PRINCE OF THE WIND (12 page)

"I’ll take that chance."

"No! The rebound might not be on us, but on our children. Have you not thought of that?"

Christine grabbed her friend. She punctuated her words with savage little jerks on Mariah’s forearm. "We can not stand idly by while that virago at Vent du Nord sends assassins after your daughter and kidnappers after my son! We must do something now!"

Mariah jerked away her arm, rubbed at her bruised flesh. "Let the men handle it. Keito has sent his warrior’s after Miyoshi. Your Aidan is having Riain watched. No one can get within a ten-mile radius of your son."

"Will you go with me or not?" Christine asked.,

"I will not."

The two stared at one another for a long moment, then Christine nodded. "I know you are frightened for your child, and I respect that. All I ask is that you do nothing to hinder my magik should I be given a way to rid the world of Suzanna de Viennes."

"The Oracle will not help you in this. Mark my words. What will you do, then, Christine?"

Christine Wynth Cree could not answer, for she knew had she told Mariah her alternate plan, the woman would have had her thrown into the dungeon for her own protection.

"I kept my child from being Joined to that whore after she seduced him. The Oracle saw fit to grant my request. I see no reason she would deny me now when Riain’s life and the life of a fellow Daughter’s child is at stake."

"Be careful, Christy. You do not always keep the clearest head when angry."

Christine’s expression softened. She put her arms around the diminutive Ionarian woman. "Don’t worry. I’ll protect our children."

***

Seldom had the Oracle ever turned down a request from Christine Cree—but this time, the Omnipotent Entity who controlled the Shadowlands of the Daughters of the Multitude squelched all hopes the Chalean queen had regarding effectively stopping the lethal plans of Suzanna de Viennes.

"The gods have spoken, Daughter," the Oracle chastised Christine, "and you must allow Their will to go forth as planned."

"How can you stand by and allow one of our own to be murdered?" Christine challenged.

"It is not of my doing, Daughter." The Oracle seemed as saddened by the coming tragedy as Christine. "But Mariah Shimota’s sacrifice will not be in vain."

Leaving the Shadowlands with a broken heart and a mind seething with revenge, Christine fled to her native Oceania. It was here on the black sand beach of her childhood that she sat, arms encircling her raised knees, and stared out to sea, tears flooding her vision. She was Miyoshi’s godmother, and though she had not seen the child since the christening, Christine would have been her sponsor into the Daughterhood when the girl turned of age.

"I cannot allow this to happen," Christine said as she batted away the scalding tears. Overhead a gull screeched in commiseration.

Since her own sisterhood had refused to help, there was but one avenue to which Christine could turn and she was loath to make the first step in that direction. Yet she saw no other option, no path to tread to a safer solution to her problem. With her heart heavy and fear flooding her mouth with a sharp metallic taste, she lowered her head and wept bitterly.

"There is no other way," she cried. "No other way."

* * *

Rhiannon Chastayne did not look up as the door opened. The magik sayer sat hunched over her cauldron, fanning the rising fumes as she stared into the bubbling brew. "Seat yourself, Milady," the witch known as the Windweaver bid her visitor. "I am almost finished."

Christine looked about, her nose crinkling at the condition of the quarters. The windows were grimy and the rushes needed changing on the floor. Combined with the stench coming from the cauldron, the smell of mold and mildew combined to make the Christine nauseous and a bit dizzy.

"You had no trouble finding your way here?"

"No trouble," Christine mumbled as she sat on the edge of the room’s only chair. She looked around, half afraid something would scuttle out from amongst the rushes to run up her skirt.

"Is it true what they say about World’s End?" Christine asked, then wished she hadn’t, for the woman turned to face her.

"What is it they say?"

Christine looked away from the keen green eyes fastened on her. "That once you enter the keep’s doors, you can never leave."

Rhiannon smiled. "Aye, ’tis true." She went back to her stirring. "And be glad it is."

"How so?" Christine asked, a frown creasing her forehead.

"It is of no matter." The Windweaver withdrew the ladle from the cauldron and hung the heavy wrought iron utensil on a hook beside the fire. While using her apron to wipe the moisture of the fumes from her hands, she walked to the dirty window and looked out. "You have brought me the required payment."

Christine hesitated. She stared down at her hands. "There are those who fear you."

"Fear," Rhiannon said, turning from the window. "Aye, there are those who fear me and with good reason."

"How so?" Christine could hear her heart thundering behind her rib cage; her palms were wet with perspiration. She was one of those who feared the Windweaver, though to her knowledge, she had no reason to.

"He is most beloved of your get, is he not?"

Christine blinked. "You mean Riain?"

Rhiannon nodded.

"I love all my sons."

"Aye, but this one you love more than the other three. Is that not true?"

Christine squirmed. She hated to admit that she loved one of her four sons more than the others, but Riain did hold a special place in her heart. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he was the youngest. Or because he had suffered as her other sons had not. Or maybe it was simply because he required more attention than his brothers.

"You need not answer," Rhiannon said. "I can see the way of it." She walked to the cauldron. "
Do
you have my payment?"

Christine felt the presence of the packet in her pocket. The weight had been heavy as she made her way to the witch’s hut. Her imagination working overtime, she could almost feel the thing burning a hole in the material.

"Please give it to me," Rhiannon commanded.

Christine hesitated, fearing the consequences of her actions in dealing with the Windweaver and her ilk. It was said these women had been about even longer than the Daughters of the Multitude and had been causing trouble for mankind since the spark of First Light.

"You wish to keep your son safe, do you not?" Rhiannon pressed.

"By the gods, I do!"

"And your own turned you away."

The disappointment of not being helped by the Oracle was a bitter thing in Christine’s heart. Yet she was afraid to make the final gesture that might possibly make matters worse.

"How can things be worse?" Rhiannon questioned, reading Christine’s thoughts. "A death warrant has been issued for your son’s betrothed. Agents have been sent out to capture him and bring him back to the de Viennes’ woman’s stronghold." The Windweaver spread her hands. "I ask again—how can things be worse?"

"You can take his soul!"

Rhiannon’s slow smile became eerie. As beautiful as she was with her long black hair and emerald green eyes, red lips and dark olive complexion, the smile made her seem inhuman and brought the hairs on Christine’s arms to attention.

"What need do I have of your son’s soul, Milady?" the Windweaver asked. "The women of your sect put entirely too much merit on the significance of souls."

"And your kind does not?"

"On occasion we make use of one we have stolen, but in this case, it is not Riain James Cree’s soul I want."

Christine stared at the Windweaver, afraid to ask what price she would demand for helping her son. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the witch to forget all this. She would leave, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Rhiannon Chastayne.

"Even now the demented one is making plans for your son."

"What kind of plans?"

"You have heard of Raphian? She is seeking out a priest from the Brotherhood of the Domination who will raise the demon for her."

Christine gasped. "No!"

"You speak of stealing souls, Milady. Know you not what that One would do with your son’s?"

As though prodded by a hot spear, Christine leapt to her feet and fished inside the pocket of her gown. She withdrew the packet she had brought from Binh Tae palace and thrust it toward the Windweaver. "Here! Do what you must to protect him!"

Rhiannon took the folded square of cambric and closed her eyes. She held the cambric as if feeling it, absorbing it, as if vibrations came to her. "Go to the cauldron and draw forth a ladle of the brew."

Without giving herself time to think of the consequences, wanting only to protect her most cherished of children, Christine plucked the ladle from the hearth wall and dipped it into the brew.

"Careful you do not burn yourself," Rhiannon cautioned as she laid the packet on the table beside the chair. Gingerly, she unfolded the square, her fingers trembling as each point came away from the center.

"What do I do with this?" Christine asked, feeling queasy from the rancid smell of the grayish liquid.

"Drink it!"

Christine’s stomach revolted at the thought. Bile surged up her throat. "I cannot!"

"You must," Rhiannon said in an offhand voice as she lifted a strand of Riain Cree’s hair from the center of the fabric square. "He has worn the shirt from which this cambric was taken?"

"Aye," Christine whimpered, trying to look away from the darker gray motes of the-gods-only-knew-what floating in the ladle.

"This is his?" Rhiannon asked as she plucked a nail clipping from the packet.

Christine could only nod, incapable of speech for fear she would vomit.

"And this is his blood?"

Unable to look at the scrap of cotton from which she’d clipped the stain after her son had cut himself shaving that morning, Christine groaned.

Rhiannon reverently placed the items one by one back on the cambric.

"M…must I d…drink this?" Christine whispered.

"Think of it as a sacrifice for your child. With such, a mother can do whatever needs doing."

Christine tore her attention from the noxious liquid. "Have you a child you feel this way about?"

Rhiannon smiled. "Not yet, but one day." Her gaze softened. "I will name him Logan, and after him will come Paegan and Kamerone and Syntian."

"I—"

The Windweaver’s angry shout cut her off. "Drink the gods-be-damned brew, else lose your son’s mortal soul to Raphian and His minions! Will you allow that to happen?"

Christine squeezed her eyes shut and brought the ladle to her lips. Before she could lose courage, she took a sip of the acrid brew and nearly gagged.

"Drink! All of it!"

The brew tasted like gall, and the chunks that slithered down Christine’s throat threatened to wiggle up again. Even as the last drop passed her lips, the light from the hearth and the meager supply of candles fled the room, pitching her into complete darkness. She sank to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

Rhiannon stared with unconcern at her visitor, then turned. She picked up the strands of hair and took them to the cauldron. Before she dropped them into the tumbling brew, she brought the black silk to her lips and kissed it.

"Heart of my heart, sword hand of my defense, make your way here no matter the expense."

She returned to the table for the cambric square, the nail clipping, and the stain of Riain Cree’s blood.

"Unable to deny whatever I need," she said as she dropped the nail paring into the cauldron, "you will come to me with utmost speed."

The cambric floated in the bubbling liquid, then sank beneath the waves.

"Your body will be mine whenever I call. Your heart to me I will enthrall."

Rhiannon held the tiny square of cotton containing the crimson stain in the palm of her hand and studied it. With her free hand, she lifted her skirt and drew the athamé from the sheath strapped to her thigh. With practiced motion, she drew the thin blade across her left palm and watched as her blood merged with Riain’s blood on the fabric.

"Blood of my blood, now we are one."

The Windweaver dropped the bloody scrap into the cauldron and stepped back.

Instantly, a flash of light came from within the wrought iron depths; smoke billowed up the chimney. The strong aroma of cinnamon filled the hut, while a pulsing blue light appeared in the corner.

Rhiannon turned to the entity within the light and smiled. Her next words brought a smile to the entity’s strange face—

"I, the vessel—you the seed for my son."

Riain looked down at his shirt and cursed vividly. The young prince was not having a good day, and coming back to his room to find his favorite cambric shirt smoldering in the hearth made him howl in rage. When he did, Duncan Brell burst into the bedchamber—sword in hand and scowl in place.

"What?" Duncan shouted, looking about for whatever intruder had alarmed his charge.

Riain snatched what was left of his shirt from the maw of the fireplace and thrust it toward the Master-at-Arms. "Do you see what she did?"

Not finding a fighting target with whom to engage, Duncan lowered his serviceable blade and wiped his free hand across his craggy brow. "What are you babbling about, Ree?"

"My mother ruined my gods-be-damned shirt!"

Duncan turned a jaundiced eye to the smoking shirt and shrugged. "Doing some protection rune or another, I’d wager. That’s what mothers do, boy."

"My favorite shirt!" Riain threw the offending garment back into the fireplace. "What will she do next? Cut off a lock of my—" He turned toward his dressing table and narrowed his eyes. "Where the hell is my brush?"

Duncan rolled his eyes. "I do not keep track of your possessions."

"Mama!" Riain yelled, stomping out of the room.

"Throw a tantrum, why don’t you?" Duncan called after him.

* * *

The Master-of-Arms let out a sigh, then looked about the room once more. He walked to the windows to make sure they were locked. Opened the armoire and fumbled around, looking for a false panel. Did a complete circuit of the room to make sure it was secure before he sauntered into the hall. He nodded to the duo of Chrystallusian guards who flanked the doorway, and at finding the two Chalean warriors gone from their post, knew they would have fallen in behind the young prince as he searched for his mother.