WINDREAPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Conar flinched. "I'm not making excuses for what happened, but I truly don't remember—"

  "Shut up!" Legion bellowed. "What I should do is relieve you of that filthy piece of flesh dangling between your thighs! I don't think any man here would blame me if I did, or try to stop me!" He looked around at the disappointed, shocked faces. "If I wasn't so loathe to put my hands on you, I'd have them hold you down for me to do it!"

  Conar groaned. Legion knew nothing of the dream that had nearly destroyed Conar in Chrystallus.

  "Gather your things and get the hell out of this keep! Get the hell away from Boreas! I don't give a damn if you ever come back. I don't even want to know where you can be found. You can go to Eurus or Ivor, it doesn't matter, so long as you never step foot in this keep again!"

  Conar's hurt deepened. "This is my home, Legion."

  "Not anymore! If you try to stay, I'll have you thrown out! If you come back, try to see my wife again, I'll have you tossed into that dungeon you like so well and leave you there!"

  "Let me explain, Legion—"

  "If you aren't out by sundown, I swear I will find you and have you removed—in chains, if necessary—from my keep!"

  Legion shoved Shalu and Roget out of his way. He stormed through the library door, slamming open the portals so wide, they crashed against the stone wall. Glass shattered, tinkling to the flagstone with a lost, hopeless sound.

  The others turned to Conar. Disappointment, regret, disbelief filled every face. Condemnation was evident in their silent stares. No one spoke.

  "I'm sorry," Conar mumbled. He wasn't surprised to see Teal du Mer turn his back and walk away.

  "Do you need help packing?" Sentian asked. There was no warmth, no help in the look he flung at Conar. Neither was there the love and respect that had always been in the young warrior's gaze. He was Conar's friend, but, foremost, Sentian was Liza's sentinel.

  Conar shook his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. His heart ached when Sentian turned his back, too. He hung his head in shame.

  "Get those two out of here," Shalu ordered to some of the guards standing over the dead men. "Have Hesar's man look at them before you string them up at the front gate. Maybe they're known to him."

  For a long time, Conar could feel Shalu looking at him, but when he finally lifted his head, the power of Shalu's anger tore through him. The big Necroman never said a word, but the scorn and censure was evident in the dark face before he, too, turned and walked away.

  "You'd better leave, Conar," Roget said, quietly. "We don't need trouble right now."

  With his heart aching, Conar entered the keep. Once inside, whisperings stopped, backs turned. He descended the stairs leading to the bowels of the keep and, for the first time, felt the cold seeping through him as he ventured into the dungeon. Also for the first time, he experienced the closeness of the damp walls, smelled the wet, musty odor invading his senses, which grimly reminded him of a grave.

  He entered his cell and looked about, totally detached from what he was viewing. He slumped onto his cot, his hands dangling between his spread knees, his head lowered, his hearing closed to the far away drip of water echoing through the tunnels and cells. Sighing heavily, he brushed away the wicked betrayal of moisture easing down his cheek, smearing his tear across his cheekbone with the heel of his hand. The wetness felt hot and telling on his flesh.

  He caught sight of the flask, Sern's special drug, partially hidden beneath a mound of wrinkled clothing.

  He looked at it, despising it, needing it, hurting for it. Addiction twisted his gut, reminding him the monster in him needed feeding. In disgust, he reached for the flask, intending to throw it against the wall. But when his trembling fingers closed around the flask, his tongue automatically eased across his lips in anticipation of the sweet taste of mangoes and peace.

  "No," he said, his tone forceful.

  But the drug's allure called to him with siren sweetness—Take me, she crooned in her seductive, throaty whisper. Take me and make me a part of you.

  He uncorked the flask and brought it to his nostrils, breathing in the ripe mango smell. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to the whispers coming from the thick liquid.

  You need me, Conar, the drug seemed to remind him. Who else do you have, now, but me?

  His hand trembled. He tried to put the flask on the table, but it would not leave his hand. His fingers tightened on the neck. He brought the flask to his chest and clutched it to him, both hands molding themselves protectively around the promise it held.

  How weak I am, he thought sadly, his right hand running down the flask's surface, caressing it. I can't even destroy that which is destroying me.

  You need me, the flask cooed. Have your fill of me, Conar. I am all you have left.

  He knew Liza would forgive him—she always did. But he knew he would never forgive himself for what he had done. Although he remembered nothing of what had happened, he knew he had used her like one of his whores, and the thought of her suffering as they had, made him sick to his stomach.

  You hurt her, Conar, the drug admonished. You called her cruel names, took her against her will. You knew she was the same innocent woman she has always been, didn't you? You knew she had not intentionally betrayed you. She did not forsake the great love the two of you once shared. Her willingness to sacrifice her life to keep you from being shamed before your men proved that. How could you have ever doubted her?

  He had lost her for all time. He had proven himself unworthy of that great love. He knew she would never belong to him again. Not after this.

  Your brothers have turned on you, Conar, the flask said. Your men have lost their respect and love for you. You have been ordered from your home, again, and now there is nowhere you can go where the knowledge of what you have done will not be known. A rapist is a rapist—the lowest of the low. Taking a whore who well knows what she is being used for is one thing—violating a decent woman is another.

  Sitting in the dismal surroundings of his self-imposed imprisonment, he felt guilt crash down on him with lightning speed. His attention lowered to the flask, and his mouth watered. He swallowed.

  Go ahead, Conar, his relief whispered. There is no one who will care. The voice turned smooth and sultry. Go ahead. What are you waiting for?

  He didn't hesitate.

  With sweat clinging to his brow, he tilted back his head and let remorse guide his trembling hand to his lips. He drained the entire contents of the nearly full bottle, gagging as the liquid slid down his throat, threatening to make him vomit. He gulped convulsively to keep the liquid down, now hating the taste of over-ripe mangoes flooding his mouth.

  He recalled Sern's warning of a few weeks earlier—"Each flask contains a two-week supply if you take it as intended, a week's worth if you absolutely have to have it. Be careful not to take more than two sips at the most within a four-hour period. The drug is deadly, otherwise."

  Conar lay on the cot, his hands beside his head. There was an instant buzzing in his ears. His body grew warm, tingling, detached, the rash coming alive with a fiery lick of remembrance. The drug invaded his system with its numbing ocean of heat. His head started spinning, reeling, colors dancing brightly and alluring along his vision. He could pinpoint the very spot where the water was dripping, could smell the rust it was causing along a cistern pipe.

  I am all you will ever need, Conar, the drug whispered as it claimed him. All you will ever, ever need.

  The rash on his chest and arms was crawling over him, easing down his sides, his hips, his legs, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the buzzing, eerie lap of waves on an alien shore. Darkness began spinning at the corners of his vision, tunneling inward, and his tongue felt thick and dry inside his mouth.

  Embrace me, the peace told him. Take me as you have your women, sweet Prince.

  His breathing became deep, slow.

  I will be your last, the voice crooned.

  He felt feverish, numb. Again,
he heard Sern's words drowning out the lulling whispers of the drug—"Be careful, Milord. Be very careful with this drug. It can be deadly."

  Deadly? Conar thought.

  He hoped so. He truly did.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  "What the hell difference does it make if he was drunk or numb with drugs?" Legion growled at Brelan. "He took her, Saur!"

  "But he might not have known he was doing it," Brelan argued.

  Legion nearly hit him. He shook his fist. "He knew!"

  "Don't you see what must have happened?" Jah-Ma-El put in. "Did he remember killing those men? Do you remember Rylan telling you about the whore who came to the door begging money because she said he had hurt her so badly she couldn't work?" The aging warlock shook his head. "You even made a joke about it, remember? You said his sword was honed too sharp. Do you remember Roget telling you that Conar couldn't remember where he had been that night, let alone with whom. He was drugged on something that damned nomad had given him. I'd stake my life on it!"

  "So would I," Roget added. "I was looking at his face when your lady was brought into the garden. He didn't understand any more than you did what had happened to her."

  "He took her!" Legion repeated at the top of his voice. "What difference does it make whether he remembers doing it? The damage has been done!"

  "Legion," Brelan sighed, plowing a hand through his dark curls. "He must have taken something last evening. He found those bastards trying to hurt Elizabeth and killed them, Liza told us as much. But he wasn't pretending—he truly didn't know he had killed them."

  "And he does not remember hurting your lady," Shalu said. "I saw that much on his face."

  "Then what is it you think I should do? Forgive him?" Legion bellowed with fury. "Tell him I've changed my mind and that he can stay? I will not! I want him gone and away from my wife!"

  "I think we should talk with him," Jah-Ma-El told his brother. "You and Brelan and me. We're his family."

  "What good will that do?"

  "He needs help, Legion," Roget said. "If he is taking drugs—"

  "There's no doubt!" Teal interrupted.

  "Then that's all the more reason for us to help him," Roget shot back.

  "He needs our help," Sentian stressed. "We failed him once." His gaze swept over Teal and Marsh Eden and Storm Jale.

  "We are his family," Brelan cautioned. "We are his brothers, we are blood. He needs us and we can not turn our backs on him. Not this time."

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  Brelan and Legion made their way down to the dungeon. The gloomy, damp confines of the stone walls made Legion shiver. It was a singularly depressing place, at best, and had seen many men dead and broken within its walls. A smell in the musty air reminded Legion of a battlefield after a skirmish—the smell of the grave.

  Legion frowned as something skittered across his foot and squeaked as it disappeared into the shadows. He listened to the distant sound of bats winging away in the farthest reaches of the evil place. He swept his notice over cobwebs and slick, oozing walls, over dust-caked sconces, and discarded debris along the pathway, then wondered for the hundredth time why Conar would chosen such morbid sleeping quarters. There were plenty of rooms in the keep.

  Legion doubted if his brother even knew the reason he had chosen to live in a dungeon. But Legion knew it was this self-imposed exile into the hidden world of death and torture where Conar went to escape the reality of everyday life. Here, he could escape the hurt, the loss, the pain he refused to face above the stairs.

  Such a life had been taken away from him, replaced with the one he had been forced to endure, and it was that dark life he had come to accept as being the norm. Conar had cloaked himself in the dreary, depressing bowels of the keep like some nocturnal animal hiding from the bright of day.

  But in Conar's case, Legion realized, it wasn't the light of day from which he was hiding—it was the light of companionship and acceptance he shunned. Yes, Legion realized, the dark tomb offered Conar a haven into which he could escape from what had been done to his life, from what had been taken away from him, that which he no longer possessed.

  Like Elizabeth.

  Legion swatted a cobweb. "How can he stand this?"

  "The liquor and drugs lend themselves more to the cold of the dungeon than the warmth of the parlor," Brelan answered. "He doesn't remember what this place did to him."

  Legion understood, but doubted Conar did. Unknowingly, Conar had put himself back into the hellish clutches of Kaileel Tohre and the bastard who had run the Labyrinth. They had caged his body; now, that imprisonment had also caged his thoughts. Like the criminal they had branded him, he sought out the iron bars as his home, needing the ordered confinement like he needed the liquor. And the drug.

  "Why would he take something like that?" Legion mumbled more to himself than to his brother. "Stupid!"

  Brelan stepped over the carcass of a dead mouse. "He probably doesn't even know the answer to that question."

  "That nomad—what's his name?"

  "Sern."

  "If he's been giving Conar drugs, I'll damned sure put a stop to it."

  "How, Legion?"

  "I'll cut off the supply!"

  * * *

  Brelan sighed, wondering how the people were going to react to Elizabeth's violation. That the news would be all over Serenia by week's end was a fair estimate of how fast gossip traveled when it dealt with the royal family. Few, he surmised, would think long or hard of it, though, preferring not to dwell on such matters. When they learned the truth behind Conar's actions, about his drug problem, the pity would filter through even the coldest heart and Conar would be forgiven.

  He was, however, sure some people would condemn Conar. But most still thought of Elizabeth as Conar's wife, and perhaps would declare it retribution. Either way, the people of Serenia would forgive Conar most anything. After all, he was the true King of their homeland and Elizabeth McGregor had been his.

  "He's always tried to take the easy way out, hasn't he?" Legion grumbled as they stopped at the closed iron door leading to the punishment cells.

  "How do you mean?" Brelan asked, pushing open the door.

  "You know damned well what I mean! With the liquor when he was younger, with every female he could lay his hands on. If he could use his sword to silence an enemy, he didn't bother discussing the situation. If things got too bad with Papa, he'd just simply disappear on us. He's always shirked responsibility and I think that's why he doesn't want the crown—it's too much responsibility!"

  Brelan thought Legion might well have hit the nail on the head. Conar hadn't wanted to lead his men, either. "It doesn't matter. He's got to be made to see he can't keep running away from whatever is unpleasant. The liquor was bad enough—the drugs are worse yet."

  When they entered the cell, they found Conar sleeping, his right arm hanging off the edge of the cot.

  Legion glared at his brother. "He must be drugged out of his mind. He knew I meant what I said about him leaving!" He kicked the cot. "Get up!"

  There wasn't a movement, nor a sound. Brelan pursed his lips with exasperation. "He's out of it."

  Legion shook Conar. "Wake up!"

  Conar's head dropped heavily to one side. He mumbled incoherently.

  "He's really under." Brelan half-turned as Jah-Ma-El entered, a terrified Sern in tow, his thin arm clutched in Marsh Edan's steely grip. Brelan looked at the nomad with distaste. "How long does the stupor last?"

  "It varies, Lord Saur," Sern stammered as Marsh thrust him into the room.

  Marsh pushed past Sern, hushing the man's babbling, and knelt beside the cot. He looked at Legion for guidance.

  "You know as much as we do," Legion said, stepping back.

  Marsh lifted one of Conar's eyelids. His brows drew together in a dark scowl. He shifted his hand to the other eyelid, then placed a hand over Conar's chest. The scowl vanished. "He's barely breathing!"

  Jah-M
a-El grabbed Sern as the little nomad was about to flee. "What did you give him?"

  "Lord Jah-Ma-El, please!" the nomad squealed. "It was only a minor brew. Nothing that would harm him if he took it as directed. It's just a little something to ease his pains."

  "Does it always do this to him?" Marsh asked, standing.

  Sern's head bobbed to and fro, snapping like a sheet in a brisk wind. "Yes! Yes! Always! He sleeps deeply, but he can be awakened. Use some water. Sprinkle it on him. He'll come around."

  Bent Armitage lumbered into the cell, nudging Brelan and Legion aside, making it clear he would be the one to do as the nomad suggested. He picked up a tumbler of tepid water and held it over Conar's face.

  "Give me that!" Legion grabbed the water, ignoring the giant's hiss of displeasure.

  Legion emptied the contents into Conar's face. There was a momentary flicker of the closed eyelids, a soft moan, but no other movement.

  "Is that normal?" Jah-Ma-El shouted, flinging Sern to the edge of the cot. "You're telling us such lack of response is normal?"

  Legion took Conar's face in his hands. He slapped Conar's cheeks, at first lightly, then with harder, more calculated strokes. "Wake up!"

  Conar's lids opened, but the dark orbs rolled back in the sockets and the lids slipped shut.

  "Damn it!" Legion snarled.

  "What's wrong with him?" Brelan asked.

  "Conar!" Legion shouted, dragging his brother up, shaking him violently. With his hand, Legion connected hard with Conar's left cheek, snapping the limp head to the right. "Damn it, man, wake up!"

  Conar's lids opened. He ran his tongue over his lips. A slight groan came shallowly from his chest. "I'm…I'm leaving…Legion," came a thick, slurred whisper. "Won't…be…back…"

  Legion shook his brother harder, dragging him up. "What have you done?"