WINDKEEPER (45 page)

"So I have been told!" Shaz grinned. "My boy, Chand, shares that same trait with the du Mer lad. The boy is forever getting into things my elder boy has to get him out of. He’s taken more knocks from Grice than I can count and yet he still insists on doing things his way, right or wrong!"

"Sound familiar, Conar?" Gerren teased. "I’ve loaned Conar more money from our treasury to pay off du Mer’s gambling debts than I have spent on anything else in the kingdom!"

"Papa!" Conar warned, laughing at the horrible exaggeration.

" ’Tis true!" Gerren laughed and slapped Shaz on the back. "Money that Conar has yet to pay back, at that!"

As the three men headed for the dining hall, Conar stopped to pick up a parchment that had rolled off the hall table. Replacing the scroll, he felt a nudge along his sixth sense and glanced up to the balcony that ran above the dining hall archway. He froze.

Standing perfectly motionless at the top of the stairs was a heavily veiled figure, her entire figure obscured by the billowing silk of her gown and silver net veil. Her hands gripped the balcony rail, her head slightly tilted to the side, and he knew her eyes were entirely on him.

He squinted, staring up at her for a moment, his face still and calm, expressionless. The only sign of his agitation was the constantly flexing fingers by his side. He knew who he was looking at and felt a great hate well up inside him. His stare went cold and hard as steel, and his mouth filled with a bitter acid as he ground his teeth so tightly together a muscle in his jaw jumped and locked.

It took every ounce of his manners to slightly bow his head to the woman. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t acknowledged in any way that he was staring up at her.

It took every ounce of control he had not to openly curse her as she turned away from the balcony, her back to him. A cold, icy fury flashed through his heart as he watched her bulky figure limp away, passing out of his fine of vision.

"Bitch!" he spat beneath his breath. "I’ll make you regret you were ever born!"

Legion and Teal arrived together, greeting King Shaz with a wariness that soon turned to pleasure as they got to know him. Teal was on his best behavior, after a warning by both Conar and Legion, to think before he spoke. He smiled a great deal, showing his deep dimples, and answered questions put to him with a simple yes or no.

One man had come late to the meal, apologizing for his lack of manners, and had taken a seat next to du Mer. He greeted the King of Oceania with exquisite politeness, and had turned to his own King in recognition of the invitation to eat with King Gerren and his visitor.

"I am honored you invited me, Highness." The man smiled. He adjusted the sleeve of his robe and dusted away a fleck of lint. "I have been anxious to meet His Highness, King Shaz. The other priests will envy me my good fortune."

"Since it will be you who performs the ceremony, it is your right to be here," Gerren said. His eyes flicked to his son, but the young man was staring intently at his plate, his hands in his lap, his head bowed.

"I understand you did not bring a priest from your homeland with you, King Shaz," the priest commented. "Are you willing for the wedding to be done in the name of our god, Alel?"

"We will adhere to your son’s beliefs, Gerren. Our daughter is willing to forego a blessing by our clergy. Your religion’s dogma is not that far removed from our own."

"Your daughter has been consecrated to the precepts of your goddess, Iluvia, has she not?" When Shaz nodded, the priest held up his hands, palms facing to the ceiling. "Well, then it is no problem. In our pantheon, the goddess is one of Alel’s many wives. According to custom, whomever is dedicated to one of His, is dedicated to Him."

"I am sure the King knows that," Conar snapped, his head still averted from the priest.

"I am sure he does, too, young Prince," the priest said soothingly. "I meant no offense to our guest. I am pleased you remember the precepts of our religion still, considering it has been a long while since you stepped foot inside our Temple." The priest smiled as Conar tensed, willing the young man to look up at him, but Conar adamantly kept his head down.

A thick shock of white-blond hair covered the priest’s forehead and fell to his shoulders in long black beaded braids. Icy pale blue eyes narrowed with the intensity of his gaze upon Conar and the thin, almost transparent lashes dipped with a slow, insulting speed.

One thin pale hand stroked his chin where a long, pointed bush of beard hung. He pulled at the goatee and tapped his index fingernail on the bristly hair. The nails were long, too long, and sharply pointed, lacquered with gold and tipped with vermilion. His hawk-like, skeletal nose dominated the thin face and his slit nostrils seem to flare in anger with each breath he took.

Heavy folds of skin draped down from his neck to his collarbone and the flesh over his chest and upper arms was mottled with white discoloration, for he had been badly burned at some point in his life.

With his hooded eyes never leaving Conar’s face, the priest watched as the young man laughed at something the visiting King said. The priest’s tongue came out and flicked at the left corner of his mouth, revealing yellow-stained teeth.

From his position at the opposite side of the table, Legion studied the priest. A strong dislike, combined with a natural fear of the priesthood, made Legion wary in all his dealings with this particular priest. Unfortunately due to the man’s elevated rank within the priesthood, the cleric was allowed free access to all social gatherings within the keep. Thankfully, he rarely attended unless Conar was there, as well.

Legion often caught the priest staring at his young brother with the same loathing he was exhibiting now. His uncanny surveillance of Conar, his eerie way of never wavering his attention when Conar was present at the table, unnerved Legion. It was almost like watching a snake mesmerizing its prey before lunging for the kill. Even when the priest was asked a direct question, he never took his eyes from Conar, who made it a point not to look in the man’s direction if he could prevent himself from doing so.

Legion had suspected for a long time there was something between the two men, but even though he had asked Conar on several occasions why he appeared so ill at ease in the man’s presence, Conar consistently refused to say why.

Kaileel Tohre knew Conar’s bastard brother was studying him. It didn’t matter. He continued to watch Conar. Nothing could have prevented him from doing so. His close scrutiny of the young Prince seated down the table was the only thing of importance to him. Knowing his unwavering inspection made the young man nervous immensely pleased Kaileel Tohre. Every movement, every word, every facial expression, every breath Conar took, he carefully examined. If Conar raised his hand to sweep back a heavy fall of blond hair, Kaileel followed his hand until it was down again. If Conar got up from the table to get something from the sideboard, the hawk-like eyes would make every step with him, missing nothing the young man did.

Tohre grinned, for he caught the flicker of blue eyes—nervous, uneasy, fearful—slip his way and then hastily lower. He sat back in his chair, pressing his fingers together under his chin as he studied his former pupil. It delighted Kaileel Tohre to see the young Prince so jittery. He always was when in Tohre’s presence. This eve, Conar was more unnerved than ever, most likely due to his impending marriage; but his fidgeting and his deliberate snubbing of Tohre were signs the young man’s neurotic tendencies were close to the surface.

And that pleased Tohre even better.

Teal du Mer, who was seated beside the priest and not at all happy with the position, asked Conar a question and the Prince turned in Teal’s direction. There was a smile on his face and he was about to answer when his attention was caught by a movement of Kaileel’s hand and his eyes involuntarily strayed to the man’s cadaverous face.

It was as though a bucket of icy water had been thrown on him. Conar’s smile vanished, his body tensed. He held Tohre’s hateful stare, unable to break the gaze locked with his own. A look of pain passed quickly over his suddenly still face. Something strange shadowed Conar’s eyes as the priest sat forward and began playing idly with the candle flame in front of him, a sinister grin on his thin mouth.

Kaileel moved his gaze away, but not before everyone had seen the malicious smile that spread over the priest’s face as Conar lowered his head and stared at his lap.

Conar could only shake his head at Teal’s repeated question, no doubt repeated to break the silence that had settled over the table. Kaileel Tohre’s direct gaze had stunned him, and he found his body shaking uncontrollably. He swallowed and willed his heart to stop the erratic beat it had started at the precise moment his gaze had met Tohre’s. He flinched as the steward moved beside him and offered fresh wine. Glancing up at the steward, he nodded.

Tohre smiled as Conar’s wine was poured.

Conar could feel Tohre looking at him again. He always felt Tohre’s stare every time he was near the priest, but tonight he was feeling it more keenly than ever. He glanced at his half-eaten food and his stomach heaved. There was no way he could eat now. He had only sipped at his wine during the meal, his head still a little numb from the morning’s unwise consumption. He had not been allowed wine with his midday meal and he knew his father was watching him closely for this one. When the servant placed the goblet before him, he glanced at his father with pleading and was surprised when the King nodded his reluctant permission. He hastily reached for the goblet and drained the pale pink liquid.

"Is the wine to your taste, Your Grace?" Tohre inquired. When the prince did not answer, the high priest leaned back in the chair and cocked his head to one side.

Conar wiped his mouth with his napkin, his attention on King Shaz’s rambling tale of horse trades. He listened for a moment and then his attention wandered. He looked at Legion and smiled as his brother winked at him. He took a deep breath and tried to regain his focus on what Shaz was saying, but found he could not concentrate. He looked to the head of the table where his father sat.

"I have often thought women should not be allowed entry into the horse sales. If Medea and Anya had not come, I’d have been one hundred gold pieces richer!" Shaz laughed.

Gerren nodded in complete agreement with his friend. He asked, "Does Anya ride as well as her mother, Shaz?"

"Considering Medea taught her, I would say so, yes."

Conar could hear the words the men said, but they made no sense to him. His ears were beginning to ring with an odd, high-pitched trill that was most unpleasant. A strange, queasy feeling had invaded his belly and he could barely swallow the spit in his mouth. He shook his head, felt a slight throbbing under his right eye and shook his head again to clear his ears of the ringing that had now grown louder, drowning out Shaz’s laughter.

"Are you not well, Highness?" Tohre called to him.

Conar could not stop himself from turning to the priest. Looking directly into those dark blue eyes always made Conar ill, but the sickness boiling in his gut was beyond anything he had ever felt. He shifted his gaze to Teal, then Legion, then Shaz and finally his father. None of them appeared to have heard Tohre speak to him, question his health. They were speaking, their mouths moving, but Conar couldn’t hear their words. The ringing was a clanging agony inside his head and he put his hands over his ears to blot out the pain.

"Do you wish to leave us, sweet Prince?" Kaileel inquired and his smile was evil as Conar’s head jerked toward him.

Kaileel Tohre was the only man Conar McGregor had ever truly hated. Or feared. He had more than his share of reasons to hate Tohre; even more reason to fear him. He avoided the man as he would any deadly animal. When near the priest Conar knew a terror so intense it was like suffocating.

His hatred for the man was like an unquenchable thirst: never satisfied. Not only because the priest was the Abbot of the Order where Conar had began his training as a boy in the Wind Warrior Society, but also because the man was second highest in position of importance in the Brotherhood of the Domination, the malignant sect that Conar had vowed to destroy.

Tohre was the Cardinal of Ordination, a man to be greatly feared, for he was in charge of the sacrifices and sinister ceremonies upon which the Domination thrived. Yet the hatred Conar bore the man went far deeper than Conar’s own sense of morality concerning the practice of human sacrifice and murder. It went far deeper than his breaking away from the Temple before being ordained as a priest into the Wind Warrior Society where Tohre had been his sponsor.

"You look uncomfortable, my Prince," Kaileel whispered, and Conar heard the caress of the man’s voice inside his head. "Perhaps you should go to your bed and let the wine soothe you."

King Gerren glanced at his son’s sweat-slick face and could have thrashed the boy then and there. Had his son been able to snitch more wine while he had not been looking? He frowned, keeping a close watch on his son.

Conar’s mind was cotton-numb and he could taste a strange metallic tang on his tongue. He swallowed and bile rose with lightning speed to gag him. He jerked up his napkin and quickly covered his mouth.

"Would you like to be excused, Conar?" his father snarled.

Conar didn’t hear his father. He was trying hard to swallow the bitter vetch in his throat. The banging gongs were an agony that ripped at his skull and set his entire body to trembling.

"Your father is speaking to you," Tohre purred.

Conar turned his head, glanced at Tohre’s leering face, and thought he would pass out. His breathing was coming in quick, painful, ragged gasps and his vision was blurring a bright shade of red. His hatred went farther than his own personal animosity toward Kaileel Tohre, Conar thought with dismay. Only he and Tohre knew why. His thoughts went back to a time, long ago, best forgotten, when he had felt similar to the way he was feeling now. He had tasted this same acrid flavor in his mouth and his forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember exactly when and where he had experienced it. Tohre had been responsible for whatever he had undergone then and, with a lurch of his soul, he knew he was responsible now. He locked his gaze with Tohre’s.