WINDDREAMER (21 page)

Conar passed a trickling waterfall. Vague memories came back in a rush and staggered him--roughly being pulled past it, kicking and bucking, screaming through a gag, his arms bound securely behind him, his ankles chaffing at the thick manacles that kept him from running.

Now, he grabbed hold of a roof support and drew in a ragged breath, looking at the waterfall with fear and loathing. The plummeting waters brought it home to him that he stood near the place where he'd known his greatest pain. He tore his gaze from the crashing waters and looked around.

He stood in an antechamber, dimly lit with blazing torches spaced every four or five feet apart. Carved from the natural rock of the mountain, a ragged, gaping hole in the wall framed the waterfall. When he looked to the wide double doors at the end of the antechamber, a chill ran down his spine.

He knew that was where he'd been taken, the Ritual chamber where he had been forcibly consecrated to the evil of the Domination years before.

He could almost smell the warm, saline stench of the dead goat's blood, dripping on his naked body as he lay strapped to the black marble altar, set within the blazing red pentagram of Raphian. He thought he could even hear the chanting that had slimed over him that night, and could feel Tohre's hands on him.

"Stop it!" Closing his eyes, he violently shook his head to rid himself of the invading thoughts. He shuddered, his hands shaking so hard his sword rattled against the stone floor. His nostrils quivered with fear. When he opened his eyes, the door seemed closer, more threatening, bulging out at him as though alive and breathing in his terror, feeding on his bravery.

He could hear every shallow, rapid breath he dragged into his lungs. His fingers flexing around the hilt, he brought up the sword and reluctantly headed for the double oaken doors with their gleaming black varnish. His spine felt taut, while he gazed back and forth, terrified something would jump out at him. If he had been less brave, he imagined he would've soiled his clothing. As it was, his shirt stuck to him where sweat flowed freely under his arms and down his chest, across his back, vividly reminding him of Tohre's fingers trailing across his...

"Don't!" he yelled.

He heard laughter--vile and loathsome and infinitely amused.

"Damn you!" he bellowed, hurrying to the doors and flinging them wide. He raced into the room, his heart slamming in his chest, his throat unable to close against the groan of terror that squeezed through his lips when he took in the room in which he had been tortured.

Conar felt the hair on his arms stir. His bowels threatened to loosen. The only light came from thirteen metal torcheliers, each holding thirteen candles. All were black except for the first, seventh, and thirteenth, which were so scarlet they appeared almost black. The light shone evilly on a four-foot-tall, black-marble sarcophagus, dominating the room's center.

"Oh, Alel," he moaned, memories lashing him like physical blows.

This was not only the Ritual Chamber, but the Punishment Chamber, where recalcitrant boys were brought to be broken, where once he had nearly died inside the cold stone crypt.

Bile leapt up his throat. He shivered, violently, unrelentingly, his eyes filling with hot tears of shame and dread, fear and pain. He scanned the room, the floor with its dual circles, the outer circle holding the black torcheliers, the inner encompassing the sarcophagus. On the far wall stood a giant statue of Raphian, the Storm God, the Destroyer of Souls, the Unholy Deity of the Domination. The statue grinned at him; the horrible blazing eyes of blood-red rubies seemed to throb with every beat of Conar's heart.

He tore away his gaze, looking at the iron bands set in the four corners of the sarcophagus. He knew those bands could be pulled and the top of the crypt would mutate, the shape change. The upper and lower sections could be separated until the altar was set in a cruciform pattern, an extended "X" slab with the iron bands used to restrain the unlucky victim's wrists and ankles.

"Sweet, Merciful Alel," he pleaded.

He took a step away from the altar, and, almost of its own volition, his attention was drawn to the ceiling. He wasn't surprised to see a dead goat, its throat slit open like a smirking demon's grin, hanging from the rafters. He could almost feel the stickiness of the goat's blood on his own flesh.

"Alel, please! Make the memories stop!"

Yanking his gaze away from the obscene sight, he looked once more at the altar and saw something standing there. His brows drew together; his breathing stopped. He stared at the object for a long time before he finally found the courage to move.

On legs that threatened to buckle, he crept forward, crossing the outer and inner circles of the pentagrams, feeling the revulsion rising in him as he stepped across the lines between evil and good. He hesitantly climbed the thirteen steps that led from the fifth point of the pentagram's inner star to the base of the sarcophagus.

His breathing came in quick gasps. The room had turned ice-cold, and he could see the white haze of his breath as he exhaled. When he ascended the last step, a jolt went through his body, stunning him, turning his spine to jelly, as he recognized the object on the altar.

Conar's heart filled with fury and fear. "No, Tohre! Never!"

The blood-red crystal goblet appeared to take on a light from the candles. Its contents overflowed, oozed down the sides and pooled at the stem as though unseen hands continued filling it.

He moaned, a low, keening cry for help that came from the very depths of his being. "No...I won't."

The goblet seemed to pulse, sending more thick black fluid over the rim. A stream of it ran to the edge of the altar slab, trickled over the edge. Conar gagged when he caught a whiff of the strong smell rising from the floor. His mouth filled with water, a warning knifing through his mind like the jagged streak of lightning.

"Drink it," came an insidious whisper.

Conar spun around, trying to find the source of the words. Nothing moved. Nothing looked back him.

"Drink it."

"No!"

He took a step backward, going down one step, away from the goblet. The chalice continued filled with unspeakable, vile filth, which slid across the marble slab toward him.

"Drink it."

"
No!
"

He stumbled down two more steps, his head swinging from side to side, searching for the owner of the disembodied voice.

"Drink it."

He skidded down the remaining steps, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the evil on the altar. He had once before tasted the vicious, degrading contents, and he'd never do so again.

"Drink it, Conar."

The voice sounded ancient, soothing and seductive, infinitely pleasant and melodious on the ears.

"Get away from me," he whispered, once more crossing the pentagrams that left him feeling unclean and violated in the worst imaginable way. Something crunched beneath his boot. He jumped away, and what he saw made him shudder all the way through his soul. His mouth formed a single, heartfelt, silent denial.

With his eyes filling with hot, unshed tears, he bent over like an old man, extended a shaky hand, and touched the item. His heart plummeted, and his throat closed with intense fear. Hooking his fingers under the object, he cradled it in his hand as though it were the most fragile and holy of relics. A groan, one of endless misery, came from the heart of him. He crushed the object in one tightly clenched fist.

Throwing back his head, he howled--"
Kaileel!
"

The sound echoed back to him in a hundred
Kaileel's.

"Yes, Conar?" came the amused reply.

He spun around to find no one.

"Retribution, my sweet Prince. Retribution."

With a whimper of hopelessness, Conar dropped to his knees. He jammed his clenched fist against his quivering lips, moaning in pain. He rocked back and forth, his breeches soaking up the obscene fluid trickling down the stairs and puddling beneath him. He grunted in agony, squeezing his eyes shut over his misery.

"Will you leave her in my tender care, Conar?"

He felt his body spiraling into darkness. The air grew inconceivably colder, and he felt numb from the chill. He brought up his other hand to cover the fist pressed against his lips, then he stared up at the altar, the goblet, and its overflowing brew.

"Drink it," the command came once more.

He sank back on his heels and lowered his hands to his lap. "I can not."

"Drink it...make it part of you..."

Still cradling his right hand in his left, he unclenched his fist and stared with tearful longing at the thing in his hand. It had imprinted itself in his flesh, intertwining with the heavy scar in his palm, the lighter birthmark. His fingers twitched, and a part of it spilled over his palm, dangled down his wrist.

"Liza," he sighed, looking at the finely wrought gold chain attached to the talisman she had forged for herself of their combined marriage bracelets. The one she never removed from her neck. The source of their combined powers, now laid to waste by the touch of Tohre's filthy hands. He moaned and closed his fist around the chain once more, painfully pressing his hands into his lap.

"You will drink it."

He glared at the empty room, hoping for, willing Kaileel to appear. "Where are you, you foul bastard? Come and get me if you want me, you son of a jackal!"

The room remained empty, but an echoing laugh vibrated through the air. Mocking. Challenging. Warning. A low sigh of wind whistled--then came silence.

"
Come and get me, Tohre!
"

"Drink it."

"I'll find her," Conar whispered between grinding teeth. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed as he turned his head, searching the cold, dark corners. His nostrils flared with hatred and his breath became deep, regulated. "I'll find
you!
"

"Only when I'm ready for you to do so..."

He got to his feet, the talisman clutched in his hand. With a violent rush, he tore up the altar steps and flung his arm across the slab, sending the chalice hurling through the air to spray its evil contents on the far wall.

"
I'll find you, you son-of-a-bitch!
"

He flew down the steps, knocking over three candelabras in his haste, then bolted through the opened doorway.

He heard the doors slam shut behind him.

Chase stopped, listening. A tremor of fear run down his spine. He sent out what power he had that was not being corrupted in this unholy place and found Conar's lifeforce, throbbing like the beat of a runaway horse's heart.

"What happened?" he whispered. "What did you encounter?"

He glanced at his companions, then walked away from them, listening once more for the hum that could tell him Conar's location.

But the heavy throbbing had vanished. All Montyne could gain from his intent probe was the primal fury left in Conar's wake.

Chase looked around. The place brought back memories he wished had been laid to rest. If he was being bombarded so heavily by the evil in this place, Conar, who had endured far more malevolence here than Chase, must nearly be buried beneath it.

"Be careful, Conar," he pleaded. "Watch out for Tohre's bag of vicious tricks."

All torches in the antechamber had been extinguished, and the room lay in total darkness. He stood still, felt his pupils expanding, seeking light. A small rush of wind passed his left shoulder, and a door opened before him, light beaming through the crack. A feeble halo of yellow haze faintly lit the ceiling. It seemed alien. Menacing.

He advanced on the doorway with cautious steps, for this was one portal that had been locked and bared against his entrance before. Now it gaped open, bidding him entry.

"Come."

Conar snorted at the command. "Do I have a choice?"

"No."

He ducked under the low stone archway. Ahead lay a long, narrow tunnel, so close in width, his shoulders touched both sides as he moved forward. The claustrophobia of his childhood reared its head, and for a moment he felt the old fear, the old agony closing up his throat. But he resolutely pushed it aside, stamped it down, refused to allow it to take over. The moisture of the walls seeped into the fabric of his shirt as he passed, and he placed his full concentration on the clammy, unhealthy, insipid feel of the dampness against his cold flesh.

He heard the sound of bubbling water and carefully listened. Trying to get the direction of the sound fixed in his mind, he realized it was ahead of him and off to the left. Gently running his hand along the wall, he felt a vibration of some unknown source--large, untamed, powerful. Puzzled, he pressed forward until the tunnel split into four sections before him, each identical. Each dark and sinister. Forbidding.

"Where to, Tohre?" he shouted.

"Choose."

He let out a ragged breath and chose the tunnel farthest to the left. "Always the Left Hand Path, Tohre," he said beneath his breath.

Deep in the shadows, an evil smile lurked in the darkness.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Brelan leaned against a beam and screwed up his eyes to see through the dimness. Ahead, on one side of the tunnel, a waterfall trickled down the stone wall. He poked his head through the hole in the wall and looked downward. He whistled, taking in the sheer drop--bottomless, from the looks of it--and drew back his head.

Doors lay ahead, but he found them locked. The tunnel ended a few feet past the double black-oaken doors, so he had no alternative but to turn around. His sixth sense caused him to retry one of the doors, but it seemed bolted tight. He stared at it, wondering why he felt such a need to enter that portal. He heard a mighty roar, but couldn't deduce its agent or from where it originated. His torch had begun to die, so he took one out of the wall brace and lit it with his dying flame. The rushes caught and blazed into life.

He decided to rest a moment, his hearing keenly attuned for any more calls of his name. This tunnel was the fifth he had searched from the stalactite cavern where he'd started. He was bone-tired, his eyes aching from peering through dark caverns and tunnels. He had passed Chase twice, but his friend had been glum, uncommunicative, a wary frown on his face.

Pushing away from the wall, Brelan began his long trek back through the tunnel. He scanned the floor. While following a wandering crack in the stone, his peripheral vision picked up something that made him stop and look back. His gaze traced the crack to the wall, then lifted, going up the granite surface as the crack widened and became a man-sized crevice. Using his torch to illuminate the slit, he saw torches scattered along a distant wall, lighting some unseen pathway.

Taking in a deep breath, he wedged himself through the slit and came out into another narrow tunnel, which seemed to lead under the waterfall. Hoping against hope it didn't drop into the pit he had seen, Brelan moved forward, careful where he put his feet along the narrow ledge that became his pathway.

Something scooted across his instep. A large rodent scampered into the darkness. Shuddering, for he truly despised the furry creatures, Brelan nearly squealed in answer to the rodent's chattering voice when it doubled back and shot across his foot again, as though something had frightened it.

"Bloody little bastard." Even through the boot leather, Brelan felt the rodent on his toes. He shook his foot to ward off the feeling and peaked over the ledge, then wished he hadn't. The dark drop-off seemed infinite. He sucked in his breath and plastered himself to the wall.

Brelan heard a loud, prolonged hiss. Eyes widening, he stilled. He bit off a scream when something barreled out of the darkness from beyond the waterfall and skipped past him. Another hiss told him the animal had been a badly frightened cat.

"What the hell are you guys seeing up there?" Brelan muttered, not at all happy with the animals' reactions.

He hated to get wet under the waterfall, but there didn't appear to be anything else he could do. The slim ledge behind the cascading water jutted partially into the water's flow. With his torch sputtering, he pushed his hand against the wall, close enough, he hoped, to keep the torch dry as he passed under the water. Carefully placing his foot on the ledge, he started over the makeshift bridge nature had provided.

Icy water tumbled over his head and chest, thoroughly soaking his shirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his sense of humor told him he wouldn't have to take a bath that night, and he giggled. Between the climb to the Monastery and this, he reckoned he was getting a complete cleansing. A low chuckle replaced the giggle.

"Better to laugh than cry..."

As he cleared the waterfall, he realized with a sense of disquiet that the ledge had begun to take on a definite incline. He shifted his torch, grazing his knuckles on the sharp rocks, grimacing with the pain. He held up the torch and frowned. The pathway rose at a steep angle. He didn't dare look down, which would have put more fear in his soul. Shivering, he had a horror of falling into the unseen pit, never to surface again.

Putting his right foot on the incline, he started to climb. He used his free hand to brace himself against the wall, to feel his way along. The farther up the ledge he went, the louder that strange rumbling noise became. It sounded weird, sinister, and for some reason it put a steel barb of fear in his heart. Whatever it was, it made a lot of noise and he was heading straight for it.

Another scream brought him up short, almost made him tumble into the yawning cavern below. He plastered his quivering body to the wall, hands pressed to the rocks, torch spiraling into the darkness as he let it go to keep himself from plummeting.

The scream had sounded close. Very close. And it had been choked off, as if a hand had clamped over the screamer's mouth. Because of the rumbling, Brelan couldn't tell if the scream had issued from a male or female.

His eyes adjusting, he began to detect a faint glow and continued up the incline, extremely careful where he put his feet. As a loose rock skidded out from under his foot, he yelped with fear, pressing himself as close to the wall as he could get. His heart thundered in his chest; sweat dripped down his body in waves. He eased forward, felt steady footing beneath his boots, and sidestepped upward again.

Something shrieked farther up the incline. Another small creature darted toward him. Sucking in his breath, Brelan prayed the thing wasn't large enough or strong enough to collide with him and send them both into the pit. As it brushed against his legs, it hissed, yowled in surprise, then shrieked as it tumbled over the ledge.

Brelan looked down, and again wished he hadn't. The strange glow came from hundreds of feet below. He saw a sparkle of water as it tumbled over rock formations and splashed far up the cavern walls, a violently hissing trough of water that fed downward.

That's the source of the rumbling, he thought grimly. The water looked deadly. Its center swirled counterclockwise under the rock formations, disappearing into the blackness beyond the point where he could see. He had spent enough time sailing about in his ill-begotten youth to know a whirlpool. This one looked enormous, and by the force of the swirling water and the noise it caused, seemed to feed into something larger. The vortex itself slammed into the stone, shaking the walls with its might. That was the vibrating, humming noise he had heard.

He laid his head along the stone wall and closed his eyes. If he had slipped into that, he'd have been sucked down into the whirlpool.

Sucked down into the...

Brelan's lids popped open. He gasped and stared downward, mesmerized by the water's power, its lethality.

"The Maelstrom," he whispered, fear rising inside him like a striking serpent. Sweat ran down his sides, and he could smell his own sour aroma. Sudden overwhelming knowledge struck horror in his mind, and he knew at that moment where Tohre had taken Liza!

Chase stared at the sarcophagus and knew immediately that this had been the source of Conar's fear. He saw the chalice lying on its side, a deep red residue clinging to its sides.

"There are many honors a Brother may have, Chaseton," he could hear Tolkan instructing him from long ago. "The greatest of these honors is participation in the Rite of Transmergence."

He had been only a child, a naive child at that, but he had understood well enough the teachings of the old reprobate. Tolkan had made sure of that.

"Can you conceive of anything more rewarding than being mated, body and soul, to another of your kind?" Tolkan had stroked the damp blond hair where sweat had plastered it to Chase's forehead. "Think of it, Chaseton. Think of being a part of someone else, an integral part. Losing your own identity in the identity of your Master!"

The Rite of Transmergence had been outlawed, but Tolkan had remembered it with fondness and reverent pleasure as he explained it to the shivering, beaten Ionarian Princeling.

"Think of how intimate such an act can be. Your soul irrevocably absorbed by that of your Master. Two souls, but one body. Two minds, but one Control." Tolkan had sighed. His long vermilion-tipped nails had dragged seductively over Chase's bleeding back. "Just think of it."

And Chase had. Even at his young age, he could think of nothing more vile, more heinous or fiendish. There was no other Rite in the plethora of Domination nastiness that could equal such a despicable thing, no other obscene ceremony designed more to exact infinite vengeance than what Tolkan had called "The Retribution."

Montyne's wide shoulders slumped. He supposed he had known all along what Tohre had planned for Conar. Taking in the room where he had also been punished, he felt an overpowering urge to flee, to run as fast as he could from this horrible place where boys had been turned into broken men too early and too often.

"Before Alel," Chase told the leering statue of Raphian, "I will not let Tohre do to Conar what he plans." He held up his arms. "I would rather have my friend's blood on these hands than allow him to know the agony of being trapped inside the tainted soul of his worst enemy!"