With eager hands, Kaileel accepted the parchment. His heart beat with hard pumps as he eased the ribbon encircling the missive. He broke the black wax seal, unrolled the parchment, and scanned the contents. He searched expectantly for the one phrase he had been waiting to see. When he spied the sentence, he took in a deep, satisfying breath.
"We trust this meets with your approval, Tohre?" Tolkan asked.
"It is more than I had dared hope for, Holiness."
Tolkan grinned. "We are happy to see you pleased with our labors. We searched long and hard through the Tomes of Law until we found just the right precedent. There, written by our ancestors, were the examples we needed to see this thing done to our satisfaction. To see it finished."
"It was an unexpected stroke of good fortune that our King had his son declared a commoner, wouldn't you say, Brother Kaileel?" another Synod member asked.
Chuckling softly to himself, Kaileel rolled up the parchment, slipped the ribbon around it, and hid it in the folds of his robe. "It was indeed fortuitous, Your Honor."
Tolkan smiled ."Should you not be about your business, now, Kaileel?"
Kaileel stood and bowed. "I do have things to see to, Holiness."
A Synodist chuckled. "Do them well, Tohre."
"I will do my very best, Your Honor!"
* * *
Light snow fell against the windowpanes, sticking, melting, making the faintest of clicking sounds as they gathered against the glass. The air was chill and damp, and the room smelled sharply of creosote from the fireplace. There had been a cheerful fire burning in the grate, but it had been allowed to die, the coals still sizzling and popping, red-tinged. Otherwise, the room was dark except for the burning candle that stood beside Liza's bed.
Legion stomped angrily to the fireplace and stirred the coals to life, adding a log to the glowing mass.
"Dixon!" he bellowed. "Who let this fire go out?"
Liza sighed. She knew he needed someone on whom to vent his frustration, so she kept silent as she sat on her bed and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She was tired, bone-tired, and had a headache that continued to plague her. She rubbed at her temple with a cool hand.
Finally getting the fire to blaze as he wanted, Legion turned to make another waspish remark, but seeing the tired droop of Liza's shoulders, he silently cursed the ill fate that had brought them to this point.
"I am all right, Legion," she told him, aware of his look.
His face flushed; he looked away. Would he ever get used to this woman's uncanny insight into his heart? He warmed his hands before the fire. "You should rest, Liza."
"I will."
"Soon."
"As soon as you do, Milord. Was it worse than usual?"
Legion shrugged, feeling her gaze on him. "They still wouldn't let me see him. They said we had to wait until the trial. That's supposed to be at the end of the week unless they postpone it—again."
Her lips trembled. "Legion, hold me."
Turning, he saw the tears glistening and hurried to her. He sat beside her and gathered her in his arms. He felt her quivering body, heard the soft sobs, and wished there was something he could do to ease her pain.
"You know my powers, Legion," she whispered against his shirt. "You know something of what Conar's mother was capable. I have had no success in being able to go to him. They have blocked me at every turn. I should be able to at least see him, but even that is being stopped."
"I know." It was all he could say. He had done everything he could to find out how Conar was doing, where they had him in the Interrogation Facility. He was fairly certain he had been taken to the one of the punishment cells, but no one could, or would, tell him for sure. Access to those cells was denied to everyone except the Chief Inquisitor and his assistants.
"With you unconscious, Legion, they could have done anything to him! He wouldn't have been able to protect himself because of his grief. Nadia's death would have had the same devastating effect on his powers as it did on mine."
Legion could only nod.
"Such grief numbs you, Legion, numbs your powers. It temporarily halts any flow of energy." She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "It hinders you from using your gift."
"Aye, love. I know."
"And if he's somewhere where there are walls of iron, where his magic is useless, where he can't call to me…"
He wouldn't let her finish. "You can't go on blaming yourself for not being able to help him." He stroked her cheek. "He'll be fine, Liza. You'll see."
"I am so afraid for him." Her breath caught in her throat; her sobbing became uncontrollable.
"So am I, dearling. So am I."
* * *
A single ray of early morning light fell through the barred windows of the holding cell and wove a criss-crossed pattern of shadow and light on the stone floor. The rest of the cell was black, hidden in darkness. The beam of light, flooded with motes of dust, cascaded down from the ceiling.
In the center of the square of light knelt a man.
His hands were behind his back, a length of rope tightly tied around his wrists, and his arms pressed painfully close at the elbows. He was bent over from the pull of the rope that ran above his head to an iron bar in the low ceiling. The strain on his arms was excruciating.
Lank, blond hair fell around his face, over his forehead. His face was pinched in agony, his breathing labored. Small whimpers escaped his parched throat through lips so swollen they could barely open. His cracked ribs grated with every breath.
He couldn't see the light, for his eyes were swollen shut, or even feel what little warmth it afforded him. He did, however, feel the moistness of his urine, for he knelt in it. The smell made him sick to his stomach, but the gag covering his mouth prevented him from even thinking of vomiting.
He hurt in a hundred different places, bled in a dozen more. Thrusting his tongue against his chipped front tooth, he winced, feeling the exposed nerve, then swallowed painfully against the deep bruises along his throat. His palms stung with burning pain that snaked up his arms to coalesce in his armpits.
"Aren't you a sight, Milord Conar?" Someone chuckled. The bars of his cell rattled. "I don't suppose you will be tempting any servant girls anytime soon."
He tried to blot out the taunting laughter, tried to shut out the sounds of the funeral bells tolling outside the prison.
They were burying his daughter.
He wished with all his heart Tymothy Kullen had killed him.
* * *
It was almost dawn of the sixth day after Conar's capture that his father finally awoke, coming to himself with clarity. He saw his daughter-in-law fitfully sleeping in the chair beside his bed. Tenderness filled his face. With an unsteady hand, he stroked her arm.
Liza came immediately awake. She saw his faded blue eyes, untouched by the ragging fever that had gripped him. "You are better!"
Gerren smiled as she came to hover over him, to run her hand over his cool flesh. "I'll live," he teased, "no thanks to whoever meant to see that I didn't." He saw her face darken and knew before even being told. "How long has he been in their custody?"
"This is the sixth day, Papa." She sat on his bed and took his hand, brought it to her cheek. "He didn't have any part in what was done to you."
Gerren nodded, his guilt riding him like a cruel master. "I know." Tears formed. "Nadia?"
Liza's head fell. "We buried her five days ago."
"I am sorry, dearling."
"It is your son you should worry about."
He ran a weak hand through his faded blond hair. "You are right. Find Legion for me. Is Brelan still here?" At her nod, he took a deep breath. "Get him, as well. Tell them I must know what the Tribunal has done with my son." He pushed himself up, wincing from his wounds.
"Lie still!" she warned, alarmed at his sudden pallor.
"If you want your husband seen to, Liza, I must make the Tribunal know I will stand behind him. I will not let them punish my boy for someth
ing he has not done."
"They have already denied Hern, Legion and Cayn access to him. They say he's guilty. They mean to try him soon, but the verdict has already been handed down."
The King's heart felt heavy. He had a made a horrible, horrible error. In the pique of anger he had disinherited his son. Now, the Tribunal could turn that against Conar and question him as they would a commoner. They might have already done so.
"Listen, girl. Men who wore the insignia and uniform of Conar's Elite attacked me. They told me he had ordered my death, but apparently hit no vital organs else I wouldn't be here speaking with you. Men intent on the kill make sure they do just that. Whoever was responsible for the attack meant for me to survive. They also wanted Conar to take the blame." The king squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the coverlet in his fist. "I made a terrible, terrible mistake, Liza. And Grandfather is very angry at me."
Liza's forehead crinkled. "Grandfather?"
Gerren sighed heavily. "Alel, our Maker. He is furious at what I have done." He looked at his daughter-in-law with such heartrending sadness, she felt tears forming in her eyes.
"You were angry."
"Alel made me see that what Conar did to protect you had been predestined long before either of you were born." Gerren took a ragged breath. "It was a trial Conar had to go through and I made it harder for him."
"He will understand, Papa."
"He is my son," Gerren said firmly. "I can not undo what I have done, but I can let Tohre and that filthy bunch know I will not countenance them hurting my boy!"
Chapter 14
* * *
"I will see that look of defiance wiped from your face!" Tohre screamed at the bound man.
Conar sat in an iron chair bolted to the stone floor with thick rods of steel. It lay in the middle of the Inquisition Chamber and had no bottom other than two wide leather straps. Conar's wrists and ankles were tied with thin thongs of coarse rawhide to the chair's arms and legs and a thick band of hemp ran across his throat and through the tall back of the straight, rigid chair.
He was bare from the waist up and another wide piece of hemp crossed his chest. Fresh bruises and cuts marred his pale face and blotches of welts lined his upper arms and shoulders. Blood trickled from a cut on his mouth, oozed out of his left nostril. Small circles of discolored, puckered flesh dotted the tender undersides of his forearms and the backs of his knees.
"Get that look off your face, I told you!"
Cuts and ugly bruises mottled the handsome face, but the eyes were steady despite the swelling and puffiness, the droop of one badly bruised lid.
It infuriated Tohre that the boy had not, as yet, made a single sound while being questioned these past three days. He slapped the helpless man across the mouth as hard as he could, further splitting the already wounded lip.
Conar's head wearily snapped to one side, his throat dragging painfully against the hemp around his neck. Tohre's backhanded blow had enough force to loosen another tooth. He could taste the salt spray of blood inside his mouth, but he managed to ease around his head.
He looked up at the priest with his one good eye. Hostility filled the watering blue depths. He gathered enough saliva and blood to try spitting into Kaileel's looming face.
The High Priest leaned over his prey, the better to see the pain as it registered on Conar's battered face. He had not expected the assault, but was quick enough to pull his face out of the way. "You would dare spit at me, boy?"
An irrational fury surged through Tohre. He sharply yanked a handful of limp, greasy, dirty blond hair, then slammed Conar's head against the metal chair. It delighted him when the grunt came from the bleeding mouth, the very first sound the boy had made since being brought in.
Tohre chuckled. "Good!" His voice turned syrupy. "Until now I have been patient. Gentle." Conar snorted. "You don't think I've been gentle?"
Conar startled the man by spitting full in Tohre's face, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tohre's cheeks turn white with disbelief.
Kaileel slowly raised his free hand and wiped at the pink-tinged spittle on his lean face. He looked at the wetness on his fingers, then looked at Conar.
His voice filled with incredulity, voicing his surprise. "You spit in my face, Conar?"
Conar tried to gather another mouthful of spittle, but Tohre clamped a hand across his mouth.
"And you would try to do so again?" Stark fury lit his usually pale orbs. The hand cruelly tightened over Conar's mouth. "I can't believe you'd dare!"
He leaned over Conar. The two men came nose to nose even though Tohre spoke to the Chief Interrogator, who, until that time, had not been allowed free reign with the prisoner.
"I want him pushed to the very limits of endurance and beyond. Do you hear me, Hebra? Show no mercy, no leniency. I will see this stubborn pride crushed!" He glared into Conar's upturned face. "See that he understands what defying me can bring!"
Tohre took his hand from Conar's mouth, but stepped away quickly before the young man could spit again. He turned on his heel, his face set with anger, and started from the room.
"Kaileel?" Conar's weak voice called. The High Priest spun around.
There was a slight grimace of a smile on Conar's torn face. Kaileel waited, his breathing fast and hard as he watched the bleeding lips try to form words.
"Fuck yourself," the Prince whispered.
Kaileel nearly choked on his rage. He straightened his shoulders, reached inside his robe for his handkerchief, and withdrew the soiled linen square. Calmly, with purpose and determination, he walked to Conar. He stepped behind the chair and looped the rag around Conar's head, jamming it between clenched teeth, and smiled as Conar struggled to get loose.
The High Priest came in front of his prisoner, bent forward, placing his hands over Conar's arms as they lay strapped to the chair.
"You still don't understand?" Kaileel crooned. His long nails dug into Conar's flesh. "Let's see how well you can learn your lessons." He raked his nails down Conar's arms, drawing blood.
In the shadows of the Interrogation Chamber, out of Conar's sight, Galen McGregor smiled.
* * *
Lord Brelan Saur sat on a log beside a blazing fire in the courtyard just beyond the covered walkway leading to the Temple. He stared across the darkened compound to the massive black oaken doors of the Tribunal Hall, conscious of the men sitting around the fire with him, their quiet mutterings soft and subdued.
No one looked his way. It wasn't out of politeness, he knew, but rather a concerted effort at ignoring him. He had seen the hostility when he joined them, had caught their furtive sidelong glances, but he paid scant attention. What did it matter what these peasants did or did not think?
He tuned out their talk, concentrating on the guards as they patrolled the Tribunal Hall. He counted the times they passed the double doors. His bleak thoughts were on the conversation he had overheard outside his father's room.
"He could have helped, Papa!" Legion had said furiously. "The petty bastard could have helped us." The King's eldest son strode heavily across the floor. "He's a selfish son-of-a-bitch!"
"It was his choice to make," Liza defended.
"Aye, well, Conar is as much his brother as he is mine. I know there is bad blood between them, but there should be family loyalty if nothing else!"
"Brelan doesn't see his position in the same way," Teal du Mer remarked.
Legion jerked open the door. "But we need his help, du Mer. Conar's life may well depend on it!" He turned, surprised to see the man he had been discussing staring at him from the hallway. Legion's lips curled with distaste as he stormed from the room, shoving Brelan aside.
Liza called to her brother-in-law, "Bre will help in his own way, Legion. I know he will."
A'Lex spun around and fastened his hawk-like gaze on Brelan. "You have more faith in the selfish bastard than I, Liza!"
Brelan was not as insensitive to his brother's predicament as one would have believed. He knew all to
o well what went on inside those black oaken doors. As a child he had found a tunnel that led to the punishment cells where the condemned were kept. Venturing there out of curiosity only a few times had been enough to tell the boy he had no business being amidst the instruments of death, torture, and crippling.
He sat brooding, rethinking the words he'd shouted when the older man had asked for any help he could give in removing their brother from the Tribunal Hall's Interrogation Facility. He'd been curt, to the point, telling Legion he had no intention of doing anything. Neither did he plan on doing anything that might jeopardize Conar. His words to Legion and their father rang in his ears.
"If Conar isn't guilty of the actual attack, Papa, he's at least guilty of being the it's cause!"
In truth, that was more than likely so. Brelan didn't really think his brother capable of planning such a vile thing, but his men might have if they'd thought he wanted it. In that, Brelan had been sure Conar was guilty.
Now, Brelan wasn't so sure.
Legion reminded him of how the Elite, who had been taken from their homes at sword point and incarcerated in the Interrogation Facility, had been tortured. Their screams filtered out of the thick stone walls and stunned anyone unfortunate enough to hear. It had been many decades since those torture chambers had been used. Why, now, were they being reopened? If the men were guilty, why torture them into confession? If the men did their dirty deed for Conar, would they not have bragged, instead, to gain his pride and love?
And why hadn't Conar's trial been announced? He had been held in the punishment cell for more than two weeks. No one, not even his King, had been allowed to see him. That, in itself, was not unusual; that was law. But why had no date for the trail been posted if they had Conar's signed confession as they claimed?
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Brelan now stared hard at the double doors and wondered if he should tell Legion about the secret tunnel leading from the stables to the punishment cells. He had been toying with the notion of going himself to see what he could find, but for some reason he didn't want to see what might have happened to Conar, or what might be happening to him still. Would it do any good if they managed to sneak in to see him? Would it make matters worse?
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