WindSeeker (35 page)

at something. Someone. Anyone.

There was nothing he could do. There was no way he could say goodbye to her. His foul temper was

even now grinding a muscle in his jaw.

He let go of the drape. He would make himself scare. He would make himself stay away from the only

thing that had ever truly mattered in his life.

Make himself let her go before he wound up killing her.

* * *

as the drawbridge lowered, squealed in protest at being awakened on such a cold morn. An shout of

encouragement from a serving girl to her soldier-lover brought loud chuckles from the troop as they

crossed the planking, just behind the raising of the portcullis with its iron scream of annoyance. Horses

blew steam from their nostrils and shook their heads to wake. Sleepy-eyed servants and visitors to the

keep nodded dreamily to one another in passing. Guards in the barbicans leaned over the crenellations

and whistled to the dairymaids as they trekked to the barn.

All the sounds of everything going on as usual at Boreas Keep.

He hunched into the small comfort of his leather jacket and crossed the battlements to the eastern side of

the keep. Beyond the waist-high guardrail that afforded sightseers a view of the quays below, a thick fog

slowly parted as the day advanced, the sky turned brighter in the heavens. He could smell the threat of

snow and he looked into the clouds and scowled. It would be a day as gray and bleak as the ache in his

heart. He blinked against the sudden gust of frigid wind blowing his way and sniffed. He could feel the

cold all the way to the bottom of his lungs.

"Careful there, you stupid fool!" came a shout from the docks.

He took a deep breath and walked to the guardrail. Below, riding anchor some fifty yards out to sea,

was the clipper Northwind. Her teakwood masts rose high into the scud of low clouds galloping swiftly

above the docks. On her deck, sailors scampered about, uncoiling lines, carrying goods into her hull. Her

two forward ratlines were dotted with men as the sailors climbed about the rigging to check and secure.

Her sheets were a soft tan in the mist, the mizzenmast sails almost a dirty brown color as the aft part of

the ship disappeared in the fog. Above the skysail hung the pennant of the McGregor family, its dark

sapphire triangle barely visible in the fast-moving clouds. The Northwind’s shrouds were new, the deck

gleaming with loving care, the brass polished, the portholes shining in the glow of lanterns behind them.

She stood ready and eager to tack into the freshening wind that would take her south to the warmer seas

that lapped at the shores of Oceania.

Conar’s blond hair whipped about his head and fell into his face as he leaned against the railing.

Too-bright blue eyes lowered to the gangplank and he saw Teal du Mer, talking to the captain of the

Northwind. Although Conar’s collar was turned up to ward off the chilly air blowing around him, he felt

the damp sea breeze easing around his neck and down his back. He shivered, scrunching down into his

jacket, his hands thrust deep inside the pockets. He stamped his booted feet on the stone gallery and

blew a stream of air from his nostrils. It was the waiting that made his heart ache so painfully; but he

wasn’t sure it was the cold seeping through his clothing that made him so numb. As cold as he was, as

sick at heart, as hurt, he would not go below until the sails of the Northwind were no longer visible.

A strong wind gust hit him and he tucked down his chin to avoid the blast of chill air. His hair was

already damp, tousled wildly in the stiff breeze. The clothes on his back were no match for the arctic

wind. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have a cold by the time the week was out. Not that

it mattered. He would have been here, on this lookout point, at this time, on this day, if he’d had to come

buck-naked.

The bright wash of emerald green flashed to the rear of the quay. He leaned over the rail to look down.

A piercing stab of pain went through his soul when he saw his wife climbing the steps up to the long quay

from the main dock. Her hand rested on Legion A’Lex’s forearm and her head was bowed beneath the

words he was speaking to her. Conar couldn’t see her face in the deep recesses of her wool hood, but

he could see Legion’s. The man’s face was filled with anger. He seemed to be trying to reason with her,

but she shook her head, and, even from the distance at which Conar stood, gazing at his brother’s face,

the prince saw the exact moment Legion gave up his fight.

Conar watched them take the long walk to the gangplank. He tensed as Legion stopped at its foot and

took Liza into his arms. He could no longer see their faces, but he didn’t have to. He knew Legion’s face

would be bleak with despair, hard to look upon, love shining in his eyes. It cut Conar to the quick to

know Legion would be the one to bid Liza goodbye and not him.

Thom and Sentian stood a few feet away; Storm and Marsh waited their turns to say farewell. Wyn was

there and, from what Conar could see on the now-bustling docks, all his children. A goodly portion of

the upstairs staff milled about the base of the keep. Hern and Cayn stood side by side at the top of the

gangplank, for the Healer had been helping to provision the ship’s medical supplies from his own vast

store. Sadie sat huddled in a billowing greatcape, her gnarled hands wrapped around a large picnic

basket no doubt filled with all Liza’s favorite foods.

They were all there to bid her goodbye. Everyone she loved. All, but one.

He saw her shake her head at something Legion said. Then she buried her face into the soft wool of his

greatcape. When Legion turned his cheek to place it on the top of Liza’s hood and pulled her closer,

Conar snarled. He gripped the ledge before him in a white-knuckled clutch. It mattered little to his rising

animal fury when his wife pushed away from Legion, ran up the gangplank, putting distance between

them. He ground his teeth as Legion took a step up the gangplank, but he heard his wife as clearly as

though she stood beside him when she denied Legion access to the ship.

"Nay, Milord! Stay!"

"This isn’t right, Liza!" he shouted over the keening wind. "This is your home."

Her small hand went up. "Not any longer, my sweet lord."

His spine stiffened as Teal du Mer put a comforting arm around Legion’s shoulders.

"Will you console me like that, Teal?" Conar whispered, "if I should need it?"

He already knew the answer. In the last four days, no one had spoken to him. Whenever he appeared in

a room, it cleared. Whenever he sought someone out, they answered his questions in monotones, never

meeting his gaze. When he appeared on the training ground, Hern stopped practice. Little by little, he had

come to realize no one wanted to be near him. Not even his family.

He knew why.

It had all come to a head two days after the violent rape. Liza had come down to table that morning, her

head low, her voice a mere whisper. There had been dark bruises on her arms and neck. Every eye in

the room turned to Conar. The King glared at his son.

"Is this why Liza has decided to return to Oceania?" Gerren bellowed. "You dared lay a hand to her?"

Conar had had no sleep for those two days. He’d had no food since the large morning meal on the day

of the rape. But he’d consumed three bottles of brandy and numerous tankards of mead and ale. When

he replied, every heart in the room turned against him. "What I do with my wife when she disobeys is my

business."

"You beat her?" Legion gasped.

"Nay, Milord," Liza was quick to answer. "He did not. He would not."

"Then what happened?" Gerren demanded. He walked to her and gently put a finger on one purple

bruise. "If the man didn’t beat you, what did he do?" He turned a furious look at his son.

Conar threw his napkin to the table and stood so quickly his chair crashed to the floor. "I punished her!"

he shouted. "That is my right!"

"Punished her how?" Gerren asked in a soft, deadly voice.

"Please, Father," she begged. "This is between Conar and myself. Don’t make it any harder for me."

Legion had stood as well. His angry face turned toward Conar, although he spoke to Liza. "Has he

warned you not to tell us what he did?"

Liza shook her head. "He asked me to leave, and I will do as my husband wishes."

"Why?" Gerren shouted.

"Because I don’t want the bitch here, that’s why!" Conar shouted back and stomped off before anyone

could stop him.

Whatever Liza had said after he left the dining chamber must have satisfied both his father and Legion

that she did not want them to interfere. No one came looking for an explanation. They simply chose to

ignore him, and in doing so, let him know their displeasure.

At first he didn’t care. He spent the next two days drinking himself into a blinding drunk. He consumed

so much liquor, even the tenerse had little effect on him. When he finally sobered, he began to realize just

what a mess he’d made of his life.

Shouts came from the ship and the squeal of anchor chain being hoisted shot over the docks and

screamed to Conar, bringing him back to the present. He pushed away from the guardrail and walked

further up the barrier wall, striving to see the aft portion of the ship where a flash of green had appeared

in the shifting fog. He gripped the stone ledge and was oblivious to the rough mortar cutting into his

palms. The wind caught the sheets, billowing out the canvas, and he sucked in a nervous breath.

It wouldn’t be long.

Leaning further off the battlement, the stone ledge pressing painfully into his belly, he looked to the taffrail

where he had spotted the swath of green. He squinted to see to the stern and leaned out even further into

the rushing wind now laden with snowflakes.

His cheeks stung with the cold; his chin was numb. He could no longer feel the small stream of moisture

as it welled up under his left nostril. He squeezed his eyes shut against the piercing blast of howling wind,

and the tears he refused to allow himself to shed.

The Northwind’s sheeting filled, went taut, and the long ship thrust with a jerk into the waves. She

tacked slightly leeward as she began to come about. The bowline still kept the sail as flat as possible

while she was being close-hauled to the wind for fear the waves would make her list too far over. Soon

the ship would be positioned so that her sails would fill to capacity and the blasting wind would set her on

a steady, rapid course to Oceania.

For a moment, fog drifted over the stern. He straightened, leaning back from the precipice upon which

he had been straining so he could see Liza. The ship moving out to sea, he was a long distance from her,

but he knew his wife’s eyes were on him. His lips parted and a low, hurt moan came from the depths of

his being. He saw her hand go up in a hesitant, unsure sign of farewell.

He lifted his hand from the stone ledge, then stopped. "No, Conar," he cautioned himself, his hand

itching to return her greeting. "Don’t give her reason to hope."

When he failed to return her gesture, her slender arm lowered and she turned away, her back to him as

she took hold of the rigging that held the spanker. He didn’t have to be standing beside her to know what

she was doing. He knew she was crying.

For him. For what once was. For what might never be again.

As the snow began to fall in earnest, he had a hard time keeping the ship in sight.

"You’ve lost her," he said. His voice ended in a rush of despair. He couldn’t stop the hitching sob from

bursting from his throat. Tears streamed down his face, freezing to his flesh, and his whole body quivered

with the effort to keep himself from screaming his anguish. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and

ran the back of it up and over his left cheek to swipe at the tears. He blinked as larger clumps of snow

clung to his lashes. He angrily tossed his head to rid himself of the crying.

The Northwind moved into the deeper waters of the North Boreal Sea and the blinding snow seemed to

swallow her bow. He could no longer see Liza. A part of him wondered if she was still at the rail,

straining to catch a last glimpse of him, but he prayed she had gone below, safe from the freezing

weather.

He watched the ship sailing out beyond the entrance to the reefs that stood to either side of the sea

channel leading into the harbor of Boreas Keep. His face distorted with his emotions, and he whimpered

incoherently, his moans pitiful to his ears. When the ship was but a dot on the horizon, when her sails and

masts slipped into the curve of the sea, when his body was numb with cold and his lashes laden with

snow, tears frozen on his cheeks, Conar turned. He headed for the stairs that would take him down into

the keep. He took one step and doubled over, grunting with pain, his arms wrapped tightly around his gut

as his body strained with grief. He went to one knee, his head bent, and he sobbed like he had not

sobbed since he had lost her the first time.

He didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps on the snow. He didn’t look up as a sneering voice spoke. The

words washed over him like the knelling of a death bell.

"Are you ready now to fulfill your obligation to us, Conar?"

"Get away from me," he breathed, his fear of the man turning into red-hot hate.