WindSeeker (18 page)

Sentian."

"He’s a part of this, Conar," Legion warned. "Don’t show him any leniency just because he’s blood of

your blood. Papa won’t."

"He is blood of your blood, as well, A’Lex."

"I don’t claim the prick."

Sentian had wasted no time in doing his Overlord’s bidding. He hurried back with his quarry, shoving the

man so hard, Jah-Ma-El collapsed into a heap at Conar’s feet.

Jah-Ma-El cowered, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin chest, his head bowed. He knew he was

going to die. He knew there was nothing Conar could do to save him even if the prince wanted to. He

was ashamed that he could not stop from trembling. His body was shaking like a feather in a stiff breeze.

He could feel the hostile eyes of the men gathered around, but most of all, he could feel Conar’s intent

gaze.

"I am sorry," the slender man managed to say. "I am sorry, Your Grace."

For a long time, Conar didn’t speak. His attention was glued to the top of Jah-Ma-El’s oily hair where

the thin, lank strands were alive with lice. He could smell the rancid odor of Jah-Ma-El’s unwashed

body, the fetid stench of his clothing. He glanced over the gray-tinted expanse of seldom-washed flesh

and shook his head in pity.

"By the gods, but the bastard fairly reeks!" Grice remarked, covering his nose.

Conar glanced at his brother-in-law, and then turned his attention back to Jah-Ma-El. Finally, he

hunkered beside the man who had yet to look at him. Jah-Ma-El flinched.

"Let me question him," Legion said. "I’ll get the truth out of his worthless hide."

Conar shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was like the soft caress of a lover. "Look at me,

Jah-Ma-El."

The man flinched again as though he had been kicked. He slowly shook his head from side to side. "I

can’t, Your Grace."

"Look at your prince, you sorry bastard, or I’ll have the hide stripped from your—" Legion stopped as

Conar held up his hand in warning.

"Look at me, Jah-Ma-El," Conar repeated.

"I am too ashamed, Highness," Jah-Ma-El whimpered.

A long moment passed, then Conar cupped Jah-Ma-El’s greasy chin, lifting the man’s face upward. He

anchored the slender man’s face and asked softly, "Where is she, Jah-Ma-El?"

The prostrate man gave a long, low groan.

"Where is my lady, Jah-Ma-El?"

Jah-Ma-El flung himself face down on the ground, his lips going to Conar’s dusty boot. "I am sorry,

Highness. Forgive me. Please forgive me."

With infinite patience, with the softest of voices, Conar posed his question as gently as he knew how.

"What are you sorry for, Jah-Ma-El?"

The warlock didn’t want to look up at his Overlord. He didn’t want to see the blazing anger he could

hear beneath the soft words. He didn’t want to see the disappointment, the knowledge of having been

betrayed stamped on Conar’s face.

"Please, Highness. Kill me. I don’t deserve to live." He kissed the cuff of Conar’s cords. "I am unworthy

to even be near you."

Willing himself to a charity he did not feel, Conar laid a hand on Jah-Ma-El’s shoulder and caressed the

filthy garment. "I am not angry at you. Just tell me where my lady is. That is all I ask."

"Gone," Jah-Ma-El whispered, turning his head so his cheek rubbed against Conar’s fingers.

Conar’s jaw clenched, the muscles working. "Gone where, Jah-Ma-El?"

Slowly, Jah-Ma-El raised his head and wanted to cry. The pain in his brother’s eyes was horrible. It was

there for everyone to see. To know that he had, in part, caused Conar’s agony, hurt Jah-Ma-El more

than anything ever would again. "I tried to stop Them, Highness," he whimpered. "Truly, I did. But They

were too powerful. They took her and Galen, both." He brought up his hands, palms outstretched to

Conar. "I would have given my life for her. See? I tried to stop Them."

Conar glanced at his brother’s palms with unconcern. The flesh was badly burned, oozing, and

criss-crossed with wavering lines that had been branded into his palms. The skin was split, red and

swollen, raw-looking and, without doubt, painful. Particles of sand were caked in the indention. He

shook his head to rid himself of any compassion.

"Where did he take her, Jah-Ma-El?" the young prince queried.

Jah-Ma-El shook his head. "You can’t go after her. You know you can’t."

Conar’s voice went cold as ice. "I asked you…where?"

Unmindful of his precarious position, Jah-Ma-El grabbed Conar’s hand, bringing it to his dirty cheek.

"You can’t go after him! They’ll capture you! It’s what Tohre wants you to do. You can’t walk into his

trap!"

"What the hell’s he babbling about?" Legion demanded. "What’s Tohre got to do with this?" He

snatched Jah-Ma-El’s clothing, ripping them, but Conar viciously knocked away his hand.

"Leave him the hell alone!" Conar snarled. He stood and threw back his head. For a long moment, he

ignored the questions flitting about. His jaw was working with an inner attempt to bring his fury under

tight control. Finally, he spoke in a voice as hard as steel.

"Set a charge inside that gods-be-damned keep, A’Lex. I don’t want one single stone left standing when

you are through. Make sure every surviving defender is sent back to Boreas to stand trial for treason.

Every man but Belvoir. Turn his ass over to Hern. He’ll know what to do."

"He’s my mother’s man, Conar," Grice said softly.

"Then turn him over to Wynth. As for women, see them to the nunnery at Galrath."

Chase’s mouth dropped open. Galrath Convent had the worst reputation among all the nunneries of the

Seven Kingdoms.

"What about the wounded?" Tyne asked.

"If you don’t think they’ll live long enough to make the trip, kill them and be done with it."

Legion looked away from the death he saw on his brother’s face. "If Liza isn’t here—"

"She isn’t!" came Conar’s snarl of rage. "Thom, have Seayearner saddled. Now!"

"Conar! No!" Jah-Ma-El pleaded. "You can’t go there!" He reached for the prince.

Conar glanced at the man who had crept forward on hands and knees, who clutched his leg with fevered

restraint. "I have no choice, Jah-Ma-El. You helped see to that."

Jah-Ma-El jerked. He let go of Conar’s leg and buried his face in his hands as he began to rock on his

knees. "Don’t go," he cried, over and over again. "Please, don’t go. I beg you!"

"What do you want done with him," Legion asked, kicking Jah-Ma-El’s bare foot.

Jah-Ma-El lifted his head. He had no right to ask anything of this man, but his cowardly soul had no

choice. "Highness?"

"I can’t help you, Jah-Ma-El," Conar said without emotion. His blue eyes glazed. "I can’t even help

myself."

"Then he’s to be tried for treason?" Legion said to clarify the order. "Hung?"

Conar adamantly shook his head. "No! Papa will have him sent to the Labyrinth. Whether he has ever

claimed Jah-Ma-El or not doesn’t matter. He is still kin. But I will not see him hanged for his part in this. I

will speak on your behalf to the Tribunal."

Jah-Ma-El had no illusions about what would happen to him. Conar would never be able to stop the

Tribunal from hanging him if that was what they chose. "I can ask nothing, Highness."

"You haven’t." Conar looked at Sentian. "On your honor as an Elite and as my friend, Heil, see that my

brother reaches Boreas unharmed." His face softened. "He is dear to me."

Jah-Ma-El heard the words and began to sob brokenly, his keening causing the hair to stand up on the

men’s necks.

"Aye, Milord," Sentian vowed and helped the quivering man to his feet.

Conar turned away, yelling for Thom to hurry with his horse.

"Just where the hell is it you think
you’re
going?" Legion snapped, grabbing Conar’s arm.

Conar snatched his arm out of Legion’s grasp. "Where you can not go."

"If you have some idea where they, whoever
they
are, have taken Liza, then…" Grice began, but Conar

shook his head, stopping him.

"I have no idea where she is, Wynth, but I do know how to go about getting her back." He began to

walk away, Grice, Legion, and Chase close on his heels.

"Let me go with you, Conar," Chase asked.

"I go alone, Montyne."

"I can be of some help." The Ionarian stopped as Conar faced him.

"I don’t need to worry about you, too, Chase. Where I go, I go alone; what I must do, must be done

alone."

"But Conar, you know—" Chase started, but Conar’s exasperated snort cut him off.

"Leave, Montyne! This isn’t your fight." He stomped off.

"I can’t let you go anywhere alone," Legion snapped, matching his brother’s stride. He wasn’t prepared

for the anger that greeted his words. He found himself pulled up by his shirtfront and brought nose to

nose with Conar.

"
You
can’t let
me
go? Who the hell do you think you are? I give the orders. Not you! I do as I please,

and it’s high time you realized that!" Conar let go of the man’s shirt and shoved him away, turning his

back on Legion’s surprised look. He could feel the surprise turn to anger as he stalked away and he

heard Legion ordering Thom, Storm, and Marsh to follow him.

Conar spun on his heels and pointed a finger at Thom. "Stayhere! That’s an order!" he shouted at the

top of his lungs. His furious eyes scanned Marsh Edan and Storm Jale. "All of you stay here! I need no

bodyguards. Where I ride, I ride alone! Do I make myself clear, A’Lex?"

"Perfectly clear, Highness!" Legion snarled as he watched Conar swing onto Seayearner.

Grice shook his head at Legion. "Are you going to just let him ride off?"

Legion spat hard, his mouth set in an unforgiving line. "What choice do I have? My prince has spoken!"

Wynth snorted. "He might be able to command you, but I bear just as much rank as he." He turned to

his second in command. "Have four guards follow Prince Conar at a safe distance."

"Tell my man, Sean, to pick three of our men to go along, as well," Tyne Brell added.

"I’ll send six of mine," Rylan Hesar said with heat.

Conar McGregor’s big, black stallion easily outdistanced the fastest of the men set on his trail,

lengthening his mighty stride until only a thin cloud of dust rose over the dunes to mark his passing. When

the men following him rode over the same dune, Prince Conar McGregor was no longer in sight.

He debated long and hard over what he was about to do and didn’t give himself time to consider the

certain outcome. He rode hard to reach the Temple at Corinth, catching sight of the high fieldstone

barrier wall encircling it just as the sun rose in the east. It was a lengthy, hard and tiring ride up the

switchback trail that wound into the lowest portion of foothills of Mount Serenia.

Bordered thickly on both sides of the serpentine road, the pathway leading up to the massive wrought

iron gates protecting the Temple of the Winds was wide enough for only one horse and rider. Closed in,

secluded, the Temple was hidden in the untamed forest beyond Corinth, the Western Zone capital,

hidden from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the uninitiated.

As he skirted the tall monoliths to either side of the terminus of the roadway and caught sight of the two

Temple Guards flanking the gates, Conar knew a moment’s sheer dread. His mouth went dry, his palms

flooded with sweat, and his heart began to pound furiously in his constricting torso. He watched the

guards come to attention, their pikes not barring his way, but held upright, at arms’ length from their

muscular chests.

"You are expected, Highness," one of the guards told him, the tall gates swinging open on well-oiled

hinges.

Sitting well back from the roadway, the Temple of the Winds was a squat structure, earth-bermed on all

but the eastern side. The roof was domed with solid gold plating and shone brightly in the glaring light of

the morning sun. There were no windows, no break in the dark fieldstone surface, except for the

twelve-foot-wide double doors made of gold over eight-inch-thick steel plating. Two tall, conical-shaped

turrets rose to either side of the building; a crenelated watchtower loomed from the rear of the structure.

A single guard watched as Conar walked his steed to the front steps.

He dismounted, tossing his reins to a waiting guard, and took the steps into the Temple two at a time. He

barely glanced at the guards who opened the wide portals. His heart triphammered in his ribcage and his

mouth was no longer dry. It flooded with a bitter, nauseating film.

A young acolyte, clothed in the saffron robe of the higher order of pre-initiates, sank gracefully to the

floor as Conar entered the reception area. He stretched out his arms and lowered his head in obeisance

to the gold-flecked marble floor.

"It is a pleasure to serve you, Highness," he said. He raised himself to kneel at Conar’s feet, his young

eyes old beyond his years as he gazed into Conar’s set face. "How may I please you?"

Conar’s lip curled upward in scorn. It wouldn’t take this boy long to lose his reverence of the royal

family. The priesthood discouraged it. No doubt the golden-haired teenager would be punished for this

show of respect. He knew this boy—Robbie MacCorkingdale, Sadie’s grandson.

"Where is Tohre?" Conar asked.

Pale blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "I do not know, Highness. Was he expecting you?" The boy’s

cherubic face, with its rosy cheekbones and fresh, clear complexion, became mottled with

embarrassment. "He isn’t here, Highness."