Jah-Ma-El shook his head, trembling, sick to his stomach. "What would you care if my brother did die? You want his crown. What do you care about the man?"
A wild stab of fury shot through Galen. "Aye, I want the crown, and I will have it; but I will have Conar where I want him, too. My revenge on him will best be savored with the man alive and knowing it is I who wields the power in this land!"
"He has never done anything to you," Jah-Ma-El protested, gathering courage from his devotion to Conar.
"He came first into this world! That is a sin I can not and will not forgive!"
Chancing a furtive look at his half-brother, Jah-Ma-El was struck again with the certainty that Galen McGregor was quite mad. "What would happen if I did nothing, Your Grace? Would it be so bad to let our brother live in peace?"
Galen’s face turned as hard as flint. He reached into his robe and withdrew a black jade vial. Holding out the vial to Jah-Ma-El, he smiled and the smile was as evil as the slime beneath the pits of hell. "I have a guarantee here that you will do exactly as I order, you filthy bastard."
Jah-Ma-El made a feeble grab for the vial, but Galen snatched it out of his reach. He cringed as Galen walked to a burning cauldron of coals that sat in the center of the room and held the vial over it.
"Give me reason to deposit this in the fire, you cur, and I will do it!" Galen lowered the black cylinder closer to the burning coals and watched as Jah-Ma-El’s face broke out in a sudden sweat, his skin turning red as though he, himself, were being held over the coals.
"Please, Your Grace," Jah-Ma-El begged, his body burning. He was suffocating, unable to breathe. His hair felt as though it were singeing. "I will do what I can!"
"You will do as I say!" Galen replaced the vial inside his ceremonial robe. "I can promise you that, Jah-Ma-El!"
Mournfully, the sorcerer watched his hated brother leave the room. Jah-Ma-El’s very soul was housed inside that jade vial and he would never have it returned to him. It was the hold the Domination had over him, and every unwilling fool, who served Them. It was a guarantee that Their wishes would be carried out despite the conjurer’s own desires.
Jah-Ma-El looked around the Conjuring Room with its black marble floor adorned with the seven-sided star of the god Raphian, the Bringer of Storms, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls. His gaze went to the huge wrought iron cauldron on criss-crossed tripod legs before the low jade green altar. The hissing coals within the cauldron gave off the only light in the room, sending shadows over the dripping, moist walls. He didn’t look at the altar, with its lifeless victim staring with sightless eyes at the horrors that had been done here this eve.
He groaned, sliding in a crumpled heap to the cold floor. He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly, his thin shoulders shaking beneath the voluminous folds of his green robe.
His magic was impotent against a Daughter of the Multitude; as impotent as Galen’s claim to the throne. There would be little he could do to neutralize this woman’s great power. Had she not summoned forth Bastus’ playthings? Those cat-like entities that had sprang up from the very cracks in the floor? Only a powerful conjuress could accomplish such a feat.
Jah-Ma-El was fair at his own craft but his heart had never been in the Conjuring of the Red. His strength was not in the black magic that traveled the darker paths and he knew it. What magic he possessed came from a lighter realm. His was the power of the Blue Way, but he, alone, knew that, and Jah-Ma-El used what power he did possess to keep the Brotherhood of the Domination from suspecting. His life depended upon Them never finding out.
He lay on the slick floor and curled into a fetal ball. He wedged his hands between his knees and stared into the blackness of the Conjuring Room. What could he do? Was there some magic he could spread over Conar that would assure his brother’s protection? Some talisman he could use to ward away evil?
If there was, Jah-Ma-El had not found it. Search as hard as he could, the only item that had worked so far against the Domination’s incessant demand to weaken Conar had been the appearance of this girl, this sorceress who had come to his brother’s aid. He had spent many a sleepless night conjuring, begging help from the gods. His pleas had at last worked and help had come from an unexpected source. He was stunned that help had sprang from the Multitude, but that was the gods’ choice, not his.
But had he made matters worse? Had his calling forth a protection for his brother brought further harm upon Conar? If so, Jah-Ma-El could not live with it. All he had ever wanted was to protect Conar, to have his love and respect, and now he may have caused his beloved brother irreparable harm. If that were the case, Jah-Ma-El knew he could not live knowing he had brought more pain into Conar’s life.
A year after leaving the Monastery, Jah-Ma-El was expected to help in the Domination’s plan to destroy Conar McGregor. Ensconced as Chief Sorcerer at Norus, Jah-Ma-El was to carry out Prince Galen’s plan. He never considered the man to be his brother, none of Galen’s kin readily admitted their relation to him; but with Galen in possession of the vial that housed Jah-Ma-El’s soul, the older man had little choice in the things he was forced to do at Norus Keep.
Galen took great delight in using Jah-Ma-El against Conar. He knew how the older man felt about the younger. Keeping them apart each time Conar came to Norus immensely pleased Galen, for he could see the wistful expression on Jah-Ma-El’s thin face each time Conar’s appearance was announced.
"You’ll never set eyes on him in the flesh again," Galen had promised and had kept that promise.
But Jah-Ma-El smiled as he stared across the Conjuring Room at the burning brazier. The Chosen Child of the Sea had come now and things would begin to change.
His smile faded.
He hoped for Conar’s sake that the change was for the better.
* * *
Liza lay awake in her bed. She could feel the influence of another magic-sayer in the keep. She was lost in concentration, fingering the rune stone around her slim neck. The man meant her no harm, she was sure of it. He meant Conar no harm, either. But someone at Norus Keep surely had meant the Prince Regent harm this night.
Her eyes opened wide as the unknown sorcerer’s thoughts lightly touched hers. "Who are you?" she whispered into the dark room.
"A friend, milady," came the soft, gentle reply.
Liza relaxed. There had been truth and reassurance in that soft sigh.
She turned over and gripped her pillow to her. Somewhere Conar McGregor had a powerful and deadly enemy, else the man would not have been taken to the vile dungeon. She meant to find out who he was and just how powerful he could be.
"He is called Kaileel Tohre," spoke the gently invading voice.
"How dangerous is he?" she asked, her lips never moving.
"He is an evil beyond knowing."
Try as she might, she could not get the disembodied voice to speak to her again. Finally, she swept her thoughts into Conar’s room, assured that he slept soundly, peacefully. She could hear his even breathing.
Content that he was safe, she closed her eyes and slept.
* * *
Galen was not sleeping.
He sat staring into the fire. A full glass of brandy sat untouched where it had been placed on the table beside him. He had ignored it then and ignored it now, even though the strong vapors of the peach liquor wafted gently under his nose, beckoning.
For the first time in his life, Galen McGregor did not need alcohol, drugs or voyeurism to excite him. He leaned back in his chair, crossed one bare ankle over the other and stretched his legs toward the fire.
Tonight, everything had changed.
His thoughts confused him. Bewildered him. He wanted something he had never thought he would ever want in his lifetime—a woman. He felt something he thought to never feel—desire for a woman.
And not just any woman, he thought with wonder. This woman was special, unique. She was a powerful sorceress who he knew could rival the Master, himself. Had not the man left, an
unaccustomed fear glazing his pale eyes?
Her name was Liza and she was not only powerful, she was beautiful.
Beautiful and should be left alone to be dealt with by the Brotherhood, he thought fleetingly.
Galen shuddered.
The thought of Liza at the mercy of his own kind sent a spasm of pain through a heart he thought was long dead to love.
He wanted her out of harm’s way, unable to help Conar, but he wanted her unmarked by the same vengeance the Domination had planned for his twin.
He knew only one way to accomplish that.
A hard shudder ran through him and he grabbed for the brandy, gulping it down in one harsh swallow. The fiery brew scorched his dry throat, but he hardly noticed.
Yelling for his servant, he called for his horse to be saddled.
Chapter 10
* * *
Liza woke early the next morning. She stretched, turned over, and snuggled into the fleecy softness of the down comforter. A teasing smile spread over her lips as she listened to Gezelle’s soft snores.
Liza sighed and thought of the man sleeping across the hall.
He had been a most pleasant surprise at the Hound and Stag. His strength and agility with the sword had impressed her. His handsome face had certainly gained her immediate attention. His reluctance to marry, sight unseen, the Princess Anya of Oceania had amused her. His devotion to his duty had also impressed her. His avowal to carry out that duty despite grave misgivings and true unhappiness concerned her. She had looked at him with something akin to awe as he told her it was his honor at stake. Few men let honor get in the way of their personal happiness; especially so members of the royalty.
Honor was something Liza understood. And admired in a man.
Thinking of him as she had first seen him made Liza grin. His blue eyes had been sparkling with some devilish humor and the corners of his sensual mouth were lifted in the most wicked grin she had ever seen. He looked like a little boy hiding, playing a prank on someone who was not going to like it.
There had been no mistaking the raw sexual power emitting from him as he leaned against the stall. That careless power had no doubt wrecked many a lady’s virtue, she thought at the time. The negligent way in which he leaned had told Liza the man was as sure of himself as he was of the glistening blade he was doodling with on the ground.
He had fought just as she knew he would. She had as much confidence in his ability with his sword as he did. The outcome was a foregone conclusion on her part until the sneaky innkeeper had come along and her intervention became necessary.
What she had felt when she first touched him had surprised her with a tremor all the way down her arm, through her chest, and into her belly where it settled in a spasm of intense sexual arousal. Having felt that immense sensation, having touched him, she knew there was no turning back. He would be hers or never belong to another woman. She meant to see that he forgot any other woman had ever existed, including the bitch in Oceania.
The thought of the Princess Anya brought a frown to her lovely face. That was one problem that was going to have to be resolved on the way to Boreas Keep. She turned to gaze at the canopy above. Norus Keep was one problem; the Oceanian Princess was another.
Her face darkened as she remembered her first sight of Norus. When they reached the summit overlooking the keep, she had had a chilling premonition of an evil so consummate it seeped to the marrow of her bones. Her instincts had screamed at her that here was one of the Three Gateways to the Abyss; it was one of the portals through which the Domination conjured its vile minions. She had let her ego get in the way of reasoning as she thought back on it. So confident had she been that nothing could hurt either her or Conar if they were together, it had almost ended tragically in the Norus dungeon. She had been forewarned; she had ignored the sixth sense that had kept her alive all these years.
The thought of something, anything, happening to Conar McGregor, sent a deep chill through her heart. She had to be more careful. She had to consider everyone and everything an enemy until they were proven otherwise.
Thoughts along that line brought her attention to Galen McGregor.
He had not fooled her with his politeness and manners. The shock that had gone through her when they touched had been nothing like the shock when she had touched his twin. Touching Galen had left her skin clammy and cold and needing washing. There was evil in the man and she was determined to keep as far away from him as she could. His aura had enveloped her with a black, sorcery-tainted stench that had left a strange metallic taste in her mouth just as her first sight of Norus Keep had. Such an experience was a sure warning that the keep was steeped in the mire being brewed by the Domination.
A noise from the hallway brought her attention back to the present. She laughed at Conar’s loud demands and braced herself on her elbows. She looked at Gezelle, who was awake and stirring. The servant girl’s sleepy eyes were puffy and glazed. Liza grinned.
"We’d better get up before his lord and master comes pounding on our door, ’Zelle."
"Aye, Milady." Gezelle yawned, reluctantly throwing aside the blanket covering her. "I’ll see to your morning bath."
"No need." Liza tossed aside her own covers. She swung her long legs from the bed and stood, stretching. "I’ll just wash my face and get dressed."
Gezelle nodded, another yawn being the only answer she could give. The girl bent over the glowing coals and stirred them, adding a log or two to the fire as she tried to come awake.
Liza was finished with her dressing when the loud pounding came at their door.
"Liza?" The pounding came again. "Get up! We don’t have all the blasted day for you to primp, woman!"
"What’d I tell you?" Liza grinned. She tiptoed to the door and slipped her fingers around the knob with one hand as she gently eased back the bolt with the other. She waited a second and then yanked open the door.
Conar, his arm raised in mid-strike, almost tumbled into the room. His mouth was open with what would have been another loud demand, but seeing Liza’s smug expression, sweeping his gaze down her already clothed form, and looking past her to Gezelle’s merry face, he snapped shut his lips and glared at her.
"Are we ready to leave, Milord?" Liza asked sweetly.
Conar’s eyes were stormy. "Aye."
"We’re ready when you are, Milord."
He glared at her for a moment, not sure if he should say anything, thought he should not and then turned on his heel, striding away with his shoulders humped in the confines of his brown leather jacket.
Liza looked at Gezelle and winked. It was going to be a typical Conar day.
* * *
"Think they’re glad we’re gone?" Conar asked, his voice filled with anger.
Liza shrugged. "It certainly looks that way, Milord." She glanced across the road at him. "I know I am glad to be leaving."
Conar grunted, feeling in a like manner. He put up his hand to swat at a horsefly and noticed something odd on his left wrist. He stared at it, a frown on his handsome face.
"Is there something wrong?" Liza asked. Her lovely face filled with worry.
He held out his arm to her much as a little boy would. "I don’t know how I did that."
Liza glanced at the raw, scraped flesh, a deep purple bruise circling the wrist. "In the fight. Remember? At the tavern." Her eyes drew his; held on. She could see a memory forming in his mind.
There was a slightly confused look on his face as he lowered his gaze to the wound. "I guess so," he said, trying to remember exactly how he had hurt himself. He remembered the fight; the wound just seemed to elude him for the moment. He shrugged and looked back at Liza. "I remember."
Liza smiled. "I’ll give you some salve for it." She breathed a sigh of relief when he nodded absently and looked away again. The last thing he needed was to remember being chained in his brother’s dungeon during the night.
Gezelle stifled a mighty yawn as she sat limply in her saddle. She still suffered
the effects of the wine she had consumed the night before. Mentally reminding herself to never drink wine again just in case that was the reason she felt encased in cotton batting, she turned her attention to the passing scenery to keep awake.
Trees were swaying in a brisk breeze; the day overcast; the sky a gunmetal gray, heavy with the threat of rain. The air was thick and oppressive; the earth smelled of damp fertility. It was the kind of day when cows gathered in huddles and birds scurried to the closest trees.
They had left the dunes behind and were steadily climbing into the foothills of the Serenian Mountain Range. With every passing mile, the temperature dropped a degree or two.
"Are you still with us, Mam’selle?" Conar called as he turned in the saddle to see Gezelle nodding off, swaying a little on her small pony.
The servant grabbed for her pommel, pulling herself upright, opening her eyes wide in order to get them focused. "Aye, Your Grace," she called, her face one huge swatch of red.
"If you tumble off that nag, Mam’selle, you will stay where you land!" he promised.
Out of sorts, Liza thought with disgust. Out of sorts and taking it out on Gezelle. He had barely spoken to either her or ’Zelle since leaving Norus and now, when he did, all he could do was snap.
"I won’t stop if she falls off that pony," he said petulantly as he caught Liza’s frown of pique. His lower lip thrust out in challenge.
"I’m sure you wouldn’t," she retorted and looked away.
"Be assured, I won’t," he added with emphasis and cocked a stare at Gezelle who was sitting tall and straight and attentive in her saddle. He snorted at her pleasant smile and then jerked around.
He’s just hungry, Gezelle thought as she stared at the back of his golden head. She giggled and looked down at the pommel. She wondered if the prince was at all concerned that she had seen him naked the evening before. His nudity might not have bothered him, she thought, but it was with her every mile they traveled. She could recall every vivid detail of his bronzed body and the memory made her blush. Forcibly tearing her mind from wicked thoughts, she looked up and could tell by the way the prince sat his mount he was angry. To Gezelle’s way of thinking, he had every right to be, considering how he had been treated at Norus.
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