WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (39 page)

"You may eventually become paralyzed, Conar," Raphaella had warned him. "Be prepared for it."

He knew that time had come and he was not prepared.

Sybelle flinched as a roaring gasp of hopelessness, helplessness, and defeat exploded from the man she held. His face was buried in her lap and she could feel his hot tears through the folds of the blindfold as they spread over the silk of her gown. He was shuddering uncontrollably and his hands were plucking at the carpet as though he were trying to gather together the remnants of his shattered life.

"Shush," she told him, crooning softly to him, unmindful of the men who came rushing into the room. "I will take care of you. I swear by all I hold precious, I will."

Chaim came up short as he entered the chamber and found his lady on her knees beside the Serenian. A great lurch of pity welled up in the man's heart and he fell to his knees beside them, reaching out to grasp McGregor's limp body.

"Be careful with him, Chaim," Sybelle warned. "On your life, be careful with him."

Effortlessly lifting his burden from the floor, Chaim swept his arms under Conar's legs and hefted him, carried him to his bed as easily as if the Outlander had been a child. "What happened?"

the nomad warrior asked.

"I don't know." Sybelle sat down on the bed beside Conar as soon as her servant had settled him on the mattress. "I came in to find him on the floor." She looked up at Chaim. "I don't think Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 174

he can walk."

The nomad had been expecting such news for several days. Their prisoner had become weaker and weaker, dropping things he tried to hold, stumbling when he walked, having more and more difficulty dragging his right leg as he tried to do so.

"Your Grace?" the servant asked, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Conar's knee.

"What can I do for you?"

There was no answer from the man on the bed. Only a hitching sob that came from trembling lips. Conar McGregor lay there, his face turned away from them, his hands clutching the sheets beneath him. He twisted the covers in his hands, dragging at them as though that were the only way he could vent his anger and disappointment.

Sybelle motioned Chaim to leave. Bending over, she swept a fallen lock of flaxen hair from the Serenian's brow. "Can you move your legs at all?" she asked.

Conar shook his head, unable to answer her. He had no feeling whatsoever in his legs.

"This wasn't totally unexpected, McGregor," she said softly. Her hand moved down the wet plane of his scarred left cheek. "You know that."

How bitter were her words, he thought as he lay there, unbearable sorrow welling up in his chest. He felt fresh tears stinging his eyes and was determined not to give in to them. He wished she'd go away and leave him alone.

Sybelle eased her hand from him, understanding he did not want to be touched at that moment. She put her hands in her lap and threaded the fingers together.

"What was it you wanted?" she asked, hoping to make her voice as calm and unconcerned as she wished she felt.

When he didn't answer, she prodded him gently. "When you sent for me. What did you need?"

A resentful hiss of sullenness issued from him. "Can you believe it, Sybelle?" he snarled.

"I wanted to ask you if Chaim could take me riding again." He laughed, a bitter explosion of contempt. "I don't guess that's a viable option for me now, is it?"

The Kensetti woman lowered her head. "Maybe not."

There was another rasp of self-disgust. "Aye. Maybe not."

Sybelle closed her eyes for a moment and then drew in a long, painful breath. As she exhaled, she turned to look at him. He lay there so rigid, so angry, so furious at his body's having failed him.

"There is a way I can help," she told him.

"Oh, aye," he said from between clenched teeth. "Kill me and be done with it."

"You know better than that," she answered in a stern voice.

"What good am I, Sybelle?" he shouted at her. "What good am I to anyone?" He turned his head toward her, wishing with all his being that he could see her face, could look into her eyes and find some hope of release. He could not read anything in her voice.

"There is a way to turn back the clock, McGregor," she said. "A way to undo what has happened to you."

His guffaw of laughter was malevolent as he turned his head away again. "Sure there is."

Sybelle wanted to touch him, to put her hand on his chest. Her palms itched to caress his flesh, to sooth him. But she knew his anger would not allow even the most platonic of touches at that moment and so she had to satisfy herself with caressing him with her gaze.

"I am of the Amazeen," she told him. "A sect similar to that of which your wife belongs."

She watched his mouth twist with irritation. "The Sisters of Amazeen are even more powerful than Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 175

those of the Multitude. We accomplish what they only dream can be done."

Conar sighed. Was the world full of magic-sayers intent on tormenting him to his dying day? Did they all think themselves more powerful than their kinsmen in other orders?

"Chaff in the wind," he muttered.

"You belittle what you as yet have experienced," she reminded him. "The Multitude could not keep this from happening to you. Perhaps the Daughters even wished it upon you."

His head swung over on the pillow. "Why would they?" he growled.

"To punish you?" she asked.

"For what?" he asked in exasperation.

"For putting aside a Daughter to take another?" she hinted. "I am told no woman of the Multitude will tolerate the man she has claimed sleeping with another."

Conar's lips twitched with ironic humor. "Chaim caused this, Lady. No one but him."

"And I can undo it," she said.

"How?" His curt tone left no doubt that he believed such a thing was impossible.

"By going to the Wealdzone," she replied. "To make an entreaty for your protection." She ignored his snort of contempt. "It is our equivalent of the Multitude's Shadowlands."

"And your Great Lady will grant me back my good health if you go," he sneered.

"She is not called that, but yes, She will grant such a petition if She feels you are worthy of a Sister's devotion."

Conar wished he could hit the woman sitting beside him. He wished he could tear her limb from limb. She was taunting him with her make-believe magic and his pain was growing harder to bear by the minute.

"You don't believe me," she said.

"No," he shot back. "If I could have been helped, Raphaella would have done so."

"That bitch was excommunicated from her own Order," Sybelle snickered. "She wields no powers save those of the Darkworld to which she now belongs. Her puny powers might have prolonged the inevitable, McGregor, but they could not stop or reverse it." She stood up. "I can, but if you do not wish to allow me to do so, then so be it. Remain as you are for the rest of your life." She turned to go. "Which, as you know, will be a long, long life, Infidel."

He heard her shut the door behind her with more force than was necessary and knew she was furious with him. That he had not fallen into her silk-lined trap, fallen for her lies, had no doubt enraged her. She could not fool him into pleading with her to do her magic to save him. He was beyond help and he knew it.

Lying there, in his world of darkness and inescapable loneliness, he tried to find a way that he might end his own life, but could think of none. He could not twist from the bed for the paralyses had spread up to his chest and it was all he could do just to move his hands. Slitting his throat or wrists, plunging a dagger into his heart was out of the question. And besides which, where could he lay hands on a weapon of his own that would accomplish such a feat? His dagger and sword were no doubt still at Abbadon and no other blades could sever his life from this world.

For a fleeting moment, he thought of trying to swallow his tongue, but he doubted that would work.

Occultus Noire had no doubt foreseen such a calamity long ago, because of his bouts of Labyrinthian Fever, or malaria as the Outer Kingdom physician had named it, and taken precautions of just that occurring to cause his untimely demise.

He saw no way to end his life and the torment into which he had been plunged. That realization hurt him even more than the helplessness which had claimed him.

"Let her help you," his inner voice whispered to him with treasonous baiting. "Perhaps she Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 176

can."

"No!" he spat, plucking weakly at the covers he had at one time been able to crush in his fist. The weakness was spreading.

"What have you to lose, McGregor?" that insidious traitor cooed to him.

"She is playing with me!" he said allowed. "Taunting me to hurt me more!"

"But what if she isn't?" came the sigh.

Conar felt the tears beginning again.

What if she wasn't?

Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 177

Nicholas grabbed a handful of the monk's robe in his fists and lifted the smaller man up so they were eye to eye. "I won't ask you again, you weasely little runt!" Nick bellowed into the man's serene face. "Either tell me if my kinsman is here or I swear by the Virgin, I'll rip you apart!"

The monk smiled sadly. "I can not tell you what you wish to know."

"You're not getting anywhere with him, Nicky," Nate sighed. "Just put him down."

With a snarl of irritation, Nick let go of the monk and then shoved the hapless man away from him. "I will find my brother. Do you hear me you poggy cleric?"

"They heard you all the way to Basaraba," Sajin quipped. He stepped around Nate and laid a gentle hand on the monk's thin shoulder. "We just want to know if the Prince is here. Can you not ease his brothers' minds? They have traveled a long way to see him and I know he'd want to be told they are here."

"Our Abbot was most explicit in his instructions, Your Grace," the monk said. "Even if the Outlander is within our walls, we could not tell you."

Nicholas roared and shoved past the monk, tossing aside the two wide-eyed novices who tried to bar his entrance into the monastery as though they weighed no more than mere babes in arms.

"Here we go again," Nate groaned. This was the third of five holy places his bull of a brother had invaded in the last week. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a sack of gold coins.

"Here, Brother Achmed. Let me pay for the damage he's going to do."

The monk shook his head. "He will not do damage to a house of the Prophetess." He closed his hand around Nate's. "Keep your money, Sir."

After an hour's search brought nothing with it but more fury, Nick pushed his way from the monastery and stomped heavily to his mount. "He ain’t there," was all he said as he grabbed a handful of his steed's mane and pulled himself into the saddle.

"Are you sure?" Sajin asked, eying the monk who was gazing back at them with a peacefulness that was almost unnerving.

"There ain’t a nook or cranny in the place I didn't search, nomad. If Conar was there, he'd have heard me calling for him and come out."

Asher exchanged a quick look with Azalon. Both men doubted that assumption, but if it made Nicholas happy, they'd agree to it.

"The Peace of Our Lady ride with you," the monk called out as the riders turned their horses from the monastery gate. He shook his head sadly and went back into the walled world of his life.

The man they sought must be someone important, indeed, to cause such a fuss.

"Now where?"

"There's a monastery in the mountains near Helix," Sajin answered Nick's furious inquiry.

"Not far from my sister's keep. But there's one between here and there at Thesaur. I suppose that should be our next stop."

Nick snorted and spurred his mount, leaning over the saddle as the beast broke into a run.

He slapped the ends of his reins against the stallion's rump and rider and mount moved far out ahead of the others.

"What will he do if he can't find Conar?" Sajin asked Nate.

Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 178

Nate shrugged. "Take the bloody country apart with his bare hands." He chuckled. "That's the McGregor way, isn't it?"

"Has something happened?" she asked, sitting up and reaching for the robe across the foot of her bed. "Is he worse?"

"He asked me to have you come to him, Your Grace," Chaim said. "He has not slept any at all this night and I fear he can no longer move even his fingers."

Fear shot through Sybelle but she hid it well. If she could have gone to the Wealdzone soon after his paralysis began, she could have been assured of a speedy recovery. Now, it might take days to accomplish what could have been done in a few hours time. Flinging the robe over her shoulders, she thrust her arms into the sleeves and hurried from the room. Her bare feet slapped urgently against the cold stone floor as she outdistanced Chaim.

Conar heard her come into the chamber and tensed. He had been preparing himself all night for this and still was not sure he was doing the right thing. If she had only been taunting him with her ability to help, if such a thing was part and parcel of her artillery to torment him, he wasn't so sure he could withstand the assault. His ego had suffered greatly and now his manhood was also at stake. He hated to ask a woman for help of any kind. It was not a manly thing to do.