WINDDREAMER (33 page)

"Would you like to reorganize my entire staff while you're at it?" he snapped, the old arrogance returning, despite his best intentions.

"Might not be a bad idea, at that. Thank you for giving me your permission. Not that I needed it, you understand."

His mouth dropped open when she waddled across the room and opened the door.

She looked back at him. "I'm grateful to the gods and Their ladies and every other spirit out there today that you didn't slip on that wall, son." Her eyes misted. "I don't know what I'd have done if you had."

Before she could cry, she hurried out the door and closed it behind her. Her footsteps sounded like hard slaps on the corridor.

Conar heard a murmur of voices outside the door and knew his Outer Kingdom keepers stood in place. He looked out the window, where flashes of lightning still lit the sky. The rain had dwindled to a mere downpour, and the thunder rolled far off in the distance now. The room felt chill, but the blazing fire in the hearth brought back some of the feeling to his fingers and toes.

"Thank you," he said to the stillness as he burrowed under the covers.

Conar thought he was dreaming, but the faint touch on his brow felt too real. His lids fluttered open, and he stared into emerald green eyes that looked down with warmth and affection.

"Go away, Raphaella," he said, fear and hopelessness rising in his voice. Her appearance was all he needed.

"Shush, now."

She smoothed the worry lines on his forehead with her fingers. He flinched, but her hand trailed down his cheek and came to rest on his shoulder.

"Please, don't," he begged, too tired to fight.

She shook her head. The long mane of black hair swung behind her delicate shoulders, issuing the faint scent of lavender. "I did not come to trouble you, Sweeting. I came to say that you will always be welcome at World's End."

"You got what you wanted from me."

"Aye, the babe." She caressed his shoulder. "Our babe."

"Why do you torture me?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"I am not trying to hurt you. What you did this morning brought the greatest fear to my heart. I wanted to make sure you never do that again."

"I won't..."

"That silly old woman was right, you know. You are a strong man, but your hands aren't the only strong part of you, Conar Aleksandro. You have such strong shoulders, too, Sweeting." Her hand felt soft on his flesh. She cupped his chin and brought his reluctant face toward her. When their eyes met, she smiled. "They are strong shoulders, but they are not strong enough to hold the entire weight of the misery that has settled once more upon them."

"I'll survive," he said, bitterly.

"I know, but I want you to understand something. Whenever that pain gets to be too much...when your shoulders finally sag beneath the weight of the suffering the gods heap upon them...when the pain is so hopeless you can no longer bear to see each new day begin, I will be waiting for you."

"Why?" he asked, confusion and disbelief mixed in his weary voice.

"To give you the peace you have earned, my warrior." She smoothed the hair from his forehead. "We will both be waiting...your son and I."

"Son?"

"I named him Rayne."

He looked away from her. "The name is acceptable."

"You have asked yourself thousands of times why I took a child from you, haven't you, Sweeting? And why I took him from you in such an unkind way." She softly touched his lips. "Would you have willingly lain with me?"

He vigorously shook his head.

She nodded. "That is why I went about it the way I did." Her fingertips moved to his neck, across his collarbone. She stroked his shoulder. "I wanted a child of yours, from your loins. It was because I knew I would lose Elizabeth. That we both would."

He squeezed his eyes shut. A whimper of pain came from his clenched teeth as sorrow welled in his heart.

"Remember what I have told you, Conar," she said, her voice fading to a whisper.

When he opened his eyes, only the faintest scent of lavender remained.

"Remember...I will be waiting..."

Conar McGregor was a man tortured by his loneliness, a man humbled by his grief. His existence had become an agony, his every waking breath an effort. And, he thought as he gazed out his window at the gently falling rain, his knees had finally been brought to earth by the extent of his loss. His head bowed beneath the weight of sorrow, and his shoulders slumped from the pressure of solitude. What others had failed to do to him, Liza's loss had, at last, accomplished.

He looked at his palms, palms that no longer bore the heavy scars of the Domination's Seal against their magic, palms that only bore the crescent-shaped birthmarks that had named him Prince of the Wind. His hands were no different than Legion's or Teal's or Sentian's, now. They did not mark him a sorcerer, for his power had fled, dropping into the Maelstrom with his lady. His power, what he had of it, had been channeled through her.

A wry laugh came from his twisted mouth.

That was something Occultus had failed to mention all those years ago in the Temple at Chrystallus. As far as Conar had known, the power instilled in him that night was to be forever. Now, like the love he had possessed, it was gone.

The power had been something he had neither asked for nor wanted. It had been a simple fact all his life, and now that it was gone, he did not miss it nor long for its return. If anything, he viewed the loss as a blessing. His life, now as normal as his childhood had ever allowed it to be, was his once more.

"The Domination is dead," Roget had stated only that morning. "There are no followers left for Robert MacCorkingdale to lead. Don't worry. We'll find the bastard, and when we do, we'll hang him from the highest tree!"

Conar shrugged, turning from the window. What did it matter now?

He looked at the room his father and mother had slept in for many years. His vision scanned the heavy oaken bed, the damask draperies, the wool carpet that covered most of the polished pine floor. He swept his eyes over the portraits that hung on the walls: himself, Galen, Coron and Dyllon, their wives. He would not look at Liza's portrait. It hurt too much. He sat on the bed, closing his heart to the sound of silence.

"Oh, Liza," he whispered, squeezing his hands between his thighs. "I miss you, Sweeting."

Idly, he wondered why he could not cry. The gods knew he had tried, but he could not squeeze a single tear from his eyes. His heart ached so badly he thought he would choke from the feeling, but there seemed to be no way he could relieve that hurt.

And he found he could sleep no more than an hour or two each night. Most evenings found him staring blindly at whatever point he turned toward. What little appetite he had seemed to sustain him. The hunger rumbling in his body was not for food, but for an end to the numbness encasing his soul. He knew if he could just
feel,
he could cry.

He fell sideways and brought his legs up onto the bed. Turning onto his back, he stared at the ceiling. Terrible loneliness and sorrow filled his soul, dark with bleakness. A low moan fled on a long breath, and he pressed his cheek into the coolness of the pillow.

"Why, Liza? Why?"

He buried his face in the silken coverlet, his mind bombarded by the problems, questions, and demands that had come to him since Liza's death.

"Do you have time to talk about..."

"I want your opinion on..."

"Conar, it's concerning..."

"What do you think should be done in regard to..."

"Thom has this idea about the traitor..."

On and on it went. Person after person coming to him, laying their concerns at his bedside. Time after time he asked them to leave him alone, yet they had not. His head spun with all the questions, demanding he make decisions he was in no condition to make, wanting him to rejoin the living.

"Stop it!" he had yelled only that morning. "I can't take any more!"

And yet, it went on.

In the smoldering ruins of the Monastery high atop Mount Serenia, within the collapsed and burned-out walls of the Ritual Chamber far beneath the sacristy, a figure grasped a black cloak tightly around himself to ward off the underground chill. A bestial snarl poured from his throat, and his hands throbbed where he had bitten his nails into the quick. Nearly insane with rage, he paced the litter-strewn floor and turned occasionally to view the destruction around him.

The black altar lay split in twain, its base toppled against a wall. The statue of Raphian had been crushed. The pentagram had been nearly obliterated by the sword points, which had defaced the magical lettering. Bent and twisted, the candelabrum lay scattered about the floor, candles stomped into waxy dust by vicious bootheels.

A growl of savagery issued from the man's tightly clenched teeth. He spun around, his face throbbing with revenge. He mumbled phrases that had no real meaning, not really even words.

"Damn you, Conar McGregor," he shouted. "Damn you to eternal agony!" He sank to the cold floor and threw back his head. "We took everything we could away from you and still you refused to join us! We took the one thing you cherished most and yet you would fight us still!" He bent over, his arms wrapped around his shivering body. "Why?"

A cold wind whistled over the room, echoed through collapsed tunnels. The rich smell of lavender filled the air, and a lilting laugh seemed to linger on the wind.

Robbie MacCorkingdale stared with fright around him. "Go away, you filthy bitch! We will win, yet! I will win!"

The lavender scent wafted all around him, while the laughter seemed to seep into the very marrow of his bones, coming at him from every direction at once.

"Never," the soft voice whispered in warning. "Never!"

"They say he does not leave his bedroom, Master." Rasheed Falkar dipped his head in honor. "He takes his meals there and has not been outside the keep since he tried to jump from the battlements."

"They should have let him," Prince Guil remarked.

"I think not," another man answered in an amused voice. "It would have put an end to my revenge."

Prince Guil looked at his friend. "You
still
want the man?"

"Now, more than ever." He got up and stood at the window of his fortress, his lips forming a nasty smile. "He hasn't seen true pain yet."

Chand watched her crying and wondered why he felt nothing. He had come to her, angry and hurt, and she confirmed what Sadie had said. "Why?" he shouted. "Why did you do it?"

Gezelle hung her head, her face destroyed at his look of utter disgust. "He ordered me to..."

"You could have come to Oceania. I would have taken you in." He paced the floor before her, his shoulders bunched with fury. "To destroy an innocent life..."

"Conar wanted--"

"Conar! Conar! Conar! It's always Conar, isn't it?" His hand swept the air as though to rid it of Conar's name. "It is always what
he
wants! What
he
needs!" His eyes filled with tears. "Would it have been him that you thought of when I made love to you?"

Gezelle's head came up. "Have been?" she asked in a small voice.

"Aye, Madame. Past tense! Do you think I would marry you now? Knowing you killed an innocent babe to stay with its father? And a married man, at that!"

She shook her head. "You don't understand!"

"You're right! And I never will!"

Now, watching her cry, he wondered if it had really been love that made him dream of her night after night, that kept him alive in the Labyrinth. And if, indeed, it had been love, he wondered if that love survived only because this woman loved Conar as much as he, himself, once had. Was that the only common ground they had shared?

If so, it had vanished. Had shattered beyond repair. As much as he had loved Conar, he now despised him. "Go to him, why don't you?" he snarled. "Let
him
dry your tears!"

Spinning on his heel, he marched from the room, his angry strides tapping hard on the marble floor. He snatched open the door, skipped heavily down the outside steps, and headed blindly for the stable, shouting for his stallion.

"Where're you going?" Storm asked, looking up from mending his scabbard.

"Home!"

Gezelle sat alone, her love for Chand dwindling by the moment. She wiped a trembling hand over her face and stared out through the camouflage of her fingers. The viciousness in his tone had been bad enough, but his apparent disgust had been something else. It had cut her to the quick, and the wound's exposed nerve-endings throbbed with pain. Why didn't he try to understand? Or had he wanted an excuse, any excuse, to rid himself of her?

"If that's what you want," she whispered, "then that is the way it shall be."

Slowly she got up and smoothed her skirt. She adjusted the bodice and straightened the cuffs, then raised her head, sniffed, and rubbed away a recalcitrant tear threatening to fall. Stiffening her spine, she threw back her shoulders and headed for Conar's room.

The dark, smoky tavern smelled of unwashed bodies and overpowering filth, its sullenness and sneakiness making Meggie Ruck cautious. She kept constant watch as she sat at the dirty table and waited for the man she had come to see. When a blowsy tavern wench, well past her prime and wearing enough makeup for six women, came to take her order, Meggie turned up her nose.

"I'm waiting for someone."

"You got to drink if you sit," came the shrill, tired answer.

"Then give me an ale!" Meggie snapped, turning her face from the woman's pathetic countenance, whose stench could have knocked over any decent woman. Meggie drew a copper from her reticule, slapping it down with a grimace of distaste when her fingers touched the table's grimy surface. She quickly withdrew her hand, rubbing it vigorously on her skirt. Even so, she could feel the contact, despite the hasty cleaning.

"You ought not to be in here," the wench said. "Ain't no place for a decent woman to be."

Meggie squinted through the musty haze, watching the thin, frail woman plod wearily away. She noticed a bone-tired slump to the wench's shoulders and made a mental note to speak to her when she finished business with the man who was already ten minutes late.

As though her thoughts had conjured him, he slipped into the tavern and looked around. His dark face turned in Meggie's direction. He scuttled forward, his loose clothing flowing behind him as he made for her table.

"Madame Ruck?" he asked, sliding into the chair across from her. "It was you who sent for me?"

Meggie nodded. She sniffed, for his smell was worse than the tavern maid's, then she leaned forward, careful not to let any part of her come in contact with the table. "I hear you have all kinds of herbs and potions and the like."

Sern Jamar nodded. "You need a poultice for your ails, Madame Ruck?"

Meggie shook her head. She waited until the sighing tavern maid set a cracked mug of ale before her.

"What is your pleasure, Lord Jamar?" the wench asked.

"My religion prohibits spirits," he said in an arrogant, superior tone. "But I will take a glass of goat's milk, if you have it."

Meggie's lip lifted. "Bring him an ale. I'll pay for it." At Sern's frown of displeasure, she snorted. "These bastards ain't got goat's milk, Jamar. You're lucky if they got ale."

"I can not--"

"I ain't drinking mine, either, but this is the only place where no one will bother us, and I want it kept that way. When in Ionary, do as the Ionarians!"

Sern nodded, as if seeing the wisdom of her words. He put his arms on the table and leaned toward her, oblivious to the expression on her face as his garlic breath blasted her. "What exactly are you looking for, Madame Ruck? A salve for your arthritis? A poultice for the gout?"

Meggie lowered her voice. "I hear you can put your hands to things most of us can't." She scanned his face. "Things that, shall we say, might be illegal elsewhere?"

Sern stared at her. "Such as?"

Meggie shrugged. "Such as something they call Maiden's Briar."

The greasy, pockmarked face winced with shock. He shot back in his chair, his black eyes wide. His mouth dropped open and his horrible breath fanned the air like carrion stench.

"Shut your trap!" she ordered, nearly gagging. She withdrew a kerchief from her pocket and brought it to her nose. "Do you have it?"

"Why would you want such a thing? Surely you know it's a deadly poison."

"Can you get the stuff or not? If not, I'll go elsewhere."

He studied her angry face. "I know your husband--he's a good man. If he's been playing around, I can give you something to..."

"Harry ain't done nothing! It's for a no-good, worthless bitch."

"Dorrie?" Sern gasped.

"Of course, not!" Meggie leaned as close as the kerchief would allow and still block out his stench. "It's for a cook who nearly spoiled the stew!"

Understanding lit Sern's dark face, and he sat back in his chair. "She could have, at any time, killed him with her dirty work. Tenerse is not to be given so indiscriminately. It can be fatal when mixed with the wrong thing."

"And she wouldn't have cared!"

"No, she would not have."

"Then you can get me the poison?"

Sern looked around, as if seeking eyes cocked their way, ears that might hear. He sat forward again. "How do you wish to use it? In her food? Drink? How?"

Meggie frowned. "Does it make a difference?"

He smiled. "We don't want it to be detectable, do we, Madame Ruck? What would be the good of exterminating someone if we are implicated in the eradication? Would that not defeat our purpose?"

Meggie thought that over. "I see your point. What do you recommend?"

Sern's smile widened. "The woman in question has arthritis in an advanced stage. I'm told it plagues her greatly. If you had a poultice you swore eased your own aches and ills, would she use it?"

Meggie snorted. "She'd take nothing from me!"

"But would she sneak it from you, if she could?"

A spark of understanding lifted Meggie's brows. "She'd steal the gold out of your tooth if she could get to it!"

Sern spread his hands. "Then, I'll make up a poultice for her pain."

"How will you get it to me?

"I'll leave it at your kitchen door under the pail you keep for slops. But be very careful, Madame Ruck. When rubbed liberally on the skin, it can kill in less than twenty-four hours. We would not want anyone else to fall in harm's way."

"I'll make sure of that," Meggie growled. "Ain't but one woman who deserves a taste of her own medicine."

"Then, it's all settled."

"How much?" Meggie asked, opening her reticule.

Grinning, Sern laid a dirty hand on Meggie's. If it offended him when she snatched away her hand, he didn't show it. His face filled with a gentle rebuke. "There's no charge, Madame Ruck." He scraped back his chair and stood, bowing slightly. "Consider it my contribution to His Grace's peace of mind."

Two days later, Sadie MacCorkingdale slipped the small blue jar of Meggie Ruck's arthritis cream into the pocket of her apron. Slyly grinning with glee, she walked out of the pantry and the kitchen door. No one had seen her and no one would know to where that precious cream had disappeared. She crossed the courtyard and headed for the servant's quarters.

She couldn't wait to apply the cream that would help rid her of the terrible, crippling pain.

Sadie sat on her cot, uncorked the jar, and sniffed, smiling at the pleasant aroma of wintergreen that wafted under her nostrils. Digging her index and third finger into the cream, she scooped out a large dollop and kneaded it into the back of her left hand. The cream felt cool, soothing, and smelled pleasant. She spread it over her skin, dragging it through her fingers, then dug up more for her right hand. Rubbing the cream into her flesh, she felt the tingling, then the numbness. The absence of almost constant arthritic agony made her sigh with pleasure.

"I can't feel it no more." She giggled, thinking of how Meggie wouldn't have the cream to use that night. "You can just suffer, Meggie Ruck!"

At ten of the clock the next morning, when Sadie did not show up for work, a servant went to her room in search of her. After knocking several times, the servant finally opened the door and found Sadie, eyes glazed in death, staring at the ceiling.

"The gods be good to you, Sadie MacCorkingdale," the servant said, although she didn't think that would be the case.

Sern passed Meggie on the streets at suppertime that evening. He paused at a vendor's stall shuttered for the night, casting her a sidelong glance as she pretended to adjust the fringe of her shawl.

"I hear there was a death in the keep this morn, Madame Ruck," the nomad commented.

"Aye, there was, I'm told." She glanced at him and grinned. "By her own hand she tried to poison my dear boy's mind, so by her own hand, she poisoned her own." Her mirthless laugh sounded chilling. "The difference being, you see, is that poison took not only her mind, but her treacherous life, as well!"

When he heard the news of Sadie's death, Conar felt another part of his life slipping away from his grip.

"It was old age," Cayn said. "Mixed with what may have been more than a dollop of guilt for having nearly caused your death."

But Conar knew better. Sadie had felt no guilt over causing him pain and trouble. If anything, she might have gloated herself to death. Despite all she had done, and tried to do to him, he mourned her passing. He'd known her all his life. For as long as he could remember, she had fed him, had always been there. Even their arguments he had enjoyed, for the most part, never realizing her true and vitriolic anger. With her passing, another shadow of his past faded away.

"She's to be buried here," he ordered, astonishing those who heard him. "This was her home. Make sure she has a fine marker."

"You're being a hell of a lot kinder to the bitch than she deserved," Jah-Ma-El protested.

"She felt she had reason to hate me. Maybe she did. I should have stopped what I knew was happening."

"You were sixteen!" Legion grumbled. "If it was Teal who..."

But Conar turned away. No one had seen Teal. He had simply vanished from the keep. Nor had he returned to his home to gather his belongings. It was as though he had cut all ties to Boreas and the man who had suffered there. "Just let it go, Legion. Time has a way of seeing the right to things."

"He won't be welcome in this keep when he finally returns," Marsh snarled. "We've known all along there was a traitor in our midst--"

Conar rounded on him. "You don't know it's du Mer, do you? It could be anyone." He leveled his gaze at Marsh's set face. "Even you."

Marsh sputtered his outrage. "I would
never
betray you!"

"You turned on him once," Sentian reminded the ex-Elite.

Conar left them in the solarium, arguing, making accusations against one another. He slipped to his room and shut the door, barring it to anyone who happened by. The Outer Kingdom warriors would see he remained undisturbed.

Beside his bed, he slid to his knees, prayer beads in hand, and began the runes for the dead for Sadie MacCorkingdale's soul.