WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Kaileel clapped his hands. The Chief Inquisitor came forward, holding a pair of tin snips.

  "You aren't ready to sign?" Kaileel taunted. "That's perfectly all right. You will."

  Conar could barely see the Chief Inquisitor. He caught only a dull gleam of metal and had a brief vision of sharp edges. He had no conception of what Kaileel was about to do until a guard anchored his bound arm close to the chair arm.

  "I will teach you, Conar! I will show you who you really belong to!"

  Not until the realization of what was about to happen came to him did he scream. Not until they grasped his arm to cut away the marriage band. He screamed mindlessly, howling his pain even before the snips had touched him. Not even the godawful pain of the needles hurt as badly as the removal of his last link to the woman he loved.

  "Now, my Beloved," Kaileel sneered. "Now, you will wear my symbol of Joining!"

  He wasn't prepared for the agony that shot through his entire body as something was wrapped around his upper arm where his marriage band had rested for more than three years. Something so hot he heard his skin sizzle, smelled his flesh burning, circled his arm in a grip like molten lava. He screamed so hard he felt something tear in his throat.

  He jerked his head from the grip on his hair, felt his scalp rip, but was able to see a glowing iron clamp being removed from his arm. In that split second of consciousness he recognized the curved instrument as being the same one the smithy used when forging iron shot. It had clasped entirely around his arm and, once removed, had left a three-inch band of burned flesh that would scar him forever.

  As Conar slipped into darkness, he heard Kaileel's sneer. "My Joining band, Conar!" Kaileel laughed. He pointed to the burned flesh. "With my initials carved into your flesh!"

  Aye, that was a torture that hurt him far worse than anything else they had done, or could do, to him.

  A sound beyond the dark recesses of his cell brought him fully aware, tore his mind from his pain. He couldn't see, couldn't even hear all that well anymore, couldn't even move his head, but he knew someone was furtively making their way to him. He heard stone scraping against stone, felt a sudden blast of frigid, sweet air blowing over him. He heard his name, and he stopped breathing.

  "Conar?"

  Hearing his father's voice brought tears to Conar's eyes. He thanked whatever god still cared for him that his father had not died of his wounds. As quickly as his happiness came, it died, for he did not want his father to see him as he was.

  He sat huddled with cold and hunger and thirst. His bare chest was slick from the wet of the stone wall, his vomit, blood and drool. He stank of his bodily fluids, reeked of filth from the cell. His rump was soaked with urine and he was, he knew, beyond recognizing anymore. He thought if he were very, very still, very, very quiet, he would not be found.

  "Conar?" the King called.

  But he hadn't counted on the rat taking that precise moment to venture a nibble on his bare foot. He yelped with surprise and despair and knew his father heard him.

  * * *

  "Conar?" Gerren asked, hearing the muffled whimper, the scrape of metal striking the stone floor and the clink of iron. He hurried to the place from where the sound had come, found an iron door, tried to push open the heavily barred grating and found it locked.

  "Conar? Is that you?"

  Another muffled groan came from within the dark cell.

  The King had already found the other six men alive. Barely. This had to be Conar's cell. He held up the lantern, tried to see through the grating, but the criss-crossed pattern was too close. All he could see was a darker mass against the blackness. He held the lantern higher, spied the loop of keys on the wall beside the door and began fitting the long spikes into the locks to find the right one.

  "Papa, no."

  Gerren yanked on the door as a key turned the lock. "I'm here, son."

  "Don't come in." Conar knew he had to make a supreme sacrifice to enunciate each word in order to be understood.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Gerren snapped. He hurried inside. "I'm not afraid of this place." A dim, yellow-white glow from his lantern washed the cell.

  At first all he saw were the chains, latched onto dirty ankles and limp wrists that lay beside legs stretched out in filthy tatters of corduroy. His gaze traveled up the torn, splattered breeches to his son's bare chest. Gerren sucked in his breath.

  Deep red blotches ran rampant over Conar's shoulders and chest. Dried, caked blood, black in the light, smeared the bruised flesh. The bent head with its lank, oily hair was lowered, turned into the shadows along the wall so that the face could not be seen.

  "Son?"

  There was a slight shake, a weak negation, of the bent head. "Go away, Papa." There were tears and shame in the voice. "I don't want you to see me like this."

  Pain filled Gerren's heart. He hunkered down, reached out a shaking hand to cup his son's chin, but Conar flinched, burying his face deeper against the stone wall.

  "Please, Papa…"

  Gerren swallowed, but gently turned the battered, destroyed face toward him.

  Neither Conar nor his father allowed any emotion to show on their rigid features; not Conar's shame at having his father be a witness to the brutality he had suffered, nor Gerren's guilt at having been the cause of it. Gerren's lips quivered, but Conar couldn't see the grief and shock that followed.

  "They had no right to do this," Gerren whispered. His entire body trembled with fury. How dare they do this to his child?

  Conar eased his throbbing face away from his father's light touch.

  Gerren pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the bloody drool coming from his son's torn mouth, the drip of moisture from his battered nose.

  "They had no right, Conar," he repeated. "You are royalty."

  Conar tried to focus what little vision he had left on his father's face. "Not anymore," he wheezed through broken teeth and cracked lips.

  His father flinched, the truth cutting him to the quick. He was responsible for what they had done. Tears formed and he made a gasping, choking sound as his shoulders began to shake.

  Conar wanted to bring his manacled hands up to his face, but couldn't. Shame overpowered him. He desperately wanted to drop through the cell into the burning pits of hell and be consumed. He wanted to flee from the intensity of his father's pain, for he could feel it to his soul and knew he was the cause of it.

  "Don't, Papa. Not your fault." He heard his father's pitiful, wrenching denial and wanted to take the man's mind from it. "Liza?"

  Gerren heard the pleading in Conar's voice and knew his pain was causing Conar hurt. He forced his voice steady and lifted his chin, although tears fell heedlessly down his weathered cheeks. "She's well. They won't let her see you."

  "Good," was the brief, heart-felt reply.

  Conar pictured his wife. His heart wanted to break. He ached to have her comfort him, ease his pain, hold him in her arms one more time, but knew it would not happen, that he might never see her again.

  "It was Brelan who told me about the secret tunnel." The King looked around, wondering what Conar had felt seeing this as a child. No wonder the boy was immune to normal emotions. Seeing such filth and human despair had to be telling on a young boy. "We will be there for you."

  Conar didn't want his family at his trial, but he knew he couldn't stop them. He nodded.

  "I will testify on your behalf."

  He nodded again. It wouldn't make any difference.

  Gerren put his hand on Conar's limp fingers. "They will no doubt exile you."

  "I know."

  "But Liza will go with you." He squeezed Conar's hand for comfort, unaware the action brought agony.

  Conar knew better, but he whispered, "I would like that, Papa."

  "It won't be long now. This will be be over and you and Liza can be together like before."

  Never again, Conar thought with utter agony. Never again.

  Tears blinded Gerren, sc
alding his cheeks. His son's face was blurring, the distortions running together, blending. For a second he had seen the handsome face it had once been before being beaten so savagely and expertly into the twisted lump of flesh. The King hung his head and sobs through tore his body.

  "Don't cry, Papa." Conar's voice was slurred, thick. "Not for me."

  "Then, for who, if not you?" Gerren sank to his knees, gathered the boy in his arms, and held him. "I have done this to you! Me! Me and me, alone!"

  Conar was so very, very cold. He heard his teeth chattering. He couldn't stop the tremor that shot through him and felt his father's arms tighten before giving way.

  "I'll give you my coat," Gerren said, feeling the cold seeping through the walls, the damp on Conar's chilled flesh.

  Conar shook his head. "Would know where I got it…"

  "What do I care? You're my son! I will not see you freeze to death!"

  Conar could think of worse ways to die. The voice that answered his father was strained; ashamed to admit it was afraid of more pain. "Would hurt me, Papa. Make me pay for it."

  Gerren seethed. The Tribunal had absolute authority under the law, and he, himself, was sworn to uphold their edicts. But this time the bastards had gone too far. They had tortured his son! And now to make him sit here in the freezing cold…

  In the distance, the two men heard the rattle of key to lock and flinched.

  "Go, now, Papa," he begged. "Leave me before they find you."

  "Conar, no—"

  "Papa, please." Conar gathered up what waning strength he had left. He couldn't tell his father they were coming for him again to bring him more pain and degradation. He wanted his father far away from this place when the screaming began. "Please, for my sake, go."

  Gerren placed a soft kiss on his son's limp, oily hair. "I am so sorry I have done this to you."

  "Go," came the weak, tear-filled reply.

  King Gerren came to his feet. "I love you, Conar. We all love you."

  Conar wasn't sure he knew what that meant anymore.

  Gerren took one last look at his son before closing and locking the cell door behind him. As he pulled shut the secret door leading away from the punishment cells, he saw in his mind's eye Conar's face turned up to him.

  Only a shimmer of blue could be seen through the swollen, puffy lids; the tears had been easily seen. The tears, and the lost, hopeless pain.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  Kaileel Tohre lay with his head in Robbie MacCorkingdale's lap. The younger man gently smoothed the white-blond shock of thick hair from the High Priest's forehead and stroked the smooth-shaven jaw.

  "And did he sign the confession last eve, Master?"

  "Eventually," Kaileel said sleepily. "He had to be reminded of his mortality, but he did sign."

  "But will it hold up in court?" a third man asked from the window.

  "Oh, yes. His family can protest that the confession was extracted under torture, but they can't prove it. I administered the healing potion after he was made to sign." Reaching up a hand, Kaileel pulled Robbie's mouth down to his own and kissed the thick lips.

  "Tell me about it," came a disgusted hiss from the window.

  "Um?"

  "About how you made him sign, Kaileel."

  A self-satisfied smile lit Tohre's thin face. He looked at the window where Galen McGregor stood. "I told you, you could have come with me." He smiled. "I didn't know you were so queasy."

  "I'm not," came the waspish reply.

  "Ah, but you still have some feeling for your twin." Tohre chuckled. "I understand."

  "Just tell me how you got him to sign!" Galen snarled.

  "I had him brought back to the interrogation chamber and then I again put the document before him. He didn't want to sign, wouldn't hold the quill despite my guard's best efforts, but eventually he was made to see the light."

  "How?"

  Kaileel shrugged. "Well, it was like this…"

  * * *

  Conar was forced into the same chair he had been put in every day for weeks, refusing to sit of his own accord, just as he had every other time.

  Kaileel put his lips close to Conar's ear and spoke in a clear voice that the nearly deaf man could hear. "Listen carefully, Conar. I am going to say this only once. This confession will be signed tonight, and no later, because if it isn't, I will be forced to bring charges against the others in this conspiracy with you. I don't think you'd like for me to do that since the first person I would have arrested would be your precious bitch-wife."

  Conar flinched, but he didn't speak.

  "Do you think she could stand such pain as you have endured, my Prince?" Kaileel whispered. "Can you imagine how her lovely face will look after Kullen finishes with it?"

  A single tear formed in Conar's right eye and slid down his battered cheek.

  Kaileel continued to torment the helpless man, gauging the hurt that settled on the ravaged face. "Consider what the stability of her sanity would be if I let my men use her. I will, you know. I can do that. The Tribunal has given me the authority. I can have her brought here and make you watch while my men question her about her part in this affair."

  "No," Conar snarled through split lips.

  "Think about it, Conar. Her tender, soft, flesh being battered, cut. Her body being used like the common whore she is!"

  "No."

  "Have you ever used her as I used you when you were a little boy? Do you remember what it feels like? Do you think she would find pleasure in—"

  "I will sign," Conar said weakly.

  Kaileel grinned. From the slump of the prince's shoulders and the trembling of his lips, he knew the fight had been knocked out of Conar McGregor. "I didn't hear you, Beloved."

  "I will sign, Kaileel." Tears coursed down Conar's sunken cheeks as the quill was placed in his hand.

  Kaileel bent over the writing desk, the better to see. He placed his fingers over Conar's, helped him guide the quill. Slowly, Conar scribbled his name on the document. When he finished, he laid down the quill and hung his head.

  "You didn't even read what you were signing."

  Conar's voice was barely a whisper. "I couldn't see the damned thing. You saw to that."

  "It doesn't matter, Sweeting. By tomorrow morn, by the time you are brought before the Tribunal for trial, you will be able to see and hear everything that goes on." A gentle hand reached out to stroke Conar's hair. "I will again be able to see that handsome face."

  "So I'll look good in my coffin."

  Kaileel shook his head in admonishment. "You will be sent away, yes; but you aren't to die. Living is part of your punishment. Living without your precious wife since your marriage can now be annulled."

  Conar's head came up. He stared blankly toward Kaileel's voice. "What?"

  "Since you signed this confession, admitted your adultery, the Tribunal will have no choice but to annul your marriage."

  "Adultery?"

  "You know the Tribunal frowns on royalty committing adultery. Your marriage contract expressly forbids it. We've known all along about your tawdry little affair with the servant wench. We've simply waited until the most opportune moment to use it against you. You may not be guilty of the other charges, but of this, you know you are! Do not concern yourself with the servant, she will not be punished since you used your authority to make her come to your bed."

  "Kaileel, please…"

  "And because the Tribunal can annul your marriage, making the annulment retroactive to the time before you were disinherited, they can now contract with another heir to the throne for the Princess Anya Elizabeth's hand in marriage."

  "No." It was a whimper of hopelessness.

  "Your father has already named his heir. Galen has been reinstated through my manipulation. Your precious wife will soon be his to do with as he pleases!"

  "Kaileel, don't do this, please!"

  "As soon as your trial is over, as long as you are a good boy and cause us no trouble, I w
ill see that no charges are brought against that bitch. Make one false move, utter one word we do not wish to hear, and I swear she will be lashed to death once Kullen and his men are through with her!"

  Conar struggled wildly to get free, shouting his hatred.

  "When your punishment is carried out, you will be exiled to some distant place from which you can not return, and your wife will be wed to the next in line to the Serenian throne. The Tribunal, and I, will see to it!"

  * * *

  Galen looked away from Kaileel's beaming face. Somewhere deep in his soul he wondered if his love for Liza was worth all the pain in which he had been a party. All the pain he had suffered at the Abbey in Conar's place. He had scars on his back to remind him that he had been initiated in Conar's stead. But he had not been consecrated to the Domination's evil; It had rejected him. He had been found unworthy even of that.

  "Don't worry," Kaileel told Galen. "The woman is within reach. We will give her to you."

  Aye, Galen thought, and all the pain he had suffered would be worth it. Worth every damn vile touch he had been forced to endure to win her.

  * * *

  He waited quietly, hands in his lap. He wore freshly pressed and neatly creased breeches, a clean white shirt. His boots were polished.

  The door opened; a guard came in carrying a writing desk. After setting it in front of him, the guard turned sharply on his heel and exited. The door closed.

  He glanced idly at the top of the desk. It was a beautiful piece of parquetry inlaid with black oak, cherry, and pine woods. The pattern across the top was an intricate maze of sharp angles intersecting all the way to the rolled edges of three of the sides. He admired the workmanship, the table's beauty, and then returned his gaze to the farthest corner of the room.

  He sat for over an hour before the door opened again and someone entered. He didn't move; didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew who had entered.

  From the corner of his vision, a parchment was laid upon the writing desk; a quill was held out to him. He glanced at the parchment and then at the man who had placed it before him.