PRINCE OF THE WIND (5 page)

"What will you say to the emissary, Gunter?" du Mer asked, his face displaying his worry. He stood to lose as much as any if the Chales attacked.

Gunter closed his eyes. "I will throw myself and my daughter upon his mercy and hope he can find a smidgen of it in his heart to grant us." He opened his eyes and looked unseeingly across the throne room. "What more can I do?"

* * *

Guy du Mer hated seeing his childhood friend so distraught. There had been only two times through the years when Gunter had worn the look of helplessness that had now settled on his lined face. One had been the death of his beloved wife. The feud with his cousin, Dolph, which had resulted in Dolph’s defection to Virago, had been the other. To see such hopelessness in a strong man was difficult and du Mer would have done anything to alleviate the pain his friend was undergoing.

"Let me speak to the boy," du Mer said. "Perhaps if he can be made to understand you had no part in this, we could—"

"He knows that already," Gerard said quietly. "I told you he has put the blame where it duly lies."

"Aye, but surely what he will say to his father when he returns home will be of some help in this," du Mer argued.

"What is it you want him to say?" Prince Gunter asked. "What
can
he say that will help?"

Du Mer looked about him, as much in the dark as was his prince, but he knew there had to be something the boy could do to take the brunt of the sting from the scorpion on his way to Vent du Nord. He thought he might have the answer and was about to speak his mind when there came a sharp rap at the throne room door.

"Come!" Gunter called.

"A Chalean ship has been sighted, Your Grace!" the messenger said, eyes wide with fear. "She is
The Banshee
."

Gunter de Viennes came to his feet. His face drained of color. The hand he clutched to his heart had a definitive tremor. "Cree’s flagship."

"You are sure of this?" du Mer asked.

"There is only one black ship sailing the seas what flies black sails, Duke du Mer," the messenger reported.

"Doesn’t mean Cree is on board," Gerard said.

"He’s on board," Prince Gunter said, his words a mere shifting of air rather than sound.

"The gods help us," du Mer breathed.

"Someone had better help us," the messenger quipped, "because there be four ships sailing with
The Banshee
!"

Aidan Andrew Cree, standing six foot two, was tall for a Chalean, as were all his sons. His hair was black as pitch and his eyes the color of sunflowers. A thick pelt of hair, peeking from the confines of the leather laces of his tunic, spread across his wide chest, along his thickly muscled arms, and down his flat belly. He strode with the confidence of a man well used to power and authority, and who never took "No" as an answer to his wishes. His finely chiseled face—square jaw, high cheekbones, and straight nose—made women stare and men envious. But it was his temper and high degree of arrogance that made men step aside for him.

That, and the very serviceable Ionarian blade he wore strapped to his broad back.

"A widowmaker," a palace guard whispered to his companion as Cree and his seven-man escort passed.

"Aye, and if there be one thing Chalean’s know," the companion whispered back, "it be blades!"

Aidan overheard their remarks, and a grin shifted his pursed lips. He put on his conqueror face, as Christy called it—hard eyes, set mouth, jaw clenched tightly to cause the muscles to stand out along the cheekbones. As he walked—his Master-at-Arms always called it "swaggered"—he was more than aware of the fear his appearance at Vent du Nord caused. It pleased him.

* * *

"What do you suppose has made these rats so nervous?" Duncan asked Aidan Andrew Cree, his Overlord, in Chalean.

"Me," Aidan answered.

Duncan Brell couldn’t argue that. As he walked slightly behind and to his Overlord’s right, he had no concern of an attack. The three warriors ahead of them and the three behind were the best swordsman in the King’s Elite. In the harbor were more than seventy men, and every cannon on board the four ships was pointed directly at Vent du Nord keep’s throne room.

"Do they think we’re here to attack?" Duncan queried.

"They’d better not be worried about that." Aidan’s tone was deadly.

Duncan craned his neck forward to see Aidan’s face. "Why not?"

When the Chalean king answered, his tone did not bode well for anything found amiss at the Northzoner keep. "If they’re worried we’ll attack, then something untoward has happened to my son." His eyes turned lethal as they neared the throne room. "If that is the case, I’ll bring this ugly keep down around Gunter de Viennes’ ears!"

The first thing Duncan noticed as they entered the room was the brat sitting calmly—perhaps a little too calmly—in the throne chair reserved for a Northwinds princess. At the sight of his father, the lad looked to his host for permission. At de Viennes’ nod, Riain rose, descended the dais steps, and met his father halfway down the length of the hall. Riain wasn’t smiling—as Duncan thought he should have been—a telling sign that set up the old warrior’s hackles, as it obviously did his Overlord’s.

"Something’s wrong," Aidan whispered.

Duncan shifted his attention about the room and saw no danger lurking, but he sensed the uneasiness that he knew his king also felt.

Riain lowered to one knee in acknowledgement of his fealty to his king. His right fist went to his chest, his head bowed. "I await the pleasure of my king."

It was all Duncan could do not to show shock and surprise at Riain’s humbling actions. After a year’s absence, the brat should have fallen into the king’s arms and not let go. As it was, the boy, prostrating himself at his father’s feet, acted as if he had done something wrong and was looking to be punished. Duncan cast a quick glance to Aidan, fearing the man’s infamous temper was about to erupt.

"Arise, boy," Aidan commanded.

Riain came to his feet, swung his gaze to Duncan, and blushed heatedly before looking at his father.

"You are well?" Aidan asked.

"Aye, Your Grace," Riain replied.

Aidan took Riain by the shoulders. He let his scrutiny run down his son, then nodded. "You look well."

"Thank you, Milord."

"These Zonelanders have treated you honorably?" Aidan asked, his attention shifting momentarily from his son to the Northwinds prince, who had risen and was standing awkwardly on the dais.

Duncan watched the boy’s eyes narrow into what could only be called pleading.
What was this? Had they mistreated the brat? Was the boy fearful of something that might happen? Or something that already had?
Christy’s words came back to the Master-at-Arms and he stiffened, realizing his Overlord had also become very still.

"You were treated honorably?" Aidan pressed, his hands tightening on his son’s shoulders.

"Father…"

Aidan shook him gently, but firmly. "You’ve never called me father in your life," he warned, suspicion rife in his tone. "Why now?"

"There is something I have to tell you, and it isn’t easy."

"Then don’t try."

With a stern, uncompromising look on his face, Aidan Cree strode toward the dais. Duncan followed.

Perspiration shone on Gunter de Viennes’ upper lip. He made a cursory snap of his head in greeting as he stopped at the bottom step of the dais.

"You have something to tell me, de Viennes?" Aidan Cree snapped, his massive fists clenched.

The Northwinds prince’s lips trembled when he smiled. He shifted his feet and twisted his hands in front of him as though he expected Aidan to jump him and lift the scalp from his head. "Welcome to Vent du Nord."

It can’t be too bad, Duncan thought as he took in the idiotic look on the prince’s face. He glanced at the brat; the boy had taken roots where they’d left him. Duncan frowned.
What did Riain fear? What his father would do or what the Zonelander might?

"You had a safe journey?" Gunter asked.

Aidan looked around, found his son’s whereabouts, and frowned. He motioned for Riain to come forward. The boy hesitated before doing so.

"What has happened?" Aidan demanded.

"He isn’t to blame," Riain whispered and blushed when his father cast him a quelling look.

"To blame for what?"

"Your Majesty," Gunter said, "there has been a most unfortunate incident."

Duncan sighed. Aidan’s face had already begun to color; his pale eyes were twin chips of glacial ice; his back was as rigid as Duncan could ever remember seeing it. Cree men had never been praised for restraint, and Briarcliff’s Master-at-Arms knew Aidan wasn’t going to start a tradition. If anything, Aidan was about to explode more fiercely than his ancestors ever had.

"What kind of unfortunate incident?" Aidan queried, his hawklike regard switching back to his son.

"Your son isn’t to blame!" Gunter was quick to say. "He…."

Aidan held up his hand. His brows had drawn together like clashing waves on a troubled shoreline. He held Riain’s worried look for a few counts, then swung his attention back to Gunter. "My son says you aren’t to blame, Prince Gunter, and you say he is not to blame." A muscle bunched in his lean cheek. "Then, pray tell, who is and for what?"

Gunter ran a finger along the collar of his tunic. His voice was a mere whisper. "My daughter."

Duncan nodded. Had there been any doubt? Had not Christy warned them the woman was up to something? Had they not nearly capsized the
Banshee
in their headlong rush to the Northlands to prevent an "unfortunate incident"?

"I take it my son is no longer a virgin," Aidan snapped.

Riain became scarlet with embarrassment. He looked down at the toes of his boots.

Gunter lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "You have my most heartfelt apology, Your Majesty. I am mortally ashamed of what has transpired and I have taken steps to see Suzanna is appropriately punished for what she did to young Riain. I cannot ask you to forgive her, but I do ask for compassion. She was sorely taken with your son, else she would have never used such underhanded tactics to…" He waved his hands helplessly. "…to render him unable to deny her," he finished on a pained note.

Duncan looked hard at Riain, then Aidan. Was it more than a simple seduction of an untried boy? What had the woman done other than initiate the brat into the arts of lovemaking? The word "rape" ran through Duncan’s mind and he knew the moment it entered Aidan’s—his Overlord’s face took on a mottled purple hue and his compressed lips. The muscles in his arms became bands of steel as he stood with them folded over his chest.

"He was taken against his will?" Aidan asked, his voice as harsh as the winters in the foothills of the Northlands.

"Papa….." Riain said, putting a hand on his father’s rigid shoulder.

Aidan jerked away from the touch and impaled Riain with a stony glower. "Were you taken against your will, sir?"

Riain met his father’s stare. "Aye," he whispered.

Aidan’s chin came up; his stare became flint-hard. "You were held down for her to mount?"

Bright red infused Riain’s face. "No, Milord!"

"Bound in some way?"

Riain’s blush turned a deeper red. "No, Papa. No," he answered, his voice breaking in mortification. "Nothing like that."

"That how was it against your will?"

"Drugged," Duncan stated in a low, flat voice.

Aidan glared at his Master-at-Arms. "It better not have been!"

"She should not have done so!" Gunter said. "But she saw no harm in it. She only wanted him as eager for her as she was for him!" He, himself, blushed at the words, but he held his ground despite the raging fury now leaping over Aidan Cree’s set face.

"She used a potion of some kind?" Aidan hissed.

"She wanted only to insure his cooperation."

"Could she not have had him restrained? Did she have to poison him with some brew?"

"It was not poisonous!" Gunter assured. "Potent, aye, but not poisonous. She gave it to him in milk and—"

"Milk?" Aidan roared so loudly, the chandelier rattled. "By the gods! What did she feed him?"

Duncan’s brows shot upward. He had little knowledge of herbs and their properties and therefore could see no reason why a simple aphrodisiac could cause such a violent reaction in Aidan Cree. It wasn’t until the king named the drug he suspected that Duncan drew in a horrified breath and nearly staggered back with the implications.

"Tenerse?" Aidan snarled. He unfolded his arms and took a menacing step toward the dais, totally oblivious to the two guards who moved to block his way. He shoved them away, swatting their crossed pikes to the side. "Answer me, de Viennes!"

Gunter blanched and nodded.

Aidan’s eyes flared wide. "My son was given tenerse?"

Duncan groaned. In Chale, the drug had been outlawed more than twenty years before. It was an insidious drug of the nightshade family. Quite deadly when mixed with certain liquids; extremely dangerous when blended with others. In some highly susceptible individuals, the drug could cause an allergic reaction that could last a lifetime.

"Only a small amount!" Gunter threw up his hands with hopelessness and defeat. "He was her first, so there is no reason to worry for his health."

"A virgin?" Aidan questioned.

"Aye, she was."

Cree threw back his head and bellowed in rage.

Riain jumped away from his father as though he’d been poked with a hot prod. His eyes went wide as saucers in his suddenly pale face and his mouth dropped open. Duncan knew the boy had never witnessed his father’s infamous Black Temper.

The Chalean Black Temper was a force with which to reckon. Once let loose, it was extremely hard to lay to rest. It could take over a warrior completely and blind him to all but exacting revenge and penultimate vengeance. Such was its fierceness that men so ensnared and trapped by the Temper often lost all reasoning and went berserk. Thus the name "berserker" was bestowed on Viragonian and Chalean warriors known for their ferocity and destructive rage in battle.

"We want nothing from your son!" Gunter shouted hysterically as the reverberations from Aidan’s thunderous outburst settled in the shocked throne room. "We would never ask anything of you or him because of this!"