WINDHEALER (44 page)

"Liza was with her." He stood, his booted feet crunching the destroyed painting. "I spoke with her after Liza had gone."

Dyreil's face blanched white. "
You
spoke with Raphaella? What did she say?"

He shook his head. It seemed vitally important that he remember her exact words, but a nagging feeling told him it would do no good. "She told me some silly riddle, but I can't remember it. It didn't seem all that important. There was something about…" He willed the memory to come. It was there, lurking. Just a touch of it, but it was enough to cause great grief in his heart and eyes. He turned a stricken face to his aunt. "She told me to beware the Spinner's brew."

Dyreil drew in a harsh breath. "She knew what Raja intended?"

"It would seem so."

"What was the riddle? Can you remember any of it? Perhaps it will help to solve this thing."

He shrugged. "All I remember is the overpowering urge I had to take her, right there, in the garden, on the ground like a common peasant, with my wife less than fifty feet from me. Looking at her actually made me ache with need even before she put her hands on me."

"She touched you?"

"Nothing came of it. I ran away." It was not a proud thing he had done, the running away, but he sensed from his aunt's reaction that it had been the prudent thing.

"She is dangerous. Apparently even to her own daughter. If she could have, I am sure she would have had you that night. Make no mistake. What stopped you?"

He plowed a shaky hand through his golden hair. "I thought of my…of Liza, of the great love I had for…" He glared at his aunt. "Why the hell have you told me this? What possible difference does it make?"

Dyreil looked at him for a moment, fashioning just the right words. "If Raphaella has found a way to control her daughter's destiny, to manipulate Liza in order to either gain her eventual release from World's End or, in some way, to take revenge on the Multitude for her punishment, she'd let nothing stand in her way. Not Liza, nor Liza's love for you, nor yours for her. I don't think she would ally herself with the likes of Kaileel Tohre, but I can't be sure. If she could use his sordid love for you against you and Liza, to tear the two of you permanently apart, I think she would if it suited her purpose. Of course she professes to love Liza, but that may not be true."

"You think she had a part in what Raja did last eve?"

"If her intention was to separate you and Liza, it worked, didn't it? It effectively has driven a wedge between the two of you."

"Liza did that with her unfaithfulness." He jammed his hands into his pockets.

"What happens now, Conar?"

He looked at the ripped painting of his wife. "Whether it is a scheme of her mother's doesn't matter anymore. She is Legion's woman now." His voice turned cold and bitter. "His responsibility."

"Will you not try to reclaim her once you are home?"

"I will not."

"Why?" she asked, her heart aching for him.

"Because I no longer want the whore."

Occultus sighed. It was only a matter of moments before Conar would enter the Wind Chamber. Only an hour before his true destiny would be settled on his broad shoulders along with the mantle of leadership. The sorcerer glanced at the men assembled and could find no fault in any of them. They had been chosen for their loyalty and their ties to Conar. Not a one would ever betray the young Prince.

Even as Occultus' thoughts wafted around, his attention strayed to Chandling Wynth and a tremor of unease shot through him. He looked closer at the young man and shook his head to clear it of the slight nagging. Chand was Liza's younger brother. He loved Conar, would never harm him.

Occultus focused his attention on the altar where it would all end. He knew Conar would appear as soon as he was finished with his prayers in the Sanctuary of the Gods where a golden statue of Alel, the Great Deity of the Serenian people, sat before a black marble altar. Occultus had felt a moment's displeasure that Conar had requested time alone in the Sanctuary, but he had put his fears to rest when Conar had turned a hesitant smile to him.

"It is my birthright," Conar had said. "If I am to do the bidding of the gods, I must seek a blessing from Alel. I must find the peace that has been shattered this day."

Reluctantly Occultus had agreed, but it had been with a strange feeling of doom. Now, as time dragged on, he was beginning to worry. What was the boy doing? Was he bargaining with his god? Occultus knew about the favor-granting that was part and parcel of the Serenian's religious training. They believed their god would grant a favor for a favor. Was Conar seeking such from Alel? Occultus hoped not, but in the back of his mind lay a feeling of unease that would not go away. If the boy asked a favor, and it was granted, what might his god require in return?

Time would tell, Occultus thought dismally. Conar, despite all of his training, was still impulsive; if something did not immediately happen, Conar was often impetuous, headstrong, and nearly every time his impatience had gotten him into trouble.

With all his heart Occultus hoped Conar would spend his last hours wisely instead of making bargains with false gods. If Conar had made a bargain with the Dark Forces, at the moment of his acceptance into the Wind Chamber, Occultus would know just by looking at him.

* * *

He knelt, his hands clasped together on the thick marble altar as he stared into the golden face of Alel. He had been there for more than two hours, glaring into the calm, peaceful face of his god. It was a handsome face, strong, gentle, benign. The statue's spread arms beckoned Conar to place his burdens in the capable hands. Had it not been for the cold in his heart, Conar might well have done so, but his fury was beyond his control and he gazed at Alel with hatred. When he opened his lips to speak, his voice was hard and uncompromising.

"From the moment I was conceived, You have manipulated me. I have never had free will. Not even my parents had a say in the way I was brought up. You let me spend my early childhood in the safety and love of my mother's arms and then You set me on a pathway to hell. You took away my childhood, forced me into a situation where fear and pain and degradation replaced the safety and comfort and love my parents had given. The things You allowed to be done to me when I was a child are unforgivable."

He gazed at the statue with speculation. "Did You enjoy it, Alel? Did You take pleasure in watching me being beaten, starved, tortured? Did You laugh at my screams? Did You smile at my tears? Did the sight of a helpless boy being raped every night thrill You?"

He clenched his fists. "Was it necessary?" He lowered his head until it rested on the cold marble of the altar. "Did I need those horrible things done to me to become the man You wanted me to be?" He looked into the statue's face. "How do You justify the torture of a small child? What possible purpose could that little boy's torment have served?"

He slammed his fist against the slab. "You used me! You let me suffer for Your own sick enjoyment! There was no lesson for me to learn. You wanted to see if You could break me! You wanted to know if Conar McGregor could be destroyed."

Conar's teeth drew back in a snarl of rage. "But that wasn't enough! You saw that I could be broken and You let me be. Then You made me whole again when I left that horrible place. But You weren't finished! You had to let the pain carry over into my manhood, and it was there that it became even more unbearable!"

His hands stretched out on the wide expanse of the altar as though he had been crucified to the stone. He gripped the black marble with fierce strength.

"I could hear You laughing every time Liza disappeared. I could hear Your rumble of glee each time I was forced back into the loneliness You had made a special part of my life sentence."

He slowly raised his tear-wet eyes to his god. "Why did You bother giving her to me, giving me such wonderful happiness, if You were going to take it away?" His voice quivered with agony. "Why let me glimpse what heaven could be like then send me to hell?"

Tears coursed down his cheeks. His voice broke; his lips trembling. "What did I do? Why do You hate me? How did I fail You, Alel? I never once reneged on anything I swore to do for You. What did I do to incur Your wrath?"

He sat dejectedly on his heels, his head sagging with defeat. He brought up his hands to cover his face, staring at his god through his fingers.

"You were the first to betray me. I loved You, I respected You. I tried to keep Your commandants. I looked to You for help and what did you do? You punished me, took away everything I was or hoped to be. You took her away, took away my home, my family."

He stared at the scars in his palms. In supplication, he held them up to the statue.

"Look what You let them do! I will carry these for the rest of my life. Don't You think it's time the suffering stopped? Haven't I suffered enough to satisfy Your need to see me humbled?"

He clenched his fists and pushed himself to his heels.

"I think I've been punished more than enough! Your pupil has been chastised. He's learned his lesson. You have brought him down to his knees, pleading like a child, begging like the coward You have made him. What more do You want?"

His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. The air turned colder.

"What more do you want? I've nothing left to offer. You want my life? Take it! It means nothing to me!"

A wind began in the farthest corners of the room, a low keening sound that stirred his thick blond hair.

"
Is
it my life You want?"

The wind howled in denial.

"You want me?"

The sound surged, echoed across the small room.

His face filled with a cunning light. "You want Your champion, is that it?"

A rush of wind rocked him back. He grabbed the altar to keep from tumbling over. "You want the Chosen!" he shouted. "You want the Overlord of the Wind?"

Freezing air blasted through the sanctuary and chilled him.

"Then I demand something in exchange for all the suffering You have dealt me!"

Something painfully cold brushed across his face, seemed to pierce him, and he began to tremble with the frigid air.

"You're going to have to give this time and not take away!"

The room had become an antechamber of the farthest reaches of lightless space. Conar's hair blew wildly about his head, snapping into his eyes, blinding him, stinging his cheeks, hurting him, but he ignored it.

"If You want Your warrior, the champion You say I am to be, then You're going to grant me what I want and You're
not
going to demand anything in return!"

A moan roared over the room, rattling the statue on its marble stand.

"I'm not asking much," Conar whispered against the chilling wind. His cheeks went numb, his lips the same, but he forced words through chattering teeth. "I'm not asking to give her back to me. I'm not even asking You give back the years You stole. I'll chalk that up to my stupidity in believing in You, in believing that good existed somewhere in my wretched life!"

The golden statue wobbled on its base.

"It's a simple thing, really, a small request. A mere drop of compassion on Your part, if You are truly capable of granting compassion." He looked at the statue. "You
do
have power to do one simple thing, don't You? You
are
all-powerful, aren't You, Alel, my god?"

Blue light gleamed down from the azure eyes and shone like twin beacons on the kneeling man, impaling him.

"You want me?" Conar shouted into the deafening roar of the ice-cold wind. "You want me to fight for You?"

A burst of blue fire shot forth, landed on the altar slab, turning the marble to white light.

"Then harden my heart, You bastard!" Conar screamed. "Turn it to stone within my breast! Cut out the mercy! Destroy the compassion! Toughen my soul! Harden it! Numb it! I don't care! Tear it out if You want, but smother every ounce of kindness and love left in it!" His voice was a scream of animal fury. "Erase the memories of her, those precious brief and shining moments You allowed me to know! Hollow me! Drain me! Make me as merciless and unfeeling as
You
are!"

The light upon the altar snaked up his arms. Burning pain made him howl with agony, but his voice bellowed into the cold wind.

"I will be Your warrior! I will kill for You! Destroy for You!"

"
You do not know what you ask!"
came a thunderous roar.

"I know I don't want to hurt like this for the rest of my life! You caused this; You fix it!"

"
What you are asking is not the dominion of Alel—it is my help you seek, Conar McGregor. Not his!"

"I don't care who grants me the favor!" He raised his fist from the slab and the light still clung to his flesh, flowing down his chest to his waist.

"
I am the Windmaster.
I am your master, Conar McGregor!"
the voice shook the statue, tumbling it from its slab. It fell and shattered.

Conar became encased in the white light, his body burning with it. He forced down the scream of pain and turned his face to the blazing light pouring in a white-hot shaft from the ceiling.

"You like hurting me, don't You?" He was in agony, but he would rather die than let loose the scream. "
All of your kind do!"

The statue's pieces vibrated on the floor. The room seemed to tremble. White light flooded the room until it was the only thing visible.

"
Heed my word, boy! If I grant what you wish, you will know a loneliness like nothing you have ever felt before. Are you sure you wish to experience the pain?"

Conar fell to the floor, his knees drawn up to his belly as the white light invaded every pore of his body. He groaned and convulsed as though he was in the grips of the Labyrinthian Fever.

"
This is pain, Conar McGregor!"
the deity whispered. "
This will be your pain if I drain you of everything you wish taken away."

Lightning flashed from the ceiling, ran down the walls, crackling and snapping all along the floor, turning the ultra-lit room into a blazing starburst of silver light. The room turned to a freezing storm of slashing snow.

"
Shall I drain you of all humanity, Conar McGregor? I shall, if you wish—I will fill you with the spirit, the power, the hate of the Dark Wind!"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" he howled. "Take me and kill what is human left inside me!"

Numbing cold spread through him. The taste of mercury filled his mouth. His hands formed into claws as his freezing fingers cramped. He was shivering so hard his teeth clicked together.

"
You have what you asked for, McGregor!"
the voice rumbled. "
Live with it!"

He felt her slipping away, his love for her dying in his breast. He sobbed, his voice breaking, wretched and lost in his aching throat. He groaned. "Take her out of my heart, Master, " he whispered as the cold claimed him. "Take her out of my heart as You have taken her out of my life!"

* * *

The doors to the Wind Chamber opened as though by unseen hands, and the men turned. Silhouetted against the bright light in the antechamber stood Conar McGregor.

Occultus sighed with relief. He had begun to think Conar would not come. "Enter Prince of the Wind!" He raised his hand. "Enter and meet your destiny!"

Conar's heart slammed painfully in his chest; he was finding it difficult to breathe. His experience in the sanctuary had made him weaker than he had thought; his legs felt like rubber as he slowly entered the Wind Chamber. He felt languid, feverish, but he was still cold inside, so cold his teeth chattered. One part of him screamed to escape this so-called destiny before it was too late. God, but he hated that evil word with its control of his life. Yet, another part of him longed for the power he knew would be invested in him. He hoped whatever god he had spoken with had listened to his plea and had taken from him that which he no longer would need. Compassion when he had taken Liza from his heart.

His footsteps brought him closer to the future. With each step, he was shedding a portion of his other life, a life he hoped to leave behind forever.

Gone would be the young man whose carefree lifestyle had endeared him to his people, brought smiles and laughter to those who knew him.

Gone would be the young man who had wed the lady of his dreams. And lost her.

Gone would be the heir to the throne of his homeland, for tonight he would denounce all claims on the McGregor name.

Gone, too, would be the young man falsely accused of the seditious crime that had sent him to the whipping post, that had stripped him of his birthright and had tortured his body and soul, and had sentenced him to a living death in the bowels of Tyber's Isle.

Gone would be the man who had allowed himself to be abused, who others had hurt, mocked, and bedeviled.

Gone would be the man who'd had no control over his life.

With each step toward the black marble altar, Conar McGregor shed his life as a young bird its birth feathers, and a young life would become an ancient one.