WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "He's a demon walking," Gezelle murmured.

  "Legion won't be back from Ivor until this evening. If I am not back by then, have him bring men to the Temple to fetch me."

  "You think Tohre would harm you, Milady?"

  "I would put nothing past that vicious beast."

  * * *

  Kaileel Tohre was pacing the antechamber of the Temple's sacristy when Liza was ushered in by one of the acolytes. "You took your time!" he shouted. He grabbed at her hand as though she would turn and run. "We've no time to lose!"

  Liza tried to free herself of his vile touch, but he rounded on her, coming so close she could smell his sweat.

  "You came to me once and asked me if I felt a rift in the Veil!" he snarled. "I didn't then; you did. You don't now; I do!"

  "What's this all about?"

  The Arch-Prelate's fingers tightened on her arm so painfully she gasped. "I can't do this alone. I can't save him from what's coming by myself!"

  "Who?" she said, a finger of fear crawling over her.

  "If we don't make entreaties to the Gray Ones, something is going to happen at the Labyrinth."

  Her mouth opened; her fear spread. The man was truly insane. His voice was thick, but it seemed rehearsed. "You sent what was left of my family to the Labyrinth. What do you care if something happens to them?"

  "Listen!" he screeched, yanking her arm. "I don't have time to chat, bitch! He could die if we don't intervene!"

  "Who?" she repeated, shouting.

  He hated her more than ever and gave her the planned lie. "Your brother Grice. I need him. I need them all to control the people left in their homelands. If something happens to them, there might be another revolt. Do you want another revolt, Queen Liza?"

  "No, I don't—"

  "Then, come with me!" He pulled her through twisting tunnels and under low-hung doorways, deeper and deeper into the inner workings of the Wind Temple.

  "Let go, Tohre," she yelled, twisting her arm to get free. She was suddenly very afraid of what this man might do to her. Or have done to her.

  He stopped and turned. "I have no plans to harm you. If something should happen to you, there would be such a rebellion, such an overpowering death in this land, the streets would run red with blood."

  "You are mad, Tohre. One day your own kind will devour you."

  "If he dies, it won't matter."

  She stared into his pale, hooded eyes and saw something that startled her. Something flickered in the evil depths, some tiny coal burning, that had been human.

  "Please," he begged. "We can't waste time."

  Liza nodded, feeling something settling over her that seemed to calm her fears. She let him pull her along the last passageway until they came to a tall red door. "What is this place?"

  "The Ceremonial Chamber." He let go of her hand to push open the door to total darkness. He disappeared into the black void beyond the portal. She heard a flint strike and then a soft halo of pale yellow light shone ahead of her and to the right. "Come."

  Liza drew in a breath and stepped over the high threshold into a vast room with blood-red walls, a black floor, and a ceiling that was beyond belief. She stared at it with horror.

  "No woman has ever been allowed inside these chambers." Kaileel came toward her with the lamp. In the light, his face was skeletal, the hollows of his eye sockets ghastly.

  Liza wanted to vomit. The mural drawn upon the ceiling, the most vile thing she had ever seen, disgusted her. She barely heard Kaileel's chuckle.

  "Homosexuality is something you have heard about, but never seen practiced." He giggled, glancing up at paintings of men in various stages of lovemaking. "Find it as exciting as I? I suppose not. Come with me."

  Liza hurried behind him, wanting to get out of the horrible room with its dirty painting as fast as she could. He lifted a lever beside a small wooden door, then stooped and ducked through the opening. With her lips pursed in distaste, she followed. When she straightened, he was standing before a huge pair of black double doors studded with iron.

  "The Chamber of Magic," he said quietly, and opened the doors.

  The light inside the huge chamber nearly blinded her. She felt as though the black floor was a bottomless pit sinking into the Abyss as she stepped into the glaring light of thousands of candles. The blood-red walls seemed alive with votive cups filled with black candles. In the room's center stood a tall, waist-high black slab altar. Above the altar swayed the carcass of a dead goat, its throat slit. She turned horrified eyes to Tohre.

  "A leftover," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Won't help us with the Gray Ones."

  "They don't care for sacrifices, do they?"

  He busied himself with several objects that sat on the retable behind the altar. His face grew agitated, alive with some emotion Liza couldn't fathom. Every time he glanced her way she shivered.

  "It was in a place like this that I trained him, you know," Tohre said in a conversational voice. He turned to the altar with an array of vials, small crucibles, and copper dishes.

  Liza knew whom he meant. Her blood ran cold; her heart thudded painfully. She watched as he put his paraphernalia on the altar.

  "He experienced great pain in a place like this."

  If Liza could have run, she would have, but something kept her rooted. Her lips quivered. She wanted to cry, but wouldn't.

  "You lost him in a place like this."

  "I never lost him!" she spat, anger beginning to course through her.

  "Have it your way." He placed the dishes and crucibles in a pattern and beckoned her.

  With every ounce of courage she possessed, she walked to the altar.

  "Recognize what these things are?'

  "I know what they are," she said stiffly.

  "Then let's begin, Liza." He stressed her name hatefully, holding out his hand.

  She hesitated, looking from his outstretched hand to his hated face. "I don't know your rituals. What spell is it you want?"

  Tohre shook his head as though admonishing a child who had forgotten her lessons. "You do know the Charm of Keeping, don't you?"

  Liza's hand itched to slap him. "I know it!"

  "I know you do!" He laughed. "You said it many times when you were spinning your web to snare him, didn't you?" He cocked a thin brow. "Isn't that what your initiation name was? The Keeper of the Wind? Wasn't the Charm of Keeping said only for him?"

  No one outside the Daughters of the Multitude should've known such a thing. How Tohre had this knowledge Liza could only surmise, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how it startled her. She looked at the array of ritual philters and potions. He had correctly placed them, in order, with the right amounts in each crucible and chalice. It had been so long since she had used the Charm, she had almost forgotten.

  "The spell you used to lure him to you," Tohre said, lip raised in disgust, "can be used to keep danger away from those you care about in the Labyrinth. Our individual rituals are often parodies of one another's, you realize? All we need do is chant together our respectful incantations, word for word, tone for tone, and the combined chant will keep Con—" His eyes flared wide.

  Liza watched him. He had almost given something away. Something he didn't want her to know. She tried probing his mind, but all she found were remnants of the old love he bore Conar.

  "Stop it," he warned, his voice quiet.

  "What evil thing are you doing that will cause my family greater harm."

  He grabbed her hand. "No lies between us, bitch! I have no desire to hurt your family. I want to protect it. If you can't probe that, then all will be lost!"

  "If you are trying to trick me into—"

  "No trick!"

  "You almost said his name before? You wanted to say Conar, didn't you?"

  "Aye!" he screamed. "Use his name in the chant, if you want. I will! His name has more magic now than it ever did with the Domination. Use his name in the Charm of Keeping. It will keep what is vital, safe from
harm!"

  If she had not known herself better, Liza would have believed herself feeling sorry for the man. He still loved Conar, even though he had caused the man more pain than anyone, had even caused his death. She saw, along with the madness, a hopeless love still smoldering.

  "I will use his name," she said softly and let Tohre's fingers entwine with hers. She bowed her head and began the Charm.

  Tohre watched her. Her love was still there, too. He only hoped their combined feelings for Conar McGregor would stop what was about to happen.

  Often the ways of the gods are complex. Simply because a single braid of shining black hair, taken so long ago from a man who had treasured it, had been kept, locked away for a time when it would be needed, the lady who held Conar's heart was denied knowledge of him very existence.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  In the depths of a mining shaft, the walls had been shored up with heavy timber brought in especially for the purpose of building a wine cellar. It was dry and cool enough this far inside the bluff for wine to be stored with good effect. The room was perhaps three feet by seven and, along one wall, a heavy row of steel racks had been installed for the Commandant's personal supply of expensive and vintage wines that were shipped to him once a year. The only illumination came from a torch held up by whoever visited the room.

  Conar's taut spine tingled as he walked behind Lawson Jones as the guard led the way. He could almost feel eyes watching him from the darkness beyond the glow of the carried light. He could almost feel hands touching him, grabbing him, pulling him down. He shook himself, cast off his fear, and lifted his chin. As terrified as he was of what happened to him by men like Lawson Jones and Lydon Drake, he forced himself to walk down the wide tunnel and into a narrower passageway that led past the work area of the prisoners. He heard hammering in the distance and felt reassured that if he were to shout someone would hear.

  He had never once been inside the bluffs except when he had come into the Labyrinth, and then he had been enclosed in a coffin. He willed away that image of suffocating confinement and stared at Jones' back. His hands were sweating, his mouth dry, and his breathing shallow. He was acutely uncomfortable when Jones stopped and told him to go ahead of him.

  "Why?" he asked, suspicions raised.

  "The door be there!" Jones said, lifting the light.

  Conar saw a heavy-looking wooden door looming out of the darkness. He swallowed his fear and stepped around the man. The hair along his neck stood up as he headed for the door in the hollowed-out section of rock face. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Jones' arm brushed past him to unhinge the heavy padlock.

  "Commandant don't take no chances of the inmates pilfering his stock," Jones grumbled.

  Or the guards, either, Conar thought wryly.

  Jones unsnapped the padlock and pulled on the heavy iron ring. Conar closed his eyes, almost groaning as the door came open on rusted hinges squealing in protest. The sound was too much like the keening of a dying man. The musty smell of dirt and dried-out wood assailed his nostrils.

  Jones' inpatient voice startled him. "What the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get your ass in there and be quick about it. I ain't got all day to babysit!"

  Something dark and evil stirred in Conar. His stomach felt as though it would lose its contents. The room was confining, constricting, imprisoning, dark and waiting for him. Sweat popped out on his upper lip; his breath came in short, squeezing bursts; his heart tripped madly.

  "What the hell ails you?" Jones roared as he shoved Conar into the room.

  He came up hard against the steel rack, his backbone striking one jutting corner with enough force to make him grunt. He turned wild eyes to the man blocking his escape. His breath hitched from his throat in terrified gasps, and although he tried to calm himself, not to show his great terror, his entire body quivered.

  Jones watched him, enjoying whatever it was that scared the prisoner. He thought he knew and grinned. "You asking for it, or what?" He took a step forward, gauged the boy's weakness, and wet his lips. "If you want it, pretty boy, I'll give it to you." He lowered his free hand to his crotch and rubbed the rising bulge.

  Conar jerked, seeing a terror greater than the one he was already experiencing. He spun around, not even looking at what he touched, just grabbing three bottles at random and gathering them close to his chest, holding them as though his life depended on it. He started out of the room, but Jones stepped closer. With a whimper of dread, of building terror on the verge of turning him to a shivering lump of screaming insanity, Conar stopped,

  A gleam of understanding lit Jones' moon-face as Conar glistened with sweat. He was an acute judge of men's weaknesses, having made it a point to learn the weak points of those whose failures could benefit him. He looked at the trembling man and he grinned. "You want out of here, real bad, don't you?"

  Conar nodded, willing breath into his collapsing lungs.

  Jones stepped out of the way, laughing as Conar nearly ran from the room, heading blindly down the dark tunnel. Jones held the torch high inside the room. He had found the weakness the Commandant had been searching for, the one thing to bring Conar to his knees!

  * * *

  Appolyon beamed as he listened to Jones. The angry gleam in the pig-like eyes had become a spark of mirth. The thick rubbery lips stretched into a smile of pure satisfaction, and he snapped the riding crop he often carried against his desk. "Your information is well worth the bottle of wine you requested, Jones."

  Lydon Drake leaned against the wall, his smile as evil as the Commandant's as Jones left with the bottle. "You want me to bring him in, now?" Lydon asked.

  "Maybe tomorrow. Give him a chance to think about how close he came."

  * * *

  By the time Brelan and the others were deep in the mine shafts of the central bluff the next day, a trio of men were removing the bottles of wine from the cellar. Lydon had been sent to keep watch on Conar, working in the vegetable garden behind the barracks. It was close to noon when he stopped Conar from his hoeing.

  "Saur said for you to get cleaned up," Lydon snarled, carefully eyeing his target as Conar straightened and looked his way.

  Sweat dripped down Conar's face and upper body; grime caked his bare feet. He glanced toward the showers and almost sighed. A bath would be almost as good as a swim in the chill waters of Lake Myria right about then. He looked at Lydon, saw the man ignoring him, and wondered why Brelan would dare stop him from working in the middle of the day.

  "Then what?" he called to Drake.

  It was a mark of how things had progressed, or deteriorated, as the Commandant saw it, that Conar would even open his mouth to speak. That he dared to question was remarkable and showed the courage that was returning. Lydon glared, hoping his hatred showed.

  "How the hell am I supposed to know? Just do it and then report to the Commandant!"

  Conar was keenly aware of the guard watching as he went to the showers, but the water would feel so wonderful, so cooling, he put Lydon's gaze from his mind. He walked behind the waist-high partition and stepped out of his breeches, laid them over the stall and stepped under the large casks. He pulled on a handle and nearly groaned with ecstasy as the water cascaded over him. Despite his pleasure, he kept a wary eye on Lydon. Every instinct screamed to be careful. He lathered his body, his hair, then ducked under the stream to rinse away the suds.

  Gravel crunching behind him startled Conar. He spun around to see Lydon.

  "Put these on." Lydon smirked, threw a relatively clean pair of white cotton breeches over the bath stall.

  Conar pushed up and secured the lever, backing to the far side of the stall. He grabbed for his dirty breeches instead of the clean ones, but as his fingers closed over the material, the breeches were snatched away. He looked around and saw Lawson Jones grinning.

  "These smell to high heaven." Jones chuckled. "You got clean clothes. Put 'em on."

  Conar couldn't help but
shudder at the way the men were looking at him. Jones might not have been among the men who had trapped him inside the equipment shed, but he had made his feelings clear the day before. He couldn't reach for the clean pants fast enough, stepping into them without drying himself.

  Lydon grinned. "Don't he look good enough to eat, Jones?"

  A warning went off in Conar's head. He looked about the compound. Several guards were milling about, each staring at him with tight smiles of pure evil on their faces.

  Lydon grinned from ear to ear. "The Commandant wants to see you, pretty boy."

  Mentally calculating how long it would take him to get away from the showers and to the mine entrance, Conar counted the guards standing between him and safety. Five.

  "I think the Commandant wants a private chat with you. Better not keep him waiting."

  He edged away from the showers, backing up toward the equipment shed, realizing where he was heading and panicked. He'd die before he allowed them to take him in there again.

  "You look a little green, boy," one guard called out.

  Conar became aware that the men were steadily circling him, blocking his escape, but the way to the mine entrance was clear.

  With a quick breath, he dodged to his left, saw men taking that course, then sprinted to the right. A man hurried to intercept him. Conar ran up the steps of the medical hut, shot pell-mell across the porch and lunged at the side railing, catapulting himself off the porch and onto the ground. He broke into a hard run across the compound, vaguely aware of the shouts and the sound of running feet. His mind was on the mine, on the welcoming adit calling out to him.

  "Hendricks!" Lydon shouted.

  Something sharp struck Conar's back. He started zig-zagging across the hot sand, his bare feet digging furrows. Only twenty feet from the mine, he felt himself losing balance. He knew a moment of sheer panic as he realized one of the guards had thrown a bola that entangled itself around his lower legs, wrapping a thin band of rawhide around his knees, hobbling him. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. Lights danced along his peripheral vision as the breath was knocked out of him. He flinched as sand flew in his face when the guards reached him.