WindDeceiver (34 page)

“That’s gotta hurt,” Conar mumbled.

“I ain’t enjoying the position I find myself in,” Tyne acknowledged. He turned his head from Conar and looked up at the ceiling. “Not at all.”

Conar craned his head back, following Tyne’s look and drew in a quick, shocked gasp.

Above Brell’s helpless body, Tyne’s own sword dangled by a thin rope tied around the hilt. The sharp, lethal point was aimed directly at Brell’s heart.

“May I direct your attention to your immediate left along the ceiling, old friend,” Tyne suggested. He swung his head toward Conar. “You’ll see why I’m not all that overjoyed to find myself lying here.”

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Slowly, Conar turned his head to find the end of the rope which held Tyne’s sword suspended above him running atop one of the flaming torches set at the top of the walls. The fire was only a few inches below the hemp and already the rope was smoldering, tiny wisps of white vapor wafting up among the crossbeams which supported the floor above.

“I’ve been lying here,” Tyne said in a dry voice, “trying to remember the calculations Hern taught me. By my reckoning, I’ve got about ten more minutes before I’m ventilated.” He snorted.

“Maybe even less time than that.”

It all came crashing back to him with the realization that Tyne was in deep trouble. The memory of Rylan’s death, of how his friend had died, shook Conar to the very core of his being and he threw back his head and howled with rage.

Tyne flinched, the sound of Conar’s war cry making his heart leap in his chest. “For Alel’s sake, McGregor! Don’t do that!”

“Alel’s sake!” Conar spat, lowering his head and glowering at Tyne. “Don’t speak to me of that bastard, Brell!” He twisted violently in the chair, straining against the restraints.

Brell’s black eyes widened with shock. “Don’t be talking of Him like that, Conar! We’re in enough trouble as it is!”

“And He won’t be freeing us of it, either!” came the bitter reply.

Tyne wondered briefly what they’d done to Conar to make the man lose his faith in his god.

There was a look on McGregor’s face that said he no longer put any trust in the Higher Powers that governed them all. There was also something terrible in that stony stare that said Conar was on the verge of having a breakdown.

“Don’t struggle like that, Conar,” Tyne said in a calm voice. “It’s not helping me.”

“If I don’t get lose, Brell,” Conar shouted at him, “that Widowmaker of yours is going to pierce you. Is that what you want?”

Tyne tried to put as much rationality in his voice as possible. “Conar,” he said, “every time you pull against those ropes, my friend, it pulls the rope holding my sword higher toward the flame.”

Conar stilled, jerking his gaze up toward the ceiling. How, he wondered, with a sinking heart, had he not seen the direction that rope took after it passed atop the flames. Traveling down the length of the hemp, he could only twist his head back just so far, but it was enough for him to realize that the end of the rope that held Tyne’s sword was tied to his own wrists.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Tyne quipped, “I’d rather you didn’t drag on that rope no more.”

Those sapphire blue eyes slowly closed, squeezing tight. A heavy exhalation of breath: defeated and terribly, terribly desperate, pushed from Conar McGregor’s nostrils.

“I think,” Tyne said, “they mean for you to get free in time to stop the sword from falling as the flames bite through it, but in order to do so, you’ve got to move your wrists to untie them. Of course, every time you do, it tightens the tension on the rope and pulls it closer to the flame.”

The Serenian warrior opened his eyes to see Brell grinning at him.

“Either way,” Tyne chuckled, “I lose.”

“Don’t joke about it, Tyne!” Conar pleaded, understanding the cruelty of the game Jaborn had devised.

“Would you rather I laid here and bemoaned my fate, old friend?” Tyne asked. “I’m afraid that’s not in my nature.”

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Conar cast his gaze up to the rope and tried to twist the bonds which held his wrists crossed behind him. He saw the rope overhead bob upward and stopped, drawing in his breath as one strand of the hemp snapped.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Tyne said, drawing Conar’s attention to him. “That little lady you sent to give us your apology?”

He jerked his gaze from Tyne back up to the rope and held his breath, trying to ease his right wrist out from under the constriction of the hemp.

“Conar!” Tyne demanded, bringing McGregor’s eyes back to him. When Brell saw he had his friend’s regard, he grinned. “She’s a fair one, ain’t she?”

“Aye,” Conar said, once more looking up to the rope. He rocked his right wrist back and forth over the hemp, gritting his teeth to the pain that motion caused, but relieved to know the movement didn’t increase the tension.

“Celene was her name if I’m remembering it rightly,” Tyne remarked. “That’s a good Chalean name.”

Conar glanced over at his friend, then returned his full attention to the ceiling. He could feel the blood he had drawn from his wrists while rubbing them against the hemp making the rope slick.

“Did she tell you what I told her?”

Conar’s breath was coming in quick, fearful snatches and he shook his head slightly, giving Brell his answer and causing the horrible pain in his right temple to flare.

“I told her to tell you we were grown men quite capable of getting our own asses into mischief.” Tyne clucked his tongue. “Looks like we did a bang up job of it, huh?”

“You’re here because of me,” Conar ground out, striving to ease his blood-slick hand out from under one loop of the rope binding it. Overhead, the rope bobbed upward and another strand snapped. He stopped instantly.

“You know, Conar,” Tyne said with a droll sigh, “despite what you think, the world don’t revolve around you, son.”

“You wouldn’t be where you are if it hadn’t been for me,” Conar spat.

Tyne clenched his jaws together as he heard the pop of another hemp strand overhead. He glanced up and saw the rope entirely too close to the flame for his liking.

“Rylan’s gone, ain’t he?” Tyne asked, his gaze steady on the smoke rising up from the hemp.

Conar didn’t answer. He didn’t want Tyne to know. Unless he could get his wrist free, Tyne would be finding that out for himself soon enough. He pulled gently against the restraint and felt his right wrist slide out further from beneath the rope. The movement did not seem to have caused any reaction in the tension.

“He loved you, Conar,” Tyne said, understanding his friend’s silence to be an acknowledgment of Hesar’s death. Somehow he knew Conar had tried to save Rylan, as he was trying to save him, and that effort, like this one, had been futile. He turned his gaze to Conar’s intent face as the Serenian stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling. “We all love you, my friend.”

“I know,” Conar bit out, the truth of that statement cutting through him like a hot knife.

Another strand popped and the sword dangling above Tyne dropped down an inch.

“And we don’t blame you,” Tyne was quick to say, alternately his gaze from Conar’s profusely sweating face to the gently spinning sword hovering above him. “We’ve never blamed you for anything and we never will.”

“Hush, Tyne,” Conar ordered. He could feel his wrist coming free.

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“You take too damned much responsibility for things out of your control, Conar,” Tyne charged. He went perfectly still as the sword dropped another inch or two.

“I’m almost free, Brell,” Conar told him as he carefully slipped his right wrist from under the rope. Flexing his hand, sticky with his own blood, he gently slipped his right index finger under the rope binding his left wrist and lifted it.

The rope overhead went no closer to the flame.

“The thing is, Conar,” Tyne said, “caa-caa happens.”

Conar slowly turned his head and looked at Brell. “Caa-caa?”

“Shit,” Tyne clarified. “Shit happens.” He tore his gaze from the sword, locking it on Conar’s face. “Ain’t no one to blame for it when it does. In Chale, we call it Murph’s Law: whatever can go wrong, will.”

Conar looked back up at the ceiling. Very gently, he began to wriggle his left wrist out from beneath the hemp.

“Still,” Tyne went on, “it ain’t nobody’s fault when it does.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Conar said, feeling his left wrist coming free, “you talk too much, Brell.”

“The curse of all Chaleans,” Tyne sighed. Another strand popped, drawing Tyne’s immediate notice, and he groaned with alarm as the sword began to slowly twirl above him. He caught in his breath and it was at that moment he noticed something that had, until then, entirely escaped his attention. Allowing his gaze to move along the rope, he nearly cursed out loud as he realized the rope which was attached to the sword was running through a small hole in the stone wall while another rope, lying parallel to it, and almost unseen in the shadows at the ceiling, ran down to the floor and to Conar’s chair. Beginning to realize it wasn’t Conar’s bonds that were controlling the tension on the rope, but unseen hands that were tugging it upward, Tyne knew a fury unlike anything he had ever known. He glanced at Conar, wondering if he knew that, but he could see his friend very slowly, very carefully getting up out of the chair in which he’d been tied.

“Conar--“ Tyne began.

“Hush, Tyne!” Conar ordered, coming to his feet slowly. He took one step forward.

The rope tied to Tyne’s sword made a hissing sound and both men jerked their heads up, staring in horror as the last of the strands popped and let go.

“No!” Conar shouted. He made a lunge for Tyne, intent on throwing himself over his friend’s body, hoping the sword point would go no further than his own thundering heart.

Brell’s eyes went wide as he stared up at the sword beginning to fall toward him. He snapped his lids shut, unwilling to see the blade plummet into his chest. He heard Conar’s yelp of pain, then felt a pain of his own, so intense and so overwhelming, he knew he would not survive it.

Opening his eyes, he looked up into the stricken stare of Conar McGregor.

“Tyne,” he heard Conar whisper on a catch of breath.

Tyne forced his gaze from Conar and could see the hilt of his sword. Craning his head up, he saw the blood first, Conar’s blood, dripping down the blade and onto his chest. Lifting his head up further, he could see the blade centered squarely in his own chest. Beneath him, he could feel the pooling of his blood seeping under his cotton shirt. Slowly lowering his head, he tore his gaze from the hands which were wrapped around the blade of his sword, just under the blade guard.

“Now, that has to hurt,” Tyne whispered as he laid his head down on the floor.

Conar didn’t feel the deep cuts in his palms. He had tried to protect Tyne’s body with his own but he hadn’t been quick enough. All he’d had time to do was try to catch the sword as it fell.

The blade had sliced through his flesh and driven its deadly point deep in Tyne’s chest.

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“I’m sorry,” Conar sobbed, gripping the sword so tightly his blood flowed freely onto Tyne, mixing with his friend’s. “I’m so sorry, Tyne.”

Tyne turned his head and his gentle black eyes found the tearful sapphire orbs that were nearly closed with guilt.

“Don’t grieve for me, Conar,” Tyne whispered. He smiled, wishing he could embrace this most trusted and loved of friends. “Please don’t grieve for me.”

Conar McGregor was trembling so violently he did not realize his shudders of agony were causing great pain to the man on the floor. The sword, buried deep in Tyne Brell, was quivering with every sob that tore through Conar, but Tyne would not tell him.

“You aren’t to blame, Conar,” Tyne said, death beginning to glaze his beautiful eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Conar repeated, his face screwed up into a mask of heart-wrenching despair.

He lowered his head, sobbing wracking his body.

“Don’t cry for me, Conar,” Tyne asked him. “Look at me.”

Conar shook his head, feeling his guilt riding him like a vicious trainer.

“I don’t have all that much time to argue with you, brat,” Tyne said, his voice quivering with the depth of his emotion.

Slowly, Conar lifted his head.

“Tell the others,” Tyne said, his voice fading to a breath of sound. “Tell them I have gone--

to make peace with--the Wind.”

Tyne Brell, the Prince of Chale, was the second to die.

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They dragged him back to his cell and left him, his hands bleeding, his heart broken. He curled up in a tight ball in one corner of the cell, hid his face in his arms and cried. He didn’t move as Celene came in with his food later that afternoon. He lay staring at the door, having taken himself to a place no one else could go.

“Milord,” Celene called to him, aware of the guards who stood just inside the cell with her.

He did not want to be taken from that place where his mind had hidden him. His dry eyes were blank, seeing something beyond where his body lay in its fetal position on the cold stone floor. He had traveled on beyond tears; had journey past his mind-numbing grief. The inevitable had come to pass and he had accepted life’s latest cruel blow as his due.

“Milord, I have your supper,” Celene said. When he did not answer her, she laid the tray down beside him and put a gentle hand on his tense shoulder. “Milord?”

“Go away,” he heard himself answer and wondered why his voice sounded so normal when the rest of him was anything but.