WINDREAPER (22 page)

Meggie said nothing.

"I'm not even sure I'm strong enough to try."

He looked at his clasped hands, searching for the words he wanted to say, needed to convey for her to understand the seriousness of the position into which he had knowingly placed himself.

But the words just wouldn't come; the shame was too great.

"Have you hurt someone?" she finally asked.

"Only myself."

Meggie sighed. "When you do that, lad, you hurt more people than you can possibly imagine. Do you think the people who love you want to see you hurt?"

"Some do."

"None that matter. Conar, Sweeting, don't you know how very much you are loved?"

He opened his mouth to deny her statement, but despite the tremble of his lips, words continued to escape him.

She laid her hand on his thigh. "Whatever it is you think you've done to harm yourself, it can be corrected. Is it the drink, lad?"

He looked up at her in surprise.

"You always had far too great a liking for the drink."

"That's not the problem…I can handle the liquor."

"Every man I ever knew who had a problem with the drink
thought
he could handle it, too."

"It's
not
the liquor," he said, shaking his head in denial. "I wish to the gods it were as simple as that!" He got up, braced his hands on the fireplace mantle, and stared into the lapping flames. "It's the…the drugs."

If Meggie Ruck was shocked and dismayed by his confession, she didn't let him know. Nor did she leap up to confront him, to screech her fury. Instead, she came to her feet, took up her ladle, and dipped it into the dumplings. "Are you still hungry?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"They need cream." She ladled three fat dumplings into a crockery bowl and set it on the table, then walked calmly to the tin chest. She took out a pitcher of cream and poured a dollop onto the dumplings.

"Meg?" he inquired, fully facing her. "Did you—"

"I ain't deaf, lad." She brought the bowl to him and nodded toward his chair. "Sit. You ain't going to eat standing up in my kitchen."

Feeling like a schoolboy who had been chastened by his term master, he sat and meekly took the bowl. The smell filled his nostrils and his stomach grumbled, begged to be filled. He took a spoon and dug into the slick, aromatic pastries. He cut one dumpling in half and scooped it up.

"Don't burn your mouth again—"

He had already shoved the dumpling into his mouth. It was like molten lava. The crinkly feeling on his tongue warned he would pay for his impetuosity. Around puckered lips, he drew a gasping breath.

"There you go again—not listening!"

He shifted the sizzling pastry to his back teeth for chewing. "Good," he mumbled, scooping up another spoonful.

"What kind of drug?"

"Opium."

The moment the word left his mouth, his spoon-filled hand stilled halfway to his lips. She had asked in such a matter-of-fact voice, catching him entirely off guard, he'd answered before he thought. A dull flush spread over his face. "That was dirty, woman!"

She grinned. "I didn't want to spend the entire evening dragging the words out of you one at a time."

"So now you can lecture me," he snapped, putting the bowl on the table with more force than he intended. The sharp clink of the crockery to wood made him purse his lips with annoyance. "Well, get on with it!"

"You want a lecture?" she asked in a reasonable, accommodating voice.

"Hell, no!"

"You sure that's not what you came for?" she asked, her face all innocence and surprise.

"I know damned well it ain't!"

"But you want me to say something or you wouldn't have put the thing on my doorstep."

"Damn it—"

"You know drugs are bad for you. I know they're bad for you. What else is there to say? Just stop taking 'em. From what I'm hearing in your voice, you don't want 'em, and you sure as hell ain't proud of yourself for having to use 'em. What that tells me is that you want somebody to make you stop."

He stood, plowing his fingers through his still-damp hair. "It's not that easy to do."

"I would imagine not, but many a man has done so and lived to tell the tale." She put her hands on her hips. "If you need to stay here a while to get yourself off them things, you know you can. Nary a soul will know where you are or why you're here unless you want 'em to."

"You don't know what you're offering. I've tried to get off the damned potion and I always wind up buying more."

"I'll tell you this much—if you don't stop on your own, someone else will do it for you."

His lips went taut. "Like who?"

She shrugged. "That's nothing you can keep hidden from friends forever. When Legion finds out what you've been up to—"

"He doesn't give a goddamn about what happens to me! And neither does his Queen!" He plopped down into the chair by the fireplace, then snatched up the woolen socks and shirt Harry had supplied and put them on.

"Have I ever given you bad advice, son?"

"No!" His angry strides carried him to where his boots sat.

"Then you know what I tell you is for your own good, don't you?"

"Sometimes," he acknowledged, sitting on the hearth to draw on his mud-encrusted boots.

"How do you expect me to help you, lad?" Her voice was gentle, as kind as an angel's.

But he didn't want kind words. Looking up, he spoke from between clenched teeth. "Just be there for me."

"There are others who would also be there for you, if you asked them."

He shot to his feet. "Like my
Queen?"

"If you wanted her to be."

"The bitch hates the sight of me," he thundered, jerking up his cape from the hall tree where Meggie had draped it.

"Again, who are you trying to convince of that—me or yourself?"

"I need to convince no one!"

"She loves you. Don't you know that?"

"No! I sure as hell don't! I came here to talk to you, Meg. To get your help. I can't—"

"You can do anything you put your mind to," she said, her eyes narrowing in concern as he pulled open the door, letting in the rain. "You can get off them drugs you don't want nor need. They won't help you forget her."

"I'm not trying to for—"

"Aren't you?"

He stood, uncertain, in terrible emotional pain. Rain washed over him, making him blink. The brisk wind ruffled his hair, billowed his cape.

"You can do whatever you've a mind to," Meggie assured. "You've just got to
want
to do it."

He searched her face, seeing her emotions emblazoned there. He knew she loved him—he could feel it—and he loved her. He knew her words were meant to heal, to help, to feed the hunger in his ravaged soul, but his pride would not let him accept her judgment of Liza's feelings toward him.

"I can't go to her," he said. His shoulders slumped beneath the heavy weight of his wet cape. "I won't go to her. Not again."

Despite the incoming storm, Meggie stepped up and put her arms around him, drawing his protesting body close. "Then, you come to me, baby," she whispered. "When it gets bad, come to me. I'll always be here. Always." Tears streamed down her cheek. "You are one of my own."

Thom stomped his feet on the wet ground, scowled up at the tin roof under which he and Sentian hovered to get out of the rain. "He could be in there all night," he fumed, slapping his arms around him for warmth. "He could be pumping that damned Dorrie!"

Sentian frowned, but kept his mouth shut.

"Should we ought to see if he's still in the kitchen with Meggie?" Thom asked. When his companion didn't answer, he nudged Heil with his boot.

"What?" Sentian snapped, glancing up.

"I asked if we should—" He stopped, cocking his head toward the kitchen door of the Green Horned Toad. "Here he comes."

Conar stepped out into the pouring rain, pulled the cowl of his great cape over his head, and hunched his shoulders into the onslaught of the chilling wind. As he turned the corner of the building, Sentian and Thom slipped out into the rain after him. Thom was also aware of the three large black shapes that blended into the slanting rain and followed farther behind.

* * *

Conar's boots squished in the mud, making hollow sounds, lonely sounds as he pulled them free of the muck. He turned his face upward, allowing the cowl to fall from his hair, and let the cold liquid wet his fevered face. He liked the feel of it, and it helped to quiet the fierce need that had been building in him in Meggie Ruck's too-warm kitchen. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the sweet coolness of rainwater.

His head lowered at the sound of a loud laugh. He narrowed his eyes to see through the driving rain. Ahead stood his final destination. He hunched his shoulders, bent his head into the wind, and made for the dirty yellow light spilling from one of the seedier taverns in Boreas Town.

He opened the door to the Spittin' Cat Tavern, smelling frying bacon, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies. He shut the door behind him and swung the cape from his shoulders, then shook his head to rid his sodden hair of rainwater. When he turned around, everyone in the tavern stared at him. All movement, sound, and conversation ceased.

"Good eve," he said to the men gathered at the crude plank tables. He swung his gaze about the room, but found no hostile faces.

Heads dipped, fingers went to forelocks, and mumbled greetings followed. The men looked at him with recognition, respect, and just a touch of fear.

"Bad night, eh?" he asked an old gentleman sitting near the door.

"Aye, Lord Conar. That it is." The man's gaze shifted away as though he were afraid his regard would insult the man standing before him.

"Here's a table for you, sir!" one of the barmaids said, her voice filled with awe. "A good one, right here." She pointed a trembling finger to a dilapidated plank table in the far corner.

"Thank you, mam'selle."

Isolated in the deeper shadows of the room, the table looked as lonely as Conar felt. He knew they were offering him a place to himself, but at the moment, he wished they would not ostracize him, even if it was unknowingly done so with high regard.

He was about to fling his cape over a chair when the barmaid took it from him. She folded the sopping material close to her bosom and gazed at him with complete fascination. He was about to admonish her about wetting her clothing, when the door opened behind him. Instinct making him defensive, he reached for the dagger at his back and half-turned.

"Uh…good eve," Sentian mumbled as he and Thom looked into their Overlord's annoyed face.

Consigning them to the devil, Conar stomped to his table with more anger than he knew was good for him. He rather rudely ordered an ale from the barmaid and plopped into a chair, his back to the room.

Just after the barmaid brought his ale and left, another figure appeared at his side, bowing deeply at the waist. Conar glanced up, frowned, then flung a hand toward the chair opposite him.

"You stink, Jamar," Conar grumbled.

"I apologize, Lord Conar." Sern Jamar seated himself. His loose fitting burnoose was soaked around the hem and the sleeves gave off an odor like that of a wet dog. "This horrible Boreal rain is something I can not quite accustom myself to."

Conar studied the man. Jamar's black hair seemed shaggier than usual, his thick beard more unkempt and greasier. His nose was running, a thin stream dripping from the left nostril, and his deep olive complexion seemed far dirtier than Conar could remember.

"Do you ever bathe?"

The shaggy head bobbed. "On occasion, Milord." He looked around, then leaned forward. "Perhaps we should take our business elsewhere, sir."

"You're safe with me, Sern."

His eyes darted over Conar's shoulder toward the door. "It's your men I fear. If I give you this—"

"They fear
me,
Sern!"

The man nodded. He reached inside the loose sleeve of his burnoose as though striving to relieve a itch along his arm. When he withdrew his hand, he put a packet of powder on the tabletop, using his spread fingers as camouflage. He smiled, leaning forward. "A little pleasure, Milord. Shall I cut it with some of the opium?"

Conar's gaze locked on Sern's hand. He knew Sern was waiting for him to answer, to make a sign that he was ready. Conar licked at the right corner of his mouth. Slowly, he looked up and gave a slight nod.

Smiling with delight, Sern removed a blade from one of the many pockets sewn into his burnoose. "How much do you wish, Milord?"

Conar's right hand was cupped around the candle sitting beside his mug of ale. Absently, he tipped the candle from side to side, melted wax dripping in silent patters to the planking. "All of it."

The smile drifted from Sern's face. "Are you sure, Milord? This powder will be powerful."

In reply, Conar gave him a deadly expression.

Sern's lips twitched in what was likely meant for a smile, but the gesture came across as a nervous pull of the man's mouth. He slipped another packet from his clothing and spread its paper wide. After also opening the initial packet, he used his knife to scoop a blade-edge full of the second powder to mix with the first. When he had combined the powders to his satisfaction, he folded the package containing the mixture and hid it under his palm once more.

"Will you desire a woman this night, Milord?" he asked, flicking his tongue over dry, chapped lips.

Conar shook his head.

"I have a Necromanian lady who has untold delights. She would be dark to your light. As I recall with my precious—"

"I told you no! I have no need for a woman!"

Sern shrugged and slid the packet across the table. Conar snaked out a hand and laid it across the nomad's, pressing the fingers to the hard planking. Conar felt Sern quiver in sudden apprehension.

"Make up enough to last me the month and leave it where I showed you. Your money will be there."

Sern nodded.

Conar slid the packet along the table, over the edge, and down into the top of his boot beside the dagger, the entire time keeping his gaze on Sern. He nodded toward the second packet, still on the table. "I'll have some of that now."

"I would prefer not to give you anything here, Milord."

"And I prefer that you do!" Conar took up the powder, poured the contents into his ale, swirled it, then started drinking.

"Milord, be careful! This is powerful. It can have devastating effects on your body."

The bitter taste of the opium made Conar shudder as he swallowed. Wiping the back of his hand across his wet lips, he settled his unwavering gaze on the nomad. "Could it kill me?" he asked in an inquisitive tone.

"When taken unwisely, aye, it can."

"Good."

Conar stood, turned, and exited the tavern, not even glancing at his two men sitting at a table watching him.

* * *

Thom Loure frowned deeply. "What was that all about?"

Sentian turned his attention from the door closing behind Conar to the nomad at the far end of the room. "If what Marsh suspects is true, that bastardly snake over there may be from where Conar's getting the drugs." He glanced at Thom. "Go follow Conar. I want a talk with our smelly friend."

Thom shrugged. "Be careful, Heil. Those desert rats can be dangerous."

Sentian stood. "So can I," he answered in a steady, even voice.

* * *

Liza smiled as Sentian wound his way through the crowd toward her. She held out her hand to her Sentinel, drew him forward, and lightly kissed his cheek.

"Did you forget us, Milord?" she whispered.

"Not at all, Milady." He grinned, letting go of her hand. "Your husband had me out in this lovely weather."

Liza's brow rose. "May I ask why?"

The smile left Sentian's face. "Thom and I were told to follow someone."

She didn't need to ask who. "What was he doing out on a night like this?" At the look on Sentian's face, she held up her hand to forestall the answer. "Never mind. I'm just glad you're here now."

"I think we should speak of it, Milady." Sentian looked toward Legion. He smiled at his King, then returned his gaze to his Queen. "Later, though. When we can be alone."

Liza knew her husband was watching them. Whatever Sentian might tell her, she felt sure Legion would not want her to hear. But Sentian Heil's first obligation, after his supreme loyalty to Conar McGregor, was to her, not his King.

"Can it wait 'til morning?" she asked.

Sentian nodded.

"Then meet me in the stables at nooning. I will assure our privacy." She smiled as he bent over her hand, placing a kiss of affection in her palm. "Now, go find Sherind before she begins to suspect our motives!" she warned him playfully.

* * *

Thunder boomed almost as soon as Liza found herself alone in the front hall of the keep. She jumped, her nerves tinkling along her taut spine. She heard the steady onslaught of rain driving against the high windows and glanced up as a flare of lightning caressed the trembling panes.

She sucked in a hasty breath, but not because of the storm, but because of the man she spotted when she looked up.

Conar was sitting on the wide edge of the gallery balcony, which curved around the top of the hall. His left leg was crooked at the knee, the other stretched out along the length of the railing. His left wrist rested on his bent knee in a gesture that was almost second nature with him when he sat, mindless of both propriety and manners. His right hand lay on his outstretched leg, his long fingers wrapped around a silver goblet.

Liza's heart beat erratically, while her breath came in short spasms of anticipation. She hadn't seen him in more than six months, but the hot anger in the depths of those remarkably blue eyes, alien eyes, she knew she would never get used to seeing. She felt chained to the spot where she stood, unable to move, to speak, to acknowledge him, to look away.

He lifted the goblet and took a long drink, then his lips stretched into a smile that reminded her of a panther mesmerizing its prey. His black shirt was opened to the waist. A hanging brazier, directly behind him, lit his golden blond hair like a shining beacon and reflected off the sheen of his black leather boots. As he again raised the goblet to his lips, a flash of silver fire arced from the metal and lit his face, a face that had all the predatory scorn and power of a jungle beast etched on its hard planes. When he lowered the goblet, he licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Liza felt the power of that gaze flit through her belly like wildfire.

By the smug turn of his lips, the knowing smirk on his finely chiseled mouth, the bored look in his expressive eyes, he obviously knew he held her in his power, and seemed to be enjoying her trepidation. Liza felt her knees shaking. It seemed he was draining her, sucking the life from her body, and she put out a hand as though to ward him off.

The instant she did, understanding lit up his face. One tawny brow lifted slowly in acknowledgment of her predicament.

"Don't," she whispered, beseeching him.

Conar gave her a vengeful smile. The blue heat from his arrogant, hateful gaze impaled her, violated her. For a fleeting moment, those blue orbs sparked with a fire that leapt out at her, as though he were reminding her of his previous ownership, his right to her body, his place as her master.

"Milady?"

Liza jumped, her head snapping around at the soft voice.

Storm Jale reached out a hand. "I'm sorry, Milady! Did I frighten you?"

It was all Liza could do to shake her head in denial. She wasn't even sure she could find her voice.

"Is something wrong? Can I get you something?"

"No," she managed to answer, her neck burning from the intense gaze she could feel aimed her way from the balcony. "I…it's just the lightning."

Storm let out a long breath. "Your husband is looking for you, Milady."

When Liza glanced toward the balcony, she discovered Conar had disappeared.