WINDHEALER (19 page)

"Why hasn't he found me before now? If he needed me to help him destroy Tohre and his evil, why didn't he seek me out?"

"Before now, you would not have understood what true evil could do. This man is the one who devised this pentagram. He used it to stop Tohre and Tolkan, but they turned it against him, instead, and sent him to a living death in this place. But Brelan broke him out when that boy was but twenty-years-old, Conar! Brelan took that man and two others from this place and got them to safety. Tohre doesn't know. He thinks that man is still here, unable to do anything against the Domination. Tohre thinks the disease of that pentagram has laid its inventor low. But if a man can invent a disease, can he not also invent the cure?"

"Has he?" There was a light in Conar's eyes that had not been there for a long time and it rivaled the blaze in Shalu's.

"He resides in the capital at Chrystallus. That is where Brelan aims for us to go until things can be arranged for us to return to our homes. To fight the Domination. It is fitting, don't you think, that one of the two kingdoms that have held out against the Domination is the place where this," he held up his palm, "will be taken away?"

"And will this man do it? Can he? Will he give us back the power we need?"

Shalu made a rude sound with his tongue. "Didn't you listen to anything I was saying, you little snot? All this was predestined years before either you or I were even itches in our fathers' crotches! All these men with unique talents have been gathered together in this place, at this time, alongside you, to do one thing. Teach you! Our journey to Chrystallus is just one more cog in the great wheel. A wheel that will roll over and crush the Domination once and for all!"

"How can you be so sure?"

"If Brelan is correct, in two to three weeks, that sea captain will dock at Tyber's Isle. The crew will trek through the hidden passages in the bluffs and will have weapons and manpower to overpower the guards and inmates. He says he was sent to bring back a certain number of men. I told him it would be three times that many, because that's how many men here are loyal to you." Shalu held out his hand, tightly gripped Conar's. "Come the day of reckoning, brat, there will be more than forty men leaving this pit for the snows of Chrystallus!"

"You really believe that?"

"That is the way it was destined to be. We stand and fight. Can you do that?"

Conar stood and tilted one of the wash pots. He watched as the water flowed gray and thick from the cauldron. "I can only promise one thing."

"And that is?"

Conar straightened. "If the gods truly mean for me to leave this place and be the man to lead you, They will have to give me a sign."

Shalu felt like knocking down the brat. "What kind of sign?"

Conar shrugged. "A bolt of lightning on a clear day? Snow? How the hell should I know? As far as the world knows, I am dead. I feel dead, Shalu. I feel like a ghost. And a ghost can't fight, only a live warrior can. If you, or anyone else, can breathe life into me, Shalu, then I will do whatever you seem to think the gods have planned for me."

Shalu watched him walk off. What would it take to bring the real spark of life back to Conar McGregor? He was like a lonely little boy, all false bravado, desperately aching to be reassured, but with no self-worth left in him. He wanted to be held, comforted, loved again, not shoved and tortured and tormented. How could they show him he was as much alive now as he was when had been forced into this living death?

* * *

Appolyon sat with his fingers laced together under his chin, staring across the compound where Shalu and Conar sat. The two men were talking! The darkie even had a comforting arm around Conar's shoulder! The fat man opened his mouth to issue an order to have Conar thrown into the Indoctrination Hut for disobedience, but then he thought better of it. Saur was the cause. Saur and his damned interference!

But to intervene in the forbidden conversation taking place across the compound might bring Saur's anger down on his head once more, and Appolyon wanted to forestall that at all costs.

For a reason he could not explain, he was afraid of Brelan. Not just of the power the man wielded, having been given his position of Chief Warden of the guards by Kingly Edict, but by the alliance Saur hinted at between himself and Kaileel Tohre. Appolyon feared Tohre more than anything alive. Or dead.

If Saur
was
on close terms with Tohre, he was a man to be cultivated, not made angry. That Saur was angry—furious—over Hern Arbra's death, had been apparent when he had burst into Appolyon's bathing chamber and shouted his rage.

"If any of that rabble of yours ever dares to touch what is under control of the Tribunal again without my direct permission, I'll personally slice off his balls! I've ordered Lydon Drake to stand fifty lashes for killing Arbra and you'd better be glad that's all I'm giving your little plaything! I ought to have his asshole stitched closed!"

Appolyon stammered an apology, not even knowing what the man was talking about. He promised not to interfere in Drake's punishment, even though he had no idea what Drake had done. His fat face screwed into a mask of subservience, recognizing noble anger when he saw it, and he begged forgiveness, yet he still didn't know for what.

That had been a week ago.

Now, as the fat man sat brooding, watching Conar—freshly bathed, shaved and barbered—sitting in what passed for a clean, although frayed, prison uniform of dark cord and pale blue cambric, watching the obvious flaunting of his rules by the darkie and Conar, Appolyon grew angrier and angrier.

Saur had taken far too much upon himself. He had even arranged a funereal service for the dead prisoner! Something never before done in the Labyrinth.

Appolyon wasn't even sure Saur had the authority he said he did. How dare a man thrown out of Serenia by the King make threats to the Commandant of the strictest penal colony!

The little pig eyes glowed with hatred and the jowls fairly quivered with outrage. Lydon Drake would be of no use to him for several more days. The man's back was striped with whip marks applied diligently by one of the men Saur had brought with him, a burly old man named Korbit. There was no one else in the entire compound, save the man he was staring at, who met the Commandant's standards and tastes, and Appolyon seethed with inner need.

Throwing all caution to the wind, he bellowed for someone to find and bring the ailing Lydon to him.

Lydon could barely walk. His back was a mass of burning welts and cuts from the belt that had been used on him. He ambled through the door and stood, head bowed, more humble than Appolyon had ever seen him. "You wanted me, sir?"

"Get a man you trust, one of ours, and have him take McGregor to the wine cellar. Tell him to have our young man pick out several bottles of good vintage." Appolyon's lip curled. "Being of the noble class, he should know what is a good year."

Lydon stared at the Commandant, recognizing evil when he saw it. "You are planning something?"

"A little surprise for our sweet prince."

* * *

Mister Tarnes' eyes were glued to the leeward. He pulled on his month-old growth of whiskers and turned a wary face to his captain. "I don't know where the hell she came from," he whispered. "The boy just looked out, and there she be."

Holm's face narrowed with worry. "This isn't the time of year for a storm, Mr. Tarnes," he agreed, watching the boiling black sky looming toward them.

"Ain't no storm," a voice said. Both men turned. Belvoir stood facing the oncoming rush of darkness. "That's hell-sent, it is."

"If we can't keep a straight course through these reefs," Tarnes reminded his captain, "we'll wind up broken to bits in this tunnel." He looked out about a hundred feet in the water and could see lighter patches of blue.

"I know," Holm snapped. He turned to Belvoir. "You've seen this kind of thing before?"

"Once. On a mountain pass in Serenia."

"Can't no storm be brewing up in the mountains like that there thing is!" Tarnes scoffed.

"It can if it was brewed by the Domination," Belvoir said a bit louder, for the storm was bearing down and the wind was quickening.

Holm looked to the three men of Conar McGregor's family. "Do we furl the sails and wait it out?"

Coron shook his head. "If you do, that's no guarantee we won't be shipwrecked, is it?"

Holm looked at Belvoir. "We'll keep up the sails and let the wind push us toward Tyber's."

Belvoir nodded. "I have something that might help." He walked to the hatchway, dropping down the stairs.

"We gonna run with this wind?" Tarnes was aghast. "Suicide!"

"It might get us there sooner," Coron put in.

"Where? To hell?"

"Let her ride with the wind," Dyllon said. "I have a feeling it's what was meant to be."

Belvoir limped toward them, held out a pouch. "I have something my lady gave me long ago. There were two like it once. Now, there's only this, as far as I know. Queen Medea said it was a protection if I should ever need it against Raphian."

"Who?"

Belvoir frowned. "It's that thing what brings them kind of storms." He remembered the evil he had seen long ago on a frozen mountain path. He could even smell the thing coming. He pulled the contents from the pouch and held it up to the others.

"Hair," Wyn whispered. "Black hair braided with gold." He looked at Belvoir. "Is it theirs?"

Belvoir nodded slowly.

"Whose?" Coron asked.

"My father's and Liza's," Wyn whispered.

The warrior from Norus Keep held the braid up to the sky. "Protect us, Ladies," he shouted. "Defend us from our enemies. Harness this storm and turn it to our advantage."

A wafting smell of sweet floral drifted past the men. Only one knew the significance of the sensual lavender, just as all Sentinels knew.

Belvoir smiled. "Set your course straight for our destination, Holm. Unless I miss my guess, this wind wasn't just hell-spawned."

Holm gave the orders and by the time the gale-force winds—sixty knots of screaming, blinding fury—hit the
Boreas Queen
and skipped her along the waters of the Straight of Savannah, Hern Arbra was being laid to rest in a shallow grave on Tyber's Isle.

Gezelle brought the little girl's hair ribbons to her mother and shook her head. Brelan Saur's daughter wouldn't sit still to have her hair swept up into a ponytail. Gezelle clucked. "She's sure got the temperament of her Papa."

Liza laughed and gave up trying to braid the thick black hair. "Go play with your brothers!" she told her child.

Liza drew in a long breath. She felt so old of late. Tired and worn out.

"You're worried," Gezelle commented.

"We haven't heard anything for months. I would know if Bre had been hurt, but I can't feel anything about Grice, Chand, and the others." She lowered her head. "It's almost as though they no longer exist."

"Don't say that!" Gezelle warned, a hurting fear running through her heart at the mention of Chand Wynth.

Liza raised her head, was about to say something to calm Gezelle when she saw Robert MacCorkingdale coming through the library doors. She stiffened automatically, hating the High Priest with all her being. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice curt.

Robert smiled, but his face, handsome as it was, was hard with ugliness. "His Holiness wishes to see you in the Temple, Highness. A most urgent matter, he said." He pretended to dust off the sleeve of his robes, a habit he had picked up from his mentor, Kaileel Tohre. "He would not have sent
me,
otherwise."

Liza hated this man almost as much as Tohre. She didn't know why, but instinct warned her that he had been one of Conar's self-proclaimed enemies. "I don't suppose he told you why."

"No, Highness, he did not."

"Right now?"

"He did say 'urgent.'" MacCorkingdale glanced at Gezelle, dismissing her. His pale gaze went back to his Queen. "Unaccompanied, of course."

"Of course," Liza mumbled as she stood. "Are you to lead me to make sure I arrive?"

Robert's chin came up and he grinned. "I don't care if you go or not." He bowed slightly and turned, walking the path as though he owned the garden.

"He's a demon walking," Gezelle murmured.

"Legion won't be back from Ivor until this evening. If I am not back by then, have him bring men to the Temple to fetch me."

"You think Tohre would harm you, Milady?"

"I would put nothing past that vicious beast."

* * *

Kaileel Tohre was pacing the antechamber of the Temple's sacristy when Liza was ushered in by one of the acolytes. "You took your time!" he shouted. He grabbed at her hand as though she would turn and run. "We've no time to lose!"

Liza tried to free herself of his vile touch, but he rounded on her, coming so close she could smell his sweat.

"You came to me once and asked me if I felt a rift in the Veil!" he snarled. "I didn't then; you did. You don't now; I do!"

"What's this all about?"

The Arch-Prelate's fingers tightened on her arm so painfully she gasped. "I can't do this alone. I can't save him from what's coming by myself!"

"Who?" she said, a finger of fear crawling over her.

"If we don't make entreaties to the Gray Ones, something is going to happen at the Labyrinth."

Her mouth opened; her fear spread. The man was truly insane. His voice was thick, but it seemed rehearsed. "You sent what was left of my family to the Labyrinth. What do you care if something happens to them?"

"Listen!" he screeched, yanking her arm. "I don't have time to chat, bitch! He could die if we don't intervene!"

"Who?" she repeated, shouting.

He hated her more than ever and gave her the planned lie. "Your brother Grice. I need him. I need them all to control the people left in their homelands. If something happens to them, there might be another revolt. Do you want another revolt, Queen Liza?"

"No, I don't—"

"Then, come with me!" He pulled her through twisting tunnels and under low-hung doorways, deeper and deeper into the inner workings of the Wind Temple.

"Let go, Tohre," she yelled, twisting her arm to get free. She was suddenly very afraid of what this man might do to her. Or have done to her.

He stopped and turned. "I have no plans to harm you. If something
should
happen to you, there would be such a rebellion, such an overpowering death in this land, the streets would run red with blood."

"You are mad, Tohre. One day your own kind will devour you."

"If he dies, it won't matter."

She stared into his pale, hooded eyes and saw something that startled her. Something flickered in the evil depths, some tiny coal burning, that had been human.

"Please," he begged. "We can't waste time."

Liza nodded, feeling something settling over her that seemed to calm her fears. She let him pull her along the last passageway until they came to a tall red door. "What is this place?"

"The Ceremonial Chamber." He let go of her hand to push open the door to total darkness. He disappeared into the black void beyond the portal. She heard a flint strike and then a soft halo of pale yellow light shone ahead of her and to the right. "Come."

Liza drew in a breath and stepped over the high threshold into a vast room with blood-red walls, a black floor, and a ceiling that was beyond belief. She stared at it with horror.

"No woman has ever been allowed inside these chambers." Kaileel came toward her with the lamp. In the light, his face was skeletal, the hollows of his eye sockets ghastly.

Liza wanted to vomit. The mural drawn upon the ceiling, the most vile thing she had ever seen, disgusted her. She barely heard Kaileel's chuckle.

"Homosexuality is something you have heard about, but never seen practiced." He giggled, glancing up at paintings of men in various stages of lovemaking. "Find it as exciting as I? I suppose not. Come with me."

Liza hurried behind him, wanting to get out of the horrible room with its dirty painting as fast as she could. He lifted a lever beside a small wooden door, then stooped and ducked through the opening. With her lips pursed in distaste, she followed. When she straightened, he was standing before a huge pair of black double doors studded with iron.

"The Chamber of Magic," he said quietly, and opened the doors.

The light inside the huge chamber nearly blinded her. She felt as though the black floor was a bottomless pit sinking into the Abyss as she stepped into the glaring light of thousands of candles. The blood-red walls seemed alive with votive cups filled with black candles. In the room's center stood a tall, waist-high black slab altar. Above the altar swayed the carcass of a dead goat, its throat slit. She turned horrified eyes to Tohre.

"A leftover," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Won't help us with the Gray Ones."

"They don't care for sacrifices, do they?"

He busied himself with several objects that sat on the retable behind the altar. His face grew agitated, alive with some emotion Liza couldn't fathom. Every time he glanced her way she shivered.

"It was in a place like this that I trained him, you know," Tohre said in a conversational voice. He turned to the altar with an array of vials, small crucibles, and copper dishes.

Liza knew whom he meant. Her blood ran cold; her heart thudded painfully. She watched as he put his paraphernalia on the altar.

"He experienced great pain in a place like this."

If Liza could have run, she would have, but something kept her rooted. Her lips quivered. She wanted to cry, but wouldn't.

"You lost him in a place like this."

"I never lost him!" she spat, anger beginning to course through her.

"Have it your way." He placed the dishes and crucibles in a pattern and beckoned her.

With every ounce of courage she possessed, she walked to the altar.

"Recognize what these things are?'

"I
know
what they are," she said stiffly.

"Then let's begin, Liza." He stressed her name hatefully, holding out his hand.

She hesitated, looking from his outstretched hand to his hated face. "I don't know your rituals. What spell is it you want?"

Tohre shook his head as though admonishing a child who had forgotten her lessons. "You do know the Charm of Keeping, don't you?"

Liza's hand itched to slap him. "I know it!"

"I know you do!" He laughed. "You said it many times when you were spinning your web to snare him, didn't you?" He cocked a thin brow. "Isn't that what your initiation name was? The Keeper of the Wind? Wasn't the Charm of Keeping said only for him?"

No one outside the Daughters of the Multitude should've known such a thing. How Tohre had this knowledge Liza could only surmise, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how it startled her. She looked at the array of ritual philters and potions. He had correctly placed them, in order, with the right amounts in each crucible and chalice. It had been so long since she had used the Charm, she had almost forgotten.

"The spell you used to lure him to you," Tohre said, lip raised in disgust, "can be used to keep danger away from those you care about in the Labyrinth. Our individual rituals are often parodies of one another's, you realize? All we need do is chant together our respectful incantations, word for word, tone for tone, and the combined chant will keep Con—" His eyes flared wide.

Liza watched him. He had almost given something away. Something he didn't want her to know. She tried probing his mind, but all she found were remnants of the old love he bore Conar.

"Stop it," he warned, his voice quiet.

"What evil thing are you doing that will cause my family greater harm."

He grabbed her hand. "No lies between us, bitch! I have no desire to hurt your family. I want to protect it. If you can't probe that, then all will be lost!"

"If you are trying to trick me into—"

"No trick!"

"You almost said his name before? You wanted to say Conar, didn't you?"

"Aye!" he screamed. "Use his name in the chant, if you want. I will! His name has more magic now than it ever did with the Domination. Use his name in the Charm of Keeping. It will keep what is vital, safe from harm!"

If she had not known herself better, Liza would have believed herself feeling sorry for the man. He still loved Conar, even though he had caused the man more pain than anyone, had even caused his death. She saw, along with the madness, a hopeless love still smoldering.

"I will use his name," she said softly and let Tohre's fingers entwine with hers. She bowed her head and began the Charm.

Tohre watched her. Her love was still there, too. He only hoped their combined feelings for Conar McGregor would stop what was about to happen.

Often the ways of the gods are complex. Simply because a single braid of shining black hair, taken so long ago from a man who had treasured it, had been kept, locked away for a time when it would be needed, the lady who held Conar's heart was denied knowledge of him very existence.