WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "So he's still there?"

  "Snoring like a bull, lying dead to the world. I knew I had to get word to you or Brelan, so I went back downstairs and saw one of our men just coming in. I sent him to find Brelan. I went upstairs to wait and when I walked in the door, Ruck was holding our Overlord while his wife was changing the linens—he'd puked. I asked why they didn't leave him in his damned mess—I was so pissed at him for scaring us—but Ruck said it wouldn't be proper."

  Liza's heart thudded wildly in her ribcage. Perspiration dampened her upper lip, but it wasn't because she was encased in a closed-in nook, surrounded by heavy damask drapes.

  "We can't let the Tribunal catch him again," Roget swore. "Next time they really might kill him."

  Liza clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out.

  "You should have seen their faces, Hawk, when Ruck and I turned him over so the woman could wash his back. That lady's knees buckled. I had to catch her before she fell. I thought she was gonna start screaming when she saw those whip marks."

  Liza's world revolved to a grinding, screeching halt. She whimpered against the pain flooding her system. Her heart skipped beats, thudding painfully in her chest. Her palms grew sticky with sweat as they pressed to her mouth so tightly she could taste blood where her teeth gouged into her upper lip.

  "Yes, the Rucks will protect him, Hawk. When I left, that woman was sitting on the bed, cradling him like he was a four-year old. She kept calling him her 'bonny boy.'"

  Liza couldn't see her Sentinel's face, for she had pressed herself close to the windowsill, but she could hear the compassion in his voice.

  "She was crying, Hawk. Crying so hard the bed trembled, but that might have been 'cause the woman weighs close to three hundred pounds. I told her not to worry, that he'd be fine, and she looked at me and said everything would be fine now. Now that her lad was home."

  "Just so he's kept away from anyone who might remember him."

  Roget had nothing to worry about, Liza decided.

  She hadn't remembered him.

  Legion hadn't remembered him.

  Dear god, she thought, no one had remembered him.

  Well, that wasn't exactly true. Brownie, the little dog, had not forgotten her master. Brown Stuff had been overjoyed, yet no one had questioned why.

  Liza moaned.

  No wonder she felt so strangely when he was near her.

  No wonder his eyes bore into hers with such hatred.

  No wonder his voice was cold and ugly when he spoke to her.

  He was home and no one had remembered him.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  Conar McGregor was alive and he was home!

  Chapter 24

  * * *

  Sentian and Storm carried the unconscious Darkwind down the hall. Both men wore tight smiles on their faces when they spied Liza A'Lex standing at the end of the hall watching them.

  "How are you, Milady?" Sentian called.

  "Quite well, thank you, Sentian," she answered softly.

  Thom eased past them and headed for his Queen, a rather hesitant, unsure smile on his rubbery face.

  "Can I do something for you, Milady?" Thom asked, putting his broad back between her and the men struggling down the hallway with their load.

  Liza looked into his worried face and forced a smile of her own. "I thought I might be of help to you. I see you have found your wandering leader." She marveled at how normal her voice sounded.

  "Oh, we can take care of him." Thom said quickly, then dipped his bald head and his rubbery face turned a bright pink. "We're used to it."

  She nodded. "I would imagine you are, Thommy."

  Storm and Sentian had stopped at the closed portal to Darkwind's room.

  "Let me," Liza offered. She stepped around Thom, feeling air where his hand had tried to snatch her arm. She hurried to the two men and, not even looking at the Darkwind, opened the door.

  "Thank—thank you, Milady," Storm murmured.

  She went to touch the unconscious man's sagging head, but her fingers never reached the black mask.

  "Liza?"

  She flinched, her head jerking around to see her husband striding toward them. Her breath caught in her throat. She met him halfway between the stairs and Conar's room, and vaguely heard the door close behind Sentian, Storm, and Thom.

  "Brelan told me they found him. I hope you weren't planning on trying to help." Legion took her hand.

  Something told her now was not the time to tell Legion what she suspected about the Darkwind. She spared one glance at the closed door and turned back to her husband. "I was just going to see if he needed anything. He rescued our child. We owe him our hospitality."

  Legion frowned. "The man's a drunk. I don't think all the lavender elixir in the world could cure him. Besides, he has his men to help him."

  His hand tightened around her arm and she allowed him to draw her toward the stairs. She could sense his jealousy and knew he didn't understand why he felt that way.

  She wondered if he would be so blasé with his guest's health if he knew Lord Darkwind's identity.

  * * *

  Shalu jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I want to talk with him alone."

  From her chair beside the bed, Amber-lea looked at Conar. When he nodded consent, she laid down her sewing and slipped from the room. Bent followed her.

  On the big brass bed, Conar lay flat on his back, his hands clasped around the posts of the headboard. He stared at the ceiling, his teeth clenched. He already had a run-in with Roget and a shouting match with Brelan that morning, telling them he didn't appreciate being held prisoner in his own home. His blustering and yelling and throwing things hadn't swayed either man. Brelan had reluctantly, and with a great deal of snarling spite, found Amber-lea at Conar's request, which had calmed him somewhat. The girl seemed to have that effect on him. But Bent had been ordered to stay in the room and two guards stood outside his door. His mood rapidly disintegrated to one of rage.

  Shalu pulled up the vacant chair and propped his elbows on the mattress. "I can no longer allow you to create havoc with this Force."

  Conar's attention settled on Shalu, but he kept his mouth closed.

  "What you are doing to yourself is a sin. It is self-destructive and it will not be allowed to continue."

  Conar stared at the Necroman. There was no compromise written on that craggy face; there was no leeway in the set of Shalu Taborn's thick lips. There was only a strong man's assurance that what he was saying would be the way it would be.

  "You have to get on with your life, Conar. You have to put the past behind you." The black man nodded. "You have suffered. We all know that, and there is no one who deserves happiness more than you. But you will not find it in a bottle, my friend. You might find temporary forgetfulness, but when the numbness wears off, the same problems, the same pain, the same solutions will be there just like before. As will the memories."

  Conar turned his face away, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

  Shalu leaned back in the chair. "You were once defeated, but you rose above it. You were down as far as you could go and you got back up. There has been nothing done to you that you haven't been able to endure."

  "No?"

  "No! They beat you and you survived. They tortured you and you survived. They did everything they could to break you, to humble you, to crush your spirit, and they couldn't. So why are you allowing the bottle to do what Kaileel Tohre failed to do?"

  Conar looked up at the ceiling. "I don't drink any more than anyone else!" His voice was bitter with hurt.

  "Oh, but you do, my friend. You drink until you pass out. You drink until you have no memory. You don't control what you drink—you let it control you."

  "That's not true!"

  "Isn't it? That's the same thing Tohre tried to do to you—to control you. To take away what will you had left. He wanted to make a slave of you. He didn't, but you have become a slave to that bottle. Liquor makes
you do things you would never do when you're sober. You have let it humble you, bring you to your knees, puking up your guts, and it will break you if you don't stop." He took hold of Conar's chin. "If it hasn't already."

  When Conar tried to jerk his head away, Shalu increased the pressure on his chin.

  "Drinking doesn't accomplish a damned thing! All it does is magnify your pain. It reminds you of your loss. And that, my fine young friend, is what this is all about, isn't it? What you've lost?"

  Conar tried to knock away Shalu's hand, but the Necroman lashed out, effectively blocking the hands that came up to impede him. One mighty arm anchored itself across Conar's chest and pinned down his arms.

  "You are wallowing in self-pity! You're like a little boy who's had his favorite toy stolen, but instead of going home to cry to his mama, you cry to your bottle! Has that comforted you any? Has it given you peace of mind?"

  "Let go of me," Conar ground out, not willing to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he was being hurt.

  "Why do you do this to yourself? It certainly doesn't become you! Give me one good reason why you are bent on killing what is left of your pride. Have you so little regard for your own life that you will endanger the lives of others because you have an itch in your cock for a woman you can't have? Your brother's wife?"

  "I love her!" Conar trembled as the words shot out of him. His eyes filled with moisture, and he looked up at Shalu with pleading. Then, in a quiet whisper, all his torment and heartbreak flowed through his words. "I love her, Shalu. I love her more than my own life."

  Shalu got up and sat on the bed, taking his friend in his arms. He cradled Conar's head against his massive chest and stroked his hair. "I know you do, and if there was a way I could change what has happened for you, I would. But I can not, and neither can you." He laid a hand on Conar's brow. "You have to let her go here"—he moved his hand to Conar's heart—"before you can let her go here."

  "I can't, Shalu. I've tried and I can't."

  "You'll have to try harder, son. She no longer belongs to you."

  "She was my wife!"

  "But now she is your brother's legal wife. You have to let her go, or you will end up destroying you and her."

  Conar pulled out of Shalu's embrace and rolled onto his side. "I've stayed away from her."

  "I realize that. But what if she were to see you like this?"

  "She doesn't even know I'm alive. She has looked right at me and not recognized me."

  "One day she'll find out. What if she were to see you like this? It would hurt her to think—" Shalu frowned. "I see now. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  Conar stared at Shalu. "What?"

  "It is!" Shalu breathed. "You want her to see you like this, don't you? You want her to see what you're doing to yourself so she will feel guilty, feel responsible for being the cause of it."

  "No."

  "That's exactly what you're doing. You want her to feel guilty for being happy when you aren't, for having a life when you have none." Shalu pointed toward the door. "You have that young woman—Amber-lea. Jah-Ma-El told me about her. Why don't you marry her—"

  "She's not the right woman!"

  "You can't have the right woman. You are a grown man. It's time, past time, you started acting like one. If you insist on behaving like an irresponsible child, you'll be treated like one! If you have to be watched every hour of every day, we will keep you from the bottle!"

  "You can't watch me all the time!"

  Conar swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand, but Shalu knocked him to the mattress.

  "You see if we don't, Conar! Brelan sure as hell isn't going to allow you to hurt Elizabeth A'Lex, and we sure as hell aren't going to allow you to hurt yourself! Learn to live with her marriage to your brother or else!"

  "Or else what?"

  "It would be best you didn't find out!"

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  It came back easily enough, she thought, walking down the hall, her smile in place, her face warm and friendly. Shalu, rumored to be a sorcerer in his own right, had stomped past her, his black face set in a deep scowl, and she just stood there, smiling. She waited until she heard his heavy tread on the stairs, then continued toward Conar's door.

  The guards watched her approach, answering smiles on their faces. One of them meekly opened the door for her.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "My pleasure, Highness."

  Aye, she thought, entering the Raven's chambers, her magic had just been sleeping. Conar was home and the magic had returned with him.

  * * *

  Conar heard the door lock click and stopped buttoning his breeches. He knew no one should be allowed in the room. He stepped beside the armoire, his breathing stilled to a slow, rhythmic rise and fall, and listened for any sound the intruder might make.

  His face crinkled. Whoever had entered was being furtive. His sixth sense kicked in, automatically probing the room's atmosphere to identify the intruder. But there was nothing there to probe. As far as his power was concerned, he was alone; but he knew better. He knew it as surely as he stood behind the armoire and waited. Whoever had entered was trying to hide their presence.

  * * *

  Liza knew he was in the room. He couldn't have left or she would have known. Something told her he was aware of a presence and was hiding.

  She scanned the large bedroom, looked at the partition leading into the bathing chamber, and was sure he wasn't lurking there. She glanced at the desk, the alcove beyond where a settee and two chairs sat before a smoldering fire. Her vision lingered for a moment on the unkempt bed, then jerked away.

  She smiled sadly. If this room didn't belong to Conar McGregor, no room ever had. An open bag of clothing sat on the floor; his sword and baldric were draped over the desk chair; one black boot was in the north corner of the room, the other partially lying under the high bed. The armoire door stood open and clothes lay at the bottom, while some had tumbled onto the floor. One black shirt had been kicked into the corner, a pair of black leather breeches hung precariously from one edge of the settee. His cape had been thrown over a tall houseplant, the plant sagging with the weight, and his gloves lay in the middle of the floor. Then she spied the black mask on the bedside table and knew for a certainty he was still here.

  "I know you are here, Milord," Liza said gently, stepping closer to the armoire. "I need to speak with you."

  She stopped, feeling a rift in the air. His tumultuous emotions, now running rampant through him, gave away his position. She could almost hear his heart pounding.

  "Stay where you are," he rasped, his voice lilting with accent more than usual.

  She held her breath. Her legs trembled. Despite that alien accent, she had no doubt who was speaking. "It's time we faced one another."

  "Not now."

  "If not now, when?"

  "I have nothing to say to you."

  Her voice almost broke as she answered. "But I have something to say to you."

  "I told you, not today!"

  Liza heard the fear in his voice, his harsh breathing. Her gaze fell to the shadow at the side of the armoire and saw him plowing his fingers through his hair—a habit that had endeared him to her.

  Her throat closed. Her willpower broke, and her emotions came out in her words. "Will you make me wait another nine years, Milord? Do I have to beg you, Conar?"

  He stepped out from beside the armoire and his eyes went unerringly to hers.

  Her legs threatened to buckle. Her pulse beat a wild tattoo. She had known it was him, but having his identity confirmed, seeing him before her, was painful. Her gaze hungrily roamed over his face, his golden hair, his lips and she was completely stunned, barely aware of the tears flowing down her cheeks.

  At last she found her words, and what she said made her wince with her stupidity. "Are you well, Milord?"

  His words came out harsh and angry, full of spite. "I'm alive."

  Liza saw the
rigid lines of anger behind the thick beard, and wondered at the color of his eyes. If she did not know in her woman's heart this was the man she had so desperately loved, those eyes would have given lie to his identity.

  "Where have you been?" Another stupid question that made her sigh.

  "What difference does it make?" Another answer full of spite.

  "Aye, it makes a difference, Milord. Why didn't you let me know you were alive?"

  "Would it have mattered?" He snatched a shirt from the floor, then pulled it over his head in a savage snap that ripped the underarm of one sleeve. With his teeth drawn back in obvious fury, he stalked over to his boots.

  She swiped the tears on her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown. "Where are you going?"

  "Away from you." He stormed toward the door.

  "Why, Conar? Why?"

  Just as he jerked open the door, she grabbed his arm. He slapped away her hand and looked at her. In one heart-stopping moment, Liza saw emotions he had obviously tried so hard to conceal now revealed in his face—hurt, frustration, regret, jealousy.

  "Please let me explain," she pleaded, reaching for him again.

  "I want to hear nothing from you! There is nothing you can say that will make one bit of difference now!" After almost tripping over one of the guards, he slammed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Though he heard her cries from the bedroom, he had to get away. So angry was he, he didn't notice the man walking toward him until he plowed into him. Cursing, he struck out and sent the man crashing into a wall. The fellow gained his balance and snatched hold of Conar's shirt. Conar looked down into the startled face of Teal du Mer.

  * * *

  Teal thought he was going insane. Despite the man's heavy beard, Teal knew whose hands were on his chest, pushing him away. He recognized the fury on those full lips. Stunned as he was, he tried to speak, but the man known as the Raven stopped him cold.