WindDeceiver (37 page)

As the chanting stopped, the women let go of the hands they had held. They waited for the oldest in the group, a woman named Meghan, to speak. They looked to her wizened face and held their questions out of deep reverence for Meghan’s advanced age and wisdom.

“There was a time,” Meghan said, her voice cracking and brittle, “when I could go to the Shadowlands and ask what had to be asked.”

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Around the circle, several women nodded in agreement, expressions of fond memory on their lined faces.

“But that time is long gone,” Meghan sighed and the sound was like rustling parchment in her wheezing throat. “You younger Daughters have never been allowed outside these walls to make the trek to our Oracle and until the evil in this place is laid to rest, you will not.”

“Tell us of it, Grandmother,” one of the teenage girls, bolder and braver than the rest, pleaded.

“Aye, Grandmother,” another added her plea. “Tell us of it.”

“Ah,” Meghan said, smiling a toothless pleasure. “The Shadowlands was where any Daughter could go to make entreaty to the Great Lady, although only a very few were allowed deep within the Obelisk to ask Her blessing.”

“Were you ever allowed inside the Obelisk, Grandmother?” Celene asked.

The old woman nodded. “Just once, but it was something I never forgot. It is an experience no Daughter who has undergone it will ever forget.”

“I have felt things of late, Grandmother,” one of the kitchen girls said. “Things I can not explain.”

“So have I,” another spoke up. “A strange feeling like the one I had when I saved Miriam from the scorpion that day.”

“Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night,” Celene said, “and my heart is hammering in my chest so rapidly I think it will explode.”

“What you are feeling,” the old woman answered, “is

fear, Celene.” She looked around her, her rheumy gaze lighting briefly on each of the women. “Have you all felt this strange emotion?”

Several nodded; most mumbled in agreement.

“I have told you of the Great Lady and Her Consort,” Meghan reminded them. “I have told you how one day He would come here to break down the walls of iron that keep us imprisoned inside this wicked place.”

“The Dark Overlord,” one of the teenage girls breathed. “He, to whom we owe our allegiance.”

“Aye,” Meghan chuckled. “That is the one.”

A middle-aged woman named Miriam looked up from her concentration. She turned her gaze to the old woman. “He’s here, isn’t He?” she asked. As Meghan looked over at her, the breath caught in Miriam’s throat. “He is, isn’t He, Grandmother? The Dark Overlord is here!”

“He has been for six days,” Meghan told them all.

“The Outlander,” Celene added.

“You knew?” Miriam, Celene’s mother, gasped. Celene nodded. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I ordered her not to,” Meghan answered for the young woman. “The time was not right for the Daughters to know He was here.”

“But Jaborn has been killing His friends!” Miriam protested. “Why have we not been called together to do something for Him?”

Meghan slowly shook her head. “It was not in His destiny that we interfere, Miriam. This tragedy that is enveloping Conar McGregor was preordained even before He ever drew breath.”

“Conar,” one of the teenage girls sighed, trying the sweetness of the name out on her tongue, rolling it around as though it were a piece of candy.

“Your Overlord, girl!” her mother corrected.

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“So, now that He has been made to suffer,” Miriam argued, “we will be allowed to help Him before any more of His friends are slain.”

Sadly, Meghan shook her head. “No, the time has not yet come to interfere.”

“Then, when?” Miriam demanded. “Do we wait until His heart has been broken, His mind destroyed, before we step in?”

“I dreamed last night,” Meghan said, ignoring the rude snort Miriam made, “that we were to wait another day.”

“Aye, and in another day, Jaborn may well have killed one or two more of His friends!”

Miriam barked.

“That can not be helped,” Meghan answered.

Miriam clamped her mouth shut, knowing it was useless to argue with Meghan. She glared at her daughter, making sure Celene knew she wasn’t happy.

“Soon,” Meghan promised them “Soon, we will be led to freedom. Have patience, Daughters. Nothing worth keeping has ever been easy to gain.”

“Nothing worth having has ever been easy to lose,” Celene added to the ancient proverb.

“And nothing,” the Daughters chanted, “worth accomplishing has ever been easy to do.”

Grice Wynth, the Prince of Oceania, was the third to die. His death was as unavoidable as Rylan’s or Tyne’s and just as sorrowful. As he lay in the place where his life had been taken, Conar sat beside him, cradling Grice’s head in his lap, smoothing back the thick black hair that fell in waves from Wynth’s high forehead.

“Are you with her, Griceland?” Conar asked, smiling down at his friend’s still face. “Do you see her?”

He lowered his fingers to the trickle of blood seeping from the corner of Grice’s mouth and wiped it away, blotted it on his filthy breeches. He hummed, a song from long, long ago, memory making his face soften.

“The Prince’s Lost Lady,” he told Grice. “Remember?” He lifted his head and stared across the chamber. “She loved that song so much.” A small laugh pushed out of his mouth. “Do you remember me having them play it at our Joining?” He frowned. “You weren’t there, were you?” He stroked Grice’s cool cheek. “I bet you heard about the limerick, though.”

Chase’s limerick had nearly caused him a beating, he remembered. That dirty limerick that Liza had been so embarrassed by and the King and Queen of Oceania had been shocked to hear.

“Not as shocked as my own sire was, though,” Conar admitted, threading his fingers through the thick black mane. “I thought Papa was going to flay me for sure!”

Another trickle of blood appeared at Grice’s mouth and Conar tenderly wiped it away. He drew in a long, weary breath and hugged his friend’s head closer to his chest.

Idly, he wondered why no one had come to take him away.

“Grice?” he suddenly asked, his face filling with concern. “Is there much pain where you are?”

He didn’t think there should be. Not where Griceland had gone. Not to the realm of the Wind where he knew his friend was making peace.

“There has to be a place,” he said softly, rocking Grice against him. “A place where I won’t have any pain, either.”

“It’s time to go, McGregor,” someone said.

Conar looked up. He smiled at the guard. “Already?”

“You have someone else to meet,” the man said coldly.

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“Who?” the Serenian asked.

“Just get up.” The guard motioned for two others to take hold of him. They dragged him out from beneath his dead friend.

“You’ll see to him?” Conar inquired.

“Yeah,” the guard laughed. “We’ll see to him!”

They marched him to the door and grunted with anger when Conar looked back. Cruelly, they didn’t try to keep him from seeing the huge boulder being removed from Grice Wynth’s crushed chest as the overhead pulley cranked into motion. Nor did they turn him away from the view of the broken body that was heft between the two eunuchs and carried away.

“He taught me how to lift weights,” Conar said, calmly watching the guards snap down the chain from the fulcrum he had not been strong enough to hold in place long enough for Grice to scramble out of the way. “Did you know that?”

“Let’s go, McGregor,” one of the guards mumbled, unnerved by the calm acceptance on their prisoner’s face.

“I’m sorry, Grice,” Conar said. He cocked his head to one side. “I really am sorry.”

Roget du Mer jumped as the door to this strange chamber was opened. He backed up, away from the two burly guards who came through the door, not expecting to see Conar behind them as two more guards shoved his friend into the room. He took one look at Conar’s face and knew.

“Grice?” he managed to ask, tears filling his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Roget,” Conar said, sinking to his knees on the floor. “I am so very sorry.”

At just past two o’clock on the afternoon of May 14th, in the year known as the Year of the Dying, Jah-Ma-El McGregor struggled to get away from his captors; but from days of precious little food and nights of restless sleep and fear, the warlock could do no more than run a few feet before being brought down.

“You’ll pay for that!” Belial warned him.

Somehow he had known. When they had taken him from his cell, Jah-Ma-El had bidden Sentian goodbye.

“You’ll be back!” he could still hear Sentian calling out as they had marched him away.

“Do you hear me, Jamie? You will be back!”

But Jah-Ma-El knew he wouldn’t. He expected to see Conar being brought into this chamber any moment now. The stage was set; the props all in place. He had his lines down and he knew Conar would have his. The other actors were scattered about the room, waiting, and the air was filled with expectation. It was almost a letdown when the door through which he had been brought finally opened and his precious brother was drawn into the chamber.

He looks so tired, Jah-Ma-El thought as he gazed into that beloved face. He’s lost weight and he looks so hurt. Jah-Ma-El forced a smile to his trembling mouth for the benefit of the man whose own expression was so filled with sorrow.

“How are you, little brother?” Jah-Ma-El asked.

Conar looked up toward the ceiling, then down to Jah-Ma-El’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No need to be,” Jah-Ma-El said in a soft, agreeable voice. “None of this is your fault.”

“He knows better!” Belial snorted. “Every one of you has been his fault.”

Jah-Ma-El winced, wondering how many were dead. He kept the smile on his face, trying with every last ounce of his quivering courage to send comfort to Conar.

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“Will you let me speak to him before you do this?” Jah-Ma-El asked. He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

“Get him up there,” Belial snarled, coming forward to grab Conar’s arms and pin them behind him in a savage grip that brought agony to the man’s dirty face, but put no light in his glazed blue eyes.

They forced Jah-Ma-El up on the chair and looped the noose around his thin neck. He grunted as the knot was tightened next to his cheek.

“Don’t think about it, Conar,” he asked. “Just let it happen.”

Conar shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I am so sorry.” He was beginning to shiver.

The door opened once more and Jaborn and his lackey, Gehdrin strolled into the chamber.

Jaborn glanced up at the rope dangling from the ceiling and then smirked.

“You saved him from hanging once before, didn’t you, McGregor?” he asked, drawing Jah-Ma-El’s immediate shout.

“Don’t do that to him, you son-of-a-bitch! This isn’t his fault!”

“Let’s see if you can save him this time,” Jaborn laughed.

Conar slowly turned his head and looked at Jaleel Jaborn. The memory of only an hour before when he had run blindly through an elaborate maze, trying to save Roget du Mer’s life, to keep that dear friend from falling to his death, was still fresh and raw in Conar’s mind.

“My version of the Labyrinth, McGregor,” Jaborn had told him. “If you can solve the maze before he loses his grip on the rock ledge, I’ll let him go free.”

There had been no way to solve the maze for every time he had come to an opening leading to the place where Roget dangled helplessly, a solid block wall of stone had fallen from the ceiling, cutting him off. His hands were still bleeding from the futile times he had slapped at the walls in frustration and despair.

And Roget had plummeted to his death just as Conar had finally been able to reach out for him, their fingers sliding away from one another as Roget’s death scream echoed off the stone walls of the cavern into which he fell.

“What’s the matter, McGregor?” Jaleel asked him, sensing the pain his enemy had just gone through. “Are you wondering how many more you’ll kill today before I allow you to rest?”

“
Stop it!”
Jah-Ma-El screamed at the top of his lungs. “Conar, listen to me. This is not your fault, little brother. Don’t listen to that bastard!”

He looked away from Jaborn and gazed up into Jah-Ma-El’s angry face. “I’m sorry, Jamie.

I really am sorry.”

Jah-Ma-El would have told him again that none of it was not his doing, but the chair on which he was standing was kicked away and his words were cut off in a gurgle of anguish.

Belial let go of the straining man he was holding and watched with amusement as McGregor rushed to his brother, grabbing the swinging man’s legs and holding him aloft. He could see the strain on McGregor’s face and glanced at his master. “A hundred sentis says he will last no more than twenty minutes,” he quipped.

Jaborn stared at his enemy, listening to the apologies tumbling from the man’s lips as he strove to keep his brother from strangling. “No,” he answered. “He’ll last longer than that.”

For over an hour, Conar held Jah-Ma-El up, ignoring his brother’s pleas to let go, to stop trying to save him. He was concentrating, his face red with his effort, sweat pouring down his cheeks. His arms were trembling, giving out, still he struggled to keep Jah-Ma-El aloft, to keep him from being hanged.

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Guil could not help but admire Conar McGregor’s tenacity. Despite all odds, knowing he would not be able to save the lives of his friends, the man had, nevertheless, tried. He was, even at that very moment, perfectly aware how this scene would end, but was refusing to give in. To give up. To admit his defeat. His jaw was clenched, his lips tightly pressed together. To him, there was no one else in the room save him and his brother.