WindSeeker (39 page)

so much from the cold and damp, but from old fears that always bothered him when he looked at the

double black doors. He wondered what tax levy the Judiciary Committee would impose upon

Necroman. It would have to be stiff. At least the man had plenty of gold with which to pay; Necroman

was a wealthy monarchy, since their currency was diamond gems.

"We are ready when you are, Milord," Patrick, one of Conar’s Elite, told him.

Conar looked at the men who would accompany him and wondered why Marsh wasn’t one of them. He

asked Lin Dixon, Marsh’s best friend.

"I don’t know, Commander," Dixon replied. "Do you want me to find him?"

"Let the bastard stay here if that’s his desire."

As he pulled on Seayearner’s reins and galloped out of the stables, he saw Kaileel Tohre on the top step

of the Temple.

"Ride safely, my prince!" Kaileel called. "Hurry home to us!"

Conar put spurs to his mount’s flanks. Getting out of the sight of the High Priest was more important

than getting soaked. The rain would stop; Kaileel wouldn’t. At least not this side of hell.

* * *

It took Conar three days of miserable riding to reach Ciona, the rain with him every inch of the way. His

four guards were just as miserable as they stopped each night to get in out of the damp. The inns were

clean and habitable for the most part, although in the southeast section of the country, lodgings tended to

be as damp as the coastal towns they served. The bedding was invariably moist and cold, the drinking

water flavored with the tang of salt and sulfur, and murky-looking.

Conar had long since consumed the two water bags of ale Sadie had insisted on him taking to ward off

the dampness. The man Tohre had wanted to ride with the prince, one of Conar’s most trusted of the

Elite, had not been able to go with him due to a severe bout of stomach pain.

The first night of the journey had been the worst for the prince, for he had drained one water bag within

the first ten miles. His foul temper and snapping eyes had turned his men sullen and mulish as they bit their

lips to keep from throttling their Overlord. Thinking him much the worse for the ale he had swigged, they

tried to ignore his burning barbs of spiteful malice. Mutiny had been in their eyes the next day when he

awoke no better. His constant swilling on the ale made them look at one another with ill-disguised pique.

The third day saw him without any of the ale and he was generally silent, though still sullen and

foul-tempered.

Arriving in Ciona late on the third day, Conar had been exhausted, drenched despite his oilcloth cloak.

He had nodded absently to the innkeeper, declined his offer of a hot brandy sampler to ward off the

chills, and gone straight to bed, sneezing the entire way up the stairs.

Morning brought him groggily awake with a blazing cold that had turned his nose red, his throat raw. It

was more than obvious to his men he was in no condition to handle the affairs of state for which he had

come to Ciona, and they sent word to the Trade Commissioner of Oceania that their Overlord was a bit

under the weather.

Fortunately for Conar, that piece of information brought the Cionan Ambassador of State at a headlong

rush to Conar’s room. After assuring himself the future King of Serenia was in no danger of succumbing

to his illness, the Ambassador left with the promise of postponing the meeting until the young man was

feeling better.

Five days passed while Conar recuperated from a cold that made it virtually impossible for anyone to

understand what he said. Between coughing and sneezing, he developed extended bouts of laryngitis that

upset the chambermaid who had to pick up the discarded notes he tossed about the floor. It tickled his

guards, for they were enjoying their Overlord’s inability to rant and rave.

On the morning of the sixth day, he lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, tracing the webbed tunnels

that widened around the hole in the center, wondering how the hole came to be. He had a slight

headache, but no more than a scratchy throat, thanks to the tavern owner’s home remedy of honey and

cloves. What bothered him most was his constantly running nose and watering eyes that couldn’t be

helped, and the occasional bout of sneezing that exasperated him, for his gut and chest were sore from

coughing. He sighed. Tomorrow he would have to be at the town hall early, get his business done, and be

on his way. He felt well enough.

He thought about that for a moment. His eyes narrowed. As a matter of fact, he felt very well, despite

his cold.

He sat up in bed. He tested his condition much as one would an aching tooth. He worried it, probed it,

bit down on it, and a sudden light of understanding lit his face.

He felt fine!

A wide smile formed. It was gone! The dark storm inside him was gone! He felt renewed. He felt free.

The dam had burst and he had not been drowned in the onslaught of water.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wavered for a moment then examined himself further. "Aye!"

He laughed, not feeling any anger, darkness, or evil madness inside him. "
I am fine
!"

He drew on his breeches, smiling the entire time. He padded barefoot to his door, opened it and called

for Roy Matheny, one of his Elite, to find him a scribe. Long into the day, after his men had turned

surprised faces to the happy, smiling Overlord who had been their hell for the last several months, he

paced about the room, dictating orders to a town scribe.

"I’ll see the Ambassador tomorrow and then I’ll leave for Oceania. Book me passage on the fastest

ship. Send a letter to the palace in Oceania and tell them I’ll be arriving to take my wife home!" His face

lit up and he thought he would cry with the happiness flooding his heart. "Send a missive to my father and

tell him I won’t be home for a while. Tell him Liza and I are going to stay with Meggie and Harry Ruck at

the Briar’s Hold." He rubbed his hands together and then sneezed, wiping his nose with the back of his

hand. "Then send another note to my brother Legion and tell him to get Ivor Keep provisioned for me

and his sister-in-law. We’re going to make it our home if he has no objection. Tell him not to send

Gezelle, but that Aurora will do fine as lady’s maid for Liza." He grabbed the scribe’s arm. "Is there a

jeweler in town who can cast gold charms?"

"I believe so, Your Grace," the man mumbled as he scribbled furiously.

"Then send for him."

"You’re feeling better, Highness?" the tavern owner asked as he brought in Conar’s noon meal.

"I have never felt better in my life!" He laughed and startled the man by enveloping him in a bear hug.

"And don’t call me ‘Highness.’"

* * *

The new morn brought him wide-awake and eager to finish his business in Ciona. It would take him all

day, he knew, but he was chomping at the bit to be on his way to his wife. A brigantine was leaving for

Oceania on the next afternoon’s tide and he could barely contain his excitement. Late that evening, after a

sumptuous meal that had made him lethargic and content, he went to his room and stretched out on his

bed, fingering the locket he’d had made for Liza.

The heart-shaped medallion inscribed with their initials entwined amidst grape vines and leaves—the

national symbols of Oceania—was warm to his touch and he kissed it.

"You have always had my heart in your hand, lady," he whispered as he placed the locket on a fine gold

serpentine chain and hung it around his own neck.

He had given orders to his men that they would be leaving after the final meeting the next day. It

wouldn’t take long. He had accomplished what he had been sent to do; all that was left was the actual

signing of the new trade agreement. He clasped his hands behind his head and smiled. He had handled

everything quite well, and he knew his father would be pleased. He had been excited at the meetings,

confident in his abilities, polite to and respectful of the Trade Commissioner. He had seen the man’s

admiration and had been encouraged even more by the shift of feelings inside him. He was the old Conar,

the lovable Conar, the Conar who was trusted and admired.

But now he was bored. And he would be even more bored until he was on his way to Liza. Nervous,

fidgety, he swung his legs off the bed and padded barefoot to the window. The courtyard below was

awash with bright, streaming moonlight and the soft, yellow glow cast the stables and corral beyond into

a pleasant, rural setting, almost like a painting he had once seen. A horse nickered in the corral; another

answered. A nightingale sang in a branch near his window. A dog barked. It was peaceful, calming, and

it wore at his nerves like sandpaper. If he listened hard, he could hear the ocean, for the beach was only

a mile away. What he wouldn’t give to be walking in the moonlight, on that beach, Liza’s hand in his.

He was about to turn from the window when his eyes caught a furtive movement to the left of the stable.

He watched the shadow of a man flit around the low building and stand, his back to the tavern, as though

he waited for someone to join him from the direction of the oyster-shelled roadway behind the stables.

Curious, Conar propped against the ledge and eased the curtain further apart with the backs of his

fingers. He heard an approaching horse nicker, and then heard the soft jingle of a harness wafting over

the breeze. A big gray mare pranced into view, her rider obviously female. He watched the man move

forward, saw him glance toward the inn as though unwilling to be seen, and then wave to the approaching

rider.

Conar nodded, smiling. "Waiting for your lady, eh, fellow?" His grin widened as the man moved to the

big gray and glanced once more to the tavern. He chuckled. "Or someone else’s."

Even from the distance, Conar couldn’t help but admire the way the lady sat her mount. Her back was

straight, her hands light on the reins. He couldn’t see her face, but she was a bit plump for his taste.

Obviously not to the man who had been waiting. The fellow lifted her down, the lady’s white dress

flowing out as he whirled her around, then held her above him for a moment before he set her down.

Conar’s smile turned dreamy. A secret meeting, no doubt an assignation, he thought as he saw both of

them glance toward the tavern. He watched as the man bent his dark head and planted a tender kiss on

the lady’s waiting lips. It was a sweet moment that shouldn’t be spied upon, he thought, and meant to

turn from the window to give them their privacy. It was when he heard the woman laugh that the smile

slowly left his face.

His hand trembled on the curtain as the man draped an arm around his ladylove and led her into the

darkness of the stable. A soft glow shone from the window facing the inn, signaling a lantern had been lit.

Once more the lady’s laughter came unerringly to him. Conar shivered.

"No," he breathed, letting go of the curtain. "It can’t be."

The gray mare nickered, gaining Conar’s reluctant attention. Beneath the stray flash of an errant

moonbeam, he got a good look at the mount and his blood ran cold.

"Windkeeper," he whispered, not willing to believe his eyes, but the sturdy mare nickered again as

though she had heard him call her name and began to bob her head, jingling her harness.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly as dry as cotton and just as raw as the freshly picked

boll. He backed away from the window, stumbling onto the bed as the backs of his knees made contact

with the mattress. He sat down heavily, blinking rapidly. For a long moment his mind whirling with

denials. He ran a hand over his bare chest and felt the heavy thudding of his heart.

"It isn’t her," he whispered, gazing at the window. "It isn’t." His head began to throb. "It can’t be her."

Once more, like a dangerous goad to his manhood, sweet feminine laughter rang out from the stable,

answered by a throaty male chuckle.

Conar stood, unsure of what to do. He could call one of his men, have him discreetly investigate. If it

wasn’t who he thought it was, nothing would come of it. No harm done. But if it was her, all hell would

break loose. He couldn’t risk that.

Picking up his shirt, he looked at it as though he couldn’t quite figure out what it was or how he came to

be holding it. Then, with a snarl of rage, he yanked it over his shoulders, ripping a long rent in the left

armpit. Not even bothering to pull on his boots, he stormed out of the room, intent on laying to rest the

suspicions churning in his mind. He would see for himself that his fears were groundless. There were

many women who laughed like her. Gezelle laughed like her. Hell, Aurora even laughed like her!

He paid no heed to the innkeeper’s wife who looked up from her reading as he came tripping

none-too-quietly down the stairs. He ignored an Elite’s question and told the man to stay where he was.

He jerked open the door, walked into the warmth of the night and flew across the courtyard, not

bothering to mute the sound of his approach. He went directly to the partially opened window.

The woman’s back was to him, but he would have known that beloved body anywhere, no matter how

it was dressed or how swollen her belly had become. The long black hair cascaded down over the

still-shapely hips. Soft, slim arms—arms that once held him—were clasped about the neck of the man

whose face was to Conar. A face he recognized, with a terrible lurch in his gut. His breath came to an