PRINCE OF THE WIND (13 page)

Duncan made his way downstairs to the library, where his Overlord and Emperor Keito were playing chess.

"What was all that commotion about?" King Aidan inquired.

"Your son’s shirt. He took exception to her mauling it, I believe."

"His mother?" the Emperor inquired politely.

"Aye, Your Grace," Duncan acknowledged.

"So she’s returned?" Aidan asked as he moved one of his pawns.

"I was told she had and is sleeping," the Empress answered for Duncan. "The journey she took was most strenuous."

"I worry about her when she disappears like this," Aidan complained.

"Your lady is well protected, Milord," Duncan assured him. He looked at the Empress and smiled.

"Aye," the Empress agreed. "She has her sentinel."

"I have heard that word before, have I not, Beloved?" the Emperor asked.

"You have."

"Do I know what it means?"

"Perhaps you have forgotten."

"Enlighten me, please," was his request.

"Would you explain for my husband what it means, Sir Duncan?"

Duncan inclined his head. "A sentinel, Your Imperial Majesty, is a warrior chosen by a Daughter of the Multitude as her secret protector. A guardian, if you will, and a messenger. He is someone the Daughter will train herself in the ways she needs him to perform for her, bestowing certain limited powers on him so he might champion her when the need arises."

Keito Shimota nodded thoughtfully. "And are you Her Grace’s sentinel?"

Duncan smiled, amused. "If I were, Your Imperial Majesty, I could not confess to it, now could I?"

"Rightfully so." The Emperor looked up at Aidan. "Checkmate, my friend!"

Aidan’s brows drew together. "Damn! I never saw that coming."

"As I did not see my daughter’s desertion," Keito sighed and slumped on his cushion.

"Still no word of her and the boy, eh?" Aidan asked.

The Emperor shook his head. "How hard can it be to find two youths traveling on one horse through the Serenian Alps?"

"Harder than we anticipated, my love," his wife said softly.

There was a discrete knock at the door. Duncan went to answer. He spoke briefly with the visitor, then closed the door. "Your lady-wife and youngest son have gone walking, Your Grace."

Aidan grinned. "His shouts more than likely awakened her. Our son will experience the sharp end of her temper for doing so."

Duncan chuckled. "I have no doubt of that, Milord."

* * *

"Your trip was successful?" Riain asked his mother as they strolled down to the seawall.

"As successful as dealing with any Windweaver can be," she replied grumpily.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "You went to a witch?"

She shrugged. "A woman does what she has to do to protect her child."

Riain whistled. Things had to be worse than he thought for his mother to seek out the help of a Windweaver. She had always warned him about dealing with such creatures, for the sorceresses were more often than not allied with the Dark Ones.

"What price did you have to pay for this?" he asked, worried about the pact she might have been forced to sign.

"You do not need to know."

Riain tried to read her thoughts, but had never been able to do so. He had thought that when he grew older he might pilfer her ruminations when she was distracted—as she seemed to be this morn—but her mind was a dark veil, effectively hiding her thoughts.

"Stop that," she snapped, catching him trying.

He shrugged. "You’re too quick for me, Mama."

"No. Your skills are lacking."

Riain glanced at the low-flying clouds. "It looks like we’ll be in for some nasty weather before the day is through." When his mother did not reply, he turned to her. She seemed more preoccupied than usual. "Has something happened? Has the girl been found?"

His mother looked behind them where six armed guards were milling about, trying not to look conspicuous. She frowned. "I hate not having any privacy," she said between clenched teeth.

Riain had to agree. He objected to being followed as well, though he understood the necessity of it. "We could easily elude them."

She smiled. "We could, couldn’t we?"

He grinned.

She threaded her arm through his. "Then let us do so and have some peace! Take the three on the right. I will take the three on the left."

Riain grunted his reply and set his mind to clouding the thoughts of the men. With every ounce of his budding psychic powers, he willed them to wonder why they were following the prince and his mother in the first place. He made one have an urgent need to relieve himself, another sick to his stomach, and the third remember something vitally important he needed to do.

"Very good!" his mother complimented as the three men she had targeted turned in unison and began walking back the way they had come.

"Nothing to it."

She giggled. "Let’s find some privacy before someone else comes looking for us!"

Holding hands, the two raced down the beach and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

The chamber was lit only by a trio of tall black tapers set in golden candlesticks; the stygian walls dripped with moisture and smelled of peat moss and decay. Upon the cold stone floor, a pentagram had been drawn in the blood of the victim, whose lifeless body lay gutted on the black marble altar. Blood dripped down the altar base and polled at the feet of Suzanna de Viennes.

"Bid Him come, Mistress," the high priest whispered in her ear.

Suzanna turned her curious gaze from the body of her servant. In her hand was the athamé that had ripped open the young woman’s belly and the coppery smell of the innocent one’s blood was like perfume to her.

"Call Him!" the high priest demanded.

Going to the podium where the Book of Shadows lay open to the page assigned to the Invocation of Raphian, Suzanna began to chant. She had studied the words, made sure the pronunciations were correct, for she wanted no margin for error in her dealings with Raphian, the Master of Demons, Bringer of Storms, Destroyer of Souls.

As the princess of the Northwinds chanted, the room began to grow cold. The stench of brimstone flooded the chamber and a brisk wind set the candle flames to dancing.

"He is coming," the high priest sighed.

The stench grew overpowering, making Suzanna’s eyes water. The brisk wind became a howling banshee skirling about the damp walls. When the sound began, not even the shrill cacophony of the wind could drown out the buzzing of a multitude of angry bees.

She did not fear the entity that formed at the ceiling above her. She simply looked into that evil visage and drank in the sulfurous stink of the glowing green demon’s breath. The long, eel-like neck fascinated her as it undulated beneath the sharp triangular head. The elliptical red eyes and multitude of sharp teeth caused her no concern. When It spoke to her, the hissing sound simply amused her.

"What do you seek of me?" the demon rasped.

"I want Riain Cree!"

"And in exchange for my help?"

Suzanna dropped the bloody knife and reached toward the creature.

"Be careful!" the high priest gasped.

Acid that could melt human flesh dripped from the creature’s maw. The wicked teeth could snap the arm from Suzanna’s body, had the creature been so inclined. But all It did was cock Its hideous head to one side, lower Its thick, scaly neck, and let her stroke Its glowing hide.

"I want his body," Suzanna cooed. "You can have his immortal soul."

A loud purr filled the room—a wet sound, like a feline with distemper. The room grew colder still and the stench was so rife with the corruption of the grave, it was hard to draw breath. The creature lowered Its gigantic head until It could rub Its jaw along Suzanna’s. When she turned her head and planted a kiss on that putrescent flesh, the demon roared with delight.

"You are one of mine?" the demon sighed.

"I am Your handmaiden, Master," Suzanna whispered huskily. "Your will is mine!"

The demon’s maw opened wide in a grin. The triangular head soared on the eel-like neck until the top of it pressed against the ceiling. Raphian rubbed His oozing flesh against the stone like a cat scratching against his master’s leg.

"Raphian?" Suzanna whispered.

"Aye?"

"I love you."

The foundations of the keep shook with the laughter that boomed from the creature’s hideous maw. Acids droplets flew from the snapping jaws and landed on the stone floor to sizzle and pop. The godawful stench of rotting flesh washed over the chamber in a wave that staggered Suzanna de Viennes and nearly suffocated the retching high priest.

"Whatever you wish, I shall see will come to pass!" Raphian vowed.

"Bring him to me and make him mine for eternity. Make it so no rune can protect him from me!"

"And what will you give to me in exchange?"

"The life of the third daughter of the house of Shimota!"

"You have this female?"

"No, but I can tell you where she is, for my men are watching her." Suzanna gave him the hiding place of Miyoshi Shimota and her lover. "Take her worthless life, but bring the male traveling with her to me."

"For what purpose?"

Suzanna tittered. "He is a male. What purpose do you think, Oh Great One?"

The demon roared with laughter. "It shall be so!"

With a suddenness that seemed to draw every last waft of breathable air from the room, the demon fled, vanishing in a sulfurous blast of smoke.

Suzanna dropped to her knees, trying desperately to draw breath into her lungs. She barely felt the high priest lift and drag her from the Conjuring Room. He carried her into the corridor and fell with her against the cold stone wall.

"Do you realize what you have done?" the high priest hissed.

Suzanna could not answer, for she was trembling violently, her teeth clacking together. She vigorously rubbed her hand against her skirt, trying in vain to get the feel and stench of the demon from her flesh. When at last she was able to speak, her voice was a mere whisper.

"He will be mine. No other woman will ever know his flesh! It is worth any price to pay to have Riain Cree!"

She turned and vomited, the taste of the demon thick on her lips.

* * *

The young prince of Chale shook the rain from his thick black hair and helped his mother light a fire in the grate of the woodcutter’s hut they had found while trying to outdistance the deluge. Inside the hut, the air smelled of magnolias and spruce.

"Everything looks clean," Riain remarked as the flames leapt from the wood and spiraled up the chimney.

His mother held her hands to the fledgling fire. "Take off your shirt before you catch your death of cold."

He was soaked, Riain thought, though his mother had managed to stay relatively dry by tenting her shawl over her head. The hem of her gown was wet from the passage through the low-growing foliage, but her hair and bodice were only slightly damp.

"Thank the gods the rain was warm," he said as he worked the buttons of his shirt.

"I have a pinch of aslym in my reticule. Fetch some water and I’ll mix a treacle."

Riain wrinkled his nose. "I don’t think—"

"I do. I’ll not have you catching a cold, Riain James. You know how susceptible you are to such illnesses. Now, fetch the water."

"But it burns," he protested, thinking of the sharp taste of the astringent his mother was insisting on giving him.

"Aye, it will burn the cold spores and rid you of them. I’ve no desire to nurse you through another bout of wetlung."

Riain knew that once she had made her mind up to medicate him, he was fighting a losing battle. With a sigh of hopelessness, he found a cup on the eating table. He stared at it, silently cursing, until his mother reminded him the water would not fetch itself. He snatched up the cup and went on the shallow porch, where he held the cup out in the rain.

"You are such a child still, Riain James." His mother laughed when he rejoined her, a hangdog look on his face.

"I hate the taste of that stuff."

"Better a moment of distaste than two weeks of coughing and sniffling and spewing spores to the rest of us." She opened her reticule and withdrew one of the tiny vials she carried everywhere she went.

"You are a walking pharmacoepia, Mama."

"Lucky for you." She uncorked the vial and poured the contents into the water, then handed it to him. With a roll of her eyes and a snort of disgust, she watched him pinch close his nose and down the treacle in one quick swallow.

"By the gods that was foul!" he gasped, fanning his mouth. He sucked in his breath, his eyes watering, and began to cough.

She laughed. "Lie down before you’re carted off to the Gatherer!"

"Sweet Merciful Alel!" He stumbled to the bed and plopped down. "Are you trying to kill me, Lady?"

"The thought has crossed my mind on occasion."

The taste rocketing through his mouth was like that of green cherry juice, bitter and tart at the same time. So intense was the taste, it made him dizzy.

She came to stand over him. "What’s wrong?"

"I think you’ve done me in," he rasped. His head was spinning and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. "Mama?"

"There is no need to worry, Riain."

He tried to focus on her face and was alarmed that her image kept skittering off to one side. He closed one eye, then the other, then gave up and squeezed his eyelids shut. Digging his hands into the crisp clean covers on the bed to keep from falling off, he barely felt her hands on his forehead.

"Are you warm?"

"Aye?"

"Very warm?"

He pried one eye open and frowned.

"Is there a light buzzing in your ears? The sharp cherry taste of tenerse in your mouth?"

He tried to sit up, to roll over, but could do neither. All he could do was stare at his mother as she began to undress.

"What are you doing?" he choked out as he watched the gown slip to the floor.

"Don’t worry, my love," the woman said. "I will be gentle with you."

As Riain Cree stared in horror, the face of his mother vanished, replaced by that of a woman he’d never seen before. "Who are you?" he whispered before her hands went to the buckle of his cords.