WinterofThorns (22 page)

“May even have had their vocal chords
operated on so they sound just like the man they are risking their lives to
impersonate,” Dyson suggested.

“Kingy-poop has five such men,” the border
lord.

“And one is ours,” Seyzon said.

“Give the brat a cookie,” Dyson said with a
chuckle.

“So, the bio-matter unit is installed in my
Fiach and then I make a fly-by of Wicklow, suck up ye olde kingy-poop then drop
the man who will be replacing his sorry ass safely in the castle,” Lord Bray
concluded.

“You’ll have to take him when there’s no
one around to see him go,” Seyzon reminded him.

“The bio-matter unit will track him for us.
I’ll wait until he’s in the privy then snatch him and his stinky butt.”

“Gives new meaning to catching a man with
his pants down,” Hawkins observed.

“Might work,” Seyzon granted.

“Not might, lad,” the border said. “
Will
work. I guarantee it.”

* * * * *

Jana knew something was wrong by the way
the servants who came to attend her kept giving her surreptitious looks. She knew
questioning them would get her nowhere so she kept quiet but those looks
worried her. Even the healer was acting strangely around her. It was almost as
though he wanted very badly to relay something to her but he was never alone in
the tower room with her. There was always two women soldiers standing at the
door watching his every move.

When the servant girl left, Jana looked at
the tray of food then away. For last week she had been experiencing some very
intense heartburn and just looking at the mid-morning meal made her mouth water
in a bad way.

She sighed heavily and walked to the
window. The day was overcast with the sun struggling to get through the clouds.
A light snow had fallen the night before and as cold as it was the blanket lay
untouched across the fields and low-lying hills that she could see. There were
a few deer tracks leading down to the stream but other than that the vista
below her was barren of anything interesting. Turning, she went to the opposite
window that looked down on the bailey and across to the barbican. From there, she
could see the gently meandering road that led to the castle. She was surprised
to see more guards than usual standing on the battlements and on the other side
of the moat. There were soldiers along the road as well.

“Now that is curious,” she said.

Someone was coming. Someone important from
the looks of things.

The roar of an engine made her get close to
the glass so she could look up. The moment the runabout came into view, she
raised her eyebrows. The sleek dark-brown craft was hovering over the bailey
and as she watched, it slowly began to lower. It wasn’t until she saw the name
of the coat of arms on the starboard side of the runabout that she realized it
had to belong to the king. Either he or his lady-wife had come to Wicklow.

“Not only curious but very interesting,”
she said as the craft came to a soft landing, kicking up snow in a contained
cloud.

Though she strained to see who exited the craft,
she wasn’t at a good angle to do so. All she had was an impression of broad
shoulders and a determined gait and deep indentions in the snow as the visitor
disappeared into the keep.

“The king,” she said. “I’ll bet you credits
to cookies it is.”

Will he insist on meeting me?
She wondered. Or ignore her as her husband was ignoring her? Would
he be curious enough to see what his daughter-in-law looked like to at least
venture up to the tower or have her brought to the throne room for his perusal?

She hoped for something of the sort for she
was sick to death of being cooped up in the tower room like a political enemy
of the crown. Although it could be argued she was.

As she was turning from the window she
thought she saw a shadow weaving its way through the low-flying scud above the
far hills. She pressed closer to the window and caught sight of it again. It
had to be another runabout for it was too large to be a bird. It disappeared
behind a thick bank of clouds.

Though she stood watch for a good ten
minutes longer, the craft—if that was what it was—did not show itself again.
With a shrug, she turned away, training her eyes on the door in the hopes
someone—anyone—would come to see her.

Sitting in the co-pilot seat of the gray
matte-colored Fiach, Seyzon was still trying to process what he had learned
that morning. He cut his eyes to the man flying the runabout and when the
border lord glanced at him, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks and looked
away.

“You want me to put my mask back on, boy?”

“Nay, milord,” Seyzon mumbled.

“If my looks bother you that badly I will.”

Seyzon glanced behind him at the other man
in the runabout. “Nay, milord. I’m good,” he said.

“It’s just hard to fly with the mask on.”

“I understand,” Seyzon said.

“Don’t want me plowing into a mountain.”

“Nay, milord, I truly wouldn’t.”

“Okay, then,” the border lord allowed. He
looked pointedly at the vid-com screen. “Check to see where the kingy-poop is
now.”

Seyzon ran his fingers over the keypad in
his lap then looked up at the screen. “I’m reading two heat sigs so I’m guessing
he’s still in with Vindan.”

“Wish we had ears in that room,” the border
lord said. “I’m dying to know what a man who hasn’t seen his son in a coon’s
age has got to say to him.”

“He believes his son is dying,” Seyzon said.
“His son believes the same. I imagine they are discussing what will happen to
the child.”

“Ah yes the royal bun in the royal oven,”
the border lord stated. “Most likely arrangements are being made to take the
lady to Blackhall upon her husband’s demise.”

“That’s the last thing we want,” Seyzon
said. “I’d never be able to get to her there.”

“Nay, you would not.”

Once more Seyzon let his gaze wander to the
border lord. If he stared at that face too long he was going to start
screaming. He forced his mind back to the hanger where the Fiach had sat in its
docking harness and the moments just prior to leaving base camp.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dyson, Hawkins and he were waiting for Lord
Bray to arrive. The Fiach was fueled and the head engineer had gone inside to
start the mighty engine. It was humming sweetly in the background as the border
lord came clomping down the catwalk toward them.

“Where’s the man we’re taking with us?”
Seyzon asked for the man was alone.

“Already in the runabout,” Dyson answered.

Seyzon had been honored that the border
lord had invited him along to help insert the imposter into Wicklow castle. He’d
never learned to fly and was as excited as a child at being able to sit in the
co-pilot seat beside Lord Bray. The only other time he’d flown had been lying
flat on his back with his broken leg screaming bloody hell. He was looking
forwarding to seeing the land from miles up.

“Want to see something that will set you
back a notch or two?” the man he knew as Lord Bray had asked before peeling the
black mask from his face.

The moment that mask came off, Seyzon
stumbled back, putting a hand up to ward off what he was seeing. A hard shudder
ran through him and he’d sat down hard in a metal chair Dyson shoved under his
ass.

“Damn, boy,” Hawkins said. “You’re as white
as a fucking sheet.”

“And shaking like a leaf,” Dyson said with
a snort.

“I know it’s a tough sight to see but it is
what it is,” the border lord stated.

“I…I…” He swallowed hard then ran a hand
through his hair. “I…I…” Nothing else would come out.

“I’ll tell you what happened once we’re in
the runabout,” the older man told him. “Think your legs will carry you that
far?”

“I’m not sure they will, milord,” Seyzon
answered truthfully. He couldn’t take his eyes from the border lord’s face. To
his mind, he felt like a gawker at an ungodly accident who was unable to look
away from the carnage.

But it wasn’t just the horror of seeing a
terribly disfigured face. It was the knowledge that someone had carved that
face into the hideous visage before him. The pain must have been horrendous and
it made his vision blur with moisture.

“It’ll be okay, son,” the border lord told
him gently. “Trust me, it will.” He swept a hand before him. “Let’s go on
inside.” He turned to Dyson. “Welling already on board?”

“Aye,” Dyson said. “Wish that thing was a
four-seater so I could come along.”

“I’ll be sure to trade up to the Z class
once we have control of the Meiramanian militia,” the border lord joked.

“Aye, you do that.” Dyson chuckled.

Seyzon climbed into the Fiach, unable to feel
the metal of the gangplank under his feet. He was numb, shaken by what he’d
seen and he’d flopped into the seat Lord Bray pointed out to him with gratitude
for his knees felt like rubber.

“Boy never flown before?” the man already
in the Fiach asked.

“He has. He’s still trying to come to grips
with the way I look,”

“Don’t blame him,” the man replied. “Scared
me senseless the first time I saw you.”

Seyzon tore his attention from the border
lord to get a look at the man who would be posing as the king. He nodded. The
middle-aged man didn’t look all that much like Vindan but he’d always heard Vin
took after his mother’s side of the family.

The man greeted Seyzon with a quick flick
of his wrist, acknowledging him but not speaking to him, either.

“Welling is an ace pilot,” the border lord
said. “Since you don’t fly, we needed one to bring the bird back home with the
kingy-poop in shackles.”

“Where are you going to be?” Seyzon asked.

The border lord scratched under his chin
and began peeling the flesh away.

“Oh, fucking shit!” Seyzon gasped. He
pushed back in the seat, away from the horrific sight of a man stripping the
skin from his bones. It wasn’t until he heard Welling laugh that he realized
the skin wasn’t flesh but a stretchy material that had to be latex.

But once the border lord was through, what
had been under that latex mask scared Seyzon a thousand times more than what
had been there before.

“Mother of the gods!” he whispered. His
eyes were so wide they hurt.

The Chalean accent disappeared as the
border lord said, “There were people in the hanger who needed to see what they’d
been speculating was under my black mask all these years. It was imperative
they saw the disfigured face of the border lord.”

“Gods-be-damned good mask it is too,
Kellan,” Welling said.

“You’re cleared for takeoff, milord,” came
a voice from the vid-com.

“Acknowledged,” was the reply.

The border lord finished picking the last
of the latex and glue from his face then turned to Seyzon. He grinned, his blue
eyes sparkling.

“So what do you think, lad?” he inquired. “Sort
of like looking into the mirror sixteen years in the future, huh?”

The man is my father,
Seyzon thought. There was no getting around it. The same mouth. The
same hair color though the border lord was gray at the temples. The same facial
shape. The same nose and cheekbones, cleft in the chin. Although taller than
Seyzon, he had the same solid body shape.

The same only sixteen years older.

“Your mother was fifteen when she got
pregnant with you so she and I are of the same age,” he told Seyzon. He
shrugged. “If you were wondering how old I am.”

“You’re my father,” Seyzon whispered.

“My name is Kellan,” the man told him. “Kellan
Brell and no, I’m not your father. I’m your uncle. Nolan Brell is your father.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They were hovering just south of Wicklow,
hidden behind the clouds that were all but blocking the sun. They’d been there
for an hour but Seyzon had yet to gather the courage to ask the questions that
were tumbling through his brain. The border lord—his uncle—was lounging in the
pilot’s seat with his arms over his chest, his head back and his eyes closed.
He might well have been asleep but Seyzon knew he wasn’t for his chest rose and
fell too quickly for sleep.

“Ask, lad,” his uncle finally said though
he didn’t open his eyes. “You’re dying to.”

“How?”

“How as in how did you come to be?”

“Boy doesn’t know about the birds and
bees?” Welling asked with a snort.

“How can King Nolan be my father? If he is
then that means…” Seyzon turned his attention straight ahead of him.

“That Vindan is your brother,” Kellan
finished for him.

“My older brother,” Seyzon said, a muscle
working in his cheek.

“Nay, your younger brother.”

Seyzon snapped his head around. “How the
hell could that be?”

“Younger by…” Kellan reached up to scratch
his cheek. “Four minutes if I remember rightly.”

“That can’t be!” Seyzon denied. “That would
mean we are—”

“Twins,” Welling provided.

“Who don’t look anything alike?” Seyzon
demanded.

“Fraternal twins, lad,” Kellan said. “Like
your lady and her brother.” He cocked a shoulder. “If you think about it, there
are a few similarities between you. Eye and hair color, height, body build,
chest hair. Facial features are not all that different though.”

“And since you are the firstborn…” Welling
began but when Seyzon gave him a startled look, the man clamped his lips
together.

“Archie, you’ve always had a fucking big
mouth,” Kellan said with a sigh.

“Tell me!” Seyzon ordered the border lord.
“Right now, milord. I want to know the whole of it!”

Kellan opened his eyes, raised his head and
nodded. “All right but I’m gonna start from the beginning.” He glanced at
Seyzon. “Mine and the Poop’s so you’re gonna have to be patient—though that
ain’t exactly your strong suit, I’ve noticed. So if you can sit there, keep
your yap shut and listen, I’ll tell you. Can you do that, lad?”

“Aye, I can do that.”

“Well, then. This is how it was. Bear in
mind that scientists don’t know why it happens but in Meiraman it is only in
the Winter of Thorns years that twins are born.”

“Always wondered about that myself,” Welling
said.

“That goes for you too, Arch. Keep your
mouth closed and any and all comments to yourself,” Kellan ordered.

“Lips are sealed,” Welling said, pretending
to zip up his mouth.

“Poops and I were born in the dead of
winter during a fairly bad snowfall. He was born two and a half minutes before
me else the crown would have been mine and let me tell you he never once let me
forget he was firstborn. He lorded that over me all through our childhood. By
the time I was eight or nine, I was sick to death of it so this is how he got
my nickname for him.

“He’d pissed me off one time too many. I
came up with a plan to get back at him. I bet him I could shit a bigger turd
than he could. Naturally he didn’t believe it and wanted to prove me wrong. So
we went out to the barn and squatted. He shat first and it was pretty good, but
mine was bigger.” He grinned. “A poop a man could be proud of.”

“I gotta ask,” Welling interrupted. “How
the fuck did you do that, Kellan?”

“By eating three steaks, four potatoes and
a ration of greens the night before.” He chuckled. “And slipping a small amount
of laxative into Poop’s eggs that morning. Now shut up and let me get on with
it.”

He shifted more comfortably in his seat,
laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head.

“Poops wasn’t happy that he’d lost to me.
He’d never lost anything to me before and it made him crazy. So he demanded a
do-over. The next day, same thing. His crap had that real mellow stink to it.”

“Eww,” Seyzon said but his uncle ignored
the comment.

“Third day, I was bored by the whole thing
so I emptied an entire packet of laxative into his morning meal. It’s a wonder
I didn’t kill him because within half an hour his stomach was making all kinds
of odd noises.” He laughed, his broad chest rumbling. “You’ve heard of the
quick-steps? That boy had the quick-sprints but it did him no good. He spent
nearly the entire day upon the pot. Thus, the nickname.”

“You’re evil,” Seyzon said with a laugh.

“Let that be a lesson to you, lad,” his
uncle said. “Now, let me tell you when Poops and I met your mother.

“Duke Windham McGregor of Serenia came to
Blackhall with his Diabolusian wife Solange and his two daughters, Mauve and
Millicent, as Serenia’s ambassador to the Court of the Swords. I remember that
day as clear as a bell. There were three ambassadors being presented at court
that morning and Poops and I were required to attend the ceremony. Both of us
were bored to tears by time McGregor was announced. We took one look at him and
rolled our eyes, tried not to laugh. The man was the size of a small runabout
and his wife was nearly as plump. His eldest daughter looked like a toad frog
but his younger…” He sighed dramatically for effect. “His youngest was a
virtual goddess stepped down from the vault of heaven. I’d never seen a more
beautiful little girl.

“She was thirteen and both Poops and I fell
madly in love with her. We followed her everywhere she went—capering around her
like a pair of jackanapes trying to gain her attention—but she ignored us. She
was in
love
with a boy on Serenia and wanted nothing to do with us.

“Poops went to our father and demanded she
be given to him. He was almost of the age to take a bride and he wanted Millie.
I think part of the reason he wanted her so badly was because he knew I loved
her. He told father I should be given the older daughter while Papa was about
it. Duke Windham was sent for and the suggestion made. To give the man his due,
he asked Papa to give him a day in which to discuss the matter with his wife
and daughters. By all accounts the man wasn’t as big a pig as he looked. Papa
agreed.

“Well, Millie wasn’t having any part of it.
She liked me well enough but she couldn’t stand Poops—who could blame her—and
let her dislike of him be known in no uncertain terms.

“But her father? Well, let’s just say he
could see the advantages to having one daughter Join with the future heir to
the throne of Meiraman and the other Join with me. He told her he was going to
accept the betrothals but on the morning the news was to be announced, the
Selwyns attacked and war was declared. All frivolous things like betrothals
were shelved indefinitely.” He chuckled. “Just another reason I have to be
indebted to the Selwyns.”