WindSeeker (3 page)

on one of his dress tunics.

Legion glanced at the Captain of the Elite. "Not yet, but I’ve been holding my breath."

Teal got up and walked to the window, looked out at the recruits Sir Hern Arbra was putting through

their paces. "Maybe that’s what Conar wants us to do."

"Knowing that shitty little brother of mine," Legion quipped, "you may be right, friend Teal."

"Don’t get complaisant, though," Thom warned. "If you do, he’s sure to strike when you least expect it."

"He’ll do so at his peril," Legion groused. He stood, stretched his aching muscles, and joined Teal at the

window. "Belvoir still here, Thommy?"

Thom nodded. "He’s training the squires this week." The tall man shrugged his slumped shoulders. "Glad

I ain’t in training no more. That man’s the very devil."

"Worse than Hern?" Legion asked, looking around.

Thom glanced up from his sewing. "There’s some that say he is. Storm and Marsh had to do their annual

physical last week. They told me Belvoir nearly ran their asses off on the field." He grinned. "Heard tell he

told them if they was gonna be protecting the young Prince, they had to be in better shape than the boy’s

enemies."

"He’s got enough of ’em," Legion sighed, turning away. He sat in a chair by the fire and stared moodily

into the leaping flames. "You’ve heard the rumors about the Hasdu’s putting a bounty on Conar’s head,

haven’t you?"

"Conar doesn’t believe those rumors," Teal answered. "He thinks Galen’s behind most of it. At any rate,

it ain’t a death bounty. From what I hear, the bastards want him alive and well."

"So they can toss him in one of their prisons and throw away the key," Thom put in. He looked up, his

forehead crinkling. "If these rumors are true, why do you reckon they want him?"

Legion shrugged. "Serenia never has been on friendly terms with any of the Inner Kingdom emirates.

Maybe they think if they got Conar, they’d have leverage along the trade routes."

Teal shook his head. "It’s more than that." When both men glanced at him, Teal blushed. "Just a feeling."

"What kind of feeling, gypsy?" Legion scoffed. "As you keep telling us, you don’t have the sight your

mama possessed. If you did, you’d win more often without having to cheat!"

Teal sneered. "I don’t have to cheat, A’Lex, to lose!"

"What kind of feeling?" Thom echoed. "You feel something may be truthful in the rumors?"

A dark look passed over Teal’s face. "I can’t explain it, Thommy. I just think there’s more to what the

Hasdu’s want from Conar than just security for their shipping. I don’t think we’ve heard the last from

those bastards that killed Rayle."

Thompson Loure’s face hardened and his black, beady eyes took on a glint of steel. "I’d like to find the

bastard what ordered my brother’s death." He crushed the tunic in his huge paw of a hand. "I’d tear him

apart!"

"We may get the chance one day," Legion told him. "If these rumors are more than just that, we may

have more to worry about than just Galen’s puny threats against Conar. Galen isn’t a real problem; we

can handle him. But the Hasdu are another matter altogether!"

Chapter 2

The days at Boreas Keep stretched into long hours of laughter and happiness for the young Prince of

Serenia. The nights of love in his big oaken bed were too short. His smiles warmed the chill days and his

boyish laughter lightened even the darkest of nights as he sat at the harpsichord with his lady and coaxed

her into singing "The Prince’s Lost Lady" with him.

"You are happy, aren’t you son?" his father asked one evening as he passed Conar on the stairs.

"Happier than I have any right to be, Papa." Conar embraced his father, surprising the man. "Happier

than I ever thought I would be."

King Gerren stood on the steps, looking after his favorite son as the boy skipped down the stairs like the

child he had never been. Gerren turned his eyes to the portrait of his wife and smiled. "He’s going to be

all right, Moira. Our boy is going to be all right, after all."

* * *

Conar poked his head in the kitchen door and looked around. He caught Sadie watching him and

smiled. "Did my lady come through here?" he asked, walking over to see what Sadie was making.

"Don’t you have better things to do than snoop about my kitchen?" the old woman snapped.

Conar draped a loving arm around Sadie’s stooped shoulders. "Where’s Liza?" he asked, aware the

cook would know.

"Going about her business, I’d think!" Sadie sniffed, moving out of his light embrace. "Such as what you

ought to be doing instead of bothering folk."

"You wound me, Sadie." He reached out to pick up a bit of pastry she was rolling. He found his fingers

soundly smacked by her spoon and drew them back with a grimace. "That hurt," he protested and

brought his knuckles up to suck on them.

"Then don’t be putting your grubby paws where they ought not to be!" Sadie growled. She bumped him

with her hip. "Get out of my kitchen and leave me be, boy!"

Before the old woman could react, Conar planted a wet kiss on her weathered cheek. "I love you, too,

Sadie MacCorkingdale!" he whispered. He winked at her look of surprise and left the kitchen, whistling.

Sadie snatched up a rag and scrubbed vigorously at the place on her cheek where the young Prince’s

lips had branded her with a fire hotter than the flames in her cook stove. "Little bastard!" she hissed.

"You don’t like him, do you, Granny?"

Sadie turned, her angry eyes softening as her tow-headed sixteen-year-old grandson slipped out of the

pantry where he had been hiding. "I’d forgot you was in there, Robbie," she said, holding out her ample

arms to the lad.

Robbie MacCorkingdale let the old woman hug him, although he didn’t like the feel of her withered,

flabby arms around him.

"You gonna stay and have some supper with me?" Sadie asked as she ran her arthritic hand up and

down his taut back.

"I got to get back to the Temple," he said, easing out of her embrace. "Master Tohre is expecting me to

help him this eve."

Sadie frowned. She didn’t like the High Priest. There was something about Kaileel Tohre that worried

her and she especially didn’t like her grandson living at the Temple in Corinth with the man.

"You didn’t answer me, Granny."

"About His Nubs?" she scoffed. "No, Robbie. I don’t like the pompous little bastard."

Robbie’s face took on a sheen of hero worship. "But he’s the Prince Regent, Granny. He’s going to be

our King one day."

"So everybody keeps reminding me!"

Robbie’s smile faded. "Won’t that be a good thing?"

Sadie shrugged. "With that one, you can never tell what he might do." Her face softened and she sighed.

"You’re sure you can’t stay?"

Robbie shook his head. "But I’ll be back in a few days."

"That’s a long ride to Corinth, lad."

"It’s worth it to see you." Robbie didn’t tell her it wasn’t her he was there to see but the young Prince

who he’d been ordered to keep an eye on.

"Note everything," High Priest Tohre had ordered. "I want to know everywhere he goes, what he does

when he gets there, who he sees. What his plans are for the next week. If you hear of him planning to

leave the keep without that bitch of a wife, I want to know immediately. Do you hear me, Robert?"

Young MacCorkingdale had done exactly as the priest had ordered, keeping as close an eye on the

young Prince as he could without being found out. It was a task he didn’t mind, for he was in awe of the

twenty-one-year-old heir to the throne. Everything the Prince did only made the young man admire him

more.

"Don’t let him fool you," Tohre had warned. "He’s not the hero you think him."

But Robbie disagreed. To him, Conar McGregor could do no wrong. He was loyal to his people;

devoted to his wife; beyond corruption. If there was anything Robbie was sure of, it was Prince Conar

McGregor’s steadfastness in the face of every temptation placed in his path. He was strong, powerful.

No man could bring the young Prince down from the pedestal on which Robbie had placed him.

"I’ll tell you about him sometime," his grandmother said as he opened the door to leave.

"Who, Granny?"

"Conar McGregor." His name on her lips sounded like a curse. "When you’re ready to know of it, I’ll

tell you all about him."

Robbie’s brows drew together. "Something bad?" he asked, but he didn’t think that could be. His hero

was incapable of doing anything bad.

"We’ll talk," his grandmother answered cryptically.

On his long ride back to the Wind Temple at Corinth, Robbie wondered at the old woman’s mysterious

words and the look of pure hatred he had seen in her watery eyes.

* * *

Something wasn’t right.

Waking from a light sleep, Conar reached for his wife only to find the place where she slept empty and

cold. He softly called her name, thinking she was in the bathing chamber. When he received no answer,

he got out of bed and pulled on his breeches.

The room was pitch black, with no light seeping through the slit between the velvet drapes. It was the

last month of the year and the wind howled, sending gusts of snow against the windows. Striking a flint,

he lit the lamp beside their bed, cupped the flame in his hand, and held up the tapered glass. "Sweeting?

Where are you?"

The room, like his bed, was empty. It sent a shiver of displeasure down his spine. Liza had often

vanished before they were wed, and although she had not dared do so since that November Joining night

two years earlier, her absence still rankled him. If she was not where he could see her, hear her, know

precisely where she was, Conar McGregor was ill at ease until she was once more at his side. Not

having Liza close at hand was his one great fear.

"Liza?" he called again, becoming worried.

He padded barefoot to the fireplace. Setting the lamp on the mantle, he stoked the ashes in the hearth,

added a log, and rubbed his hands together. The cold was biting. He thought fleetingly of his shirt that

hung on the chair by his bed, but dismissed it, taking up the lamp and going to the door.

He stepped into the darkened hallway. Only silence greeted him and his brows drew together. Where

the hell could she be?

He searched every room on the main sleeping floor, grinning at Legion, Teal, and Hern as they snorted

and slurped in their sleep. He hesitated, watching Legion mumbling, and thought fleetingly of pouring the

man’s pitcher of water over his sleeping form, but shrugged away the idea. Legion’s time would come, he

thought, and eased shut his half-brother’s door.

Gezelle, Liza’s lady’s servant, had locked her door, but he had no reason to think his wife would be

there. For some reason, the two were not as close as they had once been and rarely spent time together,

except the rare occasions when Liza needed the services of a personal maid. There appeared to be

coolness between them he could not understand, since he didn’t think Liza knew of his brief affair with

Gezelle.

At least he hoped she did not.

Neither woman had ever mentioned it to him. It was not something of which he was proud, but then

again, neither was it something he regretted. The thing had simply happened. It was over and done with

and best forgotten. He had made a sacred vow to Alel that it would never happen again.

There were two guestrooms, but Liza was not in either one. He held the lamp high and walked down the

spiraling stairs to the main hall. As he descended, he glanced at his mother’s portrait and smiled.

"Good eve, sweet lady," he said, bringing his right hand to his lips then touching his fingers to his

mother’s cheek. "I love you."

The portrait’s beautiful face peered back at him with silent, painful memories. He turned away, sudden

sadness making him sigh with regret. He had been thirteen when his mother had taken ill and died.

He walked softly through the main hall, the study, glanced down the corridor leading to the Great Hall,

opened the door to the kitchens and shone his lamp into the silent, night-dark room. Frowning even more

fiercely, he headed back to the Great Hall and the room beyond when he noticed a light draft swirling

about his bare feet. He squinted in the flickering light, focused, and realized the door to the study was

partially open. He peeked inside and saw that one of the doors leading into the garden had been blown

open by the wintry breeze.

He cocked his head to one side, listening closely to the voice.

"Do you not understand? I am afraid!"

The words came from beyond the garden door. He slipped silently across the room. When he heard

Liza’s soft voice again raised in gentle protest, his nerves snapped along the endings, warning him to be

quiet. As another voice spoke, he felt a quiver of disquiet creep down his spine and he hastily blew out

his lamp, setting it on a nearby table.

His bare feet made no sound as he crept to the narrow double doors and stood listening to the whistling

voice. He looked through the crack between the two doors and saw movement in the garden’s

shadowed depths. As quietly as he could, he slipped through the doors and into the mist of gently falling

snow, heedless of the cold on his bare shoulders and feet, for the sound of that unknown voice

bewildered him.

The magnificent oaks and willows that spread their branches over the flagstone pathways were now

skeletal old men, their arms hovering over the dead and dying vegetation as though trying to protect it