WINDREAPER (33 page)

"You'd better leave, Conar," Roget said, quietly. "We don't need trouble right now."

With his heart aching, Conar entered the keep. Once inside, whisperings stopped, backs turned. He descended the stairs leading to the bowels of the keep and, for the first time, felt the cold seeping through him as he ventured into the dungeon. Also for the first time, he experienced the closeness of the damp walls, smelled the wet, musty odor invading his senses, which grimly reminded him of a grave.

He entered his cell and looked about, totally detached from what he was viewing. He slumped onto his cot, his hands dangling between his spread knees, his head lowered, his hearing closed to the far away drip of water echoing through the tunnels and cells. Sighing heavily, he brushed away the wicked betrayal of moisture easing down his cheek, smearing his tear across his cheekbone with the heel of his hand. The wetness felt hot and telling on his flesh.

He caught sight of the flask, Sern's special drug, partially hidden beneath a mound of wrinkled clothing.

He looked at it, despising it, needing it, hurting for it. Addiction twisted his gut, reminding him the monster in him needed feeding. In disgust, he reached for the flask, intending to throw it against the wall. But when his trembling fingers closed around the flask, his tongue automatically eased across his lips in anticipation of the sweet taste of mangoes and peace.

"No," he said, his tone forceful.

But the drug's allure called to him with siren sweetness—
Take me,
she crooned in her seductive, throaty whisper.
Take me and make me a part of you.

He uncorked the flask and brought it to his nostrils, breathing in the ripe mango smell. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to the whispers coming from the thick liquid.

You need me, Conar,
the drug seemed to remind him.
Who else do you have, now, but me?

His hand trembled. He tried to put the flask on the table, but it would not leave his hand. His fingers tightened on the neck. He brought the flask to his chest and clutched it to him, both hands molding themselves protectively around the promise it held.

How weak I am, he thought sadly, his right hand running down the flask's surface, caressing it. I can't even destroy that which is destroying me.

You need me,
the flask cooed.
Have your fill of me, Conar. I am all you have left.

He knew Liza would forgive him—she always did. But he knew he would never forgive himself for what he had done. Although he remembered nothing of what had happened, he knew he had used her like one of his whores, and the thought of her suffering as they had, made him sick to his stomach.

You hurt her, Conar,
the drug admonished.
You called her cruel names, took her against her will. You knew she was the same innocent woman she has always been, didn't you? You knew she had not intentionally betrayed you. She did not forsake the great love the two of you once shared. Her willingness to sacrifice her life to keep you from being shamed before your men proved that. How could you have ever doubted her?

He had lost her for all time. He had proven himself unworthy of that great love. He knew she would never belong to him again. Not after this.

Your brothers have turned on you, Conar,
the flask said.
Your men have lost their respect and love for you. You have been ordered from your home, again, and now there is nowhere you can go where the knowledge of what you have done will not be known. A rapist is a rapist—the lowest of the low. Taking a whore who well knows what she is being used for is one thing—violating a decent woman is another.

Sitting in the dismal surroundings of his self-imposed imprisonment, he felt guilt crash down on him with lightning speed. His attention lowered to the flask, and his mouth watered. He swallowed.

Go ahead, Conar,
his relief whispered.
There is no one who will care.
The voice turned smooth and sultry.
Go ahead. What are you waiting for?

He didn't hesitate.

With sweat clinging to his brow, he tilted back his head and let remorse guide his trembling hand to his lips. He drained the entire contents of the nearly full bottle, gagging as the liquid slid down his throat, threatening to make him vomit. He gulped convulsively to keep the liquid down, now hating the taste of over-ripe mangoes flooding his mouth.

He recalled Sern's warning of a few weeks earlier—"Each flask contains a two-week supply if you take it as intended, a week's worth if you absolutely have to have it. Be careful not to take more than two sips at the most within a four-hour period. The drug is deadly, otherwise."

Conar lay on the cot, his hands beside his head. There was an instant buzzing in his ears. His body grew warm, tingling, detached, the rash coming alive with a fiery lick of remembrance. The drug invaded his system with its numbing ocean of heat. His head started spinning, reeling, colors dancing brightly and alluring along his vision. He could pinpoint the very spot where the water was dripping, could smell the rust it was causing along a cistern pipe.

I am all you will ever need, Conar,
the drug whispered as it claimed him.
All you will ever, ever need.

The rash on his chest and arms was crawling over him, easing down his sides, his hips, his legs, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the buzzing, eerie lap of waves on an alien shore. Darkness began spinning at the corners of his vision, tunneling inward, and his tongue felt thick and dry inside his mouth.

Embrace me,
the peace told him.
Take me as you have your women, sweet Prince.

His breathing became deep, slow.

I will be your last,
the voice crooned.

He felt feverish, numb. Again, he heard Sern's words drowning out the lulling whispers of the drug—"Be careful, Milord. Be very careful with this drug. It can be deadly."

Deadly? Conar thought.

He hoped so. He truly did.

"What the hell difference does it make if he was drunk or numb with drugs?" Legion growled at Brelan. "He took her, Saur!"

"But he might not have known he was doing it," Brelan argued.

Legion nearly hit him. He shook his fist. "He
knew
!"

"Don't you see what must have happened?" Jah-Ma-El put in. "Did he remember killing those men? Do you remember Rylan telling you about the whore who came to the door begging money because she said he had hurt her so badly she couldn't work?" The aging warlock shook his head. "You even made a joke about it, remember? You said his sword was honed too sharp. Do you remember Roget telling you that Conar couldn't remember where he had been that night, let alone with whom. He was drugged on something that damned nomad had given him. I'd stake my life on it!"

"So would I," Roget added. "I was looking at his face when your lady was brought into the garden. He didn't understand any more than you did what had happened to her."

"He took her!" Legion repeated at the top of his voice. "What difference does it make whether he
remembers
doing it? The damage has been done!"

"Legion," Brelan sighed, plowing a hand through his dark curls. "He must have taken something last evening. He found those bastards trying to hurt Elizabeth and killed them, Liza told us as much. But he wasn't pretending—he truly didn't know he had killed them."

"And he does not remember hurting your lady," Shalu said. "I saw that much on his face."

"Then what is it you think I should do? Forgive him?" Legion bellowed with fury. "Tell him I've changed my mind and that he can stay? I will
not
! I want him gone and away from my wife!"

"I think we should talk with him," Jah-Ma-El told his brother. "You and Brelan and me. We're his family."

"What good will that do?"

"He needs help, Legion," Roget said. "If he is taking drugs—"

"There's no doubt!" Teal interrupted.

"Then that's all the more reason for us to help him," Roget shot back.

"He needs our help," Sentian stressed. "We failed him once." His gaze swept over Teal and Marsh Eden and Storm Jale.

"We are his family," Brelan cautioned. "We are his brothers, we are blood. He needs us and we can not turn our backs on him. Not this time."

Brelan and Legion made their way down to the dungeon. The gloomy, damp confines of the stone walls made Legion shiver. It was a singularly depressing place, at best, and had seen many men dead and broken within its walls. A smell in the musty air reminded Legion of a battlefield after a skirmish—the smell of the grave.

Legion frowned as something skittered across his foot and squeaked as it disappeared into the shadows. He listened to the distant sound of bats winging away in the farthest reaches of the evil place. He swept his notice over cobwebs and slick, oozing walls, over dust-caked sconces, and discarded debris along the pathway, then wondered for the hundredth time why Conar would chosen such morbid sleeping quarters. There were plenty of rooms in the keep.

Legion doubted if his brother even knew the reason he had chosen to live in a dungeon. But Legion knew it was this self-imposed exile into the hidden world of death and torture where Conar went to escape the reality of everyday life. Here, he could escape the hurt, the loss, the pain he refused to face above the stairs.

Such a life had been taken away from him, replaced with the one he had been forced to endure, and it was that dark life he had come to accept as being the norm. Conar had cloaked himself in the dreary, depressing bowels of the keep like some nocturnal animal hiding from the bright of day.

But in Conar's case, Legion realized, it wasn't the light of day from which he was hiding—it was the light of companionship and acceptance he shunned. Yes, Legion realized, the dark tomb offered Conar a haven into which he could escape from what had been done to his life, from what had been taken away from him, that which he no longer possessed.

Like Elizabeth.

Legion swatted a cobweb. "How can he stand this?"

"The liquor and drugs lend themselves more to the cold of the dungeon than the warmth of the parlor," Brelan answered. "He doesn't remember what this place did to him."

Legion understood, but doubted Conar did. Unknowingly, Conar had put himself back into the hellish clutches of Kaileel Tohre and the bastard who had run the Labyrinth. They had caged his body; now, that imprisonment had also caged his thoughts. Like the criminal they had branded him, he sought out the iron bars as his home, needing the ordered confinement like he needed the liquor. And the drug.

"Why would he take something like that?" Legion mumbled more to himself than to his brother. "Stupid!"

Brelan stepped over the carcass of a dead mouse. "He probably doesn't even know the answer to that question."

"That nomad—what's his name?"

"Sern."

"If he's been giving Conar drugs, I'll damned sure put a stop to it."

"How, Legion?"

"I'll cut off the supply!"

* * *

Brelan sighed, wondering how the people were going to react to Elizabeth's violation. That the news would be all over Serenia by week's end was a fair estimate of how fast gossip traveled when it dealt with the royal family. Few, he surmised, would think long or hard of it, though, preferring not to dwell on such matters. When they learned the truth behind Conar's actions, about his drug problem, the pity would filter through even the coldest heart and Conar would be forgiven.

He was, however, sure some people would condemn Conar. But most still thought of Elizabeth as Conar's wife, and perhaps would declare it retribution. Either way, the people of Serenia would forgive Conar most anything. After all, he was the true King of their homeland and Elizabeth McGregor
had
been his.

"He's always tried to take the easy way out, hasn't he?" Legion grumbled as they stopped at the closed iron door leading to the punishment cells.

"How do you mean?" Brelan asked, pushing open the door.

"You know damned well what I mean! With the liquor when he was younger, with every female he could lay his hands on. If he could use his sword to silence an enemy, he didn't bother discussing the situation. If things got too bad with Papa, he'd just simply disappear on us. He's always shirked responsibility and I think that's why he doesn't want the crown—it's too much responsibility!"

Brelan thought Legion might well have hit the nail on the head. Conar hadn't wanted to lead his men, either. "It doesn't matter. He's got to be made to see he can't keep running away from whatever is unpleasant. The liquor was bad enough—the drugs are worse yet."

When they entered the cell, they found Conar sleeping, his right arm hanging off the edge of the cot.

Legion glared at his brother. "He must be drugged out of his mind. He knew I meant what I said about him leaving!" He kicked the cot. "Get up!"

There wasn't a movement, nor a sound. Brelan pursed his lips with exasperation. "He's out of it."

Legion shook Conar. "Wake up!"

Conar's head dropped heavily to one side. He mumbled incoherently.

"He's really under." Brelan half-turned as Jah-Ma-El entered, a terrified Sern in tow, his thin arm clutched in Marsh Edan's steely grip. Brelan looked at the nomad with distaste. "How long does the stupor last?"

"It varies, Lord Saur," Sern stammered as Marsh thrust him into the room.

Marsh pushed past Sern, hushing the man's babbling, and knelt beside the cot. He looked at Legion for guidance.

"You know as much as we do," Legion said, stepping back.

Marsh lifted one of Conar's eyelids. His brows drew together in a dark scowl. He shifted his hand to the other eyelid, then placed a hand over Conar's chest. The scowl vanished. "He's barely breathing!"

Jah-Ma-El grabbed Sern as the little nomad was about to flee. "What did you give him?"

"Lord Jah-Ma-El, please!" the nomad squealed. "It was only a minor brew. Nothing that would harm him if he took it as directed. It's just a little something to ease his pains."

"Does it always do this to him?" Marsh asked, standing.

Sern's head bobbed to and fro, snapping like a sheet in a brisk wind. "Yes! Yes! Always! He sleeps deeply, but he can be awakened. Use some water. Sprinkle it on him. He'll come around."

Bent Armitage lumbered into the cell, nudging Brelan and Legion aside, making it clear he would be the one to do as the nomad suggested. He picked up a tumbler of tepid water and held it over Conar's face.

"Give me that!" Legion grabbed the water, ignoring the giant's hiss of displeasure.

Legion emptied the contents into Conar's face. There was a momentary flicker of the closed eyelids, a soft moan, but no other movement.

"Is that normal?" Jah-Ma-El shouted, flinging Sern to the edge of the cot. "You're telling us such lack of response is normal?"

Legion took Conar's face in his hands. He slapped Conar's cheeks, at first lightly, then with harder, more calculated strokes. "Wake up!"

Conar's lids opened, but the dark orbs rolled back in the sockets and the lids slipped shut.

"Damn it!" Legion snarled.

"What's wrong with him?" Brelan asked.

"Conar!" Legion shouted, dragging his brother up, shaking him violently. With his hand, Legion connected hard with Conar's left cheek, snapping the limp head to the right. "Damn it, man, wake up!"

Conar's lids opened. He ran his tongue over his lips. A slight groan came shallowly from his chest. "I'm…I'm leaving…Legion," came a thick, slurred whisper. "Won't…be…back…"

Legion shook his brother harder, dragging him up. "What have you done?"

Spying an empty flask on the floor, Brelan plucked it from the floor, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. His nose wrinkled. "What is this, Sern?"

Sern slid to the floor with hands extended, warding off the men. "I just gave him that last eve! I told him not to…he must have taken it all!"

Jah-Ma-El dragged the man from the floor and slammed him against the iron bars. "What did you give him, you bastard?"

"He must have spilled it, Lord Jah-Ma-El!" Sern stammered. "He must have spilled the rest of it. Surely he didn't take the entire flask. He knows how deadly the brew can be!"

Marsh Edan, his own addiction to a drug that had nearly taken his life when he was younger, seemed to realize what had happened. His voice sounded dull, lifeless. "Get him up. If he sleeps on, he'll never wake."

Jah-Ma-El looked to Bent. "Get ready the room he used as a boy. And send someone for Cayn." He turned to Marsh. "Have Gezelle make pots of strong tea. Legion, Brelan—get him to the showers. And you, you despicable little shit," he said, grasping Sern's burnoose, "show me what you gave my brother!" He shoved the nomad into the hallway. No one questioned Jah-Ma-El's instructions.

Together, Legion and Brelan lifted Conar, draping his arms over their shoulders. His feet sagged against the floor, while his head bobbed against his chest as they turned to leave.

"The water in the showers should be ice cold this time of year," Brelan quipped, shivering despite himself. "I don't fancy getting wet, but it's worth a try."

"Then we'll try," Legion answered, grimly.

They carried Conar through the dungeon's twisting passageways and into the back rooms of the jailer's barracks. His dead weight was hard to control. When they neared the closed doorway into the showers, they hesitated.

"Can you hold him?" Brelan asked.

"I—" Legion jerked as a disembodied hand reached past him and took hold of the doorknob.

He was tall—seven feet of hulking, menacing muscle as he opened the door and stepped inside the shower room. His bulk blocked the way.

"He has to be—" Legion began.

The strange man held out his arms. He put one giant hand behind Conar's neck and stooped to put the other under Conar's knees. He shifted the limp weight against him and swung around, heading for the showering chambers.

"Who the hell is that?" Brelan whispered.

The stranger positioned himself under one of the turned off showerheads. A second man, even larger than the first, slid past Brelan and turned on the flowing jet of ice water over Conar and the man who held him. They spoke to one another in a strange, guttural language, then went silent as three more hulking figures joined them.

Brelan's mouth dropped open when he recognized their loose-fitting trousers and tunics. "Outer Kingdom," he said in awe.

The three newcomers stepped into the shower and took Conar's limp body. They stood under the water, getting soaked.

Outside the showers, men milled about, speaking in low terms to one another, pointing at the Outer Kingdoms warriors, nodding in appreciation of their stamina as they took turns holding Conar beneath the ice-cold water.

"Heard tell they ain't human," one man said.

Brelan turned a sharp gaze to the man, who ducked his head in embarrassment. To Brelan, the news seemed to have spread like wildfire—Lord Conar had accidentally taken too much elixir the nomad had brewed for him. Brelan knew Conar would have been appalled if he'd known how much his secret doings were common knowledge.

Looking at the intense, eager faces, Brelan realized something Conar had not—his men loved him no matter what. There was no animosity in their looks, but only fear for Conar's safety engraved on their hard faces. Brelan had no doubt that a few of the more intelligent had figured out the overdose had been no accident.

Thom Loure and Storm Jale edged past the others.

Thom's big face scrunched into a worry line that obliterated his forehead. "How is he?"

One of the Outer Kingdom warriors spoke, his accent hard to understand, but one of the others haltingly translated for his fellow countryman. "He…go…around."

"Go around where?" Thom repeated.

"Come…around?" the man said painfully, stressing each word as though it were being pulled from his lips.

* * *

Conar groaned, shivering against the mighty chill cascading over and around him, saturating his clothing, dripping down his face. He jerked in spasms, his teeth chattering. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids only fluttered.

"Keep…under…shorter," a warrior said.

"Longer," another corrected.

Conar felt darkness reaching out for him with icy fingers. Grating, gruff voices spoke around him in a language he didn't understand. Their voices drifted away, but then he heard words, words spoken from far away…

Incantations…mantras chanted in dual voices…begging words, pleading words.

The two voices speaking were familiar to Conar's ear. He tried to make out what they were saying, but his mind refused to function. One part of him wanted to wake; the other part wanted the surcease the darkness offered.

Then he heard another voice—chanting, enjoining, and he strove harder to hear this voice, for it was as dear to him as the very life he had tried to throw away. He strained to hear, willing his malfunctioning mind to clear itself of its drugged cobwebs.

"Be…all…good."

The voice above him spoke in that strange, alien tongue, not pleasant on the ears. His eyelids fluttered open once, twice, three times. He tried to see who tortured him with such teeth-clenching words, but his eyes closed again.

He heard two more voices—voices he knew well. They added their spells to those already being intoned. The words began to blend instead of overlap. Conar again tried to wake, to see who was speaking.

"Open…eyes. Wake…soon…now."

Conar heard the chants coming to a close. The voices—two male, three female—reciting their words of protection over his soul, grew weak and tired. His lids swept upward. He looked up into a strange, unsmiling face.

* * *

"By all that's holy! Keep him awake!" Teal yelled as he came running forward. "Cayn's on his way, but says Conar will die if you let him sleep!"

"Know…what…doing…Romnie!" one of the Outer Kingdom warriors spat with dislike, glaring at Teal.

Teal glared back at the man who had called him the slang for
gypsy.
"Why you—"

Legion's upraised arm stopped him. "They're taking care of him."

Just then, Conar's body jerked in the men's arms.

"He's going into convulsions," Legion said softly.

Conar began to buck in the warrior's arms.

"Get him on the floor!" Cayn shouted, shoving his way into the room. "Put him down, now!"