WINDHEALER (18 page)

Two days passed before Conar was allowed to return to work. Not doing the heavy lifting he had been forced to do since being sent to the penal colony, but at odd jobs Brelan thought looked demeaning. It was on a Wednesday, just after dawn's first light, on the twentieth of March, that Brelan finally found a way to get Shalu and Conar together.

"Hey, you! Darkie!" Brelan shouted and wasn't surprised to see Shalu turn immediate, lethal fury his way. "Help that fool with the Commandant's laundry!"

Shalu glanced at Appolyon's quarters where Brelan stood beside the squat fat man. He lowered the pickax from his shoulder, leaning on it as the other men filed into the mines. "I am no washer woman!"

"Do as you're told or I'll have your little puppet strung up on the whipping post!" Brelan snarled, hitching a thumb toward Conar. "That what you want?"

"It's what I want!" Appolyon giggled and nudged Brelan in the ribs.

Shalu hesitated, just as he thought he should. He snorted at Brelan's answering laugh and knew that laugh was genuine, not feigned. Saur was enjoying his predicament. The Necroman ground his teeth, made a mental note to avenge that laugh at a future date. He stalked to where Conar knelt beside the wash tubs, scrubbing the Commandant's laundry.

"No talking unless you think the bastard ain't doing it right!" Brelan shouted as he and the Commandant walked into the command hut.

It was all the permission Shalu needed. He tore off his shirt and threw it to the ground with a mighty show of disgust. He grabbed one of the Commandant's nightshirts and plunged it into a cauldron of steaming water. Though he appeared to be looking around to see if any of the other prisoners were observing his disgrace, in actuality, Shalu Taborn was looking for unfriendly eyes, gossiping tongues. Seeing only guards and prisoners loyal to their cause, he grinned. He hated to admit it, but Saur was good.

"Today, we change the fate of the world, fledging," the Necroman said through clenched teeth as he rubbed the nightshirt on the washboard. He saw Conar start.

"I don't understand," Conar mumbled.

"You will."

* * *

"Do you understand what it is I have been saying?" the Necroman asked as Conar mended one of the Commandant's tunics.

"I understand what you plan to do, but I don't think I'm the one you need." Conar winced as he poked his finger with the needle. "How do women do this?" he mumbled and sucked away the blood beaded on his finger.

Shalu leaned back in the sand and crossed his ankles. "Why don't you think you're the one?"

Conar inspected the tiny prick on his finger, squeezing the flesh until it stopped bleeding. He was stalling for time and didn't look at Shalu. Despite Shalu's reassurances that no one was listening to or observing them, he couldn't shake the fear that had held him in its grip for years. His fear was an answer in itself to Shalu's question. There had been a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about defying authority.

"I'm not what I once was," he finally admitted.

"You were the Chosen One long before now. You are
still
the Chosen." The black man squinted. "Does that bother you?"

Conar shrugged, but he still would not look at his companion. "I believe you think higher of me than you should, that's all."

Shalu uncrossed his ankles and sat up. "What makes you think so?"

Conar wished the man would stop talking. He didn't like taking chances. Additionally, his throat was unaccustomed to so many words coming from it and he was getting hoarse. But what hurt him, alarmed him most, was having to explain that he just wasn't up to leading the men from the Labyrinth once Holm arrived.

"To do what you and the others have planned," he said, clearing his throat, "you need a strong fighter, a warrior. Someone who can lead and not be afraid of leading, who won't falter at the wrong time." He stuck the needle into the fabric and drew the thread through.

Shalu felt a pain shoot through his heart. The boy looked so vulnerable doing work a woman should be doing. There was bleakness in the tortured blue eyes, a giving up that pained Shalu.

"You are no longer man enough to lead other men. Is that it?"

The boy's lids fluttered, what was left of the old pride. "Not anymore."

"You have let them win."

Conar turned to Shalu and held the dark man's gaze. "There was never a contest."

"I see it is pity you want, not encouragement." Shalu felt satisfaction as Conar blushed a dull red and an alien line of anger formed around his tightly pursed lips. He'd finally struck a live nerve. "You're right, we need a man, not a sniveling coward."

A stab of fury went through Conar. He clutched the shirt in his hand, mindless of the needle jabbing his palm. "I'm not a coward."

"Then what are you?"

"I… I'm not sure anymore." The blond head raised a fraction. "But I know I'm not a coward."

"Then fight, boy! Help us!" He took hold of Conar's upper arm. "Lead us!"

"How?" Conar croaked, his voice so scratchy it was giving him a headache. "I'm not strong enough." His eyes filled with tears. "I've let them make me weak."

Shalu shook him as though he were a limp rag. "To have done otherwise might well have gotten you killed! To have fought them was to be punished. To see others punished, as well. Your concern for others does not make you weak! Knowing when to back down doesn't make you weak!"

"But it doesn't make me fit to lead, either! You need a man ruthless enough to dare the gods themselves. I am not him!"

Shalu's face glowed. There was finally fire in the boy's words, the first real anger Shalu had seen. The Necroman took a deep breath and aimed for the jugular. "You don't necessarily have to be ruthless to fight. Sometimes compassion is needed toward the enemy. Sometimes it is the gentle man who wins because he is the one with the most to lose.
Or
a man who has already lost everything."

"Then I qualify in that respect."

"You are the one destined to do this. Our god-chosen champion."

"Then the gods had better help you find another. I can't."

Shalu looked at him with contempt. "You
won't!"

"What the hell is it you think I can do?"

A jolt of joy ran through the Necroman's veins. No longer was the boy furtively watching those milling about the compound. No longer was his head down. Gone was the fear of being caught. His fury was there in the way his voice rang out strong, despite the gruffness of seldom use. His ire was directed at Shalu, and hopefully, so was his full attention.

"You have to be obedient to the will of the gods!" Shalu snapped. "They rule us, not the vulgar excuses of humanity in this hell-hole!"

"It was the gods who put me here!" Conar snarled, his anger flowing between him and Shalu like a sentient life form crackling in the still morning air. "Why? What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?" He dropped the shirt in his lap. "Tell me that!"

Shalu schooled his face into a line of disdain. "You may regard your internment as a penance for all the transgressions and privileges you had prior to the day you were cast down from your former life of luxury and excess."

"Is that why you are here?" Conar shot back, the old stamina and fighter surfacing after so many years.

"I led no such life of waste and debauchery."

"Then why
are
you here?" Conar challenged, stung by the truth of Shalu's charges even though he knew that was not why he had been sent to the Labyrinth.

A hard look came over Shalu's face. "Because of you."

Conar's mouth dropped open. "You blame me for your being here?"

"The Tribunal did not kill men and women indiscriminately. They were slaughtered like cattle, exterminated because of one man. Tohre led an internecine war against all who had ever been loyal to the McGregor line, and
you
are the McGregor line!" A blaze of vengeance on Shalu's face turned it ugly with hate. "Those who were spared, were spared for a reason.
You
are that reason!"

"You're out of your mind!" Conar threw away the shirt and tried to stand, but Shalu yanked his arm and pulled him down.

"Why do you think the others are here? Grice, Chand, and the rest? All are connected to you! Most warriors from the palace guards and even your disbanded Elite were hanged, but not the men who were sent here. Why do you suppose they were not put to death? The others in their families were. Your children, all but the eldest, were slain. How do you account for that?"

Conar stared. Why had no one ever mentioned this to him? His children? Dead? How could Legion have allowed it to happen? How could Liza?

Shalu hurried on, needing to get past the horror of telling a man his children had been slain because of him. No one had wanted to be the bearer of such news, to tell him that his life had been so terribly devastated. Seeing the pure sorrow moving across Conar's face was hard to witness, and if it could have been avoided, Shalu would have done so, but his slip of the tongue could not be corrected. But he had to put Conar's mind where it needed to be.

"Even if only the royal family heads were spared in each of the Kingdoms, why do you suppose the Tribunal deliberately overlooked Sentian? He was a Sentinel to your lady. Belvoir, he's still alive. He was Sentinel to the Queen of Oceania. Hern was your mother's Sentinel. Why did they let Storm and Marsh and Thom live?" He shook Conar. "Think, boy! Why did they let Legion and Brelan live? Teal du Mer? What use would they be to the Tribunal?

"There was a reason each of us was spared. A reason each of us was brought to this place. And that was to be with you." Shalu gripped Conar's chin and forced up his head. "The Tribunal gave reason for sparing the royal Princes and myself. We are to guarantee our peoples' conduct. We are hostages. But that doesn't explain Roget du Mer or the warriors. Why would only those loyally connected to you survive? Why leave only those capable of helping you? Could it be that you needed an incentive to rise above all this, to crush the evil that brought you down? The Tribunal overlooked the warriors because the gods, Themselves, made it so!"

Conar tried to pull away, but the hard hand tightened. "Leave me alone,"

"I'll not let you feel sorry for yourself any longer!" He gripped the tattered shirt and brought Conar's face close to his own. "Your children are dead! That can't be altered. But what you do about it, can! Will you let their deaths go unavenged?"

"No," came the soft, deadly, heartfelt reply.

"How good are you with a sword? As good as Tyne Brell of Chale?"

"I don't know what the hell you—"

"Can you use a crossbow?"

"Of course, but—"

"Can you toss a javelin as well as I? World Champion ten years running?"

"I don't give a—"

"How about the boomerang? Can you throw the metal death-stars and caltrops like Rylan?" Shalu's face blazed as he became aware that his companion was paying attention. He came to his knees and leaned forward. "How well do you swim? As well as Paegan of Virago who learned to swim and dive in the cold, turbulent waters of his homeland? Do you run as well as Chand Wynth? Ride a horse as well as Sentian Heil? Do you have Thom Loure's way with animals? Can you cheat at cards and not get caught like Teal du Mer? Plan strategy as well as his brother, Roget? Wrestle as well as Grice Wynth or Legion A'Lex?"

Conar stared at the Necroman, his mind reeling with the questions and insinuations the dark man was making instead of the grief that had been consuming him.

A deep chuckle came from Shalu's broad chest. "How about diplomacy? Are you as well trained as Legion? Do you have the mathematical skills like Hern, have the ability to plan and execute missions such as this one like Brelan?"

Conar thought he saw a flaw in Shalu's scenario. "Jah-Ma-El?"

"Even that foul-smelling warlock has his place. He knows more about the Domination that any of us. He can teach a variety of things. The properties of metals, the uses of herbs and potions, plants and charms. He can divine water, read the stars. He can help you to bring out the magic that has been hidden dormant in you, Conar."

Conar thrust out his palms. "They took care of my so-called powers!"

Shalu held up his own. "Mine, too, but do you see me bitching and moaning? If the power can be given, it can be taken away. If it can be taken away, it can be restored!" He took Conar's hand and held up the palm. "Do you even know what this is that Tohre placed on you?"

Looking at the raised scar in the center of his palm, Conar felt a moment of fear. He never looked at his hands. "The Seal of the Domination."

"And do you know Chase Montyne has scars like this?" He watched Conar squint. "He does. It is a ban, this vile thing. A ban on your power and his and mine. It is a ban against the use of what powers we were born with and cultivated before we were sent here. But there is a way around it."

"How?"

Shalu laid his palm in Conar's. "Every sorcerer, including Jah-Ma-El—who, by the way, has never been targeted by the Domination—has had this accursed pentagram burned into his flesh. There is, I am told, another who had such a thing done to him, and yet he wields more power now than he ever did. But his power against the Domination is useless without yours."

Conar could feel the brand touching his palm from so long ago and it hurt. "I don't understand what any of this—"

"The Lady Elizabeth, your lady," Shalu began and saw the flinch of agony flit across Conar's face. "Together with her, your power was magnified beyond anything anyone or any being could equal. Without her, you thought you had little power, but when you fought Raphian on that mountain pathway, she wasn't with you. Was she? And when you fight him again—and believe me, you will—she may not be with you then. You never learned to use what was given to you at birth."

"I was afraid to try!"

"I know. She knew. She also knew your power was far greater than her own, and always would be. She tried to show you it wasn't the evil you thought it to be. This Seal was put on you so even the tiniest flicker of magic would be stopped. But together with this man you will meet, your power will be unstoppable!"