Looking at the three young men sitting across the plank table from him, Holm couldn't help but remember another youth who'd had such a minimum of patience. The youngest of these three bore an uncanny resemblance to that long-gone youth, and was, in fact, that man's son. Looking at Wyn was like looking back in time. The son was almost as old as the father had been when the young Prince had come to Holm's daughter's aid.
"What's wrong, Captain?" Wyn asked.
"Nothing!" Holm snapped, looking away from the probing blue eyes that were identical to Conar McGregor's twinkling azure mirth.
Coron glanced at his brother; Dyllon smiled back sadly. Both men knew of whom the captain had been thinking. It was hard not to think of Conar when his son bore such a resemblance to him. It was sometimes difficult not to call Wyn by his father's seldom-heard name.
"We have business to see to, men," Holm said, coming to his feet. "Best we be about it!"
Coron felt an unease he couldn't rid himself of.
"They'll be giving you no trouble," one of the patrons at a nearby table called out. He came unsteadily to his feet and hitched up his belt, jabbed a thumb into his scrawny chest. "Most of them be like me, ex-inmates from the colonies. They know when to let well enough alone."
"Aye," came scattered replies.
"The rest," the drunk added, looking about as though taking measure of the room, "couldn't give a rat's arse what happens to the likes of ye."
Coron wasn't so sure. The McGregor line had more than their share of enemies. If any of the men recognized them, it could be over before it began. Few men were looking their way, and those who were, glanced hastily away as his eyes challenged them. He and Dyllon and Wyn had spent these last years in Chrystallus with their aunt Dyreil, but the three had firsthand knowledge of what had been done to the royal families of the Seven Kingdoms. If the Tribunal had spies among these men, the game would be up. If the Domination could get their hands on them, the last of Conar's true bloodline would be extinguished.
"Don't ye be worrying, Your Grace," a man called from the back of the tavern. "We ain't seen ye."
"Seen who?" another called.
"Them fellows from the Boreas Queen."
"Did she sail in here? I ain't seen her. Have ye?"
Around the tavern, "Nays" were voiced.
It would take four to five weeks to sail from Haelstrom Lighthouse, where their ship was docked, to the entrance of the sea tunnels leading to Tyber's Isle. It would only take a week's sailing to reach Boreas Keep. If any man here so wished, a message could be sent before anyone knew, but from what Coron was hearing, and seeing, there was a slim chance that they would be betrayed.
"I thank you," Coron told them.
"We all thank you," Dyllon added.
"The Wind be at your back, young brothers of the Wind," the tavern wench called. She turned her seductive smile on Wyn.
"And at yours, lady." He grinned, blowing her a kiss as they left the tavern.
Under the smoky haze of the tavern's torchlight, her slender, caramel-tinted hand swept up to fling back a long lock of blue-black hair over her slim shoulder. Red lips stretched into a fine line and a pink tongue came out to lick at the moisture above the graceful arch of a sensual mouth.
"What does a man have to do to get ale around here?" one of the remaining patrons shouted.
The woman turned to the speaker; the glint in her eyes could have started a fire in a wet pile of rags. She exaggerated the swing of her shapely hips as she made her way to the bar. She scooped up a tankard of ale and walked seductively to the man's table and leaned over him, giving him a good look at her cleavage. "All you have to do is ask," she said in a smoky voice before she poured the ale in his lap.
Laughter and bawdy comments followed her as she made her way to the taproom. She glanced back at the poor drunk whose breeches she had soaked and gave him a sly wink.
"That should cool you down!" she purred as she slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind her.
Leaning against the portal, she peered into the pitch blackness of the room. "Are you there?" she whispered.
"Aye," came the soft sigh of a hidden wind.
"Keep them safe, Great Lady."
"I shall." The wind moved, icy-chill, through the room and swirled about the scarlet skirts of her low-cut dress. "Are you ready, Raphaella?"
"Aye," she answered. "Bring him home again."
Raphaella had come to this place to be near these men at this particular time in history. She had ventured from World's End to grant her blessings on the men who would bring the future back to the Seven Kingdoms. She had materialized here to keep the young princes—Coron and Dyllon—safe, their identities hidden from the Tribunal. As her earthly body began to dissolve into the black mist of the room, she bestowed one final rune upon the men.
A silver light flared brilliantly in the darkness, then vanished, leaving the sweet scent of lavender in its wake, the only remainder of the lady to whom Brelan Saur had once been Sentinel.
Chapter 4
* * *
Roget du Mer sat on the edge of his cot and watched the doorway. It was later than usual for Conar to have returned from the rock field.
"Could Brelan have called for him?" Chase asked.
"That's probably where he is," Rylan Hesar said.
"All of you, get to sleep!" Shalu mumbled. " I can't rest with all your mumbling!"
Roget, resenting Shalu's harsh bass grumbling, stared at the rough timber beams overhead. He was uneasy and he didn't know why. He wanted to casually saunter over to Brelan's hut, but there was a guard posted near his own hut and questions would be asked if he got up in the middle of the night to check on Conar's whereabouts.
"I gotta piss," Chand announced, ignoring the mumbles his enlightenment brought the others. As he passed Roget's cot, he bent close. "I'll look around."
Jah-Ma-El threw back the covers and turned on his cot, trying to get comfortable. He, too, felt an unidentifiable unease. But he felt uneasy every time Brelan made one of his unscheduled calls for Conar. It was so the brother's could talk, so Brelan could try to undo some of the damage Conar's internment had caused him. But the guards and inmates who hated the young Serenian Prince joked with vulgar innuendo about the overnight stays in Saur's hut.
"He gave it away to them priests at that monastery, I hear!" a guard had blabbed, starting the rumor. "Guess he's giving it to the Chief Warden, as well!"
Jah-Ma-El ground his teeth. Brelan had done nothing to squelch the rumors even though Roget and Grice had tried to warn him that such talk was getting out of hand.
"If they think he's my…" Brelan's face had turned bright red with anger or embarrassment, "my…property, then maybe they won't dare try to hurt him."
"Careful, Bre," Chase warned. "If they think he's available—"
"I can take care of my brother!" Brelan snarled, ending the discussion.
Jah-Ma-El hoped so.
* * *
Arch-Prelate Kaileel Tohre woke from a terrifying nightmare. Perspiration drenched his white-blond hair; his pale eyes stared wildly from the sunken depths of the bruised sockets. His skin had turned a pasty yellow and sweat, soul-smelling and slick, rolled in waves from his body, oozed from every pore. He clutched the quilt stared into the night. His hands trembled. His entire body ached, quivered in fear.
He ran one hand over his face and felt the long, pointed nails scrape across his skin, but it was the pain in his mind, not the pain on his flesh, that caused him to gasp with agony. He clutched his belly, bringing his knees up to his chin, holding his legs as if he was trying to conceal himself in the smallest space, but he felt his legs, his body moving of its own accord.
His legs and arms shot out. He flipped onto his belly, grasping the sheets, shearing off each of his long nails as he drove his fingers into the material. He dug his toes into the mattress, pushed himself as far up in the bed as he could go until his head was pressed firmly to the headboard. He felt somethin
g tight around his wrists, his ankles. A wild keening came from his parched throat before it was choked off as though a hand had been placed over his mouth.
Kaileel turned his head to the blowing, gusting snow beating against his window and he shivered. He was naked, colder than he had ever been. His entire being felt numb, detached from his existence. The beating of his frightened heart came in heavy rhythm to his labored breathing.
He felt something hot, something moist move over him, pinning him to the bed. He threw back his head, screaming against the confinement covering his mouth.
"No!"
His teeth clenched into the fabric of his dream with impotent rage. He flung a curse across the distance that separated him from his enemies. Piercing agony shot through Tohre. His long hair whipped back and forth on the satin pillow.
"Don't!" he screeched as another ripping pain gripped him. He bellowed in anger and fear and disgust. Another pressure settled on him, and another, and another, and another.
His scream rent the night and hung like the death knoll of an obscene bell:
"Conarrr!"
* * *
Brelan awoke with a start, gasping for air, his arms gripping his pillow for all he was worth.
He had been dreaming of Elizabeth. He trembled from head to toe, feeling as though he were drowning, suffocating beneath a thundering mass of tumbling, swirling waters. He heard his blood pounding in his head and instinctively realized such a sound would account for the resemblance to rushing waters. The pillow had felt like the lush curves of the woman he loved. Staring at it, he felt a loss so great, he flung the offending object as far across the room as he could.
"Hell!" Brelan spat, and got up. He ran a nervous hand through his thick crop of brown hair, tugging at it as though the slight physical pain would wipe out whatever had frightened him. Mentally shaking himself, he poured a tumbler of water, making a sour face as the tepid liquid clogged his throat as he swallowed. By the gods, but the spring water tasted like brimstone!
He walked to his door and opened the portal, looking into the wild blaze of dawn creeping over the tallest bluff. It was going to be another scorching day. In Serenia it would be winter and snow would be falling. Here, it would be hot, sticky, and dry. No matter how long a man stayed in this desert hellhole, he never got used to the days of blazing sunlight and the nights of chilly blackness.
A movement at Roget's hut caught Brelan's attention.
Conar was framed in the open doorway, in profile. He was simply standing on the threshold. There was a slant to his shoulders that hadn't been there of late and the blond head was bent, the long, shoulder-length hair covering most of his face.
Brelan saw no guards. Conar had no business being out by himself. A special chamber pot had been placed near his cot so he could not leave the hut once he was inside for the night. Brelan was about to call out, in the appropriate harsh and nasty voice, when he saw du Mer speaking with Conar from inside the hut.
"Dammit, du Mer!" Brelan snarled, "You know better!"
Someone could see and report it, and Conar would be the one to suffer. Brelan ground his teeth as Roget reached out to touch Conar. He sucked in his breath, opened his mouth to shout, then stopped as Conar cringed away from the offered contact.
Roget made eye contact with Brelan. He held up his hands in confusion. He stepped inside the hut and let Conar enter.
Brelan knew something was wrong. He yanked his shirt over his head as he stepped out of his hut. Mindless of who saw him, he headed straight for du Mer's hut. He came up short as he saw men clustered around Conar's cot. Placed apart from the others, the cot was off limits to everyone. Now, all who lived in the hut, plus several who didn't, surrounded it.
"What's happened?" Brelan pushed Thom and Storm aside. No one answered, only moved silently out of his way so he could get to Conar. "What?" His head felt light and there was sweat in his palms. A jagged finger of fear seemed to scrape down his spine.
Conar sat on the edge of his cot, head lowered, fingers twitching. A livid bruise marred his right cheek; his lower lip looked swollen.
"Look at his wrists, Saur," Roget said.
Hunkering before his brother, Brelan lifted Conar's wrist.
"Don't!" The one word had been spoken quietly enough but had the authority of a shout.
Brelan looked up at Chase Montyne. "Why not?"
"Just give him time to adjust."
Brelan eyed his brother's wrists, studied the red, chaffed lines on Conar's flesh. "Rope burns."
"On his ankles, too," Sentian told him.
Brelan went livid with rage. "Where's he been?"
"We thought he was with you," Rylan Hesar answered.
"Didn't any of you think to find out for sure?"
"It would have looked suspicious if we had inquired," Roget answered, flinching as Brelan turned a stony stare his way.
"When he didn't come back until now—" Paegan began.
"He's been gone all night?" Brelan felt pure terror. "I want to know what happened!"
Shalu sat alongside Conar, his massive bulk making the cot's rope plaiting shriek with protest.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Brelan snapped.
Shalu silenced the younger man with a tilt of his hawk-like nose. Giving Conar time to adjust to his nearness, Shalu didn't make any attempt to touch him. Instead, he kept his head down, aware every nerve in the room was stretched thin. At last, he sighed. Then in a firm voice, a voice no one in the room had ever heard come from his rumbling throat—a tone as soft as though telling a bedtime story—he spoke to Conar.
"They want to see us crippled, to crush our spirits, to dehumanize us, to turn us into animals. We can't afford to let that happen. If we do, that means the bastards who put us here have accomplished what they set out to do."
Shalu laid his large hand over Conar's, who flinched, but didn't withdraw. The Necroman drew Conar's fingers into the protection of his huge black hand.
"No one should have to go through the things you have gone through. And no one can feel the pain you are feeling now, but there are sixteen men here who will help you get through it. They will help make it bearable. They love you. They respect you. They are loyal to you. There is nothing that has been done to you, or that will ever be done to you, that will change how we feel.
"We know you're hurting. You were hurt and we are hurt for you. It doesn't matter what they did to you. What counts is that you get on with your life."
"We're here for you," Chase whispered.
"We understand," Jah-Ma-El added.
"Look at me," Shalu ordered.
Slowly, Conar turned his face toward Shalu. He didn't seem aware of anyone else.
"Your Grace," Shalu said, ignoring the slight gasps as he spoke the forbidden title, "it hurts me, as it does every man here, when you won't look at us. If anything, we should be the ones to show you such respect." The Necroman's voice broke with emotion. He was unaccustomed to showing deference or humility to another, but he had never met a man who deserved it more.
The sad eyes lifted, wavered, then held. There was such misery etched in the lonely face that Shalu felt the sting of tears.
"Shalu?" Brelan whispered, his gaze on his brother's breeches, at the juncture of the thighs where a bright red stain had formed.
"Who did this to you?" Shalu asked.
It was a whisper, fleeting like the wind. "Lydon."
Shalu moved his fingers to the chaffed burn on Conar's wrist. "Any others?"
Conar nodded.
"How many?" The Necroman stroked the ravaged flesh, patted it lightly, lovingly.
"Don't remember." The answer was almost inaudible and terribly ashamed.
Shalu eased his arm around Conar. "It would help if we knew who they were," he said in a soft, caressing voice, feeling the jerk of the young man's body as he tried to shy away. Shalu firmly, but gently, gripped the slumped shoulder. "Was Marcus one of them?"
Conar nodded.
; "Axon?"
Again the miserable nod.
"Shelby and Herts and Briggs?" Tyne spat viciously.
"Aye," came Conar's soft voice.
Brelan was shocked to the core of his being. "Six?"
Rylan's face was hard with rage. "All cronies of Lydon's."
"Where?" Shalu asked.
Conar shivered, his blood soaking the mattress. "The equipment shed…"
"I want you to go with your brother," Shalu commanded. "Stay in his quarters."
Conar looked at the Necroman. "You know what they did, don't you?"
"I know." Shalu stood, easing Conar up with him. "You go with Brelan."
Conar looked at the men surrounding him. He didn't seem to be aware of anything.
"Go on with Brelan, son," Shalu urged, easing Conar into his brother's arms. He grasped Brelan's arm in a punishing grip. His voice was hard as steel. "This may be the one time when you're needed more than any other. Be careful what you do, what you say, how you say it. The wrong thing could destroy him forever."
Brelan nodded, unable to speak past the anger and pain in his throat. He walked with Conar to the door, flinching at the way his brother moved, knowing Conar was hurting, but knowing he couldn't let anyone outside the hut see his concern. He let Conar cross the threshold, then with teeth clenched and fists doubled, Brelan moved ahead, making for the medical hut.
In a near insane rage, Brelan spent the next twenty-four hours in his hut while Xander cared for Conar, relieved that his worst fears had not been realized—Lydon Drake had not done to Conar what Conar had once ordered done to Drake.
"He could have, you know!" Xander fumed when he came to give Brelan a report. "He could have gelded him!"
"Enough!" Brelan yelled, his hands itching to strangle Drake.
"We'll get them. Every last whore's son of them! They didn't just rape him. They—"
"I said enough!" Brelan covered his ears, flung himself on the bed, curling into a fetal position.
"You can't hide from it! If you don't do something, they'll eventually kill him or push him beyond the point, where it won't matter if he lives or dies!"
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