WINDREAPER (26 page)

"What does this have to do with Conar?" Sentian asked. "I can see how it was easy for her to seduce him in Chrystallus, but—"

"She will go after another innocent next." Her teeth clenched. "Conar's son—Corbin. She couldn't make Conar hers, so she'll try to take his legal son. She wants the power of the throne behind her, and it is that same conceit that will be her undoing."

"You think she sent the boy here to distract Conar," Cayn ventured. "If he gets involved with that son, he'll be lax about the other."

Liza nodded. "Among other reasons, that's why he's been sent here. Tohre wants Corbin, too. You have to remember that. He, too, was denied the father."

"What other reasons could there be?" Legion asked.

Liza's regard shifted to her husband. "Raja and Tohre have made damned sure the boy hates his father. You know how much Conar has always loved children. The more the boy hates him, the more time Conar will spend with him to overcome that hate. That is his nature."

"But he hasn't even seen the boy since we brought him to the keep," Sentian interrupted.

"He will," Liza assured him. "I know Conar."

"The thing to do is keep a close watch on the boy," Cayn injected. "On
both
the boys. Also, how convenient for that boy to be in the keep with Conar—he might have been sent to help someone else get inside. Someone who means Conar harm."

"I'll assign a guard to the brat day and night!" Sentian snarled.

"But there is something all of you must never forget," Liza warned. "The boy hates Conar, and if he hates with an unholy passion, even a child can be deadly!"

He nocked the arrow and took careful aim. Easily he pulled the bowstring taut and lifted the long bow to his right cheek, sighting down the length of the deadly missile. Releasing his second and third fingers, he let the shaft fly. It sang unerringly through the air and landed dead center of the straw target. Smiling grimly, he reached behind for another arrow, and in doing so, spied an intruder lurking behind a nearby tree.

He frowned. "What do you want, Prince Corbin?"

The boy came from around the tree, his face blazing red beneath the intense scrutiny Conar aimed his way. "May I speak with you, Milord?"

"About what?" He turned and nocked the new arrow. Sighting it, he scowled, for the lad had not answered. "Well?"

"It's…it's about…"

"What?" Conar spat, his nerves jumping in such a way his hand began to tremble. Where had he played this scene before? Looking at the training ground, at the men on the rise training under Thom Rayle, he thought he could hear Hern Arbra's devilish laughter booming at him from the trees.

"It's about the new boy," Corbin managed to answer in a small voice.

Stunned, Conar impaled his son with a look he hoped would quell the boy. "Stay away from him!"

Corbin's chin rose. "Is it true what they are saying? Is he my brother?"

"Stay away from him, do you hear me? I—" Conar shouted, catching himself before he could continue. He turned and fired another arrow, which spiraled away from the target, missing it by a good foot. "Do you see what interrupting a warrior can cause, Prince Corbin? If that had been an enemy attacking you, I would not have been able to protect you, now, would I?"

Corbin looked at the ground. "If it had been an enemy, Milord, you would have hit your target."

Conar's frown deepened, annoyed the boy had so much confidence in him. "We weren't discussing warfare—"

"You brought it up," Corbin interrupted, locking his gaze with his father's. He didn't back away when Conar took a warning step forward.

Conar snarled, cursing beneath his breath. He spun around with another arrow and fired it with uncanny speed, the arrow impaling the straw target in the very center.

"I have a right to know if he's my brother," Corbin said, louder. There was a stubborn set to the small oval face

"Come here!" More annoyed than angry, Conar threw down the bow, pointing to ground at his feet.

Corbin sat, but didn't look away from Conar's intense gaze.

"Prince Corbin," he began, "if you have heard the brat is your brother, then you have heard from where he came. You and I know that anything Kaileel Tohre discards, is not worth having. Do you agree?"

"In most cases."

Conar's eyes narrowed. "In
all
cases. Just because what he threw away is human, doesn't make it worth anything. Aye, it is true the brat is your half-brother." It was the closest he had come to admitting his connection to the boy, now watching him so carefully. "But he is as evil as his mother. He will harm you if given the chance. Never doubt that."

"Does he have my powers? The powers I inherited from you?"

"He has the combined powers of two sorcerers. The power you wield comes from the Multitude and from the Wind. The powers steeped inside this boy come entirely from the Domination. If you were to battle him—" A shiver went down Conar's spine. He felt cold, vulnerable, but he needed to stress the danger. "You would most likely win, but at a terrible price."

"What is his name?"

"Regan," Conar growled, jerking another arrow from his quiver.

"Regan, what?"

"Just Regan!" Conar answered, more than aware his hands were shaking as he hefted the bow to his face. "He needs no other name. People know who he is."

Corbin was silent as he nodded. "You claim him, then? As your son?"

Wanting this to be over, Conar snarled at him. "I have said as much! He is my son. I claim the little bastard! What more do you want to hear?"

Corbin smiled sadly. "I have heard all I need to, I guess." He got up and turned away, then looked over his shoulder. "You claim him, but will not claim me. Why is that, Milord?" He didn't give Conar a chance to answer, but walked away, his little shoulders held erect.

Conar felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. He wanted to cry with the pain of it. Something inside warned him to call out, to acknowledge the boy, but Corbin was already running up the incline to where the men were training.

He threw down the bow once more and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. "Stupid fool," he called himself. Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the men, then trod heavily up the incline.

Marsh Edan looked away from the two warriors locked in combat and smiled at his Overlord. "Come to play, did you?"

Conar looked about. "Where's Corbi?"

Marsh shrugged. "He ran by here a moment ago. He might be going over to the gym." There was concern on his sweaty face. "You don't mind him training with us, do you?"

Conar's brow quirked upward. "He trains with you?"

"Ever since he came back from the monastery." A scowl settled over Edan's countenance. "He asked if I could teach him to be a…"

"Man," Conar whispered, momentarily plunging back through time.

Marsh put a hand on Conar's shoulder. "I didn't think you'd mind, since you didn't have time for such things."

Conar shuddered, striving to blot out the lingering sight of his own childhood. "But he is my son and I should have made the time."

"Aye, but sometimes it's best if it's not the father doing the training, Coni. Did your own father train you? Did you ask him to?" At Conar's denial, Marsh smiled. "Why not?"

Conar glanced at the ground. "I didn't think he'd have the time."

"See?"

"No, Coni came to you because I've never given him reason to come to me." A fearful thought entered his mind. "He stays with you in the compound at night?"

"Aye. He's well protected, if that's what concerns you. The Queen gave permission—"

Conar waved his hand, cutting off Marsh's defense. "I know you and Thom would guard him with your lives." He bit his lip and searched Marsh's face. "Does he…has he had…nightmares?"

As though in deep thought, Marsh looked away from Conar. "I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone."

Conar let out a hard breath. "And you haven't."

"He worships you, Conar. He keeps telling me how much he wants to be like you. He's a fast learner, doesn't complain, does what he's told. He's coming along well. You have every right to be proud. He'll make a fine warrior, like his father." Marsh chuckled. "They say the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree."

A hard lump formed in Conar's throat, making it hard to breath and swallow. "Just watch over him, Marsh. Don't let him get hurt."

"And have his mama on my hide? I'd rather take my chances with an entire battalion of Diabolusian raiders than have Elizabeth A'Lex after me! Any man who hurts her boy will have her to deal with!"

Conar tried to smile, but his lips felt frozen. Instead, he walked away, his thoughts on the multitude of mistakes he had made with Corbin. Instead of letting the boy know he was there for him, he had pushed him away. He had erected a wall between them that would not be easy to scale. By acknowledging Regan as his own, Conar knew he had further insulated himself from Corbin.

He skirted the path leading to the keep and nearly ran down the spiraling road leading into town. With every inch of ground he covered, he cursed himself for being the insensitive, arrogant bastard he had become.

Sern opened the door, a wary look on his bearded face. "Lord Conar!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply, sweeping his arm before him as he stepped back. "Come in, Milord! Come in!"

The smell of aged rushes mixed with offal and decaying food wafted out of the nomad's hut. Conar's nostrils quivered. "Thank you, but I would prefer not to." He locked his gaze with the desert man's hawk-like stare. "I need something from you."

Sern craned his neck out the door, scanning the street. "We are being observed, Milord," Sern whispered.

Conar spied Bent Armitage lurking behind a rolling vegetable stall. "Hell." He took a deep breath before entering the hut.

Sern closed the door. "You are most welcome to my humble abode, Lord Conar."

Conar tried to focus his eyes in the pale, smoky halo of yellowish light, cast by the single oil lamp on a low-slung table, but the horrendous stench distracted him. "By all that's holy, Sern, this place smells like an outhouse!"

Sern ducked his head. "I'll clean it, Milord." He indicated a chair.

"I don't plan on being here long."

"I have prepared something new for you, Milord." Sern rushed to the table. "I think you will be most pleasantly surprised with this new concoction." He picked up a beaker of milky fluid and extended it toward his benefactor. "You will find the effect does not wear away as rapidly as the opium mixture."

Conar eyed the mixture with distaste. "What's in this?"

Sern shrugged. "A little of this; a little of that." He winked. "It is a mixture of powerful stimulants, Lord Conar. With this elixir, you can forget every trouble you have!"

"Or create more," Conar mumbled.

A smile spread over Sern's thick lips. "But with this elixir, you can solve the problem quickly!" He put the container in Conar's hand. "You can conceal this in an ordinary brandy bottle and no one will be the wiser."

Conar handed the container back to Sern. "I dare not leave here with that. Bent would break his neck going to Brelan and Roget. Just give me some here and I'll leave."

"But Lord Conar—"

"You can bring the rest to the Grotto tonight and leave it in the usual place. I'll retrieve it in the morning."

"Yes, but—"

"I want it now, Sern!" Conar hissed, his lips twitching, his hands trembling.

"As you wish, Milord." After pouring a half-ounce of the milky fluid into a goblet, he extended it to Conar.

"That's it?"

"Only one swallow. No more is needed, it is so powerful. You must be sure no one sees you when you take this. The drug causes different kinds of reactions, depending on what you have consumed within the hour or so before taking it."

Conar hardly heard the nomad. He brought the goblet to his lips, prepared for the bitter taste he was used to, but was indeed surprised when a sweet, mellow taste flooded his taste buds. He swallowed, felt no numbing inside his mouth, and licked his lips.

Sern watched him carefully. "Did it taste like mangoes?" At Conar's nod, he sighed. "I should have known," he grumbled

Known what?
Conar wanted to say, but stopped.

He hadn't prepared for the immediate effect of this drug. The dim light began to throb with intensity. The room suddenly tilted to the right, causing him to stumble against Sern. He grabbed for the nomad, barely aware his knees had buckled. He dropped to the rush-strewn floor.

"Liquor," Sern muttered. He staggered with Conar's dead weight, trying to lift him from the filthy floor.

Conar felt warm, too warm. An insane itching started along his arms and chest. It grew so intense he felt he would scream if he did not scratch it. A numbness, almost a dead void, attempted to block his hearing. The room tilted the other way and he closed his eyes to keep from passing out.

"It is always liquor with you!" Sern admonished. "If you do not stop drinking liquor with these drugs, they will kill you!"

"Sern?" he questioned, his belly cramping and his head spinning. He felt as though he had no control over his body. His legs and arms felt like water.

"I am here!" Sern snapped, maneuvering Conar onto the bed.

Something cold snapped around his wrist. He craned his neck to see what was happening. At first, the dull band of iron encircling his wrist did not register. "What are you doing?" He tried to scratch at the itch under his left arm, but Sern brought Conar's other arm over his head. Once more, he felt cold metal on his flesh. He was suddenly afraid. Very afraid.

"It is for your own protection," the nomad explained, moving to the foot of the bed. Talking to himself, the nomad pulled off Conar's boots, then spread Conar's unresisting legs and manacled his ankles to the bed's thick metal posts.

"What are you doing?" Conar asked, trying to pull free. "Unchain me!"

"I do not dare, Milord. In a moment, you will know why I did not want you to take the drug here. Now, I will have to—"

The itching along Conar's chest and arms spread rapidly over his entire body. He whimpered at its intensity. The warmth flowed over him, prickling like a million ants on his flesh. The room spun crazily for a moment before screeching to a stop with a bright flare of light. Sound returned with such immense clarity, he could hear laughter and tinkling glasses from the tavern halfway down the street. Sight focused so sharply he could make out, in detail, every nuance of the hut. His body felt light and carefree, young and vibrantly alive. Every nerve ending tingled with energy.

"Oh, god!" he cried. "What have you done to me?"

"What you will feel will please you," Sern whispered. "This drug I have tested on myself. Do you feel it yet?"

Even as the desert dweller spoke, Conar felt the sudden, urgent, almost painful, tightening in his groin. His manhood leapt into an erection so full, so throbbing with blood, he strained against his breeches. An intense, unsettling need drove deep into him. He gasped, feeling as though he had not lain with a woman for years.

"Aye, Lord Conar." His black gaze swept to Conar's crotch. His smile widened. "A pleasure unlike any you have yet to experience."

Conar shifted on the dirty mattress, squirming among the rumpled, stinking covers. Despite the desire to vomit from the stench, he was more aroused than ever before, near to bursting with the need to plunge his staff into warm, wet flesh. He needed a woman's body, her juices flowing around him, sheathing him, soothing him.

His breath came out in tiny pants. He felt as though his entire body strained to erupt. "Get me a woman!"

Sern smiled knowingly. "I will be but a moment."

"Hurry, Sern!" he begged, his hips grinding into the mattress as he jerked on his chains. "Hurry!"

He vaguely heard the hut's door open, close. He was so aroused, most everything else around him had been pushed into the background. His mind worked feverishly, remembering another time when he'd known such intense arousal—in the oubliette at the Monastery. But that ache had been different, a guilty, shameful need he had not wanted to satisfy. This need, this overwhelming sexual anticipation was so excruciating—

"Sern!"

* * *

From his place behind the vegetable stall, Bent watched the nomad exit the hut. Frowning, he looked back at the door, but Conar didn't appear. Bent was about to cross the distance between stall and hut when he saw the desert dweller being stopped by a woman in a long red robe. Bent couldn't see her face, but her slim hands closed around the nomad's arm. After a moment of conversation, the nomad gestured toward his hut.

"Whoremaster," Bent snarled.

His face hardened with distaste as Sern and the woman hurried to the hut. Hunkering down amid the hawkers and their wares, Bent snorted. It appeared Conar had come to the nomad for one of his sluts, not the opium Brelan suspected.

* * *

By the time the door opened and Sern entered, Conar was panting heavily. His wrists were already bruising from the fierce pulls against his chains, his fingers flexing with a mind of their own. When he saw the woman, he snarled, baring his teeth, aching to plunge into her. He sniffed like a stag scenting a doe in heat. His nostrils quivered to her scent; his mouth watered in anticipation.

"Let me loose!" he demanded, straining against the chains.

"I dare not." Sern motioned the woman forward. "You would hurt her."

"Let me loose!" He pulled as hard as he could, needing to put his hands on the soft feminine flesh, aching to drive himself to the hilt within the folds of her womanhood.

"She can pleasure you without you being in a position to hurt her." He looked at the woman. "He is strong. He could tear you apart like he is now."

The woman nodded as her fingers went to the laces of her cloak. Though her face was hidden within the fold of the cowl, her bright green eyes glowed in the room's dimness.

"I need her!" Conar snarled, his body lurching as he fought to free himself. "Sern! I need her!"

"And you shall have me, Lord Conar," the woman answered in a throaty, lightly-accented voice. She dropped the cloak and took a step forward.

* * *

When Sern saw her face, his mouth dropped open. Never had he seen a more beautiful creature. Outside, when she had accosted him on the street, he had not bothered to look at the face beneath the cowl. It had not mattered what she looked like, for it was not her face Conar needed.

"How much?" the nomad had snapped.

"A favor for a favor, Sern Jamar," she had said in a coaxing voice.

"What favor?"

"The favor of lying with the Dark Overlord. That is what you are seeking, is it not? A woman to pleasure him?"

Knowing that every moment he delayed in providing relief for the man chained to his bed, the more dangerous that man became, Sern had not bothered being as cautious as normal and bade the woman follow him.

"His need is great," he mumbled as they hurried to the hut. "I have had to restrain him. Otherwise he would hurt you." He hadn't even questioned the woman's seeming lack of surprise.

Watching her now, looking at the porcelain perfection of her creamy complexion, the deep emerald of her brilliant eyes—glowing with a need of their own—the waist-length sweep of heavy coal-black hair, and the lush red ripeness of her full lips, Sern knew this woman was no common trollop.

"Who are you?" Sern asked as she began to remove her gown. "I have never seen you before. I would surely have remembered a woman so lovely."

Though the woman didn't answer, Sern nodded with approval as she dropped her chemise, revealing twin globes of perfection tipped with large, prominent nipples that tilted slightly upward. His mouth went dry as she rubbed the expanse of her right breast, lifting it.

Such beauty will be wasted him this day, Sern thought, casting a quick glance to the man squirming on the bed.

"Come to me," Conar begged, his voice deep with need. He lifted his head, flinging the damp hair from his forehead. "Lady, please!"

Naked, she stepped forward, her hips swaying seductively. The faint scent of lilac clung to her. In the close, cramped room, a thin veil of perspiration had gathered on her lush breasts, glistening like morning dew.

"Hurry, woman!" Sern implored. "He is in pain even now."

She glanced at him with disdain. "And who gave him such pain, Jamar?"

She bent down toward Conar, allowing the light from the oil lamp to fully reveal to him her small oval face.

* * *

Conar's world crashed to a halt. He stared into eyes that mocked him, terrified him, thrilled him. He didn't know which was greater, his arousal of the woman bending over him or his fear.

"Do you remember me, Milord?" she cooed. She dragged a finger down the length of his thigh from hip to knee. "Did I stay in your memory?"

At her touch, he sucked in a breath, feeling her fingertip to the marrow of his soul. Where she touched, his skin beneath his cords burned. As the finger moved, he groaned.

"Ah, I see you do remember my touch, if not me." She smiled, moving her finger to the underside of his left arm. His grunt of need seemed to please her.

"For the love of All who are holy, woman," Sern pleaded, "do not torture him!"

She ignored him. Her finger trailed up Conar's arm to his wrist, where a thin beading of blood had welled up under the manacle. She clucked her tongue. "I have waited so long to have you. It is a pity you can not touch what you ache to touch, is it not?"

Conar moaned, shifting under the heat of her hand as it moved to his scarred cheek. Her fingers caressed his flesh, slid down to his neck. Her fingertips pressed against the heavy beating tattoo of his pulse.

"You have no idea how sensual it is to watch the vein throbbing in a man's neck when he is aroused. It beats in time to the throbbing of his shaft."

A whimper of longing burst from Conar's tightly compressed lips. His breathing came so fast, so heavy, so shallow. A tear of frustration fell down his cheek.

"Do you want me?" she whispered, leaning over him so he could look directly into her face.

Conar tried to turn his head, but she took his head in her hands and anchored it. "Don't," he begged, speaking through teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

"You don't want me?" Her lips pursed in a tiny pout of dismay.

"No." He groaned with concentration as he tried to will away his arousal for her.

She eased her thumb over his lips, circled their fullness, parted them, pulled down the lower one and rubbed the moist inner side.

He shuddered against her intimate invasion. He knew what she was going to do, had felt her sensual attack once before many years earlier. But when her fingers withdrew from his lips and he saw her slipping her index finger into the ripe redness of her mouth, he didn't try to turn away. The finger, wet with her saliva, moved again to his lower lip and spread warm, moist heat across his flesh.

"God!"

"You don't want me," she whispered, "but you need me." Her tongue flicked over his ear, making him jump.

"Stop taunting him," Sern demanded, moving to the side of the bed. "Can you not see what you are doing to him?"

Her teeth drew back in a snarl of pure evil. She turned toward the nomad. "He is mine to do with as I please, Jamar!" she spat, much as a jungle cat might hiss at an intruder. "Get away from me!"