WINDWEEPER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Where are you taking him?" Paegan screamed, trying to get free of Tyne's hold, but the Chalean dragged him to the ground, stilling his movements with brute force.

  "Sit!" Tyne hissed.

  Sentian made a lowering motion with his hands and the men sat, eyeing the swords pointed at them.

  "A wise decision," the captain told him. "You're a born leader, it seems. Guess the Prince taught you well, eh?"

  Sentian's chin lifted. "He was the best."

  The captain grinned. "Was, boy. The telling word here is was!"

  Grice let out a tired breath and looked around. There were still no inhabitants in sight, but that metal to metal hammering continued. It was rumored the penal colony was a mining operation.

  He let his attention wander to the men sitting with him. They were all dirty and tired. Hungry and thirsty, too. He was parched with thirst, himself. The overwhelming need for something wet and cool and refreshing was strong in each man's face. It would have, no doubt, helped their morale if something had been given them, but nothing was.

  There was not even a stray puff of wind, but the air was grower steadily cooler since the sun had set and the sand was not as blistering as it could have been.

  Chand raised his head. He turned toward the highest portion of the bluff to their left and nudged his brother. "Do you hear that?"

  The rough sound of shuffling feet drifted across the beach from the direction of the tall bluff. Muted voices floated out of the dark depths of the entranceway. A shout occasionally rang out, or a heavy thud. With each meaty thud, a listless, muffled groan sounded.

  A long line of men began to exit the bluff, their ragged clothing dusty and damp with sweat. Their heads were bent with obvious exhaustion and their body odors reached out across the distance to the new arrivals. They appeared shrunken, emaciated.

  "The gods help us," Chase Montyne mumbled, watching the tired men flow into their huts.

  "Company," Sentian whispered to Grice.

  Grice glanced at a man approaching them with weary steps. There was dust on his clothing, on his bearded face, but he didn't look as filthy as the other men. His dark gold beard seemed only a few days' old. The wheat-colored hair was shaggy, but seemed clean enough. He looked tired, concerned, but there was a light in his face that bespoke friendship.

  "I know him!" Grice whispered. He couldn't hide the hesitant smile that spread over his face and hoped with all his heart the man would smile back.

  He did.

  "Well, fancy seeing you here, Griceland!" the man called as he closed the distance between them.

  "I heard you were vacationing here, so I thought I would join you."

  The man shook his head. "Bad choice of vacation spots. I can think of a few more enticing places." He turned to Tyne Brell. "I would imagine Chale is nice this time of year."

  Tyne grinned. "A bit too cool for my tastes. I usually go to Ionary in February."

  The man threw laughed. "Maybe next year, eh?"

  "You can all come to Virago," Paegan joked. "At my expense!"

  "You're on!" The man looked to Sentian and reached down. "I hear you are to be your group's leader."

  Sentian took the man's hand and was helped up. "I'm Sentian Heil, late of Serenia."

  "Ah, yes! You were in the Elite."

  Sentian was amazed at the hardness of the man's callused hand. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

  There was a flash of amusement on the man's bearded face. When he grinned, his teeth were extremely white in his deeply tanned face. "I will be very familiar to you soon, my friend."

  "He looks a lot like his half-brother, the gypsy," Grice remarked, smiling.

  Sentian frowned. "Teal? Teal du Mer? Your brother? You're Roget du Mer?"

  Roget chuckled. "You know Teal?"

  "Know him? I've gambled with him!"

  "You do know him!" Du Mer's smile grew. He plowed a dirty hand through his hair and wagged his heavy brows. "I can see why you were caught, my friend. Gambling with my little brother doesn't make you very intelligent, now, does it?"

  Sentian couldn't help but laugh. "I guess not."

  Roget nodded at the two nobles from Dahrenia, stared a long time at the hulking, nameless man who refused to look up. He glanced at the soldiers from the third boat, and then settled his gaze on Paegan. "Where's Ry?"

  "That…that damned creature attacked him. I think they took him to the medical hut. At least I hope that's where they took him."

  A frown etched across Roget du Mer's handsome face. "How badly was he hurt?"

  "Took a good bite on his left foot, du Mer," one of the guards answered. "He'll be all right. No bones broken; no toes sheared off."

  "He's been sick the entire journey," Paegan said.

  "How sick?"

  "A fever. He never has been hearty. He shouldn't be here…"

  "None of you should." Du Mer swung his gaze to Prince Chase Montyne of Ionary. There was a strange light in both men's faces as they regarded one another. "How'd you manage to get yourself caught?" Roget asked. "What happened to your sorcerer's magic I heard you learned?" There was a tenseness and rigidity to his back that had not been there before.

  Chase held up his burned palms. "If I'd had any left, I wouldn't have been caught, would I, du Mer? I want no trouble with you. What happened is over; we can't undo it."

  Roget's face clouded for a moment, then he shrugged. "What's in the past, stays in the past."

  Grice looked from one man to the other. He knew there was bad blood between the them, yet no one but the two of them knew the reason. "We're all in this together," he reminded them. "If we don't stay together, we'll be lost."

  Du Mer swung his face toward Grice. "I forgave him the day I was sent to this hell-hole. They told me the truth of it."

  "I don't want to talk about it!" Montyne snarled and turned away.

  Roget sighed. Montyne would come around. He glanced toward the long line of men who were still walking wearily from the bluff. He spied one in particular and frowned. The man was standing, head down, eyes raised, watching the group. He was lurking about like a youth wanting to play, but not sure of his welcome. One toe was digging into the ground, his hands were thrust into the pockets of his filthy breeches.

  "Why are you standing there gawking at us? Come here!" Roget bellowed.

  The thin man, tall and gaunt, smiled and started toward them.

  "Sometimes he has to be led like a child," Roget sighed. "But I don't suppose he really had a childhood considering…"

  A loud curse rang out from behind the large white clapboard structure. The tall man skidded to a stop, looked in the direction of the shout, and then turned toward Roget. The new arrivals could see the agitation in the man's gaunt frame even though they couldn't see his face.

  "Don't just stand there! Go!" Roget shouted, flinging his arm at the man.

  The man took off at a tired, ungainly lope toward the yelling voices. Men stuck their heads out of the huts into which they had been filing, looked behind the white clapboard building and then turned to Roget.

  "You! You and you!" Roget snarled, pointing at men. "Do it!"

  Three men hurried for the back of the building; others, upon seeing what the commotion was, shook their heads and moved back into their huts, shutting the doors to close out the world and what was happening.

  Another curse rang out. Three more men broke away from the line coming out of the bluff and headed for the back of the building.

  "What's going on?" Grice asked, watching hard emotion cross Roget's still face.

  The sound of a meaty crack peeled out, then a stifled groan as the snap of leather hit bare flesh. Grice saw Roget flinch, watched as the man's lips pulled back over his teeth.

  A command filled with unmistakable fury shot over the still compound. "Want some more?"

  A man stumbled around the side of the building, pushed from behind by a burly guard with whip in hand. The prisoner went sprawling in the dirt. The whip came do
wn on his bare back with a snap like the crack of lightning. He tried desperately to rise, pushing himself to his knees with trembling arms, but the guard kicked him hard in the ribs. The prisoner was lifted off the ground, flipped over and rolled. He lay on his back, spread-eagled.

  "Sons-of-bitches!" Roget spat under his breath. "What did he do now?"

  Sentian viewed the raging anger on du Mer's face. A feral snarl lined the tight, drawn back lips. The man's fists were clenched and his jaw ground with an audible crunch.

  "Do something!" Roget hissed, his voice quiet but deadly. "Get them away from him!"

  The guard with the whip put his booted foot on the man's outflung right hand.

  The prisoner let out a shriek of unimaginable pain, and his body doubled up. He tried to push the guard's boot off his hand as he gasped and groaned. Another horrible yelp burst from the man as the guard ground his foot against the man's hand.

  "What are you waiting for?" Roget spat, his stare going to the men who were milling around the guard and the helpless prisoner.

  A weak fist came down on the guard's instep. The big man jumped back, his face contorting with rage. The man on the ground managed to scramble to his knees, cradling his right hand with his left. The guard bellowed, then slammed his foot as hard as he could into the prisoner's side.

  Du Mer full attention was on the man struggling feebly to get up. Each time he did, another boot went smashing into his body. Roget cursed and took a step forward, but one of the guards who had accompanied the new arrivals caught him.

  "Don't, Roget! You'll only make it worse. Let the others handle it."

  The tall man Roget had earlier called to join them threw a rock at the guard kicking the fallen man. Before the guard could turn, another clipped him on the ear from another direction. He spun, his face red, and still another rock was lobbed at his back. It connected with a hard thud and the guard went down on one knee as another missile caught him on that thigh. Still another skipped out his shoulder.

  "Leave him!" someone snarled. "He can't defend himself! You've seen to that!"

  Unable to ascertain who was throwing rocks, for many men were standing around, the guard glowered at them all, then came unsteadily to his feet. He flicked his hot gaze over the prisoner who was crouched on the ground, then glanced toward Roget. He hitched up his pants and ambled away, casting a final look of revenge at the man on the ground.

  Roget let out a ragged sigh and ran a hand over his sweaty face. Satisfied no guards were looking on, he nodded at the man he had sent to help. The gaunt man said something to his fellow rescuers and the men began to drift away. No one spoke to the prisoner who sat on the ground, his right hand clutched against his chest, his head down, his dirty hair hanging over his face.

  "Why didn't they help him up?" Sentian asked.

  Roget ignored the question. "Commandant Appolyon will interrogate each of you separately. He's a bully and likes nothing better than to get a brave man in his hands." He glanced at the man who had regained his feet and was stumbling away. "He'll turn your bravery to fear, my friends. Grice, you and the other royalty will be his main targets. He's a mad dog at times and seems to have a personal grudge against any member of the nobility. I doubt he'll bother Sentian or the others, but I can never be sure. Do yourselves a favor and don't anger him. He'll cripple you if he can."

  "Sounds like a nice guy," Tyne mumbled.

  "I'm serious, Brell. Deadly serious. If you act stupid and subservient, if you don't call attention to yourself, chances are he won't mess with you." He turned to the tall man who had joined him. "How badly is he hurt this time?"

  "Can't say for sure. I think the bastard broke a couple of his fingers." Sentian started to growl like a cornered animal. The tall one glanced at him and flinched. "Do you remember me?" he asked, shyly.

  Sentian was glaring at the man with a hateful, repelled look. "I remember you well! You're Galen McGregor's bastard brother, Jah-Ma-El!"

  The man gazed at Sentian with a sad, ironic twist to his large mouth. "Just Galen's bastard brother?"

  "Jah-Ma-El is a friend, Sentian," Roget told him. "He's been a great help to me. He loved his country and he loved the Crown Prince of that country, else he wouldn't be here."

  Sentian pointed a finger at Jah-Ma-El. "Aye, he loved his prince, all right! The reason he was sent here was because he helped kidnap the princess! And he helped that hell-spawned brother of his keep her against her will!"

  "He had his reasons," was Roget's reply.

  "Reasons or not, he caused Prince Conar…" Sentian's shout was stopped by Jah-Ma-El's soft whimper of agony.

  "A lot of pain. Believe me, I know what I helped do to him."

  Roget stared hard at Sentian. He could see why Conar had once chosen this young man to be one of his Elite. There was fire in the young man even though there was currently ice in his eyes. There was courage and strength in his proud body and honor blazed on his handsome face.

  "There's a lot you don't know yet, Sentian," Roget warned.

  "I know if I get the chance, this son-of-a-bitch will pay for all he did!"

  Jah-Ma-El sighed. "I am paying. More than you know. Every day of my life."

  One of the guards from the compound walked past, glancing at Sentian. He winked.

  Roget wanted to groan. Obviously others had also evaluated Sentian Heil. The man's thick chestnut hair and flashing white teeth, his full lips set in a softly rounded face were just feminine enough to have caught the guard's eye. He had to stop Sentian from calling attention to himself.

  "There are men here who will jump you in a heartbeat, and I don't mean to beat you, although that will be part of it. Understand?"

  Sentian blanched.

  "Understand?" Roget repeated and saw Sentian nod, his face now suffused with a deep scarlet. "Then keep your mouth shut, your eyes down, and don't open your mouth unless you're spoken to. Cause no trouble, make no demands, and above all, keep as low a profile as possible."

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  Liza stood with her hands gripping the wrought iron of the balcony, intent on the courtyard below the King's master suite. A slight breeze ruffled her long black hair, billowing it out behind her in stray wisps. There was a slight paleness to her ivory complexion with its dusting of rosy blush on the high cheekbones. She looked at her bare feet and thought how cool the stone was.

  Raising her head, she stared at the tall wooden structure that dominated the courtyard below. It had become a symbol to her over the last five years. It was something tangible, real, easily seen. Something she could go to and touch when she felt the need. Although no one liked to see her do that—especially Legion—she could not seem to stop herself from periodically making her pilgrimage.

  She turned to glance at her husband as he slept. He looked much younger than his thirty-three years. One arm was flung out on her side of the bed; the other lay beside his head, tangled in the pillowcase. There was a slight smile on his face; his eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids with their faint bluish cast. Whatever he dreamed, it was pleasant, for his smile widened and he sighed as though something delicious had been placed before him at his meal.

  Once more she looked at the structure in the Tribunal Square. How she wished the damnable thing had never come into being! Legion told her he would have it torn down, but she had pleaded with him to leave it as it was. It was a symbol. When he looked at her, she saw his tears gathering. He nodded once and the structure had not been mentioned again.

  True, the thing was useless, had not been used for more than five years, not since that day. And it was ugly. It was a sore point with most of their people. Those who passed it would shudder. Those who dared to look at it for any length of time, and few ever did, were vividly reminded.

  Liza wanted his people to never forget. Not for one moment did she want them to ignore what had happened there, nor the man to whom it had happened.

  "Come away, Dearling," Legion softly orde
red.

  Liza jumped at his deep voice. She turned. "Did I wake you?"

  "The damned cold breeze did coming in through the door." He patted the bed and she closed the door, then padded over to him as he propped himself up. "You spoil me as it is. I should have been up an hour ago." He entwined his fingers with hers, brought her cool hand to his lips.

  "And if I didn't spoil you, Milord, who would?" She snuggled against him, laid her head on his broad shoulder.

  "Gezelle, more than likely. Or any other lady traipsing about." He wagged his brows.

  "Pooh!" she admonished in mock anger. "No other woman would have you, Milord." She dug her elbow into his ribs. "You're too lazy. Look at you…lying in bed at this time of morning!"

  Legion shrugged. "I'm supposed to be catered to, woman. I am your King!"

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It's because we all pity you that we take your kingship so seriously."

  "Pity, is it?" He flipped his body to the opposite side of the bed, rolling her beneath him. He put his hands on her ribcage, then lowered his head.

  "Legion!" she yelped, giggling as he ran his bearded chin down the column of her neck as his fingers playfully dug into her ribs. "Don't!"

  "Do you pity me, still, lady?" He chuckled down at her puckered, laughing face.

  "Aye!" she screeched, trying to pry his fingers from her.

  "Good!" he taunted as he wiggled his chin up and down her neck and shoulder.

  "Stop it!" Her belly twisted in helpless laughter, her chin tingled. She was nearly choking on her ticklishness. He always seemed to know just the right spots to attack.

  "Give?" he asked, his tongue flicking out to send her into fresh spasms of uncontrollable laughter.

  "No!"

  "Are you sure?" He thrust his tongue in her ear.

  "Aye!" she shouted, her left side tingling all the way to her toes. "I give! I give!"

  He turned over, dragging her with him, holding her tightly as he stared into her lovely face. His generous mouth stretched into a slow, conquering, self-satisfied smile. The brows wagged again for good measure.