WindSeeker (28 page)

then knelt beside Conar. He put a gentle hand to the prince’s cheek. "Your…" He corrected himself.

"Conar?"

Conar’s ears popped with discomfort. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He tried to focus on the face

wavering before him and was able to make out a few disjointed words: "home," "help me, now," "will get

you out of here." The face finally floated clearly into his vision. He tried to place the man hovering over

him.

"It’s me, Milord. Sentian."

"Senti?" he whispered and his voice was like a rusty gate.

" ’Tis me. Can you walk?" Sentian saw the blond head shake in denial. "Then I’ll carry you." He took

the length of rope Galen had given him and reached down to wrap it around Conar’s wrists.

"Don’t," came the fearful reply. "Don’t tie me up again."

Sentian looked into Hern’s suddenly still face. Hern’s eyes filled with tears as he stared at Sentian.

"You’ve got to do it, brat. There’s no other way to get him up the ladder." He took Conar’s wrists,

crossing them in front of him and holding them for Sentian to tie.

"Please…" the pleading was heartbreaking. "Please, don’t."

Sentian quickly looped the hemp as tightly as he dared around the injured wrists, flinching as the rope

pulled open the raw, oozing flesh.

"You’re hurting me, Senti."

"He ain’t meaning to, brat," Hern said softly. He put his hands under Conar’s armpits and pulled the

semi-conscious man up with him as he stood. Sentian ducked and Hern placed Conar’s bound arms

around the young Elite’s neck. "Get up them steps in a hurry!" He grasped the ladder in one thick paw as

he started to heave himself up. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he levered himself out of the hole and

fixed Galen with a piercing, furious glare. "I could kill you!"

"Not you, too!" Belvoir snorted, keeping Hern away from Galen.

It wasn’t easy going up the ladder. Sentian was relieved to see Hern bending over the opening, waiting

to take Conar’s limp body. The older man gripped the prince under his arms and lifted him free, and with

Galen’s aid, laid him on the stone floor.

Conar’s head rested against Hern’s wide shoulder as the man knelt beside him and cut through the

bonds at his wrists. He managed to lift his thankful gaze into the hovering face. "I’m all right, Hern," he

croaked and was rewarded with Hern’s grunt of disbelief.

"You’ll be all right once you’re safe in your own bed with me at your side!" Hern sniffed and ran the

sleeve of his tunic under his nose.

Belvoir glanced at his old friend and saw the tears on the weathered cheeks. "Get yourself together,

man!" He scooped Conar up in his arms as though the prince weighed no more than a feather. "Let’s get

the hell out of here before someone comes looking for His Grace!"

Once outside the ceremonial rooms, the men wasted no time in winding their way through the long,

smoke-filled corridors to the entrance of the underground complex that housed the Chambers of Magic.

It seemed strange to Hern that no guards were about. He mentioned it to Galen.

"There’s no need. No one but those of the higher orders of the Domination know where this place is.

The rest of the men here are never allowed outside these walls. What do they need guards for? The

Abbots and Prelates control what needs controlling through magic. Your crystal has hidden us well

enough.

"Don’t borrow trouble by thinking about why we are getting along without hindrance." He glanced at

Conar’s limp form. "He’ll have to ride with one of us." Galen scanned Conar’s bruised face. He’ll never

be able to sit a horse on his own. He’s too ill."

"Don’t you worry!" Sentian growled. "You won’t have to hold him!"

"That wasn’t what I meant!"

"Shut the hell up!" Belvoir insisted. "I’ve had all the yap out of you two I can take!"

"The brat will ride with me!" Hern insisted.

"I can sit a horse," Conar mumbled, but none of the men paid any attention.

Sentian ran ahead as they caught sight of the tunnel leading into the hidden cavern. By the time the others

joined him, he had the doorway open and was holding the reins of Hern’s horse.

"I’ll hold him until you get in the saddle." Belvoir thrust out his arms.

Hern mounted and bent low in the saddle to take Conar from Belvoir’s arms.

Conar felt a slight throbbing in his wrists as Belvoir handed him up to Hern, but ignored it. Nothing really

seemed to be bothering him. He thought he could ride well enough, despite the fact that he couldn’t seem

to keep his head up or his eyes open. Why wouldn’t they let him have his own steed? "Seayearner?" he

questioned softly.

"What, brat?" Hern asked, bending his head to catch the words.

"My gods-be-damned horse, Hern," Conar mumbled. "I want my gods-be-damned horse."

"His what?" Belvoir questioned.

"His horse!" Hern said with disgust. "That damned black hell-steed of his."

"It’s corralled inside the Abbey grounds!" Galen gasped. "We can’t get it. Even if we could, that brute

wouldn’t let any of us get near him!"

"I can," Sentian assured him. From his tunic, he withdrew the rose-colored crystal. "Give me ten minutes.

If I’m not back, ride out."

Hern glanced at Belvoir, heard Conar’s whisper of denial, looked back at Sentian, and grinned. "Go for

it, brat!"

"No," Conar moaned. "They’ll catch him, Hern."

"No they won’t." Hern watched the young Elite slip silently up the pathway and disappear around the

bend where torchlight spilled over the rocky roadway.

It took less than five minutes for Sentian to come walking nonchalantly down the pathway with

Seayearner in tow. His full lips were wide with a smirking grin.

"Walked this"—he smirked at Galen—"
brute
, right past four guards at that gate. Opened the gate

myself and danced through without them even seeing the portal open or close. ’Yearner didn’t make a

sound." He patted the velvet nose. "Knew I was coming, didn’t you, boy?" The horse nodded as though

it understood. "We just waltzed right out—"

"Get yourself mounted, Heil!" Belvoir snapped, his lips twitching, "and stop bragging." His eyes slid over

Sentian. "It don’t become you, brat!"

Sentian raised his chin. "I am no brat, Belvoir."

Hern snorted. "I guess not."

Belvoir mounted, and gathered Galen’s horse’s reins. Sentian swung into his saddle and trotted forward

with Seayearner in tow.

Galen stood where he was, his face suddenly pale. "You’re leaving me?"

Belvoir heeled to his stallion’s flanks and headed down the incline, Galen’s mount behind.

"You can’t leave me, Hern!" Galen’s voice was hushed with shock. "They’ll kill me!"

Sentian laughed."You think we care?"

"They’ll take you in your brother’s place," Hern reminded. "I find that fitting, you arrogant little pimp!"

"You can’t do this!" Galen put his hands on Hern’s leg. "Please, you can’t do this!" He saw his brother

regarding him with detachment as the blond head leaned against Hern’s wide chest. He had no way of

knowing Conar was almost totally unaware of what was happening. "Conar, please. Don’t let them do

this!" Hern nudged his horse forward, bumping the animal into Galen, knocking him out of the way. "You

promised me sanctuary!"

"Stop," Conar whispered, trying to gain Hern’s attention. He felt something wasn’t right.

"Tolkan will torture me for this!" Galen cried, his hands clutching Hern’s leg as he ran beside the older

man’s horse. "You promised!"

"You’re staying," Sentian took delight in saying.

Conar’s mind was foggy, his eyes rolling about in his head as he tried to get them to work properly; but

there was nothing wrong with his heart. They couldn’t leave Galen at Tolkan’s mercy. "Hern, stop," he

ordered, trying to raise his head. His voice was scarcely audible and he tried again, this time as loudly as

his parched throat would allow. "Stop."

"Hern!" Galen shouted, disregarding the threat of someone at the Abbey hearing him. "I don’t want to

die, Hern!"

"But you’re going to," Sentian assured him.

"No," Conar said, his throat closing on him. Despite what Galen had done, had helped to do to him, he

couldn’t let Tolkan get his hands on another McGregor. "No," he tried again, annoyed when neither Hern

nor Sentian seemed to hear him. "Stop this horse, Hern."

"Conar, please! I don’t deserve this!" Galen fell as Hern kicked him away, going to his knees in the

rocks strewn over the pathway. He held up his hands in supplication. "Please!"

"Stop, Hern," Conar whispered as loudly as he could. His words came out in a single rush of air and his

head fell forward.

"Conar!" Galen pleaded.

"Don’t leave my brother," Conar mumbled, trying to stay conscious. His lids would not obey. His last

thought was of Galen and the pitiful, moaning, keening cry that echoed after them:

"Conar…r…r…r!"

* * *

Brotherhood. He had argued long and hard with the Arch-Prelate, but Tolkan had insisted Tohre resume

his duties at the Temple to take away any suspicion that the Domination knew the whereabouts of the

prince. The High Priest had been only mildly reassured that Conar would suffer no more physical torture.

The healing potion Kaileel had given the man had been meant to make sure Conar suffered no pain while

away from Tohre’s protective influence.

His hate, and envy, of Tolkan Coure’s position in the Brotherhood, were the main reasons Kaileel did

not trust the Arch-Prelate’s words concerning Conar’s well-being. Tohre hated the old man with almost

as much reason as did the young prince. Tolkan had been Tohre’s sponsor many years earlier and

Kaileel had never forgotten the agony he had suffered at the hands of the, then, Cardinal of Ordination, a

position Tohre now held within the Brotherhood. Leaving Conar in Tolkan Coure’s care was not

something Tohre had wanted to do.

When Conar had been interned at the Abbey, Tolkan had relentlessly tormented the boy. His

punishments of the child were spoken of in hushed whispers. The boy was battered so badly, so

thoroughly, so expertly, that long before he left the Abbey, his spirit had been broken. Treated so,

confined as Conar had been, even the strongest mind would bend. Conar’s had not only bent, it had

snapped, and the boy had tried to kill himself.

Tolkan’s conduct had appalled even the most hardhearted among the Brotherhood and Kaileel had been

finally forced to go before the Tribunal of Conduct and the Arch-Prelate of that era, Sager El-Balidar, to

keep the boy alive. Such intervention among the members of the Brotherhood was rare. Only once, in its

centuries-old tradition, had any other member been censored by his brethren. Occultus Noire—his name

never spoken again within the Domination’s society—had been cast out by his fellow priests, and

defrocked.

When the Tribunal of Conduct ruled in favor of Tohre’s charges against Tolkan, had ordered any access

to the prince, any contact with him, denied to the old man, Tolkan vowed vengeance. And, not being

able to take that vengeance out on Tohre, had taken it out on the child in the form of an Abbot who

owed his allegiance directly to Tolkan. His revenge had almost cost Conar his life.

Since early childhood, long before Conar had been sent to the Temple of the Wind at Century, the boy

had developed an intense fear of enclosed places. His phobia was so strong, so all-pervasive, all you

needed to do was threaten him with confinement to gain the boy’s immediate cooperation. Tolkan had

only once used such a corporal punishment on the child, had seen its destructive capability, and had not

used it again. He wanted the boy submissive, not mindless; but once the child had been taken from

Tolkan’s hands, it mattered next to nothing to the old man whether the boy was capable of functioning as

a normal human or simply left to stare mindlessly into space. So, as his ultimate revenge against Tohre,

Tolkan ordered the Abbot of Discipline to remand Conar to the ceremonial chamber where recalcitrant

boys were dealt with. Within that chamber was the ultimate horror for the young prince.

They say the Abbot who took Conar to the Chamber of Discipline that morning smiled when he had the

acolytes force the screaming boy into the black oblong crypt used to deter stubbornness. He stood with

a malicious grin on his weathered face listening to the babbling, incoherent words pouring from the child’s

mouth, the pleading, the begging, the tearful entreaties, and had nodded in satisfaction. He had turned to

one of his helpers and laughed.

"If he comes out alive," he said as the crypt’s stone lid slipped into place to shut out all light, all warmth,

all air, "he’ll never give us another moment’s trouble." He patted the stone sarcophagus where dozens of

unwilling victims of the Domination’s vengeance had died in an agony of breathless horror. "He won’t

bother anyone ever again!"

One acolyte, bothered greatly by what he was helping to do to Serenia’s future king, made his way to

Tohre’s chambers. Nearly killing themselves in the headlong rush to get to the boy, Kaileel and the

acolyte had pulled the eleven-year-old, unconscious and breathless, from the crypt. Conar’s eyes had

stared in horror, his limbs stiff and rigid and cold, his mouth opened in a silent scream of terror.

Kaileel had placed the boy on the replaced lid of the crypt and had breathed life into the bluish lips, and