WINDKEEPER (37 page)

"Bring up some broth when you come back, Storm," Legion said. "We’ll need to feed him again soon."

"You don’t worry about that!" Thom snapped. "Just go to sleep."

Legion looked at Thom. In the fading light from the window, Thom reminded him painfully of his twin and it was like looking at Rayle’s stern visage that never brooked argument. "Aye, Captain."

Thom settled his broad back against the bed’s tall foot board and watched Conar’s ragged breathing. The young Prince lay naked with only a thin sheet covering his hips and legs. He had tossed so violently in the throes of the raging fever that gripped him, A’Lex had ordered him tied to the four posts. His wrists and ankles were held down with padded silk rags as he lay spread-eagle on sheets that were changed every three to four hours as they became soiled with sweat and fluids from Conar’s wounds.

Sometime toward dawn, Conar’s breathing grew more ragged and strained. His flesh had become so hot, it burned the hands that touched him. The wound in his thigh had puffed up to the size of a large man’s fist and was a scarlet red against the paleness of his flesh.

The Healer who had come from Iomal stood over the young Prince once again, and shook his head. He had cleaned and stitched the wound in Conar’s side and the long cut on his upper thigh, near the groin. But there was an infection that not even the most powerful of the Healer’s herbs seemed able to destroy.

The older man’s hands were on the puffiness, shifting the fluid-filled flesh, probing it for signs of hardening masses. He craned his neck to look at Legion. "I will have to open this wound again, Lord Legion. It must drain."

Legion nodded. "Tell us what you need."

"I have the instruments with me, but I need a small brazier with fresh coals to sterilize them."

Storm left the room in search of a small brazier. Thom, who stood at the foot of the bed, his lanky arms folded across his chest, waited to be told what he could do.

Glancing back at the tall man, the Healer asked, "He may be unconscious, but when the wound is opened, he will feel it. Despite these bonds, he will need to be held so he will not injure himself as I scrape the wound clean."

Thom winced. The physician’s words made his flesh crawl. As red and puffy as Conar’s thigh was, having an instrument gouged into the tender flesh was bound to rebel with excruciating tenderness. "Is there no other way?"

"Not if you want His Grace to live."

"Healer Mayaeux knows what he’s about, Thom," Legion said quietly.

Storm returned with a small, black, wrought-iron brazier and laid in on the stone hearth before the blazing fire.

"I’ll have to pour scrubroot juice into the wound," the Healer remarked. "It has to be cleansed thoroughly."

Legion caught Thom’s eye. Neither man would like to suffer the Healer’s potion on an open wound.

The Healer ordered Thom, Storm, Marsh, and one of the other Elite Guards to hold the Prince’s arms and legs steady. Legion he placed opposite him, and gave Conar’s brother a warning.

"You must hold his hips and chest to the bed, Lord Legion. If he bucks and my instrument slips, it could geld him. He must be kept as still as possible."

"I understand," Legion said grimly.

When the incision was made, a putrid smell of dead tissue and festering infection pulsed from Conar’s thigh in a stream as thick as a man’s finger. Pressing gently around the puffiness to rid the wound of the thin yellowish-red fluid, the Healer watched the noxious stream run down Conar’s leg and soak the towels that had been laid beneath him. Nearly a cup of vile poison oozed from the wound. When he was sure all the ichor was squeezed from the wound, he used his scalpel to enlarge the incision

"Hold him still, men," the Healer told them.

He reached into his medicine pouch and removed an instrument that had the shape of a small flattened spoon. After holding it for a moment in the red-hot coals of the brazier, he removed it and poured brandy over the metal. The instrument hissed.

Legion settled his knees on the bed, his hands on his brother’s still body. With one hand on Conar’s breastbone, the other just above the thicker patch of pubic hair, he pressed down firmly and glanced up at the Healer. "Try not to hurt him too badly."

The Healer did not reply. His eyes were on the oozing hole in Conar’s thigh. He took a deep breath, parted the wound with the fingers of his right hand, and slipped the hot, sterilized instrument into the wound.

If Legion had not been holding him down, Conar would have soared upward from the bed. As it was, even with four men rushing to grab his arms and legs and Legion pressing him to the bed, he came off the mattress in a surge of agonized screaming. His spine stiffened, his neck arched back on the pillow and his eyelids flew wide open. The screaming went on until the Healer was satisfied the wound was clean.

"Hand me the astringent!" he yelled at Thom and the big man jumped to pass the small goblet of scrubroot juice to the Healer. Not even bothering to take time to breathe, the Healer poured the fiery concoction on the gaping wound and was rewarded by an inhuman bellow of agony.

Conar’s body went limp, and he was unconscious once more.

"Are you all right, sir?" Thom asked the Healer.

"I hurt him," the Healer mumbled. "I hurt my Prince." His lips were trembling. "I had to do it. I had to. There was no other way. I had to do it."

"We know that," Legion assured him. A groan from his brother made him turn toward Conar. Legion put his hand on his brother’s brow and eased aside a lock of lank hair. "Rest easy, little brother."

"It’s going to be a long night," the Healer prophesied.

* * *

Dawn broke the next morning and with it came a light frosting of snow. Frost rimmed the window out of which Legion gazed at the calm countryside. He spied a lone wolf loping across the meadow and smiled. Other than what was happening inside Conar’s room, the world was going about its business as usual. He heard his brother moan and turned from the window.

"He’s worse," Thom said, his hand on the sweat-drenched blond head. "Why is that?"

The Healer sighed, his tired shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his burden. "I fear he’s giving up the will to live."

"Don’t say that!" Teal shouted from the doorway and all eyes turned to him.

"Get back to bed, du Mer!" Thom snapped and started toward the gypsy. He stilled as Teal held up a dagger in his trembling left hand.

"I’ll slit you wide open if you try to keep me out of this room, Loure!"

Legion put out a hand to Teal. "Join us, old friend," he said and felt better as Teal wobbled forward and grasped A’Lex’s hand in his own.

All twelve of the Elite from Boreas gathered in the room. Storm and Marsh Edan sat quietly on the floor at the foot of the bed. The man who had been guarding Teal entered shortly after the gypsy, embarrassment on his lean face at having been duped into going after fresh cider for the invalid who now sat cross-legged beside bed. He started to apologize to Thom, but the big man waved away his words.

"The little bugger was determined, Roy," Thom growled.

Three other guards stood at the fireplace, two flanked the door, one stood in the doorway, and two sat on a long chest in the corner. They were all quiet and subdued.

Easing open the door to the room, the new innkeeper of the Hound Stag Tavern, where Conar had been brought, placed hot mugs of spicy brewed tea on the table for the men. If not for the young innkeeper’s cart, Thom would have had no way to bring Conar and Teal the five miles to the tavern. Without the young man’s help, Conar would, without a doubt, have died on the roadway near Iomal.

"Do you think he knows where he is?" Thom asked, breaking the silence, as the innkeeper left.

Legion glanced at him. "What difference does it make?"

Thom looked away. "Rayle said this is where he met her."

Legion sighed, closing his eyes. "I had forgotten." He glanced at his brother’s still face.

"And you think this is where he wants it to end?" Teal asked Thom.

"He’s getting no better," Thom explained.

Legion watched the shallow rise of his brother’s chest. He walked to the bed and knelt, taking Conar’s limp hand in his own. "Is that what you’re doing, little brother?" He put his face close to Conar’s. "If it is, you are being selfish!" His voice rose. "There are people here who love you."

"And need you," Teal added.

"People, who would be hurt by your leaving," Thom joined in.

"Men who need your guidance," Storm stated.

"Who need your friendship," Marsh put in as he came to stand beside Storm, resting a hand on his cousin’s broad shoulder.

"Your father misses you," the Healer chimed in. "There are a lot of folk who care about you."

"Think of your children, Your Grace," one of the Elite suggested.

"If you leave us, Commander," another Elite said, "there will be no decent King to sit on our throne."

"Think of all the people you would hurt if you left, Conar!" Legion challenged.

"What about Aunt Dyreil?" Teal asked. "What about Gezelle? Hern? Your brothers?"

"Liza!" Conar screamed and the men jumped. They were stunned as his head whipped about on the pillow and he began to struggle violently.

"Conar!" Legion shouted, watching the breathing grow more shallow with each breath. "Don’t do this! Do you hear me?" He fumbled to untie the silk binding that held the limp wrist to the bedpost. "Get this gods-be-damned cording off him!" he shouted at Thom, who hastened to untie Conar’s right wrist.

Climbing onto the bed, Legion took his brother’s body in his arms and brought him against his own chest. "Don’t do this to me, Conar!"

"Don’t hold him up like that, Lord Legion!" the Healer warned, pulling at Legion’s arms. "You’re putting strain on his wound!"

Legion looked at the Healer’s worried face. "He’s my brother. I love him," Legion cried, tears falling down his cheeks. He gently laid Conar back on the bed.

"Then tell him, Lord Legion," one of the Elite said. "Make him understand."

Legion leaned over Conar’s still form and took his brother’s face in his hands. "I love you, little brother. I love you more than anything in this life; more than I will ever love anything else." He placed his lips to the silent lips of his brother. "I love you, Conar."

Then the room went deathly still, for Conar McGregor had ceased to breathe…

"Coni!" Legion cried. He swung his leg over his brother’s inert body. "Don’t you die on me! Do you hear me? Don’t you
dare
die on me!"

"Milord Legion," the Healer said quietly. "Let him go. He is in the arms of the Gatherer now and She will…"

"No!" Legion shouted. He clenched his fists, lifted them over his head and hit his brother in the center of his chest.

"By the gods!" Storm whispered and looked away, his face pale.

Teal and Rayle did nothing as Legion hit Conar again and again. The two men were like statues as they stood watching the scene playing out before them.

Legion bent over, placed his lips to Conar’s and blew breath into his brother’s mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Pushing back to his haunches, he stared at Conar’s chest and, when there was no movement, he bent forward again and placed an ear to the young man’s chest.

No one took a breath. Every eye was locked on the two men on the bed. When Legion straightened up and they took in the look on his grieving face, every eye closed.

"Conar!" Legion sobbed as he drew his brother’s limp body into his arms. He shifted Conar against him, the young man’s arms hanging behind him. Crouched on his knees, rocking back and forth, Legion pressed his tearful cheek against Conar’s and began to keen.

"Milords, please," the Healer insisted, looking to Teal and Rayle for help. "This is wrong. The Prince has succumbed to his wounds. We must prepare him for…"

"Get out!" Legion screamed, turning an enraged glower to the Healer. "Get the hell out of my brother’s room, you quack! My brother is not dead!" He swung his wild stare to Rayle. "Get him out of this room, Loure!"

Rayle took three steps forward and grasped the Healer’s arm. Without saying a word, he ushered the man from the room then closed and bolted the door. He folded his arms across his massive chest and leaned against the barred portal, his tearful gaze lowered to the floor.

Teal hobbled to a chair. Storm helped du Mer sit, then placed a comforting hand on the gypsy’s shoulder, tightening his grip for a moment.

The other Elite warriors found reason not to look at Legion as he continued to rock his brother. Now and again the sound of Legion whispering to the man in his arms would make one of the Elite glance up, but none seemed to be able to look long upon the scene.

"Don’t leave me," Legion sobbed. He kept one strong arm around Conar’s back and lifted the other—hand trembling—to caress his brother’s still face. He pushed back the hair from Conar’s forehead and bent to place his lips on the cool flesh. "Stay with me, little brother. I need you." He kissed Conar’s lips, whispering against them. "No one loves me as you do, Coni. Don’t leave me." His voice broke. "Please don’t leave me!"

Teal put a hand to his face and shielded his eyes. His shoulders quaked. He was oblivious to Storm’s gentle pressure on his shoulder.

"
Coni!"
Legion screamed.

Everyone in the room jumped. Every gaze locked on A’Lex.

"Give him back to me!" Legion raged, glaring at the ceiling. "Do you hear me, Alel? You give my brother back to me!"

"He’s losing it," Rayle said to no one in particular. "We should put a stop to this."

No one moved.

"
Give him back to me!"

Teal flinched at the volume of Legion’s demand, for the words were like thunder booms. He looked up at Storm, but Storm shook his head.

"Give him back to me," Legion whimpered, his voice cracking with emotion. He stretched out on the bed, pulling Conar into his embrace and buried his face against Conar’s neck.

"Don’t take him away from me," was Legion’s final, pitiful plea.

But Conar McGregor lay still in his brother’s arm, his flesh beginning to cool.