WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  He felt the hair on his arms rise as an unearthly scream of torment burst from the depths of the Tribunal Hall. His face turned white; he sucked in his breath. Another piercing scream set his teeth on edge. He could feel the victim staring at him; he could feel the silent rage, condemnation. He looked up and demanded, "What do you think I can do?"

  No one answered. Another scream tore across the courtyard.

  "There is nothing I can do!" Brelan got up, walking away as fast as he could.

  "No matter what you feel about him, he would do all he could to help you, Brelan, if the tables were turned!" Hern shouted from the stable. "And well you know it, coward!"

  Spinning around, Brelan stared hard at the Master-at-Arms. Furious and suddenly cold, he shuddered as another choked-off scream shot across the night air. "That's not Conar!" he spat, flinging his arm toward the Tribunal Hall.

  Teal du Mer sat on a bench and watched as Brelan walked briskly away. He and Saur had betrayed Conar in different ways, but they had both turned their backs when he needed them. Remembering the feel of the Prince's dead child clutched in his arms, Teal felt tears of impotent rage coursing through him. He let out a bellow, throwing back his head to the starless night. He alone had been the first to turn on Conar.

  "They're torturing him, aren't they?" Thom asked Hern as the old warrior sat with them.

  "I can't say for sure," Hern answered, lying. He was sure. In fact, he was positive. The screams were not from the original six men who had been captured two weeks earlier. For all Hern knew, those men were dead. No, the screams were Conar's. He knew that sound well. He had heard the boy scream many times over the years when his nightmares had claimed him.

  "He's of royal blood," Teal snapped. "They can whip him, but they can't torture him." He glowered at Thom, seeing the grief on the big man's face.

  Aye, Teal thought, he was feeling grief; they were all feeling grief. But he, himself, was feeling overwhelming despair and shame at having forsaken Conar. He had forsaken his own brother, Roget, in much the same way when the Tribunal arrested Roget for treason many years earlier. The pattern was repeating itself, and Teal was sick to his soul. He had known Conar all his life; he had been a friend of the Prince's for as long as the word had meaning to him. Now, he had turned on that friend when he was needed the most.

  "Why can't the King do something?" Marsh snarled, getting up as another scream tore through them.

  "What can they do? You heard Saur telling the Commander there was no law that would allow them access to His Grace's cell. They haven't been allowed to him because they have to abide by the Tribunal laws!" Lin Dixon jerked his head in the direction of the keep. "It's bad enough keeping her from knowing what's going on. Can you imagine how she would react if she knew her husband was being…" He broke off, unable to say the word.

  Inside the keep where the doors had been firmly locked against the sounds coming from the Tribunal Hall, Prince Grice Wynth and his young brother, Chand, sat at the banqueting table where they had been dining alone. Liza had not left her father-in-law's chambers in more than a week. Legion and du Mer, Brelan Saur and Hern Arbra took their meals in the kitchens. Only the Healer, Cayn, dined with the Oceanian Princes out of courtesy and, in part, curiosity about the men.

  Deep in conversation, the men didn't at first notice the ten-year-old boy who hid in the shadows watching them. Looking up as he felt eyes on him, Chand smiled and motioned for Wyn, Conar's eldest illegitimate son, to join them.

  "How are you, Wynland?" Grice asked, tousling the young man's thick crop of blond curls.

  Wyn asked in a small, frightened voice, speaking to Chand, "Do you hear the screams?"

  Grice sent his brother a warning shake of the head. He covered Wyn's hand with his own. "Those sounds are not from your father, Wyn."

  Wyn turned to the older man. "How can you be sure, Highness? I hear people talking."

  "What people, son?"

  "The old cook, you know, Sadie, in the kitchens? She says it's my Papa that's doing all that screaming. She says they've already questioned the others and now they're questioning Papa."

  "Come here, Wyn," Grice demanded. He patted the chair beside him. "Let's talk." He waited until the boy was seated, then put his arm around the back of Wyn's chair. "Your father is of royal blood and they can't lay a hand to him. He either signs a confession or he doesn't. They can't do anything else."

  "Grice is right, Wynland," Chand agreed, knowing he could well be telling the boy a boldfaced lie. "That's some other man screaming. Not your Papa."

  "But that man's innocent, too, Your Grace!" Wyn protested. His young voice grew thick with emotion. "My Papa's men would never do anything like that!"

  "Neither would your father," Grice agreed.

  "You hate my Papa!" Wyn shouted, standing up so fast he knocked down the chair. "Everybody knows you hate my Papa!" He ran his sleeve under his dripping nose.

  "Bantling, I don't always agree with what your Papa does, but I don't hate him," Grice said. "I know he's innocent of the charges against him. Such as was done to your Grandpapa would not be your Papa's way. I know that."

  Wyn's head dropped to his chest as fresh tears welled. "They're going to kill him."

  "They are not!" Chand nearly shouted. He gathered the boy in his arms. "We will not allow it! By the gods, I promise you that!"

  Grice laid a hand on Wyn's shoulder. "They can do no more than exile him, Wyn." He caught Chand's look of worry, then shook his head to let his brother know Conar's son had no business knowing otherwise.

  * * *

  "Are you sure you can locate this tunnel again?" King Gerren asked Brelan.

  "I know I can. If you'd like, I'll find Legion and tell him how to go about locating it and opening the secret door." He stood, but his father's words stopped him.

  "Tell me. I'll go myself."

  Brelan Saur's mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious, Papa!"

  "I'm well enough to make the trek, if that's what concerns you, Brelan. Legion is with Liza. I will not take any chances that she might hear…" He paused, swallowing. "Cayn has given her something to keep her unaware of those pitifully hideous screams coming from the Tribunal Hall." At the memory of hearing them, the King shuddered. They could not have come from his son, but whoever's agony had produced them, the man deserved an easy death.

  "Let someone else go. Teal, Hern, Sentian. Anyone, but you. You're still too weak and you don't need to see what they may have done to him."

  "They've done nothing to him!"

  Brelan sighed. "Papa, if you are going to that place, you had best prepare—"

  "I didn't hear you include yourself in those names, Brelan," his father said. "Why is that?"

  "You know why!"

  "Can't you put aside your war with Conar long enough to help him?" He stared hard at the set, closed face glaring back at him. "I don't understand you, Brelan, but then again, I never have. But you don't have to worry. I will go to my son."

  "Papa…" There was pleading in Saur's voice.

  "It is my place. If they have, indeed, harmed him in any way, they will deal with me!"

  * * *

  He was trying desperately to swim up out of the fiery depths into which he had fallen. Every movement sent fresh agony ripping through his battered body, and he groaned. From somewhere far away he could hear his name being repeated, but it took too much effort to free his mind from the pitch-black pit in which he lay. He tried to open one eye, but it felt as though there were red-hot needles sticking into it and even that faint movement brought more pain.

  His name was being called louder, and whoever was violently shaking him had no concern for his suffering. His mind screamed for them to stop, but his jaw felt broken, unhinged, useless, and he could make no sound except for the soft grunt that accompanied every wheezing breath. There was more than one broken rib to make every intake of air pure agony.

  With superhuman strength, he managed to push back the enveloping darknes
s surrounding him. Just the act of prying open his swollen eyes brought intense pain to his face and he wondered if his left cheekbone was still intact. He tried to focus and caught the image of an angry face. He could not adjust his hazy vision and the mirage kept jerking, blurring, skipping out of sight. With a heavy groan, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  "You will have to do something about his face," Galen said. "If we present him before the Tribunal in such a condition, there will be problems."

  Kaileel pushed himself up from the huddled mass at his feet and turned a haughty stare to Galen McGregor. "When I present him at trail, there will hardly be a mark on him." He looked at the face that had been all but destroyed by Tymothy Kullen's fists. "Until then, he will suffer."

  * * *

  He was dreaming.

  There was a bright green meadow full of red-topped clover and swaying daisies on long graceful stalks. Yellow and red fields of carpet spread out as far as he could see over gentle hills and soft hollows. A cool mountain stream trickled past stately willows and majestic oaks, their delicate gray beards of moss dragging the ground. Overhead, in a tall sycamore, a sky-blue bird threw back its dainty head and sang a love song to the day. Fleecy white wisps of cloud dotted the horizon and the sun hovered warm and sweet in the spring heavens. The ripe smell of earth and riverbed, clover and jasmine and honeysuckle filled the air, and a fresh, light breeze ruffled his hair as he walked beside the slim woman.

  Her long black hair waved in the wind, billowed out behind her like gossamer tendrils of fine spun silk. Her bright yellow gown swirled about her graceful legs and blew over his buff-covered breeches. Liza's smile was radiant, as radiant as the day, and her step was light and sure.

  Taking his hand, she raced him to the top of a slight rise and together they looked at the breath-taking beauty of the ocean as it lay from mountain to keep. Behind them was a long stretch of peaceful green earth, trickling silver water and fields of wild flowers. Above, the sun showered down peace and tranquillity, harmony and love.

  "Papa! Mama!"

  They both turned, smiling.

  With the bright wash of day behind her, her flaxen hair streaming, the little girl came skipping toward them from out of the cool shadows of the nearby forest. Her little gown was an exact replica of her mother's, and her hair was held back with soft amber ribbons that blew out from like dancing butterflies flitting about the meadow. She called to them again and raised her arms, holding them out to her father.

  Going down on one knee, he opened his arms as she ran into them. He felt his wife's loving hand on his shoulder and slowly turned his head to look up at Liza. Her face was filled with love and peace; her mouth was touched with the most gentle and sweetest smile he had ever seen.

  He kissed the top of his little girl's head, hugging her to him as she settled in his arms. He inhaled the clean scent of her bright blond hair and sighed with the happiness he was feeling deep in his heart.

  He felt her move against him and pulled back from her. The little head lifted; the small round face looked up at him; the pretty little mouth smiled.

  And the smile on his own handsome face died a horrible death.

  It was not the dear, sweet innocent face of his lost daughter that gazed back at him. It was the distorted death mask of his murdered baby girl.

  The face of his child dissolved before his eyes; the skin sloughed from her skull, peeled away from the arms that were clasped around his neck. He watched as the pretty green eyes caved in, as gristle and marrow vanished. He felt the body crumbling to dust in his arms and the overpowering stench of grave-rot and putrefaction filled the air.

  He gazed with horror at the yellow dress and threw it away from him with a shriek of disgust. The entire creation was covered with maggots.

  He watched the wind catch the decaying dust of his child, swirl it around him and carry it away on the sudden blast of frigid air now surrounding him. The smell of brimstone overpowered him and he turned to his wife.

  But she, too, was gone.

  In her place stood a monster with long, taloned nails tipped in vermilion. A malevolent sneer of satisfaction was carved into the skull-like face. The thin lips lifted; the pale blue eyes, burning with hate and vengeance, bore into his soul like the thrust of a branding iron.

  "All gone, my Prince," the monster hissed. "All gone."

  His mindless screaming filled the cell in which he lay.

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  Brelan watched his father close the hidden door. All light faded from beneath the threshold as the King moved deeper into the tunnel leading from the stables to the punishment cells. He leaned his forehead against the cold stone walls of the old passageway and closed his eyes.

  He wasn't sure he had done the right thing in allowing his father to go to Conar. Brelan knew what the man would find. A tremor ran down his spine and he pushed away from the wall.

  "There's nothing you'll be able to do, Papa. Nothing at all."

  He thrust his hands into his pockets, stared at the hidden doorway, and called himself the coward Legion had named him. Part of him wanted to flee, to get as far from Boreas Keep as he could; another part wanted to be with his father, to lend the support he had earlier refused. He was torn by needs he didn't understand, bombarded with emotions he couldn't believe he was feeling.

  What did it matter if Conar had been tortured? His body broken and scarred? So what if the man's screams had become hoarse and weak over the last two days? How did it concern him?

  "He's your brother," came the answer, wafting down the chill corridors to seep into his heart and freeze his soul. "He's your flesh and blood."

  Brelan shook his head. "Only by a quirk of fate. Only because of one man's lust."

  "Not so," the wind whispered. "By the grace of the gods are you kin."

  He brought his hands from his pockets and jammed them against his ears to shut out the sound of her lovely voice.

  "Go away, Raphaella!"

  "Your conscience pricks you, Lord Saur," came the gentle rebuke. "I but remind you that you have one."

  He turned from side to side, searching for the way out.

  There was none.

  He was trapped in his own private hell, and that hell was Conar McGregor's suffering.

  * * *

  He could smell his own filth. He tried to concentrate on filling his lungs as seldom as possible, for his ribcage ached, shooting fiery stabs of pure agony through his sides and back. His head throbbed with a blinding pain above his right eye and he knew he had a concussion. Not that he could see any reason why that should matter. He was a dead man, anyway.

  He'd never live to see his trail.

  He still hadn't signed Tohre's confession and he had no intention of doing so. They would have to kill him and he knew they were very close to doing so. Kill him and then make it look as though he had committed suicide. Idly, he wondered how they would explain away his shattered face and broken body.

  They could drop you down a shaft, he thought. A squeak, something like a laugh, came from the bloody lips and he winced. He'd already been dropped down a shaft. Or so it felt.

  Something scuttled over his bare feet. He flinched. Sharp nails dug into his flesh as the furry creature ran over him. The smell had no doubt attracted the rodent from its hole. It wouldn't be long before the creature decided to take a nip out of him, to see how he tasted. He had two such injuries already on his ankles.

  He tried to sit up straighter, but he gasped in pain and stopped, his fingertips crying out with agony as the straw pressed into the ravaged tips where nails had once grown. It was better to leave the rat alone, he thought with a grimace.

  He bowed his head. The dirty blond hair was matted with filth, caked with blood. It had the worse smell of all clinging to it and every breath brought him a whiff of such nauseating strength he had to swallow down his gorge. He tried to think, but his mind labored on the worst torture they had administered and he was soul-sick, if n
ot body-hurt, by it.

  "Sweet, holy Alel," he whimpered and the memory came prodding back to him like the thrust of a branding iron.

  His left arm stung just above the elbow as though a million bees had decided to feast on his lacerated flesh. Knowing why he hurt there brought another moan to his lips. Nothing had hurt him as much as that last bit of viciousness. They had tortured him with every conceivable instrument, and still he had kept as quiet as he could. An occasional moan had escaped him up until then; a pitiful whimper had issued from his tightly compressed lips; but he had not screamed. Not until the last pain had been administered.

  "I will teach you, Conar," Kaileel had shouted as that final, devastating torture was being prepared. "I will show you who you truly belong to!"

  It had been close to midnight when Kaileel had him dragged from his cell and brought once more to the interrogation chamber. Kaileel had waited until the two guards shoved Conar into a chair before a writing desk and had tied his left arm to the chair, leaving his right arm free.

  Placing the document in front of Conar, Kaileel extended a quill to one of the guards. The guard picked up Conar's right arm and slammed his hand on the desk while the other placed the quill in Conar's clenched fist and held his hand around Conar's so the quill could not be dropped.

  "Sign, Conar," Kaileel ordered.

  Conar glanced at the blur of parchment, but could not make out the writing. All sight was gone from one eye, partially blocked from the other.

  "I said sign it, Conar. I am tired of playing games!"

  With what was left of his draining strength, Conar deliberately brought his thumb up and over the quill and crushed it. A guard grabbed a handful of his hair, dragging back his head. His moan seemed to please his tormentor. The other guard pulled Conar's right arm behind his back and jammed it as high as he could. He didn't moan that time; he let out a cry of pain.