WINDHEALER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Step lively," the captain warned. "We'll be sailing through some tricky weather soon."

  It took nearly an hour of twisting, turning, and settling for all the men to board the two vessels. The upper decks were jammed with men rigging tarps to protect themselves from the now gently falling rain.

  "Might get a bit rough out to sea," Holm remarked, handing the sextant over to Mister Tarnes before he swung a rope across to the other ship.

  "Aye," Korbit agreed. "Can't believe you men pirated that prison ship!" He looked at the Vortex. "You'll make a good captain for her, Gil."

  Mister Tarnes looked surprised. "Think he'll let me keep her?"

  "He will," Conar said. He put a hand on Tarnes' shoulder. "You deserve her."

  "I'll take good care of her, Majesty," Tarnes said, blushing.

  Conar slapped Tarnes on the back and walked off, heading for the sternmost portion of the Boreas Queen. He had seen his men to as much comfort as the two ships could provide and now he wanted privacy. He stared at the retreating harshness of Tyber's Isle.

  The rain grew heavier. Conar's lashes were spiked with droplets, his face glistening with rain. He was soaked through, his shirt plastered to his chest, water ran down his nose and dripped to the railing beneath his light grip. But he didn't want to leave, didn't want to find the warmth and comfort of the cabin Holm had insisted he take on the trip to Chrystallus.

  Watching Tyber's Isle disappear into the curve of the ocean, Conar sighed. He hoped to the gods he had seen the last of that terrible place with its white-hot heat and clinging sand.

  The thought of the sand took him back to his first half-hour on board the Boreas Queen. Wyn had led him down to the hold, pointing out a place near midships where a thick blanket of dark earth spread out over the hull.

  "What is it?" Conar had asked.

  "Holm had that prepared for the coffin, Papa. It's Serenian soil."

  Conar hunkered down and grasped a handful of the thick, dark gray silt. He inhaled the fecund, rich loam. This was not the hot, infertile sand of the Labyrinth; this was the cool, fertile sod of his homeland. The nurturing soil of his birth.

  "Are you all right, Papa?" Wyn asked.

  "I will be now," Conar whispered, reveling in the texture of the earth. It felt like home.

  He looked past Wyn as men filed into the room with Hern Arbra's coffin.

  Conar asked to be alone. He placed his hand on the coffin rough wood. "We're going home, Hern," he whispered. "I won't be there to see you buried, but I've told Holm what I want on the marker. I told you once I'd have He was feared carved on your stone. Remember?"

  He lowered his forehead to the musty wood. "Well, that won't be the words on it after all." Tears glistened in his eyes. "I've decided it will read… He was loved."

  PART III:

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Chrystallus was a country of enigmas. As were its people.

  For the most part, the land was lush with well-ordered, well-groomed gardens that grew among rocks and timbers and granite statues. Everywhere was a sense of peace, of tranquillity, of order. Man-made waterfalls cascaded over lava rocks, and graceful arched bridges flowed over the streams where tiny, darting silver and gold fishes played among smooth stones and flowing water lilies. Lotus flowers were abundant in even the meanest garden space, and twisted, stunted trees grew according to the Master Gardener's command and scheme.

  While the people of Chrystallus were peaceful and as tranquil and disciplined as their gardens, they had a darker side, a warrior side, that could turn their peaceful world into a blazing war zone when they had been intruded upon by outsiders who did not understand their lifestyle.

  Such was the case when Kaileel Tohre tried to invade the land of the Lotus. The people had rebelled with a ferocity that had stunned its invaders and sent them scurrying back across the ice-covered mountains with their tails tucked between their legs. The invaders had been kept away all the years of Conar's imprisonment and were still kept away.

  Their Emperor and his lady were looked upon as being the representatives of the gods. Given godlike qualities by his subjects which often amused the Emperor and his Empress, Tran Shimoto nevertheless took his position as the ultimate authority to be his rightful due. Having his peoples' complete faith was of the utmost importance, for when he told them they would be fighting, to the death, for their homeland, his subjects did not waver. They took him at his word. Rather than live in captivity, under infidels who smirked at their gentle lifestyle, those captured during the fighting had found ways to honorably end their lives. The invaders who had been captured had died deaths meant to warn their fellow warriors.

  So it was that when the Boreas Queen and her sister ship Vortex were spotted on the horizon some nine months after the escape from Labyrinth Prison, a hue and cry went up. The people of Chrystallus were well-armed and ready by the time the ships dropped anchor in the bay outside Binh Tae, the capital. It was not until the royal flag of Chrystallus was hoisted that the people turned to their Chief Minister and awaited instructions.

  "It is the Empress' nephew, I believe," the man told them, and sent word to the Emperor.

  It was a tired group of men who stepped out of the longboats onto the shore at Binh Tae Palace. The sight made the people of Chrystallus lay down their weapons and stand reverently along the shore and above the docks on the rock promontory circling the city. To the men who walked through the dwindling depths of the ocean waves to the steep wooden steps leading to a landing high above, the eerie silence greeting them was unnerving. Almond-shaped black eyes followed their every move, and not one smile touched upon the thin, almost straight line of their lips.

  Brelan was in the first longboat that anchored in the shallows. The people recognized him and heads nodded, features relaxed, but the black eyes swept over the other men in the longboat beside him and narrowed in speculation.

  Tyne Brell, Storm Jale, Thom Loure and four others waded ashore along with Saur, wary of the silent greeting.

  "They look none too happy to see us," Tyne mumbled.

  "It's their way," Brelan whispered.

  The second longboat with Roget, Chase, the Hesars: Xander, Rylan and Paegan, Belvoir and two others slammed into the shoreline ahead of a crashing wave and the boat nearly capsized, but no one came to their aid as the men fell into the lapping water. No one laughed either. Only the soft rustle of the trees along the promontory and the gentle lapping of waves against the stonework seawall lent sound to the utter stillness.

  The third boat containing eight prisoners from the penal colony landed and the men disembarked, looking at the people who were trickling down from the promontory to spread out along the water's edge.

  "Howdy," one prisoner said to a wizened little man who had come forward with hunched shoulders and a scowl on his ugly face. The man didn't return the welcome.

  It was when the fourth boat dispersed its cargo of humanity that a quiet hum began among those gathered. Hands lifted, shielding eyes; fingers pointed; people nodded excitedly in agreement with the observation of their neighbors. Two soldiers left their position beside the Chief Minister and ran as fast as they could toward the palace.

  In the beautiful sing-song language of the Chrystallusian people, the volume grew as people gathered along the rock promontory and drifted down the shoreline from either side of the coast. Laughter rang out. Knees and backs were slapped as the people of the Lotus became aware of the man who cleared the side of the fourth boat and who, even then, was standing in thigh-high water.

  He stared at the people coming down the steep steps. With his gleaming blond hair, freshly washed just that morning, his build, his stance and the deference being shown to him by the other men climbing from the boat, there could be no doubt who he was. There was no other like him, and the voices gathered in volume until a roar of excitement raced through the air.

  "The gods are merciful," the Chief Minister whispered as he saw those legendary blue eyes
even from his high place. "It is him!"

  The Empress Dyreil Shimoto stood with one hand shielding her face to the glare of the sun as she stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the beach. She was relieved to see Dyllon, Coron, and Wyn safe, but then she looked at the man her guards had come to tell her about. She turned to her husband. "Tran, can it truly be him?"

  Tran shrugged. "We shall have to walk down these steps to make sure, Beloved. I believe the young man is mired in the water where he stands." He smiled and his heart ached as his slim wife clutched a hand to her bosom, her lips moving in prayer to whatever goddesses governed this Serenian lady. He took her hand in his and squeezed it. "We shall have to walk, Dyreil. As yet, us gods have not learned the magic of flight." He winked at her and watched as some of the confused lines in her beautiful face began to relax.

  Conar finally saw her and his heart lurched, allowing his feet movement in the shifting waters.

  "Belias A Regius, Conar Regius," a little man called in a clear voice.

  Conar looked with fright on the little man, whose head bobbed in greeting.

  "Conar Regius," the man repeated. He put his hands together and bowed low.

  Two soldiers appeared as though from nowhere and stood beside the man. They mouthed the same words, their own faces filled with wonder, and then they, too, bowed. Around him, people bowed or dropped gracefully to their knees, giving Conar their homeland's greeting of honor. They pressed their foreheads to the wet sand, raised up and looked at him, then bent forward again, their arms stretched outstretched.

  On the shore, Conar came to a standstill, his chest heaving with emotion as men and women whispered two words in the ancient language of Serenia—Conar Regius, meaning King Conar. The volume grew.

  On the promontory where a thick line of warriors and soldiers gathered, the cry changed. The people took up the new chant with a force that ran out over the shore, vying with the crashing waves. Seven mighty, magical, heart-felt words. "Conar Regius: Belias niatos E nal sumein!"

  "King Conar: The Wind is with us now!"

  Tears filled Conar's eyes as he heard his battle cry. His aunt's people, showing him honor and respect he had never thought to experience again, tore at his heart. A lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. His breath came in ragged gasps of emotion. When his knees buckled, he dropped to the wet sand, threw back his head, and gasped air into his aching lungs.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. He lowered his head to a young Chrystallusian woman kneeling before him. She smiled; the little rosebud mouth, painted red as cherries and looking just as sweet, opened. In a tinkling, musical voice she spoke.

  "Welcome home, King Conar."

  She placed her soft lips against his scarred cheek. When she moved back, she giggled, seeing his astonishment. Gracefully she rose and held out her tiny hand, bidding him to take it. Her smile slipped away when he hesitated, unsure and somehow afraid.

  "Let me take you to your aunt."

  In a daze, he nestled her hand in his. They walked to the base of the steps from where the Empress and her husband were descending. When the woman eased her hand from his, he looked at her, needing that touch to keep him standing, but she shook her head, somehow sensing his awkwardness, and moved into the crowd of people.

  Dyreil stepped from the last two planks and opened her arms. Her smile was as bright as day.

  Conar stood there quivering as though with ague. His brows drew together, his fingers twitched at his sides. He was striving with all his might to keep his tears at bay. The effort was physically draining. He felt a faint echo, a soft sighing, of the total joy he had once known so deeply in his battered soul and it called to him in a voice he knew so well.

  "I love you, Conar," his aunt whispered.

  He was tense, like a tightly coiled spring. He trembled as he attempted to keep his anxiety under control. In the Labyrinth, he had learned to be invisible; here, he was scrutinized, welcomed, spoken to, by hundreds of people. In the Labyrinth, he had learned what it was to be deprived of love; here, these people were showering him with affection. In the Labyrinth, he had been denied human touch and warmth; here, he had been touched and shown love. When his aunt stepped toward him, a low groan came from the depths of his soul. As her arms closed around his waist, another moan, lost and helpless, poured from him.

  "Oh, my sweet Conar."

  He wanted to hold her to him, but he hurt so badly, he could not force his muscles to obey. She gripped him tightly to her, her arms encompassing him, her cheek pressed close to his chest. His head went to her shoulder and hesitant sobs wracked his body. He managed to bring up his arms until she was clasped against him in a tender embrace.

  Her hands went up to cup his face. "My beautiful baby boy." She stroked the recalcitrant wave of hair that had fallen over his brow. "My beautiful, beautiful baby!"

  He clung to her with all the pent-up need of a child too long lost from his family. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Tran smiled. "Welcome home, son."

  Dyreil stepped aside for her husband to draw their nephew into his arms.

  "We dared not believe it was you when our men came to tell us," Tran said.

  "This day will live in our history," the Chief Minister added, giving his Empress a tender smile.

  Dyreil slipped her slender arm around her nephew's waist. "You will come and sleep and rest and…" She squeezed him to her. "…And put some meat on this tall frame!"

  * * *

  Conar wasn't sure what had awakened him. At first he couldn't remember where he was. Sitting up in the bed with its rose-colored silk sheets and soft white satin coverlet, he looked around before he came back to the present and lay back down, the scent of sandalwood tickling the hairs of his nose. It was a warm scent and it smelled clean and fresh, and it soothed him.

  He stretched his arms above his head, pushing on the ornately carved teakwood headboard and sighed. He had no idea what time it was, but by the shadows on the wall, he had slept well past noon. Ashamed, he threw back the covers, only mildly surprised that he was naked. He could vaguely recall being undressed. By Bre? Roget? He couldn't remember.

  He looked for his clothes, but saw nothing on the credenza or the square table of lacquer-wood with its army of plump cushions encircling it. Silk screens partitioned off different sections of the room; a large, gnarled tree stood in the corner beside another low credenza, but still he saw no clothes. He looked at the bed, the only concession to his own culture within the room. Though unquestionably comfortable, it looked foreign in a decor where a mattress on the bare floor would have sufficed.

  He peeked behind one screen, finding a golden tub filled with water, mists rising above the surface like dancing ghostlings. He plunged his hand into the tub. The feel of the water filled him with sheer joy.

  Folded on a table beside the tub were thick towels that beckoned his palm to spread over them. "Ah…" he sighed as his callused flesh dragged against their fleecy softness.

  He plucked a white oblong of soap from its crystal dish. Easing himself into the over-sized tub, he sighed with pleasure, breathing deeply of the cinnamon-scented water, an aroma he had not taken in for a long time. He rested his head along the high back, put his arms to either side of the rolled edge and let his body drift in the warm cocoon.

  He heard the sound of a rice-paper door gliding open, but the warmth of the water and the rich scent of the cinnamon filled him with lassitude and he didn't look around.

  "Do you believe this tub?" he asked, expecting Bre, Roget, or Sentian to answer.

  "Does it please you, Highness?" a laughing, musical voice inquired.

  He jumped. The same slender woman who had greeted him at the beach walked gracefully toward him. She knelt beside the tub and smiled. Blushing, he scrunched down in the tub, and used his hands to shield his lions from her curious view. It was not the first time a servant girl had come into his bathing chamber; the various activities afterward had been especially pleasant. But
this slim girl-child was the first woman to see him naked in many years. She was also the first woman he had been alone with in all those years. He swallowed to still the wild, erratic beating of his heart.

  "My name is Se Huan, Highness. His Celestial Highness selected some clothing for you. If they do not fit or if you do not find them appealing, we will find others. I placed them on your bed." Her smiled was slightly amused. "Does it meet with your approval?"

  "What?" he stammered.

  A tinkle of merry laughter issued from her bow-shaped red lips. "The bed, Highness! Is it comfortable?"

  He nodded.

  "Good! I will wait here until you are finished with your bath and then I will help you dress." Her oval face was sweetly innocent as she raised her chin, craning her delicate neck to peer over the rim of the tub. "Where is your soap, Highness?"

  "Huh?"

  She smiled and gave him a look that was part chastisement, part teasing. "Your soap?"

  He held up his hand where the bar of chamomile was slick and melting, squishy between his fingers. He handed it to her like a child caught with something he shouldn't have in his possession.

  "You're…you're going to wait here?" he stammered, cupping himself again.

  "Does my presence in your bathing chamber offend you, Highness?" Her heart-shaped face quivered as though the notion that he found below standards hurt her. She lowered her head.

  "It doesn't matter. Stay if you wish."

  "I wish!" she said brightly, sitting back on her heels.

  He tried to pretend she wasn't there. His eyes shifted back and forth across the room, seeking a way to ask her to leave without hurting her feelings. He wanted to bathe, but he didn't want her watching him. He had almost formulated a request he felt would suffice when he felt something wet and cool caress the back of his neck. Turning his head slightly, he saw her kneeling behind him, her fingers deftly braiding his long blond hair into a queue. He brought up his knees, hiding his manhood. Amused laughter flowed over his shoulder, softly stirring the hair along his neck.