WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (38 page)

Nate nodded. "It was Suddith, but we changed it so we wouldn't be identified with the King."

Balizar's lips begin to move into a knowing grin. "The gypsy lads, eh?" His grip tightened on the younger man's wrist. "I remember now."

Nick made no offer to introduce himself. He stood there, his dark face heavy with a fierce scowl and directed his questions to Sajin. "Where is my brother?"

Sajin didn't like this man. There was something about him that set the Kensetti prince's teeth on edge. Azalon said he could be trusted, but Sajin wasn't so sure.

"Why do you want to see him?" Sajin asked. "He sent the others back to Serenia. If he didn't want them around him, he doesn't want you."

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Nick's chin rose threateningly into the air. His gaze narrowed dangerously and his powerful hands balled into tight fists. "Listen, you pog," he spat, ignoring Nate's gasp, "I'm going to give you exactly one minute to tell me where Conar is. If you don't ...."

"If I don't what?" Sajin returned the challenge.

What passed for a smile crossed Nick's craggy face. "If you don't, you'll regret it to your dying day."

The gauntlet had been thrown and every man in the stable yard held his breath as the Kensetti prince and the Diabolusian seaman stood in the broiling heat, squared off against one another, hate flickering in their steady glares.

"This isn't necessary," Azalon told them. "Nick, your brother isn't here. He's ...."

"He's not going to find out where Conar is," Sajin cut the former merchant off. His hand moved back to his waist and to the grip of his blade.

Nick's stare slid insultingly from the nomad's face to the weapon then lifted with disdain to settle with an unblinking glower directed at Sajin's steady gaze.

"You've a death wish, eh, pog?" Nick asked in a deceptively pleasant voice. "I can accommodate that." He reached for his own dagger, strapped to his meaty thigh.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Nate hissed. He rushed forward, putting himself between the two men.

"If this nomad is a friend of our brother's, he's not likely to tell us where he is, Nicholas, until we've proven to him we're no threat to Conar." He glanced at Sajin's set face. "Isn't that right?"

Sajin didn't bother to respond either with words or movement. He stood glaring back at the blond man who had at least fifty pounds and three or four inches of height on Sajin. He wasn't going to back down from this man, so if it was a fight the bastard wanted, Sajin was more than willing to give him one.

"He's not here," Azalon put in, hoping to forestall the duel he saw coming. "By the Prophetess, Nick, your brother isn't here."

"Where is he?" Nate asked, keeping between Nick and the nomad.

"We don't know," Asher responded to the question. "He left and wouldn't tell us where he was going. He's living at one of the monasteries. That much we ...."

Nick snarled, jerking his head toward Asher. "I know better than that! Conar would never go to a monastery of his own volition for
no
reason."

"It's not the same kind of monastery where I suspect you spent time," Sajin told the big man and was pleased to see that direct green gaze flicker with uncertainty.

Nate groaned. No one dared bring that particular subject up to Nick. Especially a man Nick was intent on disliking and more likely than not wanted to maim.

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?" Nick grated.

"Conar is my friend," Sajin answered. "He and I have a few things in common." The Kensetti's own gaze wavered. "Some things I suspect you and I have in common, as well."

Nate turned his attention slowly to the nomad. There was pain in that handsome dark face.

He wondered if Nick saw it and recognized it for what it was. He should, Nate thought, it was in his own face and had been since his childhood. It was a look that never seemed to go away no matter how old, or how wise, Nicholas Beriault became.

Nick's hand came reluctantly away from his weapon although his glower did not move away from the nomad's carefully blank face. He studied the man a moment, scanning his face, probing the truth of his words, then nodded. "Which monastery?' was his only concession to giving up his desire to fight.

Sajin exhaled a quick breath. "We don't know. He wouldn't tell us."

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"Why not?" came the gruff question.

"He wasn't well," Azalon answered for his leader. "We suspect he was even more ill than he had let on to us."

Nate and Nick exchanged a quick look, then Nick made his demand, "Tell us about it."

Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 171

Rain splattered against the stone walls of Sybelle's home and set her teeth on edge. She had been in her suite of rooms most of the day, keeping away from the Outlander, trying to decide what she should do. Her desire for him had grown steadily over the last five months since she had had him brought to her keep, Djebel ed Kjinn, near Helix in the province of Deimwan. Unfortunately, he had shown no inclination to respond to her blatant sexual overtures although she knew the man was more than aware of them.

"Damn you, McGregor," she seethed as she threw a pomegranate against the wall of her bedchamber. The pithy fruit exploded and ran down the wall, its seeds plincking to the floor in patters almost as annoying as the raindrops.

He had free roam of the keep, now, she thought with mounting frustration. She allowed him to wander outside with one or two protectors in attendance to keep him safe from wandering off or being attacked by viper or beast. She had provided as much comfort for him in his suite of rooms as his infirmity would allow and had even taken to sending Kanan into Helix for food supplies with which her chef could tempt the Serenian to eat. She had all but given the man a horse and guide to stir him back to Abbadon, a few hours ride from the mountainous regions of Deimwan. What more could he want?

Perhaps, she mused as she flung herself down on a group of multi-colored silk cushions, the man wanted what she, as yet, could not give him: power over her, herself. They still sniped at one another, swapping insults that had by now become so routine they meant nothing. She had stopped trying to intimidate him, but she would not relinquish the upper hand by allowing him to have even a modicum of independence without her granting it to him. He was still subject to her moods and humor and often as not rebelled against her power over his life. He loudly voiced his objection to being subjugated, constrained to do as she bid him, but he no longer tried to physically challenge her power over him. He had learned that lesson well enough when she'd been forced to have Chaim lock him in the well house until he agreed to her demands.

"Your Grace?" Chaim inquired as he scratched at her door.

Sybelle pounded the pillows with her fists, then got up to unlock the door. "What?"

"He wishes to see you," the servant told her.

Her eyes narrowed. "And what does he want now?"

"He would not tell me," Chaim answered.

She was of half a mind not to go, but, despite her best intentions, she ached to be in the same room with the man. Just to see him, hear his soft, gentle Serenian drawl, so seductive in its volume and sweet tone, that she found herself actively looking forward to their next battle of wills.

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment," she responded, her heart already racing. It was rare for him to call her to him.

Chaim bowed politely and withdrew. He had not missed the look of excitement on his mistress's face. No one in the keep had not seen it of late and yet none would dare comment on it.

He knew the servants had wagers on when their lady would finally give in to the sexual needs the Serenian had aroused. There was not a servant in the keep who did not wish it to be soon for the lady's temper had gone from bad to worse in the last few weeks.

"Why doesn't she just have you strip him then impale herself on him?" he had heard one of the cleaning women ask Kanan. "He can not deny her if he is bound to his bed."

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"I would hold him down myself if I could get a ride from him, as well!" another of the women had sighed.

"She'll not have any other way than with him willing," an old servant woman had giggled.

"Too much pride in our lady to take a man who doesn't want her."

Chaim wasn't so sure the Serenian didn't want their lady. He'd wager a few coppers that the man was becoming almost as tense with a need of his own as the Princess was. Despite his growing weakness, Conar McGregor was still a vital man with a vital man's needs. It would be an act of mercy for both mistress and prisoner if the two of them could get on with what a man and woman naturally did to one another in such a situation.

Sybelle dabbed a potent perfume made of crushed mimosa flowers behind her ears and at the base of her throat. A generous splash was applied to the tender crook behind her knees and at her temples, as well. She checked her appearance in the mirror although she knew he could not see the pains she had taken to perfect her hair and makeup. His sense of smell was so acute now, that she would have to depend on that alone to arouse the passions in him that she wished to have him respond to her own growing desire to have him in her bed.

"Please, Mosen," she begged her Prophetess. "Make him want me as I want him."

She was almost at his door when she heard a thunderous crash from inside his chamber.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest and she rushed in, coming up short when she saw him on the floor, kneeling on all fours, his head hanging down. She stood transfixed as he tried to push himself up, wobbling back and forth on his knees, but making no headway. Sybelle was about to go to him when he lifted his head and seemed to be looking at her through the constriction of his blindfold.

"Are you enjoying this, milady?" he asked in a bitter voice.

Sybelle's wayward tongue claimed her judgment and she rattled off an answer before she could stop it. "A woman always enjoys having a man prostrated at her feet, McGregor." She dug her nails into her hands, wishing she could snatch the flippant words back for she saw his head lower as though in defeat.

"Aye," he said on a long breath. "And you have me where you want me, don't you, Your Grace?"

Conar tried to push himself up, but his legs would not obey him. His arms were losing their strength and he was trembling. He collapsed on the floor with an oomph of helplessness.

"What's the matter with you, McGregor?" she asked. She was aware of a niggling fear growing in her gut. A part of her wanted to go to him, to help him up, but another part warned her not to show such compassion. That compassion was the last thing he either wanted or needed at that moment. "Get up."

Conar ground his teeth together and pushed himself up from the floor so that his chest was not touching the thick pile of the carpet. He tried scooting forward, hoping to rock back to his knees and eventually push himself all the way up, but there was no reaction from his legs. They felt dead. Numb. Totally without movement.

"What happened, anyway?" Sybelle asked, seeing the table where he usually took his meal lying on its side, the remains of his morning meal scattered about the floor. "Have you no concern for my china? Have you any conception of how much that dinnerware cost me?"

Her acerbic tongue was like a prod to his manhood and he growled a vulgar reply before trying once more to push himself up. He might as well have saved his strength for he could not do so and he was growing steadily weaker as he tried.

"For the love of Mosen, McGregor!" Sybelle taunted him. "Get up!"

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Conar tried dragging himself along the floor, but with his legs not working and the strength in his arms fading, he couldn't. Twice he tried and twice he was defeated. He slapped at the floor with the palm of his right hand and then tried again. He collapsed to his face.

"Do as you are told, McGregor. Get up!"

Real fear had managed to grip Sybelle. She knew he was not playacting. The lower portion of his body was motionless against the floor, his legs splayed out as though he were a rag doll having been tossed from a child's window to the ground. His arms trembled violently as he tried to drag himself and he was sweating profusely with the effort. She jumped as he slammed his fist down on the floor. Then slammed it down again and again, his furious bellow loud enough to wake the dead.

"I can't!" he yelled, repeatedly striking the floor. "Damn it! I can’t. I can’t!"

With her heart beating so loudly in her chest she could hear each thud, Sybelle went to him, kneeling down beside him. She half-lifted him up so that he was once more on his knees. Her arms went around his back, clutching his side as she held him to her.

"Chaim!" she yelled. She knew she would never be able to lift him to his bed or even support his weight should she by some random chance get him to his feet. "Chaim!"

"Oh, god," she heard him whimper. His entire body was shuddering with what she instinctively knew was fear.

"It will be all right," she soothed him. Her arms tightened around him. "It will be all right."

His head hung down between his quivering arms and he shook it violently. "No. No, it won't. Not ever again."

Sybelle listened to the grief building in his voice, heard the tears coming. She pulled him to her so that his head rested in her lap. "I will make it all right for you," she swore to him. "That I promise you!"

Conar didn't hear her. In his mind, he was as good as dead. Not only could he not see, he could not feel anything from his waist down and even his arms were becoming numb. His life, as he had known it, was ending.