy, he shook his head. “That wasn't what I meant." Gillian's gaze turned wicked. “Well, even if it wasn't, you heated up my backside quite forcefully, milord." Kaelan knew if he didn't establish some ground rules between them at that moment, the little wanton would continue to walk all over him from then on. He schooled his face into a stern parody of what he perceived to be that of a strict husband and wagged a warning finger at her. “I'll not ever make love to you in that fashion again, Gillian, and you are not to bring it up again. Do you understand?" Her eyes went wide. “Never again?" He shook his head. “Never again,” he repeated firmly. Her lips trembled a little and her forehead crinkled delicately. “But you do want to make love with me don't you, Kaelan." “Aye,” he said, his voice softening, “but not like that. It's distasteful, Gilly, and it hurts you." “But if you want to make love to me...” she stopped, her look one of immense hurt. “What?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to wipe away the uncertainty on her face. Had he frightened her? Made her ashamed of her sexual feelings as Marie had been? His gut twisted and he knew instant panic. He was about to tell her he would make love standing on his head if he had to, when she snuggled up against him and he felt her relax. Gillian sighed woefully, then reached down to wrap her hand around his shaft. “Kaelan?” she questioned, looking up at him so sweetly.

“Aye, milady,” he said, his fears evaporating as his passion returned with her tender ministrations. “If you want to make love to me, how will you do so if I do not bring it up again?" For a few seconds, Kaelan stared down into that bold little face. He took in the saucy little smirk; the knowing brow arched over one perfect green eye; the feel of her hand around him, then threw back his head and laughed. **** Brother Herbert glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. “It appears I did not err in Joining your sister and the prince,” he said around a mouthful of bread. Nick answered his smile. “They have loved one another for a long, long time." The priest popped the last of the bread into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then frowned. “I would not wait long before leaving for Serenia, Lord Cree,” he warned the Chalean. “This Joining is not legal and you will want to make it so before the King catches up with his brother." Nick stopped eating; he looked cautiously at the rotund cleric. “You are not an ordained priest?” he asked. Herbert Welmeyer's face was devoid of both amusement and guile. “Oh, I am duly ordained, young sir. That is not the problem. Your tale of the young prince being cast out from his family salved my conscience somewhat, but I did not believe it for a moment, milord. Such is not done among the royalty of Virago.” He shrugged. “Serenia, aye; it has been known to happen there, but here?” He shook his head. “Can not be done according to Viragonian Tribunal Law." You knew t'was illegal?” Nick asked, his eyes narrowing. “Of course, I knew,” the priest admitted. “Yet you went and married them, anyway,” Lumley spoke up from his spot cramped next to the kitchen fire. “Why was that?" Brother Herbert's pudgy face flamed and he ducked his head. “The gold coins will be most useful and besides...” He looked up, his gaze on Nick. “And besides, I have had the dubious honor of meeting Burgher Justus Sinclair. He is not a man whose tales I would believe." “Kaelan did not kill his wife,” Nick stressed. “Oh, I have no doubt of that now that I've met the young prince,” the priest said, bobbing his head with agreement. “He's been sorely used is my opinion." “That he has!” Lumley Tarnes stated. Nick glanced at his timepiece and noted that it was close to four in the morning. “We'll be leaving for Serenia at first light,” Nick told the man of the gods. “It will be slow traveling for, as you noticed, my new brother-in-law is lame." “A terrible tragedy,” Brother Herbert commiserated. “And I can see it pains him greatly."

Another peel of laughter rang out from above stairs and the three men grinned at one another. “Not too greatly, it seems,” Nick chuckled. **** Lars Utley glared at the sweeping drift that blocked his and his men's way. He cursed viciously beneath his breath then turned to the other two trackers. “Get out your shovels!” he ordered. “I ain't of a mind to make my bed out here in the open.” He jabbed his hands onto his hips, twisted, and spat into the nearly hip-deep snow. “There's a pond yonder,” one of the other men remarked, stabbing a finger toward the ghostly patch a few yards away. Utley grunted. “So?" “Didn't that man in Graceton say there was a pond about half a mile from the manor house?" The head tracker squinted. “Aye.” He looked toward the pond where steam was rising like a wraith from the surface, then turned his head up to the heavens where the moon was full and cast an eerie light through the ice crystals in the air. “Gonna storm again,” was Lars Utley's way of thinking. The less-frigid air pulsing against his face where the heavy woolen scarf did not cover his flesh, was an indication that more snow was on the way. With one last curse for his lot in life, Lars went to his horse and drew out his own shovel. It would take an hour or two—first light, at least—before they could dig a path through which their mounts could travel. “Well, if Lord Cree and his sister be at Holy Dale,” Lars muttered to himself as he thrust his blade into deep snow, “they ain't likely to go nowhere with a storm coming!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Seven

Nick and Lumley had not slept. While the fat priest had snored in front of the fire on the cot, Nick had dragged down from Kaelan's bedchamber, the two men had talked of sailing and ships, foreign shores and foreign women. It had not taken Tarnes long to make up his mind: when the lad sitting beside him was ready to buy a ship, he'd lend his own brand of expertise to the acquisition. “There are things to look for,” Lumley had explained. “Like a First Mate who knows more about the ship than her captain?” Nick had teased. “That, too,” Lumley had grinned. “Most do, you know!" There had been a moment of companionable silence, then Nick had put forth the proposition he'd been

waiting all the past evening to make: “Would you be of a mind to go a'pirating with me, Master Tarnes?" Lumley Tarnes had drawn deeply on his pipe as he considered the young man. He liked the cut of Nicholas Cree's jib, he did, and the lad was more knowledgeable about the ways of a sailing man than most of the members of Captain Nyberg's crew. And the lad knew his ships. “Why The Revenant?” Lumley had inquired of Nick's choice of names for the vessel. There had been no hesitation: “My great grandfather sailed with the Outlaw, himself!" Lumley had smiled as though he had already known. “A relation of mine was First Mate on the Windlass." Respect and awe had washed over the young Chalean's square-jawed face and his emerald eyes had lit up. “Norbert Tarnes was a relation of yours?” the young man had asked with something akin to adoration. “Aye, lad, that he was.” Lumley grinned. “Just as Caere Cree was your relation." “I'll be gods-be-damned!” the young man had whispered. “We're practically related, Lumley!" For another few moments, Lumley studied his companion then made up his mind. Through a noxious billow of smoke, he'd nodded. “A man could do worse than to go aspirating with the likes of you, Lord Cree. I'd be honored to take to sea with you." Over the long hours, the two men had planned. Neither noticed their tiredness nor the stiffness in their bones as they hovered close to the fire to keep warm during the cold night; there were more important things in life to consider. Just as the false dawn lifted her head in the east and began to shake her crimson hair, Nick stood up, stretched mightily, and groaned as his backbone snapped and popped with the movement. He was anxious to be on his way to Serenia. “That be where the best clippers be built,” Lumley had echoed something Nick already knew. Tarnes, too, got to his feet—although not nearly as quickly or as painlessly as did his captain-to-be—and stood there wavering for a moment as his old bones adjusted. “I think I'll see to the horses,” Nick said, pointing to the stove. “How about making us up something to eat on the way?” He clapped his hands. “Come on, Brownie! Let's go out, girl!" The big dog woofed once then trotted eagerly to the door beside her new friend. Brownie's tail thumped rapidly against one of the cabinets. Lumley nodded. “Sandwiches is about all I know how to make, Cap'n,” he said and watched as pride spread quickly over the young man's face.

“Then sandwiches it will have to be, Master Tarnes!” Nick said, and there was more spring in his step as he swiped his great cape from the hanger and swung it around his shoulders. Not even the slight drift that had piled up at the kitchen door overnight had the power to dampen his mood. He just plowed through it like The Revenant through a swell and waded his way to the stables, Brownie leaping the drift at his heels. “What kind of captain will the lad make, Master Tarnes?” Brother Herbert inquired. “A right good Ones if'n I'm any judge,” Lumley replied as he sliced his dagger into what was left of a juicy baked ham Nick had procured from Titus Neils’ inn. “Although,” the cleric remarked as he straightened his robe and looked eagerly at the meat on Lumley's platter, “I don't believe in thieving of any kind.” He took a chunk of red, stringy meat and began to munch happily upon its salty texture. “The Diabolusians are a heathenish bunch of demon-worshipers and are not opposed to stealing, themselves." Lumley grinned around his pipe stem as he slathered butter on a slice of thick bread. “They be cutthroats, that's a fact." “The question is, I suppose,” Brother Herbert commented as he snitched a prepared sandwich, “whether or not the lad can make a decent living on the seas." A snort of humor puffed from the side of Lumley Tarnes’ mouth. “More money than he can being a politician like his pa wants him to be!” the old salt sneered. “I don't know,” the clergyman denied, shaking his head. “Most politicians I know are worse thieves than the Diabolusians!" Laughter met Nick as he burst into the warm kitchen. The laughter stopped abruptly when the two men saw the paleness of their young friend's face and the wild glaze in his stare. “Riders,” the Chalean man spat out as he and the big mongrel hurried into the room. “How many?” Tarnes asked, dropping the sandwich he'd just made and picking up his serviceable dagger. “Three,” Nick answered. “Brownie smelled them, I guess. While I was taking a piss, I saw her hackles up.” He ran the back of his hand under his dripping nose. “She led me about half a mile upwind of us—near the pond—and I saw three men digging a passage through the drifts. I ran back here and hid the horses at the mouth of the tunnel, but if those men are heading here..." “Where else would they be going Cap'n?” Lumley snapped. “They'll see where the horses have been,” Nick continued. “You can't hide the signs of five horses in the stable out there.” He looked up quickly at the ceiling. “I've got to tell him.” He turned and took the servant stairs two at a time. “I'll see to the two of us!” Lumley called after him. Not long before midnight—and the Joining that had made Kaelan and Gillian one—the Viragonian prince had shown the others the false cellar where the Outlaw had hidden while he raided the Tribunal

coffers. “This is the way out,” Kaelan had explained as he'd shown them the bolt hole, a cleverly-concealed false panel behind the cellar door. “There are three steep steps before you reach the ground. A short tunnel opens up into a cave then there's another tunnel beyond. By the time you reach the end, you're about eighty yards out into the woods.” He pushed on the wall and the panel slid upward with only a slight squeak. “Kept it well-oiled, he did,” Tarnes had marveled. “So have I,” Kaelan had replied. His grin was nasty. “Just in case they ever came to burn me out again." He'd shown them bundles of rushes jabbed into the shored-up walls of the tunnel: “Every twenty feet or so.” And where the Lucifers were kept so that when the panel slid back into place, the hidey-hole would not be plunged into total darkness for very long. Now—sweeping most of the provisions into burlap bags—Lumley ordered the priest to follow him to the cellar stairs. Grabbing up his bundle of belongings, Brother Herbert waddled after the sailing man, puffing as his short legs pumped. He was already worrying about getting himself down through the trap door which led to the false cellar. The first trip down had been both embarrassing and painful as he had squeezed his considerable mass through the hole. He had not been able to make his way back up through the trapdoor hole and had to walk the length of the cave and tunnels with Lord Cree and traipse through the snow all the way back to the warmth of the kitchen. Luckily, the bright moonlight had lit their way and they had not had to rely on the faggots Lord Cree had stamped out as they left the tunnel. Now, moaning as he watched Lumley reach under the dusty, moth-eaten rug which covered the trapdoor's position and lift the stapled rug and hatch, the priest exhaled a long sigh of self-pity. He actually winced as the much-smaller—although many years older—man made his way lithely down the steps into the false cellar. “Stay close to the steps, Brother Herbert,” Lumley warned from the seven-foot depth where he stood. He had already opened the bolt hole panel and was lighting the first bundle of rushes. “I'll light the others for us." Brother Herbert sucked in his gut as Lumley disappeared into the bolt hole. With one final look to the heavens for help and comfort, he put his foot carefully on the first step and descended with less constriction than he thought possible. **** Kaelan's eyelids opened at the first urgent calling of his name. He heard the light scratch at the door and heard Nick call again: louder and with more immediacy. Gently removing his arm from beneath his wife's head, Kaelan eased back the covers and swung his legs from the bed, wincing only slightly at the immediate pain in his left thigh. With as little noise as possible, he drew on his breeches and grabbed up his shirt as he stood and hobbled to the door, drawing back the bolt Gillian had insisted he shoot the evening before. Nick's anxious face met him as he opened the door. “Trackers,” Nick said immediately. “One of them is Duncan's best man, Utley. They're at the pond."

Kaelan cast a quick look at his sleeping lady then slid soundlessly out of the room, easing the door shut behind him. “How many are there?” His voice was calm and his eyes steady. “Three, but I'll wager de Viennes can't be far behind and with him? Who knows?” There was great strain on Nick's face and in his voice as he waited for Kaelan to speak. Kaelan held his brother-in-law's gaze for a second or two more, then clenched his jaw. “I won't let them take her, Nicholas,” he said through his teeth. “Then we'd better get going!” Nick stressed. “I've got the horses at the tunnel, already." Kaelan didn't answer. Instead, he shut the door, limped to the bed, bent over and shook Gillian gently, but firmly. When she opened her eyes to find him hovering over her, she began to lift her arms up to him. “Good morn, milord,” she whispered. “Have you..." “They're here,” Kaelan interrupted her and watched instant fear replace the drowsy passion of a split-second before. “Get up and get dressed. We don't have long." Gillian threw the covers back and lunged from the bed. Even as her new husband stuffed what few belongings she and Nick had brought with them into an old canvas tote, she was drawing on a pair of his worn breeches. “Is Rolf with them?” was all she asked as she hastily drew on an oversized shirt that fell almost to her knees. “More than likely.” Kaelan was scanning the room for any sign that she and her brother had been there. Satisfied there was nothing left, he told her to hurry with her boots and waited impatiently for her to drag them on. Nick was waiting at the door as his sister and the prince came out. “Get her to the cave as quickly as you can,” Kaelan ordered, gently pressing his wife into her brother's arms. “What about you?” Nick asked, shushing Gillian as she would have protested. “I'll join you as soon as I get rid of them." “The hell you will!” Gillian exploded, twisting out of her brother's hold. “You'll come with us now, Kaelan Hesar!" Kaelan was already shaking his head. “They'll see there's been someone living here, Gilly.” He held up his hand to forestall another outburst. “If they come in and find no one here, they'll spread out and start searching the rooms. Chances are they won't find the trapdoor, but if Sinclair has told them where it is or is with them, you'll stand less of a chance.” He reached out and took her upper arms and shook her as she began to protest once more.

“And,” he said with force, “if they find no one in the manor house, they'll damned sure start looking outside as quickly as they can. What kind of chance would you have, then, Milady Hesar?" At the sound of her new name, Gillian stilled. She studied her husband's steady eyes and calm face—not knowing he was even more frightened than she—and made her voice as matter of fact as his had been. “Rolf hates you, Kaelan,” she said. “He could do you a harm if he suspects I have been here or that you helped Nick and me in any way." A crooked smile lifted one corner of Kaelan's mouth. “He hates me no less than I hate him, Gillian.” He looked up from her worried face to her brother's. “Take her down to the tunnel." “Kaelan....” she protested, but already Nick was pulling her toward the servant's stairs. “Don't worry,” Kaelan told her, limping a little toward her as her brother continued to drag her with him. “I'll be all right." “I love you!” she said. “I love you, too,” he responded as sister and brother began to descend the stairs. For a long moment he stood there, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He could taste the sour bile of fear flooding his mouth as he drew in ragged shallow breaths. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side and his left thigh stabbed with ungodly pain. He was unarmed and outnumbered, but before he would let Rolf de Viennes take what now belonged to Kaelan Hesar-and Kaelan alone-Lars Utley and his men would have to kill him. **** Gillian had mouthed her dissension all the way down the cellar steps and into the false cellar until her brother had hushed her with a hastily-raised arm. “Shut up or by-the-gods, Gillian, I'll hit you!” Nick spat at her. He marveled that his sister did not flinch at his threat until he realized she knew gods-be-damned well he wouldn't belt her. He lowered his arm with a snort of disgust. “One day I might surprise you,” he complained, pushing her toward the opened bolt hole panel. The new Duchess of Winterstorm clamped her lips together and glared at her brother, but she had enough presence of mind, despite her near-lethal worry for her husband's safety, to understand Nick was being cautious. No one knew exactly how near the manor house Duncan's men were at that moment. “I know you don't want to leave him,” Nick said as he joined her and slid the panel shut behind him. “I don't, either, but what he said was true: Utley's a bulldog.” He started into the cave, but stopped when he realized his sister wasn't following. “He did not say to leave,” Gillian said stubbornly. “He just said to get me to the cave.” She looked beyond her brother to the cave, then folded her arms over her chest. “Well, I am where he told you to take me, but I won't go another gods-be-damned step without him!" Nick groaned—recognizing all too well her militant stanch and expression. In order to budge her, force

would be necessary and he wouldn't put it past the little hell-cat to scratch and fight. But if he could reason with her.... “Gillian...” he began only to have her shush him. “Listen!” she whispered, going up the three steep steps and pressing her ear to the wood. Nick eased up the steps and also put his ear to the bolt hole door. With a sinking heart, he could clearly hear Brownie's frenzied barking, signaling a stranger's imminent approach. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eight

Kaelan ordered his mutt to cease barking as he hobbled toward the kitchen door. Beyond the glass pane, he recognized Lars Utley's haggard, weather-beaten face, and felt a momentary leap of fear deep in his gut. There was no better tracker in the Seven Kingdoms than Lars Utley. The Viragonian prince had bolted the back door as soon as he'd gone down into the kitchen. Each door into the manor house was either boarded up—as was the front door—or securely latched as this one was, although a hard fist and a groping hand could make it easy to gain entrance to Holy Dale through the glass-pane kitchen door. Drawing in a deep breath as he reached the door, Kaelan nodded curtly at the man standing alone on the stoop. “Utley,” he said. Lars Utley lifted a single finger to his temple. “Good morn to you, Your Grace.” His eyes shifted past Kaelan and into the recesses of the kitchen before sliding easily back to Kaelan's face. “Might I be having a word with you, milord?" “Concerning?” Kaelan asked, striving for normalcy in his voice-with just a touch of irritation for being bothered-that his thundering heart gave lie to. Utley frowned. “Will you just open the door, Your Grace?" There was no need to make the man any more suspicious than Kaelan could already see he was. With as much disdain as he could manage, he lifted his shoulders with unconcern and unbolted the door, opening it slowly as he stepped back. He tried not to show anything but annoyance and arrogance as Utley came quickly into the kitchen, almost brushing him aside in his haste. “Mind if I have a look around, Your Grace?” Utley questioned. The inquiry was a moot point since the tracker was already moving through the kitchen and into the adjoining eating chamber beyond. “Be my guest,” Kaelan ground out, laying a hand on Brownie's golden-brown head for the mongrel was growling low and menacingly in its throat. “A real beastie you have there,” Utley commented as he walked back into the kitchen and cast a sidelong look at the big dog.

“She's harmless,” Kaelan stated. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but she don't look it to me,” Utley defended the unease that was prickling at his neck as the dog's angry eyes followed his progress from kitchen to the hallway that led to the front parlor where no one had been in nearly four years, not even his recent guests. Kaelan waited indifferently—keeping his gaze from straying to the cellar door—for one of Utley's men had stomped into the kitchen. “Your Grace,” the man had acknowledged him with a hasty nod. “Borden,” Kaelan replied. “What did you find outside?” Utley asked as he came back from the front parlor and dining room. “There's been three to five horses out in the stables until just this morning.” Borden glanced at the young prince, who was looking back at him with a blank expression. “Fresh shit on the ground and oats still in the bin." Another man—one Kaelan didn't know—came hurrying in. “Traced them horse tracks, Lyle,” he said, breathlessly. “They vanished up around the base of the mountain over yonder. There's got to be a way to get into that mountain, but I didn't find it. ’Tis like them horses just up and disappeared into solid stone!" “One of the Outlaw's hiding places out in the woods, eh, Your Grace?” Utley inquired. He didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Instead, he turned to Borden. “You and Landers look upstairs. I'll wager they're long gone by now, but check anyway." Borden and Landers headed for the servant stairs; Utley looked down at his hands and began to slowly draw off his heavy leather gloves. “Which way are they heading, Your Grace?” he asked in a conversational tone, never looking up at his host. Kaelan's left brow crooked upward. “Who, Utley?" Lars Utley smiled as he removed the last glove and—crumpling them both in his right hand—began to tap the leather into his other palm. He finally lifted his eyes to the prince's face. “The King will be here shortly,” Utley informed him. Kaelan's right brow jerked upward. “Come to visit me?” he asked in an incredulous tone, hand to his heart. “To what do I owe the honor?" Utley's little burst of snorts were not disrespectful but rather humorous. “You've always been the cool one, haven't you, Prince Kaelan?” He cocked his head to one side in compliment. “I will give you that." “How generous of you,” Kaelan answered with a yawn that wasn't entirely pretend. “Ain't nobody up there,” Borden reported as he and his partner came tripping down the servant stairs. He cast a quick glance at the prince, then looked to Utley for instruction. “We're to hold His Grace in the cellar ’til the king gets here,” Utley reminded them, still smiling at his prince. “Go light some lanterns down there, Landers."

Kaelan blinked as though greatly surprised by such a thing. “Why am I being held hostage in my own home, Utley?” he asked. The smile slid slowly from Utley's weathered face and he stopped slapping the gloves into his palms. He lowered his hands and started toward Kaelan only to be brought up short by the prince's dog's deep warning growl. He stilled instantly, his angry glower jerking immediately from the dog to its master. “Either put that bastard outside, Your Grace, or I'll have Landers put a quarrel through its worthless hide here and now!” Utley warned. Kaelan's eyes went as hard as flint and his spine grew rigid as his head came up and shoulders went back at the threat. A muscle bunched in his jaw, but he lowered his head just a fraction in compliance, for the sake of Brownie's safety. Bending, he looped his hand under the mutt's leather collar and pulled, knowing the dog wouldn't leave him to the strangers without force. Brownie dug in her hindquarters in protest until her master whispered to her: “Don't shame me before these men." Utley was impressed as the big dog seemed to shake off the suggestion that it would do such a thing. It tossed its head, looking back once more at Utley, its ejection from the manor house. Kaelan shut the door firmly and turned away, feeling less safe now that his only means of protection had been eliminated. “You've trained her well,” the tracker said. He pointed his gloves at Kaelan's lame leg as the prince limped forward. “What happened to you, Your Grace?" Kaelan ignored the question. “What is it you really want here, Utley?” He flung his hand toward the stable. “The travelers who stayed here last night left before dawn this morning. If you're after them, I suggest you head on toward Wixenstead." Utley's smile returned. “Which means Lord Cree and his sister aren't heading toward Wixenstead, doesn't it, Your Grace?" “Lord Cree?” Kaelan mused, his brows drawn together in consideration. “Would that be Ruan or...” He snapped his fingers as though the action would prompt his memory. “What is the other young one's name?" Stuffing his leather gloves into his belts, Utley walked toward his prince. Once more his smile had left him, to be replaced with a hard, stony glare that brooked no foolishness. He came toe to toe with Kaelan. “Don't mistake me for a fool, Prince Kaelan,” Utley growled. “I certainly have never taken you for one." Utley was a good two inches taller than Kaelan's six feet, making it necessary for the younger man to look up at the tracker. He could feel the damp heat from Utley's body—so close to his own—and smell the unpleasant odor of a body that had been without benefit of washing for at least a week. Both having to look up at the man and feel the claustrophobic closeness of his burly body almost touching him, and sensing the two other trackers flanking him to either side, combined to drain away some of Kaelan's confidence. He felt trapped and the feeling was one he did not enjoy and had no way of overcoming at

the moment. “What's it to be, Your Grace?” Utley finally asked after a full minute of having fused his gaze with that of the prince. “Do we have to get physical with you to have questions answered?" Unknowingly, Utley—who had no intention of ever laying a hand on the man standing before him—had made a grave tactical error. Not only did Kaelan know he wouldn't be touched, at least until his brother and de Viennes arrived, but he sensed the other man's grudging respect. Utley watched the slow, nasty—almost wicked-smile that drew the prince's lips upward. He nearly growled with frustration as one thick dark brow shifted ever-so slowly upward into the tumbled hair draped over Prince Kaelan's forehead. The tracker drew in a long, deep breath, then exhaled forcefully. “We will find them, Your Grace,” Utley declared. He looked around as Landers rejoined them, then turned back to stare at Kaelan. “I promise you we will." For a moment Kaelan didn't reply, then his smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. “Find who?” he breathed. Rage flashed across the tracker's face and he spun on his men. “Take His Grace to the cellar! One of you stand guard in case Lord Cree doubles back for him!" Kaelan was escorted to the cellar steps with one tracker in front of him—proceeding him down the steps—and the other behind him to prevent him from retreating. Resolutely, he did not look at the old rug which hid the trapdoor; nor did he protest when he was forced to sit in a rickety old chair. The edge of the wooden chair was directly under the old break on Kaelan's left thigh. He tried to shift his position and found he couldn't without making the pain worse. He stood it for as long as he could before finally saying something. “Lyle, I can't sit like this." Lyle Borden frowned. “What do you mean?" “My leg,” Kaelan answered. “I broke it and sitting in this chair hurts." Borden was not a stupid man, nor was he overly-bright. Suspicious by nature, he looked for a trick as he stood up and walked to his prince. He looked down at the leg he'd seen Kaelan favoring. “How'd you break it?” he demanded. Kaelan sighed at the stupid question. “I broke it in the fall that killed my wife." Lyle Borden could see the pain on the young man's face and thought to gain some benefit from it. “I tell you what, Your Grace,” he said, hunkering down before his prisoner. “You tell us which way they went, and I'll let you sit on the floor. How's that?" “I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” Kaelan replied. Borden nodded as though in agreement, then reached out and wrapped his beefy hand around Kaelan's left thigh. “This the leg you broke?” he pondered.

Before Kaelan could say anything, Borden pressed himself up to his feet, his entire weight leaning on Kaelan's left thigh. The bellow of pain that came up from the cellar made Utley drop the coffee cup he held. “What the hell?” the tracker roared. He raced to the stairs and tripped down them just as Borden was backing away from the prince. “I didn't mean to hurt him, Utley!” Borden said quickly. “I was just trying to make him tell us where them people went!" It was all Nick could do to hold his sister—his hand plastered firmly over her mouth—as he dragged her off the steps of the false cellar and through the cave. Thankful the dirt muffled their struggles as he carried her through the tunnel beyond, he was having a hard time holding her. Both of them had heard what proceeded that anguished scream, but only he understood the folly of trying to go to Kaelan's aid. Not that the man would have welcomed it, had they been able to do so, Nick thought, grunting as Gillian's booted heels caught him on his shin. “Damn it, be still, woman!” he ordered. Gillian literally growled with fury. Her emerald orbs were flashing dangerously and had she the man before her who had hurt Kaelan Hesar, she would have gladly scratched the eyes from the monster's head! “Was that a scream?” Tarnes asked as he met them near the entrance to the tunnel. “One of the bastard's did something to Kaelan's leg!” Nick snarled with disgust. “Help me with her, will you?" Tarnes didn't know what it was he was supposed to do, but the young woman's violent struggling and muffled grunts, pants, and curses beneath the constriction of her brother's hand gave him some indication of what might be done. He reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief, snapped it into a roll, then stepped behind Nick and draped it over Gillian's head. Her glower sparking threat of disembowelment if he did such a thing, Gillian tried to kick back at Tarnes. She was already bruised by Nick's hard hands and his bony hip bones poking into her own. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose and was prepared to scream as loudly as the heavens when he unclasped his hand from her mouth. What she hadn't counted on was her brother's elbow digging very painfully into her right breast. Her breath came out in a high-pitched squeak of pain and before she could draw another breath, his hand was gone to be replaced by Tarnes’ none-to clean rag. “Sorry,” Nick mumbled, hoping he'd done no lasting damage to his sister's bosom. He likened it to being kicked in the balls and winced, thinking of the suffering he'd been forced to inflict upon her. “But Kaelan, himself, would have ordered me to shut you up any way I could." Gillian doubted very much her husband would have approved of Nick crippling her. Tears were flooding her eyes and she was madder than ever as she felt Tarnes’ hands on her wrists, replacing the hard hold Nick's big left hand had had on them. “Ain't trying to provoke you, now, lass,” the old salt said as he made quick work of tying her hands together. “But I reckon His Grace would rather have you safe and all trussed up like a feast goose than in the hands of the real Demon Duke of Virago."

Brother Herbert's face had been as pale as hers was red when Nick flung himself onto his horse and accepted her struggling body from Tarnes, who tossed her up to her brother with more strength than the others would have thought the old man had. “You try toting around fifty pound of hemp,” Tarnes sniffed, climbing with caution onto his own nag. “Ain't an easy thing to do." Kaelan had told Nick where to find the hidden entrance to Mount Wixen. He'd also told him how to get to the Serenian border. The tunnel's entrance was pointing directly to the east; they were to head due west. “I'll come back for him,” Nick told his sister as he dug his heels into his gelding's flanks. “I swear to you I will!" Gillian's last look at Holy Dale was the slender thread of smoke coming out of the upstairs chimney where she had known the only real joy in her young life. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Nine

Duncan Hesar was livid with rage as he stomped down the cellar steps. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?” the king yelled. He came off the stairs, took one step toward Borden, lifted his arm and gave the tracker a backhand hit that broke Borden's jaw. The tracker plummeted sideways and slammed against the wall. He slide down to the floor, unconscious before his ass ever touched wood. Utley stood up from his place on the floor beside the younger Viragonian prince. Shocked by the physicality of his king's reaction, he was equally shocked by the burst of foul language that followed; it fair turned the air blue with its ferocity and descriptive nature. “For the love of Alel, Duncan,” Utley heard young Kaelan say, “the man wasn't torturing me.” The young prince sneezed, then wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “He was only carrying out orders." “Kaelan?” the king asked in a near-whisper, turning his eyes to his brother, “keep out of this!" “It was my gods-be-damned leg, Duncan, he..." “Shut up, Kaelan,” Duncan sighed with exasperation. He waited until his brother shrugged away his objection, then ordered Utley and Landers to take Borden out to the stables and tie him up. “The man could freeze out there,” Kaelan protested. The king of Virago ground his teeth together. “Down here as well, but I don't hear you complaining about the cold!” He narrowed his eyes. “You sound funny. Do you have a cold?" “You ordered me down here, Duncan, and what difference does it make if I have a gods-be-damned cold?” Kaelan reminded him. He put his hands on the wall behind him and tried to push himself up. He was in so much pain, he doubted he could stand, but if he was forced to sit where he was much longer,

he'd go insane from the agony of it. “Do you need help getting up, Your Grace?” Utley asked, feeling the inquisitive look of his monarch, then quickly gathering enough courage to look the king in the eyes “He is crippled, Majesty." Duncan's brows shot up into his hairline. “Crippled?” he repeated. He looked at his brother. “Crippled how, Kaelan?" Kaelan shoved away Utley's offer of help and got clumsily to his feet. He put pressure on his left leg, then winced with the pain. “I think the bastard re-broke my leg,” he grunted. The king's face turned a most unbecoming shade of purple and he was about to explode with another eruption of vile language when his brother laid a hand on his arm. “It was just a figure of speech, big brother. The leg isn't broken.” Kaelan forced himself to smile—in actuality amused by Duncan's seeming concern for his well being—and managed to hobble over to an old stuffed chair that would be more comfortable than the hard floor. He sat down, sneezed again, then sighed heavily. Confusion puckered Duncan's forehead as he watched his brother settle uneasily into the dirty-looking old chair. He glanced up at Utley's worried face, then strode purposefully over to where Kaelan sat. “What happened to your leg, Kaelan?” he demanded in his most imperious tone of voice. Kneeding the throbbing in his thigh, Kaelan sighed. “I broke it in the fall." “What fall?” Duncan snapped. Kaelan looked up with surprise. Surely his brother knew the story of what had happened that night! Justus Sinclair would have no doubt delighted in telling the tale at Court. “Well?” the king bellowed. “What fall are you referring to?" The younger prince leaned back in the chair, his mouth a perfect ‘o’ of astonishment. “Sinclair didn't tell you?" Duncan's gaze narrowed to a pinpoint stare that he reserved for the intimidation of lesser men. “I haven't spoken to that treacherous bastard since he informed me you had a hand in his daughter's death!” he snapped. From everything Gillian had told him about the night Duncan had stopped their elopement, Kaelan wasn't inclined to believe anything his brother said. He wasn't entirely sure if Duncan knew the entire story of Marie's death, but he'd relate it to him on the chance he really didn't. When his brother finished his tale, Duncan slumped against the wall beside him and just stared at Kaelan. For a long moment, he didn't speak, then shook his head furiously as though to rid it of unpleasant thoughts. He held up his hands. “I swear on our father and mother's graves, I knew nothing of what you just told me!” He angrily pushed himself away from the wall and began to pace. “Nothing at all of that version of it!" Kaelan watched Duncan striding from one end of the cellar to the other and was fascinated by the play of emotions playing across his brother's face.

“What exactly did Justus Sinclair tell you, Duncan?” Kaelan inquired. Duncan stopped pacing and turned to face Kaelan. “He said you and Marie were having a fight and, in your anger, you pushed her away from you. He said she tripped on her gown, stumbled and fell down the stairs and broke her neck." “I pushed her.” Kaelan said in a flat voice. Well, he thought as Duncan began pacing again, that was why the village thought he had killed his wife. Even though there were several Sinclair servants in the manor house the night of the accident, no doubt they'd been coached to tell Justus Sinclair's version of the matter. “It seemed to me to be purely accidental” he heard Duncan say, “and Sinclair agreed, although he bears you a great deal of hatred, little brother. To stay an official inquiry by the Tribunal, it was decided between the two of us that we would tell the Court you were overcome with grief over what had happened and had left for Rysalia to stay with your friend, Ben-Alkazar." “To breed horses,” Kaelan said dryly. “Aye,” Duncan replied, absentmindedly. He waved a negligent hand. “I even invented a few Hasdu wives for you so none of the ninnies at Court would think you still on the marriage market." “That was thoughtful of you,” Kaelan drawled. Duncan did not hear the scorn in the words. “The least I could do,” he mumbled. Plowing his hand through the thick dark curls atop his head, he stopped—his hand buried in his hair—and looked at his brother. “But now, with what you have told me, everything has been turned upside down!" Kaelan went back to rubbing his injured thigh. “In what way, Duncan?" It was his king-not his brother-who strode back to him and stood hovering over him with a stern face. “How long was she here, Kaelan?” Duncan demanded. Silence. Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Answer me." Complete, stony silence. A long, tired sigh drew down the king's squared shoulders, taking away some of the stiffness and outrage of his posture. He shook his head as though ashamed of a wayward child. “Ah, Kaelan,” he breathed with exasperation. “You know I know she was here." The silence drew out. Faint lines of annoyance begin to spread over Duncan's lean face. “I demand to know how long she stayed here, Kaelan." With the quirk of one dark brow, Kaelan smiled. “What you are really asking,” he snorted, “is if I bedded the lady."

Duncan smiled, too: A spider's grin at its prey. “I believe under the circumstances, little brother, that's a given, don't you?” The king shrugged. “I would have expected nothing less from you and her." Kaelan's smile became a wicked grin. “The thing of it is, Kaelan,” Duncan remarked, “The lady in question is Rolf's wife. If you have soiled her for him, he will, naturally enough, be obliged to seek satisfaction from you." Kaelan's lips twitched. “'T'would be the gentlemanly thing to do, I suppose." “Of course,” his brother, the king, agreed as though there had been no question of that. The younger Viragonian prince stretched out his long legs to relieve the tension in his left thigh—the pain now a minor irritation—and crossed his ankles, quite relaxed. “And, quite naturally enough, I'll oblige him." Duncan frowned. “I would venture to say you are in no condition to challenge anyone with your leg the way it is, Kaelan,” he snapped. He was staring intently at the worn-down heels and patched soles of his brother's boots. If he had had any doubt of the truth of Kaelan's side of that night, he did no longer. The shabby condition of Kaelan's clothing and boots stamped truth to the tale. He shook himself and looked up, annoyed to find Kaelan smiling at him with interest. “If I had known you were coming,” the younger man cooed, “I'd have dressed in my finest for you, King Duncan. The thing of it is: This is my finest!" “'Tis not funny, Kaelan!” Duncan spat. He flung a hand at the scuffed boots. “It shames me to see you like this." The humor left Kaelan's face. “You caused it." Duncan flinched. The weight of his guilt in the thing was already weighing on his shoulders. How had he let Elga talk him into practically disowning his only brother? Of destroying what little happiness Kaelan might have found with the little Cree chit? “It was unseemly you chasing that little girl,” he defended himself, his eyes stormy, though somewhat confused. “You were old enough to be her...” He shrugged. “Husband?” Kaelan finished for him. He chuckled nastily. “How old do you remember me to be, Duncan?" “You are four years my junior!” the king snapped with irritation. “That makes you thirty-two!" Kaelan's eyes widened and his voice took on a hushed tone of awe. “He walks; he talks; he wields the power of a mighty kingdom in his right hand and can figure complicated mathematical problems in his mind!!” The wicked, vicious grin came back. “Is there no end to your talents, Duncan?" “Stop baiting me!” Duncan thundered. He stomped over to where his brother sat and pointed a trembling finger in Kaelan's face. “She was just a child, Kaelan! A mere babe when you began courting her!” He threw up his hands. “By the gods! What did you expect me to do when the Court was all atwitter about that little Chalean brat traipsing after you like a lovesick puppy. What was she? All of twelve?" Once more the humor left Kaelan's face. “She was sixteen before I ever kissed her cheek, Duncan,” he

said stonily. “Seventeen before I ever put my lips to hers. Our own mother was fifteen when she married our father and seventeen when you were born.” His voice became softer. “Gillian is twenty-two; well-past the age of Joining and..." “That is why I Joined her By Proxy in Absentia to Rolf de Viennes!” Duncan interrupted him. “It is well-past the time she be married and with brats of her own!" “She does not love de Viennes,” Kaelan replied, shocked numb by the news that Duncan had forced marriage upon Gillian without her consent. He dared not dwell long on the fact that he, himself, was not Joined legally with her for fear he'd lose his sanity. “What does it matter whether she loves him or not?” Duncan shouted at him. “I do not love Freida nor does she love me, but we are finally to be parents ‘fore the end of the month! Hell, she might even have had the brat by now!" A humorless smile touched Kaelan's lips. “My congratulations, brother,” he said. “What names have you picked out for my niece or nephew?" “Don't change the subject!” Duncan raked both hands through his hair and pulled. “What am I going to do with you?" “Don't have Elga here to advise you, Dunc?” Kaelan tutted. Thunderclouds formed on Duncan's brow. “Do not bait me, I tell you! And do not bring that conniving old biddy into this! I haven't been to her bed in two years!" Kaelan glanced toward the stairs where the Duke of Warthenham had come to stand. How long the man had been there—and just how much of the conversation he'd heard— wasn't clear; but from the look on the older man's face, he had heard enough to disgust him. He cast Kaelan a look of embarrassment, turned, and slowly went back up the stairs. “Kaelan, Kaelan, Kaelan,” Duncan said, drawing his brother's gaze back to him. “You know adultery is punishable by the lash." “I know it very well,” Kaelan admitted, shifting in the chair. In his dreams, he could still hear the crack of Justus Sinclair's whip being laid across his flesh. Gillian had assured him no scars were visible on his flesh from the beating. “And yet you took that girl's maidenhead with no care for her reputation nor your own safety,” Duncan accused. “How am I to protect you from the Tribunal when they find out you have lain with a married woman? That you took her maidenhead? You know de Viennes will accuse you of rape for that offense alone! Five lashings of a bullwhip at Freddie's hand for fighting in the compound is nothing compared to fifty passes of a cat-'o-nine at the hands of the Tribunal's executioner!" Despite himself, Kaelan shuddered. “I would guess not, but it is not adultery when you sleep with you own wife, Duncan." “She is not...” Duncan went as still as a statue, his eyes flared, and his mouth opened on a long, fearful intake of breath. When he exhaled, his voice was a near whisper: “What have you done, Kaelan?"

“Do you think I would shame Gillian Cree or her family, Duncan? I have been in love with her for years. I have dreamed of her every night of my life since Anson died. Do you think me such a bastard that I would dare lay hands to her unless I had been given that right by what I took to be a legal Joining?" “Legal?” Duncan whispered. He blinked, blinked again. “How could it be legal? I did not give you permission to court her nor wed her, brother!” He glared at Kaelan. “And besides, I betrothed her to Rolf de Viennes over a year ago. Surely she told you that!" “You betrothed her to him against her wishes,” Kaelan said. “That ... doesn't ... matter,” Duncan stressed. He clenched his jaw. “Who dared perform the ceremony for you, Kaelan?" The younger man did not answer, but continued to look calmly—though somewhat apprehensively—up at his brother. After a long moment of pregnant silence, the king shook his head. “It doesn't matter; the Joining is invalid since she belongs legally to Rolf and has for a fortnight.” He put his hands on his hips, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep, calming breath, then spoke with quiet frustration. “You don't have any idea what you've done." “I have married the woman I love,” Kaelan answered. “And she loves me. We want to be together, Duncan. Annul her Joining to de Viennes and let it be." Without looking up, the king stared at the grimy floor beneath his feet. “That can not be allowed.” He kicked at the old rug beside his left boot. “Not ever." Kaelan stopped breathing. The toe of his brother's boot had dislodged a section of the moth-eaten rug and the recessed handle of the trapdoor had been revealed. He didn't think anything Duncan was seeing was registering with him, but he couldn't take that chance. “I would rather see her dead than have you hand her over to a man of Rolf de Viennes’ ilk!” Kaelan shouted, wondering where that particular hell-spawned demon was at the moment. He knew damned well the bastard would have come with Duncan. Duncan looked up at him. “Be careful what you say; the man is just upstairs." “I don't give a rat's arse where he is!” Kaelan sneered. He raised his voice. “Let the lecherous son of a bitch come down here if he takes exception to my calling him a mule-licking jackass!" There was a muffled snarl of rage from above stairs and the scuffling of feet, more muted explosions of vitriolic protest, then a loud shout to ‘BE QUIET!' Kaelan laughed. “Cree doesn't care any more for the man than does his daughter or I, does he, Duncan?" Duncan didn't acknowledge the jibe. He turned his head, looked across the cellar to where a large, heavy-looking oaken table stood against one wall, then back down at the rug beside him. Kaelan's heart began to thud hard in his chest. There was no mistaking the four indentations in what was left of the old rug's nap: four indentations where four legs had held up the weight of a heavy table.

Duncan slowly lifted his gaze to Kaelan, then in a quiet, dangerous voice he asked Utley if they had looked for the false cellar where it was rumored the Outlaw had often hid so many years before. “Aye, Majesty,” Utley said, his brows coming together over the beak of his nose, “but we found no...” He stopped for his king had bent down, tossed the rug aside, and was lifting what could be nothing else but a trapdoor in the floor. “And did you look here, Master Utley?” Duncan growled throwing the door back and peering into the false cellar. Utley stammered. “Nay, Your Grace, we did not." “Get down there,” Duncan ordered, turning to look back at his brother. His expression was stern. “Where is the bolt hole in there, Kaelan?” He wasn't expecting the younger man to speak, but when he did, the king's face turned hard and bitter. “You know damned well I ain't gonna tell you nothing Duncan,” Kaelan informed him. The king just stared at him, waiting for Utley's report. Folding his arms over his chest, he simply stood there and contemplated Kaelan with a look that would have shaken another man for it boded ill for that man's future. Utley poked his head up through the trapdoor hole. “The floor's dirt, Sire. Can't see any levers or such. The lads are pushing on the walls for a sliding panel or the like. It may take awhile." Duncan nodded, speaking without taking his eyes from Kaelan. “Take all the time you need, Master Utley; it's there." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Ten

Thècion McGregor stared at the tall, lanky man in the russet robe who stood near the bow of the other ship, contemplating the wake passing under the hull. “I've heard he's to be the next Arch-Prelate,” Diarmuid said, shivering. He ran his hands over the sleeves of his heavy jacket. “Do you reckon he'll be as dangerous as Caldonicus?" “Probably even more so,” Thècion accused. “They seem to get worse and worse with each generation." Diarmuid didn't like the intense cold that was pelting them. His land was one of green hills and dales, sweet rain and crashing salt waves, wee folk dancing through the heather on a warm summer's night. This blasted North Boreal Sea could not compare to his gentle Taran Bay at all. “You know, Thècion,” he said, pulling the collar of his thick wool jacket up under his ears, “I came across an old manuscript in my Grandda's trunk a few years back. Did I ever tell you?" Thècion was staring intently at the High Priest whose name he had found out was Occultus Noire. “Nay, you didn't tell me."

“I did,” Diarmuid stated. “It was called the Wind Legend Chronicle and had to do with the one the Wind Warrior's call the Dark Overlord of the Wind." The romantic mysterious title gained the Serenian prince's instant attention. Thècion's head jerked toward his companion. “What of him?" “It tells his name,” Diarmuid whispered, “though it made no sense to me." “What was the name?" Diarmuid blushed although the heat in his cheeks was hard to see for the roughness of the cold that had already turned them red. He ducked his head. “Thècion." Thècion stared at him. “Thècion?” he said, dropping his own name as though it were a heavy stone into deep water. “Aye.” Diarmuid blushed again. “That's what it said, and beside the name was the drawing of a big black raven." “Ah, well that explains it, then!” Thècion said with relief. “Thècion is Oceanian for ‘black-winged scavenger', Dear Mutt,” he scoffed. Diarmuid hated the way his friend often mispronounced his name and bristled against the playful insult. He tilted his nose upward. “Well, They Shun,” he grated, using his own mangling of his friend's name, “I knew gods-be-damned well it wasn't you to who the manuscript referred." Thècion grinned. In Serenian High Speech, Thècion, was pronounced ‘thay zjun’ and meant lordly one. The word thesion, pronounced ‘they shun', meant mighty warrior. Diarmuid frowned at the grin. “What?” he asked suspiciously, wondering what he had said to amuse his friend. “To whom,” Thècion corrected. “It is ‘to whom the manuscript referred'." Diarmuid rolled his eyes, refusing to comment on the correction. “But that's not to say that a generation or two down the road, there won't be another Thècion who will become the Dark Overlord of the Wind!" “Or use the code name Raven as his own!” Thècion taunted. “Bloody hell,” Diarmuid exclaimed, moving back from the rail. “He's looking at us!" Thècion turned to see where his friend was looking and saw the tall russet-robed priest staring across the widening distance between them. Without even thinking of what he was doing, the young Serenian prince lifted his hand and waved, smiling as he did so. “By the gods, you fool! Don't insult the man!” Diarmuid gasped. “He'll curse you for sure!" A slight tremor of fear ran down Thècion's spine for he had certainly meant no insult, but then he blinked with shocked surprise when the priest raised his right hand—palm toward the young men—above his head, then slowly closed his fingers into a fist and brought it to his heart in a long-held salute before lifting

it again, fist skyward. “I'll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian warthog!” Diarmuid whispered, seeing, but not believing the exchange. He flicked his startled eyes to Thècion and found his friend smiling. “Do you know what he did?” he asked Thècion with disbelief. “Aye, I know,” Thècion said, bowing his head respectfully in the priest's direction, not surprised in the least when the priest lowered his fist and also bowed his head slightly before turning once more to study the waves. “He gave me the Sign of the Wind, the ancient salute of subject to Overlord: a greeting of obedience." “If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it,” Diarmuid breathed with awe. “The men of the Brotherhood of the Domination do not extend such greetings, Thècion.” He studied his companion with budding hero-worship. “But he actually saluted you! Maybe you will be the Dark Overlord!" Thècion shook his head. “Not me, my friend.” As the Boreal Queen tacked leeward—obstructing the prince's view of the lanky priest—Thècion nodded. “But maybe one of my ancestors, eh?" “It doesn't change anything, Thècion,” Diarmuid said, stamping his feet to warm them. Thècion turned to him. “Change what?" “That priest going after Kaelan Hesar." There was a warmth spreading over the young Serenian warrior that was beginning to set his heart and mind at ease. He cast one final look at the rapidly-disappearing Boreal Queen and sighed. “Aye, I think it changed everything completely, Dear Mutt. Everything." Across the waves, Occultus Noire smiled, hearing the conversation as clearly in his mind as if the two young warrior-princes were at his side. He unbent his rigid back and leaned on the rail, folding his hands together and staring once more deeply into the rolling sea. “How could you know that simple, mindless gesture would decide me, Prince Thècion?” he asked softly. “That guileless act of friendly greeting to a man by rights you should hate and fear?" Occultus breathed in the cold saltwater air and continued to make plans that would one day bring him-although he did not know it at that time-into very close contact with the man the Old Ones had foretold: The Dark Overlord of the Wind. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eleven

Duncan came back from his trek to the end of the Outlaw's tunnel in a black rage. His hands were clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily with the force it took to keep his volatile temper under control. By the time he climbed the steps up from the false cellar and reached his brother's side, there was neither compassion nor brotherly respect left in his cold heart. “She will be found, Kaelan,” he spat.

“The tracks are easy enough to read in the snow.” A muscle jumped in his taut jaw. “I had not thought they would try for Serenia, but that is of little count." Kaelan reckoned Nick had at least thirty minutes to an hour's start on his trackers. Lumley Tarnes had assured both men he knew the way to Ciona, eight miles or so down the coast of Virago. The seacoast town was almost on that imaginary line that dissected Serenia and Virago. Once the Cree siblings were on Serenian soil, it would take nothing short of an act of war to get them back, for Nick planned upon seeing the town council immediately they arrived to ask for political sanctuary. “You want to risk going to war with Drayton McGregor?” Kaelan asked. Duncan's mouth became a thin line before he calmed himself enough to speak. “It will not be the first time our two families have shed blood over a foolish man's obsession with a pretty woman!" “I'd think long and hard before engaging the McGregors in this, Your Majesty,” came a steely voice. Kaelan and his brother looked toward the creaking of heavy steps coming down the stairs and found Duke Dakin Cree. The Duke paused at the last step. “My king is best friend to King Drayton McGregor,” he stressed “and would take sides with Serenia if war came.” He came off the last step. “As would Montyne of Ionary and Wynth of Oceania.” The Duke's chin came up. “It is my guess Virago would find herself alone against the might of the other six kingdoms." “A position we have been in before!” Duncan threw at him. “Aye, Majesty, you were and was it not then that your mighty Jarl, Innis Hesar, lost Ciona to Prince Doran McGregor?” The Duke smiled hatefully. “Another war might even lose you the keep at Colsaurus. Norus, is it? It sits at a strategic point there close to Diabolusia. I would imagine the McGregors could make good use of it, don't you?" “That keep is a baronial estate of my family!” Duncan spat. “Four generations of Jarls were born there! Kaelan and I were born there!” His eyes widened. “The Outlaw was born there!” “Then it would be a shame to lose it, would it not, Sire?” the Duke pressed. “Calm yourself, Duncan,” Kaelan warned, alarmed at his brother's impassioned face, “else you'll have a stroke." “YOU SHUT UP!” Duncan spun around and pointed a rigid finger. “ELSE I'LL SIGN ORDERS FOR YOU TO BE EXILED!” he thundered. Kaelan shrugged as though the threat was of no consequence at all. “Where the hell do you think I've been these past five years, Duncan, if not in exile?" Duncan moved quicker than any man there would have thought it possible for him to move. In a flash, he was in front of Kaelan, fiercely gripping the arms of the chair in which the younger man sat, leaning over so that he was almost nose to nose with his brother. “YOU THINK THIS IS EXILE, LITTLE BROTHER?” he bellowed like an enraged bull, spittle flying from his mouth. “WHAT WOULD TRANSPORT TO TYBER'S ISLE BE TO YOU, THEN?"

Lars Utley exchanged a quick glance with Landers. Hadn't the king-just three months past-signed the orders that sent five men from the Tribunal cells of Tempest Keep aboard the Borstal, bound for Tyber's Isle and the infamous penal colony known as the Labyrinth? The trackers shivered, wishing they could cross themselves to ward off the danger of such a thing happening to them. Kaelan stared up into his brother's enraged face and knew this was no idle threat. Their father had sent many men to that particular hell-hole; had taken great delight in signing the transport orders, if truth were known. To Landis Hesar, it was a mark of power to be able to wield such authority over other men; Duncan was of the same bent, it seemed. “What?” Duncan smirked. “No smart answer this time, Kaelan?" Finally able to swallow the lump of fear that had shot up his throat, Kaelan put as much respect and calmness into his voice as he could. “Is that what you want to do, milord?” he asked, searching his king's—not his brother's—eyes. “Send your only brother to the Labyrinth?" Duncan held that gaze, allowing Kaelan to see the very real threat of an unbearable future for himself. After awhile, he watched as Kaelan lowered his eyes. “You would,” was all the younger man said. “In a heartbeat,” Duncan declared. Pushing himself up from the chair, Duncan took a cleansing breath, turned and called for Rolf de Viennes to join them. As though he had been primed to race down the stairs at a moment's notice, the twenty-four year old Duke of Galeforce came rushing down to the cellar. His face was positively alive with excitement for he had heard the threat of transport Duncan had made. “Will you be sending him to prison, then, Your Majesty?” he asked, eagerness filling his youthful voice. Duncan grunted with annoyance. “Of course not!” he huffed. “At the moment, he happens to be second in line to the throne of your homeland, de Viennes, should that ogress to whom I'm married not produce a living heir for me!" Disappointment flitted over de Viennes’ face like a cloud passing across the sun, blotting out the light. An instant pout came to Rolf's full lips and he glared spitefully at Kaelan, who was looking back at him with silent contempt. “But he raped my bride!” de Viennes protested, his hand going to the dagger at his thigh. “I demand satisfaction!" “In order to rape a woman, Rolfy-boy, she has to fight going under you,” Kaelan drawled. “With Gilly, it was the other way around. She practically tore my clothes off." Duncan groaned, threw up his hands and eyes to the heavens, but was forced to step quickly to the Duke of Galeforce and grab him, for the boy had reacted very badly to Kaelan's insult. “LIAR!!” de Viennes roared, snatching his twin-edged blade from the sheath at his thigh. Had it not been for his king's arms around his upper shoulders, he would have leaped forward and plunged the dagger into Kaelan's breast.

“Still yourself, man!” Duncan snapped, squeezing as hard as he could. “He besmirched my Gillian's good name!” Rolf shrieked. “I will cut out his lying tongue for that!" “Your Gillian?” Kaelan questioned, amused. “Hardly. I made her mine and mine she'll stay, boy." “I demand satisfaction!” de Viennes roared. Rolf de Viennes’ near ear-splitting scream of outrage stunned everyone in the room, even Kaelan. They all stared at him, watching with bulging eyes as his struggles with his king became more violent and insane; listening with unbelieving ears to the utter filth and mad senselessness spewing from his twisted mouth. “And you would let this demented fool have my daughter, Hesar?” Duke Cree's voice broke through the shrieks and curses coming from Rolf's straining throat. “Take him!” Duncan ordered Utley and immediately three men fell upon the wildly gyrating young warrior and bore him away from the king's person. It took all three burly men to subdue and quiet de Viennes enough to get him up the stairs and out of their monarch's sight. When there was relative quiet coming from above stairs, Duncan turned to look steadily at his brother. “He has asked for satisfaction and that is his right; I have no choice but to allow him to call you out. You have made sure of that with you infernal insults, Kaelan." “He can not defend himself from de Viennes!” Dakin protested. “Look at him, Your Grace! How can he do battle with a man who has gone insane!" “I can fight,” Kaelan lied, knowing he'd die at Rolf de Viennes’ hands if it came to hand-to-hand combat. His leg would make it impossible for him to move with necessary fluidity; speed and endurance were out of the question. “I can fight,” he repeated. “If that nasty tongue of yours were a blade, you surely could inflict numerous mortal wounds!” Duncan snorted. “Is there honor in allowing a man in his prime to murder a cripple, Your Grace?” Dakin sneered. “I am not a cripple,” Kaelan replied. Dakin looked at his daughters’ lover. “Even I could take you, Hesar, and I am well-nigh fifty." “You could try,” Kaelan said and smiled despite himself. The Duke of Warthenham guffawed then turned to plead with Duncan. “In my country, it would be a cowardly thing to do to turn lose that...” He pointed up. “Person upstairs to engage in combat with a man both crippled and many years away from battle practice." Duncan knew an insult when he heard one, but he chose to ignore it. “I did not say I was going to turn Rolf loose to fight hand to hand combat with Kaelan. In my brother's present condition, he's liable to trip and fall and impale himself on his own sword! There's other ways to settle this."

Dakin didn't like the sound of that. “What other means of satisfaction is there?” A horrified expression raced across his face. “Surely you don't mean to send this helpless man to Tyber's Isle? That would be like signing his death warrant!" “I am not helpless!” Kaelan snapped, then sneezed so hard he had to put a hand to his ribs. “That was a threat I am sorely beginning to wish I had not made,” Duncan fumed. “Although, should I take my bumbling fool of a brother back with me to the Keep, the Tribunal might well send him there anyway for all the trouble he's caused!" “And I'm not a bumbling fool,” Kaelan stated. “Then what do you intend to do?” Dakin demanded, feeling compelled to come to Kaelan's aid. “Lash him?" Kaelan started to speak, but stopped, looking to his brother for an answer to that. Duncan sighed. “He says a priest Joined him and your daughter, legally. He thought he was wed to her. That being the case, t'is not adultery he committed,” the king replied. “Lashing is not called for here." “Castration?” Dakin voiced, keeping his gaze well away from the young man in question. “You'd let de Viennes mutilate your own flesh and blood?" “I think not!” Kaelan was quick to say. “Maybe my pecker, but certainly not his own, huh, Duncan?" “For the love of Alel, Kaelan,” Duncan said, wearily, “do please be quiet while I think what to do with you." “You could just leave me alone,” Kaelan reminded him and was rewarded with a glare of irritation. “No, I can't,” Duncan denied. “You've seen to that with your thievery of, and complicity in the running away, of Rolf de Viennes’ lady-wife. Not to mention her debauchery." Dakin winced at the word, but held out a hand to the king. “May I make a suggestion, Sire?" “Anything that would be of help, would be most appreciated, Your Grace,” Duncan said, slumping down to the last cellar step and burying his head in his hands. “The embarrassment to the throne once all this gets out is going to make us a laughingstock throughout the Seven Kingdoms." “It would be my suggestion,” Dakin began after casting a quick glance at Kaelan, “that you allow your brother to quietly escape through the tunnel. Let him join my daughter in Serenia. Did I not hear that a horse had been left there for him?" Duncan's voice was muffled as he sat hunched over. “I can't be a party to him escaping. I am honor-bound to uphold the law whether he does or not." “I could knock you out,” Kaelan suggested cheerfully. “Tie up the Duke." “You could try,” the Duke snorted, not without humor. “At least let me knock you out, Duncan,” Kaelan suggested.

Lifting his head, the king gave his brother a nasty look. “Keep on baiting me, why don't you? Castration is starting to sound more and more to my liking, Kaelan." “What alternative is there if you don't allow him to escape?” Dakin asked. With a tired sigh, Duncan pulled himself wearily from the stairs. He stood there for a moment—hands on his hips, head down—thinking. At last, he sighed again, looked over at Kaelan. “I will take Rolf's weapons from him,” he said. “He's never been that much of a fist fighter, you know that, but with your leg the way it is, I'd say the two of you would be just about even." “A fist fight?” Dakin asked, his brows drawn together over the thought. “Would that suffice?" “It will if it's the only choice I give de Viennes.” Duncan shrugged as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. “After all: Kaelan is a prince of the royal house of Virago; Rolf is a lowly Duke of a province that gives me mostly trouble rather than riches." “That is the gentleman's way in Chale,” Dakin announced. “The settling of disputes by fisticuffs." “Disputes, aye,” Duncan quipped, “but not mortal insults like the one my foolish brother has thrown at the house of de Viennes. Those would be handled with blades, would they not?" “True,” Dakin acknowledged. He looked at Kaelan. “Unless one of the men were lame." “I am not lame, either!” Kaelan whispered with outrage. “That is my decision, then,” Duncan stated, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “They can knock each other senseless.” He started to climb the stairs. Dakin watched until the king was out of sight then turned to see Kaelan pushing himself painfully from the chair. “Can you take him?” he asked, almost feeling the stiffness that was apparent in the younger man's leg. “Who knows?” Kaelan replied. “I could once." “But now?" There was a fatalistic shrug. “Now, it's anybody's guess." “Do I need to be worrying any more than I already am?" Kaelan smiled. “What you really mean is, do I think he might well beat me to death?" Dakin nodded. “Let's hope not." “But you're not sure?" “No,” Kaelan answered. “I'm not sure."

[Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twelve

Ciona was a beautiful seaside town whose inhabitants waved hospitably as the trio of riders-minus the good Brother Herbert Welmeyer, who had gone back to his rectory at Colridge-came cantering across the border from Virago. Smiles of warm greeting met Nicholas Cree and his sister; a few calls of ‘welcome home’ to Lumley Tarnes, a man quite well known in port. “The Council House be up the road there, across the way from the inn,” Tarnes informed Nick. The old man smacked his lips. “I'll be after having a nip or two down thatta way.” He pointed to a particularly seedy tavern near the waterfront. “Good ale, eh, Master Tarnes?” Nick chuckled. Lumley Tarnes blushed and the bristle of wiry white stubble on his thin face got a vigorous rubbing before he answered. “There's a wench there....” he began, then shrugged. “You know how it be, Cap'n. I been a widower nigh on ten year and I do get lonely at times. Can you give me an hour or two?" “We'll meet you for supper at the inn,” Nick countered. “How's that?" “Tolerable well, Cap'n,” Tarnes agreed, bobbing his head. His watery gray eyes beamed. “Tolerable well." Nick exchanged a look with his sister and found her still staring daggers at him. Although the gag had been removed from her mouth a few miles back and the ropes binding her wrists severed, she was still in high dudgeon—despite being made perfectly aware of the riders fast on their trail—and had said not one word to him since Holy Dale. “They were Duncan's men,” the Chalean warrior explained needlessly. Gillian glared at him, her lips pursed tightly together. Her back was so straight in the saddle, she looked as though a steel rod had been attached to it. And her emerald gaze had become a sentient being sworn to Nicholas Cree's destruction. “I know you're angry at me now, but...” he began, only to have her snort with an unladylike explosion of contempt, and fling her head away from him. Knowing he'd get nowhere with his sister at the moment, he kicked his mount in the ribs. Holding Gilly's horse's reins as well as his own, he ignored the curious eyes of the townsfolk who must surely be wondering why he was leading the furious woman's horse. The Inn of the Flying Mast was the last building at the end of Sea Nymph Street. Behind it was a large stable with rows of tall windows made of glass. “I don't think I've ever seen a stable with windows like that before,” Nick commented. Gillian ignored his comment. Dismounting, Nick was relieved to turn the reins of his horse over to a stableboy. With some trepidation, he walked back to Gillian's horse and stood there, unsure whether or not she would allow him to help her down.

Gillian deigned to lower her chin somewhat and stared down at her brother. She didn't need his gods-be-damned help to dismount and the last thing she wanted was to have the swine touch her. Her squint was meant to convey just that. “All right,” Nick said, throwing his hands up to the vagaries of female logic. He stepped back and waited for her to slide down from the mare. “How long will you be staying, milord?” the stableboy asked. “My papa owns the inn and I'll need to be telling him." Nick shrugged. “I have business with the Council before all else. A day. Two at the most. We're on to Boreas Keep." The stableboy grinned. “That's a three day ride from here, milord. Will you be needing provisions?" “A few,” Nick acknowledged. He smiled at the boy's eager look. “Can you recommend an honest storekeeper?" A grimy finger pointed to back down the street. “Saur's Emporium,” the lad announced. “You'll get treated fair and square. ’Tis my uncle Colten's place." Nick nodded his thanks, reached into his pocket and took out a silver coin. Thumbing it into the air, he laughed when the lad swiped it in mid-flight. “Much obliged, milord,” the young boy grinned. “You're most generous." Gillian snorted again, but when the stableboy looked at her with just a touch of hurt, she winked audaciously at him to let the boy know it wasn't him with whom she was angry. Kinion Saur smiled at the pretty woman and bobbed his head to let her know he understood. If the lord standing there with them had business with the Council, it hadn't been wise to drag his lady along for the ride. Briefly the stableboy wondered if the lord didn't trust his lady. After all, he did come riding in holding her reins as though he expected her to make a run for it. “Are you coming, Gillian?” Nick snapped. He was cold and hungry. They hadn't been able to stop to eat the food Lumley had brought with them because Duncan's men were on them too fast. Gillian was still looking at the stableboy, wondering how she could speak to him in private. Her mind was filled with anger, and the need to get back across the border and to her husband's aid. The hell with Duncan Hesar or Rolf de Viennes. If it took going back to Tempest Keep with them to ensure Kaelan's safety, she'd gladly do it. “Gillian!” Nick growled. With a further narrowing of her eyes, Gillian swept past her brother and headed for the back entrance of the inn, her shoulders square and her head up. Nick watched her for a moment, then turned to give the stableboy a stern look. “Under no circumstances are you to aid my sister in leaving this town,” he said with a fierce expression. “Do you understand what I am telling you, boy?"

Kinion's attention flicked to the pretty woman walking so stiffly toward the inn. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “I believe so, milord." “There are men after us, lad,” Nick admitted and watched as the stableboy's gaze widened and returned to him with something akin to excitement. “King Duncan Hesar's men." The young boy's mouth dropped open. “Lawd,” he breathed. “What did you do?" Nick leaned down and put a conspiratorial arm around the boy's thin shoulders and spoke to him man to man. “Have you heard of the Demon Duke over Wixenstead way?" Kinion's eyes nearly popped from his head. “Aye!” His voice was a mere whisper. “Who ain't heard of him?" “Well,” Nick said, jerking a finger toward his sister, “The Demon Duke wants my sister as his wife.” He lowered his voice, trying to keep from laughing at the horrified expression that was forming on the lad's face. “Now, Gillian thinks it all a romantic thing. You know how women are.” He squeezed the lad to him, man to man, conspirator to conspirator. “I'm sure you've had your share of wenches, eh?" Kinion bobbed his head eagerly: A man of the world. “Aye, milord. Had my share, I have.” A lie if ever the lad had uttered one. The boy shuddered and lowered his voice. “He's a warlock, they say!" Nick nodded sagely. “That's what I've heard.” He fused his gaze with the lad's. “And I don't want that happening to my sister." “Nay, milord,” Kinion agreed, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “No one would!" “We understand one another, then?” Nick asked, straightening up and removing his arm from the lad's shoulder. “Aye, we do!” Kinion concurred. “I'm to watch her for you real close and if'n the lady wants to leave, I'm to try and stop her." Nick's lips twitched. “Well, at least come and get me, eh?” He fished in his pocket again and drew out a gold coin this time. Holding it on the palm of his hand, he let the lad see it. “And I'll give you this for your trouble." Hesitantly—for he'd never put fingers to so much money in all his born days—Kinion reached out to take the shiny coin, resisting the urge to bite into it to make sure it was real. The weight of it made him breathless. “Now, there's another of these for you if you'll do one more thing for me,” Nick said, knowing the boy was his for as long as he wanted him. “Anything!” Kinion exclaimed. “Whatever you want, milord!" “I've no doubt the Duke will send his bully boys across the border. Speak it around town for me. Let the folk know who those men are and what they're here for. Make sure everyone in town knows that the

king is trying to thrust that murdering bastard on my sister.” Only a fleeting winch of guilt nudged Nick's gut at the lie, but he figured Kaelan would understand. “Now they'll try to say it's another man the king is after Joining her to, but you let the townsfolk know that's just a subterfuge, understand?" Kinion blinked. “A subter..." “A gods-be-damned lie,” Nick stressed. “Knowing how good upstanding folk feel about Kaelan Hesar, do you think they're apt to admit it's the Demon Duke they mean to hand my poor innocent sister over to?" “I'll reckon they wouldn't!” Kinion guffawed. Gillian was standing impatiently at the inn's door, tapping her booted foot furiously. What the hell was taking Nicholas so long and what was he talking to the boy about? Why, he was even putting his hand on the young one's shoulder and.... Her scrutiny of her brother and the boy became a thin slit of rage. “Oh, you're the clever one aren't you, Nicky?” she seethed. Warning the lad—paying him, she thought as she saw money change hands—not to help me! No doubt asking him to watch her while they were in town. “Well,” she said under her breath, “that is not the only stable in town nor the only place a person can get a horse!” With a flounce of fury, she entered the inn, slamming the door behind her. Nick's head jerked around at the sound of the slamming door. “Reckon she be spitting mad, eh, milord,” Kinion chuckled. He put a finger to his right eye and drew down the lower lid. “Fit to be tied, I'd say!" “In more ways than one,” Nick muttered. He decided he'd better let the lad know who he was before Duncan's men did. “You tell the townsfolk I am the son of the Chalean ambassador." “You be Chalean?” Kinion inhaled on an awed breath. His attention went to the man's saddle but he saw no lethal blade and was disappointed. Everyone knew how expert at swordplay the Chalean's were. “I am Count Nicholas Cree,” Nick answered, waving away the title. “Tell them I would take it as a personal kindness if they would help me keep my poor, bewitched sister out of the Demon Duke's hands. For her own safety, you see?" Kinion drew himself up, puffed out his scrawny chest, and jabbed a dirty thumb into his chest. “You can count on me, milord! I'll see to it everyone in town knows them snakes for what they are and that nobody helps your sister leave Ciona!" Relief shoved away the weight from Nick's tired shoulders. “Perhaps the constable might see fit to escort them back across the border, do you think?" “I'll go straight to him soon's I tend your horses; Milord!” He started to walk the horse toward the stable, but Nick called him back. “They weren't far behind us, lad. Perhaps you should go see the constable first?” He eased the reins

from the boy's grubby fist. Kinion voiced his agreement and took off running to do the lord's bidding. He wouldn't let the Chalean sword master down! He'd make sure everyone in town knew the danger involved! **** The constable and his men stood at the border of Serenia and Virago, under the infamous archway known as the Carbonham Gate, with their arms folded across their chests. There was murderous intent in their stony glowers as King Duncan's men came thundering toward them down the border road. Behind the constable was a contingent of volunteers—thirty in all—each holding a weapon of some sort in their gloved hands: axes and picks; shovels and hoes; gleaming swords and sharp wooden pikes, pins and grappling hooks. They, too, had stubborn looks upon their faces and the gleam of battle in their eyes: There had never been any love to lose between the men of Ciona and their Viragonian neighbors. Sergeant Hans Richter of the Royal Guard Elite of the Court of Storms, Tempest Keep, saw the welcoming committee fanned out along the border between his country and Serenia and ground his teeth with fury. He held up his hand, signaling his men to a slow trot. “You ain't coming across,” the constable warned the Viragonians as the horses drew within shouting distance. “Just go on back about your business." “Our business,” Sergeant Richter barked in a tight voice, “is in Ciona!" “No, it ain't,” the constable replied. “You ain't got permission from the McGregor to come into Serenia." Clenching his jaw, Richter swung down from his mount and strode arrogantly to the very limit of his side of the border crossing. His steel-gray eyes cut into the chubby constable. “There are no guard posts here to restrict travel from my country into yours,” Richter snapped. “I know of no law preventing me and my men from coming over." The constable arced an arm behind him, indicating his fellow townsmen. “There's the guard post. See you there the law, as well, sergeant?" Hans Richter's jaw tightened. “We are after a runaway bride whose...." “We know all about that!” the constable cut him off. “And if'n you Viragonians don't mind forcing a woman to Join up with the likes of that jackanapes your king intends for her to be shackled with, us Serenians do!" “We don't force our women!” someone from the crowd yelled. “We don't have to force our women!” said another. “And the lady ain't even one of you Viragonians, anyway!” the constable put in. “She's Chalean and the Chaleans are our friends." “Unlike the Viragonians!” came the insult. Richter glared at the obstacles in his way, then turned his head and spat on the ground in insult. “This

isn't the end of it!” the sergeant promised and he spun around and jammed his spurred boot into the stirrup. As he flung his leg over his horse's rump, he speared his tormentors with another disgusted look. “Not by a long shot!" “Get your arse back to your fancy keep!” a voice from the crowd taunted. “We ain't letting you Viragonians take no woman under our protection ever again!" A chorus of ‘ayes!’ rang out from every Serenian throat assembled. The Elite sergeant sawed on his mount's reins and led his men back up the border road, the sound from their horse's hooves bringing a cheer of victory from the townsfolk of Ciona. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Thirteen

Rolf de Viennes was not happy with his king's plan nor was he at all sure he could win in a contest of bared fists with Kaelan Hesar. The few skirmishes the two of them had had back at the Keep had ended in only minor black eyes for the prince and more than a few lumps for de Viennes. But, Rolf thought as he took his place in the clearing behind the stables and watched Kaelan Hesar limping toward him, that had been before the man had been crippled. And five years ago. De Viennes studied his opponent closely as the king explained the rules of the contest to those gathered. It was the prince's left leg that troubled him, de Viennes noted. That was a weakness that could not be overcome, and one to which Rolf would address himself. “No tripping,” Duncan was saying. Rolf frowned. Well, there was tripping and then there was stumbling. “No hitting below the belt." That went without saying. There was no honor in dirty fighting and Rolf intended to beat the man fair and square. If he could. Hesar was shivering, Rolf noted. His eyes were watering and his nose was red. He'd been coughing and sneezing, too. Had he been sick, perhaps? Just now coming out from under the effects of a bad winter's cold? Another weakness to be registered. The lungs were above the belt and a few vicious jabs to the older man's chest might facilitate an easier victory. And—upon first notice—amused Rolf de Viennes, but now made him believe he had more than a good chance of beating the fellow.

The young prince was underweight and didn't appear to be all that steady on his feet. His clothes hung like rags—looked like rags, too—on his thin body and surely did not give off the warmth Rolf's own woolen garments provided else why was the man shuddering so with the chill of the air? “No biting, scratching, or gouging!" Rolf grunted with disdain. One or two well-aimed jabs—one to the belly, one to the jaw—should stagger the prince and leave him wide open for further intense pummeling. The thing of it was: could he get close enough to land the wicked punches he planned? Hesar's arms were longer than his and the man was taller. Though Hesar was older by nearly eight years, Rolf's senses encouraged him. The younger Viragonian prince would be sorely out of practice. In Rolf's estimation, he, himself, might take a few hard hits at first, until Hesar wore himself and his neglected body down, but he knew he was in top form. His body had been honed to perfection. He was well-nourished; in excellent health and-despite the frigid chill and snowflakes falling sporadically around them-as warm as could be expected. All in all, he expected to win the fight with a total and demoralizing asswhipping of his opponent. Flexing his fists, he also meant to leave as much damage on Hesar's hated face as the gods would allow! Kaelan's teeth were chattering as he stood there. His lungs were burning from the intake of the cold mountain air washing over his chilled body. He knew he had a fever and his cough was more ragged than ever. Being outside in the arctic air, feeling the snowflakes wetting his hair, would not help in his convalescence. Running the arm of his tattered shirt under his nose, he clamped his jaws tightly together to keep from sneezing again. He'd seen the light of speculation in Rolf's eye; he knew the man understood he had been ill. And his leg, he thought with a grimace of hopelessness, was paining him something terrible. The cold had set into the bone and the throbbing agony that was every step he took, threatened to buckle his left knee. He resisted the urge to bend over and rub his thigh for that would only have given de Viennes more satisfaction, something that was already blazing across his handsome young face. “I can't take him,” Kaelan reminded himself. “No way in hell can I come out of this the winner.” He was sick, not to mention underfed and weak. He was hurting. He feared for Gillian's safe escape into Ciona; that particular worry was a sharp stake being driven through his heart. He was out of shape and many years older than his youthful opponent. “I can't win,” he sighed. “But maybe I can land a few blows hard enough to hurt the little bastard." Yet when he took de Vienne's first hit, Kaelan crumbled like a card house in a light breeze. **** Dakin wondered how long the king was going to allow this insanity to go on. Twice he had spoken up, asking for an end to the brutal beating. He doubted very much young Kaelan's ability to see, much less speak. Both the prince's dark eyes were swollen shut, his lips split and bleeding almost as profusely as his battered and—no doubt—broken nose. The young man was wheezing badly, sucking air into his bruised

lungs. He was pale, though a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his gaunt face. “The man is ill,” Dakin insisted. “Put a stop to this, Your Grace." “All he has to do is hold up his hand to me and I'll stop the fight,” Duncan grunted. Dakin had heard tales of Duncan's dislike of his brother, but in actuality, he'd never seen it. The few times at Court Dakin had been witness to the king's chastisement of his brother, the punishments had been rather lax. More mental than physical, done almost with a grudging regret that such was necessary. Even this morning, hadn't Duncan shown some concern for his brother when he thought Kaelan had been tortured? Had that been all for show? For Dakin's benefit? The Duke didn't think so. He believed the king had some grudging care for his young brother. Grudging care mixed heavily with a great deal of envy and covetousness of Kaelan's easy ability to make and keep admirers. No, the Duke hadn't really thought Duncan hated his brother as so many people had intimated. Until now. Kaelan was staggering blindly about the clearing, blood splattered all along the front of his worn cambric shirt. He was trying to lift his head, trying to see, but he missed the jab that caught him savagely on his left cheekbone and jerked his head around. The prince stumbled—and with a sharp, cut-off cry of agony—went down on his left knee. Another cry was forced from him when he dropped to the ground, falling over to his side almost immediately in a vain effort to protect his injured leg. “Ask quarter, Your Grace,” the Duke heard Utley advising. “Ask quarter and it will stop." Rolf was dancing about the clearing, making fancy steps on the packed-down snow. His bruised fists were still up, jabbing now and again at the air. “Ask quarter,” Landers, the other tracker whispered. Dakin watched with astonishment as the young prince pushed himself up from the ground, pausing to draw breath into his bruised lungs. His head hung down wearily for a moment before he shook it to rid himself of the pain. His shoulders gave way—only a little—but every man there knew it was a sign that the prince was almost at the end of his endurance. “Ask quarter, Your Grace,” Utley repeated. The harsh sigh that came from the prince was heard as clearly as a shout would have been. Then he pushed himself the rest of the way up, favoring his leg, and bringing his tired arms up to continue. “Shit,” Utley mumbled and turned away, shoving Landers aside. “I can't watch this!" Rolf danced toward his opponent—feigning a jab here, a hook there—but never landed a blow. He circled the staggering man who turned clumsily with him, knowing Hesar sensed his presence even if he couldn't see him, and laughed when a weak jab came toward him. The younger man feigned lefts then ducked in and drove a vicious right fist into the small of Prince Kaelan's unprotected back. Dakin sucked in his breath—feeling the agony, himself, of that brutal hit—and watched as Kaelan's body

twisted painfully toward the left. Kaelan cried out at the pain the movement caused in his leg. Rolf landed a hard blow to his opponent's gut and the prince's body folded down upon itself. “Quarter!” Landers said loud enough for everyone to hear. Retching from the pain in his belly, Kaelan straightened only to have a fist driven into his face. He stumbled back, dazed and disoriented. “Quarter!” one of the men who had stayed behind to guard the king echoed. There was another jab to the prince's left kidney. “Quarter! began the chant. A savage blow to the other kidney. “Quarter!!" Rolf landed a heavy-handed pop to Kaelan's temple which spun the older man around and slammed him face down into the snow. “QUARTER!" The chanting was coming from every throat save the four royals. Kaelan tried to push himself up and couldn't. He fell back to the snow—his battered face turned toward Dakin—and lay there. “QUARTER! Dakin turned and looked at Duncan. The king was just standing there-arms crossed over his chest-staring down at his own flesh and blood, beaten to the point of being barely recognizable. “Sire?” Dakin prompted, bringing Duncan's gaze to him. “The man is down." Duncan turned his head away. “He has not begged quarter." Dakin gawked at the king. Was the man going to allow his brother to be beaten to death? Gillian's love? Not if her father had anything to say about it! “Is it his admission of defeat at the hands of your champion you seek, Majesty, or his total destruction that makes you allow this savage torture to go on?” Dakin spat. When Duncan's head snapped around toward him, the Duke smiled hatefully. “He is beaten; he can not go on. But he is still very much a warrior for he will not ask for something he knows you don't want to give him anyway!" Duncan's nostrils flared with outrage and he took a step toward the ambassador before stopping himself. Was it really Kaelan's complete annihilation he wanted? His brother was down; defeated; beaten so badly it would take weeks for him to heal, if he ever did. Wasn't that enough? Hadn't both his and de

Vienne's honor been avenged? Turning his gaze once more to Kaelan, it was almost on the tip of Duncan's tongue to demand his brother say the humiliating words; but the men gathered around were watching him. They had been spectacle to—not a fight—but a beating and they knew it. It had not been a contest between two evenly matched opponents; it had been a sentence of punishment for one and high enjoyment for the other. As king, he could lose their respect—if he hadn't lost of some of it already by subjecting their beloved Kaelan to Rolf's tender ministration—and that was to be avoided. “Mount up,” Duncan said, striding toward the horses that had never been unsaddled. As Utley and Landers started toward his brother, the king bellowed: “Leave him be! He is a warrior, as the Duke so graciously pointed out to me! Allow him the dignity of caring for himself!" “But he is hurt, Your Majesty!” Utley called out. “MOUNT UP!” Duncan roared. He was already in the saddle. Dakin began to walk toward the fallen man, but the king's harsh words brought him up short: “If you help him, he will not appreciate it, Cree,” Duncan grated. “Believe me: he will not!" The Duke hesitated. He had all but made up his mind to ignore the warning when Kaelan managed to ease himself up and turn a badly disfigured face toward him. “Go, Your Grace,” Kaelan asked. His voice was weak, infinitely tired and filled with pain. “But, you are hurt, son,” Dakin protested, tears forming in his eyes for that face might well be beyond return to normal. “Please go,” came the labored request. “I've given her time to get away." The rumble of horses coming up the road from the village drowned out Dakin's reply, but the Duke nodded once in understanding and stalked angrily to his horse. He did not want to leave this hurt man lying in the snow, but neither did he want to shame him in front of the pompous bastard who was his brother. Richter's men galloped up and the sergeant doffed his fur hat. “Well?” Duncan shouted to Sergeant Richter, looking beyond him to see if the Cree siblings had been found and brought back. When he did not see them among the troop, his face grew dark as sin. “What happened?" “They wouldn't let us cross over,” the Elite reported with a flaming face. “There were armed men waiting for us at the Carbonham Gate." “Damn that gods-be-damned son of yours, Cree!” Duncan threw at Dakin. “He'll have us at war with the McGregor yet!" The Duke glared at the king, but did not answer the insult. Hans Richter glanced at Kaelan Hesar and winced. The two of them had been friends for many years before Kaelan had been banished from the Keep. The Elite started to dismount to help his friend, but his

king's command froze him in the saddle. “STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” Duncan bellowed. He stabbed a hand toward the village. “LET'S RIDE!” He kicked his horse viciously and the poor animal bolted up onto his hindquarters before plunging flashing hooves to the snow. With a mighty arch, he sprang forward and shot past Richter and his men. Utley swore beneath his breath as he trod heavily to his horse. He deliberately avoided looking at the young prince's prone body, but cursed every step of the way, damning Duncan Hesar to the Abyss. Vaulting into the saddle, he jerked on his horses reins and dug his heels into the animal's flanks, riding out with the rest of the King's men. Rolf was the last to mount. He had shrugged back into the warmth of his wool coat after it was clear his opponent either could not or would not get up again to continue the contest. Drawing on his gloves, he cast one final glance at the man he had defeated—and in the doing avenged his betrothed honor—and smiled. “I'll find her, Kaelan,” he promised. “If not me...” He turned his horse toward Wixenstead. “Then my men. But I will find her and erase all memory of you from her body." “Go to hell,” was the last thing Kaelan said before the gathering darkness tripped him up and he fell headlong into unconsciousness. “Coming, Father?” Rolf laughed at Dakin. Dakin had seen the men out of the corner of his eye. They were lurking in the bushes just beyond the stable; had been there for quite some time. It was obvious they didn't want to be seen by the king's men, their presence known. “Father?” Rolf inquired, oblivious to the other men's nearness. Dakin turned his head and spat. “Don't you ever call me that again!” he bellowed. They'll help him, Dakin thought with relief, kicking his mount into motion. Those men will help Kaelan. **** Jasper Kullen glanced at his son as they trudged through the deepening snow. The boy was grinning from ear to ear and whistling despite the heavy cascade of wet snow falling upon his uncovered head. “We fixed him, huh, Pa?” Royce Kullen chortled. “We fixed him good this time, didn't we?" The woodcutter grinned at his son. “Aye, boy. We did at that." It had not been Jasper's idea to go to the Tribunal representative in Colridge, but Hildy had insisted he accompany her when she'd gone to make her complain't about the Demon Duke. They'd told their tale to the magistrate, had their words written down in a big book; and been assured the matter would be looked into. “By the Brotherhood, itself,” the magistrate had stressed as though that were a great honor.

Neither Jasper nor Hildy knew what the Brotherhood was, but it didn't sound like it boded well for Kaelan Hesar. “They'll send an Inquisitor out to question the accused,” the magistrate had assured them. “There will be an investigation into these charges." But the Inquisitor had never come and that had been nigh on two months ago that the two of them had gone to accuse Kaelan Hesar of being a warlock. “Won't get himself out of this one, will he, Pa?” Royce giggled, slapping his thigh. “Likely not,” Jasper smirked. The old man couldn't wait to find Hildy and tell her that the matter had been seen to. She'd be relieved and the townsfolk thankful that the Demon Duke would bother them no longer. The only worry in Jasper's mind was whether or not that Chalean fellow had seen him and Royce back at Unholy Dale. Jasper didn't think anyone had seen them while the beating was going on, although he'd had to slap his hand over Royce's excited mouth many the time to keep the little bastard from giving them away with his laughter! Had that fancy fellow on the big roan seen them hiding there by the stables, waiting ’til the gentry left so they could take care of the matter once and for all? If he had, he hadn't cared all that much for he'd left Hesar still lying there at their mercy. Jasper's grin became a predatory leer as he thought of what he an to walk backward in the drifts as he asked his expectant question. “Maybe we ought not to let on that we know who did it, Royce,” Jasper said with a touch of worry to his tone. Royce wasn't all that smart, but he wasn't stupid, either. He nodded. “Might be misconsidered, huh, Pa?" “Might be,” Jasper acknowledged. Royce walked beside his father for a few more feet, then once again spun around and skipped backward, his face eager. “How ‘bout we just bide our time ’til morning then mosey back up there with a few well-chosen folk a'wishin’ to go with us? What ‘bout that, Pa?" Jasper thought about that for a moment, stroking his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Aye, that might be the way of it, lad. Be just as surprised as the rest of ’em when we find him, eh?" Royce whooped with excitement and did a little jig in the snow. Despite the heavy-almost obscuring-fall of the now-thick snow, he could still see his father's jubilant face. “Happy, are you, Royce?” Jasper chuckled. “We got him,” Royce squealed with high merriment. “We really got him this time!" Jasper nodded and allowed himself to think back on what they'd done; it was worth remembering.

He and his boy had followed the Viragonian Outriders from the Ciona Road all the way to Unholy Dale and it was a good thing they had else they'd have missed a rare opportunity to settle things proper-like. And missed the beating the arrogant royal whelp had taken at the hands of his hated enemy. The warlock had been unconscious when they'd got up to him there, lying sprawled in the snow. They'd flipped him over to his back, laughing at the mess the other man had made of Hesar's once-handsome face; even reached down to slap that battered cheek once or twice, themselves; hoping the bastard would wake up so he would know what they had planned for him. It had been Royce's idea, Jasper thought with pride, and he cast his son a look of intense love. Sometimes the boy amazed him. By then the snow was falling heavily, and the wind whipping like a Chalean banshee down from the mountains. It hadn't taken them long to strip the blood-splattered shirt from Hesar's body. Nor the boots from his feet. Nor had it taken them long to find a length of robe with which to bind his hands to an oak branch nearby. They'd left him hanging from the tree-his naked chest already turning blue with the cold-his bare toes not quite touching the snow. Come morning, the Demon Duke would no longer pose a problem for the village of Wixenstead. He would be frozen to death by then. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Fourteen

There was a quietly-snapping fire in the ancient stone hearth; a kettle of dried herbs and sweet grasses dangling from its lug pole filled the little woodcutter's hut with a delightful aroma. A lantern kept out the total gloom of the stormy day and lent a cheerful halo around where the woman worked. As she went about her business—singing softly to herself—she would now and then cast an expectant eye at her visitor who lay immobile on a thick rug placed in front of the crackling fire. There had been no change in her condition for over two hours and, as the time passed, the likelihood of her recovery was dwindling. She feared she had not gotten to her patient in time. The woman sighed heavily. It was well within her powers to keep her visitor alive—to thaw the ice in her lethargic veins—and she had every intention of doing so. Hadn't she trekked through the blizzard just to bring her here to do just that? It was just going to take a little longer than she had thought. Her song muted to a hum and the melody—one from long, long ago—settled over her visitor like a soft, fleece blanket. Kneeling down in front of the hearth, she swung the small kettle away from the fire, peered closely into the swirl of limp vegetation and frowned: what she saw disturbed her and she lifted her head to stare blindly into the leaping flames.

Outside, the wind skirled around the rafters of the little woodcutter's hut and shook the mottled window panes with their thin coat of dust and grime. The woman tore her gaze from the flames and looked out past the swirl of snow battering her little sanctuary and shivered: she did not want to venture out again, but she knew she'd have to. Her visitor stirred in her sleep and the witch lowered her head to look at her. A gentle smile tugged at the witch's mouth and she reached out to lay a soothing hand on her visitor's head. “You are with a friend,” she whispered softly. “Lie easy." Dark brown eyes fluttered open, closed, then struggled to open again. There was an attempt to get up, but the woman's hand would not allow it and when the woman spoke in such a quiet, reassuring tone of voice, the patient lowered her head and gazed up with mute pleading. “You will be all right; I promise,” the witch swore. Then in a language as old as time, the witch explained to her visitor where she was and how she came to be there. She moved her gentle hand to the wound in her patient's side and the flesh there tingled as it strove to heal itself at her touch. The witch knew her visitor was worried-so very worried-but she told her not to be. Things were going to be just fine, she said, and her patient believed her for she liked the witch's smell and her purple-colored eyes and her voice that was gentle and kind. The witch's visitor watched her as she stood up. Her dark eyes followed her healer closely as the witch wrapped herself in a thick fur coat, buttoning it from neck to waist. The witch told her where she was going and why. If the patient could have smiled, she would have. As it was, she weakly gave what evidence she could of her approval of the witch's actions. “Do not worry,” she said again in that lovely tongue that fell on her patient's ears like the tinkling of tiny china bells. One moment she was looking up at her rescuer with love and adoration in her febrile gaze, the next she was staring at nothing, the witch having vanished in a gentle whirlwind of sparkling motes of colored light. Brownie sighed, grunting a little as the wound from the bad man's arrow tugged at her chest wall. She licked her muzzle and only vaguely wished the pretty woman had had time to give her some water before she'd gone on her way. The big brown mutt thumped her tail once then relaxed. Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes for she felt very sleepy of a sudden. Maybe the sleep would stop her from worrying about Him or replaying in her canine mind the memory of the bad men riding up to His living place and of that one particular bad man who had shot her with the arrow when she'd tried to go to her master's rescue. Oh, that scream! Brownie remembered and in her dream shuffed and sharked and her paws arched and flopped in her dreamworld run as she raced to her master's side. “Have to get to Him!” she had thought at the time. “Got to make them stop hurting Him!" The big mongrel had not been happy when her master had put her outside. Those men who had stayed with her master did not smell right to Brownie nor did their eyes convey trust. In her agitation at being separated from Him, the dog had ran to the hidden tunnel and tried to gain entrance to the living place

that way: scratching fiercely at the door and whimpering to be let in. And that was when she had heard his master's scream! A snarl of pure venom had peeled back the dog's lips and a howl of frustration and revenge had bellowed from her arched throat. Racing back as fast as her four legs would go, Brownie had leapt out of the forest and onto the road right in front of the bad men and the ugly, smelly things upon which they sat! “Got to get to Him! Got to get to Him!” was all Brownie could think. She had snarled at the bad men—warning them not to get between her and her master—and one had lifted a weapon and fired before Brownie could get away. “Fool! There was no cause to do that!” he had heard one of the bad men say, and thought perhaps that one might not be so bad after all. Brownie had fallen there by the road, the arrow buried deeply in her side. Heaving from the exertion of her run and the pain that was exploding in her rib cage, she had groaned more with disappointment and frustration than with the bad feeling in her body. “Who will help Him?” Brownie had asked the trees and clouds and animals hiding beyond the roadside. “Who will help Him?" One of the bad men had gotten off the ugly thing on which he sat and started toward Brownie, but that was when She came out of nowhere and took Brownie with Her to the warm place where she had awakened. Brownie somehow understood that none of the bad men had seen Her. In her dream, she snorted a canine version of a giggle. What must they have thought when she was there and then she wasn't? Brownie sighed again and went deeper in her dreams. This time He and She were together in this nice warm living place and they were all happy with full bellies. Brownie thought she might not even mind living in a place that smelled too much of cats if He and She were living there, too. Only a small frown of concern twitched the big dog's muzzle when—in passing—she wondered what the other She would say about all this! [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Fifteen

Thècion nudged Diarmuid, then cocked his chin toward the men hovering together outside the shipping office. “Hesar's men,” Diarmuid had agreed, noting the uniforms. “Court of the Storms." “Aye, I thought as much,” Thècion ground out. “The stench seemed familiar." Diarmuid grinned at his companion's dislike of the Viragonians. “Wonder what they're doing in a little pissant town like this on the morn of the Solstice?"

The Serenian prince glanced behind him where the Boreas Wind lay at anchor in the harbor. Near her was a private schooner. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Taking a little trip, I suppose. Back to Tempest Keep for their own festival?" “They aren't going anywhere in this muck,” Diarmuid reminded him. “Had it not been for the storm, we wouldn't have made it here before tomorrow, either. They're closing the port." Thècion shivered, thinking of the icy gale that had blown the Boreas Wind far off course and brought her a day early into Wixenstead Harbor. “Lucky for us, though,” McGregor commented. “And unlucky for the Boreal Queen,” Diarmuid chuckled. “Aye, she'll be restricted wherever she is, as well." “Let's hope she made landfall before the storm hit,” Thècion replied with a slight crinkling of his brow. He thought of the priest on board and was concerned for that man's safety, though he couldn't have explained why, had someone asked him. “So,” Diarmuid said, rubbing his gloved hands together. “What now, milord?" Thècion looked about them. The snow was high and still piling up along the sides of the main street. The blizzard that had swept across Wixenstead had brought almost everything in the coastal town to a standstill. Everywhere, men were digging out around the buildings, and sleighs jangled as they sped across the stretches of cleared snow on the roads. “How far did the harbor master say it was to Kaelan's place?" “Four miles, I think,” Diarmuid sniffed, drawing out his handkerchief and blowing his nose. “Well, it's almost a sure thing we won't get to Holy Dale before tomorrow,” he snapped. He looked toward the local livery. “Let's reserve our horses and plan to set out first thing in the morning. They should have the roads cleared by then." “I'll be a gods-be-damned Diabolusian jackass!” Diarmuid suddenly exclaimed, grabbing his friend's arm. “That's Duncan Hesar, himself, coming out of the shipping office!" Thècion held up his hand to ward off the glare of the snow and looked to the man just stepping off the shipping office plankway. “You're right, Dear Mutt,” he acknowledged. He slowly lowered his arm. “Why the hell do you suppose he's here?" Diarmuid cast him a quick look. “Maybe he heard Kaelan was going to be arrested by the Tribunal." A deep scowl of concern brought Thècion's golden brows together over his nose. “Why come here, though? So he could make sure the man didn't run away?" “That's possible,” Diarmuid said, nodding. “Entirely possible given the nature of Virago's new king!" Thècion's scowl became a fierce narrowing of eyes and tightening of mouth at the grand title Duncan had taken for himself. “Let's just go see, then, all right?" The Chalean prince opened his mouth to protest such a move, but was left standing where he was for McGregor had set off at a deliberate pace that denied any resistance to his plan.

“The gods help us!” Diarmuid muttered as he stomped after his friend. McGregor was setting a true course right for the king and his party. “King Duncan, is it?” Diarmuid heard Thècion call out in a harsh, somewhat disrespectful tone of voice, gaining the older man's attention. Duncan briefly turned toward the sound of his name being called, then dismissed the speaker as no one of importance, one not to encourage with even a nod of acknowledgment. He started to jam his foot into his stirrup when he felt a hand on his waist. “That's the McGregor's youngest whelp,” Rolf whispered. “Prince Thècion!" The Viragonian king's foot slid roughly from the stirrup and he turned to face the advancing young man again, scowling with distaste. He drew himself up and fixed the advancing man with a stony glower. “McGregor,” Duncan stated as though the word had caused a bad taste in his mouth and he wished to expunge it from his tongue as quickly as possible. “Aye, Your Grace,” Thècion replied. He made a sketchy bow that was not quite proper, but adequate. Without looking toward Diarmuid, he swept an arm behind him in his friend's direction. “I believe you know Prince Diarmuid Brell." Dakin Cree glanced up from his morbid contemplation of the packed snow beneath his horse's hooves and started. Prince Diarmuid? Here? Why? And the young McGregor lad, as well?! What the hell was going on? Quickly the Chalean ambassador dismounted and hurried toward the young princes. Duncan nodded a curt greeting to Diarmuid, then turned his full gaze on Drayton McGregor's insolent little brat. “May I ask why you two boys are traipsing about in the middle of the worst storm to hit Virago in twenty years?” he growled in way of greeting. “We were on our way to the Winter Solstice festival in Serenia,” Diarmuid lied as he joined them, hoping to keep Thècion from asking any too-direct questions of the king until a polite, respectful opening had been made. “Thought maybe we'd see if Kaelan would like to go along with us this year,” Thècion quipped, ignoring Diarmuid's small groan of dismay. There was a general rumble of voices as the townsfolk, who had stopped what they were doing to eavesdrop on the peerage, expressed their shock over such a statement. “Kaelan?” Duncan asked, his brows knitting; shocked although he tried not to show it. “Aye, Sire,” Diarmuid hurried to say. He inclined his head toward Dakin in greeting, then stepped a little between his friend and the Viragonian king. “Kaelan and I are old acquaintances. I heard he was home from Rysalia." Duncan recovered his composure and schooled his face into a mask of polite inquiry. “What made you think of my brother?” he questioned. He looked around him at the inquisitive faces of the townspeople

and was irritated. “Have you people business with the Court?” he called out in a stern voice. “If not, be about your business else I'll have reason to think you are waiting to volunteer for my army!" There was an instant gasp, then the people ducked their heads and scattered, mumbling to themselves in low tones and casting one another worried looks. Duncan returned his attention to Thècion. “Why did you come looking for Kaelan? Hadn't you heard he's been living like a hermit all these years since his wife's untimely demise?" Thècion heard the sneer beneath the civil question and smiled nastily. “We thought it time he rejoined the living,” the young prince answered. “Don't you, Majesty?" “Why are you here, Duke Dakin?” Diarmuid interrupted for he had seen the insult make a direct hit on the king. “My daughter...” Dakin began, but the king cut him off. “My brother will no doubt welcome your visit, young McGregor." If Thècion was surprised at the offer, he didn't show it. He politely declined with a shake of his golden head. “Thank you, Sire, but we don't wish to put you out in any way." Rather you don't want to be beholding to the bastard in any way, eh, young McGregor? Dakin thought with a smile. He had never met the youngest son of King Drayton, but already liked the lad a thousand times better than he did the eldest. “We will be leaving almost as soon as we can gather up Kaelan,” McGregor was saying. “The festival has been touted as being one of the very best entertainments this season." The Viragonian king's face had tightened at the refusal of his help, but he managed a set smile. “When you leave, then,” he inquired, “will it be by yon ship?” He pointed toward the Boreas Wind. “Providing Kaelan will want to go with you?" “Aye,” Thècion replied, his forehead puckering. “Why do you ask, Sire?” He sensed something not quite right in the way the Viragonian king was looking at him and in the tenseness that had suddenly stiffened the Chalean ambassador's shoulders. Duncan smiled genially. “We have booked passage back to Tempest Keep on the Aubaine, Duke Antoine du Mer's private ship, but she does not sail ’til the end of the week. As much as there is to do in Wixenstead,” he drawled, sweeping a hand about the small village, “my men would rather return home as quickly as possible. If we could impose upon you to have your ship drop us off at Ciona, we would be most grateful." “Why not just order the ship to be at your disposal, Sire?” Thècion asked, knowing no ship of the line would dare refuse a royal edict. “After all, you are a king while du Mer is a mere Duke." A wry grin pulled at Duncan's mouth. “Perhaps that is the way the McGregors would handle such an inconvenience, but the Hesars take into consideration-owned ship would cause its owners in time and revenue." Thècion squinted at the deliberate insult. His head came up and he matched Duncan's wry smile. “Were

you here visiting Kaelan, Majesty, or just out and about inspecting your holdings? I have heard your treasury was almost depleted by the floods again this year." Tit for tat, lad! Dakin chuckled to himself. A pity it wouldn't be this boy who would sit the Serenian throne. A muscle jerked in the king's jaw and his gaze hardened. “We are very solvent, young sir, I can assure you! The treasury has never been more so. We were here looking for Dakin's runaway daughter!” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “As if that were any of your business!" “Why would you...?” Thècion began but Diarmuid elbowed his friend sharply in the ribs. “With your permission, we need to find lodging for the night, Your Grace,” the Chalean prince told the king. He grabbed Thècion's arm and starting pulling him toward the opposite side of the street. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.” He nodded at his father's ambassador. “And you, Duke Dakin. May the Wind be at your backs!" “Will you allow us to travel with you or not, McGregor?” Duncan called out. “Tell him you will!” Diarmuid growled. “I most certainly will not!” Thècion shot back. “McGregor?” the king repeated, losing his temper as the two young men hurried away. “We'll be most happy to have you travel with us, Sire!” Diarmuid assured him over his shoulder as he yanked hard on Thècion's suddenly stiff body. “What the hell are you about, Dear Mutt?” Thècion was grumbling as he was being yanked away from his target, but his companion was making low, urgent shushing sounds. “I will not be quiet! Why are we...?" “We'll take an extra horse with us to Kaelan's place just in case and go by land to Ciona,” Diarmuid suggested. “The king is far too anxious for us to take him there by ship." “Then let me go tell the captain of the Boreas...." “We can't deny the man passage, lumphead!” Diarmuid spat. “He'll know something's wrong for sure, then! The Wind won't sail ’til sunset tomorrow and by then we'll be in Ciona and on Serenian soil." “But if Duncan knows about what the Tribunal's planning, we should....” Thècion began, but Diarmuid's grip tightened. “I know why they're here, idiot!” Diarmuid hissed again. He smiled tightly as he dragged Thècion along in his wake. “And it ain't got nothing to do with the Tribunal!" **** Jasper and Royce Kullen had been among the townsfolk loitering within hearing range of the king and the foreign princes. The two woodcutters had exchanged a knowing look and Jasper had been quick to admonish his son into silence.

“We know what them two will find when they get to Unholy Dale, boy. All hell's gonna break loose soon's they find Hesar! Best we don't say nothing to nobody, now; not let a living soul know we was out there or making plans to go!" Royce didn't hide his disappointment, but he understood his father's concern: murder had been done, no matter how you looked at it. “Can't nobody place us at the manor house, Pa,” Royce whispered. “And the snow last night covered our tracks." Jasper chewed on his lip, tried to remember if the man had ever opened his eyes at all while they were stringing him up. “He weren't awake, was he, Pa?” he asked worriedly. Jasper turned a gaping mouth to his son. “Why do you ask?" Kullen's son shivered. “'Cause if he saw us and he somehow managed to get free....” He let the words hang in the frigid air like a pendulum poised over its victim's belly. Jasper flung his grizzled head from side to side. “Nay, boy. Nay! He weren't awake.” But the old man wasn't sure. “Couldn't have been. He just couldn't have been!" Royce wasn't so sure, either. He had a vague recollection of one swollen amber eye peering up helplessly at him as he'd stripped off Hesar's torn shirt. “Besides,” his father was stating with something less than true assurance, “he couldn't have gotten free even if he did see us. I made them knots tight as a virgin's legs, I did! He couldn't have worked his hands out of them." Royce shuddered, a thought coming to him that made his testicles shrivel and cold sweat form at the base of his spine. “But what if he had been awake, Pa?" “He weren't!?” Jasper spat at him, beginning to feel the hangman's noose around his own neck and running a dirty finger under his collar to relieve the tightness. Royce lowered his voice and said his piece in a whisper: “What if someone came along and helped him?" Jasper gaped at his son. “Like who? Don't one soul in the whole of the village like the man! None who will care if he lives or died." “That ain't precisely true,” Royce reminded him. “There's Kymmie and Ned." “SHUT UP!” Jasper ordered. The noose around his neck was cutting off his breath. “The gods help us,” Royce moaned, grabbing his head where he could almost feel the ax descending. “He's got to be dead!" “Got to be,” Jasper echoed. “Just got to be!" ****

“I don't see how you hope to get up there,” the stable owner said, shaking his head. “We had near to eight inches of snow last evening. Can you not wait until morning when the roads are bound to be more passable?" Despite the man's obvious lineage—and the animosity that had always been there between his world and Thècion's—the Serenian prince took a chance on Raine Jale. “We've reason to believe Prince Kaelan's life danger,” he admitted. “To wait would be folly." Diarmuid cast his companion a sidelong look, wondering at Thècion's motive for telling the Hasdu man such a thing. With great effort, the Chalean prince kept his mouth shut, though, and let McGregor handle things. Raine Jale's black eyes bore into the Serenian. There was a directness in the young man's gaze that was not always there from the Viragonians with whom Jale did business. Although no one in Wixenstead village had ever dared show their mistrust to his face, Raine Jale knew it was there, nevertheless. They had welcomed him, but had never made him part of the community in which he had lived since his exile from his native home of Ventura. “You are friends of the prince?” Jale asked, studying the taller and darker of the two men. “Diarmuid is,” Thècion replied. “But I want to be." Jale folded his arms over a thick, barrel chest. “Why?” he queried. Thècion's left brow shot upward. “Why?” he repeated, both surprised and confused by the question. “Aye, Your Grace,” Jale replied, firmly. “It is a logical question considering how many enemies the Duke of Winterstorm has earned for himself here." “We are not from here,” Diarmuid put in, fanning away his companion's objection to his interference. “Nor do we approve of how Kaelan has been treated by his own kin." Raine Jale's mouth lifted up at the corners in wry amusement. “But it has just now taken you until this very moment to come to his aide." “The Tribunal wasn't after him before now,” Thècion snapped. “I'd say that was reason enough to come ‘this very moment', wouldn't you?!" Diarmuid gawked at his friend. Had McGregor lost his mind? Telling this man... “I've two Rysalian mounts who are progeny of my own stallion,” Jale snapped as he began to stride purposefully down the row of stalls, cutting Diarmuid's dismay off in mid protest. “And a stallion I've been boarding for quite some time now.” He flung a hand toward the saddles along a far wall. “Find what you need there, while I saddle His Grace's mount." Even as his companion stood there with his mouth ajar and his eyes as wide as saucers, Thècion was hurrying to a fine Ionarian-tooled saddle that had been draped over one of the stable's low partitioning walls.

“Don't just stand there, Dear Mutt!” Thècion ordered. “Grab a saddle!" Diarmuid snapped his mouth shut, shook away the shock that had frozen him in his tracks, and walked to the group of saddles. “Why is he helping us?” the Chalean prince whispered, casting a look down the stalls to where the Hasdu was escorting a horse out of the last stall. Diarmuid's mouth dropped open again. “BY THE GODS!” he exclaimed. “THAT'S REVENGE! THAT'S KAELAN'S PRIZE STALLION!" Jale nodded curtly as he brought the sleek black horse toward the two men. “Aye, it is.” He had looped a bridle over the steed's elegant head and was now tying the reins to an upright. “And you can't take that particular saddle, Your Grace, because it belongs with this magnificent beast." Thècion looked down at the beautifully-crafted leather and nodded; he threw the saddle over Revenge's back. “A most fitting adornment, I'd say.” As Jale cinched the saddle into place, Thècion ran his hands over the powerful steed. “How come you to have his horse, Raine?" Jale looked up from his work-pleased by the use of his first name-and grinned. “Burgher Sinclair brought the horse here just last week to be re-shod.” He winked. “Lucky for Prince Kaelan, eh?" Diarmuid frowned. “I can't imagine Sorn doing anything for Kaelan,” he said. “Why so generous?" The Hasdu straightened up; he narrowed his gaze. “Surely you know Burgher Sinclair owns Revenge?” he inquired. The Chalean blinked. “Naturally I did not!” He shook his head vehemently. “I can not believe Kaelan would willingly give up this beast!” He locked his eyes on Jale. “Or did Sinclair just take it away from him?" “I can't see anyone taking anything away from Kaelan Hesar,” Thècion remarked. From what he had heard of the man from Diarmuid, he was strong and given to stubbornness. Jale leaned his forearms over Revenge's saddle. “Perhaps I should tell you gentleman of things I think you need to know." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Sixteen

Gillian stamped her foot at the inn's owner, cursed him for a coward, then spun on her heel only to find herself looking right at her brother, who was standing a few feet away-his arms crossed over his brawny chest. That Nick wore a smirk on his lean, handsome face only added to her vexation and she cursed him, as well, before shoving past him and stomping back to the inn. “Got a burr under her bustle, I reckon,” the innkeeper chuckled. His admiration of women with a fiery temperaments was evident in the way his eyes glowed as he watched Gilly storming through the inn's backdoor. “She needs her ass paddled,” Nick commented dryly. He nudged his chin toward the Council House. “How long do you think it will take for them to make a decision on our problem, Master Saur?"

Traer Saur, Kinion's father, shrugged. “Not long, milord. Considering the urgency of your request, I'd say maybe an hour at the very most." Nick unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick fur coat. His gaze went beyond the stable to the high lands of Virago. “If I should need to make a trip back into Virago, would you be knowing some tough men who'd feel up to making the journey with me?" A wicked gleam sparked in Traer Saur's eye. “Men of a mercenary kind, you mean?" Nick nodded. “Aye. Men just like that." Traer bent over the hitching post and studied his companion. “My wife is from Wixenstead Harbor,” the stable owner said in a soft voice. Nick slowly turned his head toward Saur; his gaze narrowed. “Is that so?" Saur nodded. “As a matter of fact, her sister Marguerite, worked at Holy Dale up until the night the Duchess fell to her death there." A stab of unease drove through Nick but he maintained eye contact with the stable owner. “So she knows the Demon Duke, then?” he inquired as calmly as he could. Traer Saur's face—which had been open and welcoming up until that moment—became closed and forbidding. “Margie thought His Grace much maligned, milord,” came the staccato words. “I've heard naught but good things of him from my sister-in-law's lips.” His own gaze became a squint of suspicion. “Which leads me to wonder just why you've been spreading lies about him here." Nick stiffened. “Lies?” he growled, drawing his right hand out of his pocket to place it on the hilt of his dagger. “From all accounts I've heard from over Wixenstead way,” Traer drawled, unconcerned with his companion's militant stanch or the threat his accusations had brought down on him, “King Duncan disowned his brother many years ago.” He smiled nastily at Nick. “I've heard the king would just as soon have Prince Kaelan vanish from the face of the earth as have to deal with him again. All of which makes me wonder why—all of a sudden—he'd try to force the Chalean ambassador's daughter into Joining with a brother he despises. A Joining which can not provide him with any political pull by the doing." For a long moment, Nick just looked at the man, then shrugged, taking his hand from his dagger. “I see your point." “And then there's the way you keep watching that road,” Traer Saur commented, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Like you're waiting anxiously for someone." “Most anxiously waiting,” Nick admitted quietly. “Someone who might need help in joining you and your sister?” Traer asked. Making up his mind that the stable owner could be trusted, Nick nodded. “My sister's husband." Saur's eyes widened. “Legal husband?"

Nick shrugged hopelessly. “As legal as we could make it without the sanction of the king of Virago." A low whistle came from Saur. His face had taken on a strained look. “And so that's why you're seeking asylum in Serenia? The Joining could be re-done here and he'd be safe from any reprisals." “I'll be honest with you,” Nick said. “That would be nice,” Traer grinned. Nick's answering grin was conspiratorial. “Duncan engaged her to Rolf de Viennes. He's..." “I know who the bastard is,” Traer spat, his nostrils flaring as though a bad smell had rolled in from the sea. “Go on." “Gilly had no intention of joining with de Viennes.” Nick took a chance. “She is, and always has been, in love with Kaelan Hesar and he with her. Fate took us by chance to Holy Dale in the middle of that last blizzard and now that they are together again, I've of a mind to keep them that way." Traer Saur nodded. “But you might need help in the doing of it,” he stated. “Aye.” It was an emphatic agreement. Saur scratched his chin. “What about your sister?” he wanted to know. Nick sighed. “I'd like to say she'd stay here and wait for us, but as soon as I turn my back, the little bitch will be hightailing it after us." “Not good,” the stable owner declared. “No,” Nick agreed. “Not good at all." “A suggestion?" “Anything you can come up with would be greatly appreciated,” Nick confessed. “We've a jail." Nick's heart slammed painfully against his ribcage, sent sour bile up his throat, and made him swallow convulsively. To lock Gilly up—even for her own protection—was a notion he'd not entertained, but the idea was one that bore consideration. It also made him groan with the thought of what his sister might do to him once she was out of confinement. “The constable is of the old school of thought,” Traer continued with a twitch of his lips. “A man should protect his womenfolk from harm no matter the cost." “Oh, if I have her incarcerated, the price I'll wind up paying will be high,” Gilly's brother whined. “But she'd be safe,” Traer reminded him. He fused his gaze with Nick's. “From herself as well as anyone

intent on taking her somewhere she's not of a mind to go." Nick let out a sigh of resignation. “Aye, that she would be.” He looked toward the constable's office. “Think you he'll cooperate?" “Mention Rolf de Viennes to him and see what he says,” Traer suggested through clenched teeth. Nick stared at the inn's owner, wondering what de Viennes had done to warrant such a venomous reaction. “All right. That's settled. What about that help I'll need. I'm thinking four men besides myself." “Well,” Traer said, taking off his hat and rubbing his forearm across his brow, “there's Riordan A'Lex and his partner, Jess Patrick.” He settled the hat back on his head at a rakish angle. “And the twins, Tyler and Taylor Dixon. All good men.” He smiled nastily. “Rough men, as you say." “That's only four though,” Nick reminded him. “And then there's me,” Traer grunted. Nick's broad smile said he was hoping the man might accompany them. “How much do you think I need to offer for their help in the Storm Country?” he inquired. Traer shook his head. “You insult us by offering pay for doing what comes naturally to us, milord." “And that being?" Traer chuckled. “Bashing in Viragonian heads." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Seventeen

D'Lyn Aubert trudged through the snow, keeping an eye on the hawk which flew above her in the chill air. Now and again, the bird would glide gracefully down to a barren tree branch, perch there for a moment as though testing its course, then, with a flap of reddish-brown wings, lift off in the dull gray sky once more. Each time the hawk lit upon a branch, D'Lyn stopped and waited until the raptor flew on again. “Warm as flames in the welcoming hearth, comfort to him I wish to depart,” the witch woman chanted as she pulled her feet from drift to drift. Overhead, the hawk suddenly cut through the chill day and landed firmly on a high oak branch. It sat there, its head shifting from side to side, then it turned its beak down toward D'Lyn. “What is it, old friend?” the witch woman queried. She had heard nothing. There were no strange scents carrying on the breeze and no glimmer ahead of her from the flash of a lantern or torch. “Caaaaa!” the hawk shrieked and sat where it had landed. “Those who would do us harm?” she asked.

The hawk lifted its sharp eyes to the horizon, then shook itself, its feathers rustling. It peered intently down the pathway which led to Holy Dale's pond. “Riders,” D'Lyn said to herself for she had at that moment heard the jingle of harness. Her mystical gypsy senses lifted to the hawk and, through its eyes, she saw the men and their mounts winding their way past the pond and onto the lane which swept in front of Holy Dale manor. She counted seven men, bundled in fur and carrying crossbow, sword, and pike. “CAAA!” the hawk cried out again, then lifted its wings straight out beside its body, flexed its talons on the branch, then shot up into the air. D'Lyn watched her familiar as it arched back toward their little cottage to the east, flapping eager wings in anticipation of the fire that would warm it. For a moment, she stood where she was, then sighed tiredly. Ulia did not sense danger to the manor lord from these men who struggled through the snow to reach Holy Dale. If the hawk did not sense danger, there was none to be found. With one last look at the stone chimney of the manor house, the witch woman shrugged her shoulders and turned back toward her home. Whoever had come calling on Kaelan Hesar meant him no harm and would save him from the fate Jasper Kullen had intended. **** Thècion was shivering badly despite the warmth of his wool great cape. He cast a glance at Diarmuid and knew his boyhood friend was just as cold as he. Beside Diarmuid, Raine Jale could barely been seen for the layer upon layer of clothing he had donned for the trip. “In Ventura,” the Hasdu had explained when Thècion had teased about the confinement of so many garments, “we do not need to burden ourselves with such. Our djeelaba is sufficient." “How much further, Raine?” Thècion called out and had to laugh as Jale turned a muffled face toward him and struggled to pull down a woolen scarf just to be able to see the young Serenian prince. “The gods curse you, McGregor,” the Hasdu spat, put out by the obvious amusement. “I should have let you two blunder about Wixenstead Forest on your own!" “How much f ... further?” Diarmuid stammered through numb lips. Jale lifted a bulky arm and pointed straight ahead. “There is Holy Dale, but from the looks of the chimney, we've no fire to welcome us!" Thècion turned and looked in the direction Jale pointed. He saw no fire, either, but he did see the flash of metal just beyond the house and reined in. “We're not alone,” he said, though not loudly. Diarmuid had also seen the flash of light and stilled his horses as well, putting out a hand to touch Jale's shoulder. “HURRY!” the trio heard a man yell and glanced at one another. Obviously, something had upset the riders for there was the sound of leather slapped against horseflesh and the collective clucking of impatient tongues urging on mounts that were already knee-deep in the fresh snow. “IS HE ALIVE?” someone else called out.

Thècion didn't need to hear any more. There could be only one subject of which such a statement could be asked. He put his heels to his stallion's flanks, Diarmuid and Jale close on his mount's hooves as they hurried forward. Lumley Tarnes barely glimpsed up at the three strangers who rode into the courtyard of Holy Dale Manor behind them. His old legs might be arthritic and thin, but they did him justice as he dogged Nick Cree's long stride as the young Chalean nobleman ran pell mell toward his objective. Traer Saur had been the first to ride into the courtyard and it had been his cry as he flung himself from his mount that had made Cree ask if the man they had come to rescue was still alive. Thècion's horse had barely had time to dig its hind legs into the snow to stop before the young prince was off its back and running as fast as he could. “Who the hell are you?” Riordan A'Lex asked as Raine Sale raced beside him. “Ask me when we've seen to Prince Kaelan,” Jale mumbled. Nick Cree caught Kaelan under the arms as Traer Saur cut the unconscious man down from the branch upon which he'd been lashed. The intense coldness of Kaelan's naked chest sent a wild spurt of despair through Nick. “By the gods, the man is near-frozen!” he cried out. Thècion shoved Taylor Dixon out of his way, elbowed past Taylor's twin, Tyler. “Is he breathing?" Nick didn't have time to answer. He had shifted Kaelan's weight and was trying to lift him up in his arms, when Riordan stepped in and took his burden from him. “You!” Lumley snapped, catching hold of Diarmuid's arm, “get in the house and start up a fire, boy!” When Diarmuid just stared at the old man, unused to being given orders from peasants, Lumley shoved him and kicked him in the seat of his breeches all in one motion. “Do as he says, Diarmuid!” Thècion ordered. The Serenian prince was right behind Riordan as that man carried Kaelan inside the manor house. The fire was still smoldering in the kitchen grate and it didn't take Diarmuid long to get it blazing away again as, between them, Thècion and Nick stripped off Kaelan's snow-drenched breeches. “Raine!” Thècion demanded as he looked around for something to dry the Viragonian's wet chest, “look upstairs and bring him some clothing." “What little he's got ain't worth putting on,” Nick interrupted. He turned to Tyler Dixon. “Get the clothes we brought for him.” He looked over at Thècion. “Who are you?" “McGregor,” came the answer. “Who are you?" “Cree,” Nick answered, then became aware for the first time that one of the three men who had ridden into the courtyard right after them was staring at him. He was about to tell the man to mind his manners when he realized he was looking into the confused face of one of his homeland's young princes. He blinked. “Prince Diarmuid?” Nick questioned with disbelief. “I saw your father in Wixenstead,” Diarmuid said.

Nick Cree's face became infused with a deep red heat. “My father was a part of this?” he asked. Diarmuid shrugged. “I don't know, but Hesar was in a big hurry to get to Ciona. He wanted us to take him with us on the Boreal Wind." Lumley Tarnes spat into the hearth. “Gods-be-damned bastards. They must have hung the young one out there in the freezing cold to get him to tell where the gal went to!" Tyler Dixon ran in with fresh clothing and kneeling down beside Nick, began to help the man dress Kaelan. “Look at his face,” Dixon remarked, flinching at the livid bruises and blood which adorned Hesar's battered flesh. “Tried to beat the truth outta him,” Tarnes scoffed. Diarmuid put a hand on Thècion's shoulder and leaned down. “Did you see de Viennes’ knuckles?" Thècion craned his head around and frowned up at his friend. “Why the hell would I have been looking at the fool's knuckles, Brell? And why the hell did you feel the need to?" Diarmuid straightened up. “They were bruised.” He sniffed. “The first thing a Chalean warrior does is look to a man's hands to gauge his ability to wield a sword.” he sniffed again. “Thus, I looked to his hands." “You think de Viennes did this?” Nick demanded. At Diarmuid's nod, Nick's jaw clenched. “Just one more reason I have to hate that bastard!" “Not as much as I do,” Traer Saur grunted. Raine Jale hunkered down beside the men already clustered around Kaelan. He took in the high color on the unconscious man's cheeks and laid a hand to the Viragonian's forehead. A quick frown crossed his dark face. “We had best get this man a Healer or we'll be turning him over to the Gatherer before night fall." “There's a bed upstairs,” Nick told him. “Let's get him up to his room and then I'll ride back to Ciona for a Healer." “And run the risk of getting caught by one of Hesar's men?” Traer Saur asked. He shook his head. “Jess, how about riding back into Wixenstead and..." “You need no Healer,” came a soft voice from the kitchen door and all the men turned as one. The most beautiful woman any of the men had ever seen stood poised in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was the color of midnight and hung down nearly to her ankles. Her eyes were bright and were the color of amethysts. Her complexion was almost as dark as Jale's and when she smiled shyly at the men, deep dimples shown in her rosy cheeks. The girl was a Rom half-breed if they'd ever seen one. “I would have returned to my home, but I was bid turn and come back,” she explained. Her gaze fell sorrowfully to the man lying on the floor. “He needs my help." Jale, no stranger to the magi of his homeland, took a step back as the beautiful woman ventured further into the kitchen. He made a strange sign, flinched as her attention slipped slowly to him, and then lowered

his eyes for fear she would cast a spell upon him. “You have no reason to fear me, nomad,” she told him. “I do not fear you,” Jale said, but refused to look at her. Thècion's brows drew together for he had no idea why their guide would have reason to be uneasy with the woman. He stepped over to her, intent on helping her if he could when her gaze fell unerringly upon him and he fell hopelessly in love with her. “I knew you would come one day, milord,” the men heard her say and watched as her face became infused with a dreamy light. “I ... am ... here,” Thècion managed to answer. Diarmuid rolled his eyes. “That is a matter of opinion, McGregor." Nick looked from Serenian prince to peasant girl and thought: ‘Oh, hell! Here's another pair of star-crossed lovers to deal with!' “Please,” D'Lyn said, her gaze now on Riordan, “take him upstairs. I've a potion to brew if we are to keep him with us." Riordan nodded and scooped the thin man up as easily as though Kaelan had been a child. He turned, Tarnes leading the way, and headed for the stairs. “What are you called?” Saur asked the girl. That she was a gypsy, he had no doubt. That she was also a witch was a foregone conclusion. “D'Lyn,” she answered and she went to the fire, pulled a small leather bag from inside her voluminous cape and opened it. “How can I help?” Thècion asked quietly, kneeling down beside her. Diarmuid sighed heavily. There would be hell to pay when King Drayton, not to mention the future King Blasdin, learned of this. Thècion was not one to go getting himself involved with strange women and certainly had never dared to let himself fall in love with a commoner he knew he'd never be able to Join with. But knowing him as well as he did, Diarmuid knew Thècion had fallen hard. “When will the ship sail?" Diarmuid turned to find Nick speaking to him. He shook his head. “Ain't nothing getting out of port for a few days at least. The storm rather effectively shut everything down and there are floes already scattered across the North Boreal.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'd say maybe the day after tomorrow. Maybe even longer." Nick nodded. “That should give us time to get back to Ciona and get Gilly." “His lady will not be pleased to see you,” D'Lyn remarked, a slight smile on her face. “Her cell is unpleasant though the Constable's wife has tried to make your sister as comfortable as possible.” She looked up at him. “She will never forgive you."

“I don't care,” Nick snapped. He refused to allow himself to wonder how the woman kneeling in front of the fire, filling a goblet of hot water with strange-looking herbs, could know where Gillian was at that moment. “Witch,” Diarmuid mumbled and moved as far away from her, as had Jale. “They fear you,” Thècion whispered, then chuckled. “They should,” D'Lyn replied seriously, but gave lie to her words with a titter of laughter. “Can't find Brownie,” Tarnes said as he came heavily down the stairs. “I've looked everywhere for her, but I can't find her." “Try the cellar,” Nick offered. D'Lyn turned to look at him. “Do you look for his dog?" “Aye,” Nick replied. “Have you seen her?" The witch woman nodded and went back to her brewing. “She was hurt, but will be fine. She is at my cottage and when she is mended, I will send her to him." “We'll be getting him out of this gods-be-damned place, Mam'selle,” Nick swore through clenched teeth. “I'll not let him stay another day where Duncan Hesar and that murderous father of mine can get their hands on him!" D'Lyn frowned as she stood up, the potion ready. She locked her attention on Nicholas Cree. “Your father did not do this to His Grace." Nick squinted. “Are you telling me it wasn't Rolf de Viennes who beat my brother-in-law nearly senseless?" “Brother-in-law?” Diarmuid questioned. “No,” D'Lyn replied, shaking her head. “'Twas he who fought with the prince, although not fairly as it should have been. It was the woodcutter and his son who tried to murder His Grace." “Kullen!” Tarnes hissed as though the mere word was a curse unto itself. “By the gods, I will skewer that old varmint!" “It has been taken care of, Master Tarnes,” D'Lyn assured him and her eyes lit upon the old man with tenderness. “They shall atone for what they did." **** Jasper Kullen had not been able to get the thought of someone finding Kaelan Hesar alive and nursing the Demon Duke back to health out of his mind. He had nearly paced a hole in the floor of his favorite tavern as his son sat swilling down ale after ale and muttering to himself that he had been cast with the evil eye.

“He saw us, Pa,” the younger Kullen had sworn. “I knowed he saw us. He will tell and they'll come for us to hang us! He saw us, I tell you!" “Did not,” Jasper had barked, but, the more he thought on it, the less sure he was. As the sun began to lower, the surer he was that something had to be done. The noose he had imagined was beginning to choke him. It was with a great effort that Royce lifted his head as his father stomped up to his table and demanded him to get up. The numerous ales he had poured down his gullet to blur the sight of that evil eye looking up at him from the battered face of the Demon Duke had done nothing more than make Royce's head spin. The evil eye was still there, hovering just over his father's bony shoulder. “He's gonna tell,” Royce whimpered, feeling his water wanting to come. “What are we gonna do, Pa?" Jasper reached down and hauled his son to his feet, stumbling with the effort of keeping the lad a'foot. “Stop your sniveling and listen up!” Kullen demanded. “We've got to go back and make sure he don't tell nobody nothing understand?” He shook Royce for emphasis. Royce clamped his lips shut against the nausea threatening to spew forth from the violent shaking his father was giving him. As drunk as he was, he understood the necessity of getting rid of the man they had tried to murder. If Hesar wasn't already dead by now, they'd finish the job. “Do you understand?” Jasper repeated and was satisfied when his son nodded dumbly. He jerked the boy around and pushed him toward the tavern door. “Then let's be about it!" It was colder outside than it had been for many a night. Colder even than the dual hearts which were intent on ending Kaelan Hesar's life. As Jasper and Royce Kullen struggled through the high drifts, each man's thoughts was on the unfinished business that kept them from hearth and home and the hot meal that awaited them. Neither one glanced up at the high outcropping of snow that had built along the ledge of the mountain by which they trod. So intent were they on what they had set out to do, neither heard the sharp crack of a branch breaking where a red-tailed hawk had landed upon it high in the oak tree under which they passed. Nor did they notice what had been set into motion by the sound of the breaking branch. Neither one heard the silent death racing down toward them as the overhang of snow gave way, built up speed as it moved unerringly toward the two men. Neither of them even looked toward the avalanche bearing down on them until it was too late to get out of its path. The sliding snow washed around their feet and over them, swallowing the two men beneath tons of suffocating icy death. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eighteen

“You don't mind if I stay here when you go on to Serenia, do you, Your Grace?” Rolf de Viennes asked his king as they sat eating what passed for an evening meal in this seaside slum.

Duncan looked up from his salmon. “Is there some reason you do not wish to go?" De Viennes shrugged as though the matter were of not real import. “I have never been enamored of that backward country nor its insipid ruling class,” he replied. He wiped his mouth delicately with the rough napkin that had been provided for his use, frowned at the coarse feel of it against his lips. The Viragonian king's eyes narrowed. “You have caused mischief there, haven't you, Rolf?” He laid down his fork and pierced his Chancellor with a stern glower. “What, pray tell, did you do?" Rolf took up his wine goblet and drank what was left of the port. He grimaced for there were dregs at the bottom of the goblet that were bitter and they flooded his mouth with a sharpness he found disagreeable. “Rolf?” Duncan pressed. He'd known de Viennes a good long time and there wasn't a country on the continent where the man was welcomed with open arms. But few places where Rolf was loath to visit. De Viennes sighed. “There was an innkeeper's daughter in Ciona,” he began, then turned a sheepish smile to his king. “You know how things are, Your Grace. You are a man of the world." Duncan sat back in his chair, his appetite gone. “What did you do to her?” He also knew de Viennes’ tastes and the strange, murky addictions to which the man had become enslaved over the years. For the first time in his life, Rolf de Viennes hesitated to boast of a feminine conquest. There was something not quite friendly in the king's eye and just a tad of disgust twitching about the royal lips. “I asked you what you did,” Duncan said, and with the way he said it, he left no room for further dissembling. Rolf squirmed in his chair. “It wasn't true what they accused me of, of course." “Naturally not,” Duncan agreed, knowing that something vile had happened else Rolf would be bragging of it. Instinctively, he knew he wasn't going to like de Viennes explanation. “Go on." The Court Chancellor let out a long breath. “She told her brother I raped her." Duncan had no use for a man who would force himself on a woman, even his own wife should she deny him his conjugal rights. His distaste for Rolf's words shown clearly on his face. Rolf looked down at the table. “As I've said, it wasn't true, of course. The brazen hussy came to my room and threw herself at me." “How old?” Duncan interrupted, already beginning to suspect that this was, indeed, one of those murky addictions to which de Viennes had allied himself. De Viennes’ head snapped up. “Beg pardon?” he asked, playing for time. “How old?” came the stony question. Duncan's hands tightened into fists. “How old was the girl?" Rolf threw out a negligent hand, refusing to believe his old friend would condemn him for a moment's rare pleasure. “They say she was twelve or thereabouts, but she told me she was sixteen."

Duncan was stunned. He stared openmouthed at Rolf. No wonder Kaelan felt such hatred for the man. How many other children had de Viennes debauched? “You do something like that again and you will forfeit not only the title of Court Chancellor, but your worthless hide as well, do I make myself clear to you, Rolf de Viennes?” Rolf's head bobbed. “Aye, Majesty, you do!" With a snort of disgust, Duncan pushed his chair back and stood up. “I think,” he said, flinging his napkin to the table, “you should head back to Virago the same way we got here. I will have Utley lead you back." “Through this snow, Your Grace?” de Viennes gasped. “Aye, through this snow!” Duncan mimicked. “Perhaps the cold will cool the heat of your unnatural lusts!!" “But what of my bride?” Rolf protested. He had been looking forward to chastising Gillian de Viennes for whoring with Kaelan Hesar. A belt to that fine young rump should teach the chit a thing or two. If not, a good beating, like the one he'd given her lover, would! Duncan shook his head. “Much as it pains me to do so, I will have to annul the Joining, now,” he snapped. “But why?” Rolf gasped. A sharp frown cut across the king's handsome face. “Do you actually think Cree will not hear of what you did in Ciona once we reach there?” he snapped. “Think you the Duke will allow me to give his daughter to you when he finds you stand accused of molesting a twelve year old child?" “He is merely a Duke! What does it matter what he thinks?” Rolf wheedled. “You are the king. Your word is law. If you tell him I am to have his precious daughter, then I will have her!" “I would not give any decent man's daughter to you, now, de Viennes no matter how much I hated her father!” the king shouted. It was then Rolf made a mistake that nearly cost him his political career. With a sneer on his face, he looked down his nose at his king. “You think,” he grumbled, “to give the whore to your brother, is that why you are annulling my Joining to her? Because you feel guilty for the beating I gave him?" De Viennes’ eyes widened as the hard fist came shooting toward his face. He had his lackeys remove the unconscious Duke of Galeforce. Slumping into his chair, the king stared moodily across the room, grinding his teeth as he pondered the consequences of the annulment. At first, having to sever the ties between the House of Cree and the De Viennes’ clan, Duncan was more annoyed than angry; but the more he thought of it, the more righteous became the decision, in his mind. To allow Kaelan to have his heart's desire might well reinstate Duncan into the good graces of his men, who had been mumbling darkly ever since leaving Holy Dale. With that in mind, he glanced over at Utley. “Lars?"

Utley looked up from his tankard of mead. “Aye, Your Grace?" “What think you of me annulling the contract between Rolf and the Lady Gillian in favor of allowing the Joining between her and Kaelan to stand?" The tracker smiled. “I believe it would be a most righteous decision all things considered, Majesty." Duncan nodded sagely. “I believe so, too, Lars.” He sighed. “Then I believe that is exactly what I shall do.” He took up his goblet and swallowed the last of his wine. “I didn't want to go to Ciona anyway." **** The thin man entered the tavern with his entourage just after midnight and motioned the tavern maid forward. “Ale for my men, and your very best wine for me." Bobbing a nervous curtsy, the tavern maid hurried away, casting a fearful look over her shoulder at the Tribunal guards who had taken a seat near the door. “He be the one,” Titus Niels whispered nodding toward the tall man who had seated himself alone at the table closest to the hearth fire. “The Inquisitor, they call him." “Him what's come to arrest the Demon Duke?” Josie, the tavern maid, whispered back. “I reckon,” Titus agreed. He cast a look over the fierce-looking Tribunal guards and shuddered. “Wouldn't want them a'coming after me!” He poured five ales for the guards and told the girl he was going after the wine he kept for wealthy visitors. “Girl?” the tall man called out, beckoning Josie with a crook of a long, thin finger. “Aye, Your Worship!” the girl was quick to reply, scurrying as close to the man as she dared. “You've guests upstairs,” the tall man remarked. “Royal visitors from Tempest Keep." Josie nodded vigorously, cast a quick look toward the stairs, then lowered her voice. “The king, himself, is here!” she bragged. Occultus Noire's long face did not alter, but a dark gleam entered his black eyes. His thin lips twisted into an unmistakable sneer. “I did not mean him. There is another. An older man." Josie's brows came together over her darkly-pain'ted eyebrows, then she grinned. “Oh, the Chalean fellow?" The future Arch-Prelate of the Brotherhood of the Domination inclined his head. “I wish for you to take him a message." The tavern maid began to twist her hands in front of her. The Duke had asked not to be disturbed. It was late of the clock and the Chalean had already retired. Would he strike her if she dared awaken him? “I will slit your throat if you do not,” the thin man said softly and his eyes held the truth of what he threatened.

Josie's heart thudded once very hard in her chest, then she bobbed a hasty curtsy of submission. “Whatever you wish, Your Worship." Occultus smiled and the look on his long face was awful to behold. “Tell him I will meet with him at the Temple within the hour.” Before Josie could turn away and hurry to do the priest's bidding, he had snagged out a bony hand and grabbed her wrist, drawing her to her knees before him. “And tell him,” the tall man said in a low voice, “that it is to Kaelan Hesar's advantage that he come alone. Is that clear?" “Aye, Your Worship,” the girl said, shivering. “And you will tell no one of my request." “Nay, Your Worship,” Josie agreed, shaking her head violently. When her wrist was released and she was given permission to be about her business, she could feel the coldness of the priest's grip on her hand long after. Dakin Cree came awake with a start at the soft, furtive scratching at his door. He sat up, confused about where he was for a moment, then turned his head toward the sound coming from his door. With a fierce grunt of anger at being aroused from a much-needed sleep in a warm bed, he got up and padded heavily to the door. When he flung the portal open to find the tavern maid standing there, her mouth trembling with a hesitant smile, he felt like shouting. “I have no need for your services!” he snapped, thinking Duncan had dared send the slovenly tart to entertain him, and made to close the door. “He sent me to fetch you, Your Grace!” Josie blurted out. “He wants to see you!" Dakin forced out a vulgarity then fixed the girl with a brutal scowl. “Who sent you to fetch me at the ungodly hour, woman?" Josie bit her lip. She had no idea what the man's name was. “The priest,” she managed to answer. “The one from the Tribunal Court." Exasperation filled Dakin with the urge to throttle the bitch. “What are you babbling about?” he demanded. “The one who came here to arrest His Grace, Prince Kaelan,” Josie said in a rush of words. Nothing the girl could have said would have garnered the Duke's attention quicker than those nine words. He reached out, grabbed her upper arm, propelled her into the room, thrust his head out into the hallway to assure himself no one was lurking about, then shut the door quietly, but firmly. All without letting go of Josie's arm. “All right,” he stated, shaking her, “what is this about?" “He came to arrest Prince Kaelan,” the girl said. “That's why he be here." Dakin's eyes narrowed. “Arrest him for what?” Surely the matter of Marie Sinclair's death was not just now coming to the attention of the Tribunal Court!

“For the sorcery,” Josie answered. Did the man not know of it? “Sorcery,” Dakin said flatly. When the girl nodded, he dragged her with him to the bed, made her sit, then demanded she tell him everything from the beginning. **** “Drink,” D'Lyn demanded and she held the cup to Kaelan's lips. The palm of her left hand was slick with his perspiration, hot from the intensity of his fever. “How is he?” Destin asked. D'Lyn shook her head. “Not good. I can only hope the Other will aid me in keeping His Grace alive." “The other?” Thècion questioned. The witch woman did not answer. She was too absorbed in her patient, making sure the icy water flowed down his throat smoothly and did not choke him. When the barelyconscious man had swallowed as much as he could, she gently lowered his head to the pillow and withdrew her hand. “What other, milady?” the young Serenian prince asked. “Did you not see him yesterday, Lord Raven?” she returned, not bothering to look over at the stunned look on his face, but knowing it was there. Thècion was staring at the woman. How could she know of what he and Diarmuid had been discussing the day before? Did she know the legend of the Dark Overlord? “All the magi know of him,” came the shocking statement. D'Lyn lifted her eyes from her patient and fixed them on Thècion. “His will be the legend of all legends, milord, for he is the Chosen. When he is born, there will be great rejoicing." “Then it's not me to whom you're referring,” Thècion said with some relief. “When you called me Raven." “Raven,” D'Lyn laughed gently. “Is that not your name in Oceanian, milord?" “Aye,” Thècion shook himself. “I'll not ask how you know who I saw yesterday. You mean the Tribunal priest?" The witch woman nodded. “He has come for His Grace." Thècion frowned. “I know. That's why Dear Mutt and I came to Holy Dale. To prevent him from taking Kaelan with him." Shock spread quickly across D'Lyn's face. “But you must not interfere, milord!” she was quick to tell him. “None of you!"

“You don't mean we're to stand by while an innocent man is arrested and tortured for something he surely did not do!” Thècion snapped. “Nick Cree didn't know anything about the Tribunal edict until we told him, but when he found out, he was furious. He certainly isn't going to let anyone arrest his brother-in-law and neither will I.” The young man flung a hand toward the man on the bed. “Especially not with him in such grave condition!" “The Other is not here to arrest him, milord,” D'Lyn said in exasperation, as though he should know that already. “And you are the reason he won't." The woman's words made no sense to Thècion and he told her as much, but she waved away his objection. “At this very moment The Other is meeting with Lord Cree's father and they are plotting how to remove Prince Kaelan from Virago. If he is to be safe, we must make sure he is as far from his brother's reach as we can get him." “My sister, too,” Nick said from the doorway. He came into the room, a scowl forming immediately on his face when he once more took in the terrible damage done to Kaelan Hesar's face. “'T'will heal, Lord Cree,” D'Lyn assured him. “The Other will see to it once he is on your ship." Nick's attention snapped up from Kaelan's bruises to the beauty standing beside the Prince's bed. “My ship?" D'Lyn nodded. “Come morning, your father will purchase a ship from the Duke of Downsgate, who at the moment is waylaid at an inn in Wixenstead. The ship will be given to you." “How do you know these things?” Thècion demanded, as stunned by her revelations as Nick was. “Why would Antoine du Mer, a Serenian, sell my father a ship?” Nick wanted to know. D'Lyn dipped her head and blushed. “To get his son, Gerard, out of his hair,” she replied softly. “He is beginning to rival the McGregor's in producing bastard offspring." Thècion flinched. “Gerry and I are good friends. I know he's a bit randy, but, then again, so's his father. Duke Antoine is a fine one to grumble about bastard offspring." “I agree,” D'Lyn acknowledged. “I am one of his." Nick covered up the awkward moment by asking how the selling of the ship and the getting rid of a nuisance of a son were connected. “The Duke is selling his ship under condition that you take the Marquis with you,” D'Lyn responded. “A'pirating?” Nick snorted. “Surely the man doesn't know that is my intent.” He shook his head. “Or my father, either, for that matter, else he'd never sanction buying me something that could conceivably get me hung!" D'Lyn turned to wet a fleece cloth with chilled water so she could bathe Kaelan's fevered face. Her lips slipped gently into a smile when she saw two bright amber eyes peering up quizzically at her from the battered face.

“When the Other arrives this morning, he and his men will take His Grace with them back to the Boreal Queen,” D'Lyn explained. “Once she is on the high seas, the newlynamed Revenant will intercept her.” She pushed a lock of lank, damp hair from Kaelan's brow. “The pirates will loot the ship and make off with four of its passengers." Nick folded his arms over his chest. “Kaelan Hesar being one of those passengers,” he grinned. “Who are the other three?” Thècion asked. “The priest, no doubt, is one,” Nick stated. “Aye and I believe the other two are princes, milord,” D'Lyn told him. She looked up from her patient and smiled. “From Serenia and Chale, if memory serves." **** “Why should I trust you?” Duke Dakin Cree queried. “The elders of your order are the ones who determine policy, who are seeking Kaelan's arrest. What power do you have?" Occultus smiled warmly. “I will be Arch-Prelate within two years, Your Grace, and I am only twenty-five years old. With my People, I can live to be over one hundred and never look a day older than you do at sixty.” He spread his thin hands. “Why should that matter, you ask?” The priest leaned forward. “Age brings wisdom to the mind; aging brings deterioration to the body. Old men are treated almost as children: their words are not heeded. But men who have the accumulation of a century of listening, learning, and leading, as well as the looks of a man still in his intelligent prime, are powerful men, indeed." Dakin's mouth twisted with distaste. “I still don't see how...." “When I am as old as you are now,” Occultus interrupted, “I will have created as much havoc within the Brotherhood as the gods will allow. I will have narrowly missed being murdered in my sleep and will have been ousted from the Order under dire circumstances." “You know this for a certainty?” Dakin quipped, not having had much traffic with sorcerers or seers in his sheltered life as an ambassador. Occultus looked down at the palms of his hands and nodded. “I have seen my future, Your Grace, and know well what lies in store for me. It is for that reason that I seek to make sure young Kaelan Hesar lives. The child of his union with your daughter will play a very important part in destroying the evil that has come." The thick red brows of Dakin Cree drew together over his hook-like nose. “Of what evil do you speak?" The priest took in a long breath then exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving the older man's face. He threaded his long fingers together in his lap and sat there quietly for a moment, listening to the popping sounds the wood in the buttresses overhead made as the Temple of the Wind settled on its foundation.

“You have heard rumors of what goes on at the Abbey of the Domination,” Occultus finally stated, breaking the long silence Dakin had been content to keep with him. An uneasy look passed quickly over Dakin's broad face. “I have heard vulgar things about the Brotherhood, if that is what you mean." Occultus nodded slowly. “And most of what you have heard is true.” He watched the disgust shift the florid features of his listener. “There are worse things than desiring your own sex for pleasure, Your Grace." “I can think of none!” Dakin snapped. “What of molesting children?" The Chalean Ambassador jumped as though he had been prodded with a hot iron. His eyes grew wide in his face. “You can not be serious!” he accused. “Surely not even the black sorcerers of your Order would do such a thing!" “They do and will continue to do so until the Dark Overlord's time comes,” Occultus broke in. “Not even he will be exempt from their perfidy, Your Grace, nor will his son be, but he will put an end to it as surely as we sit here speaking." “And you are a part of that?” Dakin grated, his lips drawn back over clenched teeth. “I will not stay one moment longer in your company!” He made to get up, but Occultus reached out a staying hand, gentle yet firm, and prevented him. “I have never laid hands to a child in my life, nor will I ever. That is the major reason I wish to be a part of seeing the Brotherhood destroyed. I have nothing but contempt for men who abuse children and will do all I can to stop them from doing so." “Then do it, man!” Dakin snarled. “I will need help,” Occultus reminded him. “I can not do it alone." Dakin stared at the thin man for a long, long time, trying to decide if what the priest was telling him was true. He saw no guile in th—Occultus had opened his very soul to Dakin Cree, though the man had no way of knowing that. At last, the Chalean Ambassador sighed. “Tell me what my family and I can do." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Nineteen

D'Lyn opened the door to the tall man and bowed respectfully. Though she had never met him, never physically laid eyes upon him before that moment, she had been expecting him all her life. Though she did not know his name, she knew who and what he was, and that he had been sent by the Ancient Ones to help stop the flow of evil which dwelt on the summit of Mount Serenia. “He is better?” Occultus asked as he and his men trooped into the kitchen of Holy Dale manor.

“Perhaps a little, Your Worship,” D'Lyn answered. “He wakes from time to time, but I do not believe he knows where he is." “That is to be expected,” Occultus stated. He looked about him, his dark eyes roaming over the men assembled in the kitchen. His gaze finally settled on Traer Saur and a fain't smile touched his thin lips. “How is your little sister faring, Squire Saur?" Traer blinked. “How do you know of her?" Occultus inclined his head. “There is little of what goes on within the Seven Kingdoms of which I am not aware.” He kept his attention steady on Traer, then surprised the man by saying: “Your family will have its revenge, Squire Saur. Have no doubt of that." D'Lyn had been listening closely to the exchange and when Occultus turned to stare sharply at her, she nodded her submission to his authority and made to leave. “Where are you going?” Thècion McGregor called from the servant's stairs. From where he stood on the final step, he could not see the new additions to the gathering. “She is about Alel's business, young McGregor,” Occultus answered for the witch woman. Thècion came off the last step and into the kitchens not surprised to see the priest there, for they'd all been expecting him and his Tribunal guards. “Doing what?” the young prince asked, heading for the girl who was bundling up against the frigid cold outside. “Do not let that concern you at the moment,” Occultus replied. “Alel has need of you, as well." “I'm not letting her go anywhere in this weather in the dark!” Thècion snapped and started to get his coat when Occultus put out a staying hand and lightly gripped the young man's shoulder. Instantly, Thècion stopped, his head swiveling from the departing woman to the tall man standing beside him. “You will escort me to Kaelan's room,” Occultus ordered softly. Thècion's head bobbed in slow agreement, he turned, and led the way back up the servant's stairs without comment. “Aye, Your Worship, I will,” Thècion agreed. “Lor!” Lumley Tarnes drawled. “I've never seen the likes!” The old sailor crossed himself, recognizing a powerful magi when he happened upon one. “He made the boy do what he didn't want to!" “I've a feeling,” Raine Jale remarked, “that all our lives have just been turned topsy turvy and we might be gonna do a lot of things we've never thought of doing." **** Lars Utley was lost. Rolf de Viennes uttered a vicious curse upon the Utley house and its progeny, then swung down from the saddle, infuriated that he was cold, thirsty, and greatly in need of a chamberpot. Before Utley could stop him, he had stomped off into a camouflaging clump of tall bushes to relieve

himself of the rich dinner he had consumed in Wixenstead. “Don't wander too far away from us, Your Grace!” Utley called out. “I can make myself no more lost than you have already made me!” de Viennes’ voice shouted back. Utley swore beneath his breath, then climbed wearily down from his mount. He scowled as he took in the tracks their horses had already made the two times they'd traversed this path before. “I've never gotten lost in my entire forty-eight years,” Utley snapped, surveying the area around them. “How in Alel's name did I do it this time?” He glanced at his men. “You might as well stretch your legs." The three men who had accompanied Utley dismounted. Two headed for another set of bushes while the third rummaged in his saddlebags for the flask of warm brandy he had thoughtfully brought along. He offered a swig to Utley, who gratefully accepted the offer. “How long does it take a nobleman to shit?” the man asked Utley. Utley snorted. “He's probably looking for something to wipe his lily-white arse with." Long after the other two men had returned, de Viennes was still about his business in the bushes. “Are you all right, Your Grace?” Utley called out. “Of course I am all right, you oaf! Leave me alone!” came the nasty retort. Utley clenched his teeth together, then huddled as warmly as he could into the comfort of his great cape. His men were standing as close to their horses as they could for warmth and Utley decided to do the same. De Viennes pulled up his breeches and was tucking his shirt back in when he heard a rustling in the bushes behind him. Turning quickly, the Court Chancellor drew the dagger from his thigh and faced the sound. “Come out!” he demanded. “I will know who spies on me!" “I was not spying, Your Grace,” a sweet, soft voice denied. Rolf cocked his head to one side. “Show yourself, then,” he ordered. She pushed her way slowly through the snow-encrusted shrubs, trickles of the icy fluff falling about her legs as she strode gracefully into a shaft of moonlight filtering down through the barren branches above. Her lustrous blond hair was streaked with silver highlights in the ethereal light. Her ripe, red lips were wet with the snow's kiss and her blue eyes sparkled with innocence. She could have been no more than twelve, possibly younger. “By the gods!” Rolf whispered as the girl-child-her delicate little shoulders shivering with cold-made a clumsy curtsy before him. “What are you doing out here?" “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace,” the girl-child said. “I was just on my way home."

Rolf looked around them. “You live near here?" The girl-child pointed an arm off to the right. “Over there. Do you see the light?" Aye, he thought, wondering why he hadn't before then. He sniffed and could even smell wood smoke, amazed that he hadn't while he was relieving himself, so intense was the aroma. “Would you like to come in and warm yourself, Your Grace?” the girl-child asked shyly. “I've cider on the stove." De Viennes squinted. “I would imagine your mother would not like a visitor this late of the eve." “There is only me, Your Grace. I've been alone since my granny died,” she said in a small voice. The Court Chancellor's brows shot up. “All alone out here?” he queried, his eyes going slowly from the lustrous hair to the small feet. “How old are you?" The girl-child ducked her head. “I'll be ten come next Maytide, Your Grace.” She lifted hopeful eyes. “Will you come and sit with me a spell? It gets so lonely." It could be a trap, de Viennes told himself. Then he looked at her sweet, innocent young face. There could be thieves waiting at the cabin. His attention drifted down the tender young body. There might even be neighbors who might drop in unannounced. His manhood began to stir at the thought of the sweetness which lay between the child's slim legs. And the decision was made. “I will partake of your kindness, mam'selle. Thank you for the generous offer,” de Viennes said, licking his lips. He threw out his hand for her to lead the way. **** “Son of a bitch!!” Utley declared as he came stomping back to the camp he had ordered made. “Where the hell did he go?" Utley's men dared not answer; dared not even look their leader's way. Utley was infuriated and his rage was not an easy sight upon which. All three men had been on the receiving end of a virulent tongue that had cursed each of them in turn for failing to find the missing nobleman. “He didn't just wander off!” Utley barked. “There's no sign of him,” one of the men mumbled to another. “Not nary a single footprint in all that fresh snow."

“Nor a turd where he dropped it,” the other agreed. “Shut up!” Utley shrieked. He plopped down in front of the fire and held his hands out to the leaping flames. For a long while the four men sat there, each lost in his own thoughts. How could de Viennes have vanished without a trace? “Ransom, do you think?” one of the men ventured. Utley scowled. “Mayhaps.” He tossed on another log. “Murdered?” another asked. “He's enough enemies,” the third man snorted. Utley lifted his eyes, watching sparks flying up from the campfire until they extinguished themselves in the chill night sky. He sighed deeply. “Could be Prince Kaelan got to him,” Utley finally put forth. The other three men looked at him, one shaking his head almost immediately at the suggestion. “He weren't in no condition to come after us,” the man remarked." “He weren't in no condition,” the first man repeated. “Then who?” the third asked. “Mayhaps, he'll just return on his own,” Utley muttered. But Rolf de Viennes was never seen again. There are those who say he lost his soul to a banshee that fateful winter night, while some say the demons from the pit rose up to drag him down to the Abyss with them. And there are those who swear they have seen a miniature of his likeness floating in a glass jar of murky liquid, on a shelf in D'Lyn Aubert's witch's hut, his tiny mouth opened in a never-ending scream of horror. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Twenty

Dakin Cree came out of the inn with the Viragonian king and stopped still in his tracks. A sleigh pulled by four large draft horses was passing in front of the inn, Dakin's son, Nicholas, seated beside the driver. In front of the sleigh, already past the inn, were four Tribunal guards and behind the sleigh, eight riders, three of whom held the reins of riderless horses. The Tribunal's messenger, Occultus Noire, rode a magnificent black steed which pranced elegantly along the snow-packed street. “By the gods!” Duncan Hesar breathed. He took a step toward the procession. “That's Revenge!" The big black stallion tossed its head at the sound of its name and whinnied. Its rider, thin fingers easily

gripping the reins, clucked soothingly to the steed and the animal calmed. “And your runaway son!” Duncan's eyes bulged as he noticed the man lying in the back of the sleigh. “And my gods-be-damned brother!" Dakin put out a hand to stop the king from rushing right up to the priest, but Duncan shrugged away the restrain't. “Who the hell are you?” the king shouted. Occultus lifted a hand and the sleigh's driver stopped. He inclined his head and fixed Hesar with an imperial look. “I am Occultus,” he said simply, knowing no further explanation was necessary. Duncan blanched, his head jerking toward his brother's unmoving body. “Where are you taking him?” he asked, less sure of himself now that he was dealing with so powerful a person. Occultus’ left eyebrow lifted. “You have not been made privy to the Tribunal's Edict concerning your brother, Your Majesty?" Deep furrows formed in Duncan's brow. “I ... I have been away from Court for several days,” he stammered. “I am not sure." “Prince Kaelan has been accused of witchcraft, did you not know this?” Occultus interrupted. Duncan laughed, stifling the laughter quickly for he saw no humor in the stern visage glaring back at him from the top of Revenge's sleek back. He coughed away his amusement. “Your Worship,” he said in what he hoped was the right amount of deference, “my brother is no witch or warlock, either. He wouldn't know a spell if one bit him." “Nevertheless, he has been accused and, as such, must be taken before the Tribunal for questioning,” Occultus informed the king. “Your Worship, really,” Duncan said with exasperation despite trying not to. “The boy is headstrong and I know he made those silly curses on the village which, much to his astonishment I'm sure, came true, but he certainly meant no harm.” He put a hand out to touch the priest's leg then thought better of it. “You can see how it was, can't you? A man sorely put to the test by a vicious group of fools who were intent on driving him out." “He must go before the Tribunal and be questioned,” Occultus stated firmly. Duncan's face turned hard. “Tortured, you mean?” he grated. Occultus smiled hatefully. “Why should it matter to you what happens to the man?” he countered. “Did you not disclaim him as kin? Exile him from court and remand him into the hands of those who treated him less than human?” He fixed Duncan with a sardonic glower. “I ask again: Why should it matter to you what happens to him?" Duncan lifted his head. “He is my brother,” he replied. A brutal look blazed from the eyes of Occultus Noire. “And he is my prisoner!” the priest spat. With that, the priest lifted his hand again and the procession moved forward, Nick Cree turning a stony stare to the Viragonian king.

“Where are you going, Cree?” Duncan shouted. “As far from this heathen place as I can get!” Nick snarled. Duncan stood where he was, watching the procession wind down to the docks. In the harbor, was a sleek gray ship that had not been there the day before. Beside it, straining at their anchors were the three Serenian ships, the Boreal Wind and the Boreal Queen, and the Aubaine, Duke du Mer's private schooner. “What of my daughter?” Dakin asked and met Duncan's gaze as that man turned to him. “What of her?” Duncan sighed. “Are we not going on to Ciona?” Dakin asked, barely glancing at young Thècion McGregor as that royal son rode past them. “Surely we can take passage on the Boreal Queen if not the Wind." Duncan looked once more toward the harbor where the procession had stopped along the quay. “Why bother?” he asked. “But my daughter...” Dakin protested. “Will never see Kaelan Hesar again,” Duncan said. He glanced up at the snow filling sky and shrugged. “I will annul her Joining to Rolf because I find I have made a grievous error in that department. She will be free to marry whomever she wishes." “She wants Kaelan Hesar,” Dakin reminded the king. Duncan drew in a long, long breath, then slowly let it out. There was a hitch in his voice when he said: “No woman will want him when the Tribunal is through with him." **** Gillian threw her cup against the far wall and let out a string of unladylike words which made the Constable blush. Nevertheless, the stalwart man refused to do her bidding and gently, but firmly, closed the door behind him as he left the jail. “Damn you to the Abyss, Nicholas Cree!” she shouted and her plate followed the path of the cup. Slamming herself down on the cot that had been padded with numerous thick quilts and covered with layer upon layer of wool blanket, Gillian glared up at the ceiling where cracks in the plaster webbed out in a lacy pattern that, under any other circumstances, would have delighted her. Her heart thudding in her chest from her anger, her stomach roiling with indigestion for the same reason, Gilly plotted vicious ways she could get even with her high-handed brother. “It's because I'm a woman!” she seethed. That statement made her flip to her side. She grabbed her thick pillow, punched it savagely into submission beneath her head, then lay there, rigid and fairly quivering with fury, her mind filled with worry for her beloved. “You will be with him soon,” a thought slipped gently into her mind. “Never to be parted."

“I hope so,” Gillian whispered. “By the gods, I hope so!" [Back to Table of Contents] Part Three Chapter One

Occultus Noire leaned against the railing of the ship and stared intently at the dolphins swimming alongside the vessel. There was a scowl on his lean face, a hard glow in his dark eyes, and, to those who traveled with him, he appeared infuriated beyond appeasing. No one dared to intrude on the tall man's introspection and few even dared look his way. Those who did, shuddered, for they fancied they saw murder in the priest's stony glare. It had been three days since the mysterious white ship had sailed out of the fog bank near the Isle of Bright and fired a warning shot across the Boreal Queen's bow. Though her lines looked familiar to the sailor's of the Serenian ship, the ghost vessel bore the name the Revenant, a ship unknown to the Boreal Queen's captain. “Prepare to be boarded!” the thunderous voice shouted. “We are a passenger ship this time out!” the Boreal Queen's captain declared. “We've no cargo!" “Prepare to be boarded!” the pirate vessel's captain demanded again in a voice that brooked no further challenge. Twenty-two masked sailors, dressed entirely in white, boarded the Boreal Queen, cutlasses in hand. Their captain, a tall, red-haired fellow with a swath of white silk covering the lower half of his face, strode up to the Inquisitor, himself, demanding who the Tribunal was after this time. “What poor unfortunate are you carting off to the dungeon at Boreas Keep, priest?” the pirate sneered. To give Noire his due, he did not appear frightened of the scurvy bunch which had commandeered the ship. Instead, he had looked down his long, gaunt nose at the pirate and refused to answer, infuriating the 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 father will name him Gerren." “Blasdin will be pleased,” Thècion snorted. “So long as his firstborn is a male, he'll be content." “He will have a daughter, as well,” Occultus said gently, almost reverently, “and your sister-in-law will name her Dyreil."

“What has all that to do with me?" Occultus sighed. “You have the McGregor trait of being impatient, young sir,” he accused. “As your daughter will be." “My daughter?” Thècion questioned. “Mine and D'Lyn's?" Occultus nodded. “Truly?” the young man asked eagerly. “Truly." Thècion grinned. “And what will we name her?" “Siobhan,” Occultus replied, “and her daughter she will name Rosaleen.” A small smile stretched Occultus’ lips. “And Rosaleen's daughter she will name Gezelle." “But what does all this mean?” Thècion asked, becoming thoroughly confused. What did children, especially girl children, have to do with fighting the evil that was coming? “You need not know,” Occultus returned, answering the unasked question. “All you need do is love your lady and let the gods decide the rest." [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Two

The captain of the Serenian Star glared at his stowaway, consigning the lad to the Pit and beyond. Never once in the prison ship's illustrious history had someone dared stowaway. Try to escape it? Aye. But hide on it? Never! “And just where was it you thought you were going?” Captain Mallory grated. “This ship sails to Haelstrom Point, then on to Ghurn Colony!" “I ain't going to Haelstrom Point,” the lad dared to say. Captain Mallory's left brow arched up. “Is that so? And just were do you want us to be stopping to let you off, boy?" There was defiance in the lad's green eyes. “You can put me ashore on Montyne Cay!" The crew ringed around the stowaway chuckled at the demand. “Montyne Cay?” Captain Mallory snorted. “That's nowhere near, stupid boy." “Then make a detour,” the lad commanded and once more hearty laughter exploded on the Serenian Star's teakwood decks. Old salts slapped one another on the back, cocked thumbs toward the boy, who had guts if not common sense.

“He's a brave one, Cap'n,” the first mate remarked. “I'll give him that." Captain Mallory had had just about all of this nonsense as he was willing to stand. The lad had stowed away—a crime under any kingdom's maritime law—and was liable to whatever punishment he saw fit to administer to the brazen little fool. But being a man with five sons of his own in four different ports of call, he was inclined to be more lenient than most of his breed. The lad had wanted passage on a fast ship and that was what he was going to get. But he was going to pay for his passage. “Mr. Kendall?” the captain asked, looking to the first mate. “Weren't you telling me the cook's hands are acting up again?" “Arthur Itus is a'visiting’ him, Cap'n,” Mr. Kendall said. “Cold weather bothers Spiel something fierce." “And there's spuds to be peeled, aren't there?" The lad's nose went up in the air. “I am not doing any cooking for you men!" Captain Mallory frowned. That little nose of the lad's was far too delicate-looking for a boy's. He took a step closer. “How old are you?" Two sharp green eyes narrowed with danger. “That is none of your business!" “By the gods!” Captain Mallory snapped. He pointed a finger at the boy. “I'll not have disrespect shown me on this ship! Apologize this instant and answer my question or I'll turn you over to Mr. Colbret for punishment!" This wasn't going as planned, the stowaway thought. If there hadn't been a cask of pepper sitting right next to the place she'd chosen to hide, the journey could have gone off without a hitch. As it was, one ill-timed sneeze had caught the attention of the cabin boy and that was that. “Do you hear me, lad?” Captain Mallory roared, still waiting for his apology. “Go to the docks,” the voice had said. “Take the ship with the Serenian flag." Well, Gilly thought, she'd done that. She'd hidden in the hold, just as she'd been bid, and she had waited impatiently for the ship to set sail, to tack due South as it was suppose to. Except, she groaned with disbelief, she had taken the wrong gods-be-damned ship. Not only was she heading north instead of south, she had stowed away on a penal colony transport! “IF YOU DON'T ANSWER ME, I'LL HAVE YOUR SCRAWNY ASS KEELHAULED FROM ONE SIDE OF THE BOREAL SEA TO THE OTHER!” the captain railed. Gilly pursed her lips. “You'll do no such thing.” She reached up and dragged off the smelly cap she had filched from the jail. As the glory of her reddish-gold hair cascaded around her, there was a chorus of sharply-indrawn breaths.

“Lor!” Mr. Kendall whispered. “She be a girl!" Captain Mallory's eyes bulged. His mouth sagged open and he stood there shocked down to the soles of his heavy winter boots. He couldn't have spoken if his very life had depended upon it. Instead, he stared at this unexpected complication to his life and knew a fear unlike any he'd ever known. This girl was gentry if he'd ever laid eyes on one! “Well, I'm not that much of an ogress, am I?” Gilly snapped, annoyed at the way the captain and his crew was gawking at her. “No, milady. You be a beauty,” the cabin boy said on a breath of air. At his cabin boy's worshipful tone, the captain's mouth snapped shut, then opened with: “What in the name of Alel are you doing on my ship?" “Well, obviously this is the wrong ship,” Gilly returned with equal fire. “I mistook your ship for the one I was intended to stowaway on!" “The wrong ship?” The captain shook his head violently to rid himself of the confusion. “What ship was you suppose to take?" “The one with the Serenian flag!” Gilly responded as though he should have known that. The first mate's brows drew together over his craggy nose. “We don't carry no flag, milady. Didn't you notice that? This be a prison ship for all the Seven Kingdoms." Gilly stamped her foot in vexation. “But,” she explained as though speaking to a fool, “she is called the Serenian Star. With a name like that, she has to be of Serenian registry, doesn't she?" “We be Tribunal registered,” the captain responded. He saw the delicate shudder which ran through the girl's slender body beneath its layers of clothing and knew, despite her seeming bravado, she was frightened. “What we gonna do with her, Cap'n?” Mr. Colbret asked. Gilly looked pleadingly at the captain, then tucked her lower lip between her teeth, not experienced enough to know that every man there—from cabin boy to the oldest salt—was aroused by the action. “Montyne Cay is way off course,” the captain blurted out. He had leeway in when his ship arrived for its rendezvous with the Borstal and the Vortex. He usually liked to get to Haelstrom Point quickly, then spend some time at a certain tavern there before going back to Boreas; but he'd always held to the belief that having a woman on board ship was not only unlucky, it was a temptation no crew could overlook. “It would make us two days overdue,” Mr. Kendall reminded him, sensing his captain's dilemma. The captain hadn't yet made up his mind to turn the ship around and head south, but when the girl stuck out her tongue and ran it over her upper lip—and every man within sight groaned at the unconscious gesture—he made up his mind. After all, he had seven daughters in three ports! He knew all about women and the harm they could do!

“Set course for Montyne Cay immediately, Mr. Kendall!” Mallory ordered. He jabbed a finger toward Gilly. “And lock this conniving little bundle in my cabin, Mr. Colbret, and bring me back the key!" **** Jeremy, the captain's cabin boy brought Gilly her evening meal. The potatoes were mushy; the beef was stringy; and the green beans were underdone. Gilly barely noticed any of that for she'd had no noontime meal and was starving. She dug into the meal, giving the captain the impression that she hadn't eaten in days. “Why are you doing to Montyne Cay, lass?” Captain Mallory inquired as he fired up his clay pipe, drew greedily on the stem, then fanned out his Lucifer. “My husband will be there,” Gilly said as she jammed a hard-as-a-rock biscuit in her mouth and tried to chew it. Her answer stunned the captain and he drew the pipe stem from his mouth. “You are married?" “Nearly a week now,” she answered, gobbling up the canned peaches that were the only decent thing on the menu. “And he left you to run off to Montyne Cay?” Mallory shook his head in disgust. “He didn't run off,” Gilly replied. She washed the unpalatable food down with the sharp ale Jeremy had poured for her, wincing at the tang as the brew hit her tongue. “You realize, of course, that Montyne Cay is a haven for pirates, don't you?” the captain inquired. “It's a No-Man's Land into which no government dares venture since the Outlaw declared it free territory.” He narrowed his eyes. “But that don't keep them rascals from sailing from it and plundering ships. Not that any of that lot would dare give me trouble of any kind. I've twenty guns to discourage such folly.” He sniffed with disdain at the very thought, then asked, “Is that the livelihood your husband plies?" Gilly glanced up from her plate, where she was sopping up the last of the meat juices from the beef with her remaining biscuit. To tell a Tribunal employee that her husband was a pirate was asking for trouble. To admit who he actually was might put Kaelan into danger. “Well?” the captain asked, puffing on his pipe. “Is he a pirate, lass?" “No,” she answered honestly. “He's a...” She tried to remember what it was Kaelan had always wanted to do. When it came to her, her eyes lit up. “He's a horse breeder!" Captain Mallory chewed the stem of his pipe. The lass was lying through her teeth, but what did it matter? She was a comely little thing and if he hadn't turned his ship around to take her where she wanted to go, he might have had a mutiny on his hands. “What's his name?" Gilly shook her head. “I'm not a fool, Captain,” she replied. “I've no desire to have the Tribunal come after him." A chuckle rumbled out of the captain's broad chest. “Ain't no Tribunal ship gonna dare try to make harbor at Montyne Cay ever again! Besides, they don't go after pirates, lass,” he told her. “It's political insurrectionists and murderers that the Tribunal be interested in or the occasional robber of Temple

coffers." Gilly frowned. “Is that the kind of prisoner you're carrying?” she asked. “Some,” the captain admitted. He reached over and took up the glass of plum wine that was his nightly treat. He sipped slowly, appreciatively, then set the glass down again. “I've nine prisoners this time out.” He stuck up his thumb. “One was arrested for writing up pamphlets condemning the High Priest Demonicus for ‘unnatural acts'.” His index finger came up. “One was arrested for trying to kill a Temple guard.” His middle finger joined the other two. “One is an escapee from the Labyrinth, though you didn't hear that from me." “Why not?” Gilly asked. She'd heard all about that infamous penal colony on Tyber's Isle; her fellow Chaleans called it The Maze. It was rumored to be a place not unlike hell. “Because, according to the Tribunal,” the captain explained with a snort, “no one has ever escaped that hellhole.” He smiled grimly. “I don't know how they explained the three prisoners I took back there only last year." Gilly saw sympathy in the captain's eyes. “What happens to them when they're caught and taken back?" Captain Mallory looked away. “That's not a fit thing for a lass to be hearing about,” he replied. She thought about it for a moment. “This man you've got to take back? What did he do to be sent there in the first place?" The captain thought a moment, then shrugged. “I believe he made a very important person very angry." Gilly's brows shot up into her hair. “That's all?" Captain Mallory finished the rest of his wine. “That's all it takes sometimes, lass." “What about the other six men?” she asked. “First one thing and then another. Nothing all that serious, I'm thinking, but enough to warrant them being transported according to blasted Tribunal Law.” He got up and went to the brazier which warmed the cabin, opened the door of it and shook the contents of his pipe into the fire. “The Serenian Star don't usually carry the really bad prisoners. The Barracoon and the Borstal get them. Mostly what we get is political prisoners." “I've heard it's a long journey to the Labyrinth,” Gilly remarked. “So I've heard,” the captain agreed. “You don't go there?" He shook his head. “Only the Vortex goes there.” He shivered. “I'd just as soon never captain that hellship, though I've been offered the chance twice now." “Why not?" Mallory sat down and stretched out his long legs. “I'm not an evil man, lass. I'm just a sailor trying to do

a job he likes best: traverse the waves and meet the occasional comely lass.” He smiled benignly. “Though I don't care to see no more of them stowed away ‘pon my ship!" Gilly blushed. “I can honestly tell you this lass won't do it again!" “I'm hoping not,” Mallory laughed. “Then why work for the Tribunal if you don't like their policies?” she asked, sensing there was more to this man that met the eye. “I've children to support though I'm not married to a single one of their mothers,” he answered bluntly. “'Tis a good living and pays well. I just try not to think long on what it is I'm carrying by way of cargo." Gilly leaned forward across the table. “What will they do to the prisoner that escaped Tyber's Isle, Captain Mallory? Will they hang him?" The captain shook his head. “They don't execute prisoners who get sent to that demonic place. The Tribunal wants them to suffer every day of their lives. Death is too kind a punishment." “Tell me,” she asked, needing to know though not knowing why. Captain Mallory looked at her a long moment, gauging her ability to assimilate the information he knew he shouldn't impart. At last, seeing the concern in her eyes, he shrugged and answered her. “They crucify them, lass.” He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Nail their hands to a crosspiece of wood and leave them there in the blistering sun until the Commandant is satisfied they won't try to escape ever again." Gilly felt a tremor go down her body at the thought of something so inhumane happening. “And has that deterred anyone from doing it again?" Captain shook his head. “I don't know, lass, but it would sure as hell deter me!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Three

Kaelan felt the hands on him and opened his eyes. He didn't know the tall man bending over him. There was something very bizarre in the way the man's dark eyes were assessing him. “Where am I?” he managed to croak. The tall man didn't answer. His cool hands continued to roam over Kaelan's naked chest, down his hip and onto his left thigh. “Don't,” Kaelan protested, feeling uneasy at the intimate way those long fingers stroked his bare flesh. “Lie still,” the tall man ordered. Nausea rose up in Kaelan's throat as the tall man slipped both of his hands around the top of Kaelan's crippled leg and began to deeply kneed the muscle all the way down to his knee, then back up again, the

backs of the man's right hand grazing Kaelan's testicles. “DON'T!” Kaelan shrieked, trying to pull away. He became aware for the first time that his wrists and ankles were tied to the bunk on which he lay. Panic sent his heart into spasms of terror and he opened his mouth to scream out when a hand was slapped firmly across his mouth. “Be quiet!” the tall man snapped. Kaelan squirmed beneath the constriction over his mouth. He stared wide-eyed up at his tormentor, bile flooding his mouth. “Do you wish to go through your entire life crippled, Hesar?” the man hissed at him, bending down to put his thin face close to Kaelan's. “If so, I will let you do it!” His hold relaxed enough to allow Kaelan to pull his face free of the man's grip. “Don't put your hands on me again!” the young prince snarled, his lips skinned back from his teeth. “How am I to heal you otherwise, fool?” Occultus grated. “Touch me again and I will...." “What?” Occultus sneered. He reached up to tug at the rag which confined Kaelan's left wrist. “What will you do? What can you do? Curse at me? Go ahead!" “Don't you touch me again!” Kaelan repeated, fury blazing. “I am trying to help you!” Occultus spat. “Aye, I've heard of your kind of help, priest!” Kaelan threw at him. He pulled against his constraints. “Untie me!" With deliberate intent, Occultus slid his hand from the rag he had been gripping, down the length of Kaelan's arm, down his side, his hip, then across the young man's belly where he spread his long fingers and wrapped them around a portion of Kaelan's anatomy that made the young man yelp with indignation. “I can,” Occultus said, putting his lips to Kaelan's ear, “do whatever I wish to you, Hesar.” His fingers tightened and began to kneed. “Oh, god!” Kaelan gasped, choking on the bile in his mouth. He tore his face away from Occultus’ and gagged. The thought of this pervert molesting him filled him with pure terror. “If that were my intent,” Occultus said in a gentle voice, “I would have done it as you lay unconscious, as is the bent of most of the Brotherhood." At the mention of that devilish sect, Kaelan's face snapped back around and he stared up with total shock at the tall man whose hand had heresy, but it was the Brotherhood who ordered that arrest. Pure fear drove right through Kaelan. “Why?” he asked. “Because there are those who, although they do not know why they should fear you, do,” Occultus answered.

“Me?” Kaelan asked. “Why should they fear me?" “Because you have been blessed by the gods, Kaelan Hesar." Kaelan flinched as the man leaned over him, not sure of what this stranger would do next. When he felt the cool fingers on his wrists, untying him, he relaxed as much as he could. “I was trying to mend the bones in your thigh, Kaelan,” Occultus said when he untied the other wrist, “though I would not mind tasting the pleasures I am sure you could give me." Kaelan blushed to the tips of his toes. Occultus moved to the foot of the bunk and untied Kaelan's ankles. “If you would like me to..." “No!” Kaelan barked, trying to push himself up on the cot, but too weak to do so. A rare, thoroughly pleased smiled fell over Occultus’ thin lips. “...mend your thigh, I will be happy to finish what I started.” He cocked a thick black brow. “What else would you like me to do, then?" Kaelan did not miss the amusement in the other man's voice. He had heard tales of the powers these men could wield and he knew it was not outside the realm of possibility that a High Priest of the Brotherhood of the Domination could heal his crippled leg. “What's it to be?” Occultus said, placing his long, thin hands on the footboard of the bunk. “Do I heal you or do you remain in agony every time the weather changes?" The thought of the man's hands near so private a portion of his body still brought uneasiness to Kaelan's stomach, but he didn't dare let his pride and modesty stand in the way of being made whole for Gilly once more. “For Gilly,” Occultus answered. “A most brave and resourceful woman, your wife." Fear of a new kind stung Kaelan and he struggled up in the bed, barely wincing at the pain in his left thigh. “Where is she?” he asked, his eyes pleading for good news. “On her way here,” Occultus answered. Kaelan looked around the cabin. “Where is here?" “Oh, you are on the Revenant, Lord Cree's ship,” Occultus replied, “but we are at anchor in Montyne Cay, awaiting your lady-wife's arrival." “Montyne Cay?” Kaelan gasped. “How the gods-be-damned hell did I get to Montyne Cay?” The tall man's words registered. “Lord Cree's ship?" “It's a long story,” Occultus laughed. He pointed to Kaelan's thigh. “Shall I continue?” The man's thin lips twitched. “For Gilly?" ****

“SAIL HO!" Nick turned away from helping Thècion thoroughly tromp Diarmuid and Traer at whist and looked up at the crow's nest. “WHERE AWAY?” he called back. Tyler Dixon leaned over the rim of the crow's nest. “THIRTY DEGREES OFF TO STARBOARD, CAP'N!" “She's a prison transport,” Lumley Tarnes snapped, coming to his feet. He might be a might long in the tooth, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. “How the blazes can you tell?” Taylor Dixon, the new boatswain of the Revenant, queried. “Know the Captain,” Lumley informed him. “Know the ship." Nick swung his head toward the elderly man he had made his first mate. “Friend or enemy?" Lumley took off his hat and scratched his balding pate. “Reckon both.” He slapped the cap back on his head snugly, tugged the brim down and turned his head to spit a stream of tobacco juice over rail. “Took a woman away from him once. Don't know why he'd be this far south, though." “Coming after us,” Riordan A'Lex breathed. “Don't figure,” Lumley disagreed. “Then why's she here?” Nick demanded. “Don't know,” Lumley answered. “Could have been a mutiny, though that don't seem likely with Mallory. He's a toughun, he is.” The old tar shook his head. “Don't make no sense to me. Tribunal ships know better than to sail into this harbor." “Unless?” Thècion stood up, laid his cards down on the barrel top that had served as a table for the four of them. “Unless what?” Diarmuid snapped. “He's here to bring Kaelan's lady to him,” Thècion answered. “I don't think my sister would hitch a ride on a prison ship full of men,” Nick scoffed. “Put nothing past a woman who's after being reunited with her man, Cap'n,” Lumley chuckled. “And I'm thinking that especially true of your little sister!" “We'll ready the guns anyway,” Nick said. He looked to the six fifty pound cannons lined up on the bluff overlooking the harbor. There was more than ample shot to blow any ship to sawdust. “Send a signal, Taylor, then gather us up a bordering party." “Aye, Cap'n!" Occultus had come on deck and was standing at the rail, watching the advancing sails of the Serenian

Star. For a long moment, he stared at the ship, his insides boiling with rage and hurt and abject despair. He was having trouble breathing and reached up to push at the air, as though he were trying to push away a lid that had been placed over his face, shutting out the oxygen. He snatched his hands back, groaning despite his best effort not to. He looked down into his palms, seeing them blistered and raw, oozing. Another groan rippled through him and he stumbled, twisting against a great agony which ripped down his back. “Your Worship, are you all right?” Jess Patrick put out a hand to steady the priest. “Do not touch me!” Occultus whimpered, moving away. Patrick jumped back. He turned to look at Nick, shaking his head at the priest's odd behavior. Nick and the others watched as Occultus stumbled back from the rail and made his way unsteadily to the hatchway, still refusing help from those who offered. “What's wrong with him?” Diarmuid inquired. Raine Jale, who'd had more truck with sorcerers and magi than the rest of them put together, turned his attention out to sea. “He was sensing something evil from the ship,” he answered. “Something yet to come, I think." Nick followed Jale's gaze and thought the man might be right. He, too, felt a weird electricity in the air, shimmering around the ship. “There's a man on board that ship,” the men heard Occultus call from the hatchway where he had paused, holding onto the wood. “I want you to free him.” He risked another glance at the ship, then quickly away. “Get them all off that hellspawned ship, but bring that man to me! One of his will be very precious to the McGregor family!" Thècion nodded as though he understood perfectly. He put a hand on Nick's arm. “I've a mind to go aspirating with you, Nicky.” He grinned. “In the name of the McGregor family." Nick shook his head adamantly. “Oh, no, you don't!” he protested. “We'll get that ransom we're gonna ask from your father, then you can go get D'Lyn; but I'm not going to put my neck through a Serenian noose so you can ease your boredom!" “'Tis not boredom,” Diarmuid disagreed. “'Tis high adventure we're after, Cree!" “You can get your bloody adventure elsewhere, Brell!” Nick suggested. “If I go get D'Lyn,” Thècion reminded his new friend, “I can't go home again." “And I've no real desire to,” Diarmuid put in. “The crown belongs to Sean and I've no itch to wear it.” He looked out over the waves. “But I do have a mind to fleece the Diabolusians and try my hand at pirating!" “No!” Nick stated firmly. But one look at the two young noblemen and he knew they would pay him no heed. [Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

Gilly held the lantern as high as the low ceiling would allow. The stench below decks grew stronger the closer she got to the brig. Now and again, she had to stop and readjust the handkerchief she had plastered over her nose. Even her eyes were watering from the horrible smell coming from the prisoner's cells. The crew was on deck, readying their arrival in the harbor at Montyne Cay. No one had noticed her when she left the captain's cabin, the first time since being ensconced there as Mallory's ‘prisoner'. Since the Serenian Star and her crew were so close to their destination, the captain had seen no reason to keep such a close watch on his stowaway. “Just behave yourself, lass,” he had admonished before going on deck. “And stay put!" The plight of the prisoners had been weighing on Gilly for days now. She knew the men weren't being mistreated, but neither were they being seen to with all that much care. Jeremy had told her that he helped take food down to the caged men once a day and that they were, for the most part, healthy and as comfortable as leg irons and manacles could make them. But suffering was something Gilly had long taken to heart and she knew, there but by the grace of the gods, might Kaelan be. “You can help, Gillian,” the voice had whispered to her. “You must help." Making up her mind to set the men free, she had taken the lantern and made her way down the companionway to the hatch leading down to the brig. The breeches she had stolen from the jail lent her the freedom to climb down the ladder and she was of a mind to continue wearing them as often as she could, although she was fairly sure both Nick and Kaelan would have something to say about that decision. The smell got much, much worse and the damp chill cut all the way through her clothing. So miserable was she, she almost missed the ring which held two keys which hung on the bulkhead wall and swung gently to the rhythm of the ship's roll. “Help me,” she heard someone whimper and she stopped beside a thick iron door inset with a high grate. She had to stand on tiptoes to peer inside the cell. “Sir?” she called out. “It's bitten through my arm,” came the cry. Rats, Gilly knew, were all over the ship. Confined as they were, the prisoners had to be prime targets for the rodents. As much as she disliked the sly beasts, she knew the prisoners had to hate them more. “I am going to get you out,” Gilly told the unseen man. “Who are you, milady?” someone called from behind her and Gilly turned to see another cell door, though she could not see the cell's occupant. “Someone sent to help,” Gilly responded.

“Gods-sent,” another man declared from further down the row of locked doors. “The gods be blessed that you have come none too late, milady." It didn't take Gilly long to find the key that would unlock the cell door. She had prepared herself for the sight that would greet her, but nothing could have prepared her for the man who fell at her feet, kissing her boots, when she unlocked his manacles. “Thank you, milady,” the man sobbed, his hands gripping her ankles. “Thank you." The prisoner's arms were bloody from bites; his legs, too. His bare feet were filthy and covered with scratches. “You must hurry,” she told him. “Get up now and make for the hatchway. We are at Montyne Cay and there will be men to help you.” The voice had told her there would be help and she knew there would be. “Thank you,” the prisoner said again and again. Gilly unlocked the leg irons of the other three men in the cell with him and cautioned them all, with a finger to her lip, that they were to make their way quietly to the hatchway. When the men had done as she asked, after thanking her as profusely as the first man, she moved across to the other door and unlocked it. “You must hurry, milady,” the man who had spoken to her before insisted. “You must help him." “I will,” Gilly said, moving on to the second man in the cell. There were five men in all crowded in the cramped quarters. “They nearly beat him to death when they caught him,” the man continued as he stood there, rubbing his wrists. “We've heard nothing from him for the last day." “I will see to him,” Gilly stressed, “now go. We've not that much time." “Thank you, milady,” the man said. He helped the other four men to exit the cell, but stayed where he was. “Go,” Gilly insisted. The man shook his head. “You'll need help with him, milady." There was probably truth in that, Gilly thought. She flung out her hand. “Where is he?” There were several cells left, but only one prisoner unaccounted for. “I'll show you.” The man moved out of the cell and went further down the row. He reached the farthest cell and stopped. “He's in here." Gilly handed the keys to her helper and he unlocked the door, stooping down to get inside the smaller cell. “Why did they put him by himself?” she asked.

“To punish him the more,” came the answer. If Gilly had been unprepared for the unrestrained thankfulness of the men she released, she was doubly unprepared for the sight of the pathetic wretch who was interned in the Serenian Star's solitary confinement cell. “Sweet Merciful Alel!” Gillian whispered, her hand going to her mouth. “Help me,” the man with her ordered, trying not to give the woman time to dwell long on the gruesome sight which had greeted her. Gilly shuddered hard, but she swallowed down the nausea that had leapt up her throat and moved over to her helper who was kneeling down in the filthy straw on which the prisoner lay. “Son, can you hear me?” she heard the man ask. There was a groan from the man who lay on his stomach in the rustling straw. “We're going to get you out of here, Quinn,” the man said. Tears had formed in Gilly's eyes. “What can I do?” she asked. “Help me turn him over so I can pick him up," “No,” came the weak denial from the prone man. “I've got to, Quinn. I'm not going to leave you here!" With stern purpose, Gilly's helper eased his hands under the other man's left side and motioned with his head for Gilly to go to his right side. “Turn him toward me until I can get my arms under his back and legs." “God, don't!” was the tortured plea. “Quinn,” Gilly's helper said patiently, “it's got to be done." A bright light flooded the cell and both Gilly and her helper gasped, turning toward it. “What the gods-be-damned hell are you doing down here, Gillian Cree?!” came the infuriated demand. **** Mercifully, the prisoner had lost consciousness long before Riordan A'Lex, the strongest man in Nick's boarding party, could settle the unconscious one's abused body in his arms. The first movement as the men made to lift the prisoner had brought with it an agonized scream and unintelligent mumbles that tapered off into whimpers. “How can anyone do something so brutal to another human being?” Thècion had demanded as he helped Riordan lay the prisoner in the bunk Kaelan had been able to vacate.

“Do you know him, Thècion?” Diarmuid asked. “Never seen him before,” the Serenian prince replied. The men washed the prisoner as best they could, stripped the filthy, tattered breeches from his body, then laid him on his belly as Riordan set to work on the carnage that had once been a human back. In the corner of the captain's cabin, Kaelan sat watching, his own flesh tingling where the lash had once been laid to it. He could sympathize with the unconscious man even though he, himself, had never known the excess of the cat-'o-nine that this poor fellow had. “His name is Quinn Arbra,” Raine informed them as he came in with fresh water for the prisoner to drink. “I heard Nick questioning the Star's captain about him." “Arbra?” Thècion asked. “I've never heard that name before, either.” He scratched his head. “It ain't a Serenian name. Is it Viragonian, Kaelan?" “Most likely Ionarian,” Kaelan replied, then sneezed hard. His nose was stopped up and he had a wicked headache, not to mention the constriction which still plagued his lungs. He blew his nose on the kerchief that was never far away. “He made somebody very, very angry to have that much damage done to him." Thècion's jaw clenched. “I'd like to get my hands on the bastard who did it!" “The Tribunal did it, Your Grace,” Raine reminded him. “They are responsible for everything like this." “Raine's right,” Kaelan said. “And that's why we've got to do what we can to stop this from happening again.” He started to cough, waving away Raine's offer of water. The Serenian prince glanced around. “Why aren't you up with your bride, Hesar?" Kaelan shrugged. “Nick ain't through with her, yet,” he answered. “When he's blunted his tongue on her thick hide, it'll be my turn.” He laid his head back against the cabin's wall and rubbed at his aching temples. “Just the thought of her being on board that ship with thirty men makes my blood run cold.” He drew in a long, wheezing breath. “If Nick don't tan her hind end, I will." Thècion exchanged a grin with Raine. Both men knew neither brother nor husband would lay a hand to the brazen little chit they had taken an instant liking to the moment they met her. There was a low moan from the bunk and Thècion hunkered down beside it. He ran his hand over the prisoner's hair, the freshly-washed blond curls still damp to the touch. “Easy, fellow,” the prince cautioned softly. “You're with friends." “Where..is ... s..she?” was the labored question from the prisoner who had opened glazed blue eyes the color of a summer sky. “Who?” Thècion inquired. “T ... the ... l ... lady." “I think he means my lady,” Kaelan said, not all that pleased to have a strange man seeking his wife's

whereabouts. “Do you want me to get her for you?” Thècion asked. “P ... please.” The blue eyes closed tiredly, then opened again, bright with fever and unspeakable pain. Kaelan shrugged his indifference to Thècion when the prince looked over at him; but he was experiencing a mild case of jealousy that kept him right where he was. Thècion got up. He was gone only a few minutes, Gilly in tow. Gilly glanced at her husband, her face lighting with happiness, but she resolutely looked away from him and headed for the bunk, unknowingly adding fuel to both Kaelan's feelings of jealousy and unease. “I am glad to hear you are awake, Milord Quinn,” Gilly said, kneeling down beside the still man. Quinn Arbra shifted his gaze from the distant stare which he had held to the beautiful face of the young woman who had saved his life. “Who are you, Angel?” he forced out. Gilly smiled and put a hand to his damp cheek. “Gillian Hesar, milord." “Gillian,” Quinn repeated. With effort, he turned his head so that his lips were pressed against her palm and he kissed her there softly. Gilly felt a tingle in her palm and her smile widened. No one but Kaelan had ever been able to elicit such a feeling before. When Quinn locked his eyes with hers, she felt another feeling-more profound and more intense-spiral through her belly. “My thanks, Angel,” Quinn whispered and with that he fell into a deep, healing sleep. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Five

Kaelan stood up, still amazed there was no pain in his thigh, and then held out his hand to Gillian who was lingering at the unconscious man's bedside. “Come to me, lady,” he asked. Gilly assured herself that Quinn was sleeping soundly, then pushed up from the floor. She came to her husband shyly, going into his arms as he opened them for her. “I think I'm in need of a little fresh air,” Riordan quipped, elbowing Raine. The two men studiously avoided looking at Kaelan and his bride as they headed for the door. “I believe I'll join you,” Thècion mumbled, grinning foolishly as he cast a quick glance at Kaelan. “Did you frown them away with that scowl of yours, milord?” Gilly inquired as she snuggled against her husband's chest. “No. They just knew they weren't needed,” Kaelan snorted. She pulled her head back and looked up at him. “You think you can handle me all by yourself, do you?”

she teased. Kaelan's left eyebrow quirked upward. “Care to have me show you how I can handle you, Gillian Hesar?" Gilly opened her lips to tease him some more, but Kaelan's mouth swooped down to cover hers, blocking her intent. As his tongue plunged between her lips and stabbed at her own, she felt her knees giving way and would have fallen had he not dipped his knees and swung her up into his arms. “Kaelan Hesar, don't you dare!” she squealed, pulling her mouth free of his tender suction. “You are freshly out of your sick bed and..." “Horny as hell!” he finished for her. Before she could protest again, he had carried her to Nick's desk and sat her down on it, wedging himself between her knees, spreading them apart with o-skirts Nick had demanded she put on once he'd seen her in breeches-to push them up her thighs. “Kaelan!” she protested, trying to push her skirts down again. “This dress is freshly-ironed! Do you know the trouble Lumley and Ned went to to get it from a shop on Montyne Cay?" “I'll get you another,” he mumbled as he locked his lips on her arched throat. “Kaelan!” she protested again, this time with less conviction. Who cared about a silly old dress anyway? “You talk too much, lady,” Kaelan grunted, fumbling with the buttons on his breeches. “This is unseemly,” she said, peering over his shoulder to make sure Quinn Sorn was still asleep. “Pay attention to me, lady!” Kaelan growled, tilting his head back to see where his wife was looking. “I need your full attention." Gilly pursed her lips into a pretend pout. “It is hard to concentrate when we're not alone, Kaelan." “Then close your eyes and pretend the bastard isn't there!” Kaelan told her. With that, he had freed himself and was already paused to give her his full attention. Gilly gasped as her husband pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, then swept his arm behind her to rid the top of its contents. Before she could scold him for his wanton destruction of her brother's property, she found herself flat on her back, her husband's rigid shaft buried to the hilt within her. “Kaelan, really!” she whispered as he came up and over her, pushing her along the desk as he joined atop the heavy mahogany piece of furniture. The wild thought that it was a good thing the desk was bolted to the floor crossed her mind before her husband reached up and pulled her left breast free of the top of her low-cut gown. Kaelan's head lowered and his lips closed around the stiff bud of her nipple. He felt the tremor go through his wife at his touch and clenched his teeth lightly around the puckered flesh, his lips pulling back in a smile when Gilly's legs came up around his hips and her hands dug into the thickness of his hair. “This is pure devilishness, Hesar,” she whispered against the top of his head and clenched her legs tighter when his teeth did the same.

“Shu ... up,” Kaelan muttered around the tasty morsel in his mouth. He withdrew just a little ways out of her, thrilling to her grunt of protest, then pushed again into her, straining to hold himself still as she began to wiggle against him. “Kaelan, please!” she begged, needing the hard thrusting that had so thrilled her on their Joining night. “Do it!" “Shu ... up!” he demanded and pulled back a fraction. “NO!” Gilly denied and shifted so that she was gripping him hard enough to cut off his breath. Kaelan growled deep in his throat, drew out just a bit more then rammed into her as hard as he could, nearly scooting the two of them off the far end of the desk. As it was, Gilly's head slid off the edge and hung down as he pummeled into her. “Brute!” she grunted as he drove into her, but her hands gripped tightly in his dark curls gave lie to the insult. She was riding him as much as he was riding her and when her pleasure came, it was all she could do not to scream out her release. Kaelan followed quickly, giving himself up to the sweetness he had dreamed about for so many years. He pushed himself deeply inside his woman-claiming her, branding her-and, when he climaxed, he turned his head on her breast, and saw Quinn Arbra watching them. **** Long after his Angel had left the cabin to go with the man Quinn now knew was her brother, Quinn could see her in his mind's eye. Not only was she a beauty beyond compare, she had a sensuous nature that awoke a part of him he would have sworn had died eight years earlier. To find himself hard and aching was a predicament he thought never to feel again-and at the moment wished he couldn't. Out of deference to her modesty, he had shut his eyes quickly when he'd seen what was taking place on the captain's desk, cutting off the scene he knew would replay itself time and time again in the years ahead. But not before the man who called himself her husband had seen him watching. Quinn swung his gaze over to that rigid man in question and found him still staring back at him, as he'd been doing since Angel left. The fool was just sitting there at the desk, not even blinking that Quinn could tell, and if looks could kill, Quinn knew he should be in the arms of the Gatherer by now. This silence had become a test of wills between them, each waiting for the other to speak, and Quinn would be damned if he broke the tension and spoke, apologizing for something that could not be helped. Almost as though the other man had read his thoughts, he grunted with derision, his scrutiny still locked on Quinn. It wasn't as though he had been spying on them, Quinn thought. He had simply awakened and opened his eyes at the exact moment the fellow had turned his head and looked that way. In all fairness to the man, Arbra supposed it did appear as though he'd been watching their escapade all along, but he hadn't, and wouldn't have, had he been given a choice in the matter. No, he thought hatefully. He certainly wouldn't have opened his eyes at all had he known that his Angel would be in the arms of another man, being serviced by that knight.

“God,” Quinn moaned, the very thought making him ache inside and he squeezed his eyes shut. “You need something?” he heard the man ask him in a grudging tone. “Not from you,” Quinn mumbled. “Really?” his watcher inquired in a less than civil tone. “Do you want me to get help for you from someone who gives a damn?" Quinn sighed and opened his eyes. “I hurt, all right?” he said. “There's nothing anyone can do, so why don't you just be about your business and let me suffer?" Kaelan's head came up. “I'd gladly leave you to your suffering if you'd just get the hell out of my bed so I could lay down in it! You're not the only one sick here, you know." Quinn eyed his tormentor and could see the remains of what could only have been a rather bad beating. The man's voice was deep and bore the unmistakable hollowness of a raging cold. That observation was confirmed when the obnoxious fellow started sneezing. “I think my malady is a bit worse than yours, don't you? I had most of the skin on my back removed,” Quinn threw at him. Besides, he thought with pique, he knew he couldn't have lifted himself off the bed by himself if he had had the strength to try. And should someone else try to roust him, he knew he'd pitch right back into unconsciousness. “What did you do anyway?” Kaelan snapped. “If you were at the Labyrinth, you have to have done something truly evil." Quinn snorted. “What did you do to warrant a beating?" Kaelan smiled nastily. “I fought a man who wanted to take my woman away from me." “And lost from the looks of it,” Quinn insulted him, accessing the minor damage that had yet to be healed with Occultus’ magik. It was on the tip of Kaelan's tongue to deny the charge, but he knew it was true. He had lost the fight, though it hadn't really been a contest anyway. So instead of defending himself, he just smiled more hatefully and said, “I have her, don't I?" “Seems to me she wasn't with you when I met her,” Quinn challenged. “Seems to me her brother didn't even know she was on the Serenian Star." Kaelan got to his feet and came to stand over Quinn. “What did you do?" “Who did you fight?” Quinn returned the shot. “Rolf de Viennes. Why were you at the Labyrinth?" “He's a rat turd. I killed my wife." Kaelan blinked, not expecting that answer. “How?"

“Pushed her down a flight of stairs,” Arbra answered. “Or so her family says." Quinn's confession hit too close to home for Kaelan's liking. He wasn't sure if the man was toying with him or not. “Did you?” he asked, seeing where this would go. “No. She fell, but I didn't push her." “Do you know who I am?” Kaelan asked quietly. “Am I suppose to care?" “Hesar,” Kaelan stated. “Prince Kaelan Hesar." Quinn shrugged. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?" Kaelan let out an annoyed breath. “Where the hell have you been for the last five years?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he snapped it shut. He knew where the man had been. Quinn almost smiled at the other man's embarrassment. If the sight of him screwing Angel wasn't still fresh in Quinn's mind, he might well have smiled. As it was, he could still see those creamy thighs locked around Hesar's waist. Still see those elegant hands gripping the man's hair as a willing body thrust up to meet him stroke for stroke. “Shit!” Quinn hissed and squeezed his eyes shut again. This was worse torment than the whip that had been applied so diligently to his back by the Ionarian Tribunal. “They say I killed my first wife,” he heard Hesar state. “I'm not surprised,” Quinn growled. “What did you do? Talk her to death?" “She fell off the balcony of our home at Holy Dale." Quinn's eyes snapped open and he twisted his head around as much as his ravaged back and strength would let him. “Holy Dale?” he repeated incredulously. “Aye,” Kaelan agreed. “You've heard of it?" A fierce, mean look came over Quinn's face. “Aye, I've heard of it! It's my gods-be-damned home!" [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Six

Nick whistled as he listened to Kaelan's words. This surely put a wicked slant on things. He stopped pacing and turned to face his sister's lover. “Did you know Marie had a brother?” he asked. “Half brother,” Kaelan corrected. “And no I didn't. Nothing was ever said to me about Marie's mother having been married before. I just assumed her mother's maiden name was Sorn."

“As first born, he is the owner of the manor house, then.” Thècion stated, well versed in Tribunal law. “No matter that Justus Sinclair claimed it as dowry property for his daughter upon his wife's death.” He smiled sardonically. “Duncan Hesar will have to deed it back to the Sorn estate." “Not if Quinn's property was confiscated upon his arrest,” Nick replied. “He says it wasn't,” Kaelan replied. “It's a moot point,” Occultus remarked. “He was given a life sentence to the Labyrinth. He will never be able to live at Holy Dale. He will always be subject to arrest. He dare not go to Virago." “Or Ionary, for that matter,” Kaelan quipped. “That's where his wife was from.” He chuckled. “She was one of the king's cousins." “A case similar to yours?” Nick inquired. “He says not.” Kaelan looked out through the porthole to study the bay. They'd been waiting all morning for word that Gilly and Traer had found them a house to rent on the Cay. “He swears he was in love with her." “But you don't believe him?” Nick queried. Kaelan made a rude sound with his mouth. “You didn't see the way he was looking at my wife!" Occultus looked up. “The man has been in prison for six years, Your Grace,” he said, knowing Kaelan hated the use of the title. “He hasn't seen a woman in all that time, let alone one as pretty as Lady Gillian. That, coupled with the fact that she saved his life, must place her in a special part of his heart." “Well,” Kaelan snapped with heat, “he'd better get her out of his heart!” His anger made him start sneezing again. “You need to lie down, Your Grace,” Occultus advised. “You are still suffering the effects of a vicious cold." “I can't lie down,” Kaelan complained. “That gods-be-damned fool is in my bed!” He began to rub his left thigh—no longer something necessary to soothe the pain there for his leg had been completely healed by the priest, but because it had become a habit when he was worried. “You can take the bunk in my cabin,” Occultus suggested. “You had no problem with it last eve." “I want my own bed!” Kaelan snapped. “I want my own bed, too, but it's occupied at the moment, Hesar,” Nick reminded him with amusement. Kaelan sighed, the weight of the world on his tired shoulders. He leaned forward and braced his elbow on his knee, chin in hand. “He'd better stay away from Gilly, is all I'm gonna say." Occultus and Nick looked at one another: one man concerned, the other amused. “How long does it take to find a suitable house?” Diarmuid asked as he came in. “I'm growing tired of this ship.” He poured himself some hot coffee, then swung a long leg over a chair and sat down.

“How's the patient?” Nick inquired. “Sleeping like a babe,” Diarmuid responded and glanced quickly at Kaelan, who had muttered a vile epithet. “What do you have against the man, Kaelan?" “Leave off, Brell,” was the tart reply. “He seems a good fellow and unjustly accused. He can be an asset.' “I said leave off!” Kaelan shouted then started coughing so hard Nick had to rush to his aid and slap him on the back. Thècion's jaw tightened. “You're in a rare mood, Hesar, but then again, I've never known a Viragonian who didn't have a foul disposition." Nick barely had time to jump back before Kaelan was up out of his chair and pushing past him, storming from the mess hall as though the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. “Not good,” Occultus sighed. Diarmuid shook his head. “There's going to be trouble. I can smell it." Occultus did not disagree. The gods had a purpose for everything under heaven, but he couldn't help but wonder if making Kaelan Hesar wildly jealous had been Their intent when They put Quinn Arbra in his path. **** Gilly had put on those loose-fitting breeches she had stolen from the good constable back in Ciona before going with Traer to rent a house on Montyne Cay. She had tucked her glorious hair under a ragged cap and had kept the brim pulled low over her eyes. Traer had warned her not to speak so she had allowed him to do all the talking while they hunted for a suitable place to live. Being a landowner with tavern, inn, and stables to his credit, Traer Saur had been the logical choice to send for lodgings. And a good choice it was, too, for he had found a place for them, at a fine price, and had been able to buy the house instead of renting it. “It's a good investment for Duke Cree's money, milady,” Traer explained as they made their way back to the docks and the row boat Tyler and Taylor had brought them over on. “If the Cay is where Nick plans to have his base, it makes more sense for him to own his home and not be at the mercy of a landlord who can evict him while he's out aspirating." Gilly had to agree. The place was all you could want with docks of its own and a sweeping view of the bay. The house was situated on a bluff overlooking the Gulf of Biaz and could be well-fortified, if need be. There were rooms aplenty so that each man would have his own, a cookhouse, a veranda that wrapped entirely around the circumference of the large clapboard home, and a stable, while rundown, that would house all the horses necessary for trips into Montyne City, a half hour's ride away. Lush foliage and tropical fruit trees were scattered all over the property and there was a deep well with sweet water. As she was being rowed back to the Revenant, she tried to make out the outlines of the house on the

bluff, but could not see if for the tall palm trees dotted along the cliff. “I think all of you will be happy there, milady,” Traer said. Gilly turned to him. “Why does that sound as though you won't be there to enjoy it with us, Traer?" “I have businesses to run in Ciona, milady,” he told her. “I have no choice but to go back, but Ty and Taylor are planning on staying, aren't you, men?" Tyler bobbed his head. Not given much to talking, he let his twin do it for him, but Taylor was shy around Gilly and merely nodded his head, too, at the question. “And Riordan would like to stay, as well,” Traer went on. “I heard Raine say he'd come out later, once he sold his stable. He wants to go back and ship the few horses he has out here." “Especially Revenge,” Gilly replied. Traer grinned. “I think that would please His Grace." “Well, Lumley's staying and Ned wants to.” She frowned. “I guess Ned will go back for his lady." Traer had been told the tale of how His Grace had been helped by both Ned and his wife, but he knew nothing of how Kymmie, Ned's wife, had helped Kaelan. He wondered why the thought of Ned bringing his lady out to Montyne Cay seemed to bother Her Ladyship so much. “He's not going to be pleased that we found no priest on the island,” Gilly stated. “Why can't His Worship perform the Joining?” Traer asked. Gilly shook her head. “He will not. We have asked him. I believe it has something to do with him not wanting the Tribunal to know he sanctioned our Joining.” She looked out over the waves. “It would not be safe for him." “Well, don't worry about it, milady. They'll fetch one to you as soon as they can,” Traer replied. “I hate to wait,” Gilly said dejectedly. “Anything could happen." “Why don't you just get the Cap'n to marry you?” Taylor spoke up. Traer's face lit up. “Of course!” He slapped his leg. “Why didn't any of us think of that before?" “Nick?” Gilly questioned. “How can he marry us?" “Maritime Law!” Traer replied. “On the High Seas, a captain is like a magistrate. He can marry the two of you and it's as legal as a Joining by a priest." “And when we bring you back a priest from over Oceania way,” Taylor put in, “the Joining can be re-done and there ain't a blasted thing the Tribunal of any country can do about it!" Gilly's eyes filled with tears. She had thought herself Joined to Kaelan Hesar from that very first night, having no way of knowing that the Viragonian King had married her by proxy in absentia to the dreadful

Rolf de Viennes. Once she found that out, she had been terrified the pompous libertine would come for her some day, to make good on their Joining. Occultus had assured her no such thing would ever happen, but Gilly hadn't wanted to take any chances. She had been counting on there being a priest on Montyne Cay, and when she had found out that the priesthood had been banned from the colony back in the time of the Outlaw, she had been sorely disappointed. The thought of losing Kaelan because of a lack of a Joining Seal had worried her greatly. But if Nick could marry them.... “We'll have a grand party of it,” Traer was saying. “Won't we, men?" Tyler and Taylor bobbed their heads in unison. “Joined,” Gilly said wistfully. “I'm going to be Joined.” Her face took on a defiant light. “And this time, it will be gods-be-damned legal!" **** This time around, it was Nick who performed the Joining ceremony. Thècion was the best man and, much to his chagrin, poor Diarmuid had been commandeered as the maid of honor. **** Quinn could barely tolerate the noise coming from above deck as he lay perspiring in Nick's bunk. The tropical weather was especially humid this eve and with all the commotion going on above him, he was unable to slip into sleep to relieve the heat on his face and the pain on his back. He turned his head so he could blot the sweat on his forehead on the damp pillow. He laid like that for a moment, staring at the sheet beneath him. The shrill of a pipe and the bang of a drum served to irritate him further, but when the stamping feet began right over his head, jarring the cabin wall, he wished he had the ability to pull the pillow over his head and blot out the merry sounds. Quinn Arbra was a very intelligent man. He had been born of royalty and had married into royalty. He had attended the Wind Warrior's school on Ionary, where he had been raised, although born at Holy Dale as all his mother's people had been since the Outlaw's time, and had graduated at the top of his class. He had taken his vows to the Wind Temple at the appropriate age, but had not gone away to the Temple in Corinth, in Serenia, for the special training those young men who would one day become the rulers of their kingdoms had had to do. He was well-versed in poetry and the celebrated books of the world. He had a keen, analytical mind and was especially good at trading. His father had sent him to Rysalia, to the Court of Halim Ben-Alkazar, to purchase a fine Rysalian stallion, and it was there he had met Nialah, a cousin of the Rysalian King, and fallen deeply in love. Having no objection to the match, both Quinn's father and Nailah's had sanctioned the Joining and given the young couple their blessings. But Nailah's brother, Xavier, had been another situation altogether. Xavier Rahshobi had been vehemently against Quinn's marriage. If truth were told, the Rysalian knight would have preferred to make the beautiful eighteen year old beauty his own wife. That there was something unnatural about the way Xavier looked at his sister, even a blind man could see; you could feel the perverted vibrations quivering on the air whenever he spoke to the girl. But no one in the family thought too much of it. After all, Xavier loved Nailah and wanted only the best for her.

From the moment Quinn had been introduced to the petite woman, he had known he would have to have her or never marry at all. She had looked at him with doe-like brown eyes and he was lost. “You have done well for yourself, Quinton,” his grandmother had stated, giving her own blessing. She had honored the union by making the trek to Rysalia, herself. Quinn could not believe his good fortune. The entire family loved Nailah from the very start and as he waltzed with his intended at their engagement supper, his feet had barely touched the mahogany floorboards. He had been deliriously happy until the moment Xavier had broken in to take Nailah away from him. “It is not proper to look upon a young girl of the royal house of Ben-Alkazar with such vile purpose” Xavier had hissed as he took his sister tightly in his arms. “He is my betrothed, Xavier,” Nailah had protested. “I have not agreed to that!” the Rysalian knight has snarled. “He is a Ionarian. You should be betrothed to your own kind." Quinn's fury had come at him like molten lava and he would have snatched Nailah out of her brother's arms had it not caused a scene. “I have her father's permission,” he grated, “as well as her King's. We do not need yours!" Xavier had turned venomous eyes to Quinn. There had been the promise of retaliation in that searing look and Quinn wondered if the man would call him out. He had almost hoped he would, for Quinn justifiably knew there was no greater swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms than he, himself. But Xavier, too, had known that and the man was not a fool. He had merely grunted away Quinn's words and swung his sister out onto the floor, monopolizing her for three dances before their own father butted in and returned Nailah to Quinn. Mercifully, Xavier had taken himself away from court that night and had not come to the Joining two months later. Quinn, unbelievably happy with his bride, had hoped the knight would stay away forever from Resuello, the manor house given to Nailah and Quinn upon their Joining; but once news had been sent to the Court at Asaraba that Nailah was with child, Xavier had shown up in a drunken stupor, enraged that his beloved Nailah had been violated. “She is my wife!” Quinn had thundered at the accusation that he had forced himself upon a defenseless woman. “You are an infidel!” Xavier had thrown at him. “Not fit to wipe the mud from her slippers! And now you have soiled her for all time!" The man's words were insane, mindboggling, and Quinn had ordered Xavier Rahshobi from his home. They had fought brutally, but a lucky punch had spun Quinn around so hard he had collided with a marble column. The impact had bounced him back and before he could react, Xavier had hit him over the head with an iron sculpture, sending Quinn to the floor unconscious. When he came to, Nailah was lying beside him in a pool of blood, her skull caved in from a fall from the balcony above him. Quinn had roared with desperation and had lifted his wife into his arms, stumbled out into the storm. He

had carried her all the way to the village, kicking savagely at the Healer's door; until the man's wife had opened the portal to him. There was nothing to be done for the dead woman so the Healer had sent for the casket maker to come to the house. Quinn had gone berserk with his grief and would not let the undertaker near his beloved wife. It had finally taken the constable and two of his deputies to pull Quinn away so the body could be taken care of. It was later the next morning that the Tribunal Guard had come for Quinn with a warrant for his arrest. “What did he do?” the constable inquired having sat with the grieving man all night as he sobbed out his sorrow. “It was an accident. The mistress fell." “She was pushed!” the Tribunal Sergeant declared. “We have a sworn statement to that effect by an eyewitness to the deed." Quinn had not cared what happened to him. He had not resisted the manacles that had been snapped into place around his wrists. Inside, he was as dead and as cold as his lost wife. He had uttered no word in his own defense at his trial. He had listened to Xavier's accusations and lies and had calmly accepted the verdict that was handed down. None of his family—grandmother or sister—had come to the trial so no one who knew him well had been there to tell the court that his silence was unnatural. That the blank look in his eyes was a quiet insanity that had him fiercely in its grip. It was not until he came to himself on the prison ship Vortex that he began to fight the injustice that had been done him. By then, it was too late. But he had escaped. And he had been caught; taken back to Ionary where Xavier, himself, had watched as Quinn was strung up in the Tribunal Square and whipped until his back was a tattered ruin. “You will rue the day you ever put hands to my sain'ted Nailah” Xavier had sworn. A loud crash overhead brought Quinn back to the here and now. He squeezed his eyes shut as feminine laughter rang out. There was only one woman on board the Revenant and tonight was her Joining night. “Why?” he asked the gods who had long ago abandoned him. “Why did she have to belong to another man?" When he had been told that Gilly would be Joining with Kaelan Hesar that evening, Quinn had been inconsolable. It was almost like losing Nailah all over again. Not that the two women looked anything alike, but there was the same glow, the same demure fire, the same wondrous quality. He wondered idly if Gilly were a Daughter of the Multitude and decided she probably was since most women of the noble classes were. Lying there, the pain in his back nowhere near the stubborn pain in his heart. Quinn felt the wicked betrayal of tears easing down his cheeks. “I fought a man who wanted to take my woman away from me,” Hesar had told him. Aye, Quinn thought, she was worth fighting over. He, himself, would gladly lay hand to sword to have her. She had saved his life and his life was hers to do with as she pleased. Whatever she asked of him, he would move heaven and hell to do. Whatever he had was hers. It was the custom of the Chrystallusian

that a life saved was a life owed. She might belong to another man, but Quinn Arbra made a solemn vow that night to be her sworn protector for as long as he lived and, if he could, to provide for her even after his death. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Seven

Diarmuid Brell was duly impressed. As he lazed in his hammock, coconut shell filled with mango wine in his hand, he watched the sword lesson taking place on the beach and mentally applauded the teacher. Quinn Arbra was a swordsman of the first rank. The man was lightning quick, deadly accurate, and his footwork was dizzying. Even barefoot in the dense sand, the man was a marvel to behold as he lunged and parried. His riposte was a thing of beauty. “Touché!” Diarmuid called out, slapping his free hand against the coconut shell in applause. “I couldn't have done it better, Arbra!" “You can't touch his expertise, Dear Mutt,” Thècion drawled. The Serenian prince was leaning back against the base of a swaying palm, his legs crossed. “I am a swordsman of note, Thècion,” Diarmuid snapped. “Aye, but you are not in Quinn's league,” Thècion reminded his friend. Diarmuid sniffed, but he knew Thècion was right. Few men were as good as Quinn and from the looks of Arbra's opponent, Kaelan Hesar had just discovered it as well. “You're not bad,” Quinn commented, “though you still aren't quick enough." “I'm out of practice,” Kaelan grated out through clenched teeth. “So am I,” Quinn chuckled. He flexed his blade, then walked over to take up its scabbard. “Who taught you to fight?” Kaelan asked. He, too, was re-sheathing his weapon. “My fencing master was an exiled Hasdu sheik. His name was...." “Vashir,” Kaelan finished. A spark of challenge entered his steady gaze. “I trained under him, too." Quinn's mouth dropped open. “And you can't fight any better than you did?” he queried. Kaelan glared at the other man. “I said I was out of practice.” His mouth twisted. “Not only with the sword, but also in the ability to move without the impediment of a crippled limb." Quinn accepted that explanation. He had been told of the circumstance behind Hesar's being an exile. What he would not accept was the man using his old injury as an excuse not to fight any better than he had. “Then I suggest you practice until you can hold your own with me,” he declared.

“Hold my own?” Kaelan saw red. To his way of thinking, he had held his own. Before he knew what he was doing, he was dragging his sword out of the sheath and backing away. Quinn understood the challenge. He unsheathed his own weapon and brought it up. “No more today!” Occultus called out. “We have unfinished business!” Kaelan disagreed. “No more!” The unmistakable warning in the priest's voice was there for the dullest man to hear. Kaelan scowled, but lowered his blade; Quinn did the same. Now that the ransom had come from the Tribunal for Occultus’ safe return, the sorcerer would be leaving on the Lady Morgaine, another pirate ship, on the evening tide and he had demanded a moment of time with Kaelan and Quinn together. “Another time,” Kaelan snapped as he turned away from Quinn. “Any time, Stormy,” Quinn returned, grinning as Kaelan scowled at the nickname. Occultus watched the two men striding angrily up the beach toward him. He looked first at Kaelan, the dark one, then to Quinn, the fair, and thought they were both extraordinarily handsome men. Kaelan's eyes were tawny-brown; Quinn's eyes were a pale sky-blue. Of an identical height and weight and breadth of shoulder, both strutted when they walked: a sign of supreme assurance in their own abilities if not arrogance in their appeal. Both were very smart men, good warriors, dedicated to helping those who could not help themselves. They were extremely knowledgeable about horseflesh and were expert riders. Each was more than efficient with a blade and equal when it came to shooting a crossbow. Under other circumstances, they would have become fast friends. Instead, they were fast becoming mortal enemies. And that, Occultus could not allow. “Come inside,” the priest demanded as the men joined him. He turned, his tall, lean frame perfectly straight, and walked toward the house. “I never thought I'd take orders from a priest of the Brotherhood,” Kaelan quipped. “At least we agree on one thing,” Quinn grunted. “I could never imagine myself doing it, either." Occultus was seated on a cushion in the center of the room he had commandeered as his study. The room was bare except for a stack of plump cushions piled near the door and two brazier that were lit at all times, making the small enclosure stifling in the tropical heat. “Sit,” Occultus commanded and waited until the two men had lowered themselves to the cushions he had provided for their use. Quinn armed the sweat from his forehead. The room was suffocating and there was an aroma that made him a bit nauseous. He glanced over at Hesar and saw that he was also being effected by the room's heat. “I will be leaving in a few hours,” the warriors heard Occultus say and looked at him. “But I will not go until I have assured myself there will be no death dealt here because of the woman."

Kaelan flinched. Quinn looked down at his hands. “It will stop,” Occultus warned. “We haven't been fighting over Gilly,” Kaelan said. Occultus lifted his head and looked down his hawk-like nose at the young prince. “have you not?” Kaelan risked a glance at Quinn, but the other man was still staring at his hands whose fingers were threaded together in his lap. “Lord Arbra?” Occultus inquired, switching his scrutiny to the quiet man. Quinn shrugged, but didn't look up. Didn't reply. “Look at me,” Occultus commanded. Arbra slowly raised his head and locked his attention on the priest. He knew what was being asked of him, but he was loath to express the way he felt. He understood that when he did, there would be more than just blatant antagonism between him and Hesar. There would be out and out war and he didn't think that would serve anyone's purpose. “Tell him,” Occultus demanded. A sharp frown creased Quinn's brow for he knew he'd been read as easily as an open book. He shook his head. “Tell him!” The annoyance in the sorcerer's rebuke left no room for denial. Kaelan sensed something was about to be said he knew he wasn't going to like. To forestall what he suspected was coming, he smiled, although the smile never reached his eyes and barely hovered on his lips before it was gone. “I think Arbra and I know what the other one..." “TELL HIM!” Occultus bellowed, cutting Kaelan off in mid-sentence. Quinn's head snapped toward Kaelan. “I am in love with your wife,” he said boldly. “And I aim to take her away from you." A strangled roar of pure rage burst from Kaelan's throat and he lunged at Quinn, toppling the man sideways as he fell on him. Occultus did not move the entire time the two warriors tumbled arse over elbow on the bare floor. He never winced at the vicious hits, the knees which drove brutally into groins or fists which broke skin and bloodied noses. Not once did he demand they stop, only using his magik to keep them from rolling into the braziers, knocking them down, and setting the room on fire. He sat where he was, arms folded over his chest, legs tucked under him and watched the spectacle unfold. He did not cheer for one man over the other nor did he value one man's ability more so than his

opponent. He simply sat and waited until neither man was able to continue the brawl. When they lay gasping and bloody on the floor, semi-conscious and throbbing with pain, he stood up and walked to them, looking down with mild irritation. “Kaelan, tell him how you feel about what he said." Kaelan's mouth was torn, a tooth chipped, and he was having enough trouble getting air into his battered lungs without having to explain himself to the bastard lying beside him. This wasn't finished and he knew before it was, one of them was going to have to die. “That will not happen,” Occultus told him. “Alel needs the two of you to do what must be done." “I ... won't ... do ... anything ... with ... Hesar!” Quinn vowed. “Except ... slit ... his ... throat!” He turned to his side with effort and spat out a gob of bloody saliva and along with it, a jaw tooth. “I'll ... see ... you ... in ... hell,” Kaelan responded to the threat. Occultus sighed wearily. “This is why I am thankful there is no woman in my life,” he stated. He dropped gracefully to his knees between the two men and looked from one to another. “See the damage they cause?" Kaelan struggled to sit up. He coughed, brought up blood-fleck phlegm, then spat it away. He was still laboring for breath, but he thought he might be able to tell the bastard beside him exactly how things would be. “I will fight for her, Arbra,” he said and had to stop a moment as a wave of dizziness and pain rippled over him. “I am ready anytime you are, Stormy,” Quinn hissed. “She is my life,” Kaelan stressed. “I've spent seven years dying inside because I did not have her with me. I have endured a hell you can not even begin to imagine, wondering what man might be putting his hands on her.” He coughed again, drew in several ragged breaths before he continued. “I'd lay awake half the night, night after night, imagining her giving herself to some lucky man. The other part of the night I worried that some sick, twisted old lecher was slobbering all over her." Quinn forced himself to sit up. He ran the back of his hand under his chin where a stream of bloody saliva had formed. He looked at Hesar, wondering if he, himself, looked at bad as that man did. “When she showed up at my door, I could not believe my good fortune,” Kaelan continued. “Here she was-right where I had always dreamed of her being-unmarried, unsullied by another man. It was like going to sleep in hell and waking up in heaven. I thought I had died, but was so glad I hadn't when I knew this was no dream, that she was really there." Quinn's body was aching with pain so he lay back, bracing himself on his elbows as he waited for Hesar to have his say. He drew in hard, quick, painful breaths-careful not to breathe too deeply-for he knew he had a broken rib or two. “I will not let anyone take her away from me ever again, Sorn,” Kaelan declared. “I will kill the man who tries." “He will not try,” Occultus said.

Quinn turned his head and stared at the priest. “You don't speak for me!" “You were married,” Occultus reminded the man. “Your lady-wife was taken from you. Have you any doubt in your mind that Xavier Rahshobi is responsible for her death?" “None!” Quinn spat. “No doubt at all." “Have you doubt that it was he who was responsible for your arrest and conviction? That it was he who made sure the Tribunal sent you to Tyber's Isle?” When Quinn didn't bother to answer, the priest pointed at finger at him. “How did that make you feel?" “You know gods-be-damned well how it made me feel!” Quinn threw back at him. “And you vowed one day to find Xavier and end his worthless life for what he did, isn't that so?" “Aye, it's so!” Quinn ignored the pain in his chest and sat up again. “I will gut him and feed his innards to the crocs!" Occultus lowered his voice to an insinuating whisper. “Your lady-wife can not be returned to you, but Prince Kaelan's lady is alive and well and very much in love with him." Quinn turned his head away, not wanting to hear that. “Did you not pay a terrible price when you lost your lady?” Occultus asked. Arbra refused to answer. “You know the agony you endured when the Lady Nailah was taken from you in death. Do you not know that Kaelan Hesar felt the same agony of spirit, wretchedness of life that you felt when his lady was taken from him?" “His woman didn't die,’ Quinn grated. “He still has her." “And aims to keep her,” Kaelan snapped. “We'll see,” Quinn grunted. Occultus reached out and gripped Quinn's shoulder. “Would you put him, any man, through that again simply because you have fallen in love with a woman who does not love you in return and never will?" Quinn flinched. He dared not ask the sorcerer if what he was saying was true for he feared it was. Best to go on hoping Angel would one day love him than to ask and have all doubt removed. “She is my woman,” Hesar stated. “I will go to my grave before I ever let anyone else take her from me again!" Occultus held up his hand, demanding quiet. He lowered his hand, folded it with the other one in his lap and looked from one man to the other. “It is your destinies of which we speak here, gentlemen. Destinies decreed by the gods, Themselves. Nothing else is of any importance. You were meant to meet, just as you have, in the way you have, and

be joined in your mutual hindrance of the Domination's goals.” His gaze locked on Kaelan. “If it were not for the woman, the two of you would have become fast friends from the first moment you met." “We will never be friends,” Quinn said firmly. Occultus nodded. “Perhaps not, but you will become pleasant enemies." “What you are saying is you want us to work together,” Kaelan grated. “In order for me to do that, I have to trust him.” He glared at Sorn. “And I don't trust him any further than I can see him." “Nor I, you!” Quinn snorted. Occultus swung his gaze to Arbra. “And why is that, Lord Quinn?” He indicated Kaelan with his hand. “You have no reason to mistrust His Grace. What has he done to you to merit your feeling?" Arbra, who up until that time had not been known to make quick judgments of other men, only shrugged. He knew there was no way he could put into words the way he felt about Hesar, but he knew if he was to be honest with himself, he would have to admit the Viragonian had given him no reason to mistrust him. “I am waiting, Lord Quinn,” Occultus pressed. “What reason do you give for not trusting His Grace?" “He has the woman I want!” Arbra snapped, irritated with himself that his explanation sounded both juvenile and inadequate. He looked away, somewhat chagrined. “For no other reason than that." Kaelan ground his teeth, understanding the sorcerer would chastise him if he dared comment on that telling assertion. He held his tongue, as difficult as that was, and when Occultus turned to him, a knowing look in the older man's sharp brown eyes, he, too, shrugged. “That is why I don't trust him,” Kaelan admitted. “A man who lusts after another man's wife, can't be trusted." Arbra's head snapped back around. “My honor has never been questioned before today, Hesar!" “But you have never coveted what was not yours before, either, have you?” Occultus queried in a soft voice. “No,” Arbra agreed, “but..." “Then,” Occultus cut him off, “it would not be wise to start doing so now when your honor is of utmost importance." Quinn Arbra said nothing for a long moment, then he sighed deeply. “I am a Windwarrior,” he reminded himself. “I have vowed to uphold the sanctity of marriage." “The rights of a husband over his wife,” Occultus put in. Quinn nodded grimly. “Aye,” he agreed through a clenched jaw. Kaelan's lips twitched for he knew Sorn had defeated himself with the admission of being One with the Windwarrior Society.

“As a Windwarrior,” Occultus remarked, “you uphold the honor of your fellow Windwarriors." “And are sworn to keep sacrosanct the purity of the women under your protection,” Hesar added, gaining Arbra's stony glower. “I know the tenets of the Society, Hesar!” Arbra snapped. “Knowing them and practicing them are separate issues,” Occultus declared. A muscle in Arbra's jaw bunched, his fists clenched, but he lifted his head. “I have made vows I would die rather than break, Your Worship." “That is good, for the gods, Themselves, would not have allowed you to break those vows anyway,” Occultus declared. There was a long silence in the room while the two younger men studiously avoided looking at one another and Occultus organized in his mind what he needed to say to seal the bargain he would require of these two warriors. When at last he had formulated the right thoughts, he looked hard at Kaelan Hesar. “You are not to be a part of Nicholas Cree's pirate brigade, Kaelan." Kaelan looked up. “Then what am I to do?" “What you have always wanted to do,” Occultus stated. “Raise and sell horses." The Viragonian's forehead crinkled with concern. “Your Grace, I have no money to begin a horse farm." “You will after the booty is divided from the one and only pirate raid upon which you will go,” Occultus informed him. He turned his eyes to Quinn. “And your partner here will add his share with yours and then leave for Asaraba where he will buy four Rysalian breeding mares and a colt." Quinn's eyebrows shot up into his thick blond hair. “You aren't talking about me!” he denied. “I set one foot in Asaraba and I'll be arrested again.” A shudder ran through his lean body and he shook his head in denial. “I'll not let that happen again!" Occultus frowned. “Have you no faith in the gods’ will, Arbra?" Quinn snorted. “I've no faith in anyone other than myself.” He looked at Kaelan, then corrected that statement. “And my Angel." The growl that came from Kaelan could be heard outside the hut. “Keep your adulterous thoughts off my woman and don't call her that gods-be-damned name again, Arbra!" The priest held up one bony hand before Quinn's temper could erupt. “I am taking the young Serenian and his friend back with me." “What the hell difference does that??” Kaelan began, only to have the sorcerer dart him a quelling glance. Hesar clamped his mouth shut. “Their ransoms have been paid,” Occultus continued, “and they wish to invest a portion of that ransom in

the horse breeding venture, as well.” He folded his arms. “There will be plenty of money left over with which young Thècion will buy several witnesses who will swear they saw Xavier Rahshobi push the Lady Nailah to her death." “No one was there, but the three of us,” Quinn protested. Occultus smiled. “The gods and Their ladies were there, Arbra. It is Their will that Xavier Rahshobi hang for the murder of his sister.” He cocked his head to one side. “Have you an objection to that?" “Aye, I have an objection!” Quinn grumbled. “I want the honor of running my sword through that bastard's evil gut!” Even as Arbra finished speaking, Occultus was shaking his head. “Why the hell not?” Quinn demanded. “I am entitled to satisfaction!" “Vengeance is best served cold, Arbra,” Occultus reminded the young warrior. “Xavier will believe it is your money which condemns him to the hangman's tree and that is all that is necessary for you to have your revenge. That way, no blood will stain your hands." “He's right,” Kaelan said softly. “If you let the Tribunal punish him, they will have no choice but to restore your good name to you and erase the charges that sent you to Tyber's Isle.” He snorted fatalistically. “Too bad you couldn't ask recompense for time served, eh?" “The recompense will come from the Tribunal coffers we plunder, Stormy,” Quinn replied. Occultus nodded. Whether the two men knew it or not, they were already bonding and he was pleased. So pleased, that he had one more thing he wished to say to the Ionarian Lord that he knew would seal the comradeship. “There will be a woman in Asaraba,” Occultus decreed. “Her name is Cantara. She is a distant cousin of the House of Jaborn.” He frowned. “But that can not be held against her." “What of her?” Quinn asked suspiciously. He knew of the Jaborns. Theirs was a very powerful sheikdom that was greatly feared in the Hasdu world. “You will marry her,” Occultus informed him. Before Quinn could erupt into further denials, the sorcerer went on. “You will give her twin sons, Hern and Balizar,” the priest said. “Both will be mighty warriors. One will be the teacher of the Dark Overlord and be the one to bring that man into the light. The other, will stand at his side and fight; he will save the Overlord's life." “It's seed of my seed from which the Dark Overlord will come,” Kaelan bragged and blushed when Occultus threw him an admonishing glower. “Is that true?” Quinn asked, his eyes worried. Occultus nodded. “And your son and his son will be great friends, though they will...” The sorcerer stopped. Why borrow trouble by telling these men that their sons would love the same woman just as they, themselves, loved the same woman? That one man would sire the Dark Overlord while the other man would believe it had been his seed planted that grew in the woman's womb?

“They will what, Your Worship?” Kaelan pressed. “Live in different worlds,” Occultus finished smoothly. “As you two will live in different worlds." Kaelan looked at Quinn. The two young warriors regarded one another silently for a moment, then shrugged, giving in to their destinies. What would be, would be. Occultus smiled. “Then it is settled.” He looked from one knight to the other. “You will join together and begin the task of defeating the Brotherhood." Hesar surprised himself by extending his sword hand to Arbra. “Truce?" Arbra let out a long breath. “Truce,” he grunted and reached out to grip Kaelan's wrist. Occultus Noire watched the two men for a few moments then dismissed them. There were prayers and be made to keep these two knights safe as they journeyed side by side along the dark paths of evil. As he cast the runes of protection for the men, he did not fail to include within the Circle of Safety the main reason the two of them were sure to remain together for as long as they lived: Gillian Hesar. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eight

Gillian looked up from her sewing and grinned. “Bad day, my love?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. Kaelan limped over to the hammock and sat down heavily. “That man is devoid of humor!" His lady-wife laid down the shirt she had been mending. “What did the two of you do, now?" A sheepish look came over Kaelan's face. “I did nothing. I but watched." “What did you watch, milord?” she inquired. The sheepish look gave way to a genuinely pleased smirk. “Riordan put Arbra's arrogant ass down." Gillian rolled her eyes heavenward. When would the two of them stop being such children? She sat back in her wicker chair and regarded her husband much as a mother would her errant little boy. “Was he hurt?” she asked. The smirk was replaced by a look of pique. “What difference would it make if the fool was?" “Was he hurt?” she repeated. Kaelan shrugged. “Unfortunately not. The man's head is too thick." “Why were they fighting?" “They weren't,” Kaelan answered and when she gave him what he had begun to call her ‘exasperated’ look, he shook his head. “They weren't! Arbra asked to be shown some self-defense moves Riordan had learned in Chrystallus, and he found out he wasn't as good with his hands and feet as he is with his

sword." For her husband to admit Quinn Arbra was good with his sword was an improvement. Up until that week, Kaelan would as soon have his tongue ripped out at the root as admit Quinn excelled in anything other than arrogance. “Has Nick set a date for leaving, yet?” she asked, picking up her mending once more. “Next week for sure,” Kaelan replied. He glanced at his wife. “Are you worried?" “Of course,” she answered. In all truth, she was terrified that both her husband and her brother would be taking to the High Seas to go a'pirating. That they were going after only Tribunal ships and transports was reason enough to be afraid. She could have justified the pirating of Diabolusian ships: everyone robbed those arrogant bastards and the Tribunal turned a blind eye to the pilfering. But to rob Tribunal ships? The thought made her shudder with unease. “We know what we're doing,” Kaelan said gently. “So you keep telling me,” Gilly reminded him. Kaelan swung his legs up into the hammock. “Occultus would not have left if he thought we could not handle what we're setting out to do, Gilly." That the men who called themselves Alel's Force had the sorcerer's protection was a given. Gillian only wondered how much that protection was worth. She, herself had gone to the Shadowlands, the secret haven of the Daughters of the Multitudes to ask for the renegades’ protection and she hoped the Great Lady would heed her prayer. “Nothing will happen to me, Sweeting,” Kaelan said, turning his head to look at her. “I know,” she replied. She pierced the muslin fabric of his shirt with the needle and drew the thread through to the other side. “But it would set my mind at ease to know you and Quinn could stand back to back and protect each other." “Why should we not?” Kaelan inquired. “Your dislike of one another?” Gilly suggested. Kaelan laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head. “Leave off, Gillian,” he admonished her. “I can work with the man, dearling, but I don't have to like him to do so." “It would help,” his wife advised. “Leave off, Gillian,” Kaelan admonished her. “There is too much between him and me for either of us to ever be friends with the other." Gilly paused for a moment with the thread pulled taut, the needle glinting in an errant ray of sunlight. She turned her head and looked keenly at her husband then let her hand fall to her lap. “And why is that, Kaelan?” she questioned. “You hardly know Quinn." Kaelan shifted uneasily in the hammock, setting the canvas to swaying. He knew it wouldn't do to tell

Gilly he was jealous of Arbra. She would fan away his concern and ask him why he felt the need to be. That she had no clue as to the other man's feelings toward her should have put Kaelan's mind to rest; instead, it worried him and he lay there pondering the wisdom of enlightening her. “Hesar?” she grunted. “Why is there such dislike between the two of you?" Kaelan stared up at the lacy palm fronds overhead. “Have you any idea how he feels about you, Gilly?” he asked. “Grateful, I would imagine,” she replied. “In some small way, I believe he thinks I saved his life." Kaelan glanced over at her. “Aye, he does, but that isn't what I meant." Gilly lifted her hand and thrust the needle through the shirt fabric once more, not looking at her husband as she continuing mending the rip in its sleeve. “Do you refer to his crush on me, then?" Kaelan blinked. “Crush?” he gasped. She knew? Gilly shrugged as she ducked her head down to bite through the thread. “Aye,” she acknowledged. “The poor man is a bit enamored of me, I think.” She stuck the needle into her spool of thread then laid them inside her sewing basket. “It's to be expected, isn't it?" Kaelan swung his legs from the hammock—almost losing his balance and tumbling over backwards to the sand—and stood up, his hands on his hips. “You know he is in love with you?” he demanded. Gilly looked up at him, her eyebrows raised. “Did I say ‘love', Kaelan?” She shook her head. “I said crush and that is precisely what it is." “The gods-be-damned hell it is!” he snarled. “The man is besotted with you, Gillian, and was ready to fight me to prove it!" Gilly blushed, but she didn't seem embarrassed that such was the case. she smiled—secretly, it seemed to Kaelan—then lifted one delicate shoulder. “He'll get over it." “He'll get over it?"” Kaelan strode to her, bent over, reached down, and drew her to her feet, ignoring her protest as the shirt she had just mended slipped to the ground. She was about to chastise her husband, but he shook her, none too gently. “Quinn Sorn Arbra is in love with you, Gillian Hesar,” he grated through a tight jaw. “And I can tell you from my own experience, he will never get over it, woman!" Gilly's head bobbed as he shook her again. She stared at him, mesmerized by the possessive gleam in his dark brown eyes. “Kaelan...” she began, but he shook her again, more roughly. “I'll not allow him to come between us!” Kaelan roared. “He ... will ... not!” Gilly managed to get out before her husband dragged her up against him hard enough to knock the breath from her body and slammed his mouth tightly over hers. The assault on her mouth was more rape than kiss. Kaelan's tongue forced its way past her lips and plunged hotly into the warm recesses beyond. The lower half of his body was pressed so tightly, so

intimately against her own, she could feel its heat through her thin skirt. When his hand slid down from her upper left arm to drag at the fabric and pull it up, she pulled her mouth from his. “Not here,” she warned him, straining backwards away from his searching lips until he became aware that she was denying him. “Aye, here!” he growled and, before she could protest, pulled her with him to the warm white sand. “Kaelan!” she protested, batting at urgent hands that were clawing at her skirt, then rambling over her bosom. “This is unseemly!" “Be quiet, Gillian,” he muttered as he managed to pull the bodice of her dress down over the perfection of one ivory breast. “KAELAN!” she gasped. “Woman, you talk too much!” he warned her just a second before he freed himself from his breeches and was stabbing between her thighs. Gilly felt the heat of him against her thigh, felt her lower belly clench, then gave in, knowing it was no use. If someone saw them, hopefully they would look the other way. “You are a horny man, Kaelan Hesar,” she sighed. “Gillian, I said..." “I talk too much,” she finished for him. “I know.” Her arms went around his broad shoulders. “But see where talking gets me?" ****

Quinn was seated on the porch of the house he was sharing with Jacob Case, one of the other four men rescued from the prison ship along with him. He was cocked back in his chair, his booted feet crossed at the ankle and propped up on the porch railing. His gaze was steady on the rolling waves which crashed inland. For almost two hours, he'd been sitting there, watching the Revenant docked out in the harbor. Tomorrow morning, he, along with fourteen other pirates, would be sailing on the tide. And leaving Gillian behind. That thought brought a frown to Arbra's handsome face. Not that he believed she would not be safe at Montyne Cay. The lady-wife of Prince Kaelan Hesar would have more protection than probably needed. More protection than she would have had being the wife of a mere lord, like himself. Why, he thought, his eyes narrowing with pique, was it that he had developed an intense admiration of the Viragonian prince? An admiration that was proving to be a source of annoyance? It wasn't just because Hesar was good with a sword; Quinn knew he was better. And it wasn't because Hesar was better than most with his fists; Quinn had taken him two out of the three times they'd actually came to blows. And it wasn't because Hesar was a natural leader of men; Quinn felt he was, as well.

So what was it, he wondered, that made him have such a grudging admiration of Kaelan Hesar? “He has suffered greatly for his love of his lady, milord,” Occultus had told Quinn. “More than he has told anyone. There are secrets he will not share even with her." Perhaps, Quinn thought, that was why. He knew all about suffering for love. He had firsthand experience in that department. He, like Hesar, had felt the lash on his bare back because he dared to want what some other man had declared forbidden. Had dared to strive to take what he was told he could not have. “Don't you ever challenge me for her,” Hesar had warned him on that one occasion when his fists had out-pummeled Quinn's. “I'll kill you if you do!" Quinn had no doubts about that statement. He had seen death in the normally kind and gentle eyes of Kaelan Hesar. The man was a saint in the eyes of the other pirates and a hero in the eyes of his wife and her brother. But Quinn reckoned he had been the only one to ever see the demon which resided beneath the handsome facade that was the prince. “Are you packed, Quinn?” Jacob asked as he came to prop his forearms on the railing. Quinn nodded, not speaking nor taking his eyes from the white phantom ship lying at anchor. “Ready to kick Tribunal ass?” Jacob chuckled. Quinn shifted his attention to his friend. “More than ready, Jacob.” His scarred back tingled. “I'm eager to put as many of those bastards in their watery graves as Nick will allow." Jacob turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice off to one side. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked up at Quinn. “Don't you reckon it'll be the prince what commands us?" Quinn didn't think so and said as much. He returned his gaze back to the Lady Revenant. “He prefers to stay out of the spotlight, Jacob. It's safer for him that way." Jacob frowned. “I'm not seeing him as a coward, Quinn,” he protested. “And he's not,” Quinn agreed. “But he's got a lot higher profile than Nick does. It wouldn't do to let it get back to his brother, the king, that he's aspirating Tribunal coffers.” He drew in his legs and planted his feet on the porch floor. Standing up, he stretched his arms above his head. “What difference would that make?” Jacob wanted to know. “If the Tribunal finds out, they'll confiscate Holy Dale. Not even the king could keep them from doing it, even though, by rights, it belongs to him instead of Kaelan." “It belongs to you,” Jacob reminded him. Quinn smiled. Maybe that was the reason, he thought, that he had no longer disliked Hesar quite so much. That one time the Viragonian had won their fistfight, it had been over the ownership of Holy Dale.

“I never wanted the gods-be-damned manor house in the first place,” Hesar had proclaimed. “You want it that badly, it's yours! I'll sign over a deed!" “It's mine anyway!” Quinn had asserted, taking one last swing before Hesar had buried his fist in Quinn's gut to knock him down. “Then you'd better hope the Tribunal never finds out I've gone a'pirating,” Hesar had snapped, “else neither of us will own it!" Well, Quinn reasoned as he stepped off the porch and joined Jacob for a stroll to the Cay's one and only tavern, giving up a house you didn't want was better than giving up a wife you did. Holy Dale had been Hesar's single concession-the only one he was willing to make. Maybe it was best, he decided, to concentrate on what belonged to him than what belonged to the Viragonian. “You will give her two sons,” Occultus had said of the mysterious woman Quinn was yet to meet. “Twins,” he said aloud. “Eh?” Jacob questioned. Quinn shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied. Maybe life wasn't going to be so bad without Gillian after all. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Nine

“Why do I let you talk me into these things?" Diarmuid McGregor's pale Chalean complexion was whiter than normal this morning as the infamous ice cliffs of The Sinisters disappeared off their port bow. The Chalean prince shuddered, then cast a jaundiced eye to his boyhood friend. “You want to tell me why, McGregor?" Thècion grinned. “Because you don't want to miss out on the fun, Dear Mutt." “Humpf,” Diarmuid grunted. He leaned over the port rail and watched as the last shimmering, jagged cliffs passed behind them. “Fun is not waiting to be impaled on an iceberg,” he grumbled. Kaelan flashed Quinn an amused look, but didn't comment on the interchange between the two young princes. He was leaning on the starboard rail-Quinn at his side-though neither man had spoken to the other all that much since transferring from Nick's pirate ship, The Revenant, to the Tribunal ship the Chalean buccaneer had commandeered. “It wouldn't do to sail into the Kensetti harbor in a white pirate ship,” Kaelan had explained. “Okay,” Nick had agreed. “Then we'll take this ship and I'll...” He looked about him and motioned for Lumley Tarnes to join them. “Think you you can sail this ship through The Sinister's, Lum?" Lumley had withdrawn the ever-present pipe from between his teeth. “I reckon.” He'd doffed his

tattered cap and armed the grease from his forehead. “Where you gonna be?" “Tyler will be taking us on to Wixenstead.” He smiled. “We'll pick up D'Lyn, the mutt, and Kaelan's beast and head back to the Cay.” His smile widened. “Reckon we'll get your son and daughter-in-law while we're at it." “Aye,” Lumley had agreed and that was that. Now, heading for the Rysalian province of Kenset, the capitol of which was Asaraba, the home of the Ben-Alkazars, Kaelan missed Nick's company. The sailors from the captured Lady Ivonne who had agreed to sign on to pester the Tribunal were a bit fearful of him, and those who had accompanied him from Montyne Cay were virtual strangers. Captain Tarnes, as Nick had insisted Lum be called, was busy navigating the ship and Thècion and Diarmuid spent most of their time in good-natured bickering. That left Kaelan alone with Quinn Arbra. “I never thought I'd ever see home again,” Quinn said quietly, needing company just as much as Kaelan did. Kaelan glanced at his companion. “You consider Rysalia home, now, then, do you?" Quinn nodded. “I was raised in Ionary, but I never considered it home.” He drew in a long breath. “There is something about the Inner Kingdom.” He shrugged. “I don't know. From the very first moment I stepped foot off the docks and walked through the bazaar, I felt I was where I was suppose to be." “That's how I felt when I first saw Montyne Cay,” Kaelan admitted. He straightened up, but kept his hands on the rail. “I never liked Holy Dale." “That's understandable,” Quinn said. Kaelan nodded. “I have no good memories of that place,” he said, then smiled cockily. Quinn's lips pursed. “I would say you have one good memory, eh, Hesar?" “Aye,” Kaelan replied. “That's where I was finally able to...” He stopped, frowning, and cast Arbra a hesitant look. Arbra did look at the man beside him. “Where you made her your woman,” he finished for Kaelan. “Aye." “I've had plenty of time to think since we left the Cay,” Quinn stated. “Plenty of time to contemplate Occultus’ words." “And?" There was a long sigh, a heavy shrug of powerful shoulders. “I think, perhaps, the gods might know better than Quinn Sorn Arbra.” He looked around. “That the woman for him might well be right where the priest said she would be." “I think you can count on it,” Kaelan agreed.

“Me, too.” He pushed back from the rail and held out his hand. “Partners?" Kaelan didn't hesitate. “Aye,” he said, gripping Arbra's strong wrist. When he let go, he returned his forearms to the rail. “I met Xavier Rahshobi once,” he informed his companion. If Quinn was surprised, he hid it well. “When was this?" “When I came to Rysalia to pick up Revenge,” Kaelan answered. “Vashon Ben-Alkazar and I took our Windwarrior vows together at the temple at Corinth. He bragged so much about the Rysalian steeds, I decided to go and see for myself.” He sniffed. “As I recall it, Rahshobi was at the pens that day, looking for a brood mare.” A deep frown creased the Viragonian prince's face. “He had the look of a cruel bastard about him and I remember saying as much to Vashon." “He is a cruel bastard,” Quinn told him. “He likes to use rowels to break in his mounts." “I noticed,” Kaelan replied. “If memory serves, Vashon refused to sell him the mare he wanted.” A nasty grin stretched Hesar's firm mouth. “And he blamed me for it." “Well, then, you're in good company,” Quinn chuckled. “Xavier seems only to hate those of us who won't let him have what he wants." “Will you attend his trial?” Kaelan inquired. “Try to keep me away,” Quinn grated. “As soon as he's arrested and the charges against me have been dropped, I'm off this ship and at the magistrate's." “Give me a day,” Thècion said as he and Diarmuid joined the two men. He jiggled the gold that was burning a hole in his left pocket. “I should be able to buy you enough testimony against him to suit you, Arbra." Diarmuid shuddered. “I hate being a part of getting a man hanged." “Not this man, you won't,” Quinn remarked. “Trust me on this, Dear Mutt." The Chalean prince winced at the nickname, then cast Thècion a telling glance. “You see what you cause, McGregor?" Kaelan snorted as the two younger men began insulting one another all over again. He looked out over the blue-green waves and wished it was into Montyne Cay harbor that the ship Lumley had re-named The Vengeance was sailing, and not the Inner Kingdom Straight of Tanger. He missed Gilly; worried about her though he knew the Convocation of Buccaneers on Montyne Cay would protect her with their last breath for she was the wife of a direct descendant of the Outlaw, himself. “Sure and wouldn't we be damned to the Abyss if anything were to happen to your lady?” Crale Dunham, the pirate leader of the Convocation had insisted before turning over the running of Montyne Cay to Kaelan, who had not wanted the responsibility. “It's an honor,” Lumley had insisted, “and purely ceremonial. The Convocation needs only a tit ... a tit...” He'd looked to Nick for the correct word. “Titular head,” Nick had provided.

“That's what they need!” Lumley had insisted. “And what better man than a great grandnephew of Syn-Jern Sorn? Accept the honor they're giving you, lad, and get on with it!" Now, thousands of miles from where he wanted to be; months away from seeing his lady again, Kaelan felt more alone than he had during his entire time at Holy Dale. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't get this business of clearing Quinn's name done fast enough. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Ten

The rope made a shrill squeak along the crossbeam as Xavier Rahshobi's body dropped through the trapdoor of the platform. There was silence in the Tribunal punishment yard at the Temple of the Winds at Asaraba as those gathered watched the final death kicks of the man who had been hanged. The loud pop that had accompanied the snapping of Rahshobi's neck had signaled the end to a man most of Rysalia despised. To Quinn Arbra, it had signaled the beginning of a new life. “You will go back to Resuello, will you not, Quinton?” King Halim Ben-Alkazar had asked after Rahshobi's sentencing. “If you will allow it, Your Majesty,” Quinn had replied. “It is your home,” Halim had pronounced. He had motioned for his Chancellor to come forward. “And the monies which Xavier Rahshobi earned from the estate will be turned over to you. Make note of that, Jaileel." Tears had gathered in Quinn's eyes. “I am most grateful, Majesty." Halim nodded. “Find a woman, Quinton, marry her and settle down.” He glanced at Kaelan. “Raise horses for that brat there to sell to his infidel neighbors." “Aye, Your Grace,” Quinn agreed, grinning. “That was our intention should you decide to restore Resuello to me." “Wise men,” the King stated. “But you need a wife." “I'll keep an eye out for one, Sire,” Quinn assured him. The King put a finger to his lips. “As a matter of fact, there is a young woman I would like Vashon to introduce to you.” He looked at his Chancellor. “What is that little one's name, Jaileel?" “The one who is here visiting your daughters?” came the query. At the king's nod, Jaileel replied: “The Lady Cantara, Your Grace. Lady Cantara Jaborn." Kaelan felt Quinn stiffen beside him, but to give the warrior his due, he did not let his surprise show on his face, though his complexion had gone a shade or two lighter at the dropping of that particular name.

“I would be honored to meet her, Your Majesty,” Quinn managed to reply. “Then it's settled,” the King proclaimed, waving a dismissive hand at his Chancellor, who knew his sovereign well enough to know he was to see to the arrangements of the meeting posthaste. The Rysalian monarch turned his attention then to Kaelan. “When will you be leaving, young sir?" “As soon as I can pick out a few good brood mares and a colt or two, Your Grace,” Kaelan answered. “I am anxious to get home." “Ah, yes,” Halim sighed. “You have a new bride awaiting you.” He folded his hands across his ample belly. “I remember it well.” He sighed again, wishing it was not Rysalian custom to have only one wife at a time. Miriam was still a lovely woman, but variety was nice. He shook himself. “And you, young sir,” he said, pointing at Thècion. “Do you have a bride awaiting you?" Thècion grinned. “There is a sorceress awaiting me, Your Grace." Halim winced. “A Daughter?" “Aye,” Thècion answered, beaming. “Poor man,” Halim commented, though his own lady-wife belonged to that infernal, tricky sect of witches. Not that he had ever had reason to complain about Miriam's involvement with the Multitude. After all, had she not assured him the throne instead of his hateful brother, Kahlid? “I am content with her, Sire,” Thècion announced. Yes, she will have seen to that, Halim thought, but did not voice his opinion. Instead, he turned his gaze on Diarmuid. “And what of you, young one? Do you have a bride to warm your bed, as well?" “By the gods, no, Sire!” Diarmuid gasped, his face draining of color. “Begging your pardon, Majesty, but I am not of a mind to go that route!" Halim frowned. “You prefer your own kind?" Thècion made a strangled sound and had to slap his hand over his mouth to keep from sputtering with laughter. As it was, he had to bury his face against Kaelan's shoulder. “What?” Diarmuid questioned, misunderstanding the implications of what he had said. He thought about it for a moment and saw nothing wrong. “I prefer the company of men, aye, Your Majesty." Kaelan had to wrap his own hand around Thècion's mouth to stop the young man from hooting with laughter. Quinn was studiously observing the marble floor, his tongue clamped between his teeth to keep himself from bursting into laughter. The Rysalian King was frowning darkly-he had no respect for men of that ilk-but he realized from the suffocating looks on the faces of his other guests that the young Chalean had no idea he had said anything that could be misconstrued. He looked from Kaelan to Quinn to the young Serenian who was practically shuddering with suppressed laughter and smiled slowly. Perhaps the evening meal wasn't going to be so boring after all.

**** Diarmuid wasn't talking to them. He had insisted on being dropped off at Odess where he could take a ship home to Chale rather than spend another day with the likes of Thecion McGregor and Kaelan Hesar, the Cousins from Hell. “Ah, come on, Dear Mutt,” Thecion insisted. “It was just a joke." “Leave him be, McGregor,” Kaelan ordered. “I don't think he found it very funny." Thecion shrugged. Perhaps not, but he sure as hell had. As did the rest of the Ben-Alkazar palace. “It wasn't meant to insult you, Dear Mutt,” Thècion tried again, but his friend of many years just ignored him. “Leave off,” Kaelan repeated. He knew Diarmuid would come around before they made landfall in Odess. At the moment, the young Chalean prince was in high dudgeon and it was best to let him stew in his own juices for the time being. But he did have to admit, the joke King Halim had played on Diarmuid Brell had been funny. Not as funny, perhaps, as the startled, stunned expression on Quinn's face when the Lady Cantara Jaborn had entered the throne room to be introduced to Arbra, but funny just the same. “She was a beauty, wasn't she?” Thècion asked, referring to Cantara, but his words had an entirely different meaning for Diarmuid. “LEAVE ME ALONE, MCGREGOR!” Diarmuid bellowed, coming to stand nose to nose with his friend. “T'WAS NOT FUNNY AND I WAS NOT AMUSED!" “How many times have I told you to be careful what you say, Dear Mutt?” Thècion countered. “The King but took you at your word!" “YOU KNEW WHAT I MEANT!” Diarmuid threw at him. “Aye,” his friend agreed, “but the King did not." 'THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM!" “It wasn't McGregor's place to tell him you don't always mean what you say, Brell,” Kaelan said quietly. “If you are to make your way in this world without the benefit of royal interpreters to correct your mistakes for you, you'd better start learning to do it now." Diarmuid turned his anger on Kaelan, even though he knew the older man was right. “Stay out of this, Hesar. You have enough problems without making me one of them!" Kaelan's left eyebrow crooked up into the thatch of his dark brown hair that was blowing in the stiffening sea breeze. He recognized true fury when he saw it, so he held up his hands, letting the young prince know he would keep his council to himself from then on. Turning his back, he walked away, shutting out the angry remarks being thrown between McGregor and Brell. He winced when the first blow landed,

but kept on walking, making his way to his cabin and the letter he wanted to write to Gilly. “I wish I'd been there to see it,” Lum remarked as Kaelan reached the hatchway. “It was hilarious, but I don't think you should mention you are privy to what happened, Lum,” Kaelan advised. “Wasn't gonna,” Lum insisted. The cabin was stiflingly hot, but from experience Kaelan knew the closer they came to Odess, the colder the weather was going to get. He had already laid out a heavy greatcape in expectation of the snow and cold that was to come. Settling down at the writing desk, he lifted his quill and began his letter. **** By the time the Vengeance came into the bustling Outer Kingdom harbor at Odess, Diarmuid was in a better frame of mind. If he hadn't exactly gotten over the incident, at least he could look back at it and not shudder quite so terribly. The black eye Destin was sporting was satisfaction enough so long as no one back at the Cay learned of what had transpired at the Court of Halim Ben-Alkazar. “Prince Diarmuid, may I introduce you to Marid?” the King had inquired. Black sultry eyes behind long, thick eyelashes darkened with kohl had gazed shyly up at Diarmuid. The thick black hair lying in braids down a slender, elegant back had fairly gleamed in the oil lamplight. The soft, smooth hand that had been placed in his had been cool to the touch and the nails tipped with vermilion. Diarmuid had gaped at the beauty before him from pert, upturned nose to sensuous lips, to swan-like neck, and—though not as buxom as Diarmuid preferred his bed partners to be—Marid had a tiny waist and cute little toes that were also painted a bright, alluring red. “You are lovely, little one,” Diarmuid had whispered, bringing Marid's hand to his lips in the typical Chalean fashion of greeting. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Marid had responded and the voice that had come from that perfect, cupid's bow mouth had been sultry and infinitely promising. Had Diarmuid not been paying such close attention to Marid's every word as the evening wore on; had he not been hand-feeding delicious morsels of food into that sensual little mouth, he might well have noticed the sly looks aimed his way by nearly every male at the banqueting table. If he wondered why there were no other women in attendance, he did not notice for he had eyes only for the sweet perfection of flawless, tanned flesh that slid over Marid's delicate shoulders. If truth be told—and Diarmuid prayed to the gods that it never was—he had lost a portion of his heart to Marid that evening. And would have inquired after taking his dining partner home to the Cay with him if Thècion hadn't let the cat out of the bag. “He's a boy, Dear Mutt!” Thècion had howled at the suggestion. “Didn't you know that?" Thinking back on it now, Diarmuid could feel his face getting red again. He would never forgive Thècion and he wasn't so sure he would ever forgive Kaelan, either, for not warning him.

“It was a harmless prank,” the Viragonian had responded to Brell's demand to know ‘just what the hell were you men thinking?' A prank, Diarmuid snorted as he plopped down in his bunk and nursed the bruised knuckles that had repeatedly connected with Thècion's hard jaw. Well, it was kinda funny, he thought, and found himself grinning. He immediately wiped the grin off his face and returned his handsome features to the scowl he had been practicing all day. Best now to let anyone know he wasn't all that upset. After all, he had learned a valuable lesson. Turning over, he thought back to Quinn and the dumbfounded expression on that man's face when he'd seen his future bride. Now, there was a sight to make a man smile! Quinn had been telling a joke to Prince Vashon Ben-Alkazar when the King's Chancellor announced the arrival of the Lady Cantara. Arbra had slowly swung his head toward the doorway and every bit of color had drained from the poor warrior's face. “She was a beauty, wasn't she?” Thècion had asked Kaelan earlier. Aye, Diarmuid thought, that she was. He would never have said so to Kaelan, but the Lady Cantara outshone even Gillian and that was extraordinary! Tall and willowy, with a waist that could easily be spanned by a man's hands, the breathtaking beauty who had walked into the throne room had taken Quinn Arbra's heart on sight. Her soft violet eyes had gone straight to his and held, and the lips that had been so richly stained with the color of pomegranate had eased into a welcoming smile that would put the goddesses in heaven to shame. Quinn had risen slowly to his feet, his heart in his eyes, his soul reaching out to hers, and every man there knew he was lost. Or found, as Kaelan insisted later on that evening. “She's what he needs,” the Viragonian had insisted. Diarmuid sighed. Up until that evening, he had not thought to ever marry. He didn't want to have to cater to a woman's whims and moods and tempers. He wanted to go where he wanted to go, when he wanted to go, and not have to answer to anyone. But now? He sighed again. Thècion had D'Lyn; Kaelan had Gilly; Quinn had Cantara. What did he have? A cold, lonely bunk that felt even colder and lonelier than usual. Well, he thought as he turned over and tucked his pillow more comfortably under his head, there were plenty of women at the Cay. Maybe one of them had a cold, lonely bed, too. [Back to Table of Contents] Chapter Eleven

D'Lyn sat down heavily on the rock beside Gilly and turned her attention to the sea. “An hour?” Gilly asked. “Give or take,” D'Lyn responded. “Nervous?" “Aye." Brownie shifted her head from one Her to the other, trying to decide why they didn't seem all that happy about the imminent return of the Him. Were they angry at Him for some reason. “He's gonna be annoyed,” D'Lyn stated. “Aye." The big brown mutt laid her big head down on her outstretched paws and let her eyes move back and forth instead of her head. The two Hers were giving her a headache and their jitters were beginning to annoy Brownie. “You really shouldn't have done it,” D'Lyn said. “I know, but I just got so angry." “Um hum,” D'Lyn acknowledged. That was an understatement. She turned her head and looked at her new friend. “Have you any conception of how it was taken?" Gilly shook her head and swiveled around to look at D'Lyn. “Bad, was it?" “Oh, yes,” D'Lyn agree. “Very bad, indeed." Gilly winced. “Well, there's nothing I can do about it now." D'Lyn shrugged. “I suppose not, although I think he will not be pleased." “I know he won't,” Gilly admitted. Brownie shuffed. She wished the Hers would be quiet so she could rest. Why did human Hers feel the need to yap so much? The Him never did. There were hours at a stretch when the Him never said a word. Brownie liked it that way. “You scared me, you know,” Gilly sighed. “You needed to be stopped before you did more damage,” D'Lyn countered. “They deserved it!' “Aye, I agree, but enough was enough."

I agree, Brownie thought, shuffing again. Do be quiet Hers! Gilly put her chin in her hand and her elbow on her knee and stared out at the cresting waves. Soon, the Vengeance would dock alongside the Revenant and both her husband and D'Lyn's betrothed would be home. She couldn't help but wonder just how angry Kaelan was going to be at her and that, to a small degree, damped the excitement of seeing her beloved again after six months. “He will not be too angry once he sees what else you've gone and done, Gilly,” D'Lyn commented, smiling. She patted her new friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Don't stay in the sun too long,” she advised before leaving. “D'Lyn?" “Aye?" “Don't let him see that little jar you have." D'Lyn nodded. “I won't.” She chuckled to herself and started down the bluff. At last, Brownie thought as the Her left. She lifted her head, looked long and hard at the other Her, then laid her head on her paws again and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep when Her whooped and jumped up. Brownie leapt to her feet, barking: “What? What?" “HE'S HOME!” Her shouted and started down the cliff. Nick frowned as he saw his sister coming off the promontory a bit faster than he thought either prudent or safe, but he knew better than to scold her. He shivered, thinking of the revenge she had exacted on the defenseless folks of Wixenstead Harbor. He'd not like to have Gilly that angry with him. At least she had forgiven him for having her jailed in Ciona. “If I had not been there, I would not have stowed away on the Serenian Star. Had I not stowed away, I'd not have met Quinn,” she had reminded. “So count yourself lucky, Nicholas Cree, that the gods put me where they wanted me so I wouldn't kill you for what you did to me!" Nick shivered again. He knew Gilly was going to put a hex on the village at Wixenstead. He'd know that the moment she'd heard Kaelan's tale; he'd even asked her if that wasn't going to be her intent: “And what do you plan on doing about it?” he'd asked. “You know gods-be-damned well what I plan to do, Nicholas,” she'd replied. “Aye, lass; I do, indeed. But can you wait until we leave this place before you start in on it?" Well, she'd waited all right and Nick had forgotten all about that conversation until he had sailed the Revenant as close to Wixenstead Harbor as Gilly's curse would allow. Thinking back on it, now, he chuckled. At the time, it hadn't been so funny. “What the hell is this?” Raine Jale had queried as he stood at the rail, gawking.

“Sweet Merciful Alel,” Nick had sighed. “My sister did this!" There was no way the Revenant could dock at Wixenstead Harbor; no other ship, either. A mile deep floe of ice covered the waters leading into the harbor and two ships were stuck fast in the frozen muck. “DON'T TRY IT!” the captain of one had shouted to Nick. “WE'RE BOTH STUCK AND IF YOU TRY TO WALK ACROSS, YOU'LL FALL THROUGH!" Gilly's own brand of revenge, Nick thought as he watched his sister hurrying down to the water to meet Kaelan's ship. He'd asked her about it when he came home to the Cay and her answer had been right to the point. “Those cold-hearted bastards had cut my Kaelan off from everything, so I cut them off to show them how it felt!" And show them she had. There was no way for any ship to dock in Wixenstead Harbor and Nick was to learn that the town had been cut off completely from the outside world by forty-foot high snowdrifts that had blocked every road into the village. Nor had she forgotten about the salting of Kaelan's well, either, for the town's water supply had a very distinct taste of saltwater. “I wanted them to know how lonely he was out there at Holy Dale." Had it not been for D'Lyn's intervention, Nick wouldn't have been able to dock and bring her, Ned and Kymmie, Brownie and Revenge home to the Cay. “I merely visited her and reminded her there were those of us who needed to get out of the village,” D'Lyn explained to him the night the ice floes simply disappeared into the fog. Thank the gods for the witch, Nick thought. He had no intention of asking the girl just how she had visited his sister who was a thousand or so miles away. It didn't do to get involved with the business of the Multitude. “NICKY!” he heard Gillian calling out to him. Nick shook himself, so as to alleviate the memory of the stark, terrified faces of the townsfolk who had greeted him upon his arrival. “Tell His Grace we are sorry!” the mayor had cried as he stood on the dock, wringing his bejeweled hands. “Ask him to please not place any more curses on us! We'll not venture to Un ... to Holy Dale and we will not give him any more reasons to be angry at us!" Upon asking questions of the proprietor of the tavern, Mr. Titus Neils, Nick learned that all charges against Kaelan Hesar had been dropped by the Tribunal. How Occultus had managed that, Nick didn't want to know. He had dropped off Raine, who had sold his stable to one of Lum Tarnes’ sons, picked up the passengers who would be making the Cay their new home, then sailed away from Wixenstead Harbor with never a look back. Tacking straight to Ciona, he'd dropped off Traer, picked up a few of Tyler and Taylor's family and friends, Jess Patrick's wife, Vee, and their son Nolan, then headed back to Montyne Cay.

“NICKY!" Nick smiled as he started down to the water where Gilly, D'Lyn and Brownie were waiting for their menfolk. He wondered what Kaelan was going to say to Gilly about the Curse she'd laid and the other little thing she'd managed to accomplish while he was away. Kaelan was at the rail, waving. He'd already spied Brownie running along the waterline, yipping at the breaking waves, and felt a great contentment welling up in his heart. Revenge was here, as well, for he could make out that magnificent black steed pawing at the sand over by the dock. There was Nick, standing with his arm around a fat woman.... Hesar's eyes grew wide. Fat woman? Hell, no! That was his Gilly! “I believe congratulations are in order, Kaelan,” Thècion quipped. “She'll lose that gods-be-damned weight very quickly now that I'm home!” Kaelan snapped. “Oh, I'd say it'll take a month or two more before she'll do so, though,” Diarmuid chuckled. “I'd say three,” his Serenian friend injected. “She will start exercising. I'll have her running...” Kaelan began only to have Lumley interrupt. “After that brat of your'n she's carrying,” the old salt laughed. “And she'll stop stuffing her mouth with...” Kaelan stopped, slowly turned his head toward Lumley. “B ... brat?” he stammered. “Aye, son,” Lum nodded. “She ain't fat, Your Grace. She's with child." “C ... child?” Kaelan questioned, his face chalk-white. “H ... how?" Thècion chortled. “Well, if you don't know, Stormy, I believe we need to sit you down and explain about the birds and bees." Kaelan ignored the nickname Quinn had given him and the others had taken to calling him to annoy him. “You can't get with child from a bee sting!” he said stupidly. “Nor from bird droppings, either, I'm thinking,” Diarmuid put in only to make a ‘whoof’ sound as Thècion's elbow dug into ribs. Kaelan shoved past the two young noblemen and swung down the ladder into the rowboat. Not even waiting for the others to join him, he barked at the lone rower to ‘get the hell over there!' “He don't look happy,” Nick observed. “He looks dumbfounded to me,” D'Lyn put in. She cast a look at a very pregnant Gillian who was smiling broadly.

“He's happy,” Gilly stated, nodding emphatically. She walked a bit further on the beach until the waves were lapping at her feet. She could see her husband's face plainly and the high color that infused his complexion made him even more handsome to her way of thinking. Thècion braced his elbows on the railing and watched as Kaelan Hesar bounded from the rowboat even before it had struck land. He smiled as the Viragonian ran to his wife and swooped her up his arms. Even from where he stood on the deck of the Vengeance, he could hear the mighty whoop of joy and the answering giggle of pleasure. “I've got to get me one of those,” Diarmuid sighed, feeling the tugging of generations of Chalean ancestors toward fatherhood. The Serenian prince threw an arm over his friend's shoulder. “Well, Dear Mutt, I don't think Marid will be able to give you..." Nick looked toward the ship from which a mighty splash had come. He saw men standing at the rail, looking down, pointing. “I wonder what happened?” he questioned. “My beloved Lord Raven opened his mouth one time too many,” D'Lyn sighed. [Back to Table of Contents] AFTERWARD

Ten years ago, I sat down at my old Western Auto manual typewriter and began writingThe Keeper of the Wind . Luckily for me, I discovered computers by the time I finished the first draft of Keeper, but by then the manuscript was over three feet tall! Realizing that not too many people would like to drag around a forty-pound book, I began whittling the manuscript into a more manageble size. What I eventually wound up with was six novels: Keeper and five sequels. In 1991, I wrote the seventh book in the series and in 1992, I wrote the eighth. I'm still tweaking number nine. The series is called The WindLegends Saga and if you haven't readThe Keeper of the Wind , you came into the movie in the middle! :o) WindFallis a prequel toThe Keeper of the Wind and it is the first book in The WindTales Trilogy. In WindFall , you were introduced to Occultus Noire, who will play a major part in Book Four of the WindLegends Saga and shows up again in Book Six, Eight and Nine. Most all of the characters in WindFall have ancesters in both series. So get out your score sheets and start taking notes. You never know whom you might encounter in WindChance , the next novel in The WindTales Trilogy available now from Twilight Times Books! [Back to Table of Contents] Excerpt from WindChance Charlotte Boyett-Compo

[Back to Table of Contents] Chapter One

“Sail ho!" The strident cry broke the morning air like a blast of the arctic air that had been at their heels since dawn. “Where away?” The Captain raised his spyglass and swept the rolling vista before him. “To the starboard, Cap'n. Thirty yards off the bow. She's lying dead in the water." “Making repairs?” the First Mate asked as he joined his captain at the rail. Catching sight of the unknown vessel lying off their weather beam, the captain shook his head. “Don't see anyone on her decks.” He raised his eyes to the crow's nest. “What do you see, Haggerty?" “Nary a soul moving on her, Sir. Looks deserted,” was the boyish reply. “Ghost ship,” the First Mate mumbled, crossing himself. “Stow that talk, Mister!” the captain snarled, shoving his First Mate aside as he strode away. “Mister Tarnes!” he called out to the Second Mate, who was at the helm, “bring her about. Let's see what we've got over there!" “Aye, aye, Cap'n!” the sailor replied and swung the brass-rimmed teak wheel in a lazy arc to starboard. Genevieve Saur pushed away from the taffrail of her brother's brigantine, The Wind Lass, and strolled on legs well accustomed to the rolling dip of the seas, to the quarterdeck where her brother and his First Mate were arguing. A smile dimpled her small face and she thrust her hands into the pockets of the cords she wore when on board her brother's ship. “You going to board her, ain't you?” Mr. Neevens, the First Mate, was growling. “Aye, we're going to board her!” Genevieve's brother growled back. Neevens shook his shaggy gray head. “Not this old tar! I ain't going aboard no ghost ship.” He screwed up his weathered face and stuck out a pugnacious jaw to emphasize his point. “I ain't boarding no ghost ship!" Genevieve grinned when her brother cast her a furious glance. She shrugged in answer to his silent plea for help. She watched his gray eyes hardened with pique. “We're going aboard her, Neevens, and that's the end of that!” Weir Saur shouted at his First Mate. He fixed his winter gray eyes on his sister. “You coming?" “Naturally,” Genevieve replied, eyeing Neevens with a pretend look of admonishment. “I don't believe in ghosts."

“And what about beasties?” Neevens snapped. “You afraid of them, missy?” The old man held her gaze, his whiskered chin thrust out, his watery eyes steady. “There are no beasties on that ship!” Weir shouted. “Ghost, either!" “You'll see,” the First Mate shot back. “You'll see!” He spat a thick stream of tobacco juice over the rail and squinted his fading eyes at his employer. “You come back without a head attached to them smug shoulders, Cap'n, we'll see who was right about beasties and such! You ever heard the tales of the NightWind?" A vicious crosswind, aided by a troubled sea which was beginning to show signs of a coming blow, heeled the Wind Lass over on the starboard tack and cold waves broke over the knightheads, shot high in the air and dropped with a roar onto the forecastle as the brigantine made for the unknown vessel. “See?” Neevens grumbled. “NightWinds don't like to be bothered!" Looking windward, the Captain frowned and his voice was a curt bellow as he looked up into the shrouds. “I want those topsails close reefed.” He turned his eyes down to his sister. “I don't like the looks of that sky." Genevieve turned her head and saw what had her brother concerned. The sky was a mottled gray; darker streaks of yellow were shot through the lower section of sky, making the flesh of the horizon appear bruised and sickly. “Gale?" Weir nodded, his mind on the nimble-footed sailors scurrying up the rigging. “Take in the topgallants while you're at it!" The Wind Lass slipped effortlessly over the heaving waves, a steady hand at her helm. She slid in beside the unknown vessel and dropped anchor, riding the sea with a rolling pitch that left no doubt as to the turn of the weather. “You going with us or not?” Weir asked his First Mate as the old man peered cautiously over the distance between the two ships as though something would lurch across the spans to take hold of his scrawny body. Mr. Neevens snorted, spat, and looked at his Captain. “Might as well,” he grumbled. Genevieve hid a smile as she turned to study the other ship. There was no name on her bow, no identification markings. Her hull had been painted black but here and there along the wood, great gouges of paint had flaked away leaving gray streaks where the weathered wood shown through. Her rails were tarnished, the wood chipped in places, some of her rigging flapping loose in the freshening wind. Her sails had been furled, lashed down to the yards and masts, and the creaking timbers and the rub of the shrouds were the only sounds that greeted the boarding party as they boarded her at a quarter to nine on that Friday morn. “Where the hell is the crew?” Weir asked as he studied the decks, which looked as though they hadn't been sluiced in a good many days. Salt was caked in the cracks of the decking, splashed up the masts. The hatchway stood open, the darkness from below decks a sinister gash of silence.

There was a smell about the ship, an alien, somewhat malevolent aroma which seemed to make the eerie quiet all the more prevailing. “You ever smelled anything like that?” Mr. Tarnes, the Second Mate, asked his captain. Weir shook his head. “Smells almost like burnt flesh, doesn't it?" “Do you suppose the beasties had a barbecue last eve?” Genevieve quipped, elbowing Mr. Neevens in his scrawny ribs. “That'll do, Genny,” her brother cautioned, giving her a stern look from beneath his chestnut brows. “Well, let's go on below and see what we can find,” the girl quipped, unconcerned by her brother's fierce scowl. “There's nothing up here." “You afraid of anything?” Mr. Tarnes snorted. He looked at the young girl with the look of a man long-accustomed to dealing with precocious females. “I'm not particularly fond of snakes,” Genny admitted. “Well, I'll venture to say there are no snakes on board,” Weir growled as he walked to the hatchway. He looked down into the darkness, and then with a deep breath, stepped gingerly down the companionway. The cabins were empty, the galley devoid of provisions, and the captain's stateroom almost denuded of both furniture and nautical charts and equipment. “Pirates,” Mr. Tarnes said, nodding. “They was hit by pirates.” He looked around the great cabin. “Took everything that wasn't nailed down and then some." “Shanghaied the crew?” Weir asked, trusting Tarnes’ knowledge of the subject. “That'd be my guess, Cap'n.” He poked among a pile of scattered papers on the captain's desk and lifted a single sheet of parchment. Squinting his eyes, he read the paper, drew in a quick, troubled breath and then handed it to Weir as though it were poisonous. “Sailing order, Sir." Weir scanned the parchment. His brows drew together and he looked up at Tarnes. “A prison ship?" “Ain't marked as such,” Tarnes told him, “but that there order says she was carrying prisoners bound for Ghurn Colony.” A wry grin settled over the man's rugged features. “Looks like the pirates got them some additional workers if this here lady was carrying prisoners." Genny shivered. It wasn't that she was bothered by the mention of pirates; after all, wasn't that what she and Weir had decided to take up now that they had lost their family holdings? Wasn't that why they were out here in the middle of the South Boreal Sea learning the ropes from Tarnes and Neevens? What bothered Genny Saur was the mention of the penal colony at Ghurn. If things didn't go right for her and Weir, that was where he was bound to wind up. As for her, she'd swing from the nearest yardarm since there were no prisons for women, only nunneries, and she knew gods-be-damned well she wouldn't let them place her in one of those hell-holes. “Did you hear that?” the First Mate suddenly squawked as he pushed up hard against Nathaniel Tarnes.

He grabbed the other man's arm in a punishing grip and plastered himself to Tarnes. “Hear what, you old fool?” Tarnes snarled, pushing the First Mate away from him. “All I hear is your teeth chattering!" “No,” Genny replied, looking at her brother. “I heard something, too." “Like what?" “A thump. There! Did you hear it?" Weir cocked his head to one side, listening. His eyes narrowed. “Aye, I heard that." “Sounds like it's coming from the hold.” Tarnes shoved Neevens out of his way and ducked out of the Captain's cabin and walked to the forward companionway which led the lower deck. He stopped, listened. “Aye. It's coming from the hold." “Could they have locked the crew down there?” Genny asked. “We've been on this ship nearly an hour. Don't you think they'd have heard us board and have made some noise before now?” Neevens inquired, his eyes jerking about for the beasties he expected to see at any moment. “Could have thought the pirates had come back,” Tarnes told him. “I ain't going down there,” Neevens informed them. He pushed himself against the cabin wall. “I just ain't, that's all there is to it." “Fool!” Tarnes called him. The hatchway down into the hold was battened down, locked with a heavy padlock that appeared to be newer than the hasp into which it had been fitted. It took both Weir and Tarnes’ combined strengths to pry the padlock open with a crowbar Genny found above decks. Once the padlock was off and the hatch opened, an overbearing stench assaulted the boarding party's nostrils, making eyes water and stomachs roll. “By the holy ghost!” Tarnes gasped, covering his mouth and nose with a hastily-drawn kerchief. “What the hell is that smell?” He gagged, swallowing a rapidly-rising clump of bile which was threatening to erupt from his watering mouth. “If that's the crew, they've been down there awhile,” Genny murmured, holding her nose and breathing heavily through her parted lips. “I've never smelled such foulness,” Tarnes mumbled, his eyes watering from the stench. “Ho, there!” Weir called into the blackness of the hold. “We're from the Wind Lass. Is anyone there?" There was silence from the ebony depths. “It could have been rats we heard,” Weir said.

“Mighty damned big rats to have made a thump like we heard.” Tarnes squinted his eyes, leaned over the hatchway and peered into the darkness. “I can't see a bloody thing." “Genny, go find us a lantern or something. I'm not going down there without a light of some kind.” Weir Saur was a brave man, but darkness was not something he was comfortable with. Genny nodded at her brother's request, well understanding his one weakness, and left to do his bidding. “Ho, there!” Weir called out again. “Is anyone there?” Only more silence and a horrible waft of the stomach-churning stench greeted his hail. “God, but that's a right offensive odor!” Tarnes said. “What the hell could cause such a smell?" Weir didn't know and he wasn't so sure he really wanted to find out. The smell had an evil about it that bespoke the very bubbling pits of hell. “Whatever it is, there sure can't be anything human living in it. I can hardly breathe up here." A flicker of light washed over the men and they looked over their shoulder to see Genny striding forward with two lanterns swinging in her hands. The light from the amber-tinted shades cast her small oval face in an ivory glow, lighting her forehead while the area below her nose was lost in deep shadow. If Mr. Neevens had seen her coming at him like that, he would have bolted for sure. “When I was in the galley, I found something very interesting, Weir,” she told her brother. “What?” Weir Saur accepted one of the lanterns from his sister. Genny handed the other lantern to Tarnes. “There were a lot of herbs and roots lying scattered about the cook table and there was a crucible of quinine on one of the shelves." “Sounds like they had fever on board,” Tarnes said. Genny nodded. “There's a lot of that at the penal colonies, I hear. Looked as though they were brewing a remedy for malaria." A sound from behind them made the three turn in surprise, but upon seeing who had joined them, they relaxed. “Find anything?” the newcomer asked. “We're about to go down into the hold. We heard a sound earlier, but there wasn't any answer to my call,” Weir said. Genny looked at the newcomer and smiled, as she smiled every time she was within eyesight of Patrick Kasella. Her gray eyes twinkled, her ivory complexion ran a peach blush and her heart skipped a beat or two every time her brother's best friend and partner looked her way. “What is that godawful smell? Is that coming from the hold?” Patrick asked, smiling briefly, brotherly, at Genny before turning his attention to Weir. “Surely that can't just be bilge water."

“I don't think so neither, and it's getting worse the longer we stand here,” Tarnes quipped. He stepped gingerly over the hatch and put his booted foot on the top rung of the ladder leading into the hold. “I'm either going to see what's causing it or faint from the smell of it." The men didn't see the hurt look fall over Genny's face at Patrick's easy dismissal of her; not that the Ionarian had ever looked at her with anything other than easy dismissal. In his charming, North Boreal way, Patrick, or Paddy as his friends called him, treated Genny no differently than he did the rest of Weir's crew. That he didn't seem to see her as a budding young woman bothered no one but Genny; certainly not Weir who didn't want any man looking at his sister in any way other than brotherly. Weir stepped down the ladder behind Tarnes and Patrick followed. The men didn't think of Genny until she bumped into Paddy's back as she stepped off the ladder. “Damn it, Genevieve!” Weir cursed, eyeing her with displeasure. “We don't know what we're going to find down here!" Her pert nose in the air, Genny glared at him, her lips pursed tightly together, still stung by Patrick's unknowing disregard. “So?” she challenged. “You've got no business being down here until we find out what's causing that godawful smell!” Weir snarled. “There could be plague or the likes down here!" “Hush!” Tarnes cautioned. He squinted. “There it is again.” He hefted his lantern and peered about the hold. The stench was worse where they stood, enveloping the four of them in an atmosphere that was almost palpable. “I'll look to the aft,” Weir said as he took Genny's arm. “You come with me." Paddy followed behind Tarnes as the Second Mate made his way amidships and then, finding nothing but splintered wood from broken open cargo, ventured further into the deeper darkness of the stinking hold. Weir stumbled over a coil of hemp and bumped hard into the bulkhead, banging his shoulder painfully against the wood. He almost dropped the lantern in the process, but Genny reached out to steady him. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “I didn't hear anything,” Weir grumbled as he wiped his hand down his pant leg. There was thick, slimy moisture on the wall of the ship's hold. “What did it sound like?" The young woman listened hard, shushing her brother as he repeated his question. She inched forward, searching the planking beneath her feet. “Look at this, Weir,” she said as she pointed. Weir came forward and lowered the lantern. “There's nothing but bulkhead back there." Genny wasn't so sure. “Do you see anything odd about the wood?” she asked, stepping over another coil of rope as her vision followed the planking. “No,” he told her. He held the lantern a bit higher. “I don't see anything odd. It's flat. What else should it

be?" “We didn't find anything but unsalvageable cargo,” Patrick told them as he and Mr. Tarnes joined them. “Nothing that could have made the sounds you heard." “We may have found something, Paddy,” Genny said. Weir rolled his eyes, looked at Patrick. “Little miss know-it-all thinks there's something odd about the bulkhead." Genny stooped down, touched her hand to the horizontal planking covering of the bulkhead, tapped on the wood. There was a hollow sound. She looked over her shoulder at her brother. “There's something behind this wall." Patrick eased around Tarnes and hunkered down beside Genny. He rapped on the planking and gagged. “Mother of Alel!” he gasped. “Whatever that smell is, it's coming from behind here.” He turned his head away and gathered a mouthful of saliva and then spat, hoping to exorcise the bile riding up his gullet. “Is there a latch of some sort on this wall, Paddy?” Genny asked, running her hands over the wood. Reluctant to even touch the wood concealing such a foul odor, Patrick nevertheless put his hands on the planking and felt, wincing at the feel of the slick wood beneath his flesh. His fingers touched something cold, stopped, went back, and fumbled until the smooth expanse of metal ran under his fingertips. “Here! Weir, hold that lantern closer!" Bending forward, Weir Saur thrust his lantern close to his friend's shoulder and caught sight of the iron bolt set into the wood. He watched keenly as Patrick threw the bolt back. “Where's the handle?” Genny asked, seeing none. “Inside spring lock,” Patrick told them as he pushed on the door to release it. “Holy ghost!” Tarnes gasped, reeling from the stench, which shot out from behind the moving panel. Genny thought she would vomit as the smell assailed her. She crabwalked back from the door as Patrick pulled it further open. A hollow sound, a rusty sound that moved from behind the panel and the four froze. “There's something there,” Tarnes warned. A pitiful sound, a human sound, seeped from behind the panel. It was a groan, a cry for help. “There's a man in there!” Weir whispered as the lantern light from Tarnes’ hand fell partially into the hidden area behind the planking. Patrick looked up. “No, there are two." [Back to Table of Contents]

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlee is the author of thirteen books, the first nine of which are the WindLegend Saga. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer's Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. Currently, she is at work on a new book. Visit Charlee's web site: http://www.windlegends.com/

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