PRINCE OF THE WIND (14 page)

"Oh, didn’t I tell you, Milord?" she asked, one brow cocked in challenge. "My name is Rhiannon Chastayne—the Windweaver!"

Riain Cree’s face was set and hard as he left the woodcutter’s hut. A muscle bunched in his cheek as he clenched his teeth with suppressed rage. With shoulders hunched against the freshening wind coming in from the Sea of Chrystallus, fists shoved into the pockets of his cords, dark locks tumbled about his face, he felt barely restrained violence.

The cawing of a raven brought him to an immediate halt. He threw back his head, watching the flight of the black raptor, stitching across the heavens. Narrowing his eyes until the bird was out of sight, Riain cursed, then lowered his head.

"Ill-begotten witch!" he named the bird, and winced as the bird cawed raucously.

Riain shivered as the wind buffeted him. He turned up the collar of his shirt. Still damp from the rain, his clothing stuck to his flesh and made him distinctly uncomfortable. He shifted his wide shoulders against the clammy fabric and cursed again.

A bolt of lightning stair-stepped across the firmament; thunder shook the ground. The wind howled in protest and grew fiercer in its intensity and chill.

"Damn," he muttered as wind slammed into his back. He swept his attention to the sky and froze, his eyes widening.

The entire vista to the South was as black as tar, with brilliant fingers of fire scratching aside the boiling clouds. The blasting wind was thick with the noxious scent of sulfur, and occasionally along the wide dunes, spirals of sand skittered toward him like out of control dervishes.

Riain tore his eyes from the approaching storm and ran toward the palace. The wind rose another level or two and pushed him, impeding his progress. He felt as though he ran in molasses, every step an effort. With arms pumping and legs feeling as though weights were attached to his ankles, he stumbled forward, casting furtive glances behind him to keep an eye on the encroachment of the lowering sky. His shirt pulled free of his cords and flapped wildly. The constriction of the damp fabric seemed to be drawing him backward, so he ripped the shirt from him, allowing the wind to catch the garment. He turned to see the shirt being sucked into the swirling vortex of the cloud headed toward him.

"Sweet Merciful Alel!" he shouted as twin pulses of red fire appeared in the depths of the tornado. He knew this was no normal storm but one hell-spawned.

The palace was more than a hundred yards away. Riain doubted he would make the safety of its doors before the storm overtook him. Struggling, he leaned into the wind, throwing one arm over his face to shield his eyes from the stinging prickle of sand.

"Riain Cree!"

The hiss of his name made him look around. What he saw looming out of the sky brought a groan of terror from his throat.

"Raphian!"

A brutal slash of a mouth opened wide over picket-fence-like rows of sharp fangs. The demon grinned. The eel-like neck undulated as it swept toward Riain. Only a dozen yards away, the ground hissed and bubbled as spittle dripped from the creature’s maw and hit the earth. Scarlet orbs pulsed a sickening light, making the trees appear on fire. The stench of the demon’s breath made Riain gagged.

"Riain!" Raphian crowed. Its voice was like the buzzing of a multitude of angered bees.

More afraid than he had ever been, Riain turned from the hideous sight careening toward him and put more strength into his effort to escape. He was closer to the palace doors but knew he would never make the sanctuary before Raphian plucked him from the ground and swallowed him.

"Milord!"

Riain stumbled and fell, going heavily to his right knee. The pain of the made him cry out and he struggled to get up, to get away from the impending threat.

It was as though a restraining hand had been laid on his shoulder, jerking him around as he gained his feet. Riain twisted, coming face-to-face with a beautiful woman only a few yards away.

"The Temple, Milord!" she yelled, pointing to his right. "Make for the Temple!"

Riain swung his gaze and saw the bronze doors of the Temple of the Lotus.

"Run, Riain! Run!"

Riain sprinted toward the gleaming doors. The wind shoved against him, trying to impede his progress, but he dug his feet into the sand, using the last of his strength to gain the courtyard.

"No!" the demon roared.

Riain felt like his eardrums would burst. He slapped his hands over his ears; tears gathered in his eyes from the pain.

"Hurry, my love!" the mysterious woman prodded. Though Riain could not hear the words, he felt them in his mind.

A steep incline led to the temple doors, a full dozen stone steps. Riain took the steps two at a time, pushing his body as hard as he could. Just as he gained the last step, the wind blasted him with such force, he fell sideways, heavily to the stone risers. He yelped as he felt his collarbone break and began rolling down the steps.

"Mine!" Raphian’s voice boomed from the ebon sky.

"Never!"

Dazed by his fall, in agony, Riain felt himself being lifted from the cold steps. Though he raised his head, he could see nothing holding him. He was levitating a good three feet off the steps and being drawn upward into the spiraling clouds.

"Break free, Milord!" the unknown woman commanded.

"How?" Riain shouted, his terror so great he felt on the verge of unmanning himself.

"Woman, be silent!" Raphian thundered. The stench of brimstone flooded the air.

"Ask!" was the woman’s reply.

"Silence!" the demon shrieked.

Riain felt his body rising higher. He turned his head and was sickened by how far off the ground he was. The maw of the demon with its glistening fangs loomed directly overhead.

"Will you give up your mortal soul for lack of a few humbling words?" the woman screamed. "Ask, Cree. Ask!"

Only a few feet away from the demon’s grinding mouth, Riain gave in, his instincts taking over. "Help me," he begged. "Help me!"

One moment the creature’s fang grazed his hip, the next Riain was sucked back to earth, hurtling toward the temple’s closed doors. He widened his eyes, anticipating a painful, death-dealing impact with the heavy bronze portals. But just before he crashed, the doors opened, slamming back against the lentils. Riain’s body shot into the temple’s dimly lit interior and halted, floating just above the white marble floor.

"NO!" Raphian screeched.

The violence of the storm broke over the temple, shaking the building on its foundation. Rain lashed against the windows, slammed onto the tile roof, and sought with clawing fingers to gain entrance.

Gently, Riain floated to the marble tiles. He felt only a moment’s discomfort as his broken collarbone rested against the floor.

The rustle of robes reached his ears. Monks circled him, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and awe.

"Prince of the Wind," one whispered.

Each man dropped to their knees beside Riain.

"Where is she?" Riain asked, feeling the edges of his consciousness curling toward him like the blackened perimeters of a burning page.

"Who, Milord?" they asked in unison.

"The woman who saved me."

The monks looked at one another, then turned their confused stares to him.

"There is no woman here, Milord," a monk who appeared to be the oldest told him. "No women are allowed in the temple."

"She was outside," Riain said, his voice weak as his world began to darken. "She bid me ask for her help."

"Ah," the monks said in unison.

"A daughter," the oldest suggested.

"A daughter," the monks intoned, nodding.

The storm beyond the doors raged as Riain began slipping into a deep, healing sleep. As he drifted into the Realm of Morphia, he caught just a glimpse of his savioress’ face.

"Who are you?" he asked before a final sigh took him beyond.

When he received an answer, he smiled.

* * *

He was sitting on a hill overlooking a small village. Around him were so many shades of green, he lost track at forty and gave up counting. Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue and the scent of heather tickled his nose. The sound of waves crashing against the sleek limestone cliffs was soothing, and he lay back, bracing himself on his elbows as he watched a lone gull sailing across the heavens.

He was content as he had not been for some time. The sun beat gently on his body, warming him, and the soft breeze ruffled his hair, like the tender fingers of a beautiful woman smoothing the curls from his forehead. He closed his eyes and gave in to the pleasant sensation.

"You are a man given to enjoying sensations, aren’t you, Milord?"

Before he opened his eyes, he knew whom he would find sitting beside him. Though he had not heard her arrival, he had sensed it on the errant wisp of the breeze.

"What took you so long, Maeve?" he asked, opening an eye to gaze at her.

Her reddish gold hair was like a halo around her beautiful face. The sun was behind her head, and the effect was one that made her body seem to shimmer. Her pale green gown was still one more shade he could add to his previous count.

"You look pleased with yourself, Milord."

He did not answer, but lifted his arms to her.

She came to him like a gentle blessing and stretched out beside him, her head on his wounded shoulder, but he felt no pain. She put her small hand on his chest. He lifted her palm to his lips and placed a kiss there.

"He would have taken your soul, my love."

Riain could not suppress a shudder. "I am grateful for your aid, Lady."

"You shall always have my support, Milord."

A stab of fear went through his heart. "She’ll not give up, will she?"

Maeve shook her head. "She has cursed you for all time. Now, she has enlisted Raphian’s help. The stakes are higher still."

Riain understood the way of it. He stared up into the endless depths of the sky. "Is there nothing I can do?"

"They are struggling with that issue, Milord, but as of yet, have found no answer."

Riain’s brows arched together. "They?"

"The Daughters of the Multitude. Your dear mother is one."

"That she is. Are you?"

"No, though the monks thought I must be."

His frown deepened. "Then what are you?"

"I am Morrigan. And this place is my home."

"It is a lot like Chale."

She smiled and drew her hand from under his so she could touch his face. "It is the Chale of your future, Milord. In another time and place. When the lands have shifted apart and have been cast far and wide from their original positions."

"You are from my future?"

"I am."

"And that is where I am now?"

"You are." She plucked a shamrock from the ground and twirled it under her nose. "In a place now known as Ireland."

He knew the answer before he asked, but a thousand warriors could not have stopped him. "Can I stay with you here?"

"In time we will be together," she said in a sad, weary voice. "But it will not be for a long while, and it will not be here."

"In the meantime?" he asked, fearful of her response.

"You
know
the answer to that, Milord."

"Suzanna." The word was like a stone dropping into the ocean.

"Do not be afraid to ask for help. What little can be offered, take advantage of it."

"How can…?"

She cover his lips with her fingers. "Shush now and rest. Let your body heal."

He would have asked more questions, for his soul was burning with the need, but gathering mists were already crawling tenderly over his consciousness and bidding him sleep.

"Don’t leave me!" he gasped, feeling Maeve slipping away.

"Never," was the faraway reply. "Never."

"Maeve!" He reached for her, his body cold without her comforting heat.

"Rest," was the whispered command. "One day I will come for you and we will be together forever."

And he slipped softly once more into the Realm of Morphia.

* * *

"He rests easily, Your Grace," the Healer informed the Chalean Queen. "The bone should knit nicely."

"Why does he not wake?" Aidan Cree demanded.

"The gods and Their ladies do not allow it," Christine admonished.

The Healer looked with respect at the Queen and graciously inclined his head. "I wish we could allow you to see your son, but it is against Temple law."

Though Christine did not agree with the antiquated stricture, she would not dishonor her hosts by demanding entry to the Temple of the Lotus.

"As soon as he wakes, we will move him to the infirmary," the Healer explained.

"Will he be safe there?" Mariah Shimota inquired. She turned to look out the windows where the violent storm had not lessened in the three days since Riain had been unconscious.

"No, he will not," Christine replied with a hard purse of her lips. "He must stay in the Temple among the holy ones until Raphian ceases His assault."

"As you wish," the Healer agreed. "It will be so."

"You may go, Nyguen," the Emperor said.

Nyguen Skiku bowed politely, then walked backward, bent at the waist until he was a respectful distance from the Empress and Queen. When he straightened, he turned and disappeared around the corner.

"He is a fine Healer," Mariah informed her friend.

"I have no complaints."

Mariah put a comforting hand on Christine’s shoulder. "Do not blame yourself for this, Christy."

"Stupid cow that I am, I brought this latest evil down on my son’s head. Had I not gone to the Windweaver—"

"I will not say I warned you against such folly," Mariah stated.

"You need not do so."

"You know what she must have done."

"I know well what the bitch did! And I made it possible for her to do it!"

"There have been others before now and will be others after this, Christy. I doubt any of us could have prevented this perfidy. Others before us could not and others after us will have no less luck in keeping the Windweavers from stealing children from our sons."

"Wizards," Christine hissed. "Not children, but wizards are what they steal!"