WINDKEEPER (48 page)

"Is it the Lady Liza?" Gezelle asked, her face hopeful. "Have you heard from her?"

Conar shook his head, pain instantly filling his heart.

"What is it, Milord?" she asked and put her hand on his back, rubbing the broad expanse of flesh.

He was obviously trying to maintain his composure. There were tears hovering behind his thick lashes. "Would you do me an enormous favor, Mam’selle?" he asked, looking at his bare feet.

"I would do anything for you. You know that."

Taking his arm from the mantle, his body seemed to sag beneath the weight of his depression. He turned so that he faced her completely, uncertainty stamped on his troubled features. He lifted his head and looked at her. Inhaling a deep breath, he held it for a moment then let it out slowly. In a voice so soft she barely heard him, he made his request. "Will you hold me, ’Zelle? Just for a little while? Nothing more; just that."

She wanted nothing more than to protect this man, to keep his pain at bay. Neither spoke, but there in the late morning sun, nothing needed to be said. She opened her arms.

When his arms tightened around her, she pressed her body against his. "Do you need me, Milord?" She felt tears on her neck and wanted to cry.

"Aye, Sweeting. I need you. I need you more than I ever have before." His voice broke. "Take the hurt away, ’Zelle. Please just take the hurt away for a little while."

"I will always be here for you, Milord," she whispered. "All you ever need to do is ask." She gazed down at his bent head.

He lifted his face and fused his eyes with hers. He brought his hands up to her cheeks and slowly drew her lips to his, lightly caressing the full flesh with his own. "I am grateful, little one," he said against her mouth. "I am truly grateful."

"Did that girl say something to hurt you?" she asked, her face filling with a murderous light. "The one who just left?"

"She did no more than remind me of how great my sins have become." A single tear eased down his cheek. "I know what it is that I do, ’Zelle, but, the gods help me, I can’t seem to stop." He lowered his head.

"You have done nothing wrong and anyone who says you have is lying!" She pressed his face close to her breast. "And I shall tell them so!"

"You are a good friend," he whispered, his throat closing.

"And you are not alone."

* * *

Gezelle sat on the edge of his bed after he had gone to the Temple to get ready for the night’s wedding. Tears streamed down her cheeks, for she knew this time he had needed her, had wanted her body beneath his, had wanted what she could give him.

"Oh, Alel," she cried and sank to her knees, her heart aching. She bowed her head and didn’t try to stop the uncontrollable sobs that tore through her.

She didn’t hear the door open through her cries.

"Gezelle?" a soft voice called to her.

Glancing up, Gezelle’s eyes widened.

Princess Anya stood framed in the doorway.

Gezelle rocked back on her heels and was about to stand when the lady lifted the silvery gauze from her face.

As she looked upon the face of the Princess, Gezelle’s eyes rolled back in her head and she slid to the floor in a faint.

As Conar left the main hall of the keep, one of the cook’s helpers came forward and bowed to him. It was obvious the man wanted to say something and Conar welcomed any distraction from the Temple. He smiled at the middle-aged man, a signal that he would stop and talk.

"Look, Highness!" the man said with a wide grin. He held out his bony hand to his Prince.

Conar looked down and saw nothing. "What is it I’m supposed to see, Herbie?"

"My hand, Your Grace!" The man laughed. "Look at my hand!"

Conar dropped his gaze to the man’s proffered hand, but still did not see anything to warrant his attention. "I see nothing," he said, confused.

"Exactly!" the man cried with glee. "There ain’t nothing there to see!"

Thinking the man had delved one time too many into the cook’s wine cellar, Conar patted him on the back. "That’s nice, Herbie." He turned to leave and was stopped by the man’s giggle.

"Don’t you remember my warts, Your Grace?"

Conar turned around and squinted, sudden memory breaking through to him. "Aye," he said and took the man’s hand and looked closely. The thin, slender hand with its bulging veins and dark brown liver spots had been covered with huge warts.

They were gone.

Conar looked into the man’s beaming face. "How did you get rid of them?"

" ’Twas your lady, Highness. The young princess. She saw my hands and she said she had something to help." He rubbed the back of his left hand, a faraway look of adoration in his rheumy eyes. "They used to pain me sometimes, but your lady-wife gave me a cream and in a few days the warts was gone."

"The Toad got rid of your warts?" he asked. Weren’t toads supposed to give warts, not take them away?

"And she cured the cook’s rash. Remember that rash Sadie used to get on her neck and shoulders? And she gave the dairy girl a potion to help her monthlies. Then she saw Master John Boggs limping—you know how cold weather makes his old bones ache—and she told him about some root that would help. And you know how old Rufe had that sore that wouldn’t heal? Well, she healed it with the same potion! She even went out with one of her serving girls and got the root, herself."

"Why would she—"

"Mistress Donna don’t have her aches and pains in her joints no more after your lady gave her some potion or other to take every morning." The man smiled lovingly at Conar. "She’s a good woman, your lady-wife, Highness."

Conar managed to smile as the cook’s helper left him standing in the main hall. He watched the old man sidle away, his stooped shoulders hunched forward as he went about his business.

"Why the hell would she go to all that trouble?" Conar asked and felt someone watching him.

He turned to see the lady in question standing just inside the library door. On her shoulder was a little brown blob of wriggling fur whose pink tongue was licking at the edge of her veil. One slender hand was stroking the puppy’s back as she gently bounced it up and down on her shoulder.

He stared at her, not moving, not greeting her in any way. This was the closest he had ever been to her, but he sure as hell didn’t feel like speaking to the bitch. Not now. If truth be told, not ever.

"Lady," he grated out in a harsh greeting.

When she stepped back through the door and silently closed the portal, shutting him out, he fumed inwardly at her lack of manners until he realized with a pang that his had been no better.

"I don’t need this crap today," he murmured as he spun around. Angrily slamming the front portal shut behind him, he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his cords and stalked across the courtyard toward the Temple.

His mind numb with anger, Conar plodded wearily under the high wooden canopy leading to the Temple’s portico. As he passed the Tribunal’s Main Complex, he looked up at the black marble entranceway and his blood ran cold.

There was something about the place that had always unsettled him. Although he had never once had reason to be admitted inside the Hall of Laws, he always felt a dark fear whenever he passed the place. Today was no different, for he felt a great unease gripp him as he neared the entranceway. He glanced to the rear of the center courtyard where the scaffolding and whipping post stood. Conar shivered.

He had seen men die there in the Punishment Yard, hung from the scaffolding until they strangled. The wooden structures never failed to make him ill, for it was a barbaric practice he detested. Capital punishment was carried out in Serenia with great determination by the Tribunal.

Few men had ever entered the main facilities of the Tribunal Hall beyond the Hall of Laws where courts were held. Those who did were never the same when allowed out, for torture was part of their physical penalty within the Punishment Cells of the Tribunal.

Those who were chained to the whipping post were later transported to either the prison colony at Guilder’s Cay or shipped to Labyrinth Prison where the worst elements were incarcerated.

None of the three options—hanging, whipping, or transportation to a penal colony—was easy. All of them entailed humiliating abuse and physical torment that might well be considered inhuman and unjust.

Conar looked away from the tall black doors with their shiny marble columns of bronze plate and the crest of the god-Clere—the Lawgiver. For some reason, the Tribunal Hall caused him more unease than usual.

"Papa!" a young voice called to him as he neared the first step up to the Temple and he turned and smiled.

"Where’ve you been, Wyn?" He laughed and caught the young boy who flew at him, picking him up. "I haven’t seen you since I got home." He set down the boy and tousled his bright blond hair.

"I went with Healer Cayn to help Master Tucker with the birth of one of Lord Teal’s mares. They let me help, Papa!" The boy’s freckled face shone as he looked up at his father. "Today’s the day you wed, isn’t it, Papa?"

"Aye," Conar said with a frown, his good humor at seeing his five-year-old son vanishing. "Tonight is the Joining." He sat on the bottom step and patted the stone beside him. "What have you been up to lately?"

Wyn plopped down beside his father and turned so he could look at Conar. "I met your wife, Papa," he said eagerly as he threaded his fingers through his father’s.

"You did?" Conar couldn’t have cared less. He looked over the courtyard to his left where a servant raked the leaves from a huge cottonwood.

"She sent for me!" His small chest puffed up, and when his father turned, surprised, the boy giggled. "You did know that, didn’t you, Papa?"

"What did she want?" Conar asked, his tone filling with suspicion.

Wyn’s young face split into a grin. "She wanted to meet all your children!"

"Why?" His suspicion turned to fury.

"Papa!" Wyn cried with exasperation. "Because she’s going to be your wife, Papa, and she wanted to see your children." He scooted on the ground at his father’s feet and wedged himself between Conar’s legs, his small hands gripping his father’s waist. "You know what she did?" His face was eager, excited.

"I’m afraid to ask," Conar mumbled under his breath, as he stroked his son’s upper arms.

"She gathered all of us together in the garden and told us all about herself. We sat on the ground around her and listened. She has such a pretty voice, Papa."

No doubt the only pretty thing about her, Conar thought wickedly. "What did she say?"

"Oh, you know! Where she was born, who her Mama and Papa are. That sort of thing." The little boy made a wry face as if to say that was of no importance. "She has four sisters and two brothers!" His nose wrinkled. "As if I need any more uncles!"

Conar chuckled. "I guess you don’t, huh?" He sighed. "What else did she say?"

His little voice took on an air of excitement. "She told us all kinds of stories about her homeland. All about dragons that can fly and wizards that can make themselves disappear right from under your nose. She taught us songs and jokes and riddles and she told us she would teach any of us who didn’t know how to read." Wyn drew himself up and patted his thin chest. "She appointed me her helper because I’m the oldest and you already taught me how to read. Well, sorta, anyway."

The boy got up and sat on his father’s knee, hooking his arm around Conar’s neck and leaning his forehead against his father’s. "And you know what else she did, Papa?"

Conar shook his head. "What?" He was staring at his son as Wyn continued on with the marvelous things the lady had done and said to his children. He was amazed. This boy was very shy, easily frightened, preferring to spend his time in the stables, transferring his love to the animals, rather than take a chance on humans and their fickle natures.

"She said that if we ever needed anything, we were to come to her because we were your children and now we were hers, too!" Wyn smiled. "Isn’t she a grand lady, Papa?"

Conar hugged the boy and then eased him off his lap, standing up to stare at the palace doorway. "Have you seen her face, Wyn?"

The boy shook his head. "She wears a pretty veil, Papa. Tia asked her why she wears it and she said because she could see other people and they couldn’t see her."

"A good reason."

Wyn frowned. "I asked if that was so she could judge people and not have them judge her."

Conar glanced at his son. As a bastard son of the Prince Regent, Wyn had fought many times with boys who had insulted his parentage to his face. He had become quite adept at hiding his own little feelings except around those he loved.

"And what did she say to that?"

Wyn looked up at his father. "She said sometimes people judge you wrongly before they even meet you. She said the veil hides many things from prying eyes, but it hides tears especially well."

Conar felt as though he had been sucker-punched in his gut. "But what if what is beneath the veil is a face others find too horrible to look upon, Wyn?" he asked, searching the boys blue eyes that were a mirror image of his own.

Wyn shrugged. "What difference does that make, Papa?" he asked with the perfect innocence of childhood. "Isn’t it what’s in a person’s heart that matters, not what they look like?"

Conar flinched. He had heard much about the lady who was to become his wife that night. From his father. From the cook’s helper. Now from his son. If what they were telling him was true, she would make a worthy wife.

Or a formidable enemy.

He touched his son’s cheek. "I have to go to the Temple, now. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"I’ll see you at the wedding!" Wyn laughed.

"Oh, you will, will you?" Conar asked, one tawny brow lifted in challenge. "How so?"

"The lady told Mistress Emmie Lou that all of us could watch the wedding if we took naps this afternoon; and we stayed in the balcony of the Temple and didn’t make no sound during the Joining. We all made a pact to be good so we can see you marry her, Papa."

"Wyn?" a voice called and both father and son turned to see Mistress Emmie Lou beckoning the boy. The children’s nanny waved at Conar and crooked her finger at Wyn. "Time to go in, now, Wynland!"