Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (35 page)

bear the burden of waiting and worrying. Our prayers must go with these men to protect them. They must

know we are behind them in all they do.” She locked gazes with Genny. “They must know we will remain

here, faithful to them and trusting they will remain faithful to us. That no temptation, either old or new, will

sway them from our arms."

Genny tore her eyes from the Empress and looked at a girl-child nestled in the arms of a nearby servant.

The child had a twin brother who, because he was male, could not enter the Temple of Tethys. Because

the girl-child was the daughter of the Great Lady, herself, she had been brought to the vespers ceremony.

She was also the daughter of one of the men sailing on the evening tide.

“Fear not his love for you,” Rowena told the women, but her words were for the ears of one woman,

alone. “Trust in him for he will return to you and to only you."

Genny shifted her gaze from the child to its mother. Although she hated Rowena Shimota with every

ounce of venom her jealous heart could muster, she knew the woman was no threat to her relationship

with Syn-Jern. Why he had been chosen to provide the other half of the equation to produce the

Empress’ offspring, she could not—nor would she—begin to understand. That he cared nothing for the

other woman was evident in the way he avoided her. But the jealousy was still a prickle in Genny's heart.

Just knowing the bitch had lain with Syn-Jern was enough to make Rowena Genny's enemy for life.

As though she had read the virulent thoughts running rampant through Genny Sorn's mind, Rowena

shook her head with sadness, then turned her attention to the other women. “Let us go to our men

and—"

Not your man!

Rowena stopped, shocked by the mental thought that slammed into her with enough force to give her a

mild headache. She looked at Genny Sorn with wide eyes.

Not your man and you will stay the hell away from him!
was the warning.
Do you understand me,

you ugly red-headed bitch?

The Empress put a trembling hand to her aching temple. It had been her intention to go to the docks and

say goodbye to Syn-Jern, to the father of her children, but this she had not expected. The force of the

anger directed at her had surely awakened what little psychic power the Saur—

“Sorn!” was the correction.

Rowena stared at Genny.

Touch him ever again and I will pull every hair out of your head,
was the silent promise.
Is that

clear enough for you, Great Lady?

Knowing she had a formidable enemy on her hands, Rowena wondered how she would ever calm the

seas between them.

* * * *

Taeli Masarawa held the incense stick aloft and watched the smoke wafting from its tip. Very slowly, he

lowered the burning stick and placed its fiery end to the flesh of his left arm. Only the slightest flicker of

an eye betrayed the pain the action caused him.

For what was a mere speck of fire when his thoughts were of the white-hot brand that had been laid

upon the ravaged flesh of his back two years before?

Masarawa shrugged his thick shoulders, feeling the pull of scar tissue. In the courtyard of Binh Tae

palace, his back had been laid to the bone with a hundred passes of a steel-tipped lash. The legacy of his

punishment would remain with him to the funeral pyre. The disgrace of his punishment would follow

Masarawa into the Afterlife.

As would the pathetic attempt his enemy had made to stop Masarawa's punishment.

“His Grace pleaded leniency for you, cur,” the executioner had snarled, “but Her Imperial Highness

would not allow it! You attacked Lord Sorn and you will pay for it with your hide!"

“As you will pay for all the pain I have suffered, Syn-Jern Sorn,” Masarawa swore. His meaty fist

crushed the incense stick, bending it in half.

The man who was once in command of the Imperial Guard sat on his heels, laid the broken incense stick

aside and drew his ceremonial dagger from the folds of his kimono. With his hard eyes staring straight

ahead, Masarawa extended his arm then drew the blade of his dagger across his flesh of his left palm. He

doubled his fist and allowed his blood to flow into an earthen bowl on the floor before him. Slowly, his

gaze fell to the dripping blood and he smiled.

“As surely as my life's blood flows, I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. Your friends will be my

enemies; your enemies will be my friends. That, that you champion, I will oppose. That, that you oppose,

I will champion. I will have my revenge."

* * * *

The Emperor's eyes gleamed with admiration. “It is fine,” he pronounced. “Truly fine!"

The swordmaker bowed his head respectfully. “I am honored you are pleased, Highness."

“More than pleased,” Akito Shimota stated. He hefted the sword, testing its balance. “It is by far the

most elegant weapon you have cast, Shin Lee."

“A weapon worthy of a great warrior,” the Emperor's advisor remarked.

“It surely is,” Akito agreed. He handed it reverently into the care of its creator. “And I am most pleased

with the craftsmanship.” He lifted the hammered steel and admired the elaborate symbols etched into its

length. Reading the Chrystallusian words of power, he shuddered. “A most deadly combination."

“He will be protected with such a weapon, Highness,” the advisor said.

“Even a warrior with less skill than our outlaw would make of this weapon a widowmaker,” Shimota

chuckled.

“Outlaw?” the advisor questioned.

The Emperor shrugged. “That is what they will call him,” he said, laying the sheath aside. “As soon as he

steps foot on Viragonian soil, the Brotherhood will learn of it. There will be those who will testify he

served his entire sentence; we have seen to that. Even so, the lands that were his, were confiscated and

he no longer has right to them. But when he begins to take back what is rightfully his, he will have the

Tribunal Guards after him.” The Emperor spread his hands. “He will be an outlaw."

“With a hefty bounty on his golden head,” the Empress said softly.

Shimota turned to his wife. “Is he not under the protection of the Daughters?"

Rowena nodded slowly. “Aye."

“And have you not said he will return to safety here?” The Emperor liked the Viragonian and wanted

nothing to happen to him.

“I said,” Rowena reminded her husband, “his family will know safety here.” She lowered her eyes. “I

can not guarantee Syn will return to Chrystallus unscathed.” Her voice lowered. “Or that he, himself, will

return at all."

“But...” Shimota began, but his wife lifted her head and he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

“We can only pray the gods pay heed to our entreaties, Akito. Beyond that, there is nothing more we

can do.” She nodded toward the lethal sword in the hands of its creator. “Those who live by such, may

die by such.” Her eyes clouded. “Or have their lives snuffed out at the end of a hangman's noose."

Akito felt his heart thudding in his chest. Did his wife know more than she was telling? Was it Syn-Jern

Sorn's destiny to die in that heathen land he wanted so desperately to have as his own once more?

“His people will protect him as best they can, Akito,” Rowena prophesied, “but even they can do just so

much to keep him safe."

“His people?” Akito questioned. “You mean his crew?"

“No,” she replied. “The people of Wixenstead Village."

The advisor shook his head. “Returning to the place from whence he was handed over to the Tribunal is

foolhardy. Could no one deter him from such a reckless action?"

Rowena turned her attention to her husband's advisor. “They will rally to his cause, Kym. They have had

ten years under the suffocating yoke of the Tribunal. Ten years in which to come to the realization that

Syn-Jern Sorn was sent to prison simply because his brother wanted his inheritance."

“But the brother does not have the lands, does he, Highness?” Kym asked.

“No, they belong to the Tribunal, but Trace Edward Sorn lives on those lands and is overseer for the

Tribunal,” Rowena explained. “He will not be happy to see Syni return to Virago."

“Such talk disturbs me, wife,” Akito said. “Let us have no more of it. We will present this magnificent

weapon to our friend this eve at the banquet in his honor and he will know what a true friend he is to us."

Rowena did not reply to her husband's words. She looked at the weapon of which he and the

swordmaker were so proud and felt a shudder of distaste travel through her body. Her own words

echoed back to her:

Those who live by such, may die by such.

She prayed that would not be the case with Syn-Jern Sorn.

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“One last time,” Weir sighed. “And no more than that, Genny!"

Genny brazenly smiled at her brother, then ran up the gangplank, threw herself into her husband's arms.

Much to her brother's embarrassment and the crew's amusement, the woman Syn-Jern was leaving safely

behind him in Chrystallus plastered her body and mouth to her husband's and latched on.

“For the love of Alel,” Weir swore and turned away, his face flaming as the crew hooted their approval.

“You send him off real good, now, Genny-girl!” Mr. Tarnes chuckled.

“From the looks of him this mornin',” Stevens drawled, “she liked to wore him out last eve.” He pointed

the stem of his pipe at the couple. “Best spray ’em down, Mr. Neevens, else they'll set fire to the deck

with that action there."

“Will you get that shameless hussy off this boat?” Weir snapped. He looked around at his sister and

brother-in-law and snorted. “Genny, get gone!"

Syn-Jern eased his wife's mouth from his, looked into her tearful eyes, and shook his head. “I will be

back, milady. Do not think otherwise."

“I want to go with you,” she said stubbornly though they had been through that argument many times.

Her husband cupped her face in his callused hands. “You can not,” he said softly, “and you know why

you can not.” He lowered his head to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, then locked gazes with her

once more. “I love you with all my being, Genevieve Sorn, and I promise you I will come home to you."

She stared into his eyes for a long time, then reached up to cover his left hand with hers, turning her face

to plant a kiss in his palm. Before she could begin to sob, she turned and ran down the gangplank.

“Gangplank, away!” Weir shouted.

Syn-Jern walked to the ship's rail, his heart aching at the sight of his wife standing with her back to the

Revenge. He willed her to turn and face him and when she did, he moaned softly at the tears cascading

down her cheeks.

“I will return to you, milady!” he called as the ship began moving backwards out of her slip. He could

hear the creak of the ropes as the harbor-men with their dray horses pulled the Revenge down the length

of the long dock until she could catch the winds at the mouth of the harbor.

Genny's lips were trembling and her heart breaking. It would be months, maybe as long as a year before

she would see her husband again.

“I will return, Genny!” she heard him shout.

“Aye,” she whispered, then yelled her last words to him: “If you don't, I'll come and get you, Syn-Jern

Sorn!"

Patrick came to stand beside Syn-Jern. Genny's words made him grin. “I do believe she's liable to do

just that if you don't return when she thinks you should, my friend."

Syn-Jern lifted his hand in farewell and wasn't surprised to see it trembling. He was leaving everything he

loved behind: his wife and infant son. And to do what, he asked? To take back lands he had no intention

of ever living on again? To throw Trace Edward and his whore out of Holy Dale? Or to simply run his

half-brother through his black heart with the elegant sword Akito had given him?

“You're wondering why you're doing this,” Patrick said, and when Syn-Jern turned to look at him,

Kasella smiled. “We've all had the same doubts, Syni, but each of us knows this needs doing."

“And what will we be able to accomplish, Paddy?” Syn-Jern asked.

Patrick leaned on the railing, his fingers threaded together. “We'll hit the Tribunal coffers and gather

enough money to pay the taxes on Weir's family estate. We can stop other men from losing their

ancestral holdings in the same way. And we can clear your good name."

Syn-Jern snorted. “By the time I'm through, my ‘good name’ as you call it, will have a price on it!” He

shook his head. “I'll be an outlaw, Paddy, and never able to return to Virago even if I want to live there.”

He focused on his wife as her lovely face began to blur with distance. “But Trace Sorn will not be living in

the lap of luxury with his vicious slut at his side. I'll make gods-be-damned sure that my children will be

able to live at Holy Dale if that is their wish. I'll make Rosa-Lynn sign the manor house, free and clear, to

Dermot.” He was unaware he was gripping the rail, his knuckles devoid of color. “And it will remain in

Sorn hands until it crumbles to the ground. There will never be another Hesar to own Holy Dale!"

Patrick Kasella did not reply to that statement. If the eerie dream were a portent of things to come, there

would be another Hesar living in Holy Dale three or four generations from now.

And that Hesar would find Holy Dale a living hell.

“Kaelan,” Paddy whispered, picturing a man limping about the musty halls of the great manor house.