WindSeeker (25 page)

Rite of Consecration, there will be only one of us, my sweet prince. Two bodies, one identity!" His lips

moved to Conar’s and he drew on the fullness.

Conar’s pain flared white-hot and then faded with the suddenness with which it had come. His mind

reeled with the sparkling, spinning colors flashing around him. His body was on fire with a need of which

he could not name. He ached. He writhed under his bounds. He looked to Tohre as Kaileel’s lips came

away from his own.

"Kaileel?" he whispered. "Make it stop!"

Kaileel let his lips slide to Conar’s cheek, touching the warmth of the stubbled flesh. Gently he kissed the

prince’s blood-splattered cheek. "You are empty, an empty vessel waiting to be filled. When the time

comes, you will know the fulfillment of that desire. You will know the all-encompassing pleasure of being

One with Raphian."

Tolkan bent over him. "Only the Brotherhood can assuage the need and soothe the ache you are feeling.

Only the Brotherhood can take away the need and replace it with ultimate, total satisfaction. But you

must endure."

"No," he whispered.

"You must, Beloved," Kaileel told him. "Strive to put the pain from you."

Conar felt hands lifting him. He turned pleading eyes to Kaileel. To Tolkan. Neither smiled at him, but he

could feel their power. He began to cry.

"You will be taken to a solitary cell. You must live with your pain. On the sixth day from this one, at the

sixth hour of that day, we will come for you again."

He felt cold, hard hands on his ankles and arms as they lifted him from the blood-soaked altar. His head

lolled to one side as they carried him. Even as they brought him into the small oubliette that would be his

home for the next five days, he was unable to do more than writhe beneath the touch of the hands that

received him into the small, windowless hole. They laid him on the cold, moist floor, clothed him in rough

material, tied his hands behind his back, his ankles together, and then left him, shutting off the only source

of light—the hatchway leading down into the three-foot circular cell.

He looked up as the hatchway closed, shutting out all contact from the world, and he knew he should

scream. Knew he wanted to, for closed-in places had always held a specialhorror for him. He just simply

couldn’t scream, although his heart lurched and his mouth flooded with bile.

His throat worked, still struggled to scream, tried to make any sound at all. Tears fell heedlessly down

his pale cheeks and he turned his face into the rushes on the floor and wept.

Long before his paralyzed throat allowed him the luxury of a purely animalistic howl of agony, his mind

ceased to function. By morning’s light, he was as numb to the horrors of his degradation as his voice was

hoarse from his screams.

Sentian, Hern, and Belvoir crouched behind a barrier wall beyond the last row of trees that

surrounded the Temple of the Winds. All three were bone-tired and their eyes gritty with sand and

sleeplessness. Hern had developed a severe headache that plagued his eyesight even more and he

reached up a large hand to ease the pain in his left temple.

"You all right?" Belvoir asked, risking a low voice as he watched the Temple Guards patrolling the

entrance. He scratched at the long, jagged scar on his cheekbone and flung his long, black braid over his

shoulder. His wide forehead crinkled with concern for his friend.

"I’ll do," came the husky, annoyed reply as Hern nudged Sentian further along the barrier wall. "You

make an excellent obstacle, Heil—move!"

"How are we supposed to get past the guards?" Sentian whispered, looking from one of the much older

men to the other. Hern’s craggy face was flint-hard; Belvoir’s equally rugged face was set and tight with

resolve.

Hern looked the young man up and down and then curled his lip. "We walk in," he snapped. He reached

into a velvet pouch hanging on his wide black leather belt and withdrew a rose-colored crystal. "Ready,

Belvoir?"

"As ready as I can be." The former Master-at-Arms from Norus Keep turned to the youngest member

of their trio. "Stay put until we whistle, Heil."

"What happens if you get caught?" Sentian asked.

"Then
you
get His Grace!" Hern snapped. He patted Sentian on the back with enough force to make the

young man cough.

"What if
I’m
caught?"

"Where’d you come up with this brat, Belvoir?" Hern snorted. He pulled the hood of his black tunic over

his face, then moved with all the stealth and agility of a jungle cat as he blended into the thick stand of

trees.

Belvoir grinned at Sentian and disappeared, leaving Sentian blinking at the swiftness of their movements.

He was in over his head with these two older warriors and he wondered briefly if the Princess Liza knew

he wasn’t in the same league.

A low whistle wafted on the breeze; his mouth dropped open in surprise. They hadn’t been gone that

long! The whistle came again, and Sentian could have sworn there was tight annoyance in the low, soft

trill. Not giving himself time to think, he moved into the trees and toward the gate.

"Not bad, bratling," Hern said as Sentian jumped, crying out as the older man appeared as if by magic.

Hern’s rough sword hand tightly plastered itself on the young man’s mouth. "But you got to learn not to

be so damned noisy!"

Belvoir slipped into sight and the gates leading into the Temple Compound swung open. Before Sentian

could ask how, the two men propelled him through the gates, past a wide fountain and up the steps. He

looked behind him to see what had happened to the two guards, but neither was within sight. He had one

brief glance at the watchtower at the rear of the low structure, but there was no guard there, either. If he

was surprised that there were no guards at the doors, he didn’t show it. It was best he didn’t ask how,

after all.

Once inside the Temple, it took the men a little less than ten minutes to find what they were looking

for—the sleeping chambers of the initiates. They slipped past guards who didn’t seem to see them,

walked through rooms where men slept and never once disturbed them, looked in on men reading,

writing, and praying. To Sentian, it seemed they were invisible to the inhabitants of the Temple, and when

he finally questioned Hern, the burly man let out a low, soft chuckle.

"They can’t hear us or see us, brat." He held up the rose-colored crystal. "The lady saw to it." He poked

a thick finger at Sentian’s pouch. "You got one of these beauties, too." He grinned as Sentian opened his

pouch and found the crystal he didn’t even know he carried. "That’s just one among many you’ll learn to

use, boy. Guard it well."

The crystal felt hot and cold at the same time, and Sentian fiercely gripped it lest he loose it, afraid if he

dropped it, they would be caught. He turned quizzical eyes to Hern.

"We’ll teach you the proper use of it, bratling. Don’t you worry."

"In the wrong hands," Belvoir added, "it can be dangerous."

Encouraged by both Hern’s and Belvoir’s confidence, Sentian was only mildly anxious as the three men

split up, each going in a different direction in search of the informer who would be taking them to the

Great Abbey of the Domination. They slipped unseen into many cells, a red-haired lad of around twenty

their target. Liza had explained they would know him by the large strawberry birthmark on his forehead.

Passing down a corridor where most of the sleeping cells stood empty, Belvoir, his game leg beginning

to bother him, limped into one of the larger cells and let out a silent whistle. He backed out of the cell, his

large mouth grinning from ear to ear, and hurried to find Hern and Sentian.

Hern looked up from his close scrutiny of a sleeping man and saw Belvoir motioning to him from the

doorway. "Found him?"

Belvoir shook his head. "Even better!" He tugged the Master-at-Arms from Boreas with him down the

corridor until they found Sentian. "Brat! Come along!"

Following close on Hern and Belvoir’s heels, Sentian could almost smell Belvoir’s excitement. The big

man’s shoulders were hunched in a tight lift and his bull neck was thrust forward as he hurried silently

down another long corridor and stopped at one door.

"Look who I found!" He swung the door inward. "You’ll want this one to see you, so think yourselves

visible to this jackal!"

Sentian came up short as he slipped into the cell. Even though he had never seen the sleeping man up

close, there was no doubt who this bastard was. He took a lethal step forward, intent on killing the man

who awoke to stare at them with horror.

"You are dead!" Sentian snarled and lunged.

Hern blocked his way, grabbing Sentian’s arm and hissing, "Not now, brat!" He pushed away Sentian

and turned to face the trembling man.

Belvoir drew his black dagger from its sheath. The ebon crystal blade shone in the light cast from a lone

candle that sat on the terrified man’s night table. "How do we find His Grace?"

"I’ll make the bastard tell!" Sentian promised and tried to get around Hern. He stumbled as Hern shoved

him, putting up a warning hand as Sentian tried to take another purposeful step forward.

"We need him," Hern reminded Sentian. Arbra’s pale eyes glistened with warning and his white hair

gleamed in the candlelight. It was as though the man’s entire body radiated power, and Sentian held his

ground, even though he was fearful of the now-dangerous look in the warrior’s eyes. "As soon as he tells

us what we want to know, then you can kill him."

Sentian smiled, and anyone who knew him would have backed away from that smile. Anyone who

didn’t know him would have run from it.

"Who sent you?" Galen McGregor stammered. He had pushed himself as far up the wall as his legs

would allow. He held out his hands in supplication. "Did my father send you?"

"I’ll ask you this once more and not again. Where is he, McGregor?" Belvoir took a menacing step

closer to the young Serenian prince. "How do we get to His Grace?"

Galen’s face paled. "Conar?"

"Is there another?" Hern snorted.

Belvoir spat on the floor. His emerald gaze ran insultingly over Galen’s thin body. "None that I know of,

anyway."

"You’re looking for Conar?" There was a measure of relief on Galen’s suddenly sweating face. "You’ve

come for him? How did you know where he was?"

Sentian surprised even himself when he shoved Hern out of the way, almost getting to the cowering man

before Belvoir blocked his way.

"Tell us how to find him!" Sentian bellowed, "or I’ll geld you!"

Galen shook his head, his arms crossing over his face, for he feared the man would attack despite

Belvoir’s intervention. "He’s at the Abbey!"

"We know that!" Hern spat. He dragged Galen off the cot and slammed him hard against the wall. "Tell

us how to get there and you might live to see daylight." He glanced over his shoulder at Sentian. "And

then maybe again, you won’t."

"You have to help him," Galen whimpered. "I tried, but they sent me here. There isn’t much time. The

Consecration will be tomorrow night." He gasped as Belvoir threaded his strong fingers through Galen’s

flaxen hair, dragging the man’s head to the side.

"What game are you playing, Prince McGregor?" he hissed, tugging painfully on the hair.

"You have to believe me, Belvoir!" Galen cried, tears of pain and fear coursing down his cheeks.

"They’ll destroy him if you don’t reach him in time. They’ve already hurt him so badly."

Sentian let out a low, animal growl of pure rage and made for Galen again, only to be brought up short

by Hern’s hard arm across his neck. He tried to get past the older man, but Hern let go of Galen, put his

hands on Sentian’s shoulders, and shoved as hard as he could. With a grunt, Sentian slammed into the far

wall and slid down, his spine throbbing, his ears ringing.

"Let us handle this, Heil!" Hern told him, and then turned away.

Belvoir twisted his hand in Galen’s hair and felt a large portion of the flaxen strands pull loose from

scalp. He tightened his hold, nevertheless, and grinned evilly at Galen’s groan of agony. "I wondered

when you’d finally realize you had some feeling for your brother. Now tell us how to get there."

"He won’t tell you anything!" Sentian protested. "Even if he does, the whole thing would be a lie. He

tried to kill Conar."

Galen vehemently shook his head. "I did no such thing. They never told me they were going to hurt him. I

thought they would just make him sign away the crown. I never wanted to see him hurt. Kaileel promised

me the throne and Liza. He never said anything about what Tolkan had planned for Conar. I don’t even

think Kaileel knew what Tolkan was going to do."

"What have they done to him?" Sentian bellowed.

"Be quiet!" Belvoir warned. "Your damned big mouth is going to get our asses in trouble!"

Galen whimpered, his fear of telling the men how to get to Conar, and of being found out, greater than

his fear of the three warriors. He trembled from head to toe and his breathing became ragged. "They’ll

kill me if they find out I told you."

Hern gave a snort of disgust. "We’ve no time for histrionics, you little snot!"

"But they’ll kill me if I tell!"

"And I’ll kill you if you don’t!" Sentian assured.

Galen jerked away from Hern, knocked Belvoir’s hands from him, and slid to the floor in a heap. "If I