WINDREAPER (18 page)

"But Tohre had known all along. He took Corbin while I was in labor with Galen's twins. He snatched Corbin before I could stop him!" Her keening wail became unearthly. "I'm sorry, Conar. I could not protect your son."

He looked down at her. "All I ever wanted was your love. You were all that was left of my life here. I tried to tell myself that I didn't want you, that I didn't need you, that I didn't
love
you. But I did." Tears spilled down his cheeks. "I was even willing to kill my brother to get you back, woman, and now you tell me this?" He lurched away from her. "You bore my son and you let Kaileel Tohre violate him? Let him do to my child what he did to me? Let him—"

His throat contracted. He stumbled to the door, flinging it so wide that it crashed back against its hinges, splintering the wood.

Conar ran from the room as though the demons of hell were on his heels.

Kaileel Tohre stared into the flaming brazier hanging in the center of his private conjuring chamber. Thin lips pursed tightly together as seething rage twisted his face. His long stiletto-sharp nails raked across the exposed throat of the sacrificial victim lying on the altar. Bright crimson blood flowed from the gaping wound. After dipping his fingers in the blood fanning out over the alter, the Arch-Prelate smeared it on his face and neck, down the naked expanse of his chest and belly.

The warm blood chilled on his flesh and began to feel sticky and thick. Placing a cup beneath the severed jugular of the newborn girl he had murdered, he gathered the blood as it pulsed from the throat. When the chalice was full, he set it aside and reached for his ceremonial dagger. He sliced through the pitifully thin chest, splayed apart the skin, and tore the tiny heart from the chest cavity.

His lips stretched back in a pleased smile. Here was the essence of his longevity—the spilled blood of a newly born girl, torn from her mother's womb by Tohre, himself, untouched by other hands.

Invoking the primeval Dark-demons that controlled the Brotherhood of the Domination, he offered his service for another century of sinister duty. Raising the tiny heart toward the ceiling, he picked up the chalice and swore eternal damnation for his own black soul, then partook of the unholy communion of flesh and blood.

Energy, dark and primordial, filled Tohre's entire being. Mists of red and green—blending, darkening—flowed over him. Snaps of electricity singed through the room, radiating away from the burning brazier with its sickeningly green glow. Moans of the dead, groans of the dying, piteous screams of the damned, became a cacophony of shrieks and howls that rent the air with their obscene presence. A wind like the fiercest gale force of a North Sea storm whipped through the chamber, rippling Tohre's hair about his face and setting the brazier to swinging on its three golden chains.

Throwing back his head in communion with the dark elementals who slithered into the room through cracks in the stone floor, who oozed from the mortared joints of the walls, Kaileel opened his blood-encrusted mouth and howled defiance to the gods and goddesses of the White Path. With his hands still dripping innocent blood, he lifted them toward the heavens and mocked the forces of good with evil rebellion.

"Alel, hear me! Vestri, hear me! I defy you, oh Powers of the Right Path. I curse you, oh Sentinels of the White Way. Your names are defiled in this place; Your images desecrated. I consign You both to the outer reaches of the universe where You will dwell amongst the lesser gods I vanquished long ago. I send You through the Maelstrom, I imprison You within the Void from whence no light has ever come nor will ever shine!"

Taking the corpse from the altar, he held it over the brazier's flames.

"As innocent flesh is consumed by the fires of the Pit, as untainted blood, never mixed with the pollutant's of a woman's fluid, is drank, and the central core of the innocent's body is defiled, I consecrate my powers of magic to the forces of the Domination. I shed innocent blood! I devour innocent flesh with an unquenchable appetite, and in doing so, I claim the years of this vulgar female child and all the successions of her earthly generating power to produce offspring!"

Turning his back to the brazier, he spoke the forbidden names of the Five Obscene Gods of the Domination, invoking each of Them in sequence according to rank.

"Hear me, Oh Great Ones, Horned Elementals of Fire and Flood, Death and Destruction and Disease! I ask Your help in defeating an enemy who has threatened the power of our race. I beseech you to help me search him out and to destroy his immortal soul once and for all. I was weak in my dealings with him, lax in my vigilance, and I have no excuse as I humble myself before You to be punished as You see fit for my lack of direction in crushing Your enemy. I will scourge my flesh. I will fast. I will deny myself the pleasures of the body, if You will grant me this blessing.

"Help me find him, oh, Demons of the Pit. Help me bring him to his knees to honor You. Give me the way to destroy the one called the Raven—the Dark Overlord of the Wind!"

A blinding light sang through the chamber and struck Tohre directly in the center of his heart, driving him to his knees. Pain, the likes of which he had never known in his ageless lifetimes, burst through him like an erupting volcano spewing ash and lava from the vile brimstone caverns of the Fire-pit. He grasped his chest, fearful his heart would explode. He felt his blood boiling, singeing his flesh, coursing through him as though a million ants were devouring his arteries. He doubled over, gasping as the pain intensified, until he felt nothing but the crushing, burning weight of it. He tasted the metallic dryness within his mouth as he sucked in large breaths.

As one final squeeze of agony ripped through his chest and spread rapidly down his left arm, he slipped beyond the red and green mists of his conjuring chamber and into the black mist of unconsciousness.

* * *

Sometime near dawn of the following day, the Arch-Prelate woke in his bedchamber, serving men and acolytes hovering above him with worried faces. He gazed about the room and was surprised when only one half of his vision still functioned.

He tried to turn his head, and couldn't.

He tried to lift his hand, and couldn't.

He tried to speak and found his tongue thick inside his mouth, his lips unmoving.

His one good eye widened in horror as Robert MacCorkingdale came to stand over him, a tight smile of gloating on his sensual lips.

"You have had a massive stroke, Holiness," the young man said with just the right amount of empathy in his silky voice. "The Prelates are in conference even as I speak. Another shall be appointed to lead us until you are well once more." He straightened, looking down at Tohre with an unholy degree of satisfaction.

Kaileel's mind reeled with the implications of his illness. He was trapped inside a paralyzed body while his mind still functioned with the ease of a youth. If he could not hold the reins of his office, a power struggle, no doubt led by the ambitious bastard standing over him, would see the Cardinals choose another to carry on in his stead. He knew there were none among these rabble were capable of defeating Conar McGregor.

With every ounce of willpower he held, Tohre forced his mangled tongue to work. In garbled words thick with spite, he managed to speak. "I…am…in control. I…need no…movement…to do what must…be…done!"

MacCorkingdale smiled with spite. "How will you fight from your bed? The Order needs a strong man, a man capable of leading."

"Out." His voice turned hoarse from the mighty effort to speak.

"You are through, Tohre. You can not lead from where you lay!"

"Out!"

Robbie bowed with condescension, and smirked of arrogance. "As you wish, Holiness."

Even as his foggy mind battled with the problem of his affliction, Tohre seethed inside his captive body. Now, more than ever, he would see Conar McGregor defeated. He would have the man brought before him in chains, and he, himself, would flay the flesh from McGregor's bones and let him die in agonized torture.

The Five Obscene Gods had never failed him, had never turned a blind eye to his request. He had confidence in Their ultimate evil, and knew They would find a way to bring Conar to his knees before Them.

A movement along the perimeter of his vision broke his musing. He willed himself to focus on a blurred face as it came to hover above him. As his sight grew clearer, he felt bile rising in his throat.

A woman stood above him, her long blond hair lit by the candlelight on his bed table. Her face was familiar, but he couldn't place where he had seen her.

"Who?" he forced his lips to form.

She smiled. He felt the power of a kindred spirit, for her smile was pure evil.

"Does it matter who I am? What matters is that I am here to help." Her ruby red lips moved into a lewd parody of a seductive grin.

"To…do…what?" he slobbered, spittle oozing down his nonfunctional mouth.

Now, a predatory grin stretched over pearly white teeth. "To find and defeat and then, ultimately destroy, Conar McGregor!"

Then Tohre recognized her—a banished daughter of the outlawed Multitude, an outcast from her own kind. This woman, known among the Brotherhood as the Webspinner, had lent her support to the Dark-demons many times.

Even though his lips never moved, Kaileel Tohre smiled.

Conar kept himself away from the main part of the keep since the night he had spoken with Liza, the night he had learned he was Corbin's father. He had his meals brought to his room, spoke little to anyone, and denied Amber-lea access to his chambers. He wanted no female pawing him. He later took up residency in the dank, dismal confines of the dungeon's punishment cells, sinking once more into brooding silences that raised eyebrows among his men and worry among his friends.

Now, snarling at the laces on his shirt that refused to be tied—his clumsiness of late had also become apparent to all who saw him—he threw the offending apparel into the corner of his cell and jerked on a shirt that required no lacing. He was about to pull on his boots when the dungeon's iron door opened. His lips pursed together in an angry sneer. This was one confrontation he had been avoiding like the plague.

"May I speak with you, Lord Conar?" the boy asked.

Conar took a deep breath and nodded, then pulled on his boots.

Corbin stood just inside the cell door. "You would not come to me, so I came to you," he mumbled. His fingers nervously toyed with the end of his tunic. He didn't look up as he continued. "I know you think of me as Galen McGregor's child, but in your heart you know I am yours."

Conar's heart stilled. "Aye, your mother has so informed me."

"I knew the moment I saw you in the Abbey. The veil of mist that had hidden you from my mother, did not hide you from me, Father." His face paled. "I would have known you anywhere, for my heart felt the pull."

Conar sat rigidly on his cot. The child's lips trembled, but he probed his son's open mind and knew Corbin wasn't afraid of him—he was afraid of being rejected.

Conar was ashamed of his own weakness. Ashamed of his inability to take this child of his loins into his arms and claim him as his own. He saw uncertainty playing across Corbin's face, felt the boy's reluctance to come to him and ask for his love, and his shame and guilt drove deeper.

"Does your mother know you're here?" he asked gruffly.

"No, Milord."

"Then I suggest you leave before she finds out. I don't think she'd like knowing you were in this place."

Corbin's head came up. "You were forced to live in this place. I am not afraid to stay here with you."

"What I was forced to do, boy, and what you do of your own freewill are different things! You have no business being here." Conar stood, all too aware of the trembling in his legs, the ache in his heart, and the emptiness his arms felt.

"Why do you turn your back on me?" The little voice was breaking. "I am flesh of your flesh. I know you once loved my mother. Can you not find it in your heart to love me?" The tears crept over his small oval face.

Conar needed a drink—something, anything—for he was dying inside. In his soul, he felt it was best that Corbin not grow close to him, for he would not be around to see him grow up. And should he be caught by Tohre's men, he didn't want the boy mourning him. It was easier to forget a father you never really knew than one you loved and who you knew loved you.

"I have work to do, boy. Take yourself back up those stairs."

Corbin hung his head. "I am all that is left of the great love you and my mother shared. Even though you deny me, refuse to accept me as your son, I still love you, Lord Conar." A hitching sob tore from him. "And I always will."

Tears now streamed down Conar's cheek, but Corbin was already on the stairs. He opened his mouth to call the boy back, but the iron door clanked shut with a finality that made Conar sit on his cot and bury his face in his hands.

* * *

Corbin wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic as he came into the garden where Liza was gathering flowers. He smiled at Cody and Christos, tousled Kells hair, and nodded at Jarad.

"Children, will you leave your brother and me alone for a little while?" Liza asked, laying down her shears. She pulled off her gloves and laid them beside her basket of flowers as her children left the garden.

The moment she had seen Corbin's face, she knew where he had been. There were tear tracks on his face, and the pain of rejection filled his eyes. Sighing heavily, she motioned for him to join her where she knelt. When he did, she slipped her arm around his waist and pulled his head to her shoulder.

"How is he?" At that point she didn't much care how Conar was, but a tirade against the boy's father might alienate Corbin. She put a finger under his trembling chin. "Tell me what you think of him, Corbin."

The boy shook his head. "He's so lonely, Mama. I can feel his hurt. He is lonely and sad."

She stroked his hair. "I know, dearling."

"Why does he refuse what I offer him? Is it me? Is it because of what Tohre did—"

"No! It is nothing you have done."

"Then what is it?" Corbin threw his arms around her neck and sobbed, his body shaking with overwhelming grief.

Liza gently stroked his back, furious he had been hurt again, and by a man who should have known better! "Give him time, son. He's had much to accept since returning. He will come around."

"He's my father. I love him, Mama!"

Liza looked up as a pair of shadows covered her and her son. Concern filled Teal du Mer's face; pain lined Legion's.

"Why won't he love me back, Mama? Why won't he let me be his son?"

His mouth set in an angry line, Legion spun around. Liza wanted to call him back, instinctively knowing where he was headed.

Teal shook his head. "Let him handle it, Liza. Maybe if Conar knows how much he has hurt this boy—"

Corbin tore from Liza's arms and ran into the keep.

"Shall I go after him?" du Mer asked.

"He, like his father, will have to find a way to deal with this on his own."

* * *

Conar made his way to the stable to collect his horse. So upset by what had happened in the dungeon, he could stand the confinement of the place no longer. He had scheduled a foray into the area around Corinth for later that week, but had moved up his plans and now intended to leave within the hour.

His mind was on what he was going to do at the Wind Temple near Corinth when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and startled him. His hand went automatically to the dagger at his thigh, but as he turned, he recognized Legion, and let his hand fall away from the blade.

"Don't ever lay a hand on me again, A'Lex, unless you want to draw back a stub!"

Legion stood, hands on his hips, and glared with murderous rage. "You can hate me and Liza all you want, but I will
not
have you venting your vengeance and spite on an innocent child who has already suffered more in his lifetime than any ten children! I'll not have you hurting him. Stay the hell away from him unless you're prepared to be his true father!"

Conar clenched his fists by his side, wanting to strike out, but loathe to do so for fear he'd kill the man. "I didn't seek out the brat—he found me! I tried to make him leave, but he wouldn't go until I ignored him."

"Bastard! You may be a hero to the people, but you're nothing more than a beast with my brother's face. The man I knew would never have turned his back on a child, his own or anyone else's, when that child was reaching out to him!" He poked Conar in the shoulder. "You hurt Liza when you hurt her son, but I would imagine that's what you intended!"

Pushed to the limit of his strength, Conar shot back with vengeance. "You think I care whether that bitch gets hurt?"

Legion smiled, but the smile was frosty with anger. "Aye, you care."

"Well, it won't be my arms that'll comfort her—"

"Not in this lifetime!"

"Not unless I decide to take her back."

Legion's face turned red. "You so much as touch her, and by the gods, I'll kill you!"

Conar laughed. "You try my patience." As Conar moved closer to his brother, a snarl formed on his tight lips. "Unless you wish to cross blades with me, I suggest you curb your wayward tongue else I'll relieve you of it."

"You think I'm afraid to fight you?"

"If you want to live, you'd better think twice about doing so!"

Legion's hand went to the dagger at his hip, but a cry from the keep's battlements made him stop. Both men looked up to see Grice Wynth standing on the crenellated wall.

"Quick!" he shouted. "Teal's been stabbed!"