WINDKEEPER (56 page)

"I wasn’t sure what color you would like, but with your coloring, I thought a pastel shade would suit." The grating whisper turned soft. "Do you have a shirt of this color?"

Conar turned his face to her and shook his head.

"Lavender is his favorite color," Dyllon remarked.

"Do you like it, then?" she asked, looking up at Legion as though for his approval as well.

"Very much, Your Grace," Legion assured her.

Conar looked down at the tunic. It was a delight to behold. Despite his dislike of the woman sitting beside him, Conar could find nothing wrong with the tunic. It was well-crafted and bore the effort of many hours of meticulous work and careful stitching.

"Conar?" Legion prompted, "your lady-wife has asked if you like her present."

"She embroidered it herself," Queen Medea informed him. "It took her over a year."

Gazing at the tunic with wonder, Conar touched the beautiful width of one silver leaf with the tip of his finger. He seemed to remember the woman at his side and looked down at her.

"You did this?" She nodded and he turned his head slightly to one side. "For me?" Again she nodded.

He swung his head to his brother. "She may be good for something after all!"

"Conar!" Legion groaned.

Conar slipped on the shirt then yanked his chair up to the table and once more slumped down with childish rancor, his lower lip thrust out in a pout.

For over an hour Conar said absolutely nothing. Not even a thank you for the gift his wife had taken over a year to painstakingly sew. He didn’t eat the food placed before him. He noticed his bride ate very little, either, and his lip curled with distaste.

"Food not good enough for you, Toad-breath?"

There was a heavy sigh from the lady who shook her head as her fingers closed tightly around the stem of her wineglass. "The food is most delicious, Milord. Are you not hungry yourself?"

The young Prince brooded at the laughter and remarks he chanced to overhear. His left hand toyed with his fork while his right rested on his upraised knee as he leaned back in his chair; his booted foot propped on the table leg closest to him. Now and again, he would send contemptuous smirks toward his new wife, but when she would turn to look inquiringly at him, he would squint and glower until she looked away. He glared at his father, as well, thinking thoughts that would have been considered high treason if uttered.

"Are you all right, Conar?" Dyllon asked as he came to speak with the bride and groom, to wish them well.

A snort was the only answer the young man received.

"You were rude to your brother, Your Grace," his bride accused and he glowered at her until she was silent.

The wine he had consumed over a two-hour period had gone straight to his ego, bolstering his ill-humor and spiteful defiance.

"Have you a request, Your Grace?" one of the musicians called to him.

Conar started to shake his head, but stopped, thought a moment, and then his lips lifted with sheer malice. He looked straight at his new bride and answered the man. "Do you know the ballad, ‘The Prince’s Lost Lady’?"

The men began to play before King Gerren could object. He sent daggers of spite at his son, who smiled maliciously at him down the length of the table.

"A lovely song, Your Grace," the lady at his side commented as the balladeer sang in a rich baritone.

Conar turned the grin to his new bride. "Every Prince has his lost love. Did you know that, Toadie?" He raised his tenth goblet of wine to her in mock salute. "I have one."

"And where is this lady, now?"

"Gone!" he shouted, turning heads again. He raised one finger to his lips. "Shush, Toad!" he whispered loudly. "Shush! You’re so gods-be-damned loud!" He tapped his lips several times in warning.

"And just where has she gone?" his bride asked in a strained whisper.

"To where she doesn’t have to look at you, you blasted amphibian!" He took the goblet of wine belonging to the man sitting beside him and drained it. "She left because of you," he said sorrowfully. He sent her a damning look. "She left because of you. Do you understand me, Toadie?"

The Princess folded her hands in her lap, and in a prim, clipped voice, she assured him, "I understand you better than you think, Milord."

Legion, sitting five people down from his brother and beside Teal du Mer, shook his head and sighed. "Papa is going to have his hide if he doesn’t sober up."

"Then do something," Teal said.

"And just what would you suggest I do that wouldn’t make things worse?" Legion hissed. He motioned as Conar brought up his goblet once more. "You’ve had enough," he mouthed.

Conar stood and held his sloshing goblet aloft. "A toast, my people!"

"Conar, I don’t think…" Anya began.

He made a slight bow to his wife. "Madame," he said in a courtly voice, "with your most gracious permission."

"No, Coni, I really don’t think you should…" she tried to softly warn him, but he cleared his throat and held his goblet as high as his arm would allow, then began to recite in a loud, carrying voice.

"There once was a fellow from Serenia, who married a damsel from Oceania. While pondering her veil, he said, ‘What the hell? I wonder if fucking can be done in absentia!’"

Shocked silence met him. Not a sound could be heard in the banqueting hall. The woman at his side stiffened. Her parents looked ready to have him castrated. His aunt blew angry puffs of breath from between clenched teeth. His brothers wore open-mouthed wonder on their faces. Legion’s face was stunned; Teal’s face was a bright crimson. Hern had choked on his wine and Healer Cayn had hid his face in his hands as the king shoved back his chair and stalked toward his son.

"That is enough!" Gerren shouted. He grabbed his son’s arm and shook him. "Apologize to this lady. Now!" The King’s eyes were gleaming brands that meant exactly what they said.
You have gone too far
.

Conar looked at the hand on his arm and then tossed his head, flinging back a lock of blond hair as he made himself focus on his father’s angry face. "No."

Gerren couldn’t believe he had heard correctly. He lowered his voice and asked softly, "What did you say, Conar?"

"No." There was blue steel in his son’s eyes.

The King raised his arm to strike his son a backhanded blow when he felt a light hand on his biceps, stopping him. He turned, furious, to the slim woman at his side. "I have not taught this cad such ill manners, Daughter," Gerren said. "I will not have him showing you disrespect in my presence."

"I understand. But he is drunk, Father. He can not be held accountable for his actions. I took no offense. Today has not been one he happily met."

The King smiled at her, removing his hand from Conar’s arm to touch her smooth shoulder. "The little bastard doesn’t deserve such consideration from you, Anya." He gently squeezed her creamy flesh. "But I promise there will be no such repetitions of his behavior."

Her husky laugh was lilting and sweet. "And I can promise you he will surely regret tonight’s behavior come morning, Father!"

Gerren’s face stretched into a wide grin. He liked this girl! He cared not if she had three noses, a tail, and one huge cyclopean eye! Conar, though, was another matter. He turned to his son and saw the mulish, stubborn look on his young face.

"You don’t deserve this lady, you ill-mannered little snot!"

"No man deserves her."

The King took a step forward, intent on doing actual bodily harm to his son, but Anya placed herself between them and touched the King’s cheek with a slender caress of cool fingers.

"Papa," she said sweetly, "your son has gotten himself more than he bargained for this time. Leave him to me."

Gerren couldn’t see her face, but the threat was in her soft voice. He almost pitied Conar. Almost, but not quite. "Shed his blood if you have to, Anya." Gerren grinned. "We can always send in a maid to clean up."

"The only blood shed will come from between her—" Conar felt his throat grabbed in a hard grasp. His father jerked him up so that his feet almost left the floor, then slammed him against the stone wall.

"Open your vile mouth one more time," his father shouted, stilling the room, "and you will hear your own screams for mercy as I have the lash laid to you!"

"It wouldn’t be the first time!" Conar shouted back.

Kaileel came slowly to his feet, his blue eyes locked on the King’s angry face. A side-glance at Galen found the boy also on his feet, his knuckles white on the edge of the table.

"How dare you?" Gerren hissed. "I have never once put the whip to you, you ungrateful, lying little…"

Conar glared hatefully at his father. "It doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t matter how I feel, does it, Papa? It doesn’t matter at all how much I hurt? How much I have ever been hurt?"

"If you want to see hurt, Conar," Gerren warned, "remain at this table! I will show you what hurt can mean!"

Anya faced her husband, put both her hands on his arms and gently gained his attention. "Your Grace, please. It is time we left."

Conar could hear the pleading in her voice. He had embarrassed her. He had embarrassed his father and those assembled. He saw the looks of astonishment on the faces of those gathered, saw their pity and knew the pity was not for him. It was for the woman whose hands on his flesh felt like iron vises. He lowered his gaze to her veiled face and cocked his head. "As you wish," he told her, hate filling his tight voice.

Ordinarily when the bridal couple took their leave, it would have been with many a knowing smile and sly whisper, but since no one knew how to act after the young Prince’s display, no one moved, no one spoke. The hall was deadly quiet as the Princess slipped her small hand onto Conar’s begrudgingly proffered arm.

"If he survives this night, he’ll be the stuff of legends," Dyllon quipped and shook his head at his brother, Coron.

Coron folded his arms over his chest. "Now, there you’re wrong, little brother. It will be her that gains the legend, I think."

"Bet?" Dyllon asked, holding out his hand.

Coron extended his right hand. "One hundred?"

"Done!"

Queen Medea and Empress Dyreil came down the table with graceful strides, their shoulders back, their faces stern and filled with reprimand as they glanced at Conar in passing.

Seeing the two women advancing to the stairs, Conar stopped in his tracks and glared after them. He wasn’t even aware of the Princess’ hand leaving his arm until she had joined her mother and new aunt at the stairs. "And just where the hell do you women think you’re going?"

A frosty glare down her nose was the only answer Conar received from Medea.

His aunt, on the other hand, answered him with a rather glacial snap to her usually warm voice. "To prepare your lady for bed, Conar."

Making a rude sound with his tongue at his aunt’s disrespectful tone of voice, Conar waved the women on. With his vision beginning to double and triple, he stumbled on the first stair as he tried to follow and yelped as the rough stone riser scraped two long furrows down both his shins. He snatched at the iron railing to keep from falling flat on his face as his legs buckled beneath him. Twisting sideways, he landed with a grunt of surprise on the hard stone, slid down to the base of the stairs, his legs thrust out in front of him.

He heard a giggle above him and jerked back his head to look up at the three women and saw, not three rear ends, but six.

He blinked, shook his head, and looked again.

Now there were nine women wagging their asses at him.

"Why the hell does The Toad need all those damn women to help her lose her maidenhead?" he shouted at the women and saw them turn twelve faces to look down at him.

"Oh, Conar!" Dyreil laughed, pointing a finger. "If you could but see yourself, young man!"

With great effort, Conar drew himself up from his crouching stance and haughtily cursed them. "The demons take your brigade of virgin-busters, Toad! I’ll not have them crowding up my quarters!" He heard Medea’s merry laugh and stuck out his lip. "Go ahead and laugh! You’re getting rid of the twit!"

Medea called down to him from her position with the dozens of other jeering faces. "And happy as a lark about it, I am, Conar!"

"Insolent old chit," he mumbled as he stood, pivoted around with a jerk and tried to steady himself enough to climb the first stair, but his foot kept sliding down the riser. "Who waxed this gods-be-damned step?" he shouted and then plopped down heavily on the bottom stair, so hard his teeth clicked together.

Sighing, Dyreil leaned out over the balcony and called, "Legion, you and Teal come see to your baby brother."

Conar squinted toward the hall. "Don’t need no help."

"Aye, you do," his aunt said. Dyreil held the door open for the men as they manhandled Conar into his chambers. Queen Medea and her daughter stood beside the bathing room door as Gezelle folded back the covers on the huge oak bed.

"Get your gods-be-damned hands off me, Legion!" Conar shouted. "I can walk!"

"Lord Legion, his robe is on the chair," Medea told them. "Please strip him and see that he puts it on. I want that tunic off him before he throws up on it!" Her mouth was tight with fury.

Legion glanced at the Queen as she motioned her daughter into the bathing chamber to give the men privacy to carry out her wishes.

"I can undress myself!" Conar mumbled as his brother and friend deposited him on the edge of his bed.

"I would wager you can’t," his aunt snapped and shooed Gezelle out of the room ahead of her, speaking over her shoulder as she closed the door. "Get him undressed, Legion. Don’t let the fool try to do it on his own. He’s liable to hurt himself."

"Don’t need no help," Conar grumbled. He plucked at his wet tunic and frowned. "Who spilled this wine on my new shirt?" He flung back his head and glared down his nose at Teal. "Did you?"

Teal shook his head, pursing his lips to keep from laughing. He looked at Legion, saw A’Lex’s lips twitching, and lost all control over his own laughter.

"What the hell you laughing at?" Conar yelled.