WindSeeker (21 page)

Conar had always prided himself on being a strong man, a man who finally had taken charge of his own

life. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a man to be reckoned with, a man to be feared. He saw a

man who had known what he wanted out of life. He was almost twenty-three years old. He was a skilled

swordsman, an expert horseman, a respected leader of his people. He was married to the woman he

loved more than life itself.

A shiver of fear ran down his spine. Aye, he loved her. She was the reason he was in this evil place

awaiting a fate far worse than death. Her life, her safety, her retrieval from Galen, was what counted. If,

in realizing
that
goal, he had to sacrifice his mortal soul, then so be it.

He brought up his hands and covered his face. His mind screamed warnings, but it was too late. Far too

late. He knew all too well what he had set into motion by coming to Kaileel Tohre. He had no

misconceptions, no illusions about what would be done to him. He could see his destruction at Kaileel’s

hands as surely as he could see the flames leaping through the cracks of the doors to Hell.

"What have you done, Conar?" he asked himself in a ragged voice. "Holy Alel, what have you done?"

An echo, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, reminded him that what he had done was save both

Liza and Galen from harm. Galen would go free, cowering somewhere in exile to avoid him and their

father. His would be the ultimate revenge, Conar realized too late. Galen would live to see him at the

mercy of the Domination, a fate he had so often wished upon Conar. He might never wear the crown in

Conar’s stead, but he would never have Liza. That was the only good thing that would come of this

travesty.

That, and Liza remaining safe from Tohre’s revenge.

He felt a heavy rock settle on his chest. Aye, Liza would be safe. Liza would never know Their evil, but

he would. He would feel Their vile touch on him for the rest of his life.

Struggling to keep the scream from pouring out of him, Conar strained to hear the footsteps that would

soon be coming. His nerves were stretched so close to the breaking point, even the beat of his heart was

maddening. No doubt this waiting had been part of his punishment for having defied Them for so long.

The gods only knew what other vile punishments the vultures had in store.

He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but he couldn’t. His

lungs felt constricted with sheer terror and a lump sat in his throat. He began to understand that he wasn’t

nearly as brave as he liked to think. He realized with shame that he was, after all, a coward.

He let out a ragged breath. He was cold. Colder even than when Tolkan had locked him in the—

He tore his thoughts away from the Arch-Prelate. Kaileel had sworn to him that Tolkan would not get

hold of him. He refused to even entertain the idea that Kaileel would lie about that. By all that was holy,

he would surely die if Tolkan Coure ever touched him again. He almost had once before. His memories

of a childhood inside these very walls were like red-hot pokers tearing off bits and pieces of his lacerated

flesh. The pain was so well-ensconced in his memory, it might well have only been endured the day

before.

"Oh, god!" he moaned, remembering pain that could not even be expressed in human words. It was a

pain he knew he was to experience again.

He slumped down the wall, his head banging on the paneling—once, twice, three times. He drew up his

knees and clasped his hands between them. He shivered from head to toe.

"What are you waiting for?" he whispered to the silent room. "Why don’t you come?"

One trembling hand came up almost of its own accord and he ran the backs of his fingers across his dry

mouth. He could feel his throat continuing to close up. His breathing grew rapid, shallow, painful, his

stomach bunched inside his chest cavity.

"What are you waiting for?" he screamed.

* * *

King Gerren took his eldest son’s arm in a firm grip as Legion came out of Liza’s room. "Any word?"

"I’m sorry, Papa," Legion said and drew his father away from Liza’s door. It had been a long night of

the young woman crying for her husband. Cayn had finally given her something to make her rest easier,

although she had, as yet, not fully awakened from the drugs she had been given at Norus Keep. "No

word at all."

Gerren stared at his son. Legion had been the first of over two dozen illegitimate sons born to him, and

he loved Legion A’Lex second only to Conar, his firstborn legal manchild.

"He can’t just have dropped off the face of the earth!" Gerren hissed. "It’s been nearly three weeks since

he rode off from Norus."

Legion shook his head. "I know, Papa. I’ve sent men everywhere. Even into Diabolusia. We got word

back that Galen had been seen there, but not Conar. Dyllon sent men into Necroman, as well. King

Shalu, believe it or not, was gracious to the men. He even sent men of his own with them to question his

people, but no one knew of Conar. The last anyone seems to have seen of him was when he cleared the

rise near Rommitrich Point. That’s where Chase and Grice’s men lost him."

"What of the messenger Montyne had you send to the Temple of the Winds?" Gerren fell into step

beside his son as Legion headed for the stairs to the ground floor.

"They told us he wasn’t there. The Vice-Prelate even allowed us to search the Temple. Conar isn’t

there, Papa. Neither Tolkan Coure nor Kaileel Tohre was there. They are on pilgrimage to their

Monastery in the Serenian Alps. I doubt either of them would have been so accommodating to us if they

had been in residence."

"Yet Chase seems to think they know where he is."

"Jah-Ma-El hinted that Tohre had something to do with Liza’s kidnapping. If that’s true, could Conar

have gone after him at the Monastery?"

"That vile place is known only to the initiated of the Domination. Conar would never be able to find it."

"But he may be looking."

Chase Montyne stood on the balcony above the two men. Like Conar, due in part to the shared

childhood of abuse the two men had endured, he could feel other people’s pain as surely as he could feel

his own, and it hurt him to know there was nothing any of them could do to help Conar McGregor. He

turned, his eyes brimming with tears, and made his way to the room allotted him. Fumbling blindly with

the handle, he rushed inside and flung himself face onto the silken coverlet. He buried his hands in his

thick blond hair and sobbed.

* * *

In the rat-infested dungeon of Boreas Keep, the thin man sat hunched over, his stomach cramping with

watery pain. His robe was stained even filthier than was usual, now with the fetid stench of his own bowel

movements. He felt things scampering over his dirt-encrusted and vomit-flecked bare feet, and he

swatted viciously at the moving tide of vermin. Putting up one shaking hand to push a lock of thin, greasy

black hair from his lean face, he could smell an odor that made him gag. His back burned where the lash

had been laid to it, his shoulder throbbing where the brand of traitor had been applied to the torn flesh.

His hands also throbbed with burning pain, the palms oozing pus where they had been scorched with still

another branding iron, an iron never seen by the executioner, Bent.

Jah-Ma-El tried to stretch his legs to relieve the godawful cramping in his gut, but the shackles around

his thin ankles pulled taut and he could feel the scabs breaking open. He stilled and laid his head on his

bony knees. Snot dripped down his ragged mustache and three-week-old growth of beard, but he paid

no attention. There was something more vital about which to think.

His beloved brother was in mental agony. He could sense it even from this distance. Could feel it. He

had no need to question what it was Conar was facing. He knew all too well from first-hand experience.

He had warned Conar. Or tried to. He knew Conar had known what would happen if he went looking

for Tohre. And now it was about to begin.

Jah-Ma-El groaned. Tears cascaded down his dirty cheeks. "Alel, save him," he pleaded with a god he

knew had given up on him long ago. "Please save him."

It was almost time. The Hour of Passage. Even from the bowels of the keep, Jah-Ma-El could hear the

wind keening outside. Even though his palms had been branded with a ban to prevent him using magic, he

could hear that wind. The old walls, with trickling moisture seeping down, reverberated with the sounds

of thunder no other mortal could hear. But Jah-Ma-El could hear it booming beyond the keep. He could

smell the flash of lightning’s brimstone spears. The frigid air was creeping in around him, making his

breath visible in the pitch-black cell.

"Sweet Alel!" Jah-Ma-El cried, struggling against the rising panic beginning to grip him. "Don’t let my

brother suffer as You let me!"

* * *

He struggled against them, twisting and turning, trying to escape. He cursed Kaileel over and over again,

his eyes blazing with fear and rage at the man who stood by frowning as he was being forced to his knees

in front of Tolkan Coure. "You lied to me!" he screamed, jerking on the men who had pushed him to the

floor. "You lied to me, Kaileel! Damn you. You lied!"

Kaileel looked away.

"Tohre made you a promise I would not allow him to keep. Blame me for your predicament if you must

blame someone," Tolkan said, then grinned.

Conar screamed every obscenity he knew until a black silk scarf was forced between his teeth to silence

him. Still, he fought them until they restrained his hands and feet with tight leather straps. He did his best

to get free, arching back his head and striking out with bound feet, but the men who held him were

stronger than he was. They eventually had him on his knees before Tolkan. He twisted, bucked, but only

managed to tighten the leather around his wrists and ankles.

"He has never liked being restrained, has he, Kaileel?" Tolkan remarked.

Kaileel didn’t answer. Seeing the blind fury in Conar’s face when they had finally come for him, he knew

the young prince had realized the bargain he had made, of his own free choice, had been turned against

him. Conar had tried to run, but one of the guards had tackled him, bringing him down on the marble

floor, hard enough to bloody the young man’s nose and chip a front tooth.

"Is this necessary?" Kaileel had asked as the guards began manhandling Conar. "Must he be subjected

to the Retribution?"

"He will be initiated, Tohre. That he knew already. But he will also be punished for all the trouble he has

caused me over the years." The old man’s eyes gleamed with malice. "I think he must know that. See

how he fights?"

And Conar had fought. Seeing Tolkan had been enough to let the Conar know there was more in store

for him than just the Rites of Passage, agonizing as they would be.

Kaileel looked into those terrified blue pinpoints and felt a tremor of fear go through him. He wasn’t sure

Conar could withstand the Court of Retribution. Few men had.

Tolkan walked to where the guards had Conar kneeling and took a handful of the prince’s flaxen hair,

dragging back his head.

"You are going to suffer greatly for your sins, my son," the Arch-Prelate told him. "We will make your

sword strong, your will, inviolate. I shall personally oversee your disciplining." He was barely able to

keep his grip on Conar’s hair as the young man tried to twist his head. "Pull all you wish. It is you who

feels the pain!"

Conar looked frantically at Tohre. There was stark knowledge in the look he sent Kaileel’s way.

Knowledge that his pain was only beginning.

"I will see to his punishment, Holiness," Kaileel said. "No need to burden yourself."

Tolkan turned a leering grin to Tohre. "Ah, Kaileel! Do you not realize that I know how it is with you?

You would be lenient. He would not suffer as I want him to. He must be punished for his abandonment of

us, his interference on occasions too numerous to count. Are you forgetting his hatred of us? Of you? His

meddling in our affairs?"

Kaileel ground his teeth and tried to place a respectful look on his face and tone in his voice. "He has

done relatively minor damage to us, Holiness. You might cripple him if you send him through the Court.

He is a hero to our people, and that is to our advantage when we convert him. If he is unable to function

properly because of the Retribution…"

The aged face of the Arch-Prelate hardened into a grimace of reprimand. "Do not presume to tell me

what small amount of damage this boy has caused me! His meddling has brought about blocks in my

overall plan!" The old man leaned close to Conar’s face and pulled back the young man’s head so far the

cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief. "He must be made to understand that he
will
do as he is told.

He will be what he was meant to be! The only way to accomplish that is through immense pain. I have

found that to be the only way to bring this stubborn boy into submission. Reasoning and cajoling do not

work; only pain will accomplish what is needed here!"

"But you might hurt him beyond—" Kaileel protested.

"Enough!" Tolkan shouted, letting go of Conar’s hair. "I will see this boy’s spirit broken. He will submit

to me as I see fit!" He turned, speaking over his shoulder. "Prepare him for me, Tohre."