WindSeeker (22 page)

The muffled scream through the black silk gag made Kaileel’s face turn pale.

* * *

Conar slowly raised his head and stared with white-hot rage at the man who entered his holding cell. His

hands were still bound behind him, attached to the stone wall beside him by a thin length of hemp so that

he could not get off the cot on which they had put him. His ankles were tied together, his knees drawn up

to his belly as he sat glaring at the intruder. The black silk gag was still in place and his mouth felt torn and

numb from the pressure. His light blue silk shirt was ripped at one sleeve, the laces pulled through the

fabric so that the shirt gaped open all the way to his navel.

"I haven’t long," Tohre whispered as he closed the cell door. "You must listen carefully to me, Conar."

He knelt on the moist floor beside Conar’s cot and withdrew a vial of purplish liquid from his robe.

Holding the vial up to the flare of the single torch lighting the cell, he saw Conar glance at the it. "This is

tenerse. It is a powerful drug. It has many purposes, but chiefly among those purposes is the ability to

deflect pain. You have some idea of what Tolkan has planned for you. I can’t stop him. I gave you my

word that this would not happen. I promised you. I tried to stop him, but you saw what happened. This is

the only way I can help you."

There was deep accusation before Conar deliberately looked away from his tormentor’s face.

"I may not be able to stop him from taking you to the Court, but I can lessen tremendously the severity

of what you’ll be subjected to this night. He has trusted me to prepare you with this." Again he held up

the vial. "Given with a touch of taro root, this will heighten your pain as he wants. Mixed with vinegar, as

this has been, it will have the opposite effect."

Conar refused to look at Kaileel.

"If I remove your gag, will you not make a sound? Will you take this without causing a fuss?"

Conar turned his head. Slowly, he shook his head in denial.

"Why?" Kaileel hissed. "I am offering you a drug to erase the pain of what Tolkan will do! You know

what he will do, Conar."

Again the blond head moved back and forth, the blue eyes hard with resolve.

"Is it that you don’t trust me?" Kaileel asked, but Conar continued to simply stare. "Are you afraid I

have lied again? I have not. This potion will help you get through the agony. Tolkan will hurt you, Conar.

He will put you through agonies you have only dreamed of. Please…" He stopped, for the young man

was violently shaking his head in refusal.

Tohre got up and sat on the cot, ignoring the way the prince tried to move away so their bodies would

not come into contact. He laid the vial on the floor and then he reached out to remove Conar’s gag.

Taking the prince’s face in his hands, he cupped Conar’s cheeks.

"Why? Tell me why you won’t allow me to help you."

Conar moved his jaw to ease the ache. He yanked his head from Tohre’s grip, gathered a mouthful of

saliva, and then spat in the High Priest’s face.

Tohre flinched. He didn’t wipe away the spittle, but moved his foot until his boot covered the vial of

tenerse.

He crushed the glass beneath his foot.

"I offered you my help and protection, and you refused," he said calmly. Getting up from the cot, he

stared at Conar’s set face. "You are on your own."

Conar’s voice was hoarse as he answered. "I always have been."

No one could help him. Not even Tohre. Tolkan had seen to that. One of the old man’s acolytes had

already made a trip into the cell. The taste of tenerse and taro root was still on his tongue.

Chapter 11

"Promise you will do as I ask and never reveal to anyone what I have requested of you."

Sentian Heil knelt beside the bed and took the soft hand offered to him. "I am yours to command,

Highness. I swear on the heads of my little ones that I will keep your counsel." He brought the slender,

trembling fingers to his lips and respectfully kissed them.

"I am ill, Sentian. I am too weak to do what must be done. I must have your help, and as one of Conar’s

Elite, I trust you to do my work for me."

"Whatever you ask, it shall be done, Milady."

Liza sighed. Her mother had just such a confidant in Belvoir. For as long as recorded time, the

Daughters of the Multitude had chosen brave, intelligent, and trustworthy men as Sentinels, Guardians.

The Grace of the Great Lady gave each Sentinel certain powers so that he could unerringly do his

mistress’ bidding. She squeezed Sentian’s hand and laid back on the pillow. His name, whispered to her

in the darkness by the Great Lady, made her asking all the easier.

"They think I do not know what Cayn did, but I do." At Sentian’s look of puzzlement, she shook her

head. "It doesn’t matter. It has made me weaker since, in taking a life, my life force was drained

somewhat." Her eyes softened as his frown deepened. "There will be many times when you won’t

understand the things I say, or the things I may ask, but you must never question them."

The young man placed his right hand over his heart. "I swear to you. On my honor."

She searched his honest, forthright face and made her decision. "I am of a group of women called The

Multitude. One of the Daughters of the Sea." She let go of his hand. "It is true we are sorceresses, but

our magic is of the good ways, not the black arts. I have need of a Sentinel, a Guardian, to protect me.

To do for me what physically I can not. In the language of my people, your name means ‘Protector.’ I

believe Belvoir sought you out specifically at my mother’s command. Her command came from the

Oracle at Shadowlands, our magical place. It is because the mistress deemed it so that I have chosen you

as my champion."

She was so weak, so tired. Her head ached and she felt feverish. A veil of mist clouded her vision

concerning Conar’s whereabouts and she knew that was, in part, because they had taken her amulet. But

Vanion, the familiar who had been given to her at her initiation into the Daughterhood of the Multitude on

her sixteenth birthday, was still with her. And his nagging voice, stilled somewhat by whatever vile charm

had been placed upon her, was telling her Conar was in terrible trouble at the Great Abbey of the

Domination. She sorely needed Sentian’s help.

"Tell me what you want me to do, Highness," Sentian vowed. He knew precious little about the sorceries

of the WindWarriors of his homeland, even less about the magic of their womenfolk. Being little more

than a serf, he’d had no dealing with the magi of Serenia, and had never thought to.

Liza patted his cheek. "My husband has you call him…?"

Sentian blushed. "He likes me to call him Conar, Highness."

"And I would prefer you call me Liza."

"I could not…" he began, but the young Princess put her fingers on his lips. "Shall I call you Mr. Heil?"

Sentian blushed an even deeper shade of red. "Nay, High…Liza."

"Good. Then we understand one another, my Sentian."

"Ask what you will of me and I will die before I let you down!"

"Go to Ivor Keep. Belvoir is there. He is my mother’s Sentinel. Bring him here to me. I will need the

three of you to bring my Beloved home from that vile place." Her voice grew weaker.

"The three of us?" Sentian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. "Who else is there? Where is it we are to go?

Where is His Grace?"

Her voice was a mere whisper. "Conar’s mother had a guardian here. He will go with you."

Sentian stood, drawing the coverlet over his mistress’ shoulders. He nearly screamed as a hard, heavy

hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and faced Hern Arbra, the Master-at-Arms of Boreas Keep.

Hern grinned. "Skittish, ain’t you?"

"You scared me," Sentian stammered and swallowed hard. The man must be wondering why he was in

the princess’ bedchamber. Alone. "I was asked to…"

Hern cut him off. "I reckon I’ll be going with you to get Belvoir." With disdain, his hawk-like gaze swept

over Sentian. "You ain’t much, but between the two of us, maybe me and Belvoir can make you a

Sentinel for the little princess." He jerked his head over his shoulder in demand that Sentian follow him

out of the room so Liza would not hear their conversation.

Once outside the door, Hern put a heavy hand on Sentian’s shoulder. "It’s a rare honor, indeed, that

you’ve been given. Not many men get the chance to serve the Multitude. Not a single one has ever

betrayed a Daughter’s trust." His eyes bore into Sentian’s. "Am I clear, brat?"

Sentian could feel the warning in Hern’s gruff words. "I would die before ever betraying either the lady

or her husband."

Hern nodded, taking the young man’s measure in an easy glance. "You’d best be knowing where the

prince is before you make such high-sounding oaths."

Sentian squared his shoulders. "It doesn’t matter, Sir. I would follow after him into hell!"

"And that’s exactly where we’re going!"

* * *

Kaileel could hear him screaming.

He stood beyond the door of the Court of Retribution and listened, made himself listen. His hands were

sweating; moisture dripped down his shoulder blades, in the center of his chest, and under his arms,

despite the fact that he was in the bowels of the Abbey and nowhere near a fire.

"How much longer will they be?"

Kaileel looked at the man who had spoken. "Until Tolkan is satisfied that Conar has been given the full

impact of the Retribution." He looked away. "It could be tonight, or it could be a week from tonight."

"That long?" The screams were getting on his nerves. He winced as another bloodcurdling howl came

from behind the oaken panel. "How long does it usually take to—"

"Until Tolkan is satisfied!" Kaileel shouted and pushed the man out of his way. "What the hell do you

care? You are the reason he is here!"

Galen’s face turned pale and he nervously glanced away. He had never intended for Conar to be

harmed. He didn’t think he would be; Tohre had said as much. Now, his twin was lying at the mercy of

Tolkan Coure. The screams were pitiful, soul-wrenching. To know they came from your own flesh and

blood bothered Galen more than he would have thought possible. To know he had been partially to

blame for causing Conar such grief did not set well on Galen’s thin shoulders.

"You can’t blame me for this!" Galen snarled. "You let Tolkan have him!"

"Do you think I had a choice?" Kaileel yelled. "It was out of my hands the moment he came to the

Brotherhood for help in getting back his wife!" His face twisted into a line of hard hate. "Something you

were directly responsible for causing! You wanted the bitch! You asked me to help you take her away

from your brother. I only did what
you
asked of me!"

"You would have killed her! You lied to Conar and lied to me. You had no intention of letting me keep

her!"

"I did not! Conar can be controlled through her. She is my only hold over him."

Another prolonged yowl of wavering agony ripped from behind the door and both men stilled. Galen

brought up his hands to cup his ears, but Tohre grabbed them, forcing them down.

"Listen to what you have caused with your lust, you worthless piece of cow dung! If he can withstand

the pain, you can withstand the guilt of having caused it!" He shoved Galen against the stone wall and

hurried away, tears in his eyes. Tears he had thought long dried up.

"You wanted him punished! You told me you did! You share the blame!" Galen shouted. He opened his

mouth to curse the High Priest, but another horrible bellow of pure terror and pain gripped him in a steel

claw of torment.

Galen beat on the door that led into the Court of Retribution. He pounded so furiously, his fists became

bloody.

"Conar!" he cried, heaving his body against the portal. "Conar, forgive me!" He slipped down the oaken

panel, his forehead scraping on the wood as he sat heavily on the cold, stone floor. "Forgive me," he

whispered, then buried his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

Tolkan Coure smiled, a smile as evil and vile as the darkest sin. He watched intently the ritualistic torture

being carried out before him. He looked upon the blood-splattered table on which Conar McGregor lay

spread-eagle and his smile widened. He followed the Retributionalist’s hands as they administered still

another punishment, inserted another rod, twisted it, and the young prince screamed long and loud.

Two more such punishments and they would be through with him. Two more like the eleven before and

Conar would be a babbling fool.

"His heart may not stand the strain, Holiness," one of the Retributionalists said. The priest spoke loudly

to be heard above the moaning, groaning and gagging coming from the bound man.

Tolkan took a few steps toward the table. He had refrained from doing so in order not to be splashed

by the blood and bodily fluids. He peered into the wild, pain-glazed eyes. He shrugged one thin shoulder.

"He’s strong. He’ll live. Carry on."

The next to the last punishment brought a hard convulsion of tremors from the victim and another loud,

agonized scream. The blond head whipped back and forth, and then tilted suddenly to one side. All

movement in the room stopped as the Principal Disciplinarian lifted one of Conar’s lids and then placed

his ear to the bare chest.

"Well?" Tolkan asked with annoyance.

The Principal Disciplinarian straightened up. "Merely unconscious, Holiness."