Windhealer

Table of Contents WINDHEALER Prologue PART I: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 PART II: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 PART III: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 18 Amber Quill Press, LLC

THE WINDLEGENDS SAGA BOOK IV

WINDHEALER by CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

Windhealer An Amber Quill Press Book This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC P.O. Box 50251 Bellevue, Washington 98015

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2003 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ISBN 1-59279-037-2 Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber Rating: R Layout and Formatting Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com Published in the United States of America

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo At Grandma's Knee BlackWind

BloodWind DarkWind In the Heart of the Wind In the Teeth of the Wind In the Wind's Eye NightWind Prince of the Wind ShadowWind Shards Anthology WindChance WindFall

The WindLegend's Saga Book I: Windkeeper Book II: Windseeker Book III: Windweeper Book IV: Windhealer Book V: Windreaper Book VI: Winddreamer Book VII: Windbeliever Book VIII: Winddeceiver Book IX: Windretriever Book X: Windschemer

Dedication To Bill Slaughter— I will never forget you, sweetie

Though his children be many, the sword is their destiny. His offspring shall not be filled with bread. He lies down a rich man, one last time; he opens his eyes and nothing remains to him. Terrors rush upon him by day; at night the tempest carries him off. The storm wind seizes him and he disappears; it sweeps him out of his place.

—JOB 27: 14, 19-21

Prologue The beating in the Tribunal courtyard had left Conar McGregor's back numb to the vicious lashings of the guard's whips. The punishment meted out to him in the Labyrinth Penal Colony had severed the nerve endings under his flesh. He lost count of the times he was stretched between the uprights behind the privy ditch and whipped. Such brutality had become a matter of course and he endured it stoically, with detachment. He resided in a portion of hell few men ever knew existed and from which even fewer man had ever returned. Pain had become a way of life; mental anguish was his constant companion. From the very first, he began his lessons in just how cruel the human race could be. In the Labyrinth, he learned more about the agonies of the damned than he ever wanted to know. His captors set out to cripple him both in mind and body—to break him, to humble him, to crush his spirit and bring him to his knees. "You are nothing here!" he had been told. "You are a prisoner of the Tribunal! Nothing more!" The only safe haven in his dark-stained world was sleep. Only there could he find any semblance of peace, and that only briefly, for his rest was often interrupted by demons and dreams and memories that tormented him, that left him even more alone in his despair. From the first day when he had been taken from the Indoctrination Hut to view the Labyrinth, he was worked from sunup to sundown. The only times he was not being worked or kept locked away from human contact were when he was ordered to the medical hut for rudimentary care, or when the barber strapped him in a chair and shaved him, whacking off his thick hair. "I want to be able to see the fear on your face," the Commandant told him. "I want to see the humiliation!" Then, he had fought them. He had managed to keep his dignity for a while, at least. He was determined to survive, but it had become harder every day when he was forced to grovel in order to do so. Two days without food, without complaint, might be well enough when one was protesting an injustice, for the very act of deprivation can be strengthening, but combined with physical and mental brutality, it was a luxury a man intent on living could not afford. So, he was forced to give up a portion of his pride, humble himself, beg, in order to simply have enough food in his belly and sufficient clothing with which to cover himself during the cold desert nights. But by then they had begun to work on his self-esteem, to plunder his very soul. To deny him the right to even exist. "You are dead!" The words came at him time and time again. "A dead man!" "I am Conar McGregor!" he screamed with mindless fury. "I am alive!" His defiance had brought with it an immediate reckoning which kept him abed in the medical hut for more than a week; the beating had nearly crippled him. When he was well enough to rise, they chained him in the center of the courtyard and warned no one to speak to him. "This man is dead! He does not exist!" When he had defiantly denied their vicious words, shouted his name to the heavens, he was gagged. "Say that dead man's name just once more," the Commandant threatened, "and I shall have your tongue removed!"

That had been in the beginning. Over the next year, he learned to swallow his pride, to make it silently through each verbal and physical abuse with a dogged determination to survive, enduring the cruelty and barbarism with the calm acceptance that this was now the way it would be. He took what they gave and no longer tried to defend himself. Before long, his pride vanished. But hate and anger still filled his heart, despite what he had been forced to become. Repeated beatings left him with downcast eyes that shifted nervously away from those who abused him, but they could not put out the fire burning in those wounded blue orbs. It burned bright, insistent, the only part of him totally alive. All that had been in the first year and a half of his imprisonment when he still knew who he was. When he still had an identity, despite their best efforts to rid him of it. Now he simply existed. They long since destroyed his self-esteem and integrity. They destroyed his belief in himself and in the order of things. No longer did he aspire to leave this terrible place. The man he had been was no more. His life was one long tangle of misery. Even so, he could sometimes feel small bits of encouragement aimed his way: a fleeting glimpse of a smile he caught in passing; a brief flare of compassion for his misery; a tell-tale look of pity on a hard countenance otherwise devoid of life. It was those small touches of humanity that made his days less hopeless, but it did not stop him from eventually retreating into a shell of self-imposed isolation. As each new month passed, as his self-esteem dissolved, he delved deeper into his private world, tucking his tail between his legs, trying to bury himself within the confines of his mind. "You are nothing!" they kept reminding him until he believed it. Now, after six years of captivity, he crawled, slunk like the wounded animal they had molded, into a psychological hole he dug for himself, an insulated haven where the world with all its pain and humiliation could be held at bay. He retreated into a place of his own making, a world where there was still love and laughter, if only in his memories. "You are nothing!" But he knew better. He might not be the man he once had been, might not be a man at all anymore, but he was alive. He did exist. His loneliness told him that. His memories told him that…

PART I: Chapter 1 Eight months before the first of his disbanded Elite Guards arrived at the Labyrinth penal colony on Tyber's Isle, Conar McGregor found himself suddenly alone, far from the encampment, the guards miraculously out of sight. That in itself was highly unusual since he normally had five or more guards watching him, intimidating his every move with taunts and jeers and kicks and slaps. On that evening, though, he had straightened up from his work of digging a large boulder from its resting place and looked around. There was no one in sight. He narrowed his eyes, puzzled, but he made no attempt to move. He was beyond the bluffs, outside the ring of high stones.

He had been taken here many times—blindfolded—so he could not see the way to the outside. They put him to work on large boulders that were later rolled down to the northern section of the island to be used as a jetty at the as yet unused harbor. He never minded the trek outside the bluffs, for the air was cooler, even though the work was harder and he usually paid dearly with more abuse than normal. He laid down the heavy timber he had been using to pry loose the boulder and scanned the immediate area. There was nothing but waist-high boulders and scrub. He looked at his leg irons, knew he wouldn't get far if he tried to run, so he just stood, resting. The full moon rode high in the sky; Conar had just a glimpse of a man's shadow as it moved over his own. He started to turn, to confront whoever had loomed up at him, when his legs were kicked out from under him. He fell face down in a patch of gravel; his cheek and chin scraped over the rough surface as he slid forward. The air rushed out of him as his belly hit the ground hard. Gasping, he felt his arms pulled tightly as a man put a rock-like knee into the small of his back. He grunted as the man forced his arms up and across his upper back, straining the arm sockets. "I been biding my time until I could get you alone, McGregor," came a rasping, heavy voice. The man flipped his captive over, effectively pinning Conar's arms beneath him. Rocks and shards dug into the bare flesh of Conar's shoulders, back and arms; he winced as a large stone gouged into his back. "Am I hurting you?" the man taunted. He straddled his victim, sitting on Conar's thighs. Hard knees pressed into the bent crooks of Conar's elbows, nailing them to the sandy ground so it was impossible for him to either roll away or free his painfully constricted arms. Two ham-like feet hooked themselves over Conar's knees, making it equally impossible to buck off the brute. He heard the man's menacing voice and cringed at the hatred in the softly spoken words. "Hoped you'd never see me again, huh?" Conar looked past a wide chest and broad shoulders, a bull-like neck, a strong chin, and settled on the man's face lit by an upheld lantern. Here was evil, fetid, rampant, festering. Utter malice filled the man's stare. His expression was cold, as deadly as a viper's. A stench rolled off the large body like waves of sewage, but it was nothing compared to the unspeakable odor from the man's evilly grinning mouth. "Like what you see, pretty boy?" The man was hard with layers of muscles that bunched in his massive forearms and shoulders, rippled over his chest and striated his flat belly. His neck was so thick his head appeared to have been stuck on as an afterthought. Conar couldn't even begin to guess how much the man weighed, but the solid bulk of him crushed Conar's hips and lower belly. Thighs, corded with steel-like muscle, pressed painfully into Conar's sides as the man squeezed him; large hands, fully capable of pressing the life from a normal-sized man, held Conar's head anchored. His hair was blond, tightly pressed to his scalp in thick waves. A thin goatee dangled from his chin, and oddly-shaped sideburns made his rounded face seem alien and even more evil. There was a thin scar across his right cheek and a vivid tattoo of a dragon on the left. "You do remember me, don't you?" Shaking his head had been a mistake; nearly a fatal one. The guard snarled with rage. Before Conar knew what was happening, one giant paw grabbed a handful of his flesh in the center of his chest. The fingers gripped like steel hooks into his solar plexus, then thrust up and under the lower right side of his ribcage with expert ease. Conar felt a pain so intense he screamed as the man gently tugged on the lower ribs. "Aye, you do, McGregor," the man cooed, tugging again. He smiled at the scream that was cut short by one of the Labyrinth guards who appeared out of nowhere to plaster a hand over Conar's mouth. The fingers spread under Conar's left nostril; he sucked in air, trying to bring oxygen into his lungs. Tight groans of agony forced their way out of him as the man tugged again, but with less vigor. "Say you remember me," he ordered.

Conar hurt too badly to make a sound as the man's accomplice removed the beefy hand from his mouth. He could only stare up at his torturer. When his captive remained mute, the man punctuated his next words with sharp tugs on Conar's lower ribs. "Say…you…remember…me!" "God!"Conar gasped from the intense pain spiraling through his ribcage. Bright pinpoints of light sparkled all around him. "No, not God." The man laughed. The voice turned childish, then singsongish, as he reprimanded his prisoner. "Say my name. You know who I am." There was another sharp pull on his ribcage; Conar felt his heart skipping beats. The pain had become so bad he could see nothing but rushes of red light. "Say it, dammit!" the man shouted, all reason gone. "I don't—" "Say my name!" Tears of intense agony fell down Conar's cheeks. "I can't remember—" "Say it! Say my name!" Another vicious tug. "Say Lydon!" "Ly—" "Tell me you remember who I am!" "I think…you're—" "Tell me you remember me!" Weakly, "I remember you." "I didn't hear you." The voice was calm, expectant. Louder, "I remember you." "I still didn't hear you." The voice was friendly, pleasant. With heartbreaking care, "I remember you." Conar looked up, pleading for a cessation to the pain. "I remember you." "Good," the man whispered. There was a childish smile plastered on his beefy face. He let go of Conar's ribs. Softly stroking Conar's hot cheek with the back of his rough hand, the man smiled. "I knew you'd remember me." The smile vanished. "You won't forget again, will you?" "No, sir, I won't," Conar whispered. The man cocked his head. "You know, Coni," he said sweetly, using the nickname Conar's family and friends used, "I like hurting you. It makes me happy inside." He put a finger on the dual scars along Conar's left cheek and traced one silent tear down the ravaged flesh. "Are you crying for me because you put me here? For what you did to me?" "I'm sorry," Conar managed to say. "You should be. You know why?" "No, sir." His lips began to tremble; his shame and humiliation were complete. The man put his face in Conar's. " Because I'll get you alone again and I'll hurt you again for sending me here." With infinite care, the man put one grimy thumb into the corner of Conar's mouth, pried apart his teeth, hooked the

digit over the tongue, then swooped down like a vulture and covered Conar's mouth with his own. He thrust his thick tongue deep inside Conar's mouth. Conar struggled, gagging against the vile odor and feel of the man's mouth, the rape of his tongue. He felt his gorge rising. The tongue withdrew; the lips slithered off. In one lithe bound that belied his bulk and weight, he came to his knees and straddled Conar's thighs. He laughed as his captive twisted violently to one side, doubled over and retched hard. "Just remember what I told you. I'll find you alone again, pretty boy. Make no mistake!" Conar spat bile from his mouth, snorting it from his nose as the man stood. His vomit was smeared over his left cheek as they pulled him to his feet. His arms had gone numb, and he hung between two guards as his tormentor strode off. "Walk, idiot!" one of the guard's snapped at him. Conar did not sleep that night. "Who are you?" he whispered. "Who the hell are you?" He wasn't sure if he was asking his question of the man who had tormented him, or of himself. One thing he was sure of, though, they had not blindfolded him on the way back into the bluffs and he now knew the way out! That knowledge might one day prove to be his salvation. *** He strove hard to survive, to put one foot ahead of the other until there was no longer a pathway for him to tread upon. His body had been honed to perfection with three years of hard physical labor. His chest, once wide and smoothly muscled, was as hard as granite, the pectorals stretched taut against his flesh. His arms became bunched with thick cords of muscles and his stomach was ridged with hard lines. They kept his hair trimmed raggedly about his shoulders, but since it was rarely washed except during one of the infrequent storms that visited Tyber's Isle, it had turned a greasy, dark golden brown, and often lay plastered to his neck and forehead. His face was kept hairless, the barber shaving him twice a week. The twin scars pulling at the flesh of his left cheek were vivid purple streaks that told the tale of just how badly the making of them hurt Conar McGregor. His hands were thickly callused. The only thing soft about him was the rare, fleeting look in his pale blue eyes when he managed a brief glance at the men he still cared deeply for and who were also incarcerated in this hellhole. Despite the fears he had upon learning where he was, the other inmates had not bothered him. His constant physical persecution by one group of guards might well have been enough to satisfy those who wished him ill. Seeing him beaten and tormented seemed to please some of the prisoners, while it bothered others. Such treatment was not doled out to the average inmate. Only Conar received the dispiteous ill-use that was a daily occurrence. If such abuse satisfied his enemies, it conversely served to unite those who were still loyal to him. There were times when he was being tortured that some of the inmates intervened in private, unseen ways to stop the punishment. No one, not even those who hated him, carried tales about those men who had helped. That was the law of the Labyrinth. To tell meant a sharpened sliver of rock plunged into the gut. *** Xander Hesar, the Labyrinth's imprisoned Healer, despised Lydon Drake. The man was a killer, a rapist, and could be as mean as a rapid dog. Whenever Drake came into the Healer's hut, Hesar had the wild urge to stick a scalpel between the burly man's ribs. It would be a blessing for Conar if Drake simply vanished. Jah-Ma-El, Conar's half-brother, and Roget du Mer had managed to garner quite a few men still loyal to the royal house of McGregor. Most of the men were political prisoners, much as du Mer had been. No matter how vile the crimes of the others who swore fealty to the young Serenian Prince, there was still a spark of patriotism in their blood, some vestige of pride and loyalty to their homeland, some small bit of allegiance to the ruling family. These men formed a loose phalanx of secret security around Conar as best they could, running interference with other prisoners, beleaguering the guards who took satisfaction in tormenting the Prince, hindering their efforts. But there were still those who hated Conar. Hated him and wanted to either kill or seriously maim him. Some had been

put in the colony by the King, Conar's father, but there were about ten who had been remanded to the colony through the diligent efforts of Conar, himself. Lydon Drake was just such a man. Had Captain Holm van de Lar been there, he could have told Conar, reminded him, who the burly man was, what he had done to Holm's little girl. He could have warned Conar to keep as far away from Lydon Drake as possible. Staring down at Conar as the young man lay lost in the throes of a violent fever, Lydon's face held not a flicker of emotion, no semblance of mercy. "How long is he going to be in here this time?" The Healer shook his head. "I can't answer that. If you hadn't nearly worked him to death last night, he might not be here at all!" "Just get the bastard back on his feet!" Drake stormed. "Stay out of here," the Healer warned, and didn't flinch as Drake stared at him. "Leave him alone. If anything happens to him while he's here, I'll know who did it." Lydon's glare leapt from the Healer to the patient and lingered. He had a need so great he could feel it boiling. His was a brooding need, a dark, insatiable bloodlust, a hunger to corrupt, to pervert, to totally destroy the young man lying unconscious. The aching urge inside him to cripple Conar grew stronger by the day. "Get out!" the Healer snarled, seeing the emotion and recognizing it for what it was. "Else I'll have a talk with the Commandant about you!" A snort of fury blew from Drake's nose. He spun around, slamming the medical hut door behind him, making the walls tremble. The Healer ground his teeth with hate. "Worthless piece of cow dung!" He walked to the cot where Conar lay. His face filled with concern. "You're really sick this time, aren't you, son?" he asked in a soft, worried voice. He put a hand on the young man's flushed cheek. The fever was raging; sweat dripped slowly down Conar's cheeks and neck. The Healer pushed aside a lank lock of dirty blond hair. "Look what they've done to you, boy," he mumbled, scanning the still face. Conar had been considered one of the handsomest men of his day. His boyish round face with the deeply cleft chin and thick tawny lashes over startlingly blue eyes had made the hearts of many a maid flutter with lust. Now, long golden lashes fanned the red-tinted cheeks, hid the blue of those eyes; the stillness of his face hid the dimple that always appeared in his right cheek when he laughed or smiled. "Not that I've ever seen you smile," the Healer said sadly as he smoothed back Conar's hair, "but I know that dimple's there." The door opened. The Healer turned, snatching back his hand from his patient's face. An audible sigh of relief came when he recognized Jah-Ma-El. "How is he?" the young man's brother asked. "Much worse this time." Jah-Ma-El nodded. "Do you want me to stay with him awhile?" "They'd get suspicious." Jah-Ma-El nodded again, wanting desperately to stay, to help. "You will call me if he should get worse?" The Healer let out a long breath. "I promise." One last look at his little brother and Jah-Ma-El opened the door to leave. He looked back at the Healer. "Two of his men were brought in this morning." "I know."

"That makes nine in all from the Elite." "We'll need them all to protect him, Jah-Ma-El." Jah-Ma-El cringed. "I saw Lydon in here." "He's been warned. There won't be a repetition of what happened last night." The Healer's face was set and hard. "He's being watched." "Lydon?" "Him, too," Jah-Ma-El answered and left. Going to the window, the Healer looked over the courtyard. He nodded to himself as he saw several men watching the hut. Men who could be trusted with Conar's precious life. A loud rumble of thunder shook the hut. The Healer glanced up at the darkening sky. He frowned. Another storm. Another week of rains. He stepped back from the window as a flare of sharp lightning lit the sky beyond the tallest bluff. "All the hell we need," he grumbled as he returned to his desk. He sat and returned his gaze to his patient, his heart filling with fear for the young man. Healer Xander Hesar had been born and raised in Virago. He was related to Prince Rylan and Prince Paegan of that windswept country. His hair, although heavily streaked with silver, was a pale amber color and his gray-blue eyes were a perfect foil for the ruddiness of his complexion. He was not tall, only five-foot-ten, but he carried himself well, for he had been a refined gentleman before his transportation to the Labyrinth twenty-six years earlier. A prisoner at that time, Xander had learned the healing arts from the former caretaker of the inmates' health. It was a profession he loved and took great pains to improve. Keeping a man alive, even in such an evil place, meant much to him. "And I will keep you alive, son," he whispered. "I swear on your mother's grave, I will keep you alive!" If it had not been for him, Xander thought with dismay, Conar might not have survived his first week in the Labyrinth. There were some men here, Lydon Drake chiefly, who posed a deadly threat to Conar, had planned his murder while he was still in the Commandant's Interrogation facility. Xander had been warned by one of the guards who overheard the plot, and Conar was watched closely by both Shalu and Roget du Mer. Xander had informed the Commandant and the plot had been foiled. "The last thing I need," the Commandant had snarled, "is Conar McGregor to die under my care!" The fat man turned a heavily scowling face to the Healer. "Tohre would have my head!" "Then you had better make sure Drake is never left alone with him. That bastard means to see the Prince dead." "Traitor!" the Commandant corrected. "He is no longer a prince." The beady eyes narrowed with malice. "But then again, neither are you!" So the guards had been given strict instructions that nothing lethal was to ever happen to the Conar. No brutality that might cost him his life. No prolonged abuse that might render him crippled. The guards kept him as safe as their own petty torments would allow, while those who hated the Prince took what vicarious pleasure they could in the numerous beatings and abuses he suffered. Such men numbered few in the camp, and for that, Xander was thankful. Conar moaned. His lids fluttered and a hard chill shook his body. He tossed his head on the bare pillow and the lank hair fell into his face. Xander got up and dipped a rag in the water basin. He set the rag on Conar's brow. His gaze fell on the intersecting scars that deeply marked the young man's left cheek. There were other scars on the once-handsome face. Razor nicks, scratches from brambles, the slash of a signet ring across a nose that had been broken many times, the remains of a cut caused from a lash across his right cheek by the Commandant's riding crop. There were other scars and marks on the young man's body, as well. The massive destruction of his back, the brand of traitor on his right shoulder, Kaileel Tohre's brand around Conar's left arm, the dual burns in both palms, the vicious symbol of the Maze tattooed on his left wrist. Such carnage on one body was

almost too inhuman to contemplate. "They'll pay, son. One day, they'll pay for every hurt you've ever suffered." Conar groaned, opened his eyes and stared up at his companion. The blue eyes were glazed with fever, blank, devoid of life. The handsome face with its myriad wounds was pathetic to see as some horrid emotion crossed the features. "Water…?" Xander nodded, automatically looking around even though he knew there were no others in the room with them. He poured a tumbler of tepid water and brought it to Conar's lips, carefully lifting the sagging head so he could drink. He allowed Conar only a small amount before laying his head on the sweat-drenched pillow. "Thank you." "You're welcome, son." Long into the night, as thunder rumbled heavily overhead, shaking the ground and timbers about him, Xander watched his patient fitfully sleeping. Lightning crashed, shrieking across the heavens; rain poured in a deluge of battering intensity; the air turned thick with an alien cold. He drew the covers up over Conar's naked chest, settled himself in his chair, and slept.

Chapter 2 Thom Loure's big, rubbery face wrinkled with confusion. His high, wide, hairless forehead scrunched down over his beak-like nose. He cocked his head and rubbed a thick hand over his baldpate. "Do we know that man?" he asked Storm Jale. When Jale didn't answer, Thom dug his sharp elbow into the skinny man's side. Storm shoved away the offending elbow. "How the hell should I know?" The two former members of Conar McGregor's Elite guard hunkered beside the malodorous pit that served as a privy for the penal colony. They had arrived on Tyber's Isle that morning, but had already lost much of their bravura. Thom again ran his manacled hand over his head. "Don't he look familiar?" Storm glanced at the tall man standing stoop-shouldered beside him. "How can I tell with all that hair?" "Here, you two!" one of the guards shouted. "Into the Indoctrination Hut!" "Just do what they say," Jale advised as he headed in the direction the guard pointed. Looking over his shoulder as he entered the Indoctrination Hut, Thom shook his head. "Iknow that man," he mumbled as the door closed behind him. *** King Shalu Taborn grinned nastily. He had seen the lumbering ox looking at him, trying to place him. He grinned at Roget du Mer. "I once had a talk with those men." With a meaty thud, he pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand. "I'm looking forward to speaking to them again." Roget shook his head. "That's the least of our concerns now." "Maybe the least for you, du Mer; but the foremost of mine." The darkman chuckled. Roget pitied Storm Jale and Thom Loure.

Two hours later, while Thom and Storm were picking their battered bodies up from the ground, Shalu was being remanded to the Commandant's hut for having started a fight with the new arrivals. Roget sat with Jah-Ma-El outside their hut under the overhang of thatch, watching the rain splattering the compound yard. "He just had to do it," Roget snapped. "They're the ones what caught him in Necroman," Jah-Ma-El reminded his friend. "That doesn't excuse him. Appolyon will have him whipped." Roget let out an angry breath. "We need to stick together. I've got to tell them about Coni—" "Hush!" Jah-Ma-El glanced at a nearby guard, relieved to see the man wasn't listening them. "Doesn't look like they're going to whip the darkie." Jah-Ma-El jerked his chin toward the Commandant's hut where Shalu was just appearing on the porch. Roget squinted through the rain. Shalu had a set, mulish look on his face and, even from the distance at which Roget viewed him, his eyes blazed with fury. "What the hell's happening, now?" du Mer asked. Jah-Ma-El shook his head. Whatever it was, it was about to cause trouble, for word was spreading among the inmates; men were appearing in doorways and stepping outside under the wide overhangs. A lanky guard walked rapidly toward them, glanced at Roget as he passed, and mumbled, "The sludge ditch is overflowing." "So?" Roget snapped, then stilled, his gaze going to Shalu. "Oh, hell," Jah-Ma-El groaned. Now, men walked out in the rain. Their backs were to Roget and Jah-Ma-El, but the two could feel the excitement in the air, the expectation. Few men liked the Necroman; many actively despised the black man. Whatever caused trouble for him was eagerly regarded as excellent entertainment. "I don't know what we'll be able to do, but let's go," Roget sighed, coming to his feet. It rarely rained at the Labyrinth, but when it did, nature shrieked on gusty winds and stabbed lightning while thunder shook the ground with an angry cadence. And as this dark-passion world would have it, it was the only time when there was complete, constant night, lasting from the time the first angry lightning flare streaked to the ground until the last rumble of thunder rolled from the heavens and the last drop of rain fell. Cold, buffeting winds pierced the tattered clothing of the inmates, tried to put out the oil torchlights high above the compound. Rainwater gushed in torrents and the loose sand became a quagmire, washing away the older huts and often damaging the newer ones with large hailstones. Tonight, it seemed as though the entire world would be washed away. Just as Roget and Jah-Ma-El joined the crowd of onlookers near the Commandant's porch, the sky opened up with an onslaught of rain that battered the men with fury. Already wide streams of water flowed through the yard, pooling around doorways and porches. The ground shook with each successive rumble and the sky turned white-hot with the flash of lightning. A sharp, ear-splitting crack could be heard now and again, and the men, although curious about what was happening, turned nervous expectation to the deadly skies. The communal privy ran behind the huts and barracks and into the lake. It was from this ditch that garbage and all manner of filth was washed away from the compound. As the rains increased, continuing on into what was now the sixth hour of non-stop torrential downpour, the ditch began to overflow. Rocks that formed a barrier had been washed loose and fallen into the stream. With any kind of clog interrupting the flow, the contents in the noxious depths would begin to spill over the banks, leaving clumps of offal and decayed matter scattered about. The health problems would be horrendous, but the stench was bound to be even worse.

Not quite a week before, in preparation for the heavy rains predicted to fall, Conar had been forced to dig an auxiliary trench alongside the sludge ditch, but that section wasn't finished. He labored that week digging the trench parallel to the main ditch while the guards took every opportunity they could to relieve themselves while Conar was working. He had been splattered with some of the terrible flotsam, had gagged at the smell of it on him as he labored in the hot sun. "They're going to make Shalu unclog the trench," one of the inmates muttered to Roget. "What about the Traitor?" one of the others asked. "Why isn't he out here doing his job?" "Because the man's sick, fool!" Jah-Ma-El snarled, shoving the speaker. Roget spoke quietly to Jah-Ma-El, cautioning him to silence. He pushed aside one of the inmates blocking his view. King Shalu Taborn was hustled into the courtyard. Men moved aside as the guards, each holding a thick black arm, escorted him to the ditch. They pointed out what he was to do and he flatly refused, his deep bass voice thundering above the crash of the stabbing lightning. "Go to hell!" They began to strike him repeatedly, cursing and threatening, but the Necroman held fast to his resolve. One guard knocked him to his knees, no easy feat since the black man was large and muscular. The deep brown eyes and haughty features looked up at the man with ill-concealed contempt, flared with red points of hatred, but he shook his head. "No!" A vicious kick to the small of his back doubled the man over, but he raised himself up and folded his massive arms over his thick chest. "What'll we do?" Jah-Ma-El asked, his voice tight with fear. "What can we do?" Roget knew he and Jah-Ma-El couldn't do it alone and they were only two of five men there who would even try. "We can't just let them kill him!" Jah-Ma-El started forward, but Roget stopped him. "Wait! Let me think!" du Mer ordered. *** Conar had been drifting in and out of consciousness for five hours. His fever was a tight band squeezing him in a fury of aching pain in his joints and violent cramps in his abdomen. Sweat rolled over his weak body, draining him, making him sick with the smell and feel of it. Weak convulsions still shook his pathetically drained body. Now, as the fever began to subside, he lay awake, but exhausted, striving hard to throw off the remnants of the illness. He had been dreaming. His mind had drifted far afield of the red-hot pit in which he dwelt, bringing him to a green-growing place where flowers bloomed and birds sang, where silvery water trickled over crystal riverbeds beside lush, clover-strewn berms of rich earth. Where cool golden sunlight dappled the water of soft blue ponds, and where moss-covered rocks beckoned a person to sit and stay awhile. Where crisp white snow fell on majestic mountain peaks and tall scented pines and firs lent a regal smell to the air. He could smell the pine tar, the clover, the hint of honeysuckle and jasmine, and the intoxicating aroma of lavender… That smell had brought him back to consciousness, his heart thudding wildly in his heaving chest. He gasped for air, shut his eyes to the darting memories that loomed up to hurt him. He was helpless and vulnerable to the memories his mind tortured him with. He was as susceptible to the torment as he was the lash. He couldn't think of that smell, he told himself. He must not. He would not. It hurt him far too much, far too deeply. He had tried to force that memory deep down inside him. So far down the guards could never reach it and take it away. He wanted it to stay buried. Out of reach, out of his tormented soul. It would remain locked against this awful world in which he survived a waking death. Weak as he was, and trembling from the effort, he managed to sit up. He looked at the Healer as he slept, snoring lightly on a cot nearby. The man was good to him. As good as the Commandant would allow. It was a comfort Conar cherished. A loud shout caught his attention. He turned his head toward the open doorway. He heard angry voices, meaty

thuds. From somewhere deep inside him came the overpowering desire to stop whatever was taking place, no matter how ill he was. Strong emotion shot through him; he heard it calling to him and knew he was the only one who could help. He felt compelled to be in that courtyard, to make right whatever was wrong. He took a steadying breath and swung his legs off the cot, nearly passing out as his head spiraled with a throbbing pain. He made himself stand on unsteady feet, his hand gripping the cot's frame in order to stay erect. Leaning heavily on the edge until he could still the spinning fury in his head, he straightened, grimacing at the terrible weakness in his limbs. He stood for as long as he dared, until he was certain he wouldn't fall, and then, clutching the wall for support, his fingers splayed out over the rough wood slabs, he stumbled to the open doorway where rain cascaded in. He squinted into the almost total darkness and could see the flaring pinpoints of overhead torchlight. Men had gathered around the sludge ditch and his blood ran cold. He knew what must have happened. There was no hesitation on his part. There was no turning back. What had to be done, had to be done by him. Taking a deep, wavering breath, he ventured into the deluge and was immediately soaked. His filthy breeches hung on him in baggy tatters, dark-stained with his body fluids and just as malodorous. He stumbled over the sucking, greedy mud, his eyes filling with rain, blinding him, stinging. He lowered his head and trudged forward, skirting the deeper puddles where he knew he would sink knee-deep into the earth. He tripped over something and went sprawling, landing with a splash of thick ooze. His face skidded into the slickness, plugging his nostrils and right ear and nearly choking him as it filled his olfactory senses with the cloying smell of wet sand and urine. He managed to pull his head clear, shake it despite the godawful agony it brought him, and then struggle to his knees, his hands buried. Angry shouts turned vicious, lethal. He raised his head and listened. Something stirred inside his soul, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, and he gained vigor from it, took courage from it. He gathered all his waning strength to heave himself unsteadily from the ground. He stood, wove like a drunkard as he waited to be sure he wouldn't fall, then started forward. So intent were the others on what was happening to the Necroman, the inmates and guards didn't notice Conar until he was almost to the ditch. He eased through their neck-craning ranks with the invisibility his presence at the Labyrinth had acquired for him. He slipped, unnoticed, unfelt, between the men, never touching them, never speaking, never looking at them, and made his way to the rock barrier near where Shalu knelt. When he was at last noticed, shocked gasps turned to incredulous silence and the prisoners began to back away from him in waves. The Necroman was still on his knees, his brawny neck exposed as two guards held back his head. The Commandant stood over him, a thin-blade dagger paused at the corner of one cinnamon-colored ear. Together, they looked as though they were posing for some gruesome portrait in a mad artist's gallery. Lightning flashed; rain gushed down in a solid sheet of ice-cold fury as thunder seemed to shake the very world. Another flash of lightning forked viciously across the heavens, arced out in several places at once, backlighting the scene with an eerie glow that turned those gathered to ghost-white figures. King Shalu Taborn went still as death as he saw the young man. Taking in Conar's appearance, the Necroman could see into the very soul of the man staggering toward him. He let his troubled gaze settle on the wounded, fever-ridden face, willed that face to look up, those heralded blue eyes to fuse with his own. "Look at me!" Shalu silently commanded. "Look at me!" Conar heard the command deep in his soul, recognized it for what it was, shook his head against the call. "Do it!" came the call once more. Slowly, he lifted his head, looked hesitantly to the Necroman, held the gaze only a fraction of a second and then looked away. Shalu wanted to scream with fury. How long had it been since the boy had been allowed to look anyone in the eye? A year? Two? Looking at the beaten-down sag of those once-proud shoulders set the Necroman's teeth on edge. He remembered another time, another rainy day, when this boy had done him a great kindness, had shown him unstinting respect. "Look at me," came the silent call again, soft, filled with emotion. Conar lifted his head once more; their gazes locked. The Necroman didn't speak; he knew there was no need for words between them. But for the first time in his life, he

lowered his own eyes to another man. Unselfish courage was something the Necroman understood and he recognized it in Conar. Before anyone could think to stop him, yell at him, punish him for daring to interfere, Conar slipped over the higher part of the overflowing ditch and waded into the filth. Roget breathed a sigh of relief as Appolyon stepped away from Shalu and went to stand at the other end of the ditch, his attention riveted on Conar. Coming slowly to his feet, Shalu stared just as intently at Conar, now working to unclog the ditch. Mud and human waste covered Conar's bare arms and shoulders, plastered his breeches to his lean flanks. Offal smeared his face and freshly-washed hair. Shalu swallowed hard to keep from gagging. He gasped as Conar lost his footing in the rush of the water, went down on his knees, struggled up with a large rock clutched in his filthy hands. He held his breath as Conar hefted the rock and hurled it out of the ditch. Conar stumbled again, his blond head disappearing beneath the water. "No!"a weak, frightened voice spoke beside the Necroman. Shalu turned to look at Jah-Ma-El. The sorcerer started forward, but the black man put out a hand to stop him. "You want to die, Serenian?" the Necroman growled. Everyone waited in the pouring rain. Some with held breath, some anxious, some with looks of revenge on their beefy faces. A collective sigh of relief rushed over the compound when Conar surfaced, wiping muck from his face, spitting gods-only-knew-what from his gasping mouth. "What the hell is he doing out there?" an angry, horrified voice startled the men. They turned to see the Healer. "Get him out of there!" "Leave off, Xander," Roget warned. "He's sick, du Mer! He's barely able to stand!" "He's doing what he has to," Shalu answered. "It is his destiny and he knows it." "He's doing your job, darkie!" some inmate called. "Getting shit-slimed for you! And your worthless black hide ain't worth him dying for!" "Shut up!"Appolyon screamed, incensed that the men were defending McGregor. Angry eyes turned to the Commandant and then strayed back to the young man slinging rocks from the sludge ditch. The waters started to confine themselves to the banks, slipping down the stone barrier little by little. Finally, the last rock in the blockage was removed, the last obstacle in the free-flowing motion of the water overcome. Garbage and human waste swirled around Conar, speeding toward the lake. He lowered his head with infinite slowness and then felt all his aches and pains settle once more on him. His shoulders drooped beneath the weight of his labors, his head sagged in exhaustion and the throbbing agony of the migraine came back full force. "Come on," a voice whispered, heard even over the rumble of thunder and cascade of heavy rain. "Get outta there." "Hurry up, boy." Conar took a step forward, went down beneath the fury of the rapidly flowing water, and came up coughing. He stood there, wavering, gathering his last strength. After a weary sigh, he tried to half-swim, half-stumble toward the lower bank. Time and again he slipped, but with strong determination, and draining strength, he finally made his way to the steep incline. "You can do it," came the soft, almost inaudible whispers. Conar's fever had returned with fiery vengeance. He was chilled to the marrow of his bones and smelled so badly he could breathe only through his mouth. He tried to climb from the ditch, to pull himself up the slick bank, but he slide down on his chest and belly, smearing himself thickly with even more human filth.

"Get out of there!"the chief guard bellowed. He tried again, but his feet slipped out from under him, digging into the rapidly crumbling bank wall. He grabbed at a protruding rock, but it came loose and he fell backward, landing on his rump in the ooze. It took his last reserve of energy to pull himself free of the sucking filth and stand, weaving on legs suddenly devoid of purpose. He was too sick and much too weary to try again. He lowered his head. No one saw the tears on his cheeks as they mixed with the rain. "Don't give up, boy!" a man hissed from somewhere at the back of the crowd. Conar barely heard the various comments. He was so drained, was so lost in his private hell of pain, that when something dark flashed in front of him, his head jerked up in surprise, fear, and panic. A grunt of command, a non-verbal order came. Through the ring of faces above, Conar saw the Necroman at the top of the ditch. He was bent over the rim, his large hand extended toward Conar. The darkman grunted again, insistent, brooking no retreat and the hand stretched closer. Conar looked at the proffered hand as though he couldn't comprehend what it was. It was extended, not with anger, not to hit, but to help. It had been a long time since anyone had put out a hand to him with any intention other than to hurt. It had been equally as long since anyone had put out a hand to him in compassion. He understood what was being offered, but shook his head in denial. His face held a pleading look. He hoped the big man would heed the warning he was trying to convey—Don't help me. You'll suffer because of it. Shalu knew the very thoughts flooding Conar's abused mind. He also knew Conar would never be able to make it up the incline on his own, and knew the guards would hurt Conar if they had to be the ones to help. He thrust his hand out again. Conar refused to acknowledge the man's offer of assistance, the momentary spark of humanity. He would not allow another to suffer because of him. Then, in a soft, compelling voice, rich and deep, husky with respect, the Necromanian King spoke. "Give me your hand, son." Then he added a word he had never before used. "Please." "Do it," some unknown voice called out. "Give the darkie your hand, boy!" "Let me through, you bastards!" Appolyon screamed, but the wall of men stood firm against him. He shoved one brawny inmate, who turned a belligerent, deadly face to him. The inmate snickered. "You think Tohre would like knowing where that boy is now? Think about that, Commandant!" Flinching, his face draining of color, Appolyon waddled to his hut. One of the guards loyal to the McGregor family looked down at Conar. "You'll drown! Take his hand!" Conar didn't care anymore. If he drowned, maybe all the pain would stop. Maybe if he just walked into the center of the ditch, if he just sank beneath the water… "No!Give me your hand!" Shalu bellowed. "Now!" Conar raised his head. Anger was something he understood. He looked past the hand to the angry brown eyes. "Go on, Your Grace," the guard whispered, also holding out his hand. Conar stared at the guard. Something twisted in his gut, hurt him so badly he thought he would scream with agony. He saw pity, love, compassion, and worry in the man's pinched face. A hitching sob tore from him. Shalu felt the young man's uncertainty, felt his pain. The guard had unknowingly spoken Conar's title, starting a torrent of emotion flowing through Conar's vacant blue eyes. "Go on, boy!" someone shouted. "Take what's offered you! You're one of us!" "Aye!"several men shouted. "You've earned the help."

Conar looked at his own hands, at the grimy, odorous filth clinging to them. He couldn't, he wouldn't, touch another with those hands. "It doesn't matter!" Shalu told him, understanding. "You can't stay in there, son," the Healer warned. "You'll only get sicker." "I…don't…care…" "I care," Jah-Ma-El said. Conar turned to his brother. The gaze was brief, but it was enough to let him know Jah-Ma-El still loved him. With infinite care, he reached up a tentative hand, trembling with fear and illness. When the strong brown fingers closed over his, Conar winced, feeling the squish of offal smearing the Necroman's palm. The firm grasp tightened in a steadying grip, refusing to let go. The guard who offered his hand grasped Conar's upper arm and helped pull him from the ditch. Soon, Conar felt other hands on him. On his back steadying him, on his shoulder patting him in relief, on his arms as Roget and Jah-Ma-El held him erect. It was the first time in more than two years that anyone other than the Healer had touched him with anything other than hatred. Shalu couldn't help but pity the ravaged lines in the young man's face. He hadn't been close to Conar since that first night when he had been brought into the Indoctrination Hut. There was such pain and anguish, terrible loneliness in that scarred face, a devastating need for the touch of human kindness, that it was almost unbearable to look upon. Still holding one of Conar's hands, the darkman reached out his free hand, ignoring the reflective flinch his action caused, and eased away an lock of wet hair from Conar's brow. "It'll be all right, son." Conar lowered his head. They would all pay for this one act of compassion, the Necroman worst of all, he feared. "No!"Shalu said. His strong fingers claimed Conar's trembling chin, forced up the sagging head. "I will be all right, too!" As they eyed each other, the two men each caught the fleeting glimpse of a kindred spirit. A flowing power that had once claimed them for Its own, an untapped energy still waiting for them to take it up again. And the look that passed between them made note of the other's abilities, qualities, strengths and weaknesses. It was a deep look that stirred the first faint embers of unswerving friendship. "Thank…you," Conar whispered, then collapsed into Shalu's arms. *** "Have you been to the medical hut?" Roget asked Jah-Ma-El. "They wouldn't let me." Jah-Ma-El pulled on his breeches, stuffed his tattered shirt into the waistband and picked up his felt hat. "If he was worse, Xander would find a way to send for me." He jammed the sloppy-looking cap over his thin, greasy black hair. "I don't like going to work not knowing," one of the other men said as he looked toward the medical hut. "How do you think Shalu is?" Roget shrugged. "Cooling his heels in the Indoctrination Hut. If that's all Appolyon does to him, it'll be a miracle." "There's no such thing in this hellhole!" Jah-Ma-El snarled. The whistle that blew every morning signaling the men to assemble for work pierced the air with its shrill blast. The men shuffled out of their huts to gather in the courtyard. The rain still came down in a slash of beating force, but the guards were already motioning the men into the mines. "Xander will take good care of him," Roget told Jah-Ma-El. Jah-Ma-El nodded. "I know."

Deep in the tallest of the bluffs circling the Labyrinth, the men began their day's labor mining the rare ores that were shipped out of the colony twice a year. Guards ranged along tunnel entrances to keep them from escaping, although there was nowhere the men could run that would see them to safety. The sound of metal striking metal grew deafening. Carts creaking beneath the weight of heavy ores and the squeal of rusted wheels on equally rusted tracks blocked out any sound from the outside world. Appolyon rarely visited the mining operation, but he was here this morning. He walked among the men, inspecting their work, issuing orders that were little more than annoyances to men who knew what they were about. His beady eyes strayed often to Roget with pique, and du Mer knew he was contemplating the punishments they would receive for having shown Conar a semblance of humanity the day before. "Don't you have work to do, du Mer?" the Commandant snapped. "You told me to oversee my work group, Commandant," Roget grumbled. "I can't shovel ore and look after them at the same time." "All I see you doing is coming in here and looking around. I want to see less of you, du Mer!" Appolyon called as Roget made another trip into the section of mine to direct his men. "I'll go on a diet, then," Roget mumbled. "Tow the line, du Mer. I'll be in the last shaft and I'll know if you're towing the line or not!" Roget spat and turned away from the fat man's beady regard. He bumped into another inmate and reached out to shove the man away, annoyed that someone had come up on him without him hearing. "Get the hell out of my face!" He lifted his eyes. A quick smile shot across his mouth. Thom Loure grinned. "Make me." Roget grabbed his best friend's brother in a bear hug. "You son-of-a-bitch! How the hell did you manage to get yourself put in here?" "Lack of mental function," Storm Jale quipped as he came up to them. "I can understand that," du Mer said and chuckled. He held out his hand to Storm. "You're an ex-Elite, right? You're needed here, my friend. We have someone who…" "Roget!" Du Mer saw a guard hurrying toward him. From the look on the man's face, something was wrong. "What's happened?" "They've put the bars across the outside entrance to shaft one." The man was nearly out of breath. "The bastards have locked us in!" Roget stilled while his mind worked. He looked toward Jah-Ma-El. The thin man had stopped work and was listening. Roget turned back at the guard. "Do you know why?" "No, but I do know they brought out the Necroman and lashed him to the whipping post about twenty minutes ago." "Appolyon is in here, in shaft five. Who's in charge out there?" "Lydon Drake." Roget's knees felt weak."Shit!" He started down the tunnel that led further into mineshaft number five. Storm and Thom looked to the guard for an explanation. "Lydon Drake hates the Traitor," the guard snapped. "It was him who sent Drake here. He'll hurt that boy for sure!" "You think he went to the medical hut?" Jah-Ma-El yelped, his face going pale as a sheet. "Don't know," he answered, but his eyes, as worried as Jah-Ma-El's, gave lie to his words.

"I've got to get to him!" the sorcerer shouted, throwing down his pick ax. Storm and Thom knew and hated Jah-Ma-El. They had ignored him all morning and now wondered at the emotions crossing his face. "Has this got something to do with the commotion we heard last night?" Storm asked. He and Thom had been locked inside the Indoctrination Hut and had been unable to see. "It's got everything in the world to do with it!" the guard replied. Thom turned as heavy footsteps and shouted obscenities came blasting from farther back in the tunnels. Roget and the fat man hurried past, several guards behind them. Jah-Ma-El followed the last guard. Thom shrugged. "Might as well go see what's happening." It took the men ten minutes to wind their way to the mine's main entrance. Straining bodies blocked their way, a wall of sweaty backs and raised fists. A cacophony of angry shouts and whistles—fury and sound—greeted them. "What's going on?" Thom yelled above the noise. He could hear the beating of iron to iron as the men in front pounded on the bars blocking the entrance. "They're beating them," one of the inmates answered. "Who?" "The Traitor and the darkie."

Chapter 3 Lydon Drake nearly killed Conar and the Necroman. The savage beating left them each hovering over that fine line separating the living from the dead. Conar, already so ill, suffered the most. His back, scarred from so many past beatings, looked like raw meat by the time Lydon was stopped. Blood streamed down his breeches, was washed away by stinging rain. He was unconscious long before Lydon finished, had been from the first searing stroke of the lash that caught him low around his waist where little scar tissue had formed. He hung loosely from the uprights to which he had been strapped, his head sagging between his close-bound arms, his body swinging as driving rain battered it, his hair dripping wet over his fevered forehead. Not having fared much better, Shalu didn't lose consciousness until after the thirtieth blow. He made no sound as the flesh was ripped from his body and knew Conar had felt nothing at all from the first. For that, Shalu was grateful. Shalu had heard the shouts from the mine, craned his neck to see the entire entrance jammed with bodies, could see fists stuck through the bars as the men shouted at Lydon and the handful of guards he had assembled to help him. "Drake!" Appolyon screamed. "Unlock these gates!" Lydon ignored the Commandant's orders and drew back the whip to hit McGregor again. "If you kill him, Lydon," one of his men said, "who'll you play with next time?" His grin was evil. "Why don't you just leave him there?" Lydon looked at McGregor's bloody body and then back to the men jerking on the gate. "They'll have to stay in there all night and see him hanging here in the rain." "I want McGregor in pain!" Lydon bellowed.

"He don't feel nothing!" one of his other men scoffed. Lydon grabbed a handful of wet blond hair and dragged back his captive's head. "Dammit!" "Leave him until morning. When he wakes up, go at him again!" Lydon grinned. They left the two prisoners hanging from the uprights. The rain slacked off, but the flashing lightning and rolling thunder shot in ever-increasing volume over the compound. It reverberated through the mineshafts and shook the walls. The men inside worked feverishly to unlock the heavy iron wrought bars. "He could be dead," Appolyon grieved, staring at Conar's still form. He turned his pig-like eyes to du Mer. "If he is," Roget snarled, "you're dead, too!" "Aye, Tohre will see to that!" Jah-Ma-El agreed. Thom and Storm pushed their way through the heavy cordon of men and were near the front of the crowd when the first shriek of iron pulled free from its barrier and the gate moved a little. "At this rate it'll take us the whole damn night to get out!" a guard shouted. *** Shalu awoke, blinking against the pounding rain streaming down his face. He looked to the man hanging beside him. "McGregor?" There was no answer from the limp form. "Shalu? "Is he alive?" The Necroman recognized du Mer's cultured voice coming from the mine. He looked at Conar, and could barely see the rise and fall of the young man's belly. "Aye! He's breathing!" A worried frown formed over Shalu's sable features. When a man's arms were tied above his head for any period of time, his chest was constricted and his breathing was hindered. It was not uncommon for a man tied in such a fashion to suffocate. He kept his gaze on the steady rise and fall of Conar's chest and began to hope it wouldn't take the men long to free themselves from the mine. But he knew hoping wouldn't help; he had to do more. In the litany of his native tongue, in timeless runes handed down from father to son from time immemorial, Shalu began to pray. To chant. To beg and plead and cajole. To bargain. To threaten the old gods of his darkworld homeland. Long into what seemed like a never-ending eternity, alien words flowed from his mouth in an unceasing rhythm, for he was not by nature a man who prayed. But his entreaties were not for himself; they were for the man beside him. His worry for the boy, for anyone outside his own family, was unusual for him. For a white man, exceedingly unique. "McGregor?" he called again. His worry turned to genuine fear as the rain-drenched night drew on and Conar remained unconscious. There was not even a flicker of an eyelid; not even a sound. Shalu moved his head toward the mine. He could see Jah-Ma-El's anxious face peering at him through the rain. He shook his head in mute answer to the man's terrified look. Another face caught his attention and he looked that way. The face was as familiar to him as his own. He had smashed that beak of a nose once, long ago. Had smashed it just yesterday. A grim smile of satisfaction lit the dark features as he saw the tall, rubber-faced man grimace at him. "Troll," Shalu mumbled, sniffing, for he was beginning to feel the cold settling in his bones. If he didn't catch a fever it

would be a wonder. *** Thom eyed the Necroman through the pelting rain and hated him more than ever. He put a hand up to his aching nose. "He doesn't appear to be hurt all that much," Thom mumbled. "Too bad," Storm hissed, remembering the trouble the Necroman had given them a long time ago and then again yestermorning. He rubbed his jaw where a mighty black fist had rammed home. "But I think the other one's dead," Thom added, watching the limp body swaying in the rain. "Probably the best thing. The beating must have been bad from the looks of his back." "No worse than what they did to…" "To His Grace." Thom winced; a powerful stab of pain went through him as it always did when he remembered Conar. He turned his eyes away from Shalu as a second bar pulled free of its housing. "Two more and I think I can squeeze through!" Jah-Ma-El told the men working on the bars. Another hour passed as the third bar proved to be harder to loosen than the ones preceding it. The men worked diligently, worrying the bar in its socket, trying to lift it free of the slot in which it rested. Groans of exertion and disgust filled the late night. Grunts of exhaustion drifted off as other men took an inmate's place working on the bars. *** Shalu saw Conar's lids flicker open, then close. He felt his heart start to thud within his massive chest. "McGregor?" he called, his voice low, no longer masked by the pouring rain, for the deluge had trickled to a slow sprinkle. Conar's body quivered from fingertips to bare toes, and then he groaned softly. "McGregor!" Shalu insisted. "Can you hear me, boy?" Conar couldn't move his head enough to nod; he wasn't sure he could open his mouth to answer. He looked at the darkman for just a flicker of a moment and then let his gaze slip away. The impact of those lost blue eyes pierced Shalu through the heart. The Necroman knew he had looked into the eyes of a man already dying in his own mind. "Don't give up, boy. You're not alone. We're not going to let you be alone anymore. Do you hear?" A tremor ran through Conar's body again. He jerked, his fever lapping at his flesh with flame-like intensity. "Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?" Shalu queried. Conar was too tired to look at the man. His lips were cracked, bleeding, and he couldn't seem to open them. His head throbbed with an unmerciful agony that seemed to be blinding him to everything but the pain in his throat and chest. "I am Shalu, McGregor. I am your friend." Conar tried to smile, but smiling was something only living men did. He was dead. Had been for a very long time. He fell headlong into the black, bottomless pit that waited for him. *** Just as the first rays of dawn lit the sodden sky, the fourth bar came from its socket. Jah-Ma-El wiggled out of the eleven-inch space. He stumbled as he started to run for the whipping posts, went down on one knee in the mud, but managed to push himself up without breaking stride. "Can you get through, Johnny?" Roget asked one of the guards. "Think so." The man sucked in his gut, squeezed through and unhooked the keys to the gates from their niche on the

rock face of the mine entrance. He inserted the thick key and the gate's catch popped free. "Roget!" Jah-Ma-El yelled. "Hurry!" Men stood aside to let du Mer and Commandant Appolyon pass, then hurried after them, their faces set and hard. Angry mumbling broke the early morning silence and the sound of running, scuffling feet brought Lydon and his cohorts from the barracks. "I did what you wanted me to do, Commandant, but didn't dare say!" Lydon shrieked as five of the guards who had spent the night in the mineshaft rushed to overpower him. He stared at them as though he had done nothing wrong. "Get him locked up!" Appolyon snarled as he waddled toward the whipping post. Jah-Ma-El was standing before Conar, cradling his brother's head against his shoulder, his hands smoothing back the wet hair. He looked up as Roget joined him. "He's burning with fever!" Roget turned to Thom and Storm. "Hold him, men. Be careful with him." He extended his hand to a guard. "Give me your knife, Nyles." Without hesitation, the guard handed his weapon to Roget, handle first. Du Mer stood on his tiptoes and sliced through the hemp around Conar's wrists before doing the same with Shalu's rope. Thom and Storm held the unconscious man's sagging body between them. Thom had little time to wonder about the looks they received from Jah-Ma-El and Roget, for his attention was on the bloody mess that had once been human flesh and muscle. His jaw tightened as he glanced at Jah-Ma-El. "These bastards like to beat helpless men, don't they?" "Especially this one." "Where the hell is the Healer?" Appolyon bellowed. His face was devoid of color, his thin lips twitching as he searched for Xander Hesar. "Locked in the Indoctrination Hut," one of Lydon's men said. "Go!" Roget ordered Nyles Belyeaux, the guard closest to him, who set off at a loping run. He turned to Thom. "Get him to the medical hut. Jah-Ma-El, run ahead and make sure things are prepared for Xander." "Be careful with him, boys!" someone yelled from the crowd. "Aye! He be precious cargo, is that one! You better hope he don't die!" "Shut up!"the Commandant demanded, shoving men out of his way. Storm glanced at Roget. "He's coming around." Roget let out a long breath. "I'd hoped he'd stay out until you could get him on the table." "We'll be gentle," Thom said as he shifted the dead weight. He heard a soft groan. "Hang on, lad, we got you." Loathe to walk any faster for fear of hurting the man more, Thom stopped and looked to Storm. "Can you hold him by yourself?" "I think so." Storm ground his teeth as he stepped in behind their charge and slipped his arm under the man's right arm. He took the entire weight against him as Thom lifted the man's legs. Thom Loure was almost seven feet tall. He weighed close to three hundred pounds. He kept his head shaved because he thought it best should he get in a fight, which he did more often than not. Although his black eyes were beady and cold-looking, and his rubbery face constantly scrunched into a hard mask of impatience, he had the disposition of a child and a tender heart. Other peoples' troubles often effected Thom more than he let on, and the physical pain of someone such as the man he was helping to carry tore at his heart. So it didn't register much to Storm when Thom gasped, his big rubbery mouth dropping open, his brows shooting up with sudden shock, when he looked into the man's face. "Oh, my god!" "Get him in here, you overgrown beanstalk!" the Healer hissed at him.

Thom, stooped over, his wide back arched like a spitting cat, couldn't move. He couldn't speak; he couldn't shut his mouth; he couldn't take his eyes, now perilously close to tears, from the unconscious man's face. "Loure!"Storm snapped, panting with the dead weight. "Get a move on! I can't hold him all the gods-be-damned day!" "I… I…" Thom's voice was shrill, choked. As the blue-tinged lids of the prisoner fluttered, then opened and pain-glazed eyes fastened momentarily on Thom, the big man whimpered and fell to his knees in the mud, one large hand going up to clamp across his trembling mouth. "Help him!" Roget told one of the other inmates. The man pushed Thom aside and scooped up Conar's legs. "What the hell's the matter, Loure?" Storm snapped Jah-Ma-El rushed out of the medical hut, wringing his hands in agitation. "For the love of Alel, Jale, just go! Never mind Loure!" Wanting to put his fist through the sorcerer's face, Storm hoisted the limp body against him and, with the aid of the other inmate, carried the beaten man into the hut. Storm had some difficulty easing the man onto his side so they could keep his ravaged back from coming into contact with anything. He jockeyed himself close to the table and managed to gently flip his charge onto the surface without much trouble, but he heard a faint gasp coming from the semi-conscious man. Storm apologized, his voice tight with concern. "He knows you don't mean to hurt him." Storm turned to Jah-Ma-El. "I ain't never liked you and I won't ever like you." "I can't tell you how much that knowledge hurts me!" he said sarcastically. Storm took a step foward, but Roget stepped in front of him. "Not here, not ever!" "If you men can't behave, then get the hell out of here!" the Healer shouted. He ran his fingers down the side of the man's face and groaned. Touching Conar was like touching red-hot embers. He looked over the red, pulpy carnage of the boy's back and shuddered. "I'm staying." Jah-Ma-El's lower lip was thrust out in a pout. "Will he be all right?" Xander Hesar looked at the man everyone else was ignoring. "You'd better hope so, Commandant!" Appolyon saw hostile faces and angry eyes. He tore his gaze to Roget du Mer. "Keep me informed?" When du Mer didn't answer, the Commandant backed out of the room. "The boy may have to be tied down again. The tremors are starting," Xander told Roget. "Don't do it if unless you must. You know how he reacted before," Jah-Ma-El warned. "Don't tell me my business! I know how to handle your brother!" Storm's head jerked around; he looked at the examination table, to the man's head. All he could see was dirty, dark blond hair. "Which brother?" he demanded. Jah-Ma-El retrieved a wash basin and a handful of soft fleece clothes. "The only one that counts." With his hand, Storm captured one of Jah-Ma-El's reed-like arms. "Coron?" he asked with worry, for he had heard the younger McGregor brothers had not been found. "Dyllon?" He'd always been partial to that Prince. Thom was like a waking dead man as he stumbled into the hut. His face was parchment-white, his eyes red from crying. There was a visible tremor in his hand as he gripped Jah-Ma-El's shoulder. "Will he live?" "Aye," Jah-Ma-El answered, his stare on Storm, who still had a firm grip on his upper arm. "Let go, Jale." Storm jerked on the thin arm. "Which brother, you son-of-a-bitch?"

Jah-Ma-El dragged his arm from Storm's grip. "See for yourself." Roget moved to the table, glanced at Storm. "Help me get his clothes off." Jale came around the table to see the prisoner's face. He stiffened, stumbled back, slammed into the wall. Shaking, his face filled with stunned surprise. He furiously shook his head, denying what he had seen. His mouth opened and closed without producing sound; his chest rapidly rose and fell as though he'd just run a long race. He stared at the floor, his eyes shifting back and forth as though looking for an escape in the planking. "Are you all right, Storm?" du Mer softly questioned. Slowly, Storm turned to look at Roget, seemed to swallow a hard lump of emotion before he could speak. "How?" he asked, his voice little more than a breath. "A long story." Storm Jale had been third in command of the Elite Guard, behind Thom Loure and Marsh Edan. He was a physically powerful man with thick corded muscles and a belly hard enough to brag about bouncing a gold coin off of. His thick chestnut hair and dark eyes were direct and honest; his lean jaw was strong and gave evidence that the man had a sensual nature to his powerful build and physical abilities. He was not given to being overly sensitive, but he did have a strong sense of honor that often caused him trouble, for his innate honesty meant more to him than anything else. He had cried only once in his life and that was when the young Princess Nadia—Conar's daughter—had been found murdered. Now, his eyes flooded with tears. "I have all the time in the world to hear it." *** Conar lay on his belly for well over a week, his back red, pulpy, and oozing with pus. He drifted in and out of consciousness, crying out with pain and raging fever, incoherently begging those who cared for him, anyone, to take his life. He pleaded to be set free, to be allowed to fly from the earthly bonds that kept him captive in agony. He wept, and they wept with him. The second week, his back scabbed over and the healing went well enough that they gently turned him so he lay on the ruin of his tortured flesh. He was still dangerously close to death, but each man who sneaked in to see him—more and more each day, despite the Commandant's orders forbidding it—was pleasantly surprised to see his shallow breathing, for the Healer had not thought he would live after this brutal beating. "How is he?" Roget asked the Healer at the start of the third week. "He wakes for longer periods, but isn't aware of what is going on. It's the gods-be-damned fever." Shalu cast a quick look at the Healer. He had come into the hut with du Mer. "Is there no medicines for this malady?" "This fever is unique to Tyber's Isle." Xander Hesar ran a tired hand over his eyes. "If I had access to Hermit's root, I might be able to lessen the severity of the illness, but there is no way for me to obtain such a medicine here." Shalu nodded. "We call itthe healing tree in Necroman." He smiled. "If you brew the beans of that plant with ale, you see visions." Roget grinned. "I've heard of it." "He sees enough visions without giving him more," Xander grumbled. He sat in a chair. He was exhausted, but thankful the Commandant had not stopped the others from coming in to help him. At least the poor boy was aware that people who cared about him were near. Xander knew that knowledge had gone a long way in helping to heal Conar's tortured spirit, if not his body. "You think he dreams?" Roget asked. Xander nodded wearily. "I know he does. He mumbles such horrible, pitiful things. Things that would make a strong man cry." "There will be a new shipment of men at the end of the year," Shalu said to no one in particular, looking at Conar's face. How Shalu knew such things, no one dared to ask. "Do you know who?" Roget inquired.

"They will be connected to him. One in particular, but I don't remember his name." He glanced at Roget and his voice lowered to a soft whisper. "A Sentinel." Roget whistled softly. "Whose?" "I have no idea, but I feel a great change coming." "You'd better hope a change comes," Xander growled. "I don't know how much more of this abuse the boy can stand." He turned as Conar began to mumble in his sleep. Xander adjusted the covers over his patient's thin body. He didn't like the flush on the young man's face, nor the dotting of thick perspiration on his brow and upper chest. "Fetch me some fresh water?" he asked, looking at Roget. "He needs to be bathed again." Roget nodded, cast a quick glance at Shalu and left. Conar wasn't even aware of who tended him. He was locked in his own private hell where his skin was sloughing off in great peels. He heard things, but the words had no meaning to the distant, muted, hollow sounds. Hands tenderly stroked him, and for that he was grateful; he needed human contact in the red darkness in which he lay dying. He was imprisoned inside his own mind. Thinking, dreaming, remembering. Memories took him far away from his nightmare world of leering faces and grasping, hurting hands. They took him through green-filled meadows beside silent silver streams, over high-crested mountain peaks steeped in white crunchy snow, down into lush valleys strewn with clover and daisies, through cool green forests alive with the thick smell of pine and fir, over warm sand dunes sprinkled with wind-moving sea oats, down along black sand beaches with cresting waves of white foam. But all the time he dreamt, journeyed from one more beautiful place to the next, a serpent slithered around his ankles. He was helpless to keep it at bay, to stay the ravaging destruction with which it tore apart his life, his world, his soul. Leaving him torn and bleeding, alone and unable to protect himself. Then his memories, his pleasant dreams altered, began to metamorphose. Memories gave way to nightmares, intermingling, blending into one another. Here first was the battered, abused boy-child, beaten and ceremoniously locked inside a black marble crypt to remind him that life was not eternal. Then came the beaten, tortured man, lashed and entombed in a wooden coffin, shut away from the rest of the living world to remind him he no longer existed in that world. Images of the priest then jailer, arm raised high above his head, striking with a belt then a cat-'o-nine, the sounds of a small boy crying in terror, of a grown man screaming in pain. The scars of his battered childhood lay just beneath the surface of the scars of his manhood. He had been able to ward off the priest's blows with his child's ineffectual hands tied with silken cord no more than he had been able to deflect the jailer's fists with hands restrained in heavy manacles. His childhood had been a nightmare horror of vicious, well-timed abuse, ruthless exposures to the very thing that terrified him most. Dark, confined spaces where monsters lurked to snatch his breath away. His manhood had ended in a torrent of pain caused by the one thing he had come to fear even more than the demons of childhood. His final, total separation from all he had once been. At the age of six, he had learned to expect the pain his identity could bring him; now, at whatever age he was—and he truly didn't know, nor care—he had learned to expect the pain his non-identity could cause. It was that pain which hurt him more, for now, in his own mind, he was what Appolyon Kiel had labeled him—nothing. He could hear himself whimpering with hopelessness. But was it the child who cried so piteously, or the man? It had been the crying that awakened him. He was no longer dreaming. He was awake, apparently living his nightmare. How long have I been awake? he thought dismally. A day? A week? A month? A year? How long do such nightmares last or do they ever really end? If the dreaming stopped, would the nightmare end? Would the dreamer end? He willed the nightmare to end; begged the dreams to go away so the nightmare would leave him in peace. "He's giving up," Shalu told Xander. "He wants to die." "He'd be better off dead!" the man left by Appolyon to guard the prisoner insisted. Shalu looked at the guard for the first time. "You think that's good, do you?"

"I know it is!" the man bellowed. "Do you really see what they've done to him? How they've broken him? How can a man want to live like that?" Tears crept into the guard's face as he glared at the Necroman. "I wouldn't want to; would you?" "No," came the darkman's honest reply, "but then again, I'm not the Prince of the Wind." The guard's eyes jerked toward Conar. Uncertainty flooded his face. "I've noticed, Kirke, you don't mistreat him like some of the others. Why?" Xander asked. The guard shrugged. "I don't know." "You don't because you know it's wrong." Shalu stood, carefully watching the guard's face. "You know he doesn't deserve to be here and you know what's been done to him was done because ofwho he was, notwhat he did. That is why you saythey instead ofwe when you speak of the evil done this boy." Kirke's body went rigid as he looked from the Necroman to the Healer and back again. He glanced at Conar, stared for a moment at the floor, then looked at Xander. "He is my Overlord and always will be." "Do you want him to die?" Shalu asked. Kirke lowered his eyes. "No." "Then help us to help him," Xander pleaded. He pulled a chair close to Conar's cot, took one fevered hand in his own and stroked it. "We're here with you, son. You aren't alone anymore." Shalu took Conar's other hand. Kirke moved to the table and laid a reluctant hand on his Overlord's shoulder. "Stay with us, Your Grace. You be needed here." "No!"the shout came, startling the men. Appolyon Kiel stood in the doorway, fat face livid with fury, jowls wobbling. His pudgy hands clenched into fists. He stomped into the room with enough force to rattle the rafters. "How dare you?" he screamed, his bloodless lips drawn back over snarling teeth. "You will not call him that name!" Xander stood and faced the Commandant. "Do you want him to die?" "He is to receive no recognition here, Hesar!" "He is the Prince of the Wind! You can not deny that, Kiel!" "He is a traitor! He is nothing!" "He is dying!" "Then let him die!" Appolyon spun around, fixed Kirke Lanier with a fierce, deadly gleam. "Take these men out of here." "I have to care for—" Xander began. "I will have other men care for your patient! Until he is on his feet again, you and that darkie will be kept in the Indoctrination Hut and no one will be allowed in here except those I choose!" "Does that include that rabid dog, Lydon Drake?" Xander snapped, his body trembling with fury. "Men like that who will gladly put a dagger through the boy's ribs?" Appolyon violently shook his head. "I'll see to it he gets all the care necessary, but no such tender treatment like you are trying to give him!" Xander walked to the man, held his insane gaze. "If he dies, you'd better have a gods-be-damned good excuse ready for Kaileel Tohre!" Appolyon glared his hatred at Hesar. "If he dies, I doubt you'll be around to know about what Tohre does to me! I'll hang you myself!"

Several guards entered with pikes and swords at the ready. Their blank faces and hard expressions were enough to tell Xander and Shalu they would kill if told to do so. "Take these men to the Indoctrination Hut," the Commandant ordered. Despite his yelling fury and struggles, Xander was dragged away, the Necroman along with him. The last thing either heard was Conar's whimper of fear.

Chapter 4 Roget, Thom, Storm and Shalu looked up from their bathing to the five guards exiting the medical hut. Behind them stumbled a weak, pitifully thin young man whose leg irons were once more in place and whose shoulders sagged in defeat. "Sweet Alel," Thom whispered, hating the sight even more after witnessing it now for two years. "I can not bear to see that." "At least he's alive," Roget remarked. "But for how long?" Storm ground out. "Five years it's been! Five long years! Haven't they done enough to him?" His face was tight with fury. Roget sighed. It had been more than six weeks since Conar had suffered still another of Lydon's brutal beatings. It had taken the young man all that length of time to get over the savagery of the attack and the fever that almost killed him. Du Mer knew another such beating would be the last Conar would ever suffer. "What do we do, Roget?" Jah-Ma-El asked. He sat with his head bowed, his hands clenched together. Baths were for fools, and although he sat with the men as they took theirs, he sat well enough away so no random water could find him. "I wish I knew," du Mer answered. For the next few days the guards worked Conar as they had before his bout with the fever. He was up long before the others; still up long after his fellow inmates were abed. He was kept away from any human contact and not one word was ever spoken to him, not in angry command or in insult. Not once in all that time did he lift his eyes above waist height to any of those who guarded him. He went about his work, head down, shoulders drooping. He he ate food with little awareness that he did so. If he had to relieve himself, he would stand perfectly still until a rock was thrown at his feet, giving him permission to walk a few feet away to do what needed to be done. It was at the beginning of his second week back to work that he was directed to a large pile of boulders that had fallen from the tallest bluff during the night. He was made to understand he was to remove them from where they obstructed the pathway leading to the vegetable garden behind the equipment hut. He hefted two of the smaller ones, rolling them away, but the third was heavier and he strained hard to move it. He tried again and again to shove the boulder, but all he managed to do was dig his bare feet deeper in the shifting sand. Sweat glistened on his upper torso, ran down his straining face. He heaved, gasping for breath in the still, dry desert air, but he made no headway. He stopped, leaning his head against the hot surface of the rock, and took a breath, and tried again. Shoving with all his strength, he grappled with the boulder, still getting nowhere, but refusing to give up. He pushed, pulled, and slammed his shoulder into the rock. He tried to circle it with his arm, to lift it free, but still it wouldn't move. The guards watched him. At first, they smirked when he had tried to lift the boulder, but the longer he worked at it, almost with a fevered intensity that bordered on insanity, they grew worried. They looked at his face, hot and sweating and red with anger, and glanced at one another. "Move," Conar grunted.

He dug his toes into the hot sand, strained with all his might to push the boulder, but the harder he pushed, the deeper wedged it became. He was soon knee-deep in shifting sand, the waistband of his breeches soaked with sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead in long, greasy strands and his teeth were drawn back in a feral snarl. "Damn you, move!" he spat, his voice croaking and rusted. "Get the Commandant," the guard in charge told one of the others. Conar put his arms around the rock, embraced it, felt the rough surface digging into his bare chest. He heaved against it, slammed his body into it, felt his flesh scraping, gouging. "Goddamn you, move!" he shouted, doubling his fists, bringing them down on the rock with enough force to split his skin. "Move!" Appolyon hurried from his hut, hearing the one word shouted again and again. He heard meaty thuds as Conar's fists pounded the rock. The guards were standing with their mouths open as they watched Conar pummeling the rock with every ounce of fury and strength he could muster. His lips bled where they ground against his teeth. His face was as red as blood and his body quivered with fury. "I told you to move, rock!"He kicked out at it with such force, it knocked him backward. Scrambling wildly to his feet, he put his shoulder to the rock and shoved with all his strength. "Stop him!" Appolyon shouted. "Don't let him do that!" Two guards stepped forward, almost afraid to put hands on the young man. He had turned a fierce, insane glare to them and was actually snarling. "Holy Alel," one guard mumbled. "He's foaming at the mouth!" Pink foam dribbled from the left side of McGregor's mouth. He was gasping so hard, flecks of the foam sprayed outward from his drawn-back lips. When the guards tried to drag him away, he lashed out at them with such fury, they yelped and got as far away from him as possible. "Kill me!"he shouted, crouching. "Kill me and be done with it!" The Commandant saw the wild, insane look in Conar's eyes. There was nothing human in those eyes, nothing human in the rage on the snarling face. There was nothing in the way he was positioned that would have named him human, either. He looked like an animal, cornered, held at bay, and looked dangerous. "Circle him," Appolyon said quietly, "and bring him down before he hurts himself." "Look at him, Commandant! He ain't rational!" Appolyon could see that. He was somewhat pleased, for he had accomplished what he had set out to do years earlier—he had mentally crippled Conar McGregor. "Just bring him down. He'll have to be tied up, caged, but—" "The hell he will!" Appolyon turned to face Xander Hesar. The Healer had a group of men behind him—some inmates, some guards, all with fury etched on their hard faces. "The only thing that's going to be done with him will be done in the medical hut!" Xander snarled. He held up a rolled parchment. "This is a direct edict from Kaileel Tohre!" A stabbing fear shot through the fat man's gut, but he would not let it show on his face. "Where'd you get that?" "It came with the last shipment of prisoners this morning!" He thrust the parchment at Appolyon. "If you can't read it, Commandant, I'll tell you what it says!" Appolyon snatched the parchment from the Healer and unrolled it. When he looked up, hatred infused his face. "Do you dare to ignore a special edict from Tohre?" Xander asked. "It says the boy is to be removed from that infernal cage immediately! He is to be allowed to mingle with the rest of the prison population!"

"Tohre must have finally divined what you've been doing to the boy," Shalu Taborn snapped. "And he has put a stop to it!" More inmates and guards joined the group. A few were new arrivals, having been processed into the colony only the day before. The new arrivals were curious to know what was going on. One in particular, an older man with a mane of thick white-blond hair, pushed aside some of his fellow inmates and strode confidently to the front. His pale blue eyes swept over Appolyon with distaste, lingered for a moment on Xander, and blinked with surprise before moving on to the young man crouching near a cluster of fallen rocks. Sir Hern Arbra, once the Master Trainer of the Elite Guard and Sergeant-at-Arms of the WindWarrior Society, Master-at-Arms of Norus Keep, felt the bottom of his gut plummet. He took a step back as though he had seen a ghost and barely heard the Healer speaking to him. "Can you control him, Arbra?" Xander asked. "If you can, for the love of Alel, do it!" Hern turned a shocked, confused face to the Healer. "How did my boy…?" "That's not important now. Can you make him understand we mean him no harm?" The old warrior was oblivious to the tears streaming down his leathery cheeks. His heart beat so fast, he could barely breathe. The ache in his soul that had been there for five years twisted and turned, then seemed to break apart. He gasped in a harsh breath as full realization came. Absolute joy nudged at Hern and spread over him. "My boy is alive," he said on a hitching sob. "And he needs you," Xander urged, drawing Hern's tearful attention. "He needs you as he never has before." Arbra's gaze shifted slowly back to Conar, standing some fifteen feet away, panting with fear, and he shivered violently. "My help," he said firmly. He nodded. "Coni needs my help." "Be careful," Xander warned. "I don't think he even knows who we are." Hern licked his lips, flexed his big hands, and started forward, a gentle, tremulous smile on his beefy face. Conar saw the big man coming; he swept his frenzied inspection over the others who were blocking his way back to the camp. He backed away from the menace approaching him, fiercely afraid. His gaze fell on the boulder he had been trying to lift and, in his confused and disordered mind, thought that if he could clear away the rock, they might leave him alone. Otherwise, they would punish him for looking at them, for speaking, for not doing his job. "I'll move it," he whispered, casting a worried glance at the man. "I'll move it, sir." "Easy, son," the big man told him, coming toward him with hands raised at his shoulders. "I ain't going to hurt you." Conar took a cautious look at the man, then threw himself at the rock, colliding painfully with it. He circled his arms around it and heaved with all his might. "Don't, Conar!" someone said. But it didn't matter. Conar dug his feet into the sand and lifted. "I'm doing what you said!" he grunted, holding the rock with trembling arms. He could feel his muscles groan in protest, tearing, but he held the rock as steady as he could. "I'm doing what you said!" Hern came at him like a charging bull. The older man shoved at the rock, grabbed at his old pupil, clasping him around his waist as the rock twisted sideways out of the boy's arms and crashed to the ground. "No!"Conar screamed, seeing his effort rolling away, feeling the tight constriction of his tormentor's arms around him. "No!" "Conar!" Hern shouted, trying to get the boy's attention. "It's me, son. It's Hern!" Conar pulled free of the man's grip. He fell, going to his knees, and scrambled toward the rock, grabbing it, trying to lift it again. "Please," he whimpered. "Please." Hern caught one of Conar's ankles, pulled him from the rock, slid him over the sand toward him, but a sharp kick to his

jaw stunned him. He let out a surprised grunt of part pain, part anger and saw Conar crawling away again. Conar knew he had to move the rock, had to show them he could do what he was told. He couldn't let something so insignificant as a piece of sandstone bring him down. He crawled toward it. He went only a few feet, stopped, his arms quivering beneath him. "Easy, son," someone said. "It's over, now." Aye, Conar thought as he knelt in the hot sand, sweat dripping down his face and chest. It was over. He hung his head, then collapsed, his arms beside his head, eyes wide and staring. *** "Put him down here," Xander instructed and Hern gently laid Conar on a freshly made cot. "What's wrong with him?" the warrior asked, fear and anger blazing on his weathered features. "He's had all their torture his mind can stand." Hern turned white with fury. He pushed past Jah-Ma-El and Roget to go on a rampage in the courtyard. His furious bellows could be heard through the thick walls of the medical facility. "Sons of bitches!"he screamed, fighting men who tried to stop him from going after the Commandant cowering on the porch of his hut. "Rotten bastards!" Hern swung one mighty fist at Lydon Drake, newly released from two months incarceration for his beating of Conar. A ham-like hand crashed into Lydon's belly, sending him gasping to the ground. A hard foot slammed into Lydon's chin, knocking him out. "I'll kill every worthless prick in this place!"Hern charged into the guards like an enraged bull. It took ten men to pin him to the ground. After black eyes, split lips, broken noses, and one fractured jaw, he was chained inside the Indoctrination Hut, bellowing his rage. His curses were missiles of hate as he flung them at everyone within earshot. When Hern was finally released three days later, he vented his spleen on anyone unlucky enough to catch his attention. "How, du Mer?" he shouted as Roget. "How could you have let them do that to your rightful king?" "If you'll just calm down—" Hern shook loose Roget's restraining hand. "Calm down, you say?" Commandant Appolyon was standing in his doorway watching the spectacle with eager fascination. He was vastly amused at the reaction of anyone who found Conar alive at the penal colony. He used their loyalty to the McGregor family against the Prince. Lydon Drake heard the Commandant's gruff call. He looked up to see Appolyon glaring at him. "Bring him to me," Appolyon ordered. Lydon nodded, knowing the Commandant didn't mean the spitting, cursing man arguing with du Mer before the medical hut. Drake made his way to the back door. "Hern, listen to me!" Roget said. "You don't know what's been happening. Let me explain—" "Explain, what? Your cowardice?" Xander pushed past Roget and stood glowering at Hern. "If you don't watch your mouth, they'll lock your ass up!" Hern was about to yell a rebuttal when he saw Drake shove Conar out the back door of the medical hut toward the Commandant's porch. Hern spun around, his intent clear. "Dammit, Hern! Don't!"Roget shouted before running after the old warrior. "Conar!" Hern hollered, coming up short as five guards grabbed his arms in steel-like grips and restrained him from getting any closer to the Commandant or the young Prince. "Keep that bastard away from me," Appolyon said, "but bring him closer so he can see his old friend."

Hern struggled against the hands holding him, but he allowed them to drag him closer to Conar. What he saw as he took a good look at his young protégé sent a red fog of fury over his vision. The boy was dressed in filthy breeches that barely covered his lean hips. His bare chest with its accumulated scars was heart wrenching, but the slavish demeanor and listlessness were the most horrible things Hern had ever seen. His rage soared with his pounding blood. "Conar!" he bellowed. Lydon grabbed a handful of the dirty blond hair and pulled back Conar's head so Hern could see the boy's scarred face and dead eyes. "Oh, sweet Alel!" Hern whispered, his knees going weak from grief. He was barely aware that, instead of struggling with the guards, he was now being supported by them. The Commandant snickered. "You see, my good man, he knows what's going to happen. See how he's resigned himself to it?" Hern couldn't look away from the Conar's ravaged face. The scars were there, like the ones Kaileel Tohre had given him that day in the Punishment Square, but there were other scars, as well. Faint white lines across his nose, a wavering line over his forehead and down his right cheek, crossing over the thicker scars left by Kaileel's whip, a short, broad line along his chin. Ridges of long-ago breaks of his nose, lines of pain and suffering creasing his still face, scars upon scars all over his torso. "He knows his place, Arbra." Appolyon nodded to Lydon, who pushed Conar to his knees in the dirt where he knelt, head bowed. "He does what he's told." Hern took in the dejected shoulders, the posture of subservience, and he knew a raging fury such as he had never known. When the Commandant held his fat hand down to Conar's mouth and the young man kissed the back of it, Hern went insane with fury. "I'll see you in hell for allowing this to happen to him!" Hern screamed at du Mer and Jah-Ma-El. Appolyon laughed, "My dear fellow, they have had no say in what I do to my prisoner. If you had listened to them, what will happen now could have been avoided." Hern stilled. "What are you talking about?" "The man you called by name no longer exists. He died a long time ago. What you see now is his ghost, a ghost who walks among these men with anonymity. These men don't speak to him, don't acknowledge him in any way. If they should forget—and believe me when I tell you they don't—it is the ghost who suffers, not them." He unfolded his corpulent arms and swept them wide to indicate the compound. "This hell-hole is a grave, Arbra. It ishis grave!" He turned to Lydon. "Do what you do best, Drake!" "No!"Roget screamed, but he went down when a guard hit him in the gut. Hern saw Xander stopped by guards, saw Jah-Ma-El struck down with the broadside of a sword. He turned a fearful look at Conar and saw the blue orbs lift to his in fatalistic acceptance. Whatever Hern expected, it was not the horror that followed. His screams of animalistic fury deafened those around him. He threw himself against his captors with a renewed rage that finally brought him a hard fist to his jaw to silence him. When he awoke, he was chained inside the hut where he had been jailed before. "You see what they're capable of doing, don't you, Arbra?" one of the guards who brought him food asked. "And you also see why we do not interfere. If you love him, and I know you do, you'll learn to pretend he doesn't exist. That's the only way he'll be able to survive." "The first chance I get, I'm gonna gut that Lydon!" "It doesn't matter about Lydon—" "The hell it don't!" Hern bellowed. "His Grace sent Lydon Drake here. I remember what that vile whoreson did! You saw what he did today! For that alone, I'll find a way to slice his throat!" He shuddered as he heard again in his mind the whip hitting Conar's scarred back. "No one hurts my boy.No one!"

*** "You can not treat a man as you have treated him and expect him to do anything but crack!" Xander was bent over the Commandant's desk, his face near the other man's. "You can not ravage a man's spirit and expect him to remain untouched." "I expect you to do your job, Healer!" Appolyon reminded him. "If he is not allowed to rejoin the human race, we're going to lose him for good!" "And what do you propose?" Xander came around the desk and stared down at the man. "You wanted him the way he is. Made him the way he is. Now, with Tohre's edict lying on your desk, you have to undo what you've done. The only way I know to do that is let Conar McGregor exist in this vile world!" "He maynot be called by his former title! That isnot part of Tohre's edict!" "We don't care about that! The boy never liked to be called by titles anyway. What is important is he be allowed to rejoin the living. Haven't you punished him enough?" Appolyon did not want to appear weak, even before the Healer. He lifted his pig-like nose. "If you wish, he may be allowed to live with the others." "In du Mer's hut. With du Mer and the other men." Appolyon ground his teeth. "He must be called 'Traitor.' Is that clear?" "I will not accept that." Appolyon's jowls quivered with outrage. "How dare you!" Xander pointed at the document. "Thatgives me the right to dare!" Knowing he was defeated, the fat man turned his head. "No idle conversations. Understood?" "We'll see." "No idle conversations!" Appolyon shouted as Xander slammed the door behind him. Xander's angry footsteps took him rapidly across the compound. He swept his furious gaze over the cage where Conar had slept for five years and shouted at a nearby inmate to tear the gods-be-damned thing apart. "Now!" He wasn't surprised when two men rushed to do as he demanded. Roget met him at the doorway of the medical hut. "Well?" Xander slipped past du Mer and stalked to the cot where Conar lay, his body as still as death. Xander looked into the blank eyes that stared back at him without seeing. He placed a soft, gentle kiss on the cool, clean brow. When he raised his head, he glanced at Roget. "You can take him into the hut with you." "He barely knows he's alive, Hesar." "Conar has locked himself away where he can't be hurt, du Mer. He's gone deep inside himself. It's a defense mechanism, and he may never come back to us." "Then, what do we do?" Xander touched Conar's face. "Show him he is loved." *** Love? Had he heard the word? There was no word "love" in his world. There was only hate and pain.

Had there ever been such a word in his world? He thought there might have been once. There was a vague longing in his soul that he could no longer name. That might have been love. There was a fragment of hope in him that such a thing existed, but even hope was rapidly disintegrating and, with it, that long-forgotten emotion. If there had ever been love, it was now gone. It was buried so deep inside him that only his battered soul, if he still possessed a soul, knew where it lay hidden. It had been secreted away to a place where no one could see it, touch it, despoil it or take it away. Ever again. Was it love that had kept him alive all these years? he wondered. Was it that shining light that came in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come, when his body hurt and his heart ached so unbearably and his soul longed for surcease? Maybe it had been love at the first that kept him sane. Maybe it had kept him from dying despite the many times he had wanted to surrender. Maybe it was still in that secret place and all he needed to do was to dredge it up and hold it in order for it to exist. But what was it he wanted to bring back into his life? What was the memory that had kept him alive? Somehow he thought the memory was long and black and flowing. Perhaps it was even green and sparkling. Or was it ivory and coral, rose-tinted and soft? No, he told himself, a partial memory flooding his aching heart. It had been rich and fragrant…like lavender. The scent filled his senses. He began to cry. He felt hands on him, stroking, calming, wiping away his tears. He felt tender emotion springing forth from the faces hovering over him. He felt more alone now than ever because he knew the comforting wouldn't last. It never did. It was only there when he was ill. When he was better, it vanished, along with his identity, and he was even more bereft with its passing. He closed his senses to the world. Shut his ears to his whimpering cries. He didn't want to see the loving faces, for they could not be there. Hern and Thom and Storm and Jah-Ma-El and Roget. They were not in his nightmare world. He was in it alone. *** "What is he saying?" Jah-Ma-El asked. Roget's face turned white. "I want to go home, Kaileel," the child-like voice whispered. "Please let me go home." A ragged sob tore through the heaving chest. "Please. I'll be a good boy. I'll behave." The voice turned shy and afraid, conspiratorial. "I won't tell them what you do to me." "Sweet Merciful Alel," Roget groaned, his voice filling with pain. "He's reliving his childhood in the Abbey," Shalu said. "Please, Kaileel," the timid voice said a little louder. "I'll behave. I promise. Just please let me go home. I'll do whatever you say." His entireties were heart-breaking, made more pathetically so because they were the long-ago words of a lost little boy. One last, gentle sigh of helplessness escaped Conar's lips and he shuddered and lay still. "I'll kill Kaileel Tohre if it's the last thing I do!" Hern snarled, flinging himself out the hut, slamming the door behind him. "What if he doesn't get any better, Xander?" Roget asked. Jah-Ma-El answered for the Healer. "I love my brother more than anything on earth, du Mer, but rather than see him this way the rest of his life, I will end his life myself."

Roget looked into Jah-Ma-El's fierce black eyes and understood. He would feel the same way about his brother, Teal. Death was preferable to the agony of spirit the young man was now suffering.

Chapter 5 For more than a week, Conar lay in his cot, his eyes open, staring, blank. He drank what was given him, ate the food spooned into his mouth, went to the chamber pot when it was held for him, but not once in that entire time did he do anything on his own. He did not respond to the words spoken to him, neither did he speak. The men who cared for him—now numbering nearly two dozen—sat with him, gave him gentle, quiet orders, but did not carry on a conversation with him, no matter how one-sided, for such a luxury was still being denied him. It was at the beginning of his second week of catatonia that Xander could stand it no longer. "What now, Healer?" the Commandant sighed, annoyed his afternoon tea had been interrupted. "He is getting no better." "He's eating? Drinking, pissing? What more do you want?" Xander ground his teeth together. "You meant to see him the way he is and succeeded. I suppose now that you've accomplished your goal, we can just stop feeding him and let him die." He started to walk away. "Wait!" Appolyon's fat jowls wobbled as he stood, throwing his linen napkin to the tea table. "He is to be kept alive at all costs!" Xander eyed the corpulent man with an arched gray slash of eyebrow. "I can't keep him alive in such a condition. He's a burden. It takes eight men to help me care for him." He folded his arms. "I have other inmates to see to, Commandant." Appolyon chewed on his rubbery lip. "What do you suggest?" "He is non-productive. Let him die, starve to death, and tell Tohre he died of natural causes." The fat man gasped. "I thought you cared for him?" "I do. But I don't like seeing him the way he is and neither do the others. It's bad for morale. After a while, they'll lose interest and abandon him. That will leave his care entirely up to me." He shook his head. "No. No, I can't handle him alone. You'll just have to let him die." He put his hand on the knob but didn't get a chance to open the door. "Then, do what you have to do! Talk to him, wake the bastard up!" With his back to the Commandant, Xander smiled. "I'll see what I can do." *** "It's no use," Hern said in a choking voice. "The brat just don't respond to nothing." His wide shoulders sagged with fatigue. "There has to be something that will bring him out of this!" Thom snarled. He paced from one end of their hut to the other. "Sometimes I just want to slap him as hard as I can. Maybe that would get his attention!" Jah-Ma-El looked up at the tall, rubber-faced man. "What did you say?" "You heard me, you son-of-a-bitch!" Thom flung himself down on his bunk.

"That may be the way to bring him around." "I'll be damned if I'll let anyone slap my boy!" Hern bellowed, striding to where Jah-Ma-El sat. "You try hitting him and see what I do, you vile-smelling warlock!" Conar's brother angrily shook his head. "No, not physically hit him." Roget looked around from his place at the open doorway. "I think I see where you're going." "I don't!" Hern shot back. "If he tries to hurt—" With a snarl of rage very much unlike Jah-Ma-El, the gangly man stood and glared into Hern's beefy face. "What's the best way you know to make Conar angry?" "What the hell difference—" "How didyou make him angry?" Jah-Ma-El shouted. So surprised by the backbone this thin, unwashed man had developed, Hern could only gape. "How,dammit?How did you make him mad?How did you get him to do something he didn't want to do?" Hern's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He narrowed his eyes. His stare was meant to quell Jah-Ma-El, but the little man held his ground. "When I wanted him to shape up, I insulted him." "I don't think that would help now," Storm said. "He's so accustomed to being humiliated, it just might push him deeper into oblivion." Jah-Ma-El turned. "I wasn't thinking of insulting him." "Then, what?" Hern asked, his voice tight with annoyance. "There's only one person we could slur," Storm whispered, "that will make him angry enough to respond." Hern sighed. "His lady." *** He was sitting up in the cot, hands in his lap, staring straight ahead. He didn't seem to be aware of the men working in the hut. There were three of them, strangers to him, men who volunteered to work in the hut to be near him. They were speaking about inconsequential things, joking with one another, their cheerful voices filled with laughter. "I hear she's as ugly as they come," one of the inmates said in a conspiratorial voice. "She's so damned ugly, her parents won't let her out in public without something over her head!" "That bad? No wonder they can't find a husband for the bitch." "I heard she's deformed." "That's worse! How the hell are they going to get rid of her if no man will court her?" The first man looked at the patient. "I hear they got this fool lined up to marry her." "Who'd marry a ugly, deformed hag?" "Some noble down around Serenia. McGregor be his name. His parent's set the thing up." Conar's fingers jerked in his lap. "Poor fellow. Don't he have no say in it?" "Likely as not he don't. I hear he sent one of his friends down there to get a look at her and when that fellow came back there was hell to pay! That young nobleman told his papa he wouldn't have that toad frog if she was the last

woman on earth!" Conar's lashes flickered. "Well, if he don't have no choice, he don't have no choice. I guess he could always stick a burlap bag over the hag's head." Another flicker. "I heard he already has a light-o'-love. A choice morsel. One of his many whores, I suppose." Conar's lips closed. "The same girl they say rides with him and his men?" "Rides with his men or is being ridden by them?" Conar's jaw clenched. "Bet he shares her. I hear she's kind of partial to one of his kin. Lord Saur, I think his name is. Saur be one of the fool's brothers, I'm told." The speaker cast a look at Conar's face and nearly laughed with happiness when he saw the young man's narrowed eyes. "I saw her with that one once. They was having a merry old time! That Lord Saur is a handsome cuss. Don't blame the gal for wanting him instead of the fool." Conar's fists doubled. "And that nobleman thought nobody knew where his light-o'-love was when she went a'missin', huh? She was out riding his brother, I guess!" Conar's body twitched; he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, let it out, drew another sharp, quick breath, let it out with a rush. "The man must have been a blind fool to think that tart was being faithful. He should have stuck with his Toad. At least no man would fool with such a ugly bitch!" "He'd rather have his whore, I reckon." Conar trembled from head to toe, his eyes angry, his lips drawn back. He swung his head, found them staring at him. His breath came in sharp intakes of fury and when he saw them laughing, he bounded up and lunged at the closest one. "She's no whore!" He wrapped his fingers around the man's neck. "She's my wife!" He was only vaguely aware of the arms that had gone around his waist, someone pulling him away from the object of his anger. "Stop it!" someone screamed in his ear. "You're all right. Just stop it!" He spun around in the arms holding him, glared into a face he recognized all too well. "They called my lady a whore, Hern!" he spat. "No man calls my lady a whore!" "And no man in his right mind would let them, either. Are you in your right mind, now?" Conar stared at him, so furious he was barely cognizant of his surroundings. He gasped for breath; his chest heaved in the constriction of Hern's arms. He caught movement to his right and jerked his head to see Thom and Storm watching. He looked back at Hern. "Are you in your right mind, now?" Hern repeated. "He will be," Jah-Ma-El said. "We didn't mean no disrespect to the Queen," one of the others said. Conar searched Hern's heavily wrinkled face, wrinkles he knew he had helped carve. "Hern?" he asked softly, not

understanding. "Welcome back, son."

Chapter 6 Six months after Hern's arrival at the Labyrinth, Princes Grice and Chand Wynth, the Hesar brothers, Rylan and Paegan, Sentian Heil, Tyne Brell, and Chase Montyne arrived on Tyber's Isle. It was in the middle of summer, the windless region stifling with heat. Sentian Heil, along with former Elite Ward Summerall, was assigned to the same barracks with Thom, Storm and Hern, but was kept in the indoctrination hut that first night. The noblemen: Grice and Chand, Paegan, Tyne Brell, Chase Montyne, were assigned to the same hut as Shalu, Roget and Jah-Ma-El. Only one bunk remained empty in the barracks and they were told the bunk was occupied. "He'll only be here during the day," Roget informed them as he led the men to the barracks. "They allow him five hours sleep a day, between one and six. They wake him up when we're about ready to leave the mine." "Why?" Grice wanted to know. "So there won't be any contact between him and us." "Is that the man we saw being brutalized this afternoon?" Tyne asked. Roget nodded. "You'll meet him." "For now," Shalu warned, "you'd better get some sleep. They'll have us up at daybreak." "I have one question," Chase said. "And that is?" Roget asked. "Who does the laundry?" Du Mer stared. Montyne's face was carefully blank. If Roget had not known this man, known him like a brother, he'd have thought the young Ionarian Prince was serious. "You, of course," du Mer answered with a straight face. "The Ionarians always have laundry detail." "I thought that was the Viragonians," Shalu remarked. "No, the Ionarians," Jah-Ma-El corrected. "It says so in the tour guide." Chase smiled and it was the first smile he had had in a long time. He held out his hand to du Mer. "Just thought I'd check." Roget looked at the hand. He had hated this man once, had hated him badly, since Chase Montyne had helped put him in this terrible place. But Chase had once been his friend, too. He took the proffered hand. "I like just a tad of starch in my shirts, Montyne." "But, of course." The Ionarian pulled du Mer into his arms and held him. "Anything else?" "Aye," Roget said, tears forming. "Take a bath!" *** It was the second day of his internment at the Labyrinth and Prince Grice Wynth was tired. He had never worked so

hard, or so long, in his life. He had trained under a tough Master-at-Arms at Seadrift Keep, the capitol of Oceania where he was regent to his father, but that old warrior's tutelage had been nothing compared to the physical labor he had endured in the mine shafts that day. He trudged out of the mine along with the other inmates and wearily sat on a dilapidated wooden bench near his barracks, bent forward, and hung his head. "We'll have muscles on our muscles when we get home," Prince Tyne Brell of Chale remarked as he sat beside Grice. "Where would you put muscles?" Grice quipped, eyeing the effeminate-looking Chalean. "That's just it," Brell said in a chipper voice. "I figure I'll develop quite nicely while I'm interned." He lifted one slim arm and tried to make a muscle. He couldn't. He shrugged. "They'll pop up eventually." He leaned back on the bench and let out a tired sigh. "I heard Hern Arbra is here. Has anyone seen him, yet? He'll help me beef up." "He's in the Indoctrination Hut for picking a fight. I heard he's to get out this afternoon." "What do you think that fellow did to warrant such punishment?" Chand asked as he joined the men. He had not gone to the mines with the others, but had spent the day in the cook tent. When his brother and Tyne looked up, he pointed to the lone man behind the row of huts. Stooped over, picking beans in the garden, the man paused, straightened, bent backward in an obvious effort to relieve the strain on his muscles, then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm before bending down again. "I was watching him for almost two hours while I was peeling spuds," Chand remarked. "They haven't let him take a break." He pointed to the guards who stood close by the man. "And they won't," a passing inmate said. "Why?" The man shook his head. "Because of who he was." Sentian and Chase joined them at the bench. He looked up at Chase. "Did I hear you say something about laundry last eve?" He plucked at his filthy, sweat-encrusted shirt. "Do you have any freshly ironed tunics available?" "Eat shit and die, Wynth," Chase said wearily, sliding to the ground beside Brell's feet. He ran a dirty hand through his equally dirty blond hair. Sentian Heil plopped down, too. He was more used to physical labor than the noblemen, but he was just as tired. His head ached and his hands were already forming blisters. He looked in the chapped, cracked palms and had a vivid memory that made him look away. "I'd hate to be him," Chand said. He was still watching the man laboring in the garden. His tender heart was aching for the inmate. "Must be hard picking beans with one hand," Paegan Hesar replied as he slid to the ground. "Have they allowed you to see Rylan, yet?" Grice asked. He was speaking of the Viragonian prince, Paegan's older brother, whose foot had been injured when these new men had arrived. Paegan shook his head. "They wouldn't even let me talk to the Healer." A loud roar shattered the quiet words. They men turned to see huge boulders crashing down the side of the bluff just beyond the huts where the solitary man was gardening. Standing, they watched with horror as the man glanced up at the careening rocks and tried to dive away from the avalanche. With ear-splitting shrieks, more rocks split apart from the bluff and cascaded into the compound with a thundering crash that shook the earth. Men and guards ran away, their hands thrown up to protect their heads from falling debris. A massive thud shook the ground as the last large boulder hit. Then the screaming began. At first, it was a sharp, quick stab of sound, and then another and still another, ripping out of a tortured throat,

hanging on the still air. The inhuman cry of unearthly agony pealed out over the stupefied men who had stopped running and turned to stare. Guards made toward the area where the rocks had settled. Roget du Mer and Shalu Taborn crashed out of their barracks, their faces stricken. Anyone watching them would have sworn their feet never touched the ground as they sprinted toward the pitiful screaming. "Wynth! Montyne! Hurry!"Jah-Ma-El yelled as he ran by, his thin legs pumping furiously. It was the first time in nearly three years Sentian Heil had seen Thom and Storm. He looked at them, smiling his greeting, but neither noticed him. Their full attention was on a large boulder and what lay beneath it. Storm bent down, digging at the loose sand cradling the rock; Thom fell to his knees, scooping sand away as fast as his big hands could move. Others scrambled down beside Storm: Shalu, Roget, Jah-Ma-El, and a newly-released Hern Arbra. They dug frantically at the boulder partially blocking the trench that had been dug the day before. The screaming still poured from under the rock and the men dug faster as the screaming began to weaken. The Commandant ran foward. "Get him out!" Sentian knelt beside Thom and began to dig. He saw Thom recognize him and then the big man began to strive harder to clear away the sand. "Dig, Heil!" A man's arm, the flesh hanging in tatters from elbow to wrist, could be seen from under the rock as more sand was cleared. The fingers flexed, once, twice, then shook, before going still. A soft keen replaced the horrible screaming, and the keening was losing volume. Storm drove his hands into the sand all the way up to his elbow. "I have hold of him!" Roget du Mer and Shalu put their backs to the boulder. Thom scooted joined them. They braced their muscular legs against the side of the trench and heaved. Sweat ran down their dusty faces; veins in their necks, arms, and thighs bulged. Hern added his back to the effort and grunted as he shifted his weight against the rock. As the boulder moved, a hideous cry tore from under the rock. The men stopped, afraid to lift the boulder any higher. "You can't leave him there!" Appolyon screamed. "Drake! Get down there and help them!" At first Lydon Drake refused, turning a sullen, hateful face to the Commandant. "If he dies, you die!" Cursing violently, the ex-Temple Guard wedged his massive shoulder under the boulder. He took a deep breath and pushed upward, the cords in his thick thighs bunching up like iron pilings. Blood gushed from a torn artery in the arm beneath the boulder. The fingers flexed once more and then lay still. "Heave!" Hern groaned, seeing the man's life-blood soaking into the sand. As the rock eased back, Storm tightened his grip on the victim's shoulder. Thom got down on his belly, reached for some of the tattered bulk of clothing beneath the rock, and pulled at what he reckoned to be the man's hips. He saw another body lying directly under the boulder and guessed that man was dead. He could see only crushed skull and a glob of red ooze. "I've got him!"Storm shouted, pulling with all his might. Thom tugged hard on the fabric covering the man's hips. The body began to slid toward him from under the massive stone. Others helped him lift his burden from the trench and they laid the man on the ground, turned him onto his back. What Thom saw made him cry in frustration and fear. "It's not him," Storm whispered, his gaze going to the other body beneath the rock. It was, in fact, one of the two guards who had been assigned to the solitary prisoner. He was indeed dead, his neck bent at an odd angle. There was utter stillness as the man's identity passed back along those gathered. "It ain't the boy. It's that Johnny fellow." No sound, no movement, came from beneath the massive stone. The rock could not be completely lifted out of the

trench unless one of the heavy lifts was brought up from the mineshaft, and that would take the entire night. Even as the men watched, the stone was settling in the loose sand and would become the burial vault for the any man who was still trapped beneath it. "No!"Jah-Ma-El screamed, scampering across the sand. Using his hands like shovels, looking for all the world like a thin, mangy dog burying a bone, he began to claw at the dirt. "No! Get him out!" Roget grabbed him, Shalu did, too, but Jah-Ma-El surprised them with an inhuman strength that no one would have believed existed in his frail body. He kept digging even as Storm and Thom dragged him away by his ankles. The sorcerer cursed, shrieked at them to let him go. Finally, Roget effectively silenced Jah-Ma-El's wild cries with a short jab to the nape of his neck. Appolyon's face lost all of its color. His pig-like eyes strained out of his head and he continually ran a nervous tongue over his rubbery lips. His breathing was quick, and there was a noticeable tremor in his hands. His look turned to Roget and what he saw made him back away, a hand up to ward off the murderous glare. "Not my fault!"he screeched. Urine squirted down his fat legs as Roget stepped toward him. Sentian Heil wasn't sure if he had actually heard the soft voice as it cut across the highly charged air, or if he had merely sensed it. He remembered turning toward what he thought he heard and shielding his eyes to the glare of a sun setting on the horizon. He thought he heard a sigh of, what…relief?…thanks?…from some of the men closest to him. Outlined against the brilliant flare of the sun, a man stood wavering before them. He appeared dazed, shaken, but since no one could see his face because of the light at his back, it wasn't until his knees began to buckle that the men realized he was hurt. Sentian, the closest to the man, leapt forward, catching him under his armpits as he hit the sand with his knees. Heil heard a gasp burst from the man's lungs, thought he heard his name whispered with regret, then felt the man's head drop against his shoulder. Something wet and sticky stuck to Sentian's cheek as the back of the man's head touched him. He was dead weight in Sentian's arms and Heil almost lost his balance as he half-knelt in the sand with the limp man. Everything, then, seemed to happen in slow motion. He caught Roget's relieved face, Shalu's mumbled words, the Commandant's suddenly enraged face. Sentian didn't have time to wonder about the sighs or the looks, for one of the guard's stepped forward, grasped the unconscious man by one arm, and started to jerk him upward, out of Sentian's arms. Hern leapt forward only to be backhanded to the ground by another guard. Storm tried to rush forward, but a drawn sword brought him up short, soliciting a growl from the Serenian's lips that vividly reminded Heil of a snarling wolf. "Be careful! Can't you see he's hurt?" The Necroman took several steps forward only to have his way blocked by a sharp pike pointed at his chest. Swinging his head up to those gathered, Sentian could only gape in stunned surprise as the guard named Lydon hurried forward and, together with the guard who had grabbed the unconscious man's arm, hustled him to a nearby upright. "My god!" du Mer screamed. "You aren't going to whip him?" "His hand is broken!" someone shouted. "Ain't that enough for you?" Grice Wynth was totally baffled. The unconscious man's wrists were quickly bound with a rawhide thong, which was then attached to a thick metal spike in the wood. There was a hollow groan as consciousness flowed back to the man. The enrage the Commandant further. "Gag him! Shut him up! I want to hear nothing from his mouth!" Hern's snarl of rage came like the snap of lightning as a gag was wedged between the man's lips. "Damn you! Let him go!" he shouted, straining against hands that tried to hold him. He bellowed with a loud grunt of frustration as the prisoner's head slumped forward into the hollow between his raised arms. A single drop of scarlet blood fell to the sand and Hern shrieked as though the demons of hell were upon him. "Don't do this to him!" Sentian came slowly to his feet, staring at an enraged ex-Master-of-Arms, who was swinging mighty fists at guard and inmate alike. He looked at Storm's set grimace, at Thom's tearful face, and wondered at the loyalty these men were showing the man being punished for having survived the rock slide. He looked at the unconscious man and felt a deep

pity run through him, for it was obvious the wound along the man's head had to be a throbbing agony. Blood was seeping down his temple and matting the dirty blond hair that hid his face. "Why the hell are you punishing him, Commandant?" an inmate shouted. "The boy's hurt." "Don't make no difference to these bastards if he is!" "One more word, one more defiance of the law, and I'll have him flogged!" Appolyon's bellow shattered the mumbling, cursing voices, bringing an immediate, deadly, sullen quiet. It was Prince Tyne Brell of Chale who noticed something odd about the prisoner, something odd and yet familiar. He edged closer to the upright and skirted several guards, who, at his approach, fingered their serviceable swords. One guard turned his head, obviously considered Tyne no threat, then turned his attention to the Commandant. "To your huts!" Appolyon screamed. "Now!" A few men reluctantly shuffled toward their barracks, looking back over their shoulders at the prisoner with something akin to remorse on their hard faces. Some seemed to be genuinely grieved at the man's predicament, while others appeared to be gloating. But most of the men stood and waited. "Get back to your huts or do you want him to pay for it?" The remaining men began to drift away, their faces hard, their fists clenched. "You, too, Brell," a guard mumbled to the Chalean Prince. "Get back to your hut." Tyne Brell didn't even glance at the guard. Instead, he strolled to the upright and craned his neck sideways to look up into the prisoner's face. He wanted to assure himself the man was all right. His compassion, something for which the small man was known, had driven him to help. His courage, something as much a part of him as the air he breathed, had spurred him on despite the Commandant's insane raving. He wanted to help, and if it meant taking a beating to help the poor fellow, he would gladly suffer it. But when Tyne took in the battered, bloody face, when the man opened his eyes and stared blankly back at him, Brell knew, for the first time in his life, total and complete cowardice. His mouth dropped open and no matter how hard he tried, no sound would come out. He drew in his breath. His chest felt like someone had wrapped a steel band around it as if he were a keg of ale. He turned around, searching for Grice Wynth. "Get away, Brell!" the guard cautioned. "Now!" Sentian squinted in confusion. He almost grinned at the stupid look on Tyne's thin face, but something in those dark brown eyes made him stop. He saw Tyne put distance between himself and the prisoner, grab another upright as though his knees were about to buckle. A shudder of cold went through Sentian's body, and a kind of psychic premonition—his "special insight," as the lady called it—made the air around him waver. In a blind trance, he made his way toward Brell. Sentian was not alone in his feeling. Prince Chase Montyne of Ionary had also been watching Tyne, and he, too, started toward the prisoner. "Keep away from him!" Appolyon shouted. "Or else he'll suffer for it!" Lydon strode purposefully toward the upright. He put out his hand to stop Paegan Hesar, who had been about to join Brell. "If you men don't get your arses inside your huts, I'll turn the little bastard inside out!" Lydon shouted, shoving Shalu out of his way as he made for the upright. Roget covered the distance between himself and Tyne Brell in less time than he would have thought humanly possible. He jerked the stunned man toward the hut, but Tyne kept turning his head to stare back at the prisoner. Aftere shoving Tyne into the hut, Roget gathered the others—Grice, Chand, Sentian, Paegan and Chase—into the room, waited until Thom, Hern, and Shalu had joined them, then slammed the door. He heard a muffled sob and yanked open the door to see Jah-Ma-El standing there, holding his bloody nose. "I think you broke it," Jah-Ma-El said through the muffled constriction of his fingers. "Sorry." Roget shoved him toward Shalu, and then shut the door once more.

"You men are just going to leave that poor fellow hanging there?" Grice asked, his face angry. "What did he do to deserve that? Live through the rock slide?" "That's about it." Thom sat on one of the two chairs in the barracks. He bent forward and put his big head in his huge hands. He was crying. Tyne managed to find his voice. "Why didn't you tell us?" "We were waiting for the right time," Shalu answered. "As if there was one!" Hern snapped, going to the window, shoving Chase Montyne aside. "Sit down, Montyne!" Tyne shook his head. "How long has he been here?" "From the very beginning," Storm said. Brell shuddered. "You could have warned us." "I can't believe it," Tyne mumbled and sat on his bunk. "I can't believe that he's even alive." "Who the hell are you talking about?" Grice screamed. "Who the hell would I ever back down for?" Hern asked, a sneer in his voice. "Who any of us would back down for, Wynth?" "Who would we have such love and respect for that we would risk losing our lives to protect him?" Thom asked. "How many men have you ever known that could inspire, and desrved, such loyalty? Or who has had less reason to deserve the abuse he's been subjected to?" "What one man has garnered the enmity of the entire Domination?" Shalu asked quietly, his gaze steady on Chase Montyne. "It can't be," Chase breathed, shock turning his pallid blond coloring even whiter. Paegan Hesar, having guessed the prisoner's identity, shook his head. "No one saw him die." Grice slammed his hand against the wall. "I know I'm just as smart as the rest of you, but I'll be damned if I know who you're babbling about! I can't pull a name out of the air." "Our sister could," Chand answered, tears flowing down his sunken cheeks. "The man out there could before they branded him a traitor and told us he had died." Grice stared at him. "Conar?" "No," Sentian whispered, slowly turning his head toward the door. "He is dead. I saw him." "He was made to appear that way. He's been here all along," Jah-Ma-El stated. Sentian headed for the door, knocking Roget aside. "Don't go!" Thom shouted, but the young man was already out the door. Thom made to follow, but Storm stepped in his path. "You'll make matters worse!" Storm warned. Sentian was at the whipping post before any of the others could react. "For the love of Alel!" a guard shouted, running at a quick lope. "Don't go near him!" Sentian skidded to a halt before the upright. With trembling hands, he lifted the limp head and nearly fainted. "Your Grace?" he whispered, his heart breaking. "Oh, my god, no!Conar!" Heil felt a sharp pain on his neck. He fell forward, dazed. Two guards dragged him up and held him, struggling

between them. A heavy fist plowed into his gut. He doubled over and coughed. "This bastard has no title!" a tight, furious voice chipped out like ice. "Any man who calls him by the title you used watches what happens to him when that mistake is made!" Sentian tried to claw himself free. He saw the dirty blond head shake in denial of his actions. He saw the look in that scarred face: regret, forgiveness, sympathy. They made him watch what they did to Conar. They made him a party to his prince's torture.

Chapter 7 Sentian stood in the doorway of his, watching Conar being taken down from the upright. More than anything, he ached to go to him, to take him in his arms and hold him. He needed to hold that ravaged body to his own. "It hasn't been easy for him," Storm remarked from inside the barracks. "Watching those around him suffer because of their love for him. He stands his own punishments without flinching, but it's his friend's pain that hurts him the most. You can see it in his eyes." "That's the Commandant's doing," Hern snarled. "He makes him feel the guilt of being responsible for all of us being here." "That's why Roget du Mer's still here, despite the fact his sentence was up long ago." Thom leaned his head against the wall. "He knew too much, could tell the world Conar's alive." Storm nodded. "That's why none of us will leave this hell hole if the Domination has anything to say about it." He joined Sentian at the door. "It's a wonder they haven't killed him by now," Ward remarked. "I don't think they dare," Thom answered. "They abuse him, for sure, but you'll notice how often the beatings of those who defy authority end up dead. If they could have killed him, they would have." Thom laid down on his bunk. "Tohre must have given strict orders Conar was to be kept alive." "Why?" Sentian asked. His face was bleak and filled with pain. "To make him suffer," Hern grated. "To let him know who his master truly is!" Sentian watched Conar walk away from the upright, his head lowered, his shoulders sagging, cradling his broken fingers. The sight tore at his gut. Sentian turned to Hern. "Why doesn't he fight back? Why does he allow them to do the things they do? He never would have before." One of the others spoke from his place on the far side of the room. "You didn't see him when he was first brought here. They gathered us to watch the boats coming in from the underground lake. There were no prisoners, just one coffin. They unloaded it, sat it on the sand and opened it. They made us file by and look into it." The man glanced at Sentian. "They had to knock out Jah-Ma-El when he saw who was in it. Jah-Ma-El thought he was dead." "I saw him!" Sentian said. "I thought he was dead, too." "We all did," Hern mumbled. "If I had only known…" "They'd given him some kind of drug," Storm remarked. "Healer Xander told me it was called Maiden's Briar. It makes you still as death."

"Shalu helped carry that coffin into the Indoctrination Hut and saw Conar breathing," the man went on. "He told Jah-Ma-El." "When they got through with him in the Indoctrination Hut," another men added, "they threw him into this damned cage. He was naked, totally humiliated. Du Mer took him clothes. The next morning, they took him out of that damned poultry pen and put him to work before any of us were up. He fought them at first, , but soon the abuse was so constant, he realized how futile it was to keep struggling. There were too many of them and too many of us he still cared for. He couldn't risk having one of us tortured or killed because of him." Sentian looked at the man. "He knew you?" A faint smile touched the man's lips. "I was one of his Elite a long time ago." Hern nodded. "Trained him, myself, I did. His name's Shanyon. Got sent here for fighting with a Temple Guard." "Killed the son-of-a-bitch." Shanyon chuckled. "Conar wouldn't let me be hung. So, I got sent here. Life sentence." "You see what these bastards have done to him, don't you?" the other man asked. "They've used his guilt, and his love, against him. After a while, he stopped caring what they did to him. He tolerates it. I think he's immune to most of it by now." Sentian shook his head. "No one could get used to such treatment." Hern sighed. "You can get use to anything, brat." "What will they do to him now?" Grice wanted to know. "They damned sure won't let him go back to Du Mer's hut soon," Thom grumbled. "They'll keep him in the Indoctrination Hut." "How long?" Sentian asked. "Until they're satisfied he's been punished enough for your acknowledging him." Sentian watched the others preparing for bed, but sleep would not touch him that eve. Sweat dripped down his neck and bare chest, under his armpits. He couldn't seem to find any breeze playing about the hut door as he stood with his hands along the jambs. "I'll help you, Milord," he swore to the night sky. "Before Alel, I'll help you get free or die trying!" *** Thom had been right. The man known as the Traitor spent six weeks of isolation in the Indoctrination Hut. Six weeks of isolation from the men he had learned to watch furtively as he labored in the rock-strewn field beyond the huts. Sometimes he could feel Sentian and Hern looking intently at him, could feel their hurt, and it was at such times he knew an inner longing that nearly drove him mad for lack of someone to talk to. On the day before he was to be returned to du Mer's hut, Conar made up his mind that life had become too hard to live. He glanced once at the hut where he knew Sentian and Hern were sleeping, looked toward the hut where Jah-Ma-El and Roget were, took in a deep breath. He shifted his attention to the lone guard dozing near him. The snoring man's head was sagging to his chest, his mouth open and a thin thread of drool unraveling down his chin. He saw no one else about. He hesitated a moment before he laid down his pick ax and stepped away from the trench he had been digging. With quiet footsteps, he walked calmly to one indention in the rock face of the bluff closest to him, pushed on a hidden lever and slipped silently through the opening that slid silently apart. Once outside the bluff, he shut the portal behind him and walked into the desert. *** "What do you mean, you can't find him?" Appolyon screeched at Lydon Drake.

"He ain't in the compound," Lydon said. "The mine shafts, either. Least ways, we can't find him. He might have fallen down one of the shafts." "You'd better hope not!" "We've looked in the other bluffs. If he didn't fall into the lake and get gobbled up, he might have fallen into the lava pit. There's a lot of things could have happened to him, Commandant." Appolyon's face went scarlet red with fury. His voice fell so low he could barely be heard. "Find him, now!" "But Commandant, if he ain't in plain sight, if we can't find no trail, how are we—?" "I don't care," the corpulent man sneered. "If you don't find him, do not come back!" *** For more than six years, Conar McGregor had resided in that portion of hell allotted to him by Kaileel Tohre and the Tribunal. His days had been spent at hard labor, his nights in abject misery. All he had loved, all he had dreamed, all he had hoped for, had been snatched away, leaving him alone, adrift in a sea of such total loneliness, he had almost drowned. Now, with his heart thudding, constantly turning to make sure he wasn't being followed, he made his way deeper into the desert. Away from the bluffs, away from the seaside, away from the horror of his existence. A light wind blew behind him, obliterating his tracks, and closing him off from those who might try to follow. He knew he might well die in this barren landscape of scorching sand, scuttling insects, and slithering reptiles; he knew he might well sink beneath the shifting sand and disappear forever. He could feel his thirst clogging up his throat, but he ignored it. If he found water, it could be alkaline, undrinkable, or poisoned. If he didn't find water, he'd die of thirst and the cawing birds circling overhead would make a meal of his dehydrated body. Conar gazed up at the black vultures. A death in the desert would be cruel and painful, but a death in the Labyrinth was worse. For more than four hours he trekked into the interior of Tyber's Isle. The sandscape before him was flat and barren of growth, the sand torturous to walk through. His body was tired, his head throbbed from the unrelenting heat. He was drenched in sweat, his body slick with it, but he managed to put one foot ahead of the other and keep walking. *** They sat before du Mer's hut and stared sullenly at guards who were standing at attention before the Commandant's hut. They could hear the fat man's insane tirades through the thick walls and could well imagine the men inside quivering. "How many has he hung, now?" Thom asked, looking at the two guards swaying lifelessly on the uprights. "Ten, I think," Hern answered, miserable with a head cold. He ran his sleeve under his dripping nose and sneezed. "Does that bastard think hanging his men will make the others find Conar any quicker?" Rylan Hesar asked. He had limped to the hut, his nerve-damaged foot bothering him, and had sat beside his young brother, Paegan. "Better he hang his own men than one of us!" Tyne snapped. "The longer it takes them to find Conar, the more men will die," another quipped. "Pray to Alel theydon't find Conar!" Jah-Ma-El said. "It's been months," Roget said. "He's either managed to find a way off this island, or he's…" "Say he did find a way out of these bluffs," Hern said, "and say he made his way across the desert to a place where he had food and water—how do you think he's been able to allude them? They've been all over that desert searching." "He's found somewhere safe," Chase answered. "Somewhere they haven't looked."

"Or he's with someone who's protecting him," Shalu added. "I hope you're right," Roget told him as he watched three more guards being dragged out of the Commandant's hut. The men were kicking and screaming, their bodies writhing in the hands of the other guards who were dragging them to their deaths at the uprights. "Too bad Lydon Drake hasn't had his damned neck stretched!" Hern snarled, watching the man who was now temporarily in charge of the guards since the Chief Warden had been hanged two weeks earlier. "It's a shame for a man to lose his life over something he can't help," Chand said. Hern sneezed again, then turned to the young man. "Would you rather they find him?" Sentian Heil spoke for them all. "No, and I pray to Alel they never do." *** He had lost all sense of direction, wasn't even sure he wasn't moving toward the camp instead of away from it. He put up a dirt-encrusted arm to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. Ahead, shimmering sand stretched as far as he could see. Behind, lay the caves in which he had spent more than sixteen days living off rodents and reptiles and worms and insects, desert plants and the underground water inside the cave system. He was content to live out the rest of his life in those caves, alone and devoid of company—nothing new to him after these many years of imprisonment—had it not been for the prison guard who found the caves the same way he did, by falling through a section of the roof and plummeting into the dark depths. At first, when Conar fell into the cave, his throat had constricted with the old terror of confined places. But a light above him where the sand had given away, and a light farther along the tunnel into which he had fallen, made him move forward, his heart beating so hard he thought it would burst. When he found the wide cavern, larger than the Widow's Grotto at Boreas, he had made the semi-dark place his home. He heard the shouts in the deeper part of the cave, knew they had discovered his hiding place. "Why?" he had asked the unmerciful gods. It had been almost two days since they found his safe haven, and he'd had no water in all that time. His lips were cracked, his tongue was swollen and his throat felt like sandpaper. He had surprised himself with just how much strength he had as he kept moving through the desert. With dogged determination, he put one tired foot ahead of the other. If they were going to catch him, and he knew they probably would, for their shouts were getting closer, he wasn't going to make it easy. They would not take him back alive, he had decided; his life no longer meant anything to him. He had known they would eventually come after him, but had hoped to be only a festering corpse when they did. But when he found the caves, he'd had a glimmer of hope light his horizon. Now, that hope was dwindling away. Also, he knew if they took him back alive, there would be others who would pay for his escape. He didn't want that. He'd make his captors kill him. What did it matter if he died again? No one cared. A faint tremor went through his heart. That wasn't quite true, he heard a little voice remind him. There were those who still cared: Jah-Ma-El, Sentian, Hern, the others. Those who would mourn him again, but that didn't matter to him as much now as it once would have. Nothing mattered but the ultimate ceasing of the nightmare. He turned at a sound. A thin grimace of a smile stretched over his bleeding lips. They were very close now. Close enough for him to see the guards, and clearly recognize them. His eyes went to the tallest, biggest man in the trio and he gave a nod of satisfaction. "Lydon," he croaked around the constriction of his dry throat. Good. He had prayed it would be the sadistic son-of-a-bitch. He made his legs move faster in the shifting sand. His heart pumped furiously. He gasped for breath, but it wouldn't be long now.

Lydon would kill him for sure. Something sharp and hard hit him squarely in the small of the back. He stumbled, putting one hand up behind him to ease the sudden, horrible throbbing. Something else grazed his elbow, making it go numb. He around jerked his arm; blood oozed from a wicked gash from his elbow to the middle of his forearm. Something sailed past his face, glanced off his cheekbone. He yelped, putting up a hand that came away bloody. When another hard blow struck between his shoulders, his legs went out from under him. Sprawling face down in the hot sand, he saw what had hit him. A caltrop—a spiked metal ball about three inches in diameter, the spikes having been rounded so as not to cause too severe an injury, just sharp, blinding pain—lay in the dirt beside him. He craned his neck and saw them within twenty feet. He pushed himself to his knees, willing his exhausted body to move. Staggering to his feet, he tried to gain a foothold in the sand, but his knees buckled and he fell. Before he could try to get up, a booted foot kicked him hard in the thigh and his leg went numb. "Going somewhere, Your Grace?" Lydon sneered. Two guards jerked him to his feet, twisting his arms behind him. They pushed him toward Lydon. He snapped up his head, glaring at the burly guard. "Lower your head, scum!" Lydon bellowed, reaching behind his back to withdraw the wicked-looking blade at his waist. Instinctively, Conar's head dropped, his gaze falling on the knife, but then moved slowly back to the vicious eyes boring into his. "Lower your head to me!" Lydon screeched, bringing the knife closer to Conar's gut. "Better not kill him," one guard warned, correctly reading the look on Lydon's face. The second guard chuckled. "Go ahead, Lydon. Who'd know?" Something dark and mad went through Lydon Drake. He placed the blade tip to Conar's jugular. His palm itched where the handle rested. "If we go back without him, the Commandant will kill us," the first guard said. Lydon dug the knife tip into Conar's flesh with just enough pressure to cause pain, but not enough to draw blood. "You don't mind if we take you back dead, do you?" After coercing enough moisture into his mouth, Conar forced himself to speak. "I don't give a damn what you do to me, you sorry piece of shit." It was difficult to make sense out of his garbled, croaking speech, but he could tell Lydon had understood. Drake pressed the knife into the flesh and a thin bead of blood welled along the nick. "I'm going to slit your throat!" "Then do it," the second guard sneered. "Kill the little bastard!" Conar jerked forward, trying to pierce his exposed throat on the knife point, but Lydon away snatched his hand. "No, I'm not going to kill you." He cupped Conar's chin with his free hand. "I have other plans for you, pretty boy." Although he struggled valiantly to get away from the hard hands, Conar was driven to his knees and his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to kick out at his captors, to dig his heels into the sand as they tried to drag him forward, but Lydon stopped the revolt with a meaty fist alongside Conar's jaw. The light overhead snapped out of his world. *** "Do you think they'll ever find him?" Grice looked at Roget, who sat beside Sentian. An angry hiss escaped du Mer. He stood up so suddenly the bench crashed into the wall behind him. "Aye! They'll find him!"

"No need to shout." "There's only so many acres on this godforsaken rock! Where the hell is there for him to hide? Aye, they'll find him. The question should be when? And in what condition?" "You think Chase and Shalu are right? Do you believe he could still be alive?" Grice asked. "I do," Chand answered for du Mer. "You have to have faith." Roget fixed Chand with a stormy glare. "Faith in what? In whether or not he had an easy death? In whether or not he'll be alive when they bring him back so that they can torture him?" He turned to Grice. "You've been like a stone sitting there. What doyou think? Doyou have faith that Coni will be found alive?" Somewhere along the line, Grice Wynth had lost what modicum of faith he had in his gods, himself, or anything else. "Why are all you men in this hut? Don't you have your own cots?" he asked on a sigh. He wondered why his hut seemed to be their gathering place. "I'd like to go to bed." "Fine, I'll leave," Sentian snapped. He stood and stretched. It had been a long day in the mines and his back was bothering him. He walked to the door and leaned on the opening's frame. His attention was caught by a new arrival in the compound. "Grice? Come here. Now!" Sighing, coming wearily to his feet, cursing Sentian for all he was worth, Grice grumbled his way to the door. "This had better be good, dammit!" He looked where Sentian was pointing. "Could it be?" Grice stared across the compound. Months of labor in a mine had effected his eyesight more than he was willing to admit. His far vision had gotten progressively worse over the last few months due to days spent in near-total darkness and then coming into blinding, searing light. "I think it is." The confusion in Grice's voice made Roget stomp over to them. "What the hell are you looking at?" "How many of Conar's brothers do you know?" Grice asked. "How many?" Roget bellowed. "By the gods, Wynth, he had a couple of hundred or more at last count!" "Be serious!" Grice hissed. "How many do you know by sight, man?" "Four! Five! What difference does it make?" Roget looked across the compound and saw several new men, men he had never seen before, standing together. All of them wore the arm bands of the camp guard, fresh, clean uniforms, so he did as he had always done and ignored them. "Did you know Brelan Saur?" Sentian asked. "I've met the man. What of it?" Roget snarled. "Get out of that damned pissy mood and take a good look at the man over by the porch railing, the one wearing the blue arm band of Chief Warden." Grice thought the man he was seeing was his best friend, his boyhood companion, Brelan Saur, but he couldn't be sure. Finding out was suddenly vitally important. "Is it him?" he shouted, waking all those in the hut. "Who?" Jah-Ma-El rushed toward the doorway. Roget narrowed his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about the fellow Grice had indicated, so he looked closer. He took in the dark hair, the build, the stance, added fourteen years to the man's age—the last time he had seen Brelan Saur—and frowned. Across the distance, he couldn't be sure. "It's been a long time. What the hell would he be here for anyway?" "Why, indeed?" came Tyne's voice. "You men woke me with your infernal hissing! Let me have a look. Saur was a friend." Shouldering Sentian aside, Tyne took a long look at the man across the compound who suddenly glanced their way. "Itis him!" Jah-Ma-El whispered. "I'm damned sure going to find out why he's here!" Roget pushed past the men and strode toward the guards.

Shalu came to the doorway and peered out. "I've been expecting him. He has been sent here as Chief Warden. Appolyon will have to keep him here so Saur can not go back to Boreas and reveal the Tribunal's secret." As he stalked toward the guards, Roget saw recognition in Brelan Saur's dark face, but he also saw something else—a warning. An astute man, Roget realized Brelan's warning was meant for him alone. As he drew even with the group, he heard his name. "What do you want, du Mer?" Roget turned to one of the long-time guards. "New group of sadists, Borg?" Borg didn't answer. Instead, the short, bald man turned to Brelan Saur. "Du Mer's a troublemaker, but he's harmless enough. He's the old man of the group; been around longer than anyone else. He should have gone back to the world, but since be couldn't bring himself to leave his pet behind, he's still here." He turned a hateful grin to Roget. "Ain't that right, du Mer?" Roget felt the muscles in his jaw hardening, but he didn't take Borg's bait. He looked to Brelan. "You're Brelan Saur." It wasn't a statement; it was an accusation. "And you're Cul du Mer's bad little boy," Brelan snapped. Roget made a rude, snorting sound and spat at Brelan's feet. "Here to inspect the facilities, Lord Saur?" he asked in an insulting tone. "Here to keep troublemakers like you in line, du Mer!" Brelan shot back with equal disdain. "And you'll no doubt enjoy it, eh?" "I'll try." Roget would have spoken again, but a shout rang out over the compound. The guard beside him chuckled. "Your pet's back, du Mer!" Roget felt every muscle in his body tense. His gaze flew to the hut where his fellow inmates were watching the approaching three guards dragging an unconscious man between them. "He ain't dead!" Lydon Drake called. Brelan couldn't help but notice the white line that had formed around du Mer's mouth. Nor the pain in the man's dark eyes. He spoke in a voice that carried no further than du Mer's ears. "Legion sent me to help. I'll do whatever I can." Roget let out a ragged breath although he didn't give away any reaction. He wasn't even looking at the man as he answered. "Then you'd better start doing something now." "I was sent to bring you men home." A stunned tremor went through Roget's body. He turned a startled stare to Saur. "You can trust me." "The gods know we're going to need you!" Brelan turned his attention from du Mer's strained face to the man being brought to the Commandant's hut. The prisoner was sagging between two guards, his head dropped to his chest, his legs limp. Filth covered his upper torso; sand streaked his hair. Only the movement of his thin chest proclaimed him alive. Commandant Appolyon came out of his quarters, belting his robe around his corpulent bulk. He smiled at Lydon. "Alive, Drake?" "As ordered, Sir!" "Good! Good!" Appolyon walked to where the two guards still held the prisoner. The Commandant cocked his head and smiled. "Welcome home, little one," he said gently and stroked the prisoner's back. There was a groan and a flinch,

but the prisoner did not raise his face. "What's your pleasure, Commandant?" Lydon grinned, fingering the belt around his middle. Appolyon put his stubby finger to his lips. "I haven't decided, as yet. Awaken him." Lydon slapped the bound man across his face. "Wake up, pretty boy!" The man's sagging head shot sideways before falling back against his chest. Brelan could feel the rage building in Roget du Mer. The air seemed to be charged. Men Brelan knew all too well joined Roget in the yard. His gaze flickered over Grice and Chand Wynth, Sentian Heil, and the others he had been sent to rescue. He caught a glimpse of Hern in the doorway of a hut, several men keeping him there by force. He could feel the tension like flickering lightning. Familiar with the brutalities practiced here, Brelan wasn't surprised by the abusive treatment the prisoner was receiving. He was, however, perplexed by the hate and rage on the faces of the others. Turning to Brelan, Appolyon inquired politely, "You're one of King Gerren's byblows, are you not?" Brelan felt his anger bubbling up, but instead of showing the slug how he felt about the intentional insult, he forced an obsequious smile to his tight lips. "One of several dozen bastards, Commandant!" he boasted, winking lewdly at the over-sized jackass. Appolyon grinned. "Proud of it? Doesn't it bother you?" Brelan chuckled. "Nothing bothers me, Commandant. I have thick skin." "I would imagine you have been insulted many times over the years." The smile was malicious on the thick lips. Saur's wide shoulders shrugged. "Sticks and stones, Commandant." "Yes, indeed." Venom laced his next question. "And how did you feel about your royal brothers? Although I hear there are none left." "I cared for them about as much as they cared for me." Appolyon folded his arms across his flabby chest. "I was told you had problems with one." Brelan felt as though his jaw would break as he struggled to keep the toadying grin on his mouth. "I had trouble with them all, Commandant." A crafty, evil glint crossed the pig-like face. "I was told you hated one in particular. Conar, I believe was his name." Brelan understood. If he was going to show his make-believe loyalty to the Tribunal, he had better start now. "Conar was executed by the Tribunal, but I know you are aware of that." "And how did you feel when he was executed, Lord Saur?" "He got exactly what was coming to him." There was an angry hiss from some of the men, a dry chuckle here and there, a guffaw elsewhere. "You think the lashing was suitable punishment for him, then?" Brelan nodded, ignoring Roget's steely glower. "Too bad it didn't last longer." "Son-of-a-bitch!" Sentian Heil leapt forward. Thom and Storm subdued him before the guards could turn on him with their swords. "Oh, let him have his say!" Appolyon laughed. "He knows he won't have to pay for his outbursts." He fixed Heil with an unwavering grin. "But he does know who will!" Appolyon walked to where Lydon and the two guards were supporting the limp man. He glanced at Brelan. "You don't think Conar McGregor suffered enough for his crimes against the Tribunal?"

In for a penny, in for a pound, Brelan thought dismally. He let his grin fade and locked his stony gaze with the pig-like malicious orbs. "If it had been up to me, he wouldn't have died." "And what would you have done, Saur?" The fat jowls quivered in anticipation. Saur could feel the anger directed at him by more than a few men. "We'll never know, will we? He'd not have cared for it, I assure you, but I wouldn't have let him die." Appolyon cupped the chin of the prisoner, caressed the face with its ragged growth of beard. "Would you have tortured him, Saur?" "Possibly," Brelan answered, thinking that had it been up to him, he would have spirited Conar out of the country, well away from Liza. That would have been a torture of the first order to Conar McGregor. "Would you have enjoyed it?" Appolyon tugged gently on the prisoner's chin. "Probably," he said, thinking that, at that time, he would have enjoyed Conar's mental torture. The Commandant ran the backs of his fingers over his prisoner's cheek, chuckling as the sagging head pulled away. He realized the man was aware of what was being said. His voice was oily as he spoke. "Did Conar McGregor's great pain please you, Saur? Did his pain amuse you as the flesh was stripped from his body?" "It…" Brelan strove for the right word. "It intrigued me, Commandant." "How so?" "I wanted to see just how much pain he could stand before death." Brelan felt his stomach lurch at the lie. "Then this should please you greatly, Saur!" Appolyon crooked one stubby finger at Brelan. Brelan stepped forward, no thought in his mind other than the fat man was even more gross than the Commandant who had preceded him. As he drew near the prisoner, his nostrils quivered at the rancid smell. He let his scrutiny wander from the bare, blistered, heavily callused feet, to the ragged breeches that barely covered legs and hips, to the filthy chest criss-crossed with the scars of old lash marks, up the sunburned shoulders and neck to the dirty, snarled hair. He had to steel himself not to flinch as the Commandant grabbed a handful of the man's hair and viciously jerked up his head. "Well, Saur?" The fat man chuckled. Brelan Saur's mind ceased to function. He stood perfectly still, unable to move, staring into the face of a ghost.

Chapter 8 Conar felt the vicious tug on his hair as Appolyon jerked back his head. He gritted his teeth against the fiery pull on his scalp. He was fast approaching the limits of endurance and knew it. He could feel his life ebbing away, could feel his willpower, his desire to go on living, draining. If he had to suffer even one more day of this brutal existence he knew in his heart and mind he would go stark, raving mad. He groaned, thinking not of what was going to be done to him, although that would be bad enough, but of what might be done to his friends because of his futile attempt to escape this hellish, nightmarish life. He heard Appolyon's snide voice, but he was beyond understanding the words. He was beyond feeling anything except the vile touch of the fat man's slimy hands on him. He was beyond caring if he survived the coming ordeal. What did it matter? he thought. His life was over anyway. Death was close, calling to him. Might as well look it in the eye and embrace it as though it were a welcome lover, accept it as a man instead of the quivering animal he had

become. Calling on what little reserve of dignity he had left, he forced himself to open his eyes. Conar saw total recognition flooding Brelan's startled face, saw terror, panic, sheer disbelief flit across the pallid plains. Then he saw the pity, and he lowered his gaze. Conar wanted to sink into the sand never to rise again. Such pity, never seen before in Brelan's eyes, had cut him to the quick and his heart was bleeding, crumpling inside him like the dried remnants of his former life. "Look at me!" Brelan ordered, his voice thick and rushed. He forced up Conar's head and stared. Brelan wanted to scream. He wanted to kill whoever had smothered the fire in his brother's eyes. If he could have, he would have run away, but he couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. He felt as though he had been turned inside out. He put his hands on Conar's cheeks. It nearly killed him to see Conar refusing to look at him, to see the shame in the ravaged face, to see the scars that had been added over the years to the twin furrows that Kaileel Tohre had made. He looked into this man's battered face, striving hard to find his lost brother beneath the filth and the beard, but there was precious little left of the man he had hated so freely and passionately over the years. Nothing remained of the Prince Regent of Serenia, the once proud, defiant young man who had been meant to one day rule his homeland. "Are you pleased, Saur?" came Appolyon's question. Mentally shaking himself, tearing his stare away from that grotesque parody of his brother's never-forgotten face, Brelan forced a false smile to his lips. "More than I can say, Commandant. Seeing this man alive will make my time here more than worth the journey!" Appolyon slapped a conspiratorial arm around Saur's shoulders. "Then you won't mind being the one to punish him for me this time, will you?" Saur felt an icy-cold numbness settle in his chest. He let go of Conar's cheeks. "What do you want done?" "Your little brother doesn't seem to enjoy our company. This is not the first time he has shown disdain for the rules. His disobedience must be dealt with, don't you agree?" The fat jowls wobbled as he laughed. Aware of the others watching, Brelan made his decision. With a slight nod, he locked his gaze on the Commandant. "I was sent at the King's orders, much against my will I assure you, to serve the Tribunal's needs." He glanced at Roget's stiff spine. "I will see to the guards, Commandant. I leave such matters as discipline up to you." A hollow chuckle came from the fat lips. The commandant squeezed Brelan tighter. "Tell me, what do you think we should do to him?" Bile rose in Brelan's throat at the intimate contact of his body with that of the slug-like bastard holding him. He had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. "Isn't it customary to lash a prisoner who tries to escape?" "It's customary to hang 'em!" Lydon Drake scoffed. "Of course, we can't do that to the Traitor." "Solitary confinement?" another guard offered. Appolyon waved his free hand in annoyance. "I've grown bored with that, and I don't think it bothers him all that much. What else?" "Double shifts?" Brelan hoped his voice had not been too eager. "He gets that already!" Sentian snarled. "Always has!" Brelan saw pure rage lining the Heil's mouth. Surely the man was exaggerating. "Is he afraid of being in confining places, perhaps?" Appolyon suggested hopefully. "Some men don't like to be put down one of the mineshafts and left dangling." Brelan forced his eyebrows to rise in amusement. "Hardly. The little bastard used to hide in his armoire to get away from me!" Conar lifted his head, stared at his brother.

Appolyon sulked. "There has to be something we can do to teach him a lesson." Brelan shrugged. "From what I know of him, there's nothing he truly fears. Pain doesn't seem to bother him." "Unfortunately, it doesn't." There was a long breath. "Of course, we could torture his friends in front of him. He seems to dote on some of them." Conar's eyes came alive for the first time. "Please, don't," he croaked. "Did he say something?" Appolyon squealed, fury rushing across his face. "No!" Brelan answered. "The Tribunal does not wish for any of these men to be executed or tortured. They were sent here to be punished. I believe Arch Prelate Tohre would be rather upset if one of them were harmed. He might need them one day." A sneer passed over the fat face. "Too lenient! I've tried to make the priest understand that you have to break a man before you can get him to do what you want!" "Nevertheless, those were the Tribunal's orders." "I know," Appolyon snapped. He turned his eyes to Lydon. "What do you suggest?" "What about crucifying him?" Lydon snickered. "He won't likely forget that!" Brelan saw horror on du Mer's face and knew the same look was on his own. He struggled to not let Appolyon see even a trace of fear on his face. "Will that not keep him from working?" Obviously bored by the conversation, eager to see Conar hurt, the Commandant turned on Brelan. "I find it a fitting punishment for his running away. It is the customary punishment, though we haven't used it in years." "From the looks of him, he might not survive such action," Brelan warned. "He's stronger than he looks!" Lydon quipped. "He's also been in the desert sun without water for a few days," another guard said. "So, give the bastard water!" Lydon strode to the water barrel and scooped a gourd full, then threw the contents in Conar's face. "Does that suit you, Nelson?" "Give the man water to drink, fool!" Brelan ordered, meeting Drake's narrowed gaze with his own. "You might have thought you were top dog before I arrived, but you'll work by my orders from now on. Do I make myself clear enough for a half-wit like you?" Drake's face turned scarlet. He started toward Brelan, stopping only when the Commandant's high-pitched laughter peeled out. "He's your boss, Drake! Better listen!" Appolyon eyed Brelan with newfound admiration. Any man who would dare speak so to a thug like Drake had more balls than he had given him credit for having. For a long moment, Drake glared at Brelan. "Don't ever make me tell you twice to do something," Brelan said, his voice deceptively smooth and polite. He jerked his thumb toward the water barrel. A snicker of hate passed over the guard's dark visage. "Get it yourself!" Lydon turned to walk away. Brelan took a step backward, pivoted on his left foot and swung the other in a high arc, connecting his right foot with Lydon's chin. Drake dropped with a surprised grunt and lay immobile. "Anyone else want to test my authority?" Saur shouted, his glare sweeping the courtyard. "I'll get him water!" one of the guards snapped and ran to the water barrel. He gave Conar water, but Brelan pushed the gourd away from his brother's eager lips. "Not too much!" he ordered. "Too much will bloat his gut and make him ill." Brelan looked at the Commandant. "You

know," he began, his voice sly and steady, "I think I know a punishment that might be better." "There's no need for discussion," Appolyon interrupted. "Do what has to be done, Saur! Or if you are not up to it…" He shrugged his massive shoulders. Brelan had no choice. If he backed down, if he let some other guard do this to Conar, he'd lose face with the Commandant. Since his whole scheme depended on having the fat man's trust, he knew what he had to do. He saw Thom Loure. "Get the tools," he demanded, gruffly. Thom shook his head. "I won't be a part of this." Brelan heard a bellow of rage and saw men struggling with Hern. He saw the big man go down amidst fists and what appeared to be a small log. Brelan glanced at Grice and saw his old friend frowning with worry. "Well, Saur?" the Commandant snapped, one thin brow raised. "Doyou do it or do I wait untilDrake is awake?" "You can't do this," Jah-Ma-El told his brother. "You can't let them do it, either. Look at him Lord Saur. He's barely able to stand. If you stretch him out there in the hot sun, he'll die!" "Shut that man up." Appolyon said. "Please!" Jah-Ma-El screeched as the guards hurried toward him. "He's your brother! For the love of Alel, don't let them do this to him! He only tried to get away from their tor—" His voice was choked off as one of the guards backhanded him. Brelan was finding it harder to breathe. There was a crushing pain in his heart, a constriction in his throat. He could actually hear his blood pumping through the arteries in his head. He looked at Roget, but du Mer turned his face. Looking at the others—Grice, Chand, Tyne, Chase, Rylan, Paegan—he could see fear and horror on their faces. Looking at Thom, Storm, Ward, Shalu and Sentian, he could see strong hate. When someone extended a mallet and set of spikes to him, he could only stare at the instruments with a dazed, pained look on his chiseled features. "Can't do it, can you?" a guard taunted. Brelan saw Conar nod in understanding. "Be about it, Lord Saur," Appolyon ordered. Brelan glanced at the men holding Conar. He took a deep, ragged breath. "Lay him down." They half-carried, half-dragged Conar to the center of the courtyard where an X-shaped wooden frame had been built on the ground long ago. The guards laid Conar over the cruciform, spread his arms and held them down as two guards tied his spread ankles to the cruciform's lower limbs. "He's ready, Lord Saur." Appolyon chuckled. Kneeling beside Conar was the hardest thing Brelan had ever had to do. With the mallet griped in his right hand and one of the six inch spikes in the other, he felt sweat in his palms. He shifted the mallet to his left hand and ran his palm down the leg of his breeches. The jolt of what he was going to do ripped through him like lighting when he heard his brother's sad, forgiving words. "It's all right, Brelan," the cracked lips parted to say. "Just do it." Saur would never know what made him do it. He hadn't meant to, didn't really want to, but something evil moved in his soul, sprang up at him from the very bowels of the Abyss. His guilt rolled in his gut, he thought of Liza, of how much she loved this man, and he felt an anger that had to be directed else he would explode. Some nameless evil lifted his hand and brought it back over his shoulder. Some loathsome power uncoiled like a striking serpent, making him slap Conar with such force, with such unexpected cruelty, the two guards let go of Conar's arms, transfixed as they stared at Brelan's face with something akin to true fear. Blood trickled from the corner of Conar's mouth. Completely shocked by what he had done, furious at his lack of self-control and loath to admit he could do something so unnecessarily evil, all Brelan could do was scream at the guards. "Hold his damned hands on that wood!"

Sentian's scream of rage, Thom's bellow of fury, Jah-Ma-El's whimper of pain, did not stop Brelan. Du Mer's falling to his knees, Chase's shout did not stop him, either. Brelan placed the first spike in the center of Conar's outstretched palm and drove it through Conar's flesh. Conar's body jerked violently. A muffled groan rent the air. "Go back to your huts!" Brelan screamed, coming to his feet and thrusting the mallet at the nearest man. "Go now!" Thom and Storm took hold of Sentian and began to drag him away. He shouted his fury, but neither man would let go of him. "He enjoyed it!" Sentian snarled, bucking against their hold. "The bastard enjoyed it!" *** The men from the mining shafts emerged from the tall bluff the next afternoon and were surprised to see rain gently falling from a soft, gray sky. The ground was covered with puddles of water and a thick, cloying smell of wet sand hung in the air. Steam wafted over the drainage ditch and over the rolling lake waters. The temperature had dropped since early morning when the men had trudged wearily back to work in the mines. Now, a light breeze wafted over them to cool their sweaty flesh. They all looked at the man staked out in the center of the courtyard. No one had expected to see him still there that afternoon. Neither did anyone go near him for fear of prolonging the punishment. Teeth clenched and tempers rose, mumbles grew thick with curses, but the men walked past Conar McGregor's semi-conscious form and entered their huts. Across the compound, Brelan stood gazing moodily over the courtyard. He'd had no sleep the night before. He had listened to Hern's violent threats coming from the Indoctrination Hut. But it wasn't Hern's bellowing or his pounding fists that had kept Brelan awake. He had sat on the edge of his cot, staring at his hands, not believing he had actually nailed his brother to the cruciform. No matter how he had tried to justify his actions, he found he couldn't. In his soul, he knew he would suffer for that one inhuman act for the rest of his life. Now, staring at Conar, wishing he could hold him, beg his forgiveness, Brelan felt like crying. What would Elizabeth say when she found out what he had done? Would she understand why he'd had to do it? Would she, could she, forgive him? Could he forgive himself? He buried his forehead in the crook of his upraised arm as he leaned against the window. No, she wouldn't understand. She had sent him to bring back her men. The gods only knew what she would do once she found out Conar was alive. What would Legion, who loved Elizabeth with all his soul, do? What would the world do with a man thought dead all these years? "Saur!"Appolyon's shrill voice brought up Brelan's head. The fat man was standing in the doorway of his quarters, one finger beckoning. Controlling the urge to split the man in two, Brelan walked out of his hut and to the Commandant's porch. He gazed at the man with as much respect as he could feign. "How may I serve you, Commandant?" "Take some men and pry up that scum. The sight of him is getting tedious." The pug nose wrinkled with distaste. "And the stench is unbearable." Brelan nodded, knowing that if he spoke, the venom would pour out. He turned toward Roget's hut and wasn't surprised to see Sentian watching him. "Heil! Get du Mer and come here! On the double!" Roget reached him first. "Can we take him up?" "Get a crowbar, Heil," Brelan ordered in a gruff voice. Brelan turned, startled by the bulk of the Necroman holding a crowbar. "Du Mer," Brelan continued, "take his right hand. The Necroman can—" "Shalu," the big man told him, eyeing him with disdain. When Brelan glanced up, the dark man's chin rose. "My nationality is Necromanian. My name is Shalu." Arrogance entered his eyes. "King Shalu!" Brelan's lips twitched despite his anger at the delay the man was unknowingly causing. "Then take his left hand,

Shalu," he said, stressing the name. He looked at Sentian. "And you take the crowbar and lever the spikes out." Sentian's face turned ugly. "I will not be the one to hurt him! You nailed his hands; you pull out the spikes!" Brelan was on Sentian in the blink of an eye. Grabbing the slightly smaller man by the front of his tattered shirt, Brelan drew him up to nose level and snarled. "The longer my brother remains on that ground," he whispered, "the longer it will take for him to heal. If I do it, if I show the smallest amount of compassion, Appolyon will use it against him. If I have to pry loose his hands, I might well start to scream. And if that should happen, I'd go after every man in this gods-be-damned place who has ever hurt him. And if I do, what good do you think I'll be to him or anyone else?" He shook Sentian. "Is that what you want?" "Do you think I believe that?" Sentian hissed. "I don't give a rat's ass whether you do!" "Feeling guilty, Lord Saur?" Brelan shoved him away. "Do it!" Conar came to as Roget knelt beside him, Shalu kneeling on his other side. "Hurry up, Heil!" Brelan barked. "I'm sorry," Sentian whispered as he hunkered down and gently wedged the crowbar's two wide prongs under the thick head of the spike in Conar's left palm. Conar strained hard not to cry out. He felt the pain all the way down his left side and into his left hip. He couldn't stop the whimper that rushed through him, the gasp of agony as the spike came free. The second spike was no easier than the first, and as it came loose from the wood with a sharp peal of protest, Conar sank into unconsciousness as the pain closed in around him. "Get him…" Brelan had to try again. "…Get him moved before he wakes up." With infinite care, Shalu and Roget put their hands under Conar's shoulders and gently lifted him while Sentian untied his ankles. Blood oozed off his Conar's hands, dripped to the ground in front of the men. His hands were swollen, turning purple along the palms. He was soaking wet, his breeches clinging to his body. Through the rain-drenched hair, Brelan saw his brother awaken, try to focus, saw the parched and cracked lips part as Conar gasped. Brelan saw Conar look at him, then lower his head. That humility, that conditioning, enraged him. He cupped Conar's chin and brought up the sagging head. "Don't you lower your eyes to me!" he hissed, his anger apparent. A haunted, wounded look filled the blue depths before Conar's gaze shifted nervously, fearfully away. The impact of that action made Brelan clench his hands into fists. "He needs help, Saur! He's sick!" Shalu spat. Brelan felt a spasm of pain pass over his own face. "Take him, then." Roget and Shalu shifted Conar's weight and began to walk with him, but Shalu lost his footing in a deep puddle of rainwater and stumbled, twisting his foot. Conar swung sideways and would have fallen if Brelan had not put out his hands to catch him. As he did, Brelan felt a drop of something wet and thick settle on the back of his right hand. When he looked down, his eyes widened with horror. "Move out of the way!" Sentian snarled, shoving Brelan aside, taking Shalu's place at Conar's left side. The Necroman grimaced as he straightened up. His dark gaze swept over Brelan with an insulting flick of disgust. "Blood can be washed off, Lord Saur!" he snapped as he hobbled after Roget and Heil. Brelan felt himself lost in a private nightmare, unable to look away from the single drop of blood lying on his hand. He could hear a long-dead voice speaking from ages ago, and felt something he had never thought he would, although that voice had warned him of just such a thing. He raised his head and looked across the compound, searching for another he knew would be looking his way. When he found Grice Wynth gazing at him with understanding, he heard Grice's dead mother speaking as though she was standing beside him. He shook his head, denying the illusion, denying the words, the voice, the emotion that swept through him like molten lava.

He started to walk away, but stopped and looked down at the shining droplet of blood. He shuddered, his vision blurred, and he felt a single tear ease down his cheek. The voice repeated the prophesy: "There will come a day," the Queen of Oceania had told him, "when you will hold his blood more precious than anything else in this world." She had been right, he thought, another tear falling. The sight of one drop of Conar's blood was hurting him more than anything ever had before. "You have his precious blood on your hands," a voice seemed to coo to him from far away. "What will you do to atone, Saur?" With infinite care, he pressed the blood to his mouth, as the tears continued to come. "Be careful," Grice whispered from across the courtyard. "Be very careful, my friend." *** Being able to communicate with another human being is a powerful and compelling need. Words can soothe what looks and touch often can not. By isolating a man, by depriving him of the ability to reach out to his fellow man for comfort, is to make him an island unto himself. It is to rob him of his humanity and to bring him down to the level of the lowest beast. It can, and will, crush his spirit. It will undermine his belief in his own existence, his own worth. Through the years, very few words had been spoken to Conar with anything close to compassion and understanding. What times there had been, what fleeting moments of the recognition of his existence, had been few and far between. Alone in a community of men treated far better than himself, Conar learned to treasure those rare moments of respite from his solitary life. He clung to them to sustain him during the times when he was but a shadow among the living substances of flesh and blood. Just when he thought he could not face the terror alone anymore, when his day to day existence had been a burden to his soul, he had looked into the eyes of Brelan and felt a dim, wavering light of hope. Why he should, he couldn't tell. Where that hope had come from, he had no idea, for Brelan had long ago vowed bitter hatred for him. "Times change," his inner voice soothed. "Men change." From wherever the source had sprang, Conar recognized it and was bolstered by it. Not even the terrible thing Brelan had been forced to do could extinguish that dim ray of promise for Conar. He had understood the slap Brelan had given him even if his brother had not. He had seen the wild gleam of horror the moment the blow had come. There had been so much between the two men over the years. So much animosity, so much unwillingness to see into the other's heart, that now, so many years away from the rivalries of childhood, Conar could see what both he and Brelan had been denying so vehemently over the years—their love for one another. It was there when Brelan first saw him. It was there in the way Brelan's voice cracked. It was there in the actions of that day. Conar had understood in a moment of painful clarity. And he had understood his own feelings, as well. That love was there in the forgiveness even before the deed had been done, the first blow struck. It had been there in the sorrow he had felt that Brelan had to be the one to hurt him. It had been there in his heart like a seed coming to life after a harsh winter thaw. And he could feel it growing. Lying on Xander Hesar's examination table as his hands were bandaged, Conar willed his attention away from the throbbing, burning pain in his hands. He turned from Roget's concerned face and Shalu's blank one to the door where Sentian stood. He saw Heil glance behind him, frown and step hesitantly out of the way of the man entering the hut. There was a stiffness in Brelan's voice, a cutting edge that denied his compassion. "How long will it be before he can use his hands again?" The Healer looked up at Roget. "You may leave, du Mer."

"I…" Roget began. "Do as he says," Brelan ordered. He looked at Sentian. "All of you go back to your huts." Shalu glanced at the Healer, then nodded. He took Sentian's arm and propelled the arguing young man out of the hut with him. With a glare at Brelan, Du Mer followed. "He won't be able to use his hands for several weeks, Lord Saur," Xander said. "His fingers were broken before he ran away and they've never healed properly. The Commandant has ordered him locked in his cage until they do." Brelan's eyes, and temper, flared. "What cage?" "The one he has spent much of his time inside since being brought to this wretched place." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You've seen the chicken coops? That's where he was kept." Brelan took three quick steps to the Healer's side. His face flamed red with fury. "I will not have any prisoner caged like an animal! I have the Tribunal's authority, and the King's authority, to make any necessary adjustments I feel need making! I am Chief Warden. If I see inmates being mistreated, I will handle it!" "Like you did with Ching-Ching?" Xander asked quietly. Brelan stared at the man. "I saw you, Lord Saur. I've been here a long time, but I recognize Gerren McGregor's whelps when I see them." He shrugged. "You look more like your mama than you do Gerren, but you have that unmistakable McGregor stamp on you." He picked up his bandages and ointments and carried them to a cabinet on the wall. "I saw you when you were here last and when you left. It's a funny thing, Lord Saur. When you left, three men disappeared from the colony." He grinned. "You wouldn't have seen where they went, would you?" "And yet you didn't report it." The Healer nonchalantly pursed his lips. "I don't report everything I see. Just as I will not report the talk you are about to have with your prisoner." Brelan blinked. "I'm an old man. Sometimes I have difficulty with my hearing." He shut the cabinet and walked to the doorway. "But my eyesight is perfect. I can keep watch for you." "Why would you?" The Healer stood with his back to Brelan. "Let's say I owe a debt to someone." "Who?" "That's unimportant." "Why should I trust you?" "It's up to you, but I know why you're here, Lord Saur. Unless I miss my guess, there'll be a few men disappearing from this colony about the time you leave again." He looked at Brelan. "One in particular, I would imagine." He smiled and turned his back again. Conar had been carefully following the conversation between the two men. He knew they could trust the Healer, for the man had cared for him over the years with as much compassion as he had been allowed. He hoped Brelan could see the truth of the man's honor. "He needs his rest, Lord Saur." The Healer's voice was growing disdainful. "If you're going to interrogate him, do so before he falls asleep. I gave him a sedative." Brelan ground his teeth, but then he turned his attention to Conar. "Don't look away from me!" Brelan hissed, gently lifting Conar's head. "Don't you dare lower you eyes to me!"

Conar's gaze shifted to Brelan's, wavered, then darted away. Not out of shame or conditioning, but because Brelan's was so dear at that moment, he felt like crying. He was all too aware he was trembling. His head jerked as Brelan shook him. "Listen!" Saur's voice was strong and compelling, hard and unrelenting. "I'll not have you debase yourself to me. We're family!" His voice went low. "I didn't want to do that to you." "I know, Bre," came the croaking reply. "Then, don't look at me as though I'm about to have you flogged! I'm here to help, Coni. Legion sent me to get out the others. We had no way of knowing you were here, but I'll take you with us. Understand?" He looked up with confusion. "I asked if you understood!" Brelan snapped, aware of the hurt look his question had brought to Conar's pale face. Conar nodded, now unable to look away even if his life depended on it. He met Brelan's angry stare with sorrow. "You don't believe me?" Brelan asked. Conar wanted to answer, but he couldn't trust himself. He looked away. "It's true! I'm here to take the others home. To take you home!" Conar's throat felt raw, his body hot and sticky. He sighed, recognizing the onset of another fever. He could feel it spreading, claiming him again. Fleetingly, he wondered if he would ever be free of it. "Say something!" "I'll never leave here, Brelan." Brelan drew in a sharp breath. Just hearing his brother speak with such hopelessness made him want to kill the men who had dared hurt him so badly. Hearing what he had said hurt like a knife thrusting into his gut. "Don't say that! Don't even think it!' "They'll never let me leave here alive. They can't." "Whatever I set out to do, I do! Do you think I'd leave you here?" "Why not?" "Because you are my brother! I won't let anything happen to you!" "There was a time you felt differently." Brelan's face flamed red. "That was a long time ago. A lot has changed. I've changed." "And I," Conar said softly. The pain in that statement tore through Brelan's heart. "Through no fault of your own." "Look at me," Conar told him. "If I were to go back, don't you think the sight of me would hurt those I left behind?" Brelan knew who his brother meant. "I see a man who has spent six years in hell and survived. A man who came back from the dead. Those he left behind will care only that he's alive." "No one need ever know. The man they remember died long ago. It is best he stay dead." Brelan cupped Conar's cheeks in his hands. "I will take you home whether you want to go or not! And I will see to it you are treated like a human being from now on." "You shouldn't interfere."

"If you think I'm afraid of that fat slug, you don't know me very well, brother!" "They'll find a way to hurt you and the others if you help me. I don't want to be the cause—" "They won't do anything more to you! I swear on Papa's grave!" Conar's breath caught in his throat. Brelan could see his sudden pain. "Oh, my god, no one told you?" Tears crept silently down Conar's cheek as his lips trembled. "I'm sorry," Brelan whispered, his voice thick with misery. "I thought…" "When?" Conar asked, his throat closing with grief. "Right after your…" He stopped, unsure if he should tell Conar about his son, Corbin. "After Wyn left with Holm van de Lar." He saw immediate concern in his brother's eyes and rushed to reassure him. "Wyn's safe. He's with Holm. So are Coron and Dyllon, and their ladies are safe with Aunt Dyreil in Chrystallus." Conar let out a wavering breath of relief. His throat was so sore, now, his head throbbing with blinding pain. He could see red blotches appearing on his arms. "Is my lady safe?" Brelan nodded. How much should he tell Conar about Liza? He didn't know where to begin. Conar's words stopped him from even trying. "I don't want to know anything else," he whispered. "But—" "Nothing else," he repeated, feeling the sedative claiming him. "You can't hide from reality, Conar." His right eye felt as though someone were stabbing a red-hot poker into it. He brought up the back of his right hand to wipe at it, wincing as the pain in his palm tore through his arm. "I just want to be left alone," he mumbled, his words beginning to slur. The Healer came to stand beside them. "Let him sleep, now." "You can't give up, Conar!" Brelan snarled, ignoring the Healer. "You can't just tuck your tail between your legs and slink away every time they come after you!" "You don't understand," came the weary answer. "Lord Saur, let your brother rest—" "Is that what you've been doing all along, Conar. Letting them hurt you because you were too much a coward to fight back?" Conar hurt all over now and, despite the sedative, he was getting sicker by the minute. He had difficulty focusing on Brelan's angry face. "I just can't do it anymore." "Do what?" "Fight them. They've knocked the fight out of me." Brelan drew up his brother, ignoring the Healer's rush to the doorway to keep watch. "I won't accept that!" Brelan said, cradling Conar against him. "You can fight and you will!" Conar forced his eyes to Brelan's. "What more do you want? I have nothing left. I can't do this alone anymore." "You won't have to! Youaren't alone! I'm here, now!" He dragged Conar into his embrace. "You will never be alone again!"

"Lydon Drake's heading this way!" Xander hissed. Brelan saw the concern on the Healer's face and lowered Conar to the cot. "If I have them chain you inside my hut, do you think you could stand it?" Knowing what being chained would do to his fever-wracked body almost made Conar say no. Instead, he shrugged, felt himself beginning to slip into unconsciousness. "I've stood it many times before." Brelan hesitated. "It'll have to be to the wall. I've seen manacle rings there—" "The Commandant wants to know how he is," came a voice from the doorway. Brelan spun around, his mouth set and grim. He eyed Drake with hatred. "Tell the Commandant I'll be along to give him a full report! Don't let me catch you anywhere near this prisoner. Do I make myself clear?" Lydon glared at the new Chief Warden. "Showing a little family support, Lord Saur?" "Get the hell out of here, Drake, before I stakeyou out in the courtyard!" Drake smiled; his face was as evil as Brelan's was angry. "Whatever you say, Lord Saur." Later, when two of the friendlier guards dragged Conar's unconscious body to Brelan's hut and manacled him to the wall, no one asked the reason. It had never mattered before. It didn't matter now.

Chapter 9 Six weeks passed. Brelan sat morosely beside his window and stared in frustration at the rain that had come again. He wanted desperately to go to the medical hut, but knew his presence would cause a flurry of curious questions. His nervousness was fast drawing him to the very edge of a screaming fit. "He'll be all right," Grice said. Brelan turned to the man he had called best friend for almost his entire life. "I hope you're right." Grice looked at the boots he was polishing as part of his job as valet to the now Chief Warden, Brelan Saur. "I hope I am, too." Thinking back to the morning after his talk with Conar, Brelan nearly groaned. He had gone to break his fast after assuring himself Conar was still sleeping, but when he had been intercepted by Xander Hesar who was concerned for his patient's safety, Brelan went back inside with the man. "I knew it!" the Healer had spat. "He's burning up with fever!" For almost three weeks, it didn't look as though Conar would survive this latest battle with the Labyrinthian Fever, that viral infection found only in the barren wilderness of the penal colony. Fiery convulsions alternated with bone-shattering chills and white-hot delirium. Conar's words, when he could speak, were a jumble of half-formed phrases and whimpers, and had cut through Brelan like daggers. "He knew he was ill," Brelan said, looking to Grice for understanding. "He knew when he allowed me to chain him to the damn wall! Why did he let me?"

"He thought he was protecting you." "From what?" "Yourself." Grice looked up. "If you'd known how ill he was going to be, you'd have tried to keep him with Xander. What do you think the Commandant would have thought?" "I don't give a rat's ass—" "But Conar did. If you expect to see your plans through to the end, you'd best keep in mind who and what you're supposed to be, Lord Saur." Brelan drew in a harsh breath between his gritted teeth. "I need someone to be close to him, someone I trust." "Sentian is the ideal choice," Grice grumbled, obviously still disliking the man. "I can't put him near Conar; he's already shown too much loyalty." "Me?" Grice offered. "Why you?" "He's as much my brother as he is yours." Brelan nodded. "There was a time—" "When we were not as we are now," Grice finished. He looked over the compound. "Nor was he what he is now." Brelan understood all too well what that meant. "What happens to him when we go back,?" "What do you mean?" "She's no longer his." Grice lowered his eyes. "She will always belong to him." Brelan flinched and wanted to change the subject. "I suppose the Necroman would be the best choice. Two outcasts thrown together shouldn't bother the Commandant that much." "Shalu really cares for Conar." Grice spat on the toe of the boot he was holding and buffed it with his polishing cloth. "Well, we need someone who will watch out for him, who'll see he doesn't get caught away from camp with that son-of-a-bitch Drake!" "Lord Saur?" came a heavily accented voice from outside the door. Both men jumped, reflexively wondering who might have overheard their conversation. Brelan hurried to the door, relieved to see one of the two men who had accompanied him to the Labyrinth standing on the porch. The older man, a sailor by trade, grinned up at Brelan. "Scared you, did I, boyo?" Brelan sighed, ignoring the jibe. "What is it?" "Best be careful like what you be saying." Korbit chuckled. "I asked what you wanted?" Brelan snarled, stung by the man's warning. "He's awake and calling for you," the old man said, then turned to spit a brown stream of tobacco over the porch railing. "Healer says he's pretty insistent about who he wants to speak to." The man hitched up his tattered breeches and sniffed. "Reckon you'd best be moseying over there to quiet the lad 'fore someone who ought not to hears him." He dug his hands into the pockets, then ambled off the porch as though he hadn't a care in the world. Brelan frowned. Holm van de Lar had all the confidence in the world in Korbit, but Brelan found the man slovenly and lazy. He glanced at Grice.

"Go," Grice told him. "But make it look like you're pissed he's still not able to work." Brelan understood and left. Xander looked up as Brelan entered the hut. He eyed the guard standing idly in the room, supposedly there to help care for the patient, but in actuality, there to report to the Commandant. "If you've come to harass this boy, he's still raving out of his mind," Xander said. He put on his most stern face. "He actually thinks you're his friend, Lord Saur." Brelan didn't glance at the guard. He understood the message. "What's the little bastard been saying?" Brelan snapped, standing over his brother's cot. "Thinks you're here to take him home," the guard snorted. "Do you fancy that, Lord Saur?" Brelan laughed. "As if I ever would, eh?" "Right as rain, sir!" The guard chuckled, scratching at his filthy crotch. Brelan looked down at Conar, could see his brother looking at him, could sense the confusion. "Why would I want to takeyou home?" he asked, making his voice as hateful as he could. He winked. "Brelan?" the ill man asked, his voice hurt, unsure. "I—" "You know what?" Brelan snapped, turning to look at the guard. "I think the Commandant would be interested in hearing my little talk with him, don't you?" The guard grinned. "Bet he would!" He sauntered to the door. Once the man was gone, Xander stood in the entrance as though blocking further visitors. Brelan knelt beside his brother's cot. "Are you where you can understand me, Coni?" Conar had been lapsing in and out of consciousness all morning. The Healer had said things that made no sense, warning him with words that had little meaning. He had begged to see Brelan, had told the Healer his brother was there to take him home. Now, hearing Brelan's sharp, taunting words to the guard, he wasn't sure anymore. Perhaps he had imagined a talk with Brelan; perhaps he had dreamed it. "Conar? You can't tell these people about our plans!" Conar reached out a trembling hand and sighed with relief when Brelan took it in his own. His lips were blistered from the fever, but he managed to say what he had obviously needed to. Pulling his brother close, Conar whispered, "Don't hurt me anymore, Brelan. Please don't be the one to hurt me anymore." The lost little boy voice broke. "Please?" Brelan drew in his breath. His grip on Conar's hot hand tightened. "By Alel's Grace, Conar McGregor, I won't ever hurt you again!" He brought the dry, callused hand to his lips. Conar tried to smile, but he couldn't. His voice was a puff of air; Brelan had to lower his ear to Conar's lips in order to hear the words. "Tell me somebody loves me, Bre." Brelan flinched, almost unmanned by the pleading in Conar's voice. He felt as though he had been sucked into a vacuum where only he and Conar existed. "Please tell me somebody still cares what happens to me." A ragged sob burst from Brelan's mouth. He gathered Conar in his arms, oblivious to anything else save the need to show this man a modicum of protection. He gently rocked the burning, sweat-drenched body. "I love you, Conar!" he moaned, his voice cracking with pain. He swallowed hard to keep from keening aloud. "By all that is holy, I do love you!" "Appolyon's on his way," Xander warned. "Don't listen to what I say to you, Conar," Brelan said. "It'll be a pack of lies." Hesar stepped back from the door, glanced around to make sure Brelan no longer held Conar in his arms. The ravaged

look on Brelan's face might have been construed as primal fury by anyone who had not been privy to the scene, but Hesar knew better. The look was one of intense suffering. *** "I see no reason for this!" Appolyon fumed, flinging aside the paper. "Why do you feel it necessary to tell His Holiness about this?" Brelan smiled, indifferently splaying his hands. "I was given the task of making sure Tohre's mandates were carried out to the letter. He assured me I would enjoy my stay here despite the King's intention of punishing me for a few, well, ill-chosen words I might have uttered to my brother, uh, my king," Brelan stressed. He folded his arms across his chest. "Of course, I had no idea Conar would be here." He let his mouth twist into what he hoped was a diabolical grin. "I'm sure Tohre was laughing up his sleeve at Legion A'Lex the entire time knowing how I would truly enjoy my stay after finding McGregor prisoner here." "But why do you think Tohre would want to be told about the sleeping arrangement I ordered?" the fat man sulked. "I did away with the cage when the first edict arrived." The massive jowls wobbled with indignation. "I saw no need to lessen the severity of his punishment then and I certainly don't see the need now!" Brelan wanted to lunge across the corpulent man's desk and fasten his hands around the jelly-like throat, squeeze until the beady eyes popped out of the marshmallow face. Instead, he lifted one disdainful shoulder. "McGregor must be integrated with his fellow inmates." "But they'll talk to him." "Let them." "Absolutely not!" The man shook a pudgy fist at Brelan. "I want no one to speak to him. I don't want his existence acknowledged in any way." Brelan's smile faded. He bore his dark brown gaze into Appolyon's. "I must report what I find here. If you insist on continuing as you have, I am sure His Holiness will issue another edict and that will be sent as soon as my report arrives in his hands. Now, what that edict will require may be even less to your liking." "Meaning what?" "Meaning he could issue a mandate that will see you promoted to another post." "Are you threatening me?" "Of course not, sir." Brelan smiled. "I'm merely stating that if you keep disagreeing with the Arch-Prelates wishes concerning his prisoner, and we both know McGregor is just that, then he is likely to appoint someone who will carry out his desires." Appolyon's fingers drummed the desktop. He couldn't afford to loose this position. He didn't dare return to Serenia, or any of the other Seven Kingdoms where a bounty had been placed on his head long ago by returning prisoners. "Where do you intend to put him?" Brelan wanted to laugh with relief. "I'll keep him where he is for now. I'll just change his work schedule to coincide with the others." The Commandant waved a sausage-like hand. "Whatever." His rubbery lips formed a pout. Walking back to Du Mer's hut, Brelan had a hard time keeping the smile from his face. He saw Grice and Chand watching him; he winked as he brushed past them. "You men listen up!" he said loudly. "From today on, the Traitor will be working the same schedule as you. Sleeping in here at the same time, leaving to work when you do." "Working alongside us?" Grice asked as he and his brother came through the door. "No, and you aren't to talk to him. Is that clear?" "Perfectly," Roget answered.

Brelan turned to du Mer. "He's just another piece of furniture. Understood?" Brelan pushed Grice aside as he started to leave. "He's nobody." "Thank you," Chand whispered as Brelan moved past him. "Get your ass to the showers, Wynth! You smell to high heaven and back!" *** Conar went back to work in the rock field behind the huts the following week at the same time the men in his hut trudged wearily to the mines. He had been given a fair bill of health by Xander that morning and was told to report to the du Mer hut that evening. "You're going to be allowed to live with the men from now on," Xander explained in as gruff a voice as he could muster. "Some new kind of torment, I suppose." He understood all too well Brelan's hand in this new living arrangement. He was sick at heart, worried that Brelan had overstepped, but too overjoyed to think too clearly about it. He walked to the rock field with a heart lighter than it had been in years and began his work with more hope than he had ever had. He was weak, his legs a might unsteady, but he managed to heft the smaller rocks out of the new drainage ditch without too much effort. For the most part, the guards assigned to him looked the other way when he frequently stopped to rest. They had obviously been chosen by Brelan. Also, his hand was healed well enough, but he grimaced when the pain grew too intense. "That's enough for today," one of the guards snarled. Conar was astonished. It wasn't anywhere near dark. The others hadn't started coming from the mines. He recognized Brelan's hand in this, too, and would have smiled if he could have. Instead, he nodded, turning to go back to the hut. He had taken only three steps before someone caught his arm and spun him around. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Conar didn't need to look up to know who had spoken. He simply let himself be shaken so hard his teeth rattled. "I asked you a question!" "To my hut, sir," he forced himself to reply. "Not at this time of day, you ain't!" "Drake!" a guard warned, "if he gets sick again, Saur will nail you to the cross ties." "But it ain't time!" He shook Conar again. "Get your ass back to that rock pile before I take my strap to your—" "Drake!" Lydon clenched his teeth, but turned to see Brelan Saur. He glared at the approaching man. "It ain't time for him—" "Get your hand off him!" Lydon's hand tightened on Conar. "The Commandant don't want him mollycoddled…" Brelan jabbed a hard hand into Lydon's thick shoulder. "I said to get your hands off my—" "Your what?" Drake interrupted with a belligerent smirk, fusing his furious gaze with Brelan's raging brown stare. "My property!" Brelan shot a hard fist into Drake's jaw. The man landed on his backside and sat staring into a face blazing with rage. He flinched as Brelan leaned over and growled. "He's my property, Drake. Don't think for one minute I don't know what you'd like to do to him!" Brelan let his dark gaze shift insultingly to Drake's crotch. "That is, if you could!" Drake's beefy face flooded with color. His lips drew back with a feral grimace. "There's more than one way to take him,

you know!" His fingers went to the handle of his whip. Brelan jerked the bigger man to his feet, pulling Drake so close he could feel the man's body heat against him. "You better mean the business end of that whip. If you try doing something else to this man, you'll be on the receiving end of whatever you had planned!" Drake wrenched free and backed away, his eyes full of spite. "You poking him, are you?" His lips twisted with malice. "He's a good lay, ain't he?" Again, if Drake had seen the fist coming, he might have ducked. He didn't have time. He was out cold before he heard Brelan's grunt of animal fury. Conar stared down at his tormentor. He was aware of his brother standing, trembling beside him, but he didn't need to look into Brelan's face to know the extent of his outrage. "Get to your hut," Brelan hissed through clenched teeth. "And for the love of Alel, stay clear of this madman!"

PART II: Chapter 1 "What's wrong, dearling," King Legion A'Lex asked his wife as he sat beside her on the fountain's rim. He put his arm around her and brought her close to him. "I'm worried about them, Milord," Liza told him. "Nothing can go wrong. Nothing. Brelan has to bring them home." He smiled. "Did I ever tell you about the time Galen hung Conar upside down out in the forest and no one knew where he was?" A hesitant laugh broke through the worry on Liza's lovely face. "Galen?" "Aye." He took one of her hands and brought her wrist to his lips, placed a light, feathery kiss on her flesh, then laid her hand on his thigh, entwining his fingers with hers. "How did he manage that?" she asked, intrigued. "Galen wasn't as ineffectual as most people would have thought." Legion chuckled. "Especially Conar. He always thought Galen was a sissy." "He never trusted him." "And with good reason." Legion laughed. It was a mark of the passing of time that they could speak of Conar without sadness and the grief that had once surrounded them when his name was spoken. "What happened?" Legion grinned. "They might have been all of four, five years old, I think. Anyway, they sneaked out of the keep, alluded their nanny and set out for Lake Myria to gather blueberries for their mama. There used to be this old gamekeeper's shack near the road leading to Activa. It was torn down not long afterward, but the two of them decided to snoop inside the place." He looked over the garden, the smile lingering on his face. "Conar wasn't afraid of anything, but Galen wouldn't go pass the doorway after he heard some hissing sounds." "Snakes?" "Rodents, more than likely. At any rate, Conar, probably wanting to show off, went inside. While he was in there, a

section of the wall caved in, it was in terrible shape anyway, and he got a conk on the noggin' that knocked him out." "Was he hurt?" Legion shrugged. "I would imagine he had a pretty fair headache when he woke up, but considering where he was when he did, I think he was more angry than hurt." "What did Galen do?" The smile left Legion's face. "You remember Galen. He never really had the same feelings for Conar the rest of us did. I believe he thought Conar was either dead or dying; he couldn't wake him, you see. He told Cayn later that Conar was as white as a sheet. But he managed to drag Conar part way out of the cottage, no small feat for a little boy." "Why didn't he just run for help?" "Who knows? Maybe he thought Papa would think he'd been responsible. So, instead of going back to the keep, he found a rope and tied Conar's feet, looped the rope over a timber of the roof and pulled Conar off the ground." Liza's mouth dropped. "How did he manage? Conar would have been dead weight." Legion chuckled. "Desperation can make you do many things; he thought he was helping." "How?" she asked, her tone incredulous. "When you hang upside down, the blood rushes to your head, right? Conar was white as a sheet, so I guess Glane thought if he got the blood flowing in Conar's face, he'd wake up." Liza shook her head. "Childlike thinking, I suppose." "Galen still couldn't wake Conar so he decided he'd get help. The trouble was, Hern caught him coming back and turned him over to his nanny. You can imagine what Hern probably said to the brat. Galen went stubborn on them. When Hern asked him where Conar was, Galen said he didn't know. Papa sent out a search party, but no one thought to look in the old gamekeeper's cottage." A glimmer of amusement lit Legion's blue eyes. "No one, that is, except Brelan." "But he couldn't have been more than six or seven!" "But you have to remember, Brelan wasn't like the rest of us. He'd roam around the keep and the outbuildings as though he owned all of it. The little bugger got more whippings than you could shake a stick at, but that didn't keep him from mischief. If he wanted to do something, healways did it. He set out looking for Conar and, like he told me later, he knew he'd be the one to find him." "Were they at odds back at that age?" "They were at odds from the day Brelan sneaked into the nursery and crammed Conar's mouth full of cheese." "Cheese?" Legion chuckled. "Conar was just nine months old. He'd been crying all day, probably teething, and Brelan thought he was hungry, so he fed him." Legion's eyes misted with tears. "Nearly choked Conar to death! I can still see him running away from Conar's nanny, just as fast as his little legs would carry him." "What did your father do?" She was laughing. "Beat the shit out of Brelan. I think that's where all the trouble between Brelan and Conar started." He looked at her. "To this day, Brelan will tell you he was only trying to help his brother." "Did he get Conar down? From the timber?" "No. As a matter of fact, by the time Brelan found him, Conar was awake, and not at all happy. I guess Conar thought Brelan had been the one who'd strung him up and I'd wager he said a few things Brelan took exception to. So, Brelan made matters worse." "How?"

Legion grinned. "He set Conar to swinging and ran off." Liza made an unladylike snort. "Oh, my. I can just see him doing it, too!" "By the time Hern found Conar, the brat was furious. He demanded Papa…" Legion held up his hand and began to tick off items on his fingers "…beat Brelan within an inch of his life, incarcerate him in the deepest part of the dungeon where all the beasties live, feed him on stagnant water and moldy bread, then behead him." "What did your Papa do?" "Again, beat the shit out of Brelan and then made him apologize to Conar. You can imagine how wellthat went over with Bre!" "I'm surprised Conar didn't go after him once he was able." "He went after the real culprit—Galen." A gleam entered Legion's eye. "Then Brelan went after Galen. And then…" He shrugged. "I went after Galen." "You bully!" "I was the oldest, and being the oldest, it wasmy responsibility to keep them all in line!" "Who told you that?" Legion blushed. "No one actually told me. I just assumed it was my duty." She smiled. "Thank you, Milord." "For what?" "For trying to take my mind off Brelan's mission." Legion cupped her face in his hands. "He'll be all right, dearling." He kissed her forehead, her nose. "And he'll bring them home safely. Just wait and see." Liza pressed her head against his chest, closing her eyes to the steady, comforting sound of his beating heart. "I pray you're right." Her eyes strayed to the seagate. It was Conar who told her of the legend of the garden, the tale of the Rose and the Thorn. In her mind, she had become the rose bereft, alone, her head drooping from the loss of the thorn's support. And he…he had become the thorn. Stripped of all he held dear; love, honor, even life. It seemed fitting that the winter chill had withered the thorn bush the year he died. It no longer grew in the garden, but she refused to allow the gardener to remove the dead bramble. "Sweeting?" "I'll be fine." She snuggled against his warmth. "You will be careful in Jedry, Milord?" "I will." He kissed the top of her head. "You will take care of yourself while I'm gone?" She nodded, missing him already. She scanned his dear face. His thick hair was gunmetal gray now, his blue eyes not as clear as they once had been, but then they had seen much sorrow. His beard was thick with gray, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. His shoulders were still wide, proudly held, and his waist was as trim as ever, his belly as flat and hard, but there was a subtle aging to Legion A'Lex that time had not put upon him. He still made her knees weak and her belly quicken with longing when he gazed at her, as he was doing now. She blushed as one gunmetal gray brow rose in challenge. "Lady, you have this knack of looking at me in a way that scalds my soul." He lowered his lips to hers and tasted the sweetness lingering there. "Will you send your warrior off into the cold with no passion to warm his bones?" Liza smiled. "My warrior was well-warmed last eve, Milord."

Legion shook his head. "I have not forgotten and well you know it." He kissed her again, letting his lips linger on hers, drawing heaven from the fullness of her coral mouth. She tossed her head, her long black braid of silken hair flipping behind her. The emerald green of her tilted eyes squinted with merriment. "Was thatyou in my bed last eve?" Legion chuckled, hugging her, breathing in the sweet smell of lavender that belonged entirely to Elizabeth A'Lex. "When I get back, I'll make you eat those words, lady." "Legion!"an exasperated voice shouted from the doorway into the library. Legion turned, looking at Teal du Mer with a lethal grimace. "That man is a veritable pest. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's getting senile in his old age." "Legion!" du Mer called, "are you coming?" "I'm not even breathing hard, du Mer!" the King answered in a rush of spite. "What?" Sometimes, Legion thought with dismay, du Mer could be a bit dense. He gave his wife one last look of hopelessness and kissed her forehead. "Take care, Sweeting." He turned to go. "Legion? There's been no word from Brelan?" she asked. He turned back to her. "Not yet, love. Give him time." She nodded. Her heart was in her throat. "Don't let anything happen to you," she said in a hurt little voice. "If I lost you, too…" "I'll be back," he swore, wanting to take her in his arms again, but knowing neither of them could endure it. She smiled at him, her lips trembling. Beyond him, she could see Teal waiting. She lifted her hand. "Take care, Tealson. And take care of my husband." "With my life," the gypsy swore. *** Arch-Prelate Kaileel Tohre looked up from his ledger. "What is it, Robert?" "The King is here to see you, Holiness." Tohre cursed. "What does that fool want now?" Robert MacCorkingdale folded his hands over his chest. "He's leaving for the negotiations. The Tribunal's sending him to Jedry for a month-long inspection of lands needed for new Temples." "Iam the Tribunal, remember?" Long ago, Auxiliary Priest Robert MacCorkingdale would have been afraid of Tohre's scathing tongue. But that was in the past. "You told A'Lex to see you before he left, Holiness, so you could give instructions on the distribution of the conquered territories. Have you forgotten?" Tohre glared at his former pupil with loathing. "I have not!" He shuffled a stack of papers. "Don't just stand there, Robert! Send the bastard in to me!" Robert smiled. The old man was beginning to not only lose track of his senses, he was beginning to lose his ability to intimidate, as well. Tohre had become a pathetic, rambling old fool whose nightmares were spoken of in hushed tones by the Domination. "He dreams about the Prince," Robert's grandmother had remarked. "About what he done to the boy."

Not only was Tohre losing his authority within the Tribunal and among the other members of the Domination, he was beginning to make brutal enemies among those in the two groups who had once been loyal only to him. "Tohre is dangerous," one of the Synod members had hinted. "He makes grave mistakes." "He should've never sanctioned Legion A'Lex to marry the Queen. A'Lex cannot be trusted." "And Brelan Saur should have been eliminated before he was allowed to journey to Tyber's Isle! What if by some quirk of fate that one returns? And brings with him the destruction of all we have tried to accomplish?" one of the High Priests queried. "That one should have been executed and his body cast to the sea. To have allowed him to live was folly! Tolkan must be rolling in his grave for having granted Tohre's request!" "We don't know how long Tohre can be allowed to lead us," another Synod member agreed. "I think the man has gone as far as he can within the order. It is time for new blood." And Robert MacCorkingdale intended to be that new blood. With each passing day, he used what fledgling power he had to undermine Tohre's position. Misplacing important papers, sending letters meant for one man to another, ordering troop movements about like men on a chessboard and thus costing the Tribunal bags and bags of Temple gold…all in the name of Kaileel Tohre, whose signature Robbie could counterfeit to perfection. "Stop wool gathering!" Tohre shouted. "I do not have all day to wait on that fool!" Robert opened the door and ushered in the King. He pointed to the chair before the desk. Legion always felt as though he were being suffocated in Tohre's presence. The man's hateful stare never failed to make him sick. "I'm leaving within the hour. What was it you wanted?" His voice was clipped and hard, full of hate. Tohre's thin lips stretched with malice. "You never show me the respect I am due." "It's hard to show respect for someone you loathe. Someone who doesn't deserve respect." Tohre's eyes frosted; the smile froze on his bloodless lips. "There is a limit to how much I will tolerate from you." A rare smile, one hardly seen on Legion's mouth in the presence of Tohre, hovered on the his full lips. "You need me, Tohre. Without Liza and me, together, you would never be able to rule this kingdom or any other. The people have taken as much from you as they will." "No one, not even you or your precious whore, is irreplaceable." Long red nails tipped in gold plowed through thinning blond hair. "I can have you assassinated and give her to Saur." Legion's face hardened. "You can try." For a long moment, Tohre held the King's gaze. The atmosphere was thick with hatred and mistrust. Tohre's gaze was the first to lower. "Have you forgotten about the boy?" Legion's back stiffened. "I haven't." "That's good, for he will be one of us soon." Fear twisted in Legion's gut, but he kept his face immobile, his voice steady, unaffected by Tohre's spiteful grimace. "What exactly do you want me to do in Jedry?" "I want as much land as possible to go to the Temple. The rest, what is of no use to us, may be given to those bumbling fools." "The homeless." "Whatever." Tohre fanned his hand in dismissal. "Make sure there is a designated area for that trash." He sniffed. "If huts must be built, build them cheaply." "Anything else?"

"No." Legion knew he had been dismissed. He stared at the man, hating him with every fiber of his being, and when Tohre looked at him, the King's face twisted with loathing. "Get out before you join your brother in the Labyrinth!" More gut-wrenching fear shot through Legion. Not fear for himself, but for Brelan. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Tohre might well know what he and the others were about, but there was nothing but malice in the old priest's eyes. He turned on his heel and left the Arch-Prelate's office as quickly as he could. Once the door was closed, Tohre sat back and stared into space. Plans had been made to keep Brelan Saur in the Labyrinth, for once the man arrived there, once he knew the secret, he could not be allowed to return to Serenia.

Chapter 2 The cowl of her robe held tightly to her face, Liza stepped into the women's section of the Temple and walked silently down the aisle between the pews. Only two candlesticks lit the room, the flames of dancing along the wick as she passed. The scent of sandalwood filled the air and the temperature was cooler than was comfortable even with her heavy wool robe. Genuflecting toward the Presence Light near the altar, the Queen of Serenia slipped gracefully into a pew and pulled down the kneeler. Sinking to her knees, she clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to the statue of Tethys, The Mother of all Mankind. "Blessed One," Liza whispered, "Hear the pleading of Your Maidservant. I am sorely in need of Thy intervention. Look into my heart and see my loyalty to the Daughters of the Multitude. Search my soul and be assured I am worthy of Thy help. I leave my heart and soul open for Thee to judge." Liza bowed her head. She could hear the tick of the wood beams overhead settling, a bell chiming in the men's side of the Temple, a door closing somewhere deep inside the complex. Her jaw trembled from the cold. She waited for more than an hour, the time crawling past. She had almost given up on being visited by the deity when a soft blue light began to glow in one corner of the chancel. The faint scent of lavender filled the room. "Your heart is troubled, Daughter," a gentle voice said. Liza brushed back her cowl. "My son is in the hands of The Evil, Gracious Lady." The blue light shimmered, then its rays solidified into the form of a beautiful woman with long dark hair. The Mother Goddess Tethys smiled sadly. "We know." "He will be of the Age in a few months and they will take him to the Abbey unless…" Liza's vision wavered as tears gathered in her eyes. Her lips trembled more from emotion than the coldness. "Did you not come to Iluvia and ask that Lady to grant you communion with your son?" And I am grateful the Goddesses allowed me to speak with him." "Thus you know he is well," the Mother Goddess said. "But they are mistreating him," Liza sobbed, her tears flowing freely. "He knows pain…" "That was his fate, Daughter. He is the son of Conar McGregor and as such was destined to know the same pain as his father before him."

"Had his father lived—" "What is it you seek this morn, Daughter?" Liza felt the unvoiced reprimand and hung her head. "I can not bear the thought of knowing he will be consecrated to The Evil." "What will be, will be with your son, my child. Your prayers should be for the envoy you sent to bring home your loved ones." "I do ask for their safety, Blessed One. I say prayers morning and night for their quick return." She looked up, surprised to see the Goddess standing directly before her. "Your destiny lies with Brelan Saur. You know this, do you not?" Tethys asked. "Aye." "So you know he will return safely." Tears clogged Liza's throat. She twisted her hands together, her heart aching. "He will return when the Gods and Their Ladies decree it is his time. If it is before your son is taken to the Abbey, so be it. If not, you will have to live with Their decision. Until then, make entreaty for your husband and those who are silently fighting The Evil." Chastised, Liza covered her face with her hands and broke into wretched sobbing. "I have lost Corbin as I have lost his father!" "It is a woman's lot to bear the pain of what men do to one another. Such is the way of Life." "I can not bear this." "Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" the Mother Goddess ordered. "You have been granted the ability to communicate with your son. That is more than Conar McGregor was allowed when he passed time at the Abbey! Speak with your son. He is but a few rooms away." Liza jerked up her head. "Where?" she asked, knowing she would never be allowed to see her firstborn son even if she could get past the Temple guards. "Commune with the young one. Reassure him you are with him even until the end of your life and beyond. His father had a brother to comfort him during his trails. Corbin has only you. Let him know he is not alone." Liza swiped at the tears clouding her vision. "Won't they hear me?" she asked, referring to the Brothers of the Domination who ran the Temple. "Your connection to Corbin is one of lifelines and bloodlines, Daughter. He is a part of your body and you of his. The communion could be heard only by another whose life is so entwined with yours and Corbin's, and that man is beyond hearing his son's cries." At the reminder of her loss—and the loss of her son—Liza could feel the pain in her soul. "Open your mind and your heart and speak to your child, Daughter. He needs his mother dearly this day." A whimper escaped Liza's lips. "They are hurting him?" "Call your child and he will feel only your love, Daughter. Bid him call you when The Evil is reaching out to him and he will know only the numbing embrace of your care." Tethys' form dissolved in a pulse of azure light. "Corbin!" Liza called. "Mama?" was the immediate answer.

"My dearling," she whispered, and for more than an hour spoke silently to him, helping him through torments he could not or would not reveal. Their communion on the metaphysical plain was heard by no prying ears. After Liza left the Temple, she took to her bed for four days. *** The town of Jedry sat on the easternmost tip of Ionary. Vast sections of the land were utterly useless save for harvesting stone and fill dirt. What farmable land there was, Tohre had demanded for the Temple. The inhospitable acreage allotted to the homeless of Ionary was populated thickly with scorpions, vipers, and other poisonous denizens. Sitting under the sweltering canvas of a dilapidated tent, the King of Serenia wiped sweat from his brow and listened to the complaints of the Ionarians queued up beneath a broiling sun to be assigned a secket of land. "There be no water for nigh ten miles, King Legion," one fellow whined. "How are we to get water to that plot of land?" Legion looked at Teal, who checked a map. "He's right, Your Grace," Teal said, his lips twitching at the title. The gypsy would never get used to the designation. "He and his family would have to truck in the water." "Begging your pardon, Majesty," the man's wife spoke, "but we got no wagon to be hauling nothin' with." "Silence, hag!" one of the Temple guards snarled and would have struck the old woman had Teal not stepped in his path. The guard sneered at the King's Counselor and shoved away du Mer. Three other guards hooted with laughter, for none ever showed the half-breed respect. They nudged one another as the gypsy stumbled, having to reach out to one of the servants to keep from falling. Legion ground his teeth, for he had no more authority here than did his friend. The real authority lay with the Temple guards—hand-picked by Kaileel Tohre—who had escorted Legion to Jedry. "Be thankful you will have a plot of land on which to be buried," the guard sneered. "Next!" Legion locked eyes with the old man. "I will see what can be done, Grandfather." "That be all we can ask, Majesty." The man bowed, took his wife's arm and hobbled away. Teal shook himself, retrieved the plot map, dusted sand from it and looked at his king. "Make a note of the gentleman's name, Lord Teal," Legion said. "I believe it was McHatton." Teal nodded, not trusting himself to speak. For more than three hours, Legion met with the displaced inhabitants of Jedry. He assigned seckets of land that measured 100 by 100 feet while all the time wondering what manner of hovel could be erected on such a meager plot. "It don't take much for them," one of the guards said. "They've been sleeping in alleyways and under viaducts for years. A roof over their head is a luxury they thought never to possess." At the end of the day, Legion was weary and heartsick, his soul burdened by the plight of those to whom he could give no land. He looked into the eyes of those he'd had evicted from land the Temple desired and knew these people hated him as much as they hated the Domination. "You can't blame them, Legion," Teal said softly when one woman spat at Legion's feet as her home was being torn down. "Some of them have lived in these places, hovels though they may be, for generations." "I don't blame them. I blame me, you, and all the others who fought the rebellion and lost." The two men were walking alone, the guards having trouped to a tavern to while away the remainder of the day. The inn where Legion and Teal were lodged was crowded with Temple guests and neither man wanted to be near the Domination's sycophants.

They had taken their evening meal at a small tavern whose inhabitants had fled as soon as they realized who the two men were. "I think you scared them away, du Mer." Legion chuckled, but he was hurt deeply by the rejection. Many of those who had rushed from the tavern had cast him a murderous look. "Nay, Sire," Teal grunted. "They must have heard you were planning on giving a concert this eve. That's enough to scare the bejimminy out of the staunchest warrior." Legion snorted as he threw a leg over a chair and sat at one grimy table. "What's it to be?" the tavern keeper asked. "Ale, mead, or a piece of advice?" Legion thought to quell the man's rudeness, but the barkeep was leaning on the bar, his chin propped in his hand, smiling. "Advice about getting the hell out of your tavern before we're poisoned?" Teal snapped, his hand on the dagger at his hip. "Advice about a meeting I'm thinking Lord Legion should attend." "It's King Legion, fool," Teal grated, "or haven't you heard the news out here in the sticks?" "Ain't but one king of Serenia to my way of thinking, and I'm reckoning one day that one will be sitting on the throne at the Palace of the Winds." "And who would that be, friend?" Legion inquired. The barman shrugged. "Prince Coron, or Prince Dyllon. I never did know which was the oldest. The man lifted his apron to polish the top of the bar. "Coron is the oldest," Legion said, getting up to walk to the bar. "Rumor has it the two young princes died during the rebellion. Do you know something I, as their uncle, do not?" The barman chuckled. "You know as well as I them two be safe with their aunt in Chrystallus, Lord Legion." He locked eyes with Legion. "Just as you and I know there be men willing to fight to put a McGregor on the throne." Legion quirked one brow. "And say you do put a McGregor on the throne, what then?" The man lowered his voice. "Go to the crossroads to the north, Milord. Take the road to Edenson. Just a'fore you come to the cromlech marked Beliech Aschendaie, there is a pathway through the grass. Follow that path to the clearing. There'll be men there this evening." "To cut our throats and take our purses," Teal scoffed. "Do you take us for bumpkins?" Legion held up his hand. He searched the barman's eyes. "What's to keep your men from murdering us, friend? We're strangers to your town. We could be Tribunal spies for all you know." The tavern keeper smiled. "You are his brother. His memory is as dear to those of us who were there that day in the courtyard as it was before the Tribunal took him from us." He gripped Legion's forearm. "You say his name, Lord Legion, and not a man at the meeting place will challenge you." Legion looked at the hand on his arm. Slowly, his gaze lifted to the barman's. "That's the ancient symbol." Teal came over to the bar and craned his neck to see what was on the barman's hand. His eyes widened and he turned to exchange a look with Legion. "Aye, it is the mark of the Dark Overlord," the barman said quietly. Teal grunted. "No one believes those old wives' tales." "I do," Legion stated as his gaze returned to the twin crescents tattooed on the barman's hand. The two lines bisected so they resembled a bird in flight.

"Say his name when they ask who you be and I guarantee your safety. They'll be waiting for you, Lord Legion." "You're a bigger fool than…" Teal began, but Legion grabbed Teal's arm and started pulling him toward the door. "You aren't serious!" Teal gasped, stumbling along. He pulled his arm free. "We aren't going out to that—" "Shut up," Legion snapped, venturing into the night. "Legion, for the love of Alel! We're walking into a trap." "I don't think so." "Why the hell not?" Legion turned to Teal. "Any man who would dare to have a tattoo of the Black Ascendancy on his hand where a Tribunal guard can see it is one helluva brave man." "He could have had that tattoo since before the rebellion." "He could have, but I don't think so." He lowered his voice. "I have heard rumblings of a resistance outside of Serenia. This could well be it." "The Dark Overlord is a myth. You really don't think a godlike creature is going to hop down from the heavens and lead us out of bondage!" "But we may one day have a man with the courage to do it." Teal stared at his friend of so many years, almost plucking the thoughts from A'Lex's head. "If he'd lived," Teal said, finishing the thought. "If he'd lived." The two stood in Jedry's dusty street for a moment more, then turned toward the North. An hour later, they came upon the cromleck whose Ionarian name was translated into Black Ascendancy in Serenian High Speech. Without a word, they took the path cutting through the tall grass. As they came to a clearing, an unseen speaker's voice broke the stillness. "Who be ye?" "Legion A'Lex and Tealson du Mer," Legion answered. "Who sent ye?" Legion straightened his shoulders. "Conar McGregor." From out of the tall grass, men ventured forth, most with pikes or rusty broadswords clutched in their fists. Scarves covered their faces, revealing only their eyes. One man came to stand before Legion and Teal. "It is in his memory we have gathered." Legion smiled, recognizing the barman's voice. "And it is in his name we ask to join you." "Welcome, Lord Legion. We are the men of the Dark Overlord of the Wind." *** Legion was in Ionary for more than five months. In service to Tohre, he traveled from Jedry to the capitol at Derbenille where, at the keep of Ravenswood, he was passed in secret a roster of cities throughout the seven kingdoms where the Dark Overlord's men could be contacted. "This will be vitally important to Brelan when he returns," Legion told Teal. "He can contact these men and perhaps we can find a way to overthrow Tohre and his bunch." Teal did not reply. He doubted any bunch of ragtag farmers and shopkeepers could do what princes and warriors had not been able to do during the rebellion.

Upon arriving home to Boreas, Legion had a surprise waiting for him. He was stunned to find his wife big with child. "How?" Legion gasped. "I believe it might have been something I ate," Liza said with a serious face. "Or perhaps something you ate. I can't remember which." Legion threw his arms around his lady. "By the gods, you knew when I left, didn't you?" "Aye, but I knew you'd worry so I didn't tell you." Easing away from him, she looked into his bearded face. "I did not know the negotiations would keep you so long from my side." "You could have sent word and I would have been home quicker." Liza did not tell him she doubted Tohre would have allowed him to return sooner. Instead, she laid her cheek against his wide chest. "I am so glad you are here." Legion tensed. "You are well, are you not?" he asked, his heart suddenly pounding. "But I have missed your arms and needed your body beside me in our bed. I do not sleep well when you are away." "I'll not leave again," he swore, and as he did, he felt the babe move against his abdomen. He drew in a quick breath and looked down at the mound of her belly. "It will be a son," he said, his gaze shifting to her face. "Perhaps." "It will," he said with conviction. "We will have a son." Her love gleaming in her eyes, Liza stroked his dear face. "If that is your heart's desire, how can the gods not make it so?" Legion again pulled her into his embrace. Never had he known such overwhelming bliss. "There is much I have to tell you, Liza. You will be heartened at what I have found in Ionary." *** "You have a son," Cayn told Legion. The Serenian healer's face beamed with pleasure. "And a lusty son at that!" For a moment, King Legion A'Lex's throat closed up with joy. "Is she all right?" "Our lady is fine." Cayn put a heavily wrinkled hand on his monarch's shoulder. "What will you name your new Prince?" "She's chosen Jarad, I think." He grinned. "Can I see her?" "She is sleeping, but go on in. If you wake her, I'll pluck out the hairs on your beard, one by one!" He laughed. Gezelle opened the door for Legion as he scratched lightly on the panel. Her face was tired. "She had little trouble, Highness." He patted the girl's cheek. "And when will we be seeing the little one you carry?" Gezelle blushed. Her marriage to Sean Cruise, a Chalean in Legion's personal guard, had been a spur of the moment union. Both lonely, neither with a family, they had rushed into marriage. A month later, she'd found herself with child. Although she was fond of Sean, her real affections had been taken long ago by a man she knew she could never have. Prince Chand Wynth of Oceania. When she learned Chand had been taken to the Labyrinth, Gezelle had been inconsolable for days. Meeting Sean a few weeks later, having him flirt outrageously with her, court her with such single-minded purpose, had gone a long way in helping her deal with Chand's predicament. "Soon enough, I would imagine," Gezelle said, patting her rounded belly. "Sean keeps asking every day when hisson will be joining us." "I know the feeling, Madame!" "He's picked the name Petra." She frowned, then shrugged. "But we'll call him Christos."

Legion laughed. The child, if a boy, would be named whatever this stalwart girl wanted him to be named. "Would you tell Marsh to send word to Ivor to let Teal know he's a new god-uncle." "He'll be pleased." She turned to go, then thought of what she had wanted to ask for more than a week. "Has there been any word from Lord Brelan?" Legion shook his head. "Give him time, 'Zelle." "I worry about them." "One in particular, I would think." Gezelle's face turned red. "Aboutall of them, Highness." She sniffed when she heard his snort of disbelief. "Stop teasing her, Legion," Liza said as he closed the door. His face lost the smile that had been hovering over it. "Did I wake you?" "I wasn't sleeping. Have you seen him, yet?" She tried to push herself up. "No, you don't!" He pulled the covers up to her breasts and sat beside her. "You are to rest." "Have you seen him?" she repeated. She laid her hand on his cheek. Legion turned his lips into her palm. "Not yet." He looked up at her through the heavy sweep of his lashes. "My loving thanks for our son, Milady." " 'Twas my pleasure, Milord." Legion claimed his wife's lips with a sweet, tender caress, pulling back to gaze into her warm green eyes. "I love you." Her lips were warm against his own. "As I love you." "Forever?" he teased, easing the back of his hand down her flushed cheeks. "And a day." In the distance, a ragged bolt of lightning sped to earth and a mighty echo of thunder shook the windows of the King's Master Suite.

Chapter 3 Holm looked at the saucy tavern wench who brought him ale. He let his attention wonder down her neatly turned backside wiggling beneath the scarlet skirts of her dress and over her more-than-ample cleavage. "Good tips tonight, sweeting?" he asked, smiling. The woman's ageless eyes leapt to his; her red lips formed a teasing pout. She looked him up and down and apparently liked what she saw, for her pout stretched into a seductive smile. "Depends on what kind of tips you mean, Captain," she said saucily, one shapely brow raised in challenge. Holm laughed, sending her a hardy smack as she swayed past. He felt a tightening in his groin the instant he touched her and drew back his hand as though he had been seared with a red-hot flame. His manhood reminded him that he was still very much a man and that it wouldn't mind bedding the wench, but the controlling part of him brushed away such a passing fancy, for Holm's wife was as dear to him as the air he breathed. And just as necessary. In the years they had been married, and that numbered some thirty-odd now, he had never once strayed from his lady or the vows

he'd made on his joining day. Women like this beauty were a copper a dozen; women like his Mary were few and far between. "You'd better keep her, then," the wench said as though she had read his mind. Holm stared at her as she walked away, peering at him over the perfection of one creamy shoulder. "What time be it, Cap'n?" Gilbert Tarnes asked, wiping his mouth on the already dirty sleeve of his tunic. Taking out his pocket watch, Holm squinted to see the numbers. Damn, he thought with frustration, it was getting harder and harder to see the thing anymore. Old age had many disadvantages—losing your eyesight was among the most aggravating. He sighed and replaced the watch in his vest pocket. "Quarter past seven. Three hours to sailing." "Not soon enough for me." Tarnes, first mate of theBoreas Queen, sniffed as he looked around the alehouse. Holm smiled. "In a hurry, are you?" "You might say so," another young man answered, grinning. "He's yet to be blooded," another man remarked, tousling the young man's hair. Holm marveled at the resemblance between the two men. Wyn Luz could have passed for Coron McGregor's brother instead of his nephew. Despite the dark brown dye hiding the bright blond of his hair, and the deep tans the sea had granted them, the two were still stamped with the indelible McGregor lineage; it was a wonder no one at the alehouse had noticed. "We do have enough men?" Wyn asked. Holm sighed and answered, as he had many times before. "Aye, brat. We have enough." A crew was already on board theBoreas Queen. A hand-picked crew who knew where they were going and why. A crew loyal to Holm, but even more importantly, to the McGregor family. "I win!" a cheerful voice called from the next table. Holm swung his gaze to where Dyllon McGregor was sitting with three of the other crew members, one of them Andre Belvoir, former Master-at-Arms of Norus Keep in Serenia. Despite the dark brown dye, a rather rakish black eye patch over his perfectly good left eye, and the juice of many mulberries used to darken a skin that refused to darken naturally with the sun, Dyllon did not look like the sea pirate he thought himself to be. Instead, he looked, Holm reflected, a little like a child at play. His one unconcealed blue eye twinkled as he raked in his winnings. "Boys must be boys," Coron said dryly. "You do have the charts?" Wyn asked, drawing Holm's attention. Holm could have turned the boy over his knee and fired his backside. "Aye," he mumbled, patiently, remembering whose boy this was. "I have the sea charts that will lead us through those treacherous coral reefs you been worrying about since you came on board. And aye, I have the necessary additional instructions needed to decipher them charts, and aye, I have all the other necessary instructions your uncle, Lord Brelan, left with me." He looked at the boy from beneath shaggy white brows. "Any more useless questions you need to be asking?" Wyn blushed and turned to his uncle Coron, who looked at him with a blank, carefully bland, gaze. "No, sir." "Good!" Holm snarled. "Then be done with your questions, lad!" "It's the waiting that's getting to me," Wyn confessed, red-faced and sheepish as he glanced up at Mister Tarnes' snort. "You've never been one for patience," Coron reminded him. Holm tipped back his tumbler of ale to drain it. He slapped the tankard on the table and wiped the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Seems to me," he said as he folded his arms over his wide expanse of chest, "that none of you younguns have much in the way of patience."

Dyllon laughed as he joined them, tossing his winnings in his palm. "Must be a family trait!" Looking at the three young men sitting across the plank table from him, Holm couldn't help but remember another youth who'd had such a minimum of patience. The youngest of these three bore an uncanny resemblance to that long-gone youth, and was, in fact, that man's son. Looking at Wyn was like looking back in time. The son was almost as old as the father had been when the young Prince had come to Holm's daughter's aid. "What's wrong, Captain?" Wyn asked. "Nothing!" Holm snapped, looking away from the probing blue eyes that were identical to Conar McGregor's twinkling azure mirth. Coron glanced at his brother; Dyllon smiled back sadly. Both men knew of whom the captain had been thinking. It was hard not to think of Conar when his son bore such a resemblance to him. It was sometimes difficult not to call Wyn by his father's seldom-heard name. "We have business to see to, men," Holm said, coming to his feet. "Best we be about it!" Coron felt an unease he couldn't rid himself of. "They'll be giving you no trouble," one of the patrons at a nearby table called out. He came unsteadily to his feet and hitched up his belt, jabbed a thumb into his scrawny chest. "Most of them be like me, ex-inmates from the colonies. They know when to let well enough alone." "Aye," came scattered replies. "The rest," the drunk added, looking about as though taking measure of the room, "couldn't give a rat's arse what happens to the likes of ye." Coron wasn't so sure. The McGregor line had more than their share of enemies. If any of the men recognized them, it could be over before it began. Few men were looking their way, and those who were, glanced hastily away as his eyes challenged them. He and Dyllon and Wyn had spent these last years in Chrystallus with their aunt Dyreil, but the three had firsthand knowledge of what had been done to the royal families of the Seven Kingdoms. If the Tribunal had spies among these men, the game would be up. If the Domination could get their hands on them, the last of Conar's true bloodline would be extinguished. "Don't ye be worrying, Your Grace," a man called from the back of the tavern. "We ain't seen ye." "Seen who?" another called. "Them fellows from theBoreas Queen." "Did she sail in here? I ain't seen her. Have ye?" Around the tavern, "Nays" were voiced. It would take four to five weeks to sail from Haelstrom Lighthouse, where their ship was docked, to the entrance of the sea tunnels leading to Tyber's Isle. It would only take a week's sailing to reach Boreas Keep. If any man here so wished, a message could be sent before anyone knew, but from what Coron was hearing, and seeing, there was a slim chance that they would be betrayed. "I thank you," Coron told them. "We all thank you," Dyllon added. "The Wind be at your back, young brothers of the Wind," the tavern wench called. She turned her seductive smile on Wyn. "And at yours, lady." He grinned, blowing her a kiss as they left the tavern. Under the smoky haze of the tavern's torchlight, her slender, caramel-tinted hand swept up to fling back a long lock of blue-black hair over her slim shoulder. Red lips stretched into a fine line and a pink tongue came out to lick at the moisture above the graceful arch of a sensual mouth.

"What does a man have to do to get ale around here?" one of the remaining patrons shouted. The woman turned to the speaker; the glint in her eyes could have started a fire in a wet pile of rags. She exaggerated the swing of her shapely hips as she made her way to the bar. She scooped up a tankard of ale and walked seductively to the man's table and leaned over him, giving him a good look at her cleavage. "All you have to do is ask," she said in a smoky voice before she poured the ale in his lap. Laughter and bawdy comments followed her as she made her way to the taproom. She glanced back at the poor drunk whose breeches she had soaked and gave him a sly wink. "That should cool you down!" she purred as she slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind her. Leaning against the portal, she peered into the pitch blackness of the room. "Are you there?" she whispered. "Aye," came the soft sigh of a hidden wind. "Keep them safe, Great Lady." "I shall." The wind moved, icy-chill, through the room and swirled about the scarlet skirts of her low-cut dress. "Are you ready, Raphaella?" "Aye," she answered. "Bring him home again." Raphaella had come to this place to be near these men at this particular time in history. She had ventured from World's End to grant her blessings on the men who would bring the future back to the Seven Kingdoms. She had materialized here to keep the young princes—Coron and Dyllon—safe, their identities hidden from the Tribunal. As her earthly body began to dissolve into the black mist of the room, she bestowed one final rune upon the men. A silver light flared brilliantly in the darkness, then vanished, leaving the sweet scent of lavender in its wake, the only remainder of the lady to whom Brelan Saur had once been Sentinel.

Chapter 4 Roget du Mer sat on the edge of his cot and watched the doorway. It was later than usual for Conar to have returned from the rock field. "Could Brelan have called for him?" Chase asked. "That's probably where he is," Rylan Hesar said. "All of you, get to sleep!" Shalu mumbled. " I can't rest with all your mumbling!" Roget, resenting Shalu's harsh bass grumbling, stared at the rough timber beams overhead. He was uneasy and he didn't know why. He wanted to casually saunter over to Brelan's hut, but there was a guard posted near his own hut and questions would be asked if he got up in the middle of the night to check on Conar's whereabouts. "I gotta piss," Chand announced, ignoring the mumbles his enlightenment brought the others. As he passed Roget's cot, he bent close. "I'll look around." Jah-Ma-El threw back the covers and turned on his cot, trying to get comfortable. He, too, felt an unidentifiable unease. But he felt uneasy every time Brelan made one of his unscheduledcalls for Conar. It was so the brother's could talk, so Brelan could try to undo some of the damage Conar's internment had caused him. But the guards and inmates who hated the young Serenian Prince joked with vulgar innuendo about the overnight stays in Saur's hut. "He gave it away to them priests at that monastery, I hear!" a guard had blabbed, starting the rumor. "Guess he's

giving it to the Chief Warden, as well!" Jah-Ma-El ground his teeth. Brelan had done nothing to squelch the rumors even though Roget and Grice had tried to warn him that such talk was getting out of hand. "If they think he's my…" Brelan's face had turned bright red with anger or embarrassment, "my…property, then maybe they won't dare try to hurt him." "Careful, Bre," Chase warned. "If they think he's available—" "I can take care of my brother!" Brelan snarled, ending the discussion. Jah-Ma-El hoped so. *** Arch-Prelate Kaileel Tohre woke from a terrifying nightmare. Perspiration drenched his white-blond hair; his pale eyes stared wildly from the sunken depths of the bruised sockets. His skin had turned a pasty yellow and sweat, soul-smelling and slick, rolled in waves from his body, oozed from every pore. He clutched the quilt stared into the night. His hands trembled. His entire body ached, quivered in fear. He ran one hand over his face and felt the long, pointed nails scrape across his skin, but it was the pain in his mind, not the pain on his flesh, that caused him to gasp with agony. He clutched his belly, bringing his knees up to his chin, holding his legs as if he was trying to conceal himself in the smallest space, but he felt his legs, his body moving of its own accord. His legs and arms shot out. He flipped onto his belly, grasping the sheets, shearing off each of his long nails as he drove his fingers into the material. He dug his toes into the mattress, pushed himself as far up in the bed as he could go until his head was pressed firmly to the headboard. He felt something tight around his wrists, his ankles. A wild keening came from his parched throat before it was choked off as though a hand had been placed over his mouth. Kaileel turned his head to the blowing, gusting snow beating against his window and he shivered. He was naked, colder than he had ever been. His entire being felt numb, detached from his existence. The beating of his frightened heart came in heavy rhythm to his labored breathing. He felt something hot, something moist move over him, pinning him to the bed. He threw back his head, screaming against the confinement covering his mouth. "No!" His teeth clenched into the fabric of his dream with impotent rage. He flung a curse across the distance that separated him from his enemies. Piercing agony shot through Tohre. His long hair whipped back and forth on the satin pillow. "Don't!"he screeched as another ripping pain gripped him. He bellowed in anger and fear and disgust. Another pressure settled on him, and another, and another, and another. His scream rent the night and hung like the death knoll of an obscene bell: "Conarrr!" *** Brelan awoke with a start, gasping for air, his arms gripping his pillow for all he was worth. He had been dreaming of Elizabeth. He trembled from head to toe, feeling as though he were drowning, suffocating beneath a thundering mass of tumbling, swirling waters. He heard his blood pounding in his head and instinctively realized such a sound would account for the resemblance to rushing waters. The pillow had felt like the lush curves of the woman he loved. Staring at it, he felt a loss so great, he flung the offending object as far across the room as he could. "Hell!" Brelan spat, and got up. He ran a nervous hand through his thick crop of brown hair, tugging at it as though the slight physical pain would wipe out whatever had frightened him. Mentally shaking himself, he poured a tumbler of water, making a sour face as the tepid liquid clogged his throat as he swallowed. By the gods, but the spring water tasted like brimstone!

He walked to his door and opened the portal, looking into the wild blaze of dawn creeping over the tallest bluff. It was going to be another scorching day. In Serenia it would be winter and snow would be falling. Here, it would be hot, sticky, and dry. No matter how long a man stayed in this desert hellhole, he never got used to the days of blazing sunlight and the nights of chilly blackness. A movement at Roget's hut caught Brelan's attention. Conar was framed in the open doorway, in profile. He was simply standing on the threshold. There was a slant to his shoulders that hadn't been there of late and the blond head was bent, the long, shoulder-length hair covering most of his face. Brelan saw no guards. Conar had no business being out by himself. A special chamber pot had been placed near his cot so he could not leave the hut once he was inside for the night. Brelan was about to call out, in the appropriate harsh and nasty voice, when he saw du Mer speaking with Conar from inside the hut. "Dammit, du Mer!" Brelan snarled, "You know better!" Someone could see and report it, and Conar would be the one to suffer. Brelan ground his teeth as Roget reached out to touch Conar. He sucked in his breath, opened his mouth to shout, then stopped as Conar cringed away from the offered contact. Roget made eye contact with Brelan. He held up his hands in confusion. He stepped inside the hut and let Conar enter. Brelan knew something was wrong. He yanked his shirt over his head as he stepped out of his hut. Mindless of who saw him, he headed straight for du Mer's hut. He came up short as he saw men clustered around Conar's cot. Placed apart from the others, the cot was off limits to everyone. Now, all who lived in the hut, plus several who didn't, surrounded it. "What's happened?" Brelan pushed Thom and Storm aside. No one answered, only moved silently out of his way so he could get to Conar. "What?" His head felt light and there was sweat in his palms. A jagged finger of fear seemed to scrape down his spine. Conar sat on the edge of his cot, head lowered, fingers twitching. A livid bruise marred his right cheek; his lower lip looked swollen. "Look at his wrists, Saur," Roget said. Hunkering before his brother, Brelan lifted Conar's wrist. "Don't!"The one word had been spoken quietly enough but had the authority of a shout. Brelan looked up at Chase Montyne. "Why not?" "Just give him time to adjust." Brelan eyed his brother's wrists, studied the red, chaffed lines on Conar's flesh. "Rope burns." "On his ankles, too," Sentian told him. Brelan went livid with rage. "Where's he been?" "We thought he was with you," Rylan Hesar answered. "Didn't any of you think to find out for sure?" "It would have looked suspicious if we had inquired," Roget answered, flinching as Brelan turned a stony stare his way. "When he didn't come back until now—" Paegan began. "He's been gone all night?" Brelan felt pure terror. "I want to know what happened!"

Shalu sat alongside Conar, his massive bulk making the cot's rope plaiting shriek with protest. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Brelan snapped. Shalu silenced the younger man with a tilt of his hawk-like nose. Giving Conar time to adjust to his nearness, Shalu didn't make any attempt to touch him. Instead, he kept his head down, aware every nerve in the room was stretched thin. At last, he sighed. Then in a firm voice, a voice no one in the room had ever heard come from his rumbling throat—a tone as soft as though telling a bedtime story—he spoke to Conar. "They want to see us crippled, to crush our spirits, to dehumanize us, to turn us into animals. We can't afford to let that happen. If we do, that means the bastards who put us here have accomplished what they set out to do." Shalu laid his large hand over Conar's, who flinched, but didn't withdraw. The Necroman drew Conar's fingers into the protection of his huge black hand. "No one should have to go through the things you have gone through. And no one can feel the pain you are feeling now, but there are sixteen men here who will help you get through it. They will help make it bearable. They love you. They respect you. They are loyal to you. There is nothing that has been done to you, or that will ever be done to you, that will change how we feel. "We know you're hurting. You were hurt and we are hurt for you. It doesn't matter what they did to you. What counts is that you get on with your life." "We're here for you," Chase whispered. "We understand," Jah-Ma-El added. "Look at me," Shalu ordered. Slowly, Conar turned his face toward Shalu. He didn't seem aware of anyone else. "Your Grace," Shalu said, ignoring the slight gasps as he spoke the forbidden title, "it hurts me, as it does every man here, when you won't look at us. If anything, we should be the ones to show you such respect." The Necroman's voice broke with emotion. He was unaccustomed to showing deference or humility to another, but he had never met a man who deserved it more. The sad eyes lifted, wavered, then held. There was such misery etched in the lonely face that Shalu felt the sting of tears. "Shalu?" Brelan whispered, his gaze on his brother's breeches, at the juncture of the thighs where a bright red stain had formed. "Who did this to you?" Shalu asked. It was a whisper, fleeting like the wind. "Lydon." Shalu moved his fingers to the chaffed burn on Conar's wrist. "Any others?" Conar nodded. "How many?" The Necroman stroked the ravaged flesh, patted it lightly, lovingly. "Don't remember." The answer was almost inaudible and terribly ashamed. Shalu eased his arm around Conar. "It would help if we knew who they were," he said in a soft, caressing voice, feeling the jerk of the young man's body as he tried to shy away. Shalu firmly, but gently, gripped the slumped shoulder. "Was Marcus one of them?" Conar nodded. "Axon?" Again the miserable nod.

"Shelby and Herts and Briggs?" Tyne spat viciously. "Aye," came Conar's soft voice. Brelan was shocked to the core of his being. "Six?" Rylan's face was hard with rage. "All cronies of Lydon's." "Where?" Shalu asked. Conar shivered, his blood soaking the mattress. "The equipment shed…" "I want you to go with your brother," Shalu commanded. "Stay in his quarters." Conar looked at the Necroman. "You know what they did, don't you?" "I know." Shalu stood, easing Conar up with him. "You go with Brelan." Conar looked at the men surrounding him. He didn't seem to be aware of anything. "Go on with Brelan, son," Shalu urged, easing Conar into his brother's arms. He grasped Brelan's arm in a punishing grip. His voice was hard as steel. "This may be the one time when you're needed more than any other. Be careful what you do, what you say, how you say it. The wrong thing could destroy him forever." Brelan nodded, unable to speak past the anger and pain in his throat. He walked with Conar to the door, flinching at the way his brother moved, knowing Conar was hurting, but knowing he couldn't let anyone outside the hut see his concern. He let Conar cross the threshold, then with teeth clenched and fists doubled, Brelan moved ahead, making for the medical hut. In a near insane rage, Brelan spent the next twenty-four hours in his hut while Xander cared for Conar, relieved that his worst fears had not been realized—Lydon Drake had not done to Conar what Conar had once ordered done to Drake. "He could have, you know!" Xander fumed when he came to give Brelan a report. "He could have gelded him!" "Enough!" Brelan yelled, his hands itching to strangle Drake. "We'll get them. Every last whore's son of them! They didn't just rape him. They—" "I said enough!" Brelan covered his ears, flung himself on the bed, curling into a fetal position. "You can't hide from it! If you don't do something, they'll eventually kill him or push him beyond the point, where it won't matter if he lives or dies!"

Chapter 5 Holm lay in his bunk, praying to every god he knew that everything he and Brelan Saur had planned would be seen to its completion. As the ship drew closer to the wild tangle of deadly coral reefs blocking the entrance to the island, Holm began to fidget. His eyes constantly roamed the horizon, his ears listening for the change in the wind that was a sign the entrance was near. Tonight as he lay awake in the great cabin of his home away from home, he went over every detail again as though it was the first time. There could be no mistakes, no margin for error. Lives depended on it, even his own. Only once had they encountered trouble, three days before. There was no doubt in Holm's mind, as there was in some of his crew's, that they had sunk the prison ship, theBorstal,

a black-masted, black-hulled hell ship, as it made a deadhead run from Ghurn Colony. They had broadsided the bitch, laid her over, and not a survivor remained to tell the tale. Some of the crew had sworn they had seen a longboat rowing out to sea, but Holm knew better. When he aimed his guns at a ship, he meant business. TheBorstal lay at the bottom of the sea, her crew nourishment for the denizens of the deep. Holm chuckled. He'd gotten a good look at the captain's face, that son-of-a-bitch who ran theBorstal. There'd been fear in that face. It was a fear the bastard had no doubt seen on many a face he had carted off to Tyber's Isle. "I bet you would trade places, wouldn't you, you motherless ass?" Holm asked the dead man's screaming face as he remembered seeing it. Van de Lar put his hands behind his head and grinned at the swaying lantern in the center of his cabin. This was going to be the last trip for him. No more carrying goods halfway around the world; no more lengthy trips away from Mary and Jenny; no more lonely nights spent with a bottle, longing for the comforts of his seaside hut near Ciona. His old bones were starting to feel their age these last few months. He reckoned his eyesight was about useless for reading the sextant and such. Hell, he thought with a snort, he couldn't even read his pocket watch! He had almost convinced himself to retire before Lord Saur had called, needing him for this trip. Even if he'd retired, nothing in this world, or the next, would've prevented him from doing this in memory of the Prince Conar. Nodding, Holm lost his smile. There was one more thing he and his beloved lady, theBoreas Queen —that regal lady who had taken him many miles and put as many miles on him—had to do before he gave up the sea. "And we'll do it, won't we, girl?" he whispered to the creaking timbers. "It was our destiny." In the ship's hold was a special place reserved and respected by all on board. Scattered along the teakwood planking was a thin layer of Serenian soil laid for a special purpose. To cushion the coffin that held the mortal remains of that fine man who had been denied burial in his home soil. In loyalty to the McGregor family, Holm meant to see that coffin carried back to the shores of Serenia and laid to rest, secretly, on the seaside farm where he and his family lived. "Aye," Holm pledged to the heavens, "home where me and Mary and Jenny can see to him." The image of Jenny laying daisies on the Prince's grave brought tears to his eyes. "Home with us, Your Highness. I'll take you home with us." *** "If Lydon Drake comes anywhere near my property again, I'll kill him! Understand?" Appolyon looked at Brelan with an amused look of disdain. "What is all the problem, Saur? It's not as if the bastard has never been had!" There was a titter of laughter. "You do it all the time." Brelan leaned over the man's ornate desk and fixed him with what he knew had to be one of the fiercest sneers he had ever formed. In a voice deadly quiet, lethal with intent, Brelan explained. "If he so much as comes near him, I'll stake out Drake in the courtyard, gut him myself and pull out his innards, inch by inch. I'll stuff 'em back in and pull 'em out again and again until that son-of-a-whoring-bitch is nothing more than running mush!" Appolyon blanched. He managed to temple fingers that tried to shake. "I see." "I hope so. If Tohre finds out Conar was gang-raped, and you let it happen…" Appolyon's teeth clicked together. "I let it happen?" "You!"Brelan shouted, his face a flaming suffusion of fury. "He'll be kept away," the fat man stuttered, spreading his hands in apology. "I promise." "And those other maggots!" "Of course." Appolyon stood, following Brelan to the door. "Ah, there's no reason…that is to say, no urgent reason…to, ah, let Tohre know." His face crinkled in worry. "Is there, Lord Saur?" "Keep that mad dog away from my property!" Brelan slammed through the door. He shouted at a passing guard to have Conar brought to his hut as soon as the Healer was finished.

Appolyon slumped into a chair, fanned himself. He flinched as his door opened. "You let that worthless shit scare you, didn't you?" Lydon sneered. "Keep away from McGregor. I mean it!" Drake's lip lifted in taunt. "Wasn't it you who said I could have him?" Appolyon's hands covered his face. "No…no…" "You did! Now that it's been done, you ain't got the stomach to see it through." He glared down. "It was you who wanted him broken in, tamed, wasn't that what you called it? It was your bed you wanted him in, not Saur's." Drake looked out the window and stiffened as he saw Conar walking alongside a guard to Saur's hut. "Aye, well he be broken in, all right. I saw to that!" "Saur'll kill you," the Commandant warned. A dry, mirthless laugh twisted Drake's mouth. "Not if I kill him first!" *** Brelan nodded, giving the guard permission to usher Conar inside. "The Healer said he was still not healed properly." The guard's stare crawled over Brelan with distaste. "He said to leave him alone." Brelan bit his tongue to keep the humiliation and the denial from erupting from his lips. "Stay here," the guard said gently to Conar, then looked at Brelan. "I better not hear of nothing happening." Brelan lifted one thick brow in challenge. "I mean it," the guard spat through clenched teeth. "Them men will pay for what they did." "Get the hell out of here," Brelan ordered in as pleasant a voice as he would have used to coerce a virgin out of her burden. "I don't take kindly to threats and—" "Take your ass out of my room"—Brelan smiled—"so my brother can get to bed, or do you plan on him standing in the middle of the floor all night?" The guard's face colored with rage. Brelan pointed his sword at the guard's chest. "I appreciate your loyalty. However, if he is to be cared for in the way our King—your King—requests, you'll have to let me decide what rumors are flitted about concerning what goes on here. Rumors, I might add, that Lydon started." "I don't like you, Saur." "I'm supposed to care?" Brelan flicked his wrist; the laces of the guard's shirt fell away. A tiny flicker of life appeared in Conar's eyes. He turned toward the guard. Their gazes met briefly and the man saw no fear, only detachment. "Get gone!" Brelan said with exasperation, waving the sword. "You'd best remember me, Saur. My name is Daniel Pauley." "I'll engrave your name in the palm of my hand!" "Hurt this man, and I'll carve it on your heart!" The guard cast a look at Conar and left, slamming the door behind him.

Brelan tossed his weapon to the settee. He'd been warned about how to handle Conar and wanted to do what was best. He pointed to the bed. "Lie down, Coni." Conar moved obediently and sat down. He looked up to Brelan for further instructions. If someone had whacked him with a heavy meat mallet, it couldn't have hurt Brelan more than the one reflexive action that had been ingrained into his brother's tormented psyche. "I'm not going to hurt you, little brother." "I know…" "Then lie down." He watched as Conar stiffly stretched out on the bed. "You won't be comfortable like that, will you?" Conar drew his knees up to his chest, winced, and clasped his hands between his thighs. Brelan turned, tense and stiff, staring wide-eyed at the wall. He lit a candle and carried it to the bedside table. "Do you want to undress?" Conar violently shook his head. Brelan took off his shirt, tossed it to the chair and walked to the other side of the bed. He sat, pulled off his boots and socks and leaned against the headboard. He crossed his bare feet, wondered when he had picked up this habit of sleeping with his pants on, knew it had been since returning to the Labyrinth, and shook his head. One had to be ready at all times in a place like this. Going about with your bare arse waving in the breeze was a limitation a cautious man tried to avoid. He chuckled, felt Conar tense, and stopped. "I was thinking about when I got caught without my clothes at Sherind's. Remember? Over at Felias Spiel's farm? I'll bet my keep at Ciona that Sentian Heil doesn't know all there is to know about his sweet wife!" Deep laughter spread up out of Brelan's chest. "Wonder what that stiff neck would say if I was to tell him about the games Sherind taught me." "Better not tell…" Brelan nodded, pleased that his brother had spoken. "Wouldn't be wise, eh? You're probably right." Brelan yawned, and casually let his arm fall above Conar's bent head. His fingertips touched freshly washed blond hair and he was content to stroke the strands. "But it would do my heart good to tell him about that time when I lost my clothes." He moved his hand into the thick tumble of Conar's hair and watched his brother's lids close. He rested the palm on Conar's head. "Sleep, little brother…just sleep." After a while, he found himself staring into Conar's eyes. In that brief look, something revealed itself. Brelan recognized it as the certainty of a world gone suddenly, irretrievably to pieces for the man. It was all Brelan could stand. "It's going to be all right." Brelan drew his brother into his arms, and cradled Conar's head against his shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to protect Conar from the dark recesses that were trying to lay claim to his sanity. "I promise." The self-denial he had willed himself to endure was centered around Conar, along with the love he had denied his younger brother. It wasn't as hard as he thought to relinquish that part of himself he'd held captive. No one could help Conar but him. Love was the answer, would be the way to bring Conar out of his nightmare and into the soul-saving light. "We're going to leave this place and never look back," he said. "I'm taking you back to where you belong. We are blood—brothers." His arms tightened. "Two of a kind." Words from the past shot through Brelan like lightning. He heard them as clearly, saw the characters moving across the stage of his memory, as though he was watching a play. It had been a stormy day at Boreas. The three brothers—Legion, Brelan and Conar—had been to Ivor Keep and were trying to get back to Boreas before the storm could make roads impassable. Conar's horse had thrown a shoe. The boys had dismounted, hovering in a shelter of spreading live oaks to get away from the worst part of the lashing rain. Drenched to the skin, sneezing, furious that he would not be in time for supper, Conar had ranted that it was Brelan's fault.

"How?" Brelan, all of seventeen, had bellowed, hostile as he gazed at his antagonist. "It is!" Conar snarled in his heir-apparent voice. "You're supposed to see to these things!" "I'm supposed to see to your horse?" "You are, by birth, my servant!" Conar snapped with the arrogance of a would-be monarch. "Yourwhat?" Brelan lunged at his brother, knocked him to the ground in a free-for-all that had bloodied both boys' noses, along with Legion's. It was then all the trouble began. Brelan left Boreas, vowing never to visit again, as long as Conar was heir to the throne. "I'll never be that twerp's servant!" Brelan shouted. "The trouble with you two," Legion told Brelan years later, "is you're both cut from the same pattern. You've been fashioned from corduroy: tough and sturdy, rough around the edges when you get unraveled. Conar is sewn from fleece: smooth, strong, polished, yet durable, finely stitched together as a Crown Prince should be. You're just too damn much alike. Your faults are his, and his faults are yours." Brelan had known that all along, but refused to admit it. Conar had wrapped his world around Elizabeth Wynth, and when she had been forced from him, his life had been rent apart. The material of his world now lay tattered, dry-rotting in the arid wilderness of the Labyrinth. Brelan's world had revolved around his love for the same woman. The material of his life was coming apart at the seams, just as Conar's, and Brelan wondered if any amount of thread could ever stitch their lives together again. Aye, he thought, hearing Legion's words again. The patterns were the same: two lives cut from different clothes but coming unraveled in a similar way. Looking at Conar, at the purple bruise along the right cheek, the rope burns on the wrists, Brelan knew an insane rage that shook him to the very core. It hurt him so deeply he found it hard to breathe. What they had done to Conar, to his flesh and blood, they had done to him, as well. "I'll protect you, Conar," Brelan swore. "With my last breath, if necessary." Conar had been so numb, so deep in his own pain, he had forgotten about the danger to those who would dare show him a smattering of kindness. His memory suddenly returned. He pushed away from Brelan, rolled from the bed and stood beside it, swaying, wincing at his pain. His only thought was to put distance between him and Brelan, to protect his brother so he would not be dragged into the same quagmire of misery. "Come back to bed," Brelan said, gauging the reactions, the emotions flitting like wildfire across Conar's pinched face. "You need to lie down." Hopelessness played across his face, then fatigue, then loneliness, bubbled to the surface, then fear, confusion, and finally, total despair. All energy seemed to drain from him. Conar sat. All the light left his eyes, all the life from his tired body. He sat with the backs of his hands on his thighs, his head hanging. "Lie down," Brelan ordered in a voice both stern and fatherly. Conar looked over his shoulder. His voice was without inflection. "Let them have me. I'm not worth saving." Saur wanted to shout, to slam his fist into anything that would give, but he didn't. He put his hands on Conar's shoulders and brought him down to lie beside him, not putting his arms around his brother this time. His voice was measured, assured. "No matter what they did, they never touched what you truly are. No matter what theyever do, they can never make you any less a man." The blond head snapped around. The intensity of the blue gaze was probing, needing. "You still think I am a man…?" "They didn't geld you, if that's what you think."

"They might as well have." Conar turned his head, shutting out the earnest, warm affection looking back at him. "I'm sure as hell not a man anymore." "Tell me what to do, Conar. Tell me how to make it better." Conar wished he knew, but didn't. He hurt everywhere. He was spiraling into an abyss that loomed ever closer and only knew he didn't want to be sucked into chaos forever. "Lay down," Brelan encouraged. Conar tensed, then pressed himself as close to Brelan's as he could get. "Hold me," he pleaded, his gasping breath coming in heaves. "Just hold me!" Brelan gripped his brother. "I've got you." A violent shudder ran through Conar. He jerked up his head from Brelan's shoulder and stared blindly. "Tell me…about…home," he gasped, his voice strong, although hitching. "Home?" It was a word that made no sense to Brelan. He stared into Conar's suddenly bright eyes, saw desperation, felt the need. He swallowed. "Boreas? Shall I tell you about the mountains? About Mount Serenia and the snow? About how cold and crisp it is? And how sweet? Or what about the ocean? Shall I tell you about how blue it is? How when the sunlight hits the waves, they turn to silver and lace? What about the forests? The trees are greener than anywhere else. As green as emeralds. As green as…" He stopped, panicking at where his words had almost taken him. He veered off, knew Conar hadn't been fooled. "As…her…eyes…" came the gentle rebuke. "And the palace? Remember how splendid the Palace of the Winds is? The marble and the velvet, the gold and precious gems?" He felt Conar tremble, thought he was crying, but when he looked down, he saw the blue eyes dry, narrowed with pain. "I'll never…never see…her again." "That's not true." Brelan had felt a trickle of moisture running down the side of his naked chest, over his ribs and under his back, and he realized with a sinking heart that it wasn't sweat from where their bodies touched. Conar was desperately trying not to cry, and there was a silent, catching movement in his chest that was almost indiscernible. "It's all right," he said, smoothing the blond hair away from Conar's forehead. He placed a light kiss on the flaxen strands. A torrent of heart-rending sobs broke from Conar's swollen lips; his entire body shook from the depths of his grief. Tears. Hurt tears, angry tears, tears of self-pity, of self-doubt, of loneliness, emptiness, misery, hopelessness, burst from him like the walls of a collapsing dam. They were tears he had held for years, tears he'd not shed into filthy bedding, had been unable to voice, that were now being shed because they could no longer be contained. "Let it out," Brelan cooed, gently rocking him, holding his head as he wept, buffeting him as the hard shudders of grief and pain tore through Conar. "Let it all out." "I…love…you… Brelan," the wretched, breaking voice whispered. Brelan flinched. "I love you, too."

Chapter 6

Hern Arbra was released from the Indoctrination Hut. He stood in the glare of the hot morning sun and stared across the compound to where the other men had broken into small groups to eat their morning meal. His fists clenched as he searched for six men in particular. It had been too long now, he reminded himself. Too long that he watched Conar undergo abuses and degradation that had become a way of life. Du Mer and Jah-Ma-El had tried to make him understand that it was for Conar's safety to overlook petty torments he had been suffering. Hern no longer agreed. He had spent the last three days chained to the wall, his wrists bleeding, his gut seething with the injustices that were constantly being piled on his former pupil, and now this, this horrible thing that had turned Conar still as death. "I'll not let it happen again!" Hern bellowed. Foot tapping impatiently, Hern's eyes furiously darted around. He caught sight of Conar, standing in the hot sun. The boy looked weak, and they were making him scrub pots in the broiling sun! Hern's lips drew back in a grimace. The boy was too sick! Then, he saw them. Two of them, at least. They were standing together, laughing, talking, eating, scratching. They looked healthy. They looked clean. They looked… Hern growled. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails drove into the flesh. He glanced to the man he thought was guarding Conar. He recognized Herndon and knew him to be loyal to the McGregors. He nodded, looked back at the two men, who were now glancing toward Conar. One of them laughed. Insides boiling, Hern headed toward the guard standing a few feet from Conar. As Hern used a forced jovial tone filled with false camaraderie, all surrounding talk stopped. Every eye flew to where Conar was kneeling, scrubbing out a wash pot. "What harm would it do if he was to rest awhile, Herndon? Eat with the rest of us?" Hern asked when Roget, Shalu, and Sentian joined him. "He's been a bit under the weather." "Under something, I reckon!" one of the two men Hern had spied called. Hern ignored the jibe and the nervous laughter that followed in sporadic bursts. "Now, Arbra, you know he can't," Herndon said, uneasily, eyeing Hern's clenched fists that belied his smile. "Why don't you go get you a plate and forget about it?" "It's a mite hot, don't you think?" Hern's lips froze in a twitching grin meant to reassure the man of his good humor. "A brief lay down is all I'm asking you to allow him." "I'll lay down the pretty boy!" the guard who had made the earlier vulgar comment said. "Hern, go, now," Roget pleaded, speaking above the snide comments of the others. "You know Herndon can't allow him to rest. Don't cause trouble. You know what'll happen…" Hern faced du Mer. "I've let too much happen already." "I said to let him rest, Herndon," Hern ordered, his face losing its smile. Lydon Drake stepped out of the Commandant's hut where he had been having his morning meal in the luxury of Appolyon's bedchamber, and looked out over the men. He stepped off the porch, his grin wide. Hern grew louder with his comments. "Don't you think you and your family owe him a scrap of compassion, Herndon? Wasn't it your lady-wife who he helped get that job in the keep when her family was put off their land by one of Tolkan's kinsmen? Didn't he make your cousin David one of his Elite? Why don't you let him rest?" "I'll tell you why not," Drake shouted, pushing men out of his way. Hern turned, seeing the one man he hated almost as much as Kaileel Tohre.

"He's a slave. Not a prisoner, a slave! He was sent here to work, not be mollycoddled. Make one more remark about that little prick, and I'll work him into tomorrow night!" Lydon saw Conar making his way toward them and knew what the boy feared, and he knew the fear wasn't for himself, but for Hern. "Get that traitor back to work," he snapped to Herndon. "You got a lot to atone for," Hern said, quivering as he shoved Lydon's shoulder. Drake swung around, pushed Hern. "You want him whipped, buck naked? If not, keep your mouth shut and get the fuck out of my way!" Hern started forward, then felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun to look into Conar's eyes. "I can fight my own battles, Hern," Conar said. In that brief moment before Lydon Drake reacted to the breaking of the rule, Conar shook his head in warning, silently pleading with Hern to leave well enough alone. The words were not there, but the look, scalding Hern Arbra like burning pitch, said far more than words ever could. Herndon placed himself in front of Conar, not daring to speak to him. He reached out a hand to head Conar back to his work, and was shocked when the young man knocked it away. One of the two men who had enjoyed the side show caught Conar's arm and shoved him. Conar went down hard in the sand. There was broken pottery on the ground; Conar's hands scraped over the larger pieces. He grunted, then stared at his hand. Blood oozed over the torn flesh. "Look what you done!" one guard taunted. "You went and made him bleed again!" Hern roared forward, pushing men out of his way, heading for the man who had shoved Conar. Despite the shouts of guards and prisoners, Shalu's hands grasping for him, Hern plowed into the guard just as Conar struggled to his feet. "Hern, don't!"Conar yelled. Another guard kicked Conar, sending him crashing to the sand. He rolled, came to his knees and crouched, shaking his head from the impact of the kick. He swung his head, saw Hern knocking down the guards like dominoes. He tried to speak, but saw Drake going for the knife strapped to his huge thigh. Conar's eyes went wide with stark terror. "No!" Before he could pitch forward and impale himself on Drake's dagger, before he could save Hern's life, Conar watched in silent horror as Drake buried the knife in Arbra's broad back. Watched as it twisted viciously to the side before being withdrawn. Hern gasped, plummeted to his knees. Drake pulled back Hern's head, and sliced through the tendons and arteries in the big man's neck. Conar scrambled on all fours to reach Hern, catching him as he crashed hard to the ground. Conar managed to ease his old friend down on his side. He felt Hern's hand tight around his upper arm, holding himself up with what draining strength he possessed. Blood bubbled out of Hern's mouth and nose, sprayed Conar's chest as he tried hard to speak. A whistling sound came from the gaping cut across Hern's throat; blood poured over Conar's arm. Conar brought up a trembling hand to stroke Hern's now-white face. The roughness of his fingers bothered him as he tried to smooth the age crinkles around Hern's sad eyes. He was barely aware that he was crying or that his tears were mingling with Hern's. "I love you, son," Hern managed to whisper. Conar wished with all his heart that it was him who lay spreading blood into the hard red dirt. Death and dying had become a part of him, a way of life. But it always hurt. It always tore at his vitals with steel claws ripping, shredding each remaining bit of humanity from him. "You're my son, you know," Hern croaked. Conar's voice broke. "I know." He'd always felt that Hern was more father to him that his own had been. "I loved her as much as you love your lady. I loved her as much as I love you."

"I love you, too," Conar said, not really knowing what that word meant any more, almost positive it meant terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He felt Hern's grip on his arm tighten, then fall away. Hern's body sagged in his arms; Conar knew still another part of his life was gone. Gone, forever. With infinite care, he lowered Hern, cradling one big, strong hand. Roget and Shalu moved forward, intent on getting Conar away from Drake before there was additional trouble. But a guard's sword brought them up short. "Get up!" Sentian cautioned Conar. "Where the hell is Saur?" someone called. Conar felt a blade caress the side of his neck as though it were a lover's lips searching for the warmth of an artery. He felt a slight sting, a warm trickle of his blood, felt the blade slide shallowly across his flesh enough to scratch it, and barely noticed. "For the love of Alel, get up, Conar!" Grice warned. Conar looked directly at the man who had once told Conar he would find him, gut him. The same man who had held his head, staring into his eyes, while five men raped him, abused him. "Stay there," Lydon said calmly, staring at Conar with ill-concealed humor. "Get up, boy," Shalu warned. "Don't give him the satisfaction." "Shut up, nigger!"Lydon screamed. A guard pushed Shalu, blocking him from getting any closer. A sudden spark of defiance filled Conar's heart, one that had not been there since he had first come to this evil place. Lydon must have seen it, recognized it for what it was, for he caught Chand Wynth, putting the blade to the boy's throat and snarled his hatred. "Get up! I'll kill this little bastard if you don't!" Very slowly, like a jungle cat uncoiling its body, Conar got to his feet, his eyes locked on Lydon. "You want me, Drake," he said so quietly the men had to strain to hear. "Come and get me." Drake dropped the knife. He lunged at Conar, but the smaller, quicker man sidestepped out of the roaring man's path. Lydon went sprawling in the dirt. "Clumsy bastard!" Conar taunted. A quick smattering of laughter came from the prisoners, but it died quickly when they saw the murderous intent on Lydon's face as he spun around and glared at Conar. All sanity fled the beefy face, replaced with the vileness of an evil so rampant the man reeked of it. He sprang to his feet, bowled his head into Conar's stomach, sending the younger man onto his back. "Brelan Saur!"someone shouted as the two men rolled in the dust. Feet moved quickly aside, making room for the combatants. "Get him, Drake!" one of Lydon's cronies bellowed. "Beat the shit out of him." Conar got in a few jabs before Lydon's fingers closed around his windpipe. He struggled for air, but the unrelenting fingers were pressing the life out him. He's going to kill you, his inner voice warned. Stars filled his vision; his world went pitch black for an instant before returning to glaring white light. He looked up, gasping for air, as he saw Brelan dragging Drake off him, then he sank into darkness again.

Chapter 7

Two days passed before Conar was allowed to return to work. Not doing the heavy lifting he had been forced to do since being sent to the penal colony, but at odd jobs Brelan thought looked demeaning. It was on a Wednesday, just after dawn's first light, on the twentieth of March, that Brelan finally found a way to get Shalu and Conar together. "Hey, you! Darkie!" Brelan shouted and wasn't surprised to see Shalu turn immediate, lethal fury his way. "Help that fool with the Commandant's laundry!" Shalu glanced at Appolyon's quarters where Brelan stood beside the squat fat man. He lowered the pickax from his shoulder, leaning on it as the other men filed into the mines. "I am no washer woman!" "Do as you're told or I'll have your little puppet strung up on the whipping post!" Brelan snarled, hitching a thumb toward Conar. "That what you want?" "It's what I want!" Appolyon giggled and nudged Brelan in the ribs. Shalu hesitated, just as he thought he should. He snorted at Brelan's answering laugh and knew that laugh was genuine, not feigned. Saur was enjoying his predicament. The Necroman ground his teeth, made a mental note to avenge that laugh at a future date. He stalked to where Conar knelt beside the wash tubs, scrubbing the Commandant's laundry. "No talking unless you think the bastard ain't doing it right!" Brelan shouted as he and the Commandant walked into the command hut. It was all the permission Shalu needed. He tore off his shirt and threw it to the ground with a mighty show of disgust. He grabbed one of the Commandant's nightshirts and plunged it into a cauldron of steaming water. Though he appeared to be looking around to see if any of the other prisoners were observing his disgrace, in actuality, Shalu Taborn was looking for unfriendly eyes, gossiping tongues. Seeing only guards and prisoners loyal to their cause, he grinned. He hated to admit it, but Saur was good. "Today, we change the fate of the world, fledging," the Necroman said through clenched teeth as he rubbed the nightshirt on the washboard. He saw Conar start. "I don't understand," Conar mumbled. "You will." *** "Do you understand what it is I have been saying?" the Necroman asked as Conar mended one of the Commandant's tunics. "I understand what you plan to do, but I don't think I'm the one you need." Conar winced as he poked his finger with the needle. "How do women do this?" he mumbled and sucked away the blood beaded on his finger. Shalu leaned back in the sand and crossed his ankles. "Why don't you think you're the one?" Conar inspected the tiny prick on his finger, squeezing the flesh until it stopped bleeding. He was stalling for time and didn't look at Shalu. Despite Shalu's reassurances that no one was listening to or observing them, he couldn't shake the fear that had held him in its grip for years. His fear was an answer in itself to Shalu's question. There had been a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about defying authority. "I'm not what I once was," he finally admitted. "You were the Chosen One long before now. You arestill the Chosen." The black man squinted. "Does that bother you?" Conar shrugged, but he still would not look at his companion. "I believe you think higher of me than you should, that's all." Shalu uncrossed his ankles and sat up. "What makes you think so?"

Conar wished the man would stop talking. He didn't like taking chances. Additionally, his throat was unaccustomed to so many words coming from it and he was getting hoarse. But what hurt him, alarmed him most, was having to explain that he just wasn't up to leading the men from the Labyrinth once Holm arrived. "To do what you and the others have planned," he said, clearing his throat, "you need a strong fighter, a warrior. Someone who can lead and not be afraid of leading, who won't falter at the wrong time." He stuck the needle into the fabric and drew the thread through. Shalu felt a pain shoot through his heart. The boy looked so vulnerable doing work a woman should be doing. There was bleakness in the tortured blue eyes, a giving up that pained Shalu. "You are no longer man enough to lead other men. Is that it?" The boy's lids fluttered, what was left of the old pride. "Not anymore." "You have let them win." Conar turned to Shalu and held the dark man's gaze. "There was never a contest." "I see it is pity you want, not encouragement." Shalu felt satisfaction as Conar blushed a dull red and an alien line of anger formed around his tightly pursed lips. He'd finally struck a live nerve. "You're right, we need a man, not a sniveling coward." A stab of fury went through Conar. He clutched the shirt in his hand, mindless of the needle jabbing his palm. "I'm not a coward." "Then what are you?" "I… I'm not sure anymore." The blond head raised a fraction. "But I know I'm not a coward." "Then fight, boy! Help us!" He took hold of Conar's upper arm. "Lead us!" "How?" Conar croaked, his voice so scratchy it was giving him a headache. "I'm not strong enough." His eyes filled with tears. "I've let them make me weak." Shalu shook him as though he were a limp rag. "To have done otherwise might well have gotten you killed! To have fought them was to be punished. To see others punished, as well. Your concern for others does not make you weak! Knowing when to back down doesn't make you weak!" "But it doesn't make me fit to lead, either! You need a man ruthless enough to dare the gods themselves. I am not him!" Shalu's face glowed. There was finally fire in the boy's words, the first real anger Shalu had seen. The Necroman took a deep breath and aimed for the jugular. "You don't necessarily have to be ruthless to fight. Sometimes compassion is needed toward the enemy. Sometimes it is the gentle man who wins because he is the one with the most to lose.Or a man who has already lost everything." "Then I qualify in that respect." "You are the one destined to do this. Our god-chosen champion." "Then the gods had better help you find another. I can't." Shalu looked at him with contempt. "Youwon't!" "What the hell is it you think I can do?" A jolt of joy ran through the Necroman's veins. No longer was the boy furtively watching those milling about the compound. No longer was his head down. Gone was the fear of being caught. His fury was there in the way his voice rang out strong, despite the gruffness of seldom use. His ire was directed at Shalu, and hopefully, so was his full attention. "You have to be obedient to the will of the gods!" Shalu snapped. "They rule us, not the vulgar excuses of humanity in this hell-hole!"

"It was the gods who put me here!" Conar snarled, his anger flowing between him and Shalu like a sentient life form crackling in the still morning air. "Why? What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?" He dropped the shirt in his lap. "Tell me that!" Shalu schooled his face into a line of disdain. "You may regard your internment as a penance for all the transgressions and privileges you had prior to the day you were cast down from your former life of luxury and excess." "Is that why you are here?" Conar shot back, the old stamina and fighter surfacing after so many years. "I led no such life of waste and debauchery." "Then whyare you here?" Conar challenged, stung by the truth of Shalu's charges even though he knew that was not why he had been sent to the Labyrinth. A hard look came over Shalu's face. "Because of you." Conar's mouth dropped open. "You blame me for your being here?" "The Tribunal did not kill men and women indiscriminately. They were slaughtered like cattle, exterminated because of one man. Tohre led an internecine war against all who had ever been loyal to the McGregor line, andyou are the McGregor line!" A blaze of vengeance on Shalu's face turned it ugly with hate. "Those who were spared, were spared for a reason.You are that reason!" "You're out of your mind!" Conar threw away the shirt and tried to stand, but Shalu yanked his arm and pulled him down. "Why do you think the others are here? Grice, Chand, and the rest? All are connected to you! Most warriors from the palace guards and even your disbanded Elite were hanged, but not the men who were sent here. Why do you suppose they were not put to death? The others in their families were. Your children, all but the eldest, were slain. How do you account for that?" Conar stared. Why had no one ever mentioned this to him? His children? Dead? How could Legion have allowed it to happen? How could Liza? Shalu hurried on, needing to get past the horror of telling a man his children had been slain because of him. No one had wanted to be the bearer of such news, to tell him that his life had been so terribly devastated. Seeing the pure sorrow moving across Conar's face was hard to witness, and if it could have been avoided, Shalu would have done so, but his slip of the tongue could not be corrected. But he had to put Conar's mind where it needed to be. "Even if only the royal family heads were spared in each of the Kingdoms, why do you suppose the Tribunal deliberately overlooked Sentian? He was a Sentinel to your lady. Belvoir, he's still alive. He was Sentinel to the Queen of Oceania. Hern was your mother's Sentinel. Why did they let Storm and Marsh and Thom live?" He shook Conar. "Think, boy! Why did they let Legion and Brelan live? Teal du Mer? What use would they be to the Tribunal? "There was a reason each of us was spared. A reason each of us was brought to this place. And that was to be with you." Shalu gripped Conar's chin and forced up his head. "The Tribunal gave reason for sparing the royal Princes and myself. We are to guarantee our peoples' conduct. We are hostages. But that doesn't explain Roget du Mer or the warriors. Why would only those loyally connected to you survive? Why leave only those capable of helping you? Could it be that you needed an incentive to rise above all this, to crush the evil that brought you down? The Tribunal overlooked the warriors because the gods, Themselves, made it so!" Conar tried to pull away, but the hard hand tightened. "Leave me alone," "I'll not let you feel sorry for yourself any longer!" He gripped the tattered shirt and brought Conar's face close to his own. "Your children are dead! That can't be altered. But what you do about it, can! Will you let their deaths go unavenged?" "No," came the soft, deadly, heartfelt reply. "How good are you with a sword? As good as Tyne Brell of Chale?" "I don't know what the hell you—"

"Can you use a crossbow?" "Of course, but—" "Can you toss a javelin as well as I? World Champion ten years running?" "I don't give a—" "How about the boomerang? Can you throw the metal death-stars and caltrops like Rylan?" Shalu's face blazed as he became aware that his companion was paying attention. He came to his knees and leaned forward. "How well do you swim? As well as Paegan of Virago who learned to swim and dive in the cold, turbulent waters of his homeland? Do you run as well as Chand Wynth? Ride a horse as well as Sentian Heil? Do you have Thom Loure's way with animals? Can you cheat at cards and not get caught like Teal du Mer? Plan strategy as well as his brother, Roget? Wrestle as well as Grice Wynth or Legion A'Lex?" Conar stared at the Necroman, his mind reeling with the questions and insinuations the dark man was making instead of the grief that had been consuming him. A deep chuckle came from Shalu's broad chest. "How about diplomacy? Are you as well trained as Legion? Do you have the mathematical skills like Hern, have the ability to plan and execute missions such as this one like Brelan?" Conar thought he saw a flaw in Shalu's scenario. "Jah-Ma-El?" "Even that foul-smelling warlock has his place. He knows more about the Domination that any of us. He can teach a variety of things. The properties of metals, the uses of herbs and potions, plants and charms. He can divine water, read the stars. He can help you to bring out the magic that has been hidden dormant in you, Conar." Conar thrust out his palms. "They took care of my so-called powers!" Shalu held up his own. "Mine, too, but do you see me bitching and moaning? If the power can be given, it can be taken away. If it can be taken away, it can be restored!" He took Conar's hand and held up the palm. "Do you even know what this is that Tohre placed on you?" Looking at the raised scar in the center of his palm, Conar felt a moment of fear. He never looked at his hands. "The Seal of the Domination." "And do you know Chase Montyne has scars like this?" He watched Conar squint. "He does. It is a ban, this vile thing. A ban on your power and his and mine. It is a ban against the use of what powers we were born with and cultivated before we were sent here. But there is a way around it." "How?" Shalu laid his palm in Conar's. "Every sorcerer, including Jah-Ma-El—who, by the way, has never been targeted by the Domination—has had this accursed pentagram burned into his flesh. There is, I am told, another who had such a thing done to him, and yet he wields more power now than he ever did. But his power against the Domination is useless without yours." Conar could feel the brand touching his palm from so long ago and it hurt. "I don't understand what any of this—" "The Lady Elizabeth, your lady," Shalu began and saw the flinch of agony flit across Conar's face. "Together with her, your power was magnified beyond anything anyone or any being could equal. Without her, you thought you had little power, but when you fought Raphian on that mountain pathway, she wasn't with you. Was she? And when you fight him again—and believe me, you will—she may not be with you then. You never learned to use what was given to you at birth." "I was afraid to try!" "I know. She knew. She also knew your power was far greater than her own, and always would be. She tried to show you it wasn't the evil you thought it to be. This Seal was put on you so even the tiniest flicker of magic would be stopped. But together with this man you will meet, your power will be unstoppable!" "Why hasn't he found me before now? If he needed me to help him destroy Tohre and his evil, why didn't he seek me out?"

"Before now, you would not have understood what true evil could do. This man is the one who devised this pentagram. He used it to stop Tohre and Tolkan, but they turned it against him, instead, and sent him to a living death in this place. But Brelan broke him out when that boy was but twenty-years-old, Conar! Brelan took that man and two others from this place and got them to safety. Tohre doesn't know. He thinks that man is still here, unable to do anything against the Domination. Tohre thinks the disease of that pentagram has laid its inventor low. But if a man can invent a disease, can he not also invent the cure?" "Has he?" There was a light in Conar's eyes that had not been there for a long time and it rivaled the blaze in Shalu's. "He resides in the capital at Chrystallus. That is where Brelan aims for us to go until things can be arranged for us to return to our homes. To fight the Domination. It is fitting, don't you think, that one of the two kingdoms that have held out against the Domination is the place where this," he held up his palm, "will be taken away?" "And will this man do it? Can he? Will he give us back the power we need?" Shalu made a rude sound with his tongue. "Didn't you listen to anything I was saying, you little snot? All this was predestined years before either you or I were even itches in our fathers' crotches! All these men with unique talents have been gathered together in this place, at this time, alongside you, to do one thing. Teach you! Our journey to Chrystallus is just one more cog in the great wheel. A wheel that will roll over and crush the Domination once and for all!" "How can you be so sure?" "If Brelan is correct, in two to three weeks, that sea captain will dock at Tyber's Isle. The crew will trek through the hidden passages in the bluffs and will have weapons and manpower to overpower the guards and inmates. He says he was sent to bring back a certain number of men. I told him it would be three times that many, because that's how many men here are loyal to you." Shalu held out his hand, tightly gripped Conar's. "Come the day of reckoning, brat, there will be more than forty men leaving this pit for the snows of Chrystallus!" "You really believe that?" "That is the way it was destined to be. We stand and fight. Can you do that?" Conar stood and tilted one of the wash pots. He watched as the water flowed gray and thick from the cauldron. "I can only promise one thing." "And that is?" Conar straightened. "If the gods truly mean for me to leave this place and be the man to lead you, They will have to give me a sign." Shalu felt like knocking down the brat. "What kind of sign?" Conar shrugged. "A bolt of lightning on a clear day? Snow? How the hell should I know? As far as the world knows, I am dead. I feel dead, Shalu. I feel like a ghost. And a ghost can't fight, only a live warrior can. If you, or anyone else, can breathe life into me, Shalu, then I will do whatever you seem to think the gods have planned for me." Shalu watched him walk off. What would it take to bring the real spark of life back to Conar McGregor? He was like a lonely little boy, all false bravado, desperately aching to be reassured, but with no self-worth left in him. He wanted to be held, comforted, loved again, not shoved and tortured and tormented. How could they show him he was as much alive now as he was when had been forced into this living death? *** Appolyon sat with his fingers laced together under his chin, staring across the compound where Shalu and Conar sat. The two men were talking! The darkie even had a comforting arm around Conar's shoulder! The fat man opened his mouth to issue an order to have Conar thrown into the Indoctrination Hut for disobedience, but then he thought better of it. Saur was the cause. Saur and his damned interference! But to intervene in the forbidden conversation taking place across the compound might bring Saur's anger down on his head once more, and Appolyon wanted to forestall that at all costs. For a reason he could not explain, he was afraid of Brelan. Not just of the power the man wielded, having been given his position of Chief Warden of the guards by Kingly Edict, but by the alliance Saur hinted at between himself and

Kaileel Tohre. Appolyon feared Tohre more than anything alive. Or dead. If Saurwas on close terms with Tohre, he was a man to be cultivated, not made angry. That Saur was angry—furious—over Hern Arbra's death, had been apparent when he had burst into Appolyon's bathing chamber and shouted his rage. "If any of that rabble of yours ever dares to touch what is under control of the Tribunal again without my direct permission, I'll personally slice off his balls! I've ordered Lydon Drake to stand fifty lashes for killing Arbra and you'd better be glad that's all I'm giving your little plaything! I ought to have his asshole stitched closed!" Appolyon stammered an apology, not even knowing what the man was talking about. He promised not to interfere in Drake's punishment, even though he had no idea what Drake had done. His fat face screwed into a mask of subservience, recognizing noble anger when he saw it, and he begged forgiveness, yet he still didn't know for what. That had been a week ago. Now, as the fat man sat brooding, watching Conar—freshly bathed, shaved and barbered—sitting in what passed for a clean, although frayed, prison uniform of dark cord and pale blue cambric, watching the obvious flaunting of his rules by the darkie and Conar, Appolyon grew angrier and angrier. Saur had taken far too much upon himself. He had even arranged a funereal service for the dead prisoner! Something never before done in the Labyrinth. Appolyon wasn't even sure Saur had the authority he said he did. How dare a man thrown out of Serenia by the King make threats to the Commandant of the strictest penal colony! The little pig eyes glowed with hatred and the jowls fairly quivered with outrage. Lydon Drake would be of no use to him for several more days. The man's back was striped with whip marks applied diligently by one of the men Saur had brought with him, a burly old man named Korbit. There was no one else in the entire compound, save the man he was staring at, who met the Commandant's standards and tastes, and Appolyon seethed with inner need. Throwing all caution to the wind, he bellowed for someone to find and bring the ailing Lydon to him.

Chapter 8 Lydon could barely walk. His back was a mass of burning welts and cuts from the belt that had been used on him. He ambled through the door and stood, head bowed, more humble than Appolyon had ever seen him. "You wanted me, sir?" "Get a man you trust, one of ours, and have him take McGregor to the wine cellar. Tell him to have our young man pick out several bottles of good vintage." Appolyon's lip curled. "Being of the noble class, he should know what is a good year." Lydon stared at the Commandant, recognizing evil when he saw it. "You are planning something?" "A little surprise for our sweet prince." *** Mister Tarnes' eyes were glued to the leeward. He pulled on his month-old growth of whiskers and turned a wary face to his captain. "I don't know where the hell she came from," he whispered. "The boy just looked out, and there she be." Holm's face narrowed with worry. "This isn't the time of year for a storm, Mr. Tarnes," he agreed, watching the boiling black sky looming toward them.

"Ain't no storm," a voice said. Both men turned. Belvoir stood facing the oncoming rush of darkness. "That's hell-sent, it is." "If we can't keep a straight course through these reefs," Tarnes reminded his captain, "we'll wind up broken to bits in this tunnel." He looked out about a hundred feet in the water and could see lighter patches of blue. "I know," Holm snapped. He turned to Belvoir. "You've seen this kind of thing before?" "Once. On a mountain pass in Serenia." "Can't no storm be brewing up in the mountains like that there thing is!" Tarnes scoffed. "It can if it was brewed by the Domination," Belvoir said a bit louder, for the storm was bearing down and the wind was quickening. Holm looked to the three men of Conar McGregor's family. "Do we furl the sails and wait it out?" Coron shook his head. "If you do, that's no guarantee we won't be shipwrecked, is it?" Holm looked at Belvoir. "We'll keep up the sails and let the wind push us toward Tyber's." Belvoir nodded. "I have something that might help." He walked to the hatchway, dropping down the stairs. "We gonna run with this wind?" Tarnes was aghast. "Suicide!" "It might get us there sooner," Coron put in. "Where? To hell?" "Let her ride with the wind," Dyllon said. "I have a feeling it's what was meant to be." Belvoir limped toward them, held out a pouch. "I have something my lady gave me long ago. There were two like it once. Now, there's only this, as far as I know. Queen Medea said it was a protection if I should ever need it against Raphian." "Who?" Belvoir frowned. "It's that thing what brings them kind of storms." He remembered the evil he had seen long ago on a frozen mountain path. He could even smell the thing coming. He pulled the contents from the pouch and held it up to the others. "Hair," Wyn whispered. "Black hair braided with gold." He looked at Belvoir. "Is it theirs?" Belvoir nodded slowly. "Whose?" Coron asked. "My father's and Liza's," Wyn whispered. The warrior from Norus Keep held the braid up to the sky. "Protect us, Ladies," he shouted. "Defend us from our enemies. Harness this storm and turn it to our advantage." A wafting smell of sweet floral drifted past the men. Only one knew the significance of the sensual lavender, just as all Sentinels knew. Belvoir smiled. "Set your course straight for our destination, Holm. Unless I miss my guess, this wind wasn't just hell-spawned." Holm gave the orders and by the time the gale-force winds—sixty knots of screaming, blinding fury—hit theBoreas Queen and skipped her along the waters of the Straight of Savannah, Hern Arbra was being laid to rest in a shallow grave on Tyber's Isle.

Chapter 9 Gezelle brought the little girl's hair ribbons to her mother and shook her head. Brelan Saur's daughter wouldn't sit still to have her hair swept up into a ponytail. Gezelle clucked. "She's sure got the temperament of her Papa." Liza laughed and gave up trying to braid the thick black hair. "Go play with your brothers!" she told her child. Liza drew in a long breath. She felt so old of late. Tired and worn out. "You're worried," Gezelle commented. "We haven't heard anything for months. I would know if Bre had been hurt, but I can't feel anything about Grice, Chand, and the others." She lowered her head. "It's almost as though they no longer exist." "Don't say that!" Gezelle warned, a hurting fear running through her heart at the mention of Chand Wynth. Liza raised her head, was about to say something to calm Gezelle when she saw Robert MacCorkingdale coming through the library doors. She stiffened automatically, hating the High Priest with all her being. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice curt. Robert smiled, but his face, handsome as it was, was hard with ugliness. "His Holiness wishes to see you in the Temple, Highness. A most urgent matter, he said." He pretended to dust off the sleeve of his robes, a habit he had picked up from his mentor, Kaileel Tohre. "He would not have sentme, otherwise." Liza hated this man almost as much as Tohre. She didn't know why, but instinct warned her that he had been one of Conar's self-proclaimed enemies. "I don't suppose he told you why." "No, Highness, he did not." "Right now?" "He did say 'urgent.'" MacCorkingdale glanced at Gezelle, dismissing her. His pale gaze went back to his Queen. "Unaccompanied, of course." "Of course," Liza mumbled as she stood. "Are you to lead me to make sure I arrive?" Robert's chin came up and he grinned. "I don't care if you go or not." He bowed slightly and turned, walking the path as though he owned the garden. "He's a demon walking," Gezelle murmured. "Legion won't be back from Ivor until this evening. If I am not back by then, have him bring men to the Temple to fetch me." "You think Tohre would harm you, Milady?" "I would put nothing past that vicious beast." *** Kaileel Tohre was pacing the antechamber of the Temple's sacristy when Liza was ushered in by one of the acolytes. "You took your time!" he shouted. He grabbed at her hand as though she would turn and run. "We've no time to lose!" Liza tried to free herself of his vile touch, but he rounded on her, coming so close she could smell his sweat. "You came to me once and asked me if I felt a rift in the Veil!" he snarled. "I didn't then; you did. You don't now; I do!"

"What's this all about?" The Arch-Prelate's fingers tightened on her arm so painfully she gasped. "I can't do this alone. I can't save him from what's coming by myself!" "Who?" she said, a finger of fear crawling over her. "If we don't make entreaties to the Gray Ones, something is going to happen at the Labyrinth." Her mouth opened; her fear spread. The man was truly insane. His voice was thick, but it seemed rehearsed. "You sent what was left of my family to the Labyrinth. What do you care if something happens to them?" "Listen!" he screeched, yanking her arm. "I don't have time to chat, bitch! He could die if we don't intervene!" "Who?" she repeated, shouting. He hated her more than ever and gave her the planned lie. "Your brother Grice. I need him. I need them all to control the people left in their homelands. If something happens to them, there might be another revolt. Do you want another revolt, Queen Liza?" "No, I don't—" "Then, come with me!" He pulled her through twisting tunnels and under low-hung doorways, deeper and deeper into the inner workings of the Wind Temple. "Let go, Tohre," she yelled, twisting her arm to get free. She was suddenly very afraid of what this man might do to her. Or have done to her. He stopped and turned. "I have no plans to harm you. If somethingshould happen to you, there would be such a rebellion, such an overpowering death in this land, the streets would run red with blood." "You are mad, Tohre. One day your own kind will devour you." "If he dies, it won't matter." She stared into his pale, hooded eyes and saw something that startled her. Something flickered in the evil depths, some tiny coal burning, that had been human. "Please," he begged. "We can't waste time." Liza nodded, feeling something settling over her that seemed to calm her fears. She let him pull her along the last passageway until they came to a tall red door. "What is this place?" "The Ceremonial Chamber." He let go of her hand to push open the door to total darkness. He disappeared into the black void beyond the portal. She heard a flint strike and then a soft halo of pale yellow light shone ahead of her and to the right. "Come." Liza drew in a breath and stepped over the high threshold into a vast room with blood-red walls, a black floor, and a ceiling that was beyond belief. She stared at it with horror. "No woman has ever been allowed inside these chambers." Kaileel came toward her with the lamp. In the light, his face was skeletal, the hollows of his eye sockets ghastly. Liza wanted to vomit. The mural drawn upon the ceiling, the most vile thing she had ever seen, disgusted her. She barely heard Kaileel's chuckle. "Homosexuality is something you have heard about, but never seen practiced." He giggled, glancing up at paintings of men in various stages of lovemaking. "Find it as exciting as I? I suppose not. Come with me." Liza hurried behind him, wanting to get out of the horrible room with its dirty painting as fast as she could. He lifted a lever beside a small wooden door, then stooped and ducked through the opening. With her lips pursed in distaste, she followed. When she straightened, he was standing before a huge pair of black double doors studded with iron.

"The Chamber of Magic," he said quietly, and opened the doors. The light inside the huge chamber nearly blinded her. She felt as though the black floor was a bottomless pit sinking into the Abyss as she stepped into the glaring light of thousands of candles. The blood-red walls seemed alive with votive cups filled with black candles. In the room's center stood a tall, waist-high black slab altar. Above the altar swayed the carcass of a dead goat, its throat slit. She turned horrified eyes to Tohre. "A leftover," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Won't help us with the Gray Ones." "They don't care for sacrifices, do they?" He busied himself with several objects that sat on the retable behind the altar. His face grew agitated, alive with some emotion Liza couldn't fathom. Every time he glanced her way she shivered. "It was in a place like this that I trained him, you know," Tohre said in a conversational voice. He turned to the altar with an array of vials, small crucibles, and copper dishes. Liza knew whom he meant. Her blood ran cold; her heart thudded painfully. She watched as he put his paraphernalia on the altar. "He experienced great pain in a place like this." If Liza could have run, she would have, but something kept her rooted. Her lips quivered. She wanted to cry, but wouldn't. "You lost him in a place like this." "I never lost him!" she spat, anger beginning to course through her. "Have it your way." He placed the dishes and crucibles in a pattern and beckoned her. With every ounce of courage she possessed, she walked to the altar. "Recognize what these things are?' "Iknow what they are," she said stiffly. "Then let's begin, Liza." He stressed her name hatefully, holding out his hand. She hesitated, looking from his outstretched hand to his hated face. "I don't know your rituals. What spell is it you want?" Tohre shook his head as though admonishing a child who had forgotten her lessons. "You do know the Charm of Keeping, don't you?" Liza's hand itched to slap him. "I know it!" "I know you do!" He laughed. "You said it many times when you were spinning your web to snare him, didn't you?" He cocked a thin brow. "Isn't that what your initiation name was? The Keeper of the Wind? Wasn't the Charm of Keeping said only for him?" No one outside the Daughters of the Multitude should've known such a thing. How Tohre had this knowledge Liza could only surmise, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how it startled her. She looked at the array of ritual philters and potions. He had correctly placed them, in order, with the right amounts in each crucible and chalice. It had been so long since she had used the Charm, she had almost forgotten. "The spell you used to lure him to you," Tohre said, lip raised in disgust, "can be used to keep danger away from those you care about in the Labyrinth. Our individual rituals are often parodies of one another's, you realize? All we need do is chant together our respectful incantations, word for word, tone for tone, and the combined chant will keep Con—" His eyes flared wide. Liza watched him. He had almost given something away. Something he didn't want her to know. She tried probing his mind, but all she found were remnants of the old love he bore Conar.

"Stop it," he warned, his voice quiet. "What evil thing are you doing that will cause my family greater harm." He grabbed her hand. "No lies between us, bitch! I have no desire to hurt your family. I want to protect it. If you can't probe that, then all will be lost!" "If you are trying to trick me into—" "No trick!" "You almost said his name before? You wanted to say Conar, didn't you?" "Aye!" he screamed. "Use his name in the chant, if you want. I will! His name has more magic now than it ever did with the Domination. Use his name in the Charm of Keeping. It will keep what is vital, safe from harm!" If she had not known herself better, Liza would have believed herself feeling sorry for the man. He still loved Conar, even though he had caused the man more pain than anyone, had even caused his death. She saw, along with the madness, a hopeless love still smoldering. "I will use his name," she said softly and let Tohre's fingers entwine with hers. She bowed her head and began the Charm. Tohre watched her. Her love was still there, too. He only hoped their combined feelings for Conar McGregor would stop what was about to happen. Often the ways of the gods are complex. Simply because a single braid of shining black hair, taken so long ago from a man who had treasured it, had been kept, locked away for a time when it would be needed, the lady who held Conar's heart was denied knowledge of him very existence.

Chapter 10 In the depths of a mining shaft, the walls had been shored up with heavy timber brought in especially for the purpose of building a wine cellar. It was dry and cool enough this far inside the bluff for wine to be stored with good effect. The room was perhaps three feet by seven and, along one wall, a heavy row of steel racks had been installed for the Commandant's personal supply of expensive and vintage wines that were shipped to him once a year. The only illumination came from a torch held up by whoever visited the room. Conar's taut spine tingled as he walked behind Lawson Jones as the guard led the way. He could almost feel eyes watching him from the darkness beyond the glow of the carried light. He could almost feel hands touching him, grabbing him, pulling him down. He shook himself, cast off his fear, and lifted his chin. As terrified as he was of what happened to him by men like Lawson Jones and Lydon Drake, he forced himself to walk down the wide tunnel and into a narrower passageway that led past the work area of the prisoners. He heard hammering in the distance and felt reassured that if he were to shout someone would hear. He had never once been inside the bluffs except when he had come into the Labyrinth, and then he had been enclosed in a coffin. He willed away that image of suffocating confinement and stared at Jones' back. His hands were sweating, his mouth dry, and his breathing shallow. He was acutely uncomfortable when Jones stopped and told him to go ahead of him. "Why?" he asked, suspicions raised. "The door be there!" Jones said, lifting the light. Conar saw a heavy-looking wooden door looming out of the darkness. He swallowed his fear and stepped around the man. The hair along his neck stood up as he headed for the door in the hollowed-out section of rock face. He nearly

jumped out of his skin when Jones' arm brushed past him to unhinge the heavy padlock. "Commandant don't take no chances of the inmates pilfering his stock," Jones grumbled. Or the guards, either, Conar thought wryly. Jones unsnapped the padlock and pulled on the heavy iron ring. Conar closed his eyes, almost groaning as the door came open on rusted hinges squealing in protest. The sound was too much like the keening of a dying man. The musty smell of dirt and dried-out wood assailed his nostrils. Jones' inpatient voice startled him. "What the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get your ass in there and be quick about it. I ain't got all day to babysit!" Something dark and evil stirred in Conar. His stomach felt as though it would lose its contents. The room was confining, constricting, imprisoning, dark and waiting for him. Sweat popped out on his upper lip; his breath came in short, squeezing bursts; his heart tripped madly. "What the hell ails you?" Jones roared as he shoved Conar into the room. He came up hard against the steel rack, his backbone striking one jutting corner with enough force to make him grunt. He turned wild eyes to the man blocking his escape. His breath hitched from his throat in terrified gasps, and although he tried to calm himself, not to show his great terror, his entire body quivered. Jones watched him, enjoying whatever it was that scared the prisoner. He thought he knew and grinned. "You asking for it, or what?" He took a step forward, gauged the boy's weakness, and wet his lips. "If you want it, pretty boy, I'll give it to you." He lowered his free hand to his crotch and rubbed the rising bulge. Conar jerked, seeing a terror greater than the one he was already experiencing. He spun around, not even looking at what he touched, just grabbing three bottles at random and gathering them close to his chest, holding them as though his life depended on it. He started out of the room, but Jones stepped closer. With a whimper of dread, of building terror on the verge of turning him to a shivering lump of screaming insanity, Conar stopped, A gleam of understanding lit Jones' moon-face as Conar glistened with sweat. He was an acute judge of men's weaknesses, having made it a point to learn the weak points of those whose failures could benefit him. He looked at the trembling man and he grinned. "You want out of here, real bad, don't you?" Conar nodded, willing breath into his collapsing lungs. Jones stepped out of the way, laughing as Conar nearly ran from the room, heading blindly down the dark tunnel. Jones held the torch high inside the room. He had found the weakness the Commandant had been searching for, the one thing to bring Conar to his knees! *** Appolyon beamed as he listened to Jones. The angry gleam in the pig-like eyes had become a spark of mirth. The thick rubbery lips stretched into a smile of pure satisfaction, and he snapped the riding crop he often carried against his desk. "Your information is well worth the bottle of wine you requested, Jones." Lydon Drake leaned against the wall, his smile as evil as the Commandant's as Jones left with the bottle. "You want me to bring him in, now?" Lydon asked. "Maybe tomorrow. Give him a chance to think about how close he came." *** By the time Brelan and the others were deep in the mine shafts of the central bluff the next day, a trio of men were removing the bottles of wine from the cellar. Lydon had been sent to keep watch on Conar, working in the vegetable garden behind the barracks. It was close to noon when he stopped Conar from his hoeing. "Saur said for you to get cleaned up," Lydon snarled, carefully eyeing his target as Conar straightened and looked his way. Sweat dripped down Conar's face and upper body; grime caked his bare feet. He glanced toward the showers and almost sighed. A bath would be almost as good as a swim in the chill waters of Lake Myria right about then. He looked

at Lydon, saw the man ignoring him, and wondered why Brelan would dare stop him from working in the middle of the day. "Then what?" he called to Drake. It was a mark of how things had progressed, or deteriorated, as the Commandant saw it, that Conar would even open his mouth to speak. That he dared to question was remarkable and showed the courage that was returning. Lydon glared, hoping his hatred showed. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Just do it and then report to the Commandant!" Conar was keenly aware of the guard watching as he went to the showers, but the water would feel so wonderful, so cooling, he put Lydon's gaze from his mind. He walked behind the waist-high partition and stepped out of his breeches, laid them over the stall and stepped under the large casks. He pulled on a handle and nearly groaned with ecstasy as the water cascaded over him. Despite his pleasure, he kept a wary eye on Lydon. Every instinct screamed to be careful. He lathered his body, his hair, then ducked under the stream to rinse away the suds. Gravel crunching behind him startled Conar. He spun around to see Lydon. "Put these on." Lydon smirked, threw a relatively clean pair of white cotton breeches over the bath stall. Conar pushed up and secured the lever, backing to the far side of the stall. He grabbed for his dirty breeches instead of the clean ones, but as his fingers closed over the material, the breeches were snatched away. He looked around and saw Lawson Jones grinning. "These smell to high heaven." Jones chuckled. "You got clean clothes. Put 'em on." Conar couldn't help but shudder at the way the men were looking at him. Jones might not have been among the men who had trapped him inside the equipment shed, but he had made his feelings clear the day before. He couldn't reach for the clean pants fast enough, stepping into them without drying himself. Lydon grinned. "Don't he look good enough to eat, Jones?" A warning went off in Conar's head. He looked about the compound. Several guards were milling about, each staring at him with tight smiles of pure evil on their faces. Lydon grinned from ear to ear. "The Commandant wants to see you, pretty boy." Mentally calculating how long it would take him to get away from the showers and to the mine entrance, Conar counted the guards standing between him and safety. Five. "I think the Commandant wants a private chat with you. Better not keep him waiting." He edged away from the showers, backing up toward the equipment shed, realizing where he was heading and panicked. He'd die before he allowed them to take him in there again. "You look a little green, boy," one guard called out. Conar became aware that the men were steadily circling him, blocking his escape, but the way to the mine entrance was clear. With a quick breath, he dodged to his left, saw men taking that course, then sprinted to the right. A man hurried to intercept him. Conar ran up the steps of the medical hut, shot pell-mell across the porch and lunged at the side railing, catapulting himself off the porch and onto the ground. He broke into a hard run across the compound, vaguely aware of the shouts and the sound of running feet. His mind was on the mine, on the welcoming adit calling out to him. "Hendricks!" Lydon shouted. Something sharp struck Conar's back. He started zig-zagging across the hot sand, his bare feet digging furrows. Only twenty feet from the mine, he felt himself losing balance. He knew a moment of sheer panic as he realized one of the guards had thrown a bola that entangled itself around his lower legs, wrapping a thin band of rawhide around his knees, hobbling him. He hit the ground with a heavy thud. Lights danced along his peripheral vision as the breath was knocked out of him. He flinched as sand flew in his face when the guards reached him.

They dragged him off the ground even as he bucked against their hold, struggling to free his arms, but the men were strong. Pure animal rage tore from his throat. "Hold the little bastard!" Lydon shouted as he came running up. They took him into the mine, turned left toward the far reaches, and Conar knew where he was being taken. He fought as hard as he could, stumbling, pulling against them, but they carried him deeper and deeper into the mine. "No!"he bellowed, realizing too late that Brelan and the others were too deep in the mine's midsection and he was being taken in the opposite direction. Appolyon was waiting at the wine cellar. The heavy riding crop in his hand tapped out a fierce rhythm against the gaping portal. Torch lights in wall brackets overhead made the grin on his pudgy face look demonic. His jowls wobbled with glee when he saw Conar's terrified face. "Didn't he want to join us, Mr. Drake?" "Don't think he likes tight little places." Appolyon nodded to the guards. They forced Conar to his knees, their strong, hard hands on his shoulders. "Is that so?" Appolyon asked. "Do you have a fear of closed in places, son?" Conar clenched his teeth to still his trembling lips. Past the bulk of the Commandant, he saw the gaping maw of the wine cellar and his blood raced ice-cold through his veins. "Are you afraid of this little room?" the Commandant inquired in a gentle tone. He used the handle of his riding crop to lift Conar's chin. He stared into a face filled with fear and smiled. "Have we finally found your weakness?" Conar jerked away his chin. "Go to hell," he hissed. Surprise stretched over the fat face, then turned to mirth. The man clucked his tongue. "My, my, my! Have you learned nothing from your time with us? Maybe I haven't been as diligent with you as I thought." With a meaty hand, Appolyon dragged up Conar's reluctant face. "What the hell do you want?" Conar snarled, his cheeks tightly compressed between the man's fingers. "Your total cooperation!" "To do what?" "I want you." Stark terror shot through Conar. He well remembered the man's hands on him when he had first come to the Labyrinth. Having Appolyon touch him again would send him over the edge. "You can want with one hand and—" Appolyon pressed his cheeks together so tightly Conar tasted blood. "I can see I shall have to teach you a little humility." With a strength he didn't know he possessed, Conar wrenched his face free of the man's hold. "There's nothing you could teach me, pig!" If there was one thing Appolyon was rabid about, it was any insult that called him "fat." He reacted with the kind of retaliation he was best at—viciousness. With astonishing speed, he brought up the riding crop up, lashing Conar across the bridge of his nose from cheek to cheek. Conar couldn't stop his shriek of agony. He had to bite his tongue to hold back any other sounds, not wanting to give the dirty bastard the satisfaction of hearing him whimper. Not even when another lash caught him across the chin and throat. He managed to tuck down his chin; the riding crop stung him from left temple to right cheek. The riding crop landed on Conar's bare shoulders, bent head, but still he wouldn't open his mouth, just clenched his fists until the knuckles were white.

Appolyon, angrier than ever that his abuse produced no screams, threw away the riding crop and lunged forward, grabbed a handful of Conar's hair. He arched back Conar's head. His eyes glinted with ecstasy as he saw the criss-crossed markings, red and livid, beading blood, on the handsome face. "You have two choices. You can come back to my quarters, and youknow what will be expected of you; or you can spend the night in this room." He smiled as Conar's eyes widened in fear. Conar knew if they put him in that room with its enclosing walls he would never live to get out. Already, fear gripped his guts so hard he felt his bladder loosening. With a hindsight, he knew he should have mentioned to Brelan, anyone, what had happened the day before with Jones. "What's it to be?" Appolyon snarled. "Me or the room?" Perhaps it was a greater terror that Appolyon offered, or else he had simply reached the end of what mortal strength he had left. Whatever the case, his pride, or what was left of it, returned. "I'd rather spend the rest of my life in there than have you touch me." Appolyon stood up, thinking an hour's stay in the room, maybe less, would break the boy's spirit. He was sure of it. He looked at the bleeding face. "When you come to me, and you will, I will make you pay dearly for this trouble." Conar could only stare at the hated face. He felt the stinging pain, felt blood oozing across his cheeks and temple, but didn't say a word as Appolyon motioned for the guards to pick him up. "Let him see what his stubbornness brings him." Conar couldn't help but recoil as they pushed him toward the room. Panic rose in his mind like the sludge rose in the ditches during the torrential rains. Panting and terrified, trying not to show it, his entire body began trembling. He struggled against the hands, more from instinct than any idea he'd get free. "I'll have Lydon return in two hours. By then, you'll be ready to do anything I want!" The Commandant laughed, his hollow mirth echoing as he walked away. I won't live that long, Conar thought. Two guards picked up Conar's feet to swing him off the floor. He fought them with all his strength, but it wouldn't be enough; they knew it and he knew it. They carried him into the room, his back arching, his legs jerking. He cursed them, screamed at the top of his lungs. They dropped him and scurried out of the room. "You'd have been better off giving in," Lydon said. "He's going to have your ass anyway!" Conar scrambled to his knees as the door began to close. He rushed forward, pushing against the door with all his might. He slammed his shoulder into the wooden planking, once, twice, three times and heard the men cursing as they strained to close it. With a lunge, he slammed into the door, but more men pushed from the other side, closing it. "No!"he bellowed, pounding. "No!" It wasn't a scream of pain or even terror. It was a howl of ungodly frustration. It rose out of the depths of a man who had finally been pushed beyond the limits of endurance. It was a bellow of insane rage, a scream of unrelenting hate, and it echoed off the rock walls and down the tunnels. Unbridled fury took over in Conar's mind. In his rage, he was blinded to his surroundings. All thought was of the many torments he had undergone in the years of his captivity. The degradation, the humiliation, the beatings and worse. They flashed through his seething mind like uncoiling serpents, struck at his manhood with vicious fangs that tore apart his fear and injected him with a strength of will that had long ago been lost. He cursed the men who had brought him to this low point in his life, slammed his open palms against the door with a resentment that brought tears of fury and frustration to his eyes. "Let us know when you're ready to be a good boy!" Lydon called. "Fuck you!"Conar screamed, pummeling the door with his fists until the flesh was bloody. "Don't let the boogie-man get you!" Conar yelled, pounded, then listened. No sound. No movement. No light. Nothing. "Brelan! he yelled. "Shalu! Roget!"

He became aware of the silence. "Sentian! Jah-Ma-El!" He became aware of the darkness. "Grice! Chase!" He became aware of the closeness. "Xander!" Frustration became worry. "Storm!" Worry became alarm. "Don't leave me in here!" Alarm became fear. "Open the gods-be-damned door!" Fear became terror. "Brelannn!" He plastered his back to the door, his eyes wide with horror and full realization of the position he was in. Locked in. In the dark. In the silence. In the confining closeness. Without a single person who would come to his aid. The dark seemed to reach out to him with the scabrous fingers of the dead. A horrible, suffocating death was rising, calling his name, coming for him out of the black depths of the grave. He could smell the damp earth, could feel the wetness beneath his toes. He had no place to hide. No place to run. No way out. Wildly, he stumbled from one wall to the other, pushing, shoving, using his waning strength and sanity to try to force open the door. He fell, his body hitting the ground hard. He doubled over, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head tucked down to his bent knees, his body shuddering with great racking spasms of terror. "Brelan! Help me!"His shout reverberated through the room. Nothing could have stopped the hideous scream that tore from his throat as something scurried across his face. He jerked upright, convulsively wiping his hands down his face. Something ran across his shoulders, down his arm, and he swatted at it. He felt some vile thing squish and smear beneath his hands, and he opened his mouth and howled. Terror became true horror. One horrible, terrified shriek after another and he felt himself tumbling into the mindless, endless, black void, spiraling into jabbering oblivion. His throat began to close. His lungs burned as he struggled for air. He scrambled across the floor, slithering on his belly, until he reached the door. Feverishly he clawed, wildly gouging the panel with his fingernails as he had done the whipping post at Boreas Keep so long ago. Like then, long slivers of wood embedded themselves under his nails; the nails pulled back, ripped off. Sparks of red light flew in front of his eyes. He gasped. Wheezed. Convulsed with his need to draw in life-giving air. The blackness grew darker, closing in around him, pressing its cloying weight upon his body like a massive stone. Like the stone that covers a crypt. "Oh, God! Please! Please, don't let them do this to me! Please!"

The air was hot, scalding as he sucked what little he could down his parched throat. It tasted of grave soil, fecund and rotting. "Brelan! Please help me!"he begged, his voice straining to be heard. Then his horror became hysteria. The blacker darkness with its stench of the dead was as ebon as the pit of hell. As lightless as the Abyss, Itself. It caught him in its fierce grip and began to drag him into the bottomless, eternal, infinite bowels of the grave. Decaying fingers gouged into his flesh with vile and intimate strokes and compelling thrusts into every orifice of his body. His stomach churned; his mind reeled with the knowledge that he had been interred alive. Before he shivered and then lay quiet, a scream tore from his throat, the final end to a lifetime of waiting for what had come out of hell to claim him.

Chapter 11 His head came up. He had heard a scream. He stopped, listened, his head to one side. He heard it again. And again. And again, but couldn't tell from where it had come. He heard it one final time, and with a clear knowledge of from whom it had come, Chase Montyne of Ionary dropped his shovel and sprinted as fast as he could toward Tyne Brell. "He's in trouble! Get Brelan! Now!" Chase ran back through the tunnel and threw down his pick ax. *** Brelan was overseeing the loading of the mysterious metal mined in the Labyrinth. Mounds of the glittering green ore was being loaded onto carts and then pushed along rusted tracks into another tunnel where it would be stored until the next prison transport made its run to Tyber's Isle. "How much longer until you think the next ship will be here, Lord Saur?" Paegan Hesar asked as he stopped to rest, running a grimy hand over his dirty face. "Another two weeks, I would imagine," Brelan answered, knowing Paegan meant Holm van de Lar's ship, not the black-hulled prison ship. "We're running low on handles," said Roget, grinning. "That ship better hurry." He was about to say something else when Tyne Brell came running forward, shouting for Brelan. "Brelan! There's trouble on the outside!" As one, twenty men dropped their tools and ran after Brelan. "Cave in?" Sentian yelled as they ran past. "Would have heard it!" Thom shouted, pushing aside a guard who made to bar his exit into the main tunnel. "I'll kill you!" he warned. The guard backed off as the big man fell in behind those already running toward the passage out. Brelan had known Chase Montyne all his life. As a little boy, Chase had shown a remarkable ability to read people's minds, to know things no boy of four or five should know. Seeing Chase running as fast as he could toward the crescent of light leading to the outside, Brelan used his most powerful running kick to catch up with the man. "Is he hurt?" "Don't…know…"

The two men came to a skidding halt outside in the bright light. Neither saw Conar. Roget du Mer didn't bother stopping, but ran as fast as he could toward his hut. Sentian Heil was as close on his heels as space would allow. They found the hut empty. Brelan couldn't get his legs to move fast enough as he cleared the distance to Xander Hesar's medical hut. His breath came in harsh gasps when he found the Healer sitting in a chair by the row of cots—tied hand and foot to the frame. "Untie him!" Brelan shouted to Storm as he came through the door. "Conar!" Jah-Ma-El screamed as he and some of the others ran from hut to hut, shed to shed. "We can't find him!" Shalu shouted from the Indoctrination Hut. Brelan bounded across the distance between the medical hut and the Commandant's quarters. He crashed into the door, banging the portal back against the wall with such force, it pulled free of its top hinges and leaned crazily into the room. Appolyon and Lydon Drake were in the back part of the quarters, glasses of wine in their hands. Neither was properly dressed and it didn't take Brelan much thought to guess what the profligates had been doing only moments before. "Where is he?" Brelan shoved Lydon and grabbed the fat man by the throat. He momentarily felt Lydon's hands on him, then someone pulled away the guard. "How dare you!" the fat man blustered. "Take your hands off me! Guards!" Fear rolled off the slug-like, quivering mass of flesh as Appolyon stared at an enraged Brelan Saur. "Where's my brother, you son-of-a-bitch!" Brelan tightened his hold on the Commandant's neck until the jowls started to turn red. Sausage-like fingers scrambled at Brelan's hands grip. "If you value what little time you have left in this world, tell me where Conar is!" Brelan jammed his knee into the man's genitals. Roget burst into the room, panting hard. "We've looked everywhere. We can't find him!" Brelan shook the gasping, crying man like a rag doll, actually lifting his bulk clear of the floor. "Where is my brother?" Appolyon's loins were on fire; his throat was aching, his lungs slowly being drained of air. He slumped to the floor in a heap. Thom forced a struggling Lydon Drake to his knees, then drew back the tight blond curls with a vindictive fist. Lydon gazed up with indifference at Brelan. "I ain't gonna tell nothing!" Shalu realized that Thom was not in the mood for Lydon's uncooperative attitude any more that he was. With a swift movement, Shalu gripped Lydon's left arm and snapped it at the forearm. The loud crack shot the room like a bomb exploding. A howl tore from the guard's mouth. He shuddered, the floor running wet with his urine. Another, prolonged squeal erupted as Shalu broke the left wrist. Brelan bent over the moaning, contorted face and spoke in a calm, clear voice. "I'll gut you wide open if you don't tell me where he is rightnow!" When Brelan took a wicked dagger from the sheath at this thigh, Lydon looked into a face filled with loathing and lethal intent. He saw death, horrible, prolonged death. Still he hesitated. "Break his leg!" Thom snarled. "We locked him in the wine cellar!" Lydon screeched. All color drained from Brelan's face. For a heart-stopping moment he couldn't move. He wasn't aware of the men gathered around him. He wasn't aware of shouts and cries coming from outside. Horrible images flew through his mind; he thought he was going to be sick.

"How long ago?" Jah-Ma-El screamed. Shalu grabbed Lydon's ankle. "An hour!"Drake screamed. "Oh, god." Brelan stumbled out of the room. He careened across the porch, tripped as he started down the steps, went sprawling, then scrambled to his feet. His feet flew across the distance to the mine. Xander Hesar joined him, the others close behind. Brelan raced through the serpentine tunnels, seeing that torches had been left to light the way to the wine cellar. The lock on the door made him scream his rage. He clawed at it, calling Conar's name. There was no answering. He kept calling, yanking and pulling on the door, twisting the heavy padlock, but neither lock nor door budged. "Move out of the way!" Shalu shoved Brelan aside. "He's afraid of confined places." There was panic in Saur's voice—even he could hear it. Shalu had grabbed a crowbar before entering the mine. He jammed it under the hasp of the padlock and began to lever it upward. The lock fell with a thud. Shalu jerked open the door. "Conar?" Brelan called as someone thrust a torch into the room. Conar was curled along the far wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Brelan hurried forward, slipping his arm under Conar's legs and beneath his back, then lifted him up. Brelan rushed out of the room, slipping along the passageway back to the outside world. Men stepped aside as he hurried into the sunlight and lowered Conar to the hot sand. "Is he alive, Lord Saur?" a man asked. "Have they hurt him, sir?" Brelan put his ear to Conar's mouth, where the lips were turning blue. "He's not breathing!" He arched back Conar's head. He put his lips over his brother's mouth and began to breathe. Conar's chest rose and fell with each intake of air, but there was no movement made on his own. His callused fingers lay still, his hands flung out to either side of him as though he had been once more crucified. Xander knelt and put two fingers to the strong column of Conar's throat. He glanced at Brelan with worried eyes, then at Roget. He shook his head. "His heart's not beating," one prisoner said softly. "He's gone." Shalu shoved men aside. He knelt opposite Saur and placed his hands at the center of Conar's chest, just below the heart. Brelan looked up with fear, but Shalu paid scant attention. He began to pumping Conar's chest, keeping his elbows stiff, his movements shallow and quick. "Don't you die, brat," he snarled. "Dammit, Saur, give him your breath!" Brelan lowered his mouth to Conar's once more. "Shalu!" Jah-Ma-El hissed, coming to his knees. Shalu followed Jah-Ma-El's shaking finger, which pointed to Conar's face. There was a flicker of one lid, perhaps a nerve jumping, but it was enough hope for the Necroman. He felt Conar's throat for a pulse. He caressed the flesh, but could feel nothing. "He's alive." With a suddenness that sent a gasp through the crowd, Conar's body jerked violently. He gasped for air; his eyelids flew open. He convulsed, tried to get up, his hands latching onto Shalu's forearm, Brelan's wrist, with a fierce, death-hold grip. "It's all right," Brelan told him, trying to take Conar in his arms. Conar was clawing his way up and out of Brelan's hold, as if unaware of where he was. He kicked at the men holding

him, struggling to get free. Shalu held onto Conar's right arm; Jah-Ma-El scampered around to take hold of his left. Brelan managed to gather his brother to him, one arm around Conar's chest and the other under his back, holding him as tightly as he could, trying desperately to get Conar to hear him. "You're safe. You're out of that place." Conar was beyond rational thought. His eyes were wild, his mouth working, drooling, spitting saliva, snarling. Utter gibberish poured from him like a lanced wound dispersing pustulance. Half-sentences, meaningless words, disjointed phrases, wild laughter and giggles, tumbled out of his arching throat one after the other. He fought the demons still holding him in the wine cellar. He mumbled about fingers burrowing into his flesh, invading his soul, raping his spirit. He had gone far beyond his present location and buried alive, deep in the bowels of his nightmare. He couldn't see the light, couldn't hear the voices, couldn't feel the blistering sun. He was lost in cold, silent darkness. Brelan forcing a knee behind Conar's back to lift him, but all Conar felt was rotting fingers of the dead trying to pull him into hell. He heard them beckoning him to that never-ending night they had reserved for him. "Conar! Listen to me! You're safe! You're out of there!" He let out a howl of animal fury, cursing at the demons. Something was clutching his feet, trying to drag him into the Abyss. In his dementia, he saw the horrors of hell hovering around him. Twisted, bloated, gray faces with keening voices and hands that stretched toward him with long, red-tipped talons. Hands that were forcing him beneath the surface of life and trying to drown him in the dank, dismal waters of death. He strove harder to get away, but he was pinned to the rank, reeking stench of the grave, trapped in a breath-stealing, flesh-eating grasp. Holding his right leg was Appolyon. Holding his left, was Lydon. He saw Galen gripping his left hand, Tymothy Kullen twisting his right. He saw Tolkan Coure grinning down at him, stroking his damp hair, caressing his lean face. With mind-numbing fear, he lowered his gaze and looked into the eyes of the man who held him to his chest, his hands seeming to burn his flesh. The priest smiled down at him, his lips twisted in a parody of love. Kaileel Tohre whispered his name and bent to place his lips on Conar's brow. "You're with us now. We're going to take care of you from now on." "Don't worry none," Tymothy Kullen cooed. "We won't let no one near you, brat." "You don't have to worry about anything." Galen smiled. "We're all here to see to you." Appolyon grinned. "Things will be different from now on." "We'll take you where you should be, Conar," Lydon told him. "Back where you belong," Tolkan agreed. "With us." From out of the depths of Conar's immortal soul, a scream ripped out in one long agonizing burst and he careened into a black bottomless pit.

Chapter 12 She watched him. His eyes were closed, his face oozing with sweat. His hands were clenched in his lap and his head was slightly cocked to one side as though he was listening to a distant voice instructing him. She swept her gaze over the room. She was tired, exhausted; conjuring had a way of draining her both physically as well as mentally. "It'll be all right, now," he whispered, not opening his eyes. "The charm worked." She ignored him. She was taking in every detail of the room, from the blood-red walls to the midnight floor with its red pentagram and runic writings to the black marble altar to the dead goat suspended over the slab.

She shuddered, imagining the horror of lying beneath the gaping wound of the animal's throat as blood dripped, congealing on your flesh. "Did he fight you when you brought him to a place like this?" Kaileel Tohre looked at the woman across the Conjuring Chamber. He stared into her face, a face he hated, but he was too drained to argue with the bitch. "He wasn't able to." "Why?" Her voice was sharp, filled with disgust. "He had been given a drug to make him immobile." "So, he was unable to stop you from doing evil things to him. You brought him here and he was laid on that altar—" "Not this altar." "Onan altar, and what? Was he bound?" "Aye." "Was he aware of what was happening?" "He was aware." Her teeth came together with a click. She stared at her longtime enemy, at his averted face, and wished with all her heart she had a dagger with which to slay him. Kaileel felt her thoughts. There was a hint of a smile on his skeletal face. "You can't kill me, woman. I have your son." Liza took a step forward, her fingers curving into claws, reminded that it was Conar's son, too, this man had hidden away in the secrecy of some Wind Temple. Tohre sighed and stood. His muscles ached. The conjuring had taken more out of him this time than he could ever remember. His head ached and he had some difficulty seeing the woman. He held up his hand. "We have saved him…your…brother. You and I will live to fight another day, but I am not up to arguing now. I call a truce until we are both strong enough to spar once more." "My son…" "Is safe for the time being." He glanced at her. "But he belongs to me, now, as his father belongs to me." She glowered at the man, hating him with every fiber of her being. She took another step toward him and stopped. "Hear me well. You might have destroyed Corbin's father with your unholy love, but you willnot destroy the son." "I have no intention of destroying Corbin. He will be a great leader one day, have power Conar McGregor never dreamed of having." "Or wanted!" Tohre nodded. "True, but if he had, he might well be with you still." Liza drew in a slow, calming breath. "No," she said, her face hard and filled with hatred. "You meant to kill him and you did. He would not go to his knees to you, would not do your bidding, so you destroyed him. You tortured him and you killed him because your love was spurned." Her chin raised. "Because he wanted no part of you or what you offered, your jealousy took him away from the both of us, and one day, you will pay for that mistake!" "You don't know—" "I know you for what you are. A man obsessed with power, with having all those around you bend to your will." She took still another step closer. "But Conar wouldn't bend, would he? He wouldn't bend and he wouldn't break, so you simply decided to crush him." She forced herself to put a hand on the Arch-Prelate's shoulder, although the contact made her sick to her stomach. He looked at her, saw her face bright with the light of triumph.

"But you know something, Tohre?" she asked, her voice calm, infinitely sweet. "In killing him, you assured him immortality, for his people will never forget him, and they will never stop hating you for what you did to him. And one day," she said, her voice going low and silky, "there will come a warrior who will make you pay for what you did. He will reach out with steel-mailed fists and crush you as you crushed Conar McGregor! There will be a war the likes of which this land has never known." "When that day comes," he hissed, shrugging aside her hand, "I will win!" Liza's smile was lethal, her laugh rich and throaty, filled with contempt. "Never!" she whispered. "Never!"

Chapter 13 "Hold up that damned light, Tarnes!" Holm snarled as he tried to decipher Brelan's rambling scrawl on the makeshift map. In the dim torchlight, the captain could see little inside the narrow walls of the bluff. He had been coughing and sneezing since they had left the sulfurous lava bed over which they had carefully crossed the natural arched stone bridge. Dyllon McGregor leaned over his shoulder. "I never could read Bre's scribbling, either." Coron also peered over Holm's shoulder. "Looks like that way," he pointed to a dark tunnel, "leads to some kind of underground lake." He tried to focus on the wild handwriting. "Unless I miss my guess, this passageway leads around the lake and comes out near what looks to be a forest." "There ain't no forests on Tyber's Isle," Tarnes snorted. "Well, that looks like trees!" Coron defended, pointing at the map. "A garden, maybe?" Wyn asked, looking at his uncles. "Possibly." Coron took the map and studied it. "Looks like corn stalks." Tarnes walked carefully toward the passageway the map had marked as an alternative route into the penal colony. He held his torch high and inspected the footing, the walls. "We ain't going to find it standing here jawing!" He started into the passage. Holm shouldered Dyllon to one side. He plowed into Tarnes' back. "Get the hell out of my way!" Holm snatched the torch. "Watch out for them beasties Lord Saur warned you be lurking about in these caverns!" Holm turned, a hint of worry on his weathered features, but then he recognized the shot as ill-concealed petulance. "Remind me to demote you to cabin boy when we return to the Queen!" For more than an hour, the men followed the tunnel deeper into the craggy cavern. They heard the faint rumble of water splashing against stone and knew they were near the underground lake. The going was rough, the pathway so narrow only one man at a time could walk it, but the darkness around them was getting lighter and the air fresher. "Captain, didn't you say Brelan told you there was a shaft of some sort a few feet from where the hidden opening would be?" Belvoir asked, walking behind Coron. "Aye. He said we'd see it before we reached the shamrock stone." Holm wished he'd asked Saur to be more explicit. All he could remember the boy saying was that if you pushed on the second stone, the hidden passage would open. "Does that look like it might be a hole of some sort—up there?" Belvoir inquired. "Lower them torches!" Holm ordered. The men put the torches to the floor, while Holm squinted. "I think that's it. Just

ahead." They walked about fifty feet and stopped, gazing at a small hole high above in the bluff. "Now where the hell is that shamrock stone?" Holm asked, holding the torch about him and realizing they had come to a dead end. "What's a shamrock stone?" Wyn asked. When everyone turned to Holm instead of answering, Wyn saw the captain's face turn red in the torchlight. "Well," Holm procrastinated, "he said I'd know it when I saw it." He looked away sheepishly. "I didn't ask him to describe the thing." "If he said to press the second stone," Belvoir said, running his hand along the outcropping of rocks, "then there must be a first stone and maybe a few more." Belvoir began to push against each stone he saw. Holm sighed. There must be well over a hundred stones jutting out from the wall. He leaned against the far section. His old body wasn't accustomed to this long trek from the desert, through caverns and such. He rested his arm on a triangular section of stones to his right and realized the three made what could well be a good stanchion for his torch. He shoved the rushes through the wedge between the first and second stone, then gasped as something behind him moved. "That's it!" Wyn said, hearing a low rumble. A white blur of light shone from about three feet above the captain's head to within a foot of the cavern's floor. Fresh air poured in and with it, the smell of rotting vegetation, damp earth and manure. Holm saw the crack in the rock face. He wedged his hand into the slit, widening the opening. Cautiously, he stood in the lighted crack and peered out. "What do you see?" Coron asked, his hand on the Captain's shoulder. "Corn." Holm poked his head around the crack. The opening was, indeed, to one side of a garden with head-high corn and tomato plants. "And not a damned soul." "Do you hear anything?" Dyllon asked. "Nary a sound. Eerie feeling, it is." "Well," Dyllon said, "someone's got to go out there." "Me," Mister Tarnes said, hitching up his breeches. "You?"Holm gasped. "Of course!" the old salt said. "We can't let Belvoir go out there. He looks like a warrior. You can't, Cap'n, cause you might be recognized. If we lose one of His Graces, or the Prince's son, it'd be hell to pay." Holm stared at the wizened little man. "And if we lose you, it ain't no big deal!" "Who'd sail the ship?" The old sailor scrambled into the garden and disappeared among the high corn stalks as if on a leisurely stroll, hands thrust into his pockets and shoulders hunched. "Wyn," Dyllon commanded, "go back to the last man in line and tell him to alert the others we left on the other side of the lava pit. Tell him to make sure the others are quiet when they join us, but to have weapons ready." *** "Who the hell are you?" Shalu demanded, grabbing the back of the little man's shirt and dragging him off the ground. Gilbert Tarnes had never seen a Necroman, a remarkable lack of accomplishment for such a well-traveled sailing man. Looking up into the furious dark face, the gleaming features intent on doing him bodily harm, did not help the bladder problem Mister Tarnes had developed in his golden years. His mouth dropped open, the plug of tobacco popping out like a cork out of a warm bottle of shaken wine. He choked, coughed and stared.

Shalu glared. "I've never seen you before! Where'd you come from?" "My guess is the good shipBoreas Queen, Shalu. Please put the man down, you've made him mess his pants." Roget was leaning against the Commandant's porch. Shalu growled. "Are you from the ship?" Mister Tarnes couldn't find his voice, the first time such a thing had ever happened. What manner of man, or beast, he wondered with fear, was this dark one? His long white hair, braided like a woman's, and his sharp, gleaming teeth, too much like a were-tiger's fangs, did more to unsettle Tarnes than did the bulging muscles and wide expanse of solid-looking chest. Roget settled the question in the sailor's befuddled mind. "He's from Necroman. Be careful of him. His bite is much worse than his bark." Shalu didn't help by growling menacingly as he let go of the man's shirtfront and dropped him. "Heed his warning, sailor!" "You are from the ship?" Roget asked. "One of 'em," Tarnes replied. "There's more than one?" "Aye." Tarnes licked his lips. "Who might ye be and how do you know of the ship?" Roget folded his arms over his chest. "I might be the King of Serenia." He chuckled. "But I'm not." He shot out one big, callused hand. "I'm Roget du Mer. Brelan told us you were coming." "You the Duke's son?" Tarnes asked, putting out a hesitant hand to shake the one offered. He winced at the man's strength. "Young Tealson's brother?" "Aye, and you must be Mister Tarnes." "How'd you guess?" "Bre said to look for either a man who looked like he could break stones with his face, or a little man who could skinny up a palm tree and look right at home." Tarnes sniffed, highly offended. "For your information, I don't skinny up no trees, palm or otherwise." Roget grinned. "I think he meant you could blend in with your surroundings. Where's the Captain?" "In the bluff with the others." Tarnes looked around. "Where is everybody?" "In their huts. We have control of the colony." The sailor began to relax. "And Lord Saur?" "With the Healer. You said there's another ship?" "We come across the prison shipVortex. Put their crew to the ship's longboats and brought that black hellship with us. Cap'n thought we might be in need of it." "How many men did you bring?" Tarnes scratched his head. "About fifty. His Grace sent the boy back to get the others." "His Grace?" Roget asked, a look of confusion on his face. "Of course, His Grace. Both of 'em, to be precise. The Princes Coron and Dyllon. They come to take Lord Saur and that little weasely fellow—what's his name, Jah-Ma-El?—back home!" He sniffed, raising his chin. "And the rest of you, too, o'course."

"I knew they were alive! But here with you?" "Them and the boy." "What boy?" Shalu asked. "Wyn. He be with us, too." "Who is he?" Shalu demanded. Tarnes rolled his eyes. "Prince Conar's oldest. Don't you know nothin'?" Roget turned his head to the command quarters and a slow smile stretched his lips. "One of Prince Conar's son is here?" "O'course. Think you one of the lad's bantlings wouldn't want to be in on saving his uncles?" Tarnes snorted, adjusting the front of his shirt now that he was sure the dark man was relatively safe, or could be handled by du Mer. "Be it safe for them to come out?" "Aye, go get your men, Mister Tarnes." Shalu watched the man saunter away as though he had all the time in the world. "I think I'll see to it that none of the men here speaks to the ship's crew just yet," Shalu commented, his face split with a wide grin. "Sort of warn them. What do you think?" Roget nodded. "A wise idea, King Shalu." *** Xander looked up as Brelan left his hut. He met the eyes of Prince Rylan Hesar and smiled. "I was hoping we'd get to talk one day." "We're overdue," Rylan drawled as he limped into the room. "How's your foot?" "It won't ever be the same, but it doesn't bother me all that much." Rylan sat in the chair beside the operating cot. "So?" Xander laid down his instrument bag and sat on the cot. "What do you want to know?" "Hesar." Xander nodded. "That's my name." "That's the name of the royal family of Virago. Are you aware of that?" "Are you aware that was my home?" Rylan inclined his head. "So, I've been told. I've also been told we're kin. Distant relatives, perhaps?" "I was born at Holy Dale, Rylan. My family still owns land in the valley." Rylan gaped. "Holy Dale is the keep where my father was born. We own Holy Dale." "I know." "But you said—" "Don't you think I look something like your father, Ry?" Rylan shook his head. "You don't have the Hesar coloring."

"True, but we are close kin, you and I." His face beamed. "And Paegan." Rylan frowned. There was no one left of his family. His parents and eldest brother were dead. His mother's people had long since died out; his father's only brother had been hanged by the Serenian Tribunal more than twenty years earlier. Was there family he had never known existed? "Are you one of my father's brothers?" Rylan asked, thinking maybe his parents had lied when he had asked if the Hesar men were as randy as the McGregors. "Aye." Xander smiled. "My first name isn't Xander, though." He stood and faced the boy. "That was your grandmother's maiden name, remember?" Rylan's frown deepened. He thought of his grandmother and wondered why his grandfather would have insulted her by giving his bastard son her name. "I hope Paegan isn't as dense as you, son," Xander sighed. Rylan glared at the Healer. "I'm not dense!" "Then, think about who I could be! If your grandfather didn't sire any bastard sons, what would that make me if I were your father's brother?" "My uncle, of course, but—" "I'm Ciernan Hesar." The young Viragonian Prince came slowly to his feet. "You can't be. Uncle Ciernan was killed before I was born. He was—" "Hanged? Just like Conar McGregor was beaten to death?" The Healer nodded. "Ciernan Hesar washanged at Derry-Byrne and shipped, in his sealed coffin, out to sea. His coffin, just like Conar's, was transported here. I got in the Tribunal's way just like Conar did." "Does Conar know who you are?" Rylan asked, his voice hushed. "No, and I don't want him to. I thought he might one day look at me and guess, but…" Xander shook his head. "Why don't you want him to know?" Rylan wanted to put his arms around the older man, but he was glued to where he stood. "Why would I want to hurt him?" He put his hands on Rylan's shoulders. "Gerren McGregor was his father. If Conar should find out I am alive, that his mother's marriage to his father was illegal, he would be hurt, and I will cause him no more pain." Rylan understood. Conar's mother, Moira, had been married long before she had met King Gerren of Serenia. She, like Elizabeth McGregor, believed her beloved husband dead, so both had remarried. Moira marrying a man who was a distant cousin of her first husband—Conar's maternal grandmother had been wed to Syn-Jorn Hesar—Rylan's uncle and the great-great grandson of the Outlaw, Syn-Jorn Sern. What irony that both Xander and Conar should wind up in the sandy bowels of the Labyrinth, both prisoners because of who they were. "Moira was my heart, my joy in life," Xander said, looking at a sight he alone could see. "I could not care for her as I had intended, but Icould care for her son. Just having him near was to be with her once more." He turned to go. "No!" Rylan pulled his uncle into his arms. "I've found you and I'll not let you get away so easily!" He couldn't wait to tell his brother that they had one more relative left on the earth.

Chapter 14

He awakened in the big, down-filled bed. A cool rag lay on his forehead. He was naked beneath the cool sheets that lightly covered his legs and hips. His first sight as he awoke was that of Sentian Heil sitting next to him on the bed, exchanging one wet cloth for another. He closed his eyes and reopened them only to see Sentian still sitting there. "Not exactly your idea of what paradise should be, am I?" Sentian joked, smiling warmly. His throat was raw, strained from screaming. He turned his face from Sentian and was surprised to see Chase leaning against the doorjamb. "He knows gods-be-damned well he ain't in paradise if I'm here." Chase chuckled. "Leave him be!" Jah-Ma-El bustled into the room with a tray of food. Conar glanced at the ceiling, whitewashed and gleaming. He looked at Jah-Ma-El as the man placed the tray on a table at the foot of the bed. "I've got stewed tomatoes, sliced tomatoes, tomatoes stuffed with ground spices of some sort. There are pickled green beans, creamed corn, fried potatoes, and boiled carrots. I also brought pickled dills, green tomatoes in brine and celery stuffed a…" He dragged his finger across the celery stalk, "particularly delicious cheese. What do you want first?" "Appolyon sure as hell ate better!" Chase snapped as he peered at the array of bowls. He reached for a dill pickle. Jah-Ma-El swatted away his hand. "You've eaten already!" "Stew! It was good, but it wasn't like this!" Conar watched them arguing, then glanced at Sentian and croaked a question. "Where…?" "In Appolyon's quarters. We have control of the colony. That ship Saur's been waiting for is here." He plucked the cloth off Conar's brow and dipped it in a basin. "You've been out for nearly three hours. "Three hours?" How long, he wondered, had he been in the wine cellar. "Get up, Heil," Jah-Ma-El demanded, "so I can give my brother something to drink! Can't you hear how dry his voice is?" He sat on the bed with a cup of wine. Sentian moved hastily from the bed. "Why the hell don't you take a bath,?" Conar wondered the same thing as Jah-Ma-El lifted his head so he could sip. The odor was especially ripe, musty and overpowering, and it nearly took Conar's breath way. "Before we allow him on the damned ship, he'll bathe," Montyne vowed. "I don't believe in bathing," Jah-Ma-El snapped as Conar began to drink the wine. "Then we'll scrub you raw ourselves!" Chase told him. The wine was cold and wet and wonderful. Conar drained the cup, licking his lips. He had a slight headache, but other than that, he felt fairly well except for the raw throat. "How's the brat?" Roget called as he strolled into the room, his hands in the pockets of a new pair of denim breeches he had obviously confiscated from the storeroom. "The brat's fine," Jah-Ma-El answered, glaring. "He hasn't eaten anything, but he took some wine." A shadow passed over his face. "Wine that almost cost him his life." "I'm all right, Jah-Ma-El," Conar whispered, straining his voice. Roget grinned. "You've cheated death still one more time, eh, brat?" "Aye…" The men looked at one another, for the voice had been filled with disappointment.

"Ah, Conar! You're like a were-tiger. You've got nine lives!" Chase popped another tomato into his mouth. "You got a few lives left!" Conar turned his head. "Sentian," Roget said, "will you find Brelan? Chase, keep every one out of the room. Conar needs to rest." He turned to Jah-Ma-El. "Take a bath or I'll make sure you're keelhauled as soon as we put out to sea!" Jah-Ma-El looked at Conar. "Will you be all right?" Conar nodded, but stared at the far wall, his face shadowed and bleak. Jah-Ma-El thrust out his bottom lip in a pout. "I'll bathe, but I won't like it!" He stomped through the door and snarled over his shoulder: "Get him to eat, du Mer!" As soon as the door closed, Roget sat on the bed. "Areyou hungry?" Conar shook his head. "It's been a long time, but we're finally going home!" Roget sighed, patting Conar's hand. "Is Holm really here?" "Brelan will explain it all, but aye, Holm's here and we're leaving for Chyrstallus as soon as Brelan gives the word. I'll stay with you until he gets here." "I don't need to be watched, Roget." "Who says I'm watching you?" Conar felt so strange, so numb, and his head was throbbing even more. He heard laughter outside, genuine, something he never heard except from taunting mouths in the Labyrinth. "Are you feeling okay?" Roget asked, his brows drawn together with worry. The door opened; Brelan stepped in. Conar saw his brother's grin and knew they were, indeed, going to leave this horrible place. "We're getting some things packed to take with us and we'll be setting out in about…" "Can I speak to you, Brelan?" Roget asked. He stood and didn't give Saur a chance to protest before he propelled him through the door, closing the portal behind him with a gentle snap. *** "What in the hell's the matter with you?" Brelan snapped. "I was about to tell him—" "You'd better speak to him first," Roget warned. "Don't just drop everything on him at once. He's been through so much in the last four years, he needs time to adjust. I asked him how he felt about going home and he wouldn't answer. I don't think he even knows. Help him get used to the idea that he's back among the living." "I haven't let anyone tell the crew or our brothers that he's here. I wanted to surprise him and them." "Be careful how you go about it with him. He's used to us being around; he hasn't seen them in more than six years." Roget sighed. "Or they, him." "I thought he'd be happy to see them," Brelan said, worry showing on his handsome face. "He probably will be, but tell him gently. He's not the same man they knew. Physically and emotionally changed. If they see him like he is and let their feelings show…" Roget shrugged. "It might do more damage than can be healed." "He hasn't seen a mirror in the entire time he's been here," Jah-Ma-El said from his place in the shadows. "Didn't I tell you to take a bath?" Roget snarled, startled by the interruption.

"I will!" Jah-Ma-El came out of the shadows and looked at Brelan. "Tell Roget to go about his business; I need to speak with you." Du Mer glared at Jah-Ma-El as he passed. "Don't let him see a mirror just yet, Brelan," Jah-Ma-El said. "I took all the ones I could find out of Appolyon's room. Prepare him, but also let him know that it won't matter." Brelan smiled. "Not to us, anyway." "Not to the one that will matter to him, either." The smile left Brelan's face. "I've been dreading speaking about her to him. Every time I've tried, he's cut me off." "He has to be told. If you let him find out from a stranger, he'll be hurt worse." *** Conar looked up as Brelan reentered the room. His brother's face still bore a smile, but there were now shadows lurking there. "Has something happened?" he asked, clearing his throat. "No," Brelan assured him as he brought a chair to the bed. He plopped down and stretched his legs. "Everything's gone better than planned." "No one was hurt?" "Maybe one or two guards who took exception to being locked up in the wine cellar." He turned his head as laughter and shouts of joy rang out in the courtyard. "That's a sound I like!" When he looked back at Conar. "Have you had your sign? Shalu said you were looking for a sign to tell you the gods wanted you back among the living. You said if someone could breathe life back into you, you'd lead us." A wicked gleam came into the dark brown eyes. "I breathed life into you,and, I might add, brought you back from the dead. What other sign do you need?" Conar looked away. "You know," Brelan began, sitting forward as he placed his hands over Conar's. "Sometimes you have to lose your life before you begin to live it." Conar's fingers twitched beneath Brelan's palm. "All right." Brelan sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want to talk about her now?" Conar closed his ears to the sounds of happiness outside the window. "I can't even remember what she looks like, Brelan," he whispered, shame running rampant through his voice. Brelan nodded. "It's been a long time and you've been through a lot. No one can fault you for not being able to see her in your memory." "But she was my wife! Mylife! And I can't even remember her face. What right do I have to return to her when I can't even remember the way she looks?" How could Brelan tell Conar there was no longer a place in Elizabeth's life for him, that she now belonged to someone else? How would Conar take the news that thesomeone else was their brother, Legion? Conar knew Legion was alive and well, but he didn't know he was King of Serenia. He thought Galen was still King. Brelan wasn't sure if Conar knew Elizabeth had married Galen. And there were other things—Conar didn't know he had a son by Elizabeth. Nor that she had a son by Galen and, if the child she was carrying at the time of Brelan's departure had survived, a child by Legion. Brelan's heart sank as he realized Conar also didn't know about the daughter she had borne him. But worst, Conar didn't know about Elizabeth's love for Legion. How do you tell a man who has gone through the fires of hell that there are even more painful flames awaiting him? Brelan wished he hadn't brought up the subject. From the look on his brother's face, Conar wished the same thing.

Taking a deep breath, Brelan spoke softly. "You have to remember she doesn't know you're alive. None of us did. There will be a lot of adjustments to be made by all." Conar flinched. "Do I have the right to walk back into her life after all these years?" "It's not as if you ran away. You have every right to claim what is rightfully yours." "Rightfully mine," he whispered. "They annulled our marriage. They took her away from me. Did they give her to Galen?" "Galen is dead," Brelan answered gently. "Murdered?" "Stabbed to death in the grotto." Conar nodded, seeing the place as clearly as though he was there. "Kaileel?" "We believe so." "When did Papa die?" "About seven months after you were taken away," Brelan answered, seeing calculations forming behind the dull blue eyes. "Then Galen was King?" "Aye." "And did he have a Queen?" The question was bitter with hurt. "You know she had no choice, don't you?" "Tell me the truth." Conar let his gaze fuse with his brother's. "Can I still claim her?" "She loves you as much today as she did when you were together. She'll be happy you're alive." Conar took in a long breath. "Is there a reason why my return would disrupt commitments she might have?" "Commitments?" Brelan asked, vying for time. "She thinks I'm dead. Would I complicate her life?" Brelan wanted to hide. "Six years is a long time. Life goes on even when we are in pain." He managed to look away from Conar's face. "Things don't always stay the way we want them…" Conar's forehead crinkled with an inner hurt that brought pain to Brelan's heart. "She's happy?" "There are things you need…" Brelan stopped, his gut on fire with sorrow. "Is she happy?" Conar refused to let Brelan look away. The force of those blue eyes made Brelan want to beat his fists into the wall, get rip-roaring drunk, kill something. "As far as I know, she is." Conar nodded, accepting it in his mind if not in his heart. "Is he good to her?" "He loves her very much." "Does she love him?" At Brelan's silent nod, Conar let out a long breath and threw back the covers, swung his long legs off the bed. "Where are my breeches?" "I'll get you something," Brelan said, turning away from the scars running rampant down his brother's body. He hurried to a pile of clean clothing Roget had brought in earlier and found a pair of white cambric breeches. Never worn,

the material was crisp, though somewhat wrinkled. He found a light blue shirt and walked back to hand them to Conar. "I know you're upset about this—" "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Conar stepped into the breeches, then yanked the shirt over his head, leaving the laces untied to his waist. Brelan watched him plow a shaky hand through his blond hair. He wanted desperately to say something, anything, that would erase the hurt on Conar's face, but he didn't know what. He saw Conar looking around. "What do you need?" "A mirror." "I don't see one," Brelan answered. "Did you remove them?" "I didn't." "But they were removed…" "It's just that—" "Give me your dagger." "Why?" "Don't worry," Conar sighed. "Just give me a dagger and tell me where the man responsible for Hern's death is." "In the Indoctrination Hut, but…" "The dagger!" "I don't think—" "The gods-be-damned dagger!" Brelan gazed into the depths of his brother's ice-cold eyes and saw something evil, a ferocious gleam of vengeance and murderous intent Conar needed an outlet for his raging sorrow and Lydon Drake was to be his target. Brelan shuddered. He didn't blame Conar. No one could. Neither did he pity Drake. It was just that Conar's eyes scared the hell out him and he was glad he wasn't Lydon Drake. "The dagger?" Conar prompted again. Brelan drew it from his waistband and extended it to his brother. "An hour?" Conar asked as he jammed the knife into the waistband of his breeches. He headed for the door. "Aye," Brelan answered, knowing his brother was asking when they'd be leaving. He couldn't look anymore into that vengeful face, so he looked away until Conar left. Brelan slumped into a chair. There had been a portent of things to come in Conar's eyes—the man who had been carried into prison was not the man who would be walking out. *** Conar stopped at the hut where Drake was being held. Before the door, his brawny arms crossed over a wide chest, stood one of the few prisoners Appolyon had not been able to make cower in this hell of hells. "Stand aside," Conar told the dark-haired man. "I've business with Drake." "I expect you do, Milord." He unfolded his arms. "I've been waiting for you to come." "Really?" "The honor of dispatching Drake should go to none other than you."

"Who are you?" "Kyman Cree." "Rysalian?" "Aye. I was brought here from Asaraba." Conar stuck out his hand. "I hope to go there one day." "Pray to the Prophets you will." Cree took the proffered wrist in his strong grip. "Are you planning on going with us when we leave, Ky?" Cree shrugged. "As much as I enjoy this piss pot, I am in need of a vacation." He grinned. "Have you a lady back home?" Cree nodded. "I pray to the Prophets that she is still there. She's a Chalean lass. Who really knows with them?" His grin grew wicked. "My lady is Oceanian," Conar sighed. "I hope she is waiting, as well." The Rysalian warrior put a hand on Conar's shoulder. "The Wind be at your back, Prince of the Wind." He cocked his chin toward the door. "Twist the dagger in his gut for me while you're at it." The tall man walked away, his lips puckered as he whistled "The Prince's Lost Lady."

Chapter 15 "As soon as we've finished setting the charges, we'll leave," Shalu told Holm van de Lar. "We've gathered up the weapons Appolyon had. They won't need them after we're gone." "What about those you've got locked up? How will they get out?" Holm inquired. "We'll free them before we go. Not even I would leave a man caged in a place such as this." Holm liked this tall dark man. He had surprised the fellow by sticking out his hand in greeting when Mister Tarnes introduced them. That particular thing must not have happened to the Necroman often, for the massive warrior had simply stared until the sea captain had taken Shalu's hand in his own and shaken it. "Glad to know you!" Holm had grinned and Shalu had hesitantly grinned back. Something else Holm was sure didn't occur often. Shalu had taken van de Lar's measure and was satisfied he was exactly what he appeared to be—honest, forthright, unprejudiced, and sincerely glad to make his acquaintance. "My Grandpappy told me he met up with a Necroman once," Holm had said, nodding. "The old salt got shipwrecked on that little island off your southern tip." "Bethany." "That would be it!" Holm laughed. "Grandpappy told me this big man came out of the bushes and near scared him to death! And my Grandpappy was one of the bravest men I've ever seen! That fellow countryman of yours was lost on that island, too." "An easy thing to do if you get caught in the falls at New Church."

Holm shrugged. "Don't know if that was the case. All I know is they got real close until a ship came by. They lit a bonfire and got rescued, but not before they taught each other about the other's culture and such." The image of the white sea warrior of an old Necromanian tale flitted through Shalu's mind and he knew it was the gods way of putting Their stamp of approval on Holm van de Lar. Shalu hadn't thought of that tale since childhood. "Did they ever see one another again?" Wyn asked, interested. Holm shook his head. "But Grandpappy told me on his wedding day, he received a…" He lifted his cap and scratched at his thick mane of white hair. "…I can't rightly recall what that little carving was called." Shalu nodded. "A gris-gris." "That's it! That little thing was supposed to bring good luck and…" He blushed. "…Fertility to my Grandpappy." "And did it?" Shalu asked. "Fourteen children!" Holm snorted. "It was a great honor your father received from my tribesman. We do not give gris-gris to outsiders unless they have done something extraordinary." "They was just friends." Shalu looked at him. "Such as you and I will be." "I can see that happening." "We've made sure there's enough food to last them a year," Tyne Brell commented to the men as he strolled up. "We've left salt pork and cured ham. The meat won't last long, but they have seeds for the corn and vegetables." He shrugged. "If they don't learn farming, they'll die." Holm regarded the small man with admiration. There was a lot of spit in this little fellow. He hadn't been introduced, but looking at the sword now strapped to his short thigh, Holm couldn't help but wonder if the man knew how to use it, or even had the strength in his slim hands to wield it. "His name is Tyne Brell," Shalu remarked. Holm whistled. "A pleasure, Your Grace. A real pleasure, indeed. I've heard all about you." Tyne put out his hand. "Call me Tyne. There's only one true Prince here." As his wrist settled in the small man's palm, Holm raised one brow at the fierce grip. Thinking Brell had meant Coron, Holm nodded. "We'll be putting the rightful King of Serenia on the throne one day!" "Aye." Tyne looked at Shalu. "That we will, eh, my friend?" "Without doubt," Shalu swore. Holm rubbed his hands together. "There's just one thing left to do before I leave." He swung his large head about the compound. "Where's the graveyard, gentlemen?" "Graveyard?" Tyne echoed in puzzlement. "You don't think I intend to leave him buried here in this evil place, do you?" Holm asked. Thom, standing nearby, thought he understood. "You mean Hern Arbra? He's buried—" "We'll take him along, too," Holm interrupted. "I was referring to His Grace's coffin. Tell me where it is and I'll see to it myself." "His Grace?" Thom asked, his forward crinkling.

"He means my father's coffin. Conar McGregor's coffin," Wyn said softly, joining them. Shalu looked to Tyne. "Hasn't that been seen to already, Brell?" "I believe so," Tyne agreed. He looked at the captain. "See Brelan Saur concerning that." "That I will!" Holm replied, grinning. It took van de Lar nearly twenty minutes to find Saur. He looked in every hut and shed except those containing prisoners, ducked into the mine, tried the door to the Indoctrination Hut only to find it locked and silent, glanced about the compound, his beefy face growing set and hard. When at last he came to the Command Quarters, he found Saur packing documents into a valise. "Everything about ready?" Brelan asked. "I reckon." Holm walked up to the smaller man and glared down at him, his big hands on his sturdy hips. "Where is it, Saur?" Brelan's brows drew together. "What?" "The coffin, man! I've looked everywhere and I ain't seen any sign of it. The Necroman said things had already been taken care of. Where did you put the boy's coffin?" Brelan glanced past Holm's shoulder and smiled. "Well, it's like this…we won't be taking his coffin back with us." "The hell you say!"Holm exploded, savagely grabbing Brelan's left arm. "That was the only condition I had to risking my hide for you! I want his coffin taken to home soil! And it will be if I have to dig it myself from this wretched sand with my bare hands! Don't be looking for excuses!" He shook Brelan. "And I don't care who is standing behind me, he can't help you none, either! So, you'd just better be explaining real hard why you ain't answering my question." "Wouldn't you rather have the living man than a dead one?" a voice asked. "I'd rather you minded your own bloody business!" Holm shouted, spinning to fix his steely-eyed glint on the man who dared to intrude. When he saw the man, the old tar staggered, gripping Brelan's arm tighter to keep from pitching to the floor. "Hello, Holm." "It can't be!" Holm whispered. taking in the long blond hair, the build, the heralded blue eyes, the scars on the man's cheek. Conar walked forward. In his hand was the wicked-looking dagger. He held it out to Holm. "I wanted to kill him. No one would have blamed me if I had; but I remembered you were here and that right should go to you." Holm heard the words, but they made no sense to him. At that moment, nothing save a hard punch to his granite-like jaw would have intruded into the close scrutiny he was giving Conar. "Here," Conar said, placing the dagger in Holm's hand. The grip was sticky with blood. "The bastard who raped your daughter is in the Indoctrination Hut. If you don't want to do it, I'll finish what I started." He turned to Brelan. "He wasn't as good with a knife as he thought." For the first time, Brelan noticed the blood running down his brother's left arm and the thin streak of red on the front of Conar's shirt. "You let that bastard loose and fought with him, gave him a knife?" "I gave him more of a chance than he's ever given me." "He could have killed you!" "I could have killed him, but didn't." Holm managed to nod. "I'll be seeing to that son-of-a-demon," he stammered, gripping the knife. He walked on unsteady legs to the door, looked back, saw the young Prince watching him. "And it will give me the greatest pleasure to take thelive man home, Your Grace."

"Conar is my name," came the quick reply. He swept his hand toward the courtyard. A knowing grimace touched Holm's face. "I'll see to it, Your…" He smiled. "Conar." Brelan was silent until Holm left. "He could have killed you, dammit! How could you have taken a chance like that?" Conar smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. "Don't you know," he said, looking at Brelan through the golden gleam of his long lashes, a mischievous boy's look aimed at allaying Brelan's fears, "I'm a were-tiger. I'll live long enough to see Kaileel Tohre in hell!" Brelan let out an angry sigh. "Don't take any more chances." Conar was about to admonish his brother, to tell him it was his life, not Brelan's, that hung in the balance, but movement at the door brought his head around. He instinctively stepped back, into the deepening shadows of the afternoon light, wary of the threat of stomping feet and an explosion of furious breath. "Dammit, Brelan!" a young voice snapped, "You could at least have come out to meet us instead of having us worry about you! Why'd you make us come looking for—" He stopped as he spied another man in the room. "Who's he?" Dyllon asked his brother. "Oh, my god!" came a flat, disbelieving voice from the doorway. Brelan looked at Coron's stunned face, realized from the position where he stood he could see Conar's face clearly. Dyllon turned to Coron. "You look like you've seen a ghost!" Dyllon snickered, then saw the man stepping out of the darker portion of the room, his face lit by a beam of sunlight through the window. Dyllon's mouth dropped open. He looked for all the world as though some ancient sorcerer had turned him to stone. Conar entered the full shaft of the sunlight and stopped. The sight of his youngest brothers was like land to a drowning man. He let his gaze wander over them, seeking its fill. Their stunned looks amused him, but as he felt their scrutiny crawling over the destruction of his face, he knew a moment of shame that pierced him to his core. He tried to speak through a throat closing with pain. He couldn't. Coron shook his head as though to clear it. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. Dyllon could. "This can't be Conar." Conar stared at his youngest brother. "Dyllon, I know it's been a long time, but do I look that bad you don't recognize me?" "Bad?" Coron's attention drifted over the ravaged face. "I've never seen you look so gods-be-damned good." His eyes flooded with tears. He pulled Conar into his arms, hugging him with every ounce of strength in his body. Conar took his left arm from around Coron, held it wide for Dyllon. "Oh, sweet Alel!" Dyllon went into the embrace crying. Brelan also went to them and put out his arms, hugging Coron and Conar, touching Dyllon's arm with his hand. "Papa?" came a timid voice. All three men moved aside so Conar could see the son he had not seen in six years. He wasn't sure he knew this tall young man. There was a strong resemblance to himself. But the boy was taller than he, thicker in build, darker in coloring. The blond hair was the same ripe shade of wheat, worn the same way he had once worn his own—short and framing his face; there was a cleft in this stranger's chin that looked a lot like his own had at that age. But he couldn't believe this man was his son, his flesh and blood. "Wynland?" Conar questioned. He couldn't move. He wanted to, but couldn't. The boy came toward him, hesitantly, awkwardly, shyly, looking at him with disbelief and confusion. A quivering smile pushed against Conar's lips. "Only yesterday you were looking up atme ; today, I am looking up at you."

"You're alive. You're alive, Papa!" Wyn's shoulders trembled with emotion. He buried his face in his father's shoulder and sobbed. Brelan looked up and saw another man standing in the doorway. "I bathed," Jah-Ma-El said softly. Brelan smiled. "Come on in. You're one of the family, too, aren't you?" *** The last thing Sentian Heil saw as theBoreas Queen raised anchor was the fog rising into the cooling cloudiness of a pardoning gray sky. As far as his eyes could see, there was ocean, shimmering, dark blue ocean. Limitless, soft ocean. No sand. No towering bluffs. No barracks. No dead men. Only a vast expanse of ocean. What he smelled first was the prevailing aroma of ocean. Something less recognizable wafted under his nose and he sniffed, not sure what the pleasant odor could be. His nose crinkled with delight. He looked at Grice Wynth, leaning on the rail next to him, and smiled. The first thing Sentian Heil had felt when he and the others set foot on the crowded deck of theBoreas Queen had been the intense coolness rising up from the ocean. It had been a lung-filling coolness, sliding over them as though a goddess was plying her fingers on their bodies. It made it so easy to breathe, for the very air felt light and thin. For two hours they had trekked away from the desert, the old guards from the penal colony behind them carrying every available pike, sword and whip they had confiscated. Black smoke poured out of the central bluff and hung in the air. The smell of gunpowder from the charges drifted across the air and made their eyes water with relief. One guard laughed. "Resurrection day. That's freedom you boys are smelling." The smell grew more wonderful the closer it wafted to them. The coolness was, too. They could feel it through the soles of their boots, soothing coolness, overriding. Those unfortunate enough not to have had boots to begin with were laughing and joking that the sand was cool on this trip. The guards had helped them to wrap burlap sacks around their feet when they had left the Labyrinth, but the fabric wasn't needed now. Close to sundown, a full three hours after they had began their walk, some eighty-nine prisoners and twelve guards approached the first of the two waiting ships. Towering and beautiful, they looked like the antidote for all their troubles riding anchor on the glistening water. The two ships stretched out, long and lean, from the dwindling masts at the tops of the spurs to the broad hull that was two hundred feet across. A wall of soft wood, at least forty feet high, rose straight up on each side of the ship and connected with gleaming brass rails. A smell of tar permeated the outside of the ships and a dark black powder was lodged in the cracks and crevices of the wood. "Up you go!" the captain bellowed, pointing. Sentian was second in line, behind a man all of them knew although he had not had to introduce himself. He saw the man looking to the place where the captain pointed; there was nothing to see on the man's face as far as Sentian could tell. All he saw was a craggy face of darkly-tanned stone. But upon looking closer, he finally saw a break in the stone, an almost well-hidden crack spreading over the man's face. Before he could question the captain, a guard eased past him and took the man's arm. "I'll help you, Your Grace." Obviously the crack had been an illusion and was far thinner that Sentian had thought. Thin enough to let the brave man come through. Climbing the gangplank, the man at the head of the line of free men stepped onto the ship and turned, waiting for the others. He held out his hand to keep Sentian from falling, bracing himself against the rail as the ship rolled. Sentian withdrew his hand with a sigh of pleasure. "Thank you." "Not a sailor, are you, Sentian?".

"No, Conar, I'm a landlubber." "What the hell?" Grice mumbled. Holm turned and saw Grice staring at the ball of fur that had flung itself at him. One of the crew laughed as he held up a wiggling form none of the men had ever seen, plucking it off Grice's chest where it was clinging. "Better tell them about these critters, Cap'n!" The Captain folded his arms over his brawny chest and stared straight at Grice. "That's my pet monkey. His name is Jo-Jo and there are two more like him on board." He eyed the other men at the base of the gangplank. "They're friendly little chaps. They'll wrap their tails around your legs and hang on. If you don't pet them, they'll make you wish you had!" His lips twitched with glee. "My advice to you is not to ignore 'em!" As the men came up the gangplank, they laughed and petted the little critter clinging now to the Captain's shoulder. Even Grice tentatively stroked the simian's fur. The animal shot out a thin black hand and gently gripped Grice's hand. Conar chuckled. "He likes you." Grice frowned. "He's…sort of cute, I guess." "Step lively," the captain warned. "We'll be sailing through some tricky weather soon." It took nearly an hour of twisting, turning, and settling for all the men to board the two vessels. The upper decks were jammed with men rigging tarps to protect themselves from the now gently falling rain. "Might get a bit rough out to sea," Holm remarked, handing the sextant over to Mister Tarnes before he swung a rope across to the other ship. "Aye," Korbit agreed. "Can't believe you men pirated that prison ship!" He looked at theVortex. "You'll make a good captain for her, Gil." Mister Tarnes looked surprised. "Think he'll let me keep her?" "He will," Conar said. He put a hand on Tarnes' shoulder. "You deserve her." "I'll take good care of her, Majesty," Tarnes said, blushing. Conar slapped Tarnes on the back and walked off, heading for the sternmost portion of theBoreas Queen. He had seen his men to as much comfort as the two ships could provide and now he wanted privacy. He stared at the retreating harshness of Tyber's Isle. The rain grew heavier. Conar's lashes were spiked with droplets, his face glistening with rain. He was soaked through, his shirt plastered to his chest, water ran down his nose and dripped to the railing beneath his light grip. But he didn't want to leave, didn't want to find the warmth and comfort of the cabin Holm had insisted he take on the trip to Chrystallus. Watching Tyber's Isle disappear into the curve of the ocean, Conar sighed. He hoped to the gods he had seen the last of that terrible place with its white-hot heat and clinging sand. The thought of the sand took him back to his first half-hour on board theBoreas Queen. Wyn had led him down to the hold, pointing out a place near midships where a thick blanket of dark earth spread out over the hull. "What is it?" Conar had asked. "Holm had that prepared for the coffin, Papa. It's Serenian soil." Conar hunkered down and grasped a handful of the thick, dark gray silt. He inhaled the fecund, rich loam. This was not the hot, infertile sand of the Labyrinth; this was the cool, fertile sod of his homeland. The nurturing soil of his birth.

"Are you all right, Papa?" Wyn asked. "I will be now," Conar whispered, reveling in the texture of the earth. It felt like home. He looked past Wyn as men filed into the room with Hern Arbra's coffin. Conar asked to be alone. He placed his hand on the coffin rough wood. "We're going home, Hern," he whispered. "I won't be there to see you buried, but I've told Holm what I want on the marker. I told you once I'd haveHe was feared carved on your stone. Remember?" He lowered his forehead to the musty wood. "Well, that won't be the words on it after all." Tears glistened in his eyes. "I've decided it will read…He was loved."

PART III: Chapter 1 Chrystallus was a country of enigmas. As were its people. For the most part, the land was lush with well-ordered, well-groomed gardens that grew among rocks and timbers and granite statues. Everywhere was a sense of peace, of tranquillity, of order. Man-made waterfalls cascaded over lava rocks, and graceful arched bridges flowed over the streams where tiny, darting silver and gold fishes played among smooth stones and flowing water lilies. Lotus flowers were abundant in even the meanest garden space, and twisted, stunted trees grew according to the Master Gardener's command and scheme. While the people of Chrystallus were peaceful and as tranquil and disciplined as their gardens, they had a darker side, a warrior side, that could turn their peaceful world into a blazing war zone when they had been intruded upon by outsiders who did not understand their lifestyle. Such was the case when Kaileel Tohre tried to invade the land of the Lotus. The people had rebelled with a ferocity that had stunned its invaders and sent them scurrying back across the ice-covered mountains with their tails tucked between their legs. The invaders had been kept away all the years of Conar's imprisonment and were still kept away. Their Emperor and his lady were looked upon as being the representatives of the gods. Given godlike qualities by his subjects which often amused the Emperor and his Empress, Tran Shimoto nevertheless took his position as the ultimate authority to be his rightful due. Having his peoples' complete faith was of the utmost importance, for when he told them they would be fighting, to the death, for their homeland, his subjects did not waver. They took him at his word. Rather than live in captivity, under infidels who smirked at their gentle lifestyle, those captured during the fighting had found ways to honorably end their lives. The invaders who had been captured had died deaths meant to warn their fellow warriors. So it was that when theBoreas Queen and her sister shipVortex were spotted on the horizon some nine months after the escape from Labyrinth Prison, a hue and cry went up. The people of Chrystallus were well-armed and ready by the time the ships dropped anchor in the bay outside Binh Tae, the capital. It was not until the royal flag of Chrystallus was hoisted that the people turned to their Chief Minister and awaited instructions. "It is the Empress' nephew, I believe," the man told them, and sent word to the Emperor. It was a tired group of men who stepped out of the longboats onto the shore at Binh Tae Palace. The sight made the people of Chrystallus lay down their weapons and stand reverently along the shore and above the docks on the rock promontory circling the city. To the men who walked through the dwindling depths of the ocean waves to the steep wooden steps leading to a landing high above, the eerie silence greeting them was unnerving. Almond-shaped black eyes followed their every move, and not one smile touched upon the thin, almost straight line of their lips. Brelan was in the first longboat that anchored in the shallows. The people recognized him and heads nodded, features

relaxed, but the black eyes swept over the other men in the longboat beside him and narrowed in speculation. Tyne Brell, Storm Jale, Thom Loure and four others waded ashore along with Saur, wary of the silent greeting. "They look none too happy to see us," Tyne mumbled. "It's their way," Brelan whispered. The second longboat with Roget, Chase, the Hesars: Xander, Rylan and Paegan, Belvoir and two others slammed into the shoreline ahead of a crashing wave and the boat nearly capsized, but no one came to their aid as the men fell into the lapping water. No one laughed either. Only the soft rustle of the trees along the promontory and the gentle lapping of waves against the stonework seawall lent sound to the utter stillness. The third boat containing eight prisoners from the penal colony landed and the men disembarked, looking at the people who were trickling down from the promontory to spread out along the water's edge. "Howdy," one prisoner said to a wizened little man who had come forward with hunched shoulders and a scowl on his ugly face. The man didn't return the welcome. It was when the fourth boat dispersed its cargo of humanity that a quiet hum began among those gathered. Hands lifted, shielding eyes; fingers pointed; people nodded excitedly in agreement with the observation of their neighbors. Two soldiers left their position beside the Chief Minister and ran as fast as they could toward the palace. In the beautiful sing-song language of the Chrystallusian people, the volume grew as people gathered along the rock promontory and drifted down the shoreline from either side of the coast. Laughter rang out. Knees and backs were slapped as the people of the Lotus became aware of the man who cleared the side of the fourth boat and who, even then, was standing in thigh-high water. He stared at the people coming down the steep steps. With his gleaming blond hair, freshly washed just that morning, his build, his stance and the deference being shown to him by the other men climbing from the boat, there could be no doubt who he was. There was no other like him, and the voices gathered in volume until a roar of excitement raced through the air. "The gods are merciful," the Chief Minister whispered as he saw those legendary blue eyes even from his high place. "Itis him!" The Empress Dyreil Shimoto stood with one hand shielding her face to the glare of the sun as she stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the beach. She was relieved to see Dyllon, Coron, and Wyn safe, but then she looked at the man her guards had come to tell her about. She turned to her husband. "Tran, can it truly be him?" Tran shrugged. "We shall have to walk down these steps to make sure, Beloved. I believe the young man is mired in the water where he stands." He smiled and his heart ached as his slim wife clutched a hand to her bosom, her lips moving in prayer to whatever goddesses governed this Serenian lady. He took her hand in his and squeezed it. "We shall have towalk, Dyreil. As yet, us gods have not learned the magic of flight." He winked at her and watched as some of the confused lines in her beautiful face began to relax. Conar finally saw her and his heart lurched, allowing his feet movement in the shifting waters. "Belias A Regius, Conar Regius," a little man called in a clear voice. Conar looked with fright on the little man, whose head bobbed in greeting. "Conar Regius," the man repeated. He put his hands together and bowed low. Two soldiers appeared as though from nowhere and stood beside the man. They mouthed the same words, their own faces filled with wonder, and then they, too, bowed. Around him, people bowed or dropped gracefully to their knees, giving Conar their homeland's greeting of honor. They pressed their foreheads to the wet sand, raised up and looked at him, then bent forward again, their arms stretched outstretched. On the shore, Conar came to a standstill, his chest heaving with emotion as men and women whispered two words in the ancient language of Serenia—Conar Regius, meaning King Conar. The volume grew. On the promontory where a thick line of warriors and soldiers gathered, the cry changed. The people took up the new chant with a force that ran out over the shore, vying with the crashing waves. Seven mighty, magical, heart-felt words.

"Conar Regius: Belias niatos E nal sumein!" "King Conar: The Wind is with us now!" Tears filled Conar's eyes as he heard his battle cry. His aunt's people, showing him honor and respect he had never thought to experience again, tore at his heart. A lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. His breath came in ragged gasps of emotion. When his knees buckled, he dropped to the wet sand, threw back his head, and gasped air into his aching lungs. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He lowered his head to a young Chrystallusian woman kneeling before him. She smiled; the little rosebud mouth, painted red as cherries and looking just as sweet, opened. In a tinkling, musical voice she spoke. "Welcome home, King Conar." She placed her soft lips against his scarred cheek. When she moved back, she giggled, seeing his astonishment. Gracefully she rose and held out her tiny hand, bidding him to take it. Her smile slipped away when he hesitated, unsure and somehow afraid. "Let me take you to your aunt." In a daze, he nestled her hand in his. They walked to the base of the steps from where the Empress and her husband were descending. When the woman eased her hand from his, he looked at her, needing that touch to keep him standing, but she shook her head, somehow sensing his awkwardness, and moved into the crowd of people. Dyreil stepped from the last two planks and opened her arms. Her smile was as bright as day. Conar stood there quivering as though with ague. His brows drew together, his fingers twitched at his sides. He was striving with all his might to keep his tears at bay. The effort was physically draining. He felt a faint echo, a soft sighing, of the total joy he had once known so deeply in his battered soul and it called to him in a voice he knew so well. "I love you, Conar," his aunt whispered. He was tense, like a tightly coiled spring. He trembled as he attempted to keep his anxiety under control. In the Labyrinth, he had learned to be invisible; here, he was scrutinized, welcomed, spoken to, by hundreds of people. In the Labyrinth, he had learned what it was to be deprived of love; here, these people were showering him with affection. In the Labyrinth, he had been denied human touch and warmth; here, he had been touched and shown love. When his aunt stepped toward him, a low groan came from the depths of his soul. As her arms closed around his waist, another moan, lost and helpless, poured from him. "Oh, my sweet Conar." He wanted to hold her to him, but he hurt so badly, he could not force his muscles to obey. She gripped him tightly to her, her arms encompassing him, her cheek pressed close to his chest. His head went to her shoulder and hesitant sobs wracked his body. He managed to bring up his arms until she was clasped against him in a tender embrace. Her hands went up to cup his face. "My beautiful baby boy." She stroked the recalcitrant wave of hair that had fallen over his brow. "My beautiful, beautiful baby!" He clung to her with all the pent-up need of a child too long lost from his family. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Tran smiled. "Welcome home, son." Dyreil stepped aside for her husband to draw their nephew into his arms. "We dared not believe it was you when our men came to tell us," Tran said. "This day will live in our history," the Chief Minister added, giving his Empress a tender smile. Dyreil slipped her slender arm around her nephew's waist. "You will come and sleep and rest and…" She squeezed him to her. "…And put some meat on this tall frame!" ***

Conar wasn't sure what had awakened him. At first he couldn't remember where he was. Sitting up in the bed with its rose-colored silk sheets and soft white satin coverlet, he looked around before he came back to the present and lay back down, the scent of sandalwood tickling the hairs of his nose. It was a warm scent and it smelled clean and fresh, and it soothed him. He stretched his arms above his head, pushing on the ornately carved teakwood headboard and sighed. He had no idea what time it was, but by the shadows on the wall, he had slept well past noon. Ashamed, he threw back the covers, only mildly surprised that he was naked. He could vaguely recall being undressed. By Bre? Roget? He couldn't remember. He looked for his clothes, but saw nothing on the credenza or the square table of lacquer-wood with its army of plump cushions encircling it. Silk screens partitioned off different sections of the room; a large, gnarled tree stood in the corner beside another low credenza, but still he saw no clothes. He looked at the bed, the only concession to his own culture within the room. Though unquestionably comfortable, it looked foreign in a decor where a mattress on the bare floor would have sufficed. He peeked behind one screen, finding a golden tub filled with water, mists rising above the surface like dancing ghostlings. He plunged his hand into the tub. The feel of the water filled him with sheer joy. Folded on a table beside the tub were thick towels that beckoned his palm to spread over them. "Ah…" he sighed as his callused flesh dragged against their fleecy softness. He plucked a white oblong of soap from its crystal dish. Easing himself into the over-sized tub, he sighed with pleasure, breathing deeply of the cinnamon-scented water, an aroma he had not taken in for a long time. He rested his head along the high back, put his arms to either side of the rolled edge and let his body drift in the warm cocoon. He heard the sound of a rice-paper door gliding open, but the warmth of the water and the rich scent of the cinnamon filled him with lassitude and he didn't look around. "Do you believe this tub?" he asked, expecting Bre, Roget, or Sentian to answer. "Does it please you, Highness?" a laughing, musical voice inquired. He jumped. The same slender woman who had greeted him at the beach walked gracefully toward him. She knelt beside the tub and smiled. Blushing, he scrunched down in the tub, and used his hands to shield his lions from her curious view. It was not the first time a servant girl had come into his bathing chamber; the various activities afterward had been especially pleasant. But this slim girl-child was the first woman to see him naked in many years. She was also the first woman he had been alone with in all those years. He swallowed to still the wild, erratic beating of his heart. "My name is Se Huan, Highness. His Celestial Highness selected some clothing for you. If they do not fit or if you do not find them appealing, we will find others. I placed them on your bed." Her smiled was slightly amused. "Does it meet with your approval?" "What?" he stammered. A tinkle of merry laughter issued from her bow-shaped red lips. "The bed, Highness! Is it comfortable?" He nodded. "Good! I will wait here until you are finished with your bath and then I will help you dress." Her oval face was sweetly innocent as she raised her chin, craning her delicate neck to peer over the rim of the tub. "Where is your soap, Highness?" "Huh?" She smiled and gave him a look that was part chastisement, part teasing. "Your soap?" He held up his hand where the bar of chamomile was slick and melting, squishy between his fingers. He handed it to her like a child caught with something he shouldn't have in his possession. "You're…you're going to wait here?" he stammered, cupping himself again. "Does my presence in your bathing chamber offend you, Highness?" Her heart-shaped face quivered as though the

notion that he found below standards hurt her. She lowered her head. "It doesn't matter. Stay if you wish." "I wish!" she said brightly, sitting back on her heels. He tried to pretend she wasn't there. His eyes shifted back and forth across the room, seeking a way to ask her to leave without hurting her feelings. He wanted to bathe, but he didn't want her watching him. He had almost formulated a request he felt would suffice when he felt something wet and cool caress the back of his neck. Turning his head slightly, he saw her kneeling behind him, her fingers deftly braiding his long blond hair into a queue. He brought up his knees, hiding his manhood. Amused laughter flowed over his shoulder, softly stirring the hair along his neck. "I have seven brothers, Highness. There is nothing I have not seen." "What you've seen wasn't mine, lady." She finished with his hair and took up the soap. "I see you blushing when you shouldn't be." He realized she was watching his expression in the Cheval mirror just to the left of the tub. He met her sparkling eyes in the glass and blinked. The woman was flirting! He watched her smile shyly and then turn her attention to his shoulder and left arm, drawing the soap along its tanned length as she hummed softly. If she noticed the Maze tattooed on the underside of his wrist, she didn't remark upon it. He glanced back into the mirror, curious to see her reaction to the band of burned flesh just above his left elbow, but she ignored that also. The pentagram branded into his palm, however, brought a frown to her face. "Did my aunt provide beds like mine for my men?" he asked, wanting to bring the prettiness back to her face, to take her thoughts from the pentagram. She looked up at him. "Oh, yes. Well, at least for the royal sons who are visiting. Her Celestial Highness had a dozen sleeping pedestals in storage for just such visits." She pushed gracefully to her feet and padded to the other side of the tub, studiously avoiding glancing into the water where his legs, he hoped, hid him from her sight. She sank to her knees again and began to wash his right shoulder and arm. "Are you ready for me to wash your legs?" "I… I can do it," he stammered, watching her lips twitch. "I'm not helpless!" She made a quick nod. "Then let me do your back, at least. That I know you can not do." He leaned forward, clasping his knees with his arms and waited. He decided right then, when she finished with his back, he was sending her on her way! There was a sharp gasp. Her eyes found his in the mirror once more. She stared at him with horror. She had seen the puckered, criss-crossed scars that covered him from his neck to well below his waist. "You don't have to bathe my back," he told her. "I can manage on my own." "Those who would dare do such a thing to you should be put to the ax!" she said fiercely. "No one had the right to hurt you in this way." He had no thought of his own shame and hurt. Another's pain had always touched him far deeper than his own. He turned, heedless of his nakedness, and caressed her cheek with his palm. She brought his hand to her lips, kissing the scarred palm. "Don't," he said. "It happened long ago and I no longer feel the pain." She came hurriedly to her feet, backing away until she reached the rice-paper doorway. "I have shamed you," she confessed, stepping backward through the opening. She bowed several times. "I ask you pardon, Highness." "You've done nothing wrong." She spun around, a gasping sob floating to him as she slid the panel shut.

He let out a ragged breath. Suddenly, he was more tired than he could remember being in a long while. He looked at his legs and decided not to finish his bath. Getting out of the tub proved to be an effort since his muscles ached and cramped, making him wince. He needed exercise and he made a mental note to ask his uncle about it that afternoon. He plucked a towel from the table and dried himself with the thick fleece. Padding to the bed across the straw mat flooring, he saw the clothes she had brought for him. He picked them up, marveling at the rich feel of the black silk. The tunic and breeches were heavily embroidered down the front, sides, and sleeves with black silk thread. Peacocks and mountains, arched bridges and flowing water were etched on the material. Slipping the breeches up his legs, he inhaled with pleasure as the feel of the silk lulled him. The tunic, held together by tiny black pearls down the left side, felt cool, clean, and fresh as he slipped it over his shoulders. He looked at himself in the Cheval mirror. From a distance, he looked normal. But he knew if he walked closer, the scars, the haggard look on his face, the twin furrows along his left cheek would return. They would be with him always. He sat on the bed, staring at the brands in his palms. "She pitied you," he said to the empty room. He lay on the white coverlet, pressing his scarred cheek to the bed as though to hide it forever. He was soon asleep, the vision of the Tribunal Square firmly in his troubled mind. He didn't hear his screams of nightmarish pain. *** He woke. He was lying on his left side. There was a soft warmth lying beside him and he snuggled up to it, a tiny, fleeting smile on his lips. He felt hands on his right arm, smoothing the fabric of his tunic. The hands moved over his shoulders, ran down his back and rump and up again. The feeling was wonderful and he wished for it to continue forever. He drew in a long, contented breath. "Did you sleep well, Highness?" His eyes snapped open; the breath held in his throat. She lay on her side facing him. Her head was propped up on her bent elbow and her free hand smoothed over his back and rump. There was a faint smile on her lips. Sometime during his sleep, she had lain beside him. He had sought her warmth, her woman's softness. His belly and chest were pressed against her, his arm thrown possessively over her tiny waist, one black-clad knee wedged between hers. He knew without looking that she was naked. He let out his ragged breath. They stared at one another a long time. He let his attention roam over her perfectly shaped face with its tilt of flaring brows. Her nose was small, delicate, the nostrils thin and arched. Her lashes were fine, short and moved upward with the slant of her beautiful black eyes. The rosebud lips were puckered in a gentle smile, their ripe cherry-colored flesh shining and moist. Her tongue darted out to wet them and his eyes lowered to them. Her teeth were as white as virgin snow, the tongue pink and curving. His eyes raised to the black glory of her hair and he wondered what she would look like if her tresses were released from the restriction of the ivory combs that held it in a tight coil. His lids fluttered as she ran her slender fingers through his hair, her red-tipped nails grazing his scalp with tantalizing slowness. He drew in his breath, savoring the feel. "Such marvelous hair," she told him, pulling his braid over his shoulder. "Such a beautiful shade of gold." Her hand went once more to his shoulder. He was about to speak when she pushed him, a slight, incessant pressure against his shoulder that demanded he turn onto his back. He obeyed.

Se Huan took the ivory combs from her jet black hair. Shaking her head, the thick mane of shiny, straight, silky hair slipped over her shoulders and cascaded down to his chest. "Are you a mind reader?" he whispered. She began unbuttoning his tunic. He covered her fingers with a restraining hand. "Are you committed?" she asked, her eyes hungrily sweeping over his face. Had she used any other word he might have said yes, but that one word, a word echoing from his conversation with Brelan, made him shake his head in denial. "Not anymore, it seems." When she returned her attention to the buttons, he didn't stop her. He kept his head turned to the side, hiding his scarred flesh. Se Huan exposed the wide expanse of his chest. Her fingers slid seductively over the hard mounds of his left breast muscle, threading through the hair in the center of his breastbone and caressed the right side of his chest before moving over his taut belly. Her fingers fanned over the hard ridges along his midsection and a knowing smile touched her mouth. She put her lips on the soft nub of flesh on his right breast. He drew in a harsh breath. Her low laughter was musical and teasing. She placed a feather-soft kiss on the side of his neck. "Your blood pounds through your veins, Highness." "Se Huan?" She ignored the question in his voice. Her hands went to the drawstring of his breeches. "What are you doing?" he whispered, his hand slamming down to still hers. She regarded him with a steady look, her will far stronger than his own. Her tongue ran over the arch of her upper lip. He was lost. Beyond help. He surrendered to the sweet torture. Her face stretched into a compelling, conquering smile. She untied the drawstring and slipped her questing fingers through the patch of hair hidden below the waistband. His ragged breath seemed to please her as she stroked, kneaded the sudden hard thrust of his manhood. She covered his body with her own, then slid down along his length until she could plant a warm kiss on the deep indention of his navel. Her lips trailed along his belly and sides. "Let me pleasure you in a way that will not break any commitments you might have, Highness. Let me fill your soul with rapture and take you to the heavens you have been denied for so long." He knew he was entirely at her mercy. She seemd to know it, too. She pulled down his breeches, smiling as he raised his body enough to accommodate her. His flesh leapt at her as the breeches moved off his hips; her smile turned hotter still with passion. She looked up at him with a hunger of sexual need that staggered him. Her hand molded itself around him. She raised one fine brow in appreciation, then lowered her head. With infinite care, her lips parted to draw him deep inside her warm mouth. Her tongue spiraled around the swollen tip of his manhood and her hands slid down to cup and hold. Conar threaded his fingers through her silky hair while his eyes closed to the intense pleasure. It was exquisite torture, drawing from him a response he had long since forgotten. With blinding swiftness, he felt the raging tide of his need building toward the shoreline of his release. He groaned. Her lips nibbled, her mouth sucking the very nectar, the essence, from him. The pressure built within him, crested forward, edged ever toward the shore of his consciousness. Her hands shifted his testicles and he burst forth like the explosion of a star, white-hot with excruciating pleasure. He groaned as his flesh jerked within her soft mouth, his life-giving fluid cascading down her slender, arched throat. He grasped her head with both hands and called out, his body stiffening, and then he seemed to fall away, his hands

sliding limply to either side of his depleted body. Her tongue swept over his shrinking flesh, drawing, taking away the remnants of his passion. The soft rustle of silk breeches eased over his hips and waist as she tugged them into place, silently making him lift up so she could re-tie the drawstring. She rebuttoned the tunic, then put a finger on his bottom lip and traced the soft flesh before. She fused her mouth to his in a heady kiss that made his senses reel. He could taste himself on her lips and the warm invasion of her tongue into his mouth sent shivers of intense sweetness through his belly. She broke the contact of their mouths and rested her head on his broad shoulder. Conar drew her to him, fitting her body into the curve of his own. He placed a kiss on the shining halo of her hair. It had been a long time since he had experienced the pleasures this tiny woman had just given him. There had been dreams early after his imprisonment, dreams that had left him wet and aching, but they had subsided long ago. He had almost forgotten how wonderful the act of love could be, and in his mind, there was no doubt that was exactly what Se Huan had done for him. Her face had revealed more than desire when she had gazed up at him. He wanted to love her, to make love to her, but knew he couldn't. Not now. Not in the way she deserved, but he did know ways of bringing about the sweet bliss in her that she had drawn from him. "When we have slept, Highness," she said, snuggling against him, seeming to read his intent in the way his fingers passed over her naked shoulder. "Then we will climb the mountain again." But when he awakened the second time, spread her gently on the bed and used hands and fingers upon her more than willing flesh, he found the steadfast obstruction of her maidenhead blocking his questing fingers. "Your aunt would not have sent a whore to your bed, Highness," she remonstrated. "I would not have come, myself, had I been impure." She took his hand and brought the fingers to her lips, kissed them and, molded them to her breasts. "When you are ready to love me without guilt, Highness, then you may initiate me as you wish. No one but you will have that right." Guilt? he thought. He felt no guilt at what he had allowed to happen. He felt no shame. He had not actively participated in the process, but he hadn't put up that much resistance, either. Therewas no commitment. He had no wife. He was free. Free to love and cherish this woman. Free to offer her his hand in companionship, if not in marriage. His body was free; his soul was free, but his heart was still securely chained to Liza. He decided there was no one to blame because this had happened. He had done nothing wrong. But he did have one regret. No doubt to the woman lying beside him it hadn't meant overmuch; to him it was a burden, a reminder, nothing more. But it had been like the shattering of a fine, expensive crystal. At the moment his climax had come, he had called out. One word: Liza.

Chapter 2 Conar let the chilled wine flow down his throat. The sweet, tart taste of plums exploded on his taste buds and he closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The meal he had just finished had been superb, nothing like the good but substantial food on board theBoreas Queen or the native fare along the islands where they had stopped for provisions. His aunt had ordered all his favorites prepared, down to the triple chocolate cake that had been his one addiction and culinary weakness as a child. He looked at the velvety crumbs sprinkled about the tablecloth and smiled.

Dyreil carefully watched her nephew. Despite the battered condition of his face, the leanness of his body and the haunted despair in his beautiful eyes, she could still see the young man who had held the world in the palm of his hand all those years ago in Serenia. There was strength of will within him and she knew the vital animal instinct of survival he had leaned upon at the penal colony would help him deal with the problem of Liza. She frowned, looking into her wineglass. Liza was a subject he had yet to broach with her. Brelan told her about a conversation with his brother prior to leaving the Labyrinth, but since then, on the long journey to Chrystallus, Conar had studiously avoided any discussion of things in Serenia and especially of his ex-wife. "How's the wine, little brother?" Brelan asked, as his aunt nudged his foot under the table and nodded toward Conar. Conar shrugged. "So-so." "Aye," Dyllon snorted, "so-so good he's on his fourth glass! You'd better watch him, Uncle Tran. He doesn't hold his liquor well!" "And youknow what plum wine does to the McGregor libido," Coron remarked. Tran chuckled at the pale pink blush that spread over Conar's face. "Your great-great-great grandfather had some problem with plum wine, if I recollect accurately, didn't he, Conar? Was that not what started the War of the Zones?" Conar nodded, absently, looking into the golden swirl of his wine. "He bought; he tasted; he drank the whole bottle; he pillaged a town." He turned to his uncle. "Typical McGregor male reaction." "Aye, well," Coron said dryly, "if pillaging the town had been the only thing great gramps had done, we'd still be four separate countries within Serenia. I believe there was a female or two abducted in there somewhere?" Brelan chuckled. "Maybe one or two." "Like maybe our great-great-great-grandmama-to-be?" Dyllon reminded them. "He saw her; he liked her; he took her," Conar answered. He frowned into his wineglass again. "Typical McGregor male indulgence." "And started a war when her father and brothers and uncles and cousins went after the raiding party," the Empress put in. "Well, she didn't seem to mind being taken," Coron remarked. "If the tales are true, she seduced her Boreal warrior before they were two leagues out of Eurus." "He allowed her to fight him; he surrendered; she conquered him," Conar mumbled. He drained his glass, reached for the bottle in front of him. "Typical McGregor male stupidity." "But she loved him, Conar," his aunt said. "Didn't she fight for him when her father came to challenge him to a duel? She took up a sword to protect his back from one of her cowardly brothers who was trying to skewer Grandpapa." "If he had not been intoxicated with good Chrystallusian wine, he might not have pillaged the town, though, Aunt Dyreil," Wyn put in. "If he'd been sober, he might not have picked that particular lady. Wasn't he engaged to another woman from Norus?" Dyreil sent her great-nephew a warning look, then exchanged looks with her husband. "It doesn't matter if he was engaged. He and his captive fell in love. He was willing to start a war to keep her." "He took her with him; he laid her; he thought she loved him," Conar snarled. "Typical McGregor male arrogance." "It was a true love, Conar," Tran said. "Their marriage was one of the best, or so I've heard." "And you know what our great Grandpappy always said about true love!" Dyllon said, wanting to lighten the heavy air. "He said—" "That it only comes once in a man's lifetime," Conar interrupted. "If he is willing to risk everything to keep it, to fight to the death for it, he should be allowed to have it for the rest of his life." His voice trailed off, his eyes suddenly dark. "Typical McGregor male presumptuousness."

Dyreil silently pleaded with her husband to change the subject. Again she nudged Brelan beneath the table, making him wince. "If you gentlemen would like, we could go hunting tomorrow," Tran said. "Our bowyer has crafted a new crossbow that is wicked! I have had reports of a were-tiger in the northern hills. Who would care to try his expertise with the crossbow?" Conar got hastily to his feet and mumbled a good eve to all. His footsteps echoed hollow and lonely over the polished parquet flooring. "Did I say something wrong?" Tran asked, his kind face wrinkled with concern. "Liza once saved his life," Wyn explained. "Not long after they'd met. She brought down a were-tiger with her crossbow." Brelan stood up, hurrying after his brother. He had seen the glimmer of tears in Conar's eyes. Neither had he missed how Conar had snatched up a bottle of plum wine from the sideboard on his way out. When he reached Conar's door, he found it closed, locked. He rapped lightly. "It's me. Brelan." "Go away." "I'm not going anywhere until you unlock this door." "Then you'll have a long wait!" "Open the gods-be-damned door!" Brelan rattled the handle. "Did you hear me, Conar?" "Leave me the hell alone!" Something heavy hit the teakwood door. Brelan guessed it was the empty wine bottle. Brelan yanked hard on the handle, kicked the bottom of the portal, and grimaced as he realized too late he was barefoot. He hopped on one leg, holding his injured toes, his temper rising. "Damn you to hell, Conar McGregor!" "I've been there!" No amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening unlocked the door. Brelan went away frustrated, worried, and limping. Almost sure he had broken his big toe, he cursed the rule that allowed no footwear in the palace. "What did he say?" Tran asked as Brelan met him on the stairs. "To leave him the hell alone! He won't unlock the door. You know what happened last night and every night we were at sea." "There are some things he can only do for himself; there are some things we have to do for him. All room keys are in the top drawer of the credenza at the head of the stairs. His key is the one with the sunburst medallion. Let him have his privacy for now. When the need arises, then make use of the key." Tran put his arm around Brelan's shoulder. He had always thought of this young man as his son and he loved him. "Conar needs to work things out in his own mind. When he is ready to talk, he will. He has always been one to keep his thoughts to himself, you know. There is no reason to think he has changed." "I guess you're right." "One of the absolutes of being a god-like being," Tran said with a perfectly straight face. Brelan groaned at his uncle's dry wit and bid him goodnight. With one final look at Conar's closed door, he limped downstairs, knowing all too well someone would have to unlock that door before the night was through. *** He was caught up in the nightmare again. The dream had started the first night he was on board the ship. He had awakened screaming, gasping, violently fighting his brother's and Shalu's hold on him as he struggled in Holm's bunk.

"It's all right!" Brelan had said, trying to gain his brother's attention. "You're safe now!" Conar jerked, whimpering, writhing, striving to get free. His face had been as white as parchment, a vein throbbing dangerously in his temple. It had taken a few minutes and a great deal of force to subdue him. At last, trembling from head to toe and breathing erratically, Conar stared up at his brother with pitiful uncertainty. "Safe?" he breathed. His look was one of confusion, disbelief. "We're on our way to Chrystallus." Brelan wiped the sweat from Conar's forehead and swept back the damp hair. Conar looked around, confused even more by the dark paneled cabin. He settled for a moment on Shalu's face. The Necroman smiled, trying to reassure him, but Shalu smiled so infrequently, and with such concentrated effort, the grimace wasn't reassuring at all: it looked suspiciously like condescension, pity. One big hand caressed Conar's bare shoulder. "Would we lie to you, brat?" Shalu asked in a soft voice. Brelan sat on the bunk beside Conar. He laid a wet fleece rag on Conar's hot face, ran it down his cheeks, over his forehead, down his neck, trembling chest and shoulders, and over arms stiff with fear. "It'll take six to nine months to make it to Chrystallus because we're going the long way around the Cape of Diabolusia, then cutting across under the Emirates." He pressed gently on Conar's shoulder and made him lie down. The wet rag continued its journey across Conar's fevered flesh. "Not a particularly dangerous route, but a long one." "We're not in the Labyrinth?" "No, brat," Shalu said. "That hellhole isn't even a blur on the horizon, now." "I'm free?" he asked, searching Shalu's face for the faintest sign of a lie. "We're all free." Conar turned his scarred cheek into the privacy of his pillow and wept. "I'm really free." "Let's leave him to—" Conar stared at them with terror. "Don't leave me alone! They come when I'm alone!" Brelan suspected Conar was talking about the nightmares that had driven him to sit bolt upright in bed and howl with terror. "We'll stay with you." Since then, Conar had never been allowed to sleep alone, for the dream came nightly, without fail. Most of the time, all it took was a gentle nudge when the hysterical whimpering came, a whispered assurance that all was well, a loving arm placed protectively around him. It was the main reason the Empress sent Se Huan to him. It had been she who had nudged him awake when the nightmare started that first day. It was also the reason she returned that night; it was her soft voice that had awakened him when the whimpers came and she had stayed to give him the blessing of sexual release. Shalu was convinced the nightmares stemmed from Conar's first sight of himself in the great Cheval mirror anchored near Holm's desk in the cabin. They had been so careful in keeping him away from mirrors at the Labyrinth, but not so careful once they were on board ship. Neither Sentian nor Belvoir noticed the mirror when they brought Conar to the cabin, intent only on getting him to sleep, getting him out of the wet clothes that clung to him like a second skin. After they'd gone, Conar had noticed the mirror standing sentinel at the far end of the cabin. Much later, Shalu found Conar standing before the mirror, tears streaming down his ashen cheeks. Conar had a death-grip on the top of the oval frame and was staring intently at his image in the candlelight. The light cast the lower portion of his face and upper chest into shadows and lit his forehead and cheekbones vividly like the

suspended monster image of a severed head, a floating ghoul in a child's dream. Shalu placed a hand on Conar's tense shoulder. "Come away, brat." Conar continued to stand there, never wavering from his reflection. He never blinked. His face was compressed into lines of hopeless pain and his chin was quivering, but his pale eyes were still as death. A long, thin streak across Conar's nose and right cheekbone where Appolyon's riding crop had hit him was a fiery red. Dark circles under the pale eyes only accentuated the sunken and wounded orbs. The face was lean, the cheekbones standing out sharply against the rest of his face. The puckered twin furrows on his left cheek were a dark gray, but looked black and sinister in the candlelight. Along the bridge of his nose, once straight and unmarked, there were lumps and wavering white scars, ridges of torn tissue that had healed and pulled, puckered over the incline of his nose, caused from having been broken so many times over the last six years. Conar saw a white outline staring back at him for a moment as the afterimage floated in the mirror. He studied at the face looking back at him and did not recognize this man. It was the face of a stranger; the face of a dead man. In a voice so soft Shalu had to strain to hear it, Conar whispered through his sobbing. "Look at him, Shalu. Look at what Kaileel has done to him." A hitching breath came and went and the voice turned softer still. "Look at what they've all done to him." Brelan entered the cabin, a look of intense pain on his face. "Conar," he said as he came to his brother's side. "I want you to come away from the mirror." He put one hand on Conar's arm, the other on his back and smoothed the scarred flesh. "Let go of the mirror." "Who is he?" Conar asked, his tone filled with loathing. "Who is that monster staring back at me?" Shalu took the young man's forearm in a no-nonsense grip. "Do as your brother says, brat. Let go." His voice brooked no resistance. He tightened his hold and, together, he and Brelan forcibly removed Conar's hands from the frame. They escorted him back to the bunk, then pushed him to the mattress and blocked his view of the mirror. "Lie down," Brelan ordered in a voice harsher than he had intended. It was a tone of voice Conar understood, and had learned to obey. He hung his head in abject misery, his blond hair obscuring his face. His shoulders slumped. "Why?" Slowly his head came up as though it pained him to lift it. "What did I do to deserve being marked like this?" "You didn't do anything!" Brelan answered. "Why did they have to hurt me in such a way?" he pleaded, looking from one to the other, needing an answer he could understand. "You've never been vain," Brelan said in an accusing voice. "Are you going to let a few lumps and bruises hurt you? The marks from the riding crop will vanish in a few days." "And the scars from Tohre's whip?" he asked, lowering his head. "Will they go away, too?" There was such vulnerability, such hopelessness in the voice, that Shalu had to turn away. Brelan put his hands on Conar's knees. "You know those scars won't ever go away. But they will fade." Conar looked at Brelan with a strange gaze. "It's been more than six years." Saur looked at Shalu for help, but the Necroman's back was to them, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Brelan looked back at Conar. "Those of us who have daily seen those scars no longer notice them." "But what about those who haven't seen them every day? How will they look at me? How will Legion? Teal? Li—?" His voice cut off. "How could she ever stand to look at me like this? How could any woman bear to look at this face?" "She has seen it," Brelan answered. Conar stiffened; his face filled with disbelief. A single tear fell down his cheek. "When?" Brelan wanted to flee the raw pain in his brother's face. "When they were taking the coffins to the ship," he answered,

seeing that procession as clearly as though it had been the morning before. "Legion stopped them, demanding we be allowed to see you. Kaileel wasn't going to let us, but she made them open the coffin." "What was she doing there?" There was hard accusation in the rasping voice. "She was your wife. It was her right. No one would have dared to deny her." Brelan looked away, searching for the right words. "When Legion and I freed you from that post, Tohre's men took you into the Interrogation Complex and wouldn't let us see you. They told us you had died. I watched them flay the flesh from your body. There was no way any of us could have known you had survived that kind of beating." "Why did you let her see me like this?" There was anger in the soft voice now. Betrayal. "You have to understand. They wouldn't let us see you. They wouldn't let us prepare you for burial because they said you couldn't be buried in Serenian soil because you were a—" "Traitor." Brelan blushed. "Aye." He looked at the floor for a long moment. "They told us you and the others were to be taken out to sea, denied burial in your homeland as part of your punishment." He took a deep breath. "Legionwouldn't let them take you away without us saying goodbye." "You should have kept her away!" Brelan's hands tightened on his brother's knees. "She wanted to see you as much as we did. Probably even more. You were her husband. Her life!" "You shouldn't have let her see me like this!" he repeated, shaking his head, not wanting to hear the words. "She didn't run away in disgust," Brelan said. "She didn't cry out; she didn't flinch. She touched you. She kissed you." "You shouldn't have let her!" Conar shouted. "I asked Legion to keep her away." A look of intense pain crossed his face. "Did she see what Kaileel did? Was she there?" "No! Cayn gave her a drug, forced her to take it. She was not awake during the punishment." "What does any of that matter now?" Shalu asked. He was now watching the two men. "To a woman in love, it is what a man is inside that counts, not what he looks like. The only thing that has changed about you are the scars and even they are not worth mentioning." No?" Conar asked, his voice filled with scorn. "Then why didn't you two want me to see what I looked like?" "We only wanted to wait until you had time and distance between you and the Labyrinth. We wanted to prepare you." "For how bad I look?" "For theway you look!" Shalu snapped. "Those damned scars haven't changed you!" Conar's voice cut both men to the quick. "They've made me less than what I was. I will never be the same again, will I? Kaileel Tohre made sure of that! There is nothing left of me for any woman to love!" Conar thrust Brelan aside and laid down, staring at the ceiling. "Leave me the hell alone." "I don't think you…" "I haven't told you what to think, Saur! Get the hell out of my cabin!" He flung an arm over his eyes. Shalu dragged on Brelan's arm. "Let's go." "He's not going to give me any or—" "Leave him alone!" Shalu warned. "I'll have Heil get that accursed mirror."

"Let it stay!" Conar said, glaring at them. Even though his voice was soft, it was deadly. "Iwant it to remind me." Brelan was furious. "Why?" "Because then I'll never forget all the things I have lost because of Kaileel Tohre. I won't ever be able to forget why he has to be destroyed!" Less than an hour later, Brelan and Shalu were back in the cabin, a screaming, struggling Conar held tightly between them. The nightmare that had sent him plummeting into darkness after being rescued from the wine cellar at the Labyrinth had altered itself into a horrifying hell on earth turning his flesh icy-cold even as sweat poured from his body in waves. Two hours later, the Labyrinthian Fever came calling. Now the nightmare was upon him once more and his door was locked against the help of his friends. He tossed and turned, caught up in the dreaming agony that made his hands turn to claws rending the silken sheets. He moaned, lost and hopeless whimpers coming from his mouth. His gasps turned to shouts of warning, his shouts to chilling screams of horror. By the time Brelan and Roget retrieved the key from the credenza, Conar was at the height of his nightmare, gasping for air, his throat closing, his fingers plucking at the tightness there. He was pushing his upper body away from the mattress, his heels digging into the softness, his hips clear of the bed. His arms shot out suddenly to either side of him and his fingers splayed, curved into claws. His legs jerked wide apart as though he were staked to the mattress. "Conar!" Brelan shouted and tried to lift his brother. Roget reached for Conar, as well. Both were astonished at how rigid Conar's body was, how cold to the touch. "He's choking!" Roget said, putting his hands on Conar's head, forcing up the head to clear the airway. Conar couldn't see them as they knelt over him. He couldn't hear their voices as they spoke to him. He couldn't feel their hands trying to help him. He was lost in the glaring darkness of his own self-induced hell. "What's he mumbling?" Roget asked, holding Conar's whipping head as best he could. Brelan couldn't answer, for he was struggling to keep his grip on his brother. "Something about Tohre," Jah-Ma-El said. Both men were surprised to see the warlock standing in the room. "Get his feet, Jah-Ma-El!" Brelan gasped as Conar bucked. Jah-Ma-El stared at Conar. "Let him go, Brelan." "What?" "It's you holding him down that's making matters worse. Get your hands off him." Brelan wondered if he was right. It had been the six of them holding him down at the Labyrinth that had set Conar to screaming horribly when he finally looked at them. "You got a reason for wanting us to let go?" Roget snarled. "He doesn't like to be held down. No man does." "He could hurt himself." "He could, but you might be doing more damage by holding him." "We're his friends!" "But I don't think it's you he's seeing." He was lying in a bed. A huge, monstrously carved black bed with spiraling posts twisted like serpents. The posts, crooked and warped, soared high into the vault of an endless black sky above and he looked at it with such a feeling of loss and hopelessness, he wanted to die.

On the headboard was a massive carving of a gargoyle head with long sharp fangs and mouth dripping venom and vomitus. The gargoyle's eyes moved, watching him, assessing him, taunting him with nameless horrors that were to come. The room in which he was held prisoner was filled with a red smoky haze and the black abyss of the sky was streaked with blinding flares of running, forking lightning. He could hear the crack of lightning, the rumble of thunder and the bed shook, rattling clear of the floor. He tried to sit up, but his ankles and wrists were bound to the towering posts by hissing, writhing vipers whose tongues lashed out at him with promise. Their deadly eyes gleamed at him through the flares of lightning and the constriction of his wrists and ankles intensified. He knew he was naked, could feel the cold wash of frigid air flowing over his straining body and he knew a vulnerability that set his soul to quaking. He was clammy, yet fever-hot with glistening sweat dotting his upper torso and face. Something moved in the shadows, something dark and infinitely evil. It lurked, just beyond his vision and permeated the room with a stench so vile, so turbid that it was hard to imagine what it was. The scent wafted under his nostrils and he gagged, feeling the bile rising in his throat. The aroma was as hideous as the fear it caused. A form, black-robed and floating, came out of the haze toward him and he recognized his twin, Galen. There was an evil grimace on Galen's face; his lips parted in a malevolent smile so full of threat, Conar had to look away. A tremor of terror shot through his belly. Lydon Drake stood on the other side of the bed, a grin of vengeance on his thin lips and dead face. "No." His voice was weak, strained, hoarse. Another black-robed shape, larger this time, taller and more threatening, detached itself from the red haze and glided toward him on silent feet, feet he was sure did not touch the floor. He felt a groan of fear escape his tightly compressed lips as the shape split apart and became two separate nightmare demons who came to stand at the foot of his bed, one to either side. Appolyon and Tymothy Kullen, their mouths stretched wide with evil laughter, watched him struggling to free himself. He pulled against the slithering bonds, but the vipers held, tightened their grip. He felt the viper's fangs bury themselves in his flesh, watched with horror as the venomous serpents began to burrow under his flesh, to merge with it, mate with it. He struggled wildly to get free, whipping his head from side to side. He could hear the four men's demented, taunting laughter swelling all around him and felt feel things crawling, slithering, sliming across and through his arms and legs, invading his belly, his chest, his throat. Blood poured, shot, from his wrists in thick pulsating streams, drenched the bed, ran in rivulets down the sides and through the mattress. Wave after wave of crimson waste pulsed from his weakening body. "Conar!" It was an insidious sound, a mocking, warning call. He craned his head backward and looked into the demonic eyes of the gargoyle crest on the headboard. Even as he watched, the gargoyle face metamorphosed into the leering, knowing, hideous face of Tolkan Coure. "No!" He screamed, arching from the bed, but the gargoyle shifted. From the sides of its horrific head, two long, rubbery arms shot forth and grabbed Conar's head, anchored it against the rough wood of the headboard. "Lie still!" the vile voice whispered. "It is nearing the time!" Something slithered in the far reaches of the room. Slid about with a rustling, tormenting whisper of intent. The stench rose, washed over him and left him feeling unclean—unclean and violated in the worst way. "He's coming!" Galen whispered. He snapped his eyes shut against the sudden blinding glare of sick green light that burst forth from the depths of the red haze. The thunder became louder, ear-splitting, and the bed began to throb with a life of its own. Lightning forked over him, ran down the four posters, crackled along the frame and arced over him, spread along his body with the tongue of a vile beast lapping at his soul. He could feel it laving him, tasting his flesh, turning the skin of his belly and thighs black with its devouring heat. It stung him in a hundred places at once, and he threw back his head and screamed in agony.

Something touched his genitals. He stared at his worst enemy—Kaileel Tohre! A whimper came from his trembling lips. He shook his head in denial, but Kaileel held him, lovingly touching the most private parts of him. The hands withdrew and Kaileel held one out to him, the red-tipped nails twice as long as the High Priest's arm. They curled upward, twisting as though they were alive. Something flew across the room. Kaileel snaked out a long, wavering arm and plucked the missile from the haze. A shining, lethal-looking blade, curved and serrated along the sharp double edges shone in the flashing of the lightning hits. Tohre grasped the dagger by its black handle and held it up so Conar could see it. The four posters disappeared and he felt his hands and legs held down by the men who had moved to his side. He lay, not on the gruesome bed with its mocking gargoyle head, but on a thin sacrificial slab, dripping with the blood of a goat carcass swinging overhead. He could feel the slick, cooling goat's blood on the marble beneath him. His eyes went to Kaileel's and he found he couldn't look away. Not even when he heard Kaileel's evil voice. Not even when the voice became words that set him to screaming. "I'll see to it she never looks at you again, nor wants to!" He felt the wicked priest's hands on his shriveling flesh. Felt the sharp cut as his manhood was sliced from his body. "You're no longer a man!" Kaileel taunted through the haze. "What good are you?" The scream burst from his throat in ever-increasing volume until a hand slammed tightly over his mouth. A voice broke through his hysteria; a face shone in the fading light. "Let him up, Brelan! Let go of him! He can't breathe!" He stared into his brother's frightened face, felt Brelan's fingers over his mouth, tasted the man's sweat on his lips. He lurched forward, gripping Brelan to him in a clasp that staggered his older brother. "It was a dream. Jah-Ma-El sat on the bed and put his arms around both brothers. "It's going to get better, little brother," Brelan promised. "I swear before Alel it will." Saur's grip tightened. "I willmake it better!" He looked over Conar's shoulder at a not-so-sure Roget du Mer. "Iwill make it better for him!" "You're going to be all right," Jah-Ma-El said quietly. He stroked Conar's hair. "Your big brothers are here and everything's going to be just fine." Roget turned, caught sight of Shalu standing in the door, Chase Montyne behind him, and he could have sworn the Necroman was a shade or two lighter. He glanced back where the two men were holding Conar. In du Mer's heart and soul, he wondered if Conar McGregor would ever be normal again.

Chapter 3 Conar felt someone watching him, but seeing no one, he went back to contemplating the serene garden. He dangled his bare feet in the pool, smiling as the darting goldfish scurried away. He stilled, waiting for another curious fish to inspect his toes, laughing as the inquisitive fellow nibbled at him, then flitted away. He looked at the sky peeking through the tresses of a spreading willow and marveled at its crisp blue color. An occasional bird soared across the azure expanse, but not a cloud marred the blue perfection. Just as the horizon was devoid of clouds, so were his eyes beginning to lose the clouds that had dulled them. After years of sand, rock, and glaring white light, the garden, dappled with shadows and lit with the pleasant streaks of

filtered sunlight, the gentle breeze playing among the lush foliage, brought him peace. The sight of green growing things felt calming to his system, so long denied the fruits of life. He reveled in the clean, sweet smell of the flowers and grass; he listened to the cooing of birds in the trees, the squall of a peacock in the farther section of the garden. He was mending spiritually, sewing together the torn pieces of his rent world, piecing together his life to make it whole again. The man, himself, might still be ripped apart inside, might yet unravel altogether, but his world, at least, was once more intact—a fresh bolt of cloth being made ready for the pattern of his new life. There it was again. That feeling of being watched. He casually turned his head, surveyed the trees, the pagoda nearby where a shrine to one of his uncle's people was housed. He didn't see anyone, but he didn't sense danger, either. He just knew someone was watching him, so he bided his time, looking into the swirling water where a larger goldfish had scampered away at his slight movement. A little giggle. He narrowed his eyes, shifted them from side to side, trying to catch whoever was teasing him with their presence. He heard a muffled voice, another stifled giggle, then a faint rustling in the azalea bushes. When he looked that way, he saw nothing. Another giggle, a command to silence, then the pale flash of blue silk. A little boy of about five stood close to the thick trunk of a gnarled tree, almost hidden in its shadow. He was peering out from behind the trunk, a shy smile on his round face. When he saw Conar looking at him, he covered his mouth to hold back a giggle, then slipped behind the trunk. "I don't bite," Conar called in a soft voice. He had almost made up his mind to go to the tree when the boy emerged from behind the trunk and hesitantly walked to the pool. He didn't say a word, just sat beside Conar and stared into the water. He was content to let the silence continue. The boy began to swirl his feet in the pool, scaring away the fish. Conar laid a gentle hand on the boy's knee, shook his head, put a finger to his lips and pointed at the fish huddled together at the far side of the oval pool. The child nodded and stilled instantly, watching as the fish moved out in widening circles toward this new oddity in their pool. Conar felt another presence. He saw two children, walking hand and hand, sidling toward him. The younger of the two, a little girl of about two, had her thumb in her mouth, but was smiling at him around the obstruction. He nodded as they came to sit at the opposite side of the pool, throwing the goldfish into panic once more. "Shhhh!" the boy told them. He pointed at his still feet. The newcomers understood and nodded. They began to drift toward Conar in twos and threes then, Chrystallusian children, no older than ten, no younger than two, he thought. They sat around the pool, everywhere but to his immediate right, ringing it completely. He counted fifteen sets of inquisitive, cheerful, shy eyes that held no fear of him. If anything, he realized with a blush, they found him amusing, for they would catch him looking their way and duck their heads. They didn't speak, just giggled. Something came into his line of vision to his right. He looked to find a beautiful yellow rose being held out to him. He glanced into the face of an older child—twelve, thirteen, he couldn't tell—and took the flower, brought it to his nose and smiled. "Thank you." He held out his hand to her, instinctively knowing the place beside him had been purposefully left for this child. She put her tiny hand in his and he helped her to sit. He looked around at them, curious to know what they wanted. He knew from experience that Chrystallusians were a polite race and did things their own way. He waited for one of the children, he suspected the eldest, to give him some indication of their purpose. "I believe they are waiting for you to tell them a story," came an amused voice. He turned and found his aunt watching him. His brows drew together in confusion. "A story?"

"I promised them you would tell them a story or two." "I should have known," he snorted gently, eyeing her with admonishment. "Be gentle with him, children," she said as she walked on. He laughed and glanced around the group. "A story, huh?" "Uh, hum," was the group reply. He looked at the rose. There was a story of a rose, half-remembered from long ago, and it hurt him. He had told it once. He looked up, his eyes full of pain, and he felt a hand tug his left sleeve. He found the boy who had started the exodus to him, frowning. "Story," he said in a clipped, authoritative voice, his eyes screwed into a gentle rebuke. "Tell us about the Outlaw," the oldest girl said. He could see the dreamy, infatuated face of a young woman looking back at him. "Weknow that story, Blossom!" the little boy said. "Shealways wants to hear about the Outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn!" "Tell us something new, Uncle Conar!" a girl said, giving him the title of respect Chrystallusian children were taught from birth. He took a deep breath, searching his memory for an appropriate story. "Anystory will do," said the boy who seemed to enjoy putting emphasis on his words. "What's your name?" Conar asked. "Kehoe. Avery masculine name in our society." Conar hid a smile. "Without doubt." "Do you know any stories about magical animals?" a girl asked. A memory stirred. Conar's face brightened. He gazed around the group and smiled. "I bet you've never heard the story about Maude Graystone's piglet and the privy, have you?" The children looked at one another, then back to him, and shook their heads. He rubbed his hands together. "Thank you Meggie Ruck," he said out of the corner of his mouth and began his tale. Throughout the afternoon, he regaled them with stories of strange contraptions Maude's grandmother had invented. Had them in stitches as he related the story of Greta Habersham's runaway windmill. Had them wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he spun the tale of how Tandie Janachek's husband, Mort, had lost his hair one night to a hobgoblin named Ball Ness, the monster from the Loss O' Hare Lagoon. Had them eating out of his hand as he wove story after story from the assortment in his memory. When the light faded and the children were called by soothing voices to come inside for the evening, he smiled at each one as they came to kiss his cheek. That it was his scarred cheek they kissed did not escape his notice. He watched them go, waving to them as they disappeared into the palace, then drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. It had been a good day. "Ball Ness?" a dry voice asked from behind. He looked around to see his uncle frowning at him. "That's what they say took his hair," Conar said with a perfectly straight, perfectly innocent face. "Umm," his uncle remarked and walked on, his hands behind his back, his nose in the air. He stopped, turned, and asked in a toneless voice, "And preciselywhere is this Loss O' Hare Lagoon?" "North of Lake Myria and to the east of Lake Meadow."

"Ah! That lagoon!" Tran continued on. Conar chuckled. It had been avery good day, eh, Kehoe? he mused. *** A tiny smile played on his full mouth as he heard Se Huan's tinkling laughter from the gazebo at the other end of the path. He had learned to distinguish her musical chimes from those of the other ladies of the court. Her merry laughter rang out, seeming to cover the other women's, he thought, or else, he had just grown accustomed to hearing it and now listened for it. Smiling, he pictured her delicate beauty and his heart felt at once light and carefree. She had been good for him. He was finally pushing aside the melancholy that permeated his life for so long. After six months in the Imperial Palace of Binh Tae, he seemed to be stabilizing and was content. He knew Se Huan was chiefly responsible for his newfound peace of mind, but the children, who more often than not sought him out, had done more than their share to heal him. Their influence of laughter and playfulness had caused his grief to scab over; Se Huan's teasing introductions into the sometimes confusing, always exasperating, mind of a Chrystallusian maid, gave him something other than his miserable past to think about. She nursed him when the nightmares came, chased away the demons, made sure he slept untouched by the evils in his mind. The children brought smiles to his lips, joy to his heart, and peace to his soul. He lay on his back on the green velvet of his aunt's croquet court, his hands crossed under his head, and stared into the slightly overcast day where scuttling clouds formed magical and mysterious patterns above. No one would look for him here and he was more than content to spend a day to himself. He reached down to his neck. Pulling his braid over his shoulder, he toyed with it, amused that it now reached below his shoulder blades. He grinned, thinking of Se Huan's insistence on braiding it every morning. "I can do it, Se Huan," he'd admonished. "But I like doing it," she'd answered, her fingers deftly looping the three thick strands together before tying them with a short strip of rawhide. "How long are you going to let that thing grow?" Tyne had sneered only that morning. "Until it reaches my ass," Conar answered, his lips stretching into a guileless smirk. That wasn't true, he thought as he lay there in the cool grass. The braid was as long as he was going to allow it to grow. It had simply become an outward symbol of his freedom, a rebellion against the forced cutting of his hair at the Labyrinth. Just the simple ability to govern how he wore his hair meant more to Conar than he could explain. He threaded his fingers together, placed them on his belly, and crossed his ankles. A gentle breeze wafted over him. He felt the tug of sleep making his lids heavy. He closed his eyes and let himself drift. When the shadow moved over him, he didn't flinch. He slowly opened his eyes. What he saw would have caused him fear, unnerved him, any other time. Now, thanks to the healing power of his aunt's people, he was merely curious about the tall, thin man who stood over him, blocking out what little light there was in the gathering gray. He felt no threat even though he couldn't see the face hidden in the shadows beneath the halo of light. Somehow he knew the man was smiling. He smiled back, then sat up and clasped his knees within the perimeter of his arms. "Have you been made welcome, King Conar?" The man's voice was deep, cultured, with an odd accent. "I have been treated very well, thank you." He motioned for the man to sit beside him. Gracefully folding his tall frame to the grass, the man crossed his legs beneath him and sat facing Conar. His long, slender hands were lightly clasped together in his lap. His hair was jet black everywhere but at the temples, which were fanned with shocks of elegant white. His thick eyebrows slashed across a high forehead and his aquiline nose sat boldly between high, aristocratic cheekbones. His eyes were pale blue; clear, sharp, and direct eyes that did not look at

Conar so much as absorb him. By his dark mahogany coloring and long coarse hair, left hanging to his waist in two long braids, the man could not have been a Chrystallusian, even though his eyes were slightly slanted. "I am of the People," he said in way of answer. "Those who settled in Serenia before my ancestors?" The man inclined his head. "There's a strong resemblance between you and the Chrystallusians," Conar remarked. "Ancestors." "Distant, though." The man nodded. "Do you know who I am?" "The man I have been expecting." He held out his hand. "I am Occultus Noire." Conar gripped the man's wrist with his hand. He felt the deceptive strength in those thin fingers as they rounded his wrist. The fingernails were clipped short and no color adorned the surface. When the hand withdrew, Conar felt the puckered scars within the man's palm. "Souvenirs from our mutual enemy," Occultus said, holding his hands, palms out, to Conar. He let his gaze wander over Conar. There was a long moment of consideration before he spoke again. "I can see why Tohre is so obsessed with you. You are an exceptionally beautiful man." Conar stiffened, his face turning hard. Occultus shook his head. "I am not like Kaileel Tohre." He looked closely at his companion. "And neither are you." "I hope not." Occultus smiled. "You would know if you were!" His warm eyes twinkled with laughter. "I fear you have enjoyed the female population of your culture far too much and entirely too often to be anything other than heterosexual." "Those days are over," Conar said bitterly, looking away. Occultus touched Conar's scarred cheek. "Do these scars hurt you?" Conar tensed him, but felt no repulsion at the light caress. Occultus' palm was cool, dry, his face mildly curious. "They hurt," he answered, moving his head just enough to put distance between him and the questing fingers. Occultus dropped his hand. "But the pain is not in the flesh; it is in the soul, am I right? Do the other scars on your body hurt you as badly as the ones on your face?" Conar shrugged. "I don't feel anything on my back anymore. You could probably lay hot coals on it and I wouldn't feel it." "I don't believe we'll test that theory." Conar smiled. "There's too much nerve damage for it to cause me any kind of sensation." He glanced at his hands. "As for the other scars, none of them matter that much anymore." "What if it were possible to erase each and every scar? Would you want it done?" Conar looked up. "Maybe some, but not all." Occultus raised one thick brow. "Only some?" "Some don't matter."

"But the ones on your face do." He stared at Occultus for a long time, probing the man for understanding. Finally, he gazed over the green expanse of lawn. "I've grown accustomed to the man staring back at me from the mirror even if I haven't accepted the sight of him." "Do you think you will ever accept the sight?" "What I see when I look in the mirror makes me angry, but mostly it disgusts me. If I can't bear to look at myself, how must others see me?" "Have children ran away in horror? Have women fled, covering their faces? Do men look at you with pity or laugh at your infirmities?" Conar smiled sadly. "The people of Chrystallus are too polite and well-mannered. To make another feel embarrassment would be to lose face." "True. But if not one has ever turned, running away screaming, before regaining those inscrutably correct facades they are known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for having, then you are not nearly as painful to look upon as you seem to think." "It's painful for me." He put his hand over his chest. "Here." "Then we will deal withthat pain," Occultus said crisply. "I can remove even the faintest trace of your problem in that department, my friend." Conar leaned forward, his gaze intent on Occultus. "Can you really remove the scars?" "It is within the realm of possibility." "Will you?" "If you wish." "My brother once told me that I wasn't vain. I never really thought about whether I was. If caring how others see you is vanity, then, I guess I am." "Vanity has nothing to do with it. How a man views himself is the issue. If he sees himself as some ogre that will scare the animals and curdle milk, then his temperament will become such that he will scare animals and sour milk." He tilted his head and smiled. "But if he sees himself as pleasing to look upon, a man who sets maiden hearts to fluttering, he will either grow terribly flirtatious or unbearably arrogant." The smile widened. "Either way, he becomes a nuisance." "But if he sees himself as just an ordinary fellow?" "Then he will lead an ordinary life, with ordinary problems, and end up becoming very ordinary and very boring." There was a slight smile on Conar's face. "I don't think I'd like to be described asboring." Occultus shook his head. "I don't believe that will ever happen. So, what would you leave?" "Among the scars?" "Yes." Occultus cupped Conar's chin, turned his head from side to side, scanning the face as though he were an artist examining a man ready to pose. He traced a thin finger along a nick on Conar's right cheek. "We shall leave this razor cut. It adds a bit of maturity." He touched his finger to a white line that bisected Conar's left eyebrow. "And this rather sexy scar. Ladies find such things immensely intriguing." The finger moved again, but Conar caught the slender hand. "We leave this," he said and molded Occultus' hand over the twin furrows on his cheek. "Leave the scars on my back, and this also." He pressed the cool hand into the scar on his left palm. Occultus looked at him with concern. "Why leave the scars that are most visible? Don't they hurt you the most?" "Aye, they are the most painful."

"You say the scars on your cheek hurt you so greatly you fear looking in the mirror. Why not erase that material source of your pain?" "Because they are the visual reminder of what was done to me. The scars on my back and face were put there by the same man. Kaileel Tohre. I need to be able to see and feel and relive the pain he gave me." He brought the slim hand to his face again and pressed it against his scarred cheek. "I need to be able to reach up and touch the physical source of the agony I endured at his hands. Only then will I be able to bring myself to do what I must do." He removed his hand from Occultus' but wasn't surprised when the fingers stayed on his flesh. He could feel them moving over the scars, gently caressing the ravaged flesh. "I need to be reminded that Tohre, not the evil of what he did to me, but the man himself, is the enemy looking at me from the mirror." There was deep sorrow in the man's face. "I understand." "I know." The slim fingers withdrew. "There will be a convocation of the men who will be the power structure of your force, Conar. In all, with a few who were chosen personally by me to aid you, there will be twenty who will train you. I am having special armor and weapons forged for you and your men. Many hours of preparation have already been made to place you in your rightful niche in this world. I want to know now if you will be capable of fulfilling your obligation to your people. If you will accept the mantle of leadership against all costs. If you are not willing, I would know now before we begin, for I will tell you…if you decide you want to fulfill your destiny, there will be no turning back. You will see it through or I will destroy you. It is as simple as that, for the specialized training you are being offered is for you alone. No other will ever be worthy." "What makes you think I'm worthy?" "I have no doubt of your ability. Neither does Brelan nor Shalu nor any of the others. The doubt is in you alone. If you do not find the faith in yourself, you will be utterly lost." "If I can crush Tohre and his Brotherhood, I will be content." Occultus stared at him. "How much are you willing to give up to gain your desire?" "How much more is there to lose?" Conar snapped. "They took away everything I ever held precious. My wife. My children. My identity. They tore me from my world and imprisoned me in a place so vile, so wretched, by comparison, hell would be a resort! They tortured me, maimed me, damn near destroyed me! I ask you again…how much more is there left for me to lose?" "Yourself." "You think I haven't already? What is there left of me that was there before I was sent to the Labyrinth? All the things I prided myself in are long gone. My pride. My sense of self-worth, my courage, my belief in my abilities. All gone. I never dreamed I would ever go to my knees to another man, but I did. I did it to survive, Occultus, and to keep my woman safe. I never thought I'd ever beg not to be hurt, but I did. I wasn't given a choice. I never thought to question my masculinity, but I have." He gripped Occultus' wrist in his hand. "You say I can lose myself if I undertake this thing? I just might find myself again if Ido!" "There is one problem you seem to have overlooked." "Such as?" "The woman." He gently removed his wrist from Conar's taut grip. Conar kept his face under complete control. "Everyone wants to talk to me about her, don't they?" "They won't until you are ready." "But you will." "It is a subject that must be broached." He flung a dismissive hand. "I don't mean the particulars of the situation. I ask only because I am curious to know what you will do about her." Not one emotion showed on Conar's face. "When the time comes, I will reclaim her. She is mine by right of matrimony. I don't give a damn what the Tribunal says. I will take her back by right of sword. She was destined to be mine. Mine

she will be, and mine she will stay!" "Even if in the taking you destroy something, or someone, very precious to you?" "There is nothing, no one, more precious to me than my wife." One tawny brow rose in challenge. "Do you think I can not best the man to whom she now clings?" "Once your training is complete—and you will not leave here until it is—there will be no man who can defeat you." He stood, arching his back to work away the tightness. "When the time comes you must decide if the man you will fight is a man with whom you truly wish to engage in mortal combat, for that is what it will be with him. He will accept nothing less; neither will you." Conar stood also. "She is worth fighting for." Occultus frowned. "I have no particular aversion to women, but they can be a nuisance to a warrior. You would do just as well without the burden." "I have no wish to do without her. I have for a long time now. Too long. Anya Elizabeth McGregor will be mine again. If there is no other way to do it, then I will shed that man's blood and never think twice about it!" "No matter who he is?" "No matter who."

Chapter 4 "These are the men of the Wind Force, Conar." He looked about the room, recognizing most of them. Grice and Chand Wynth; Rylan and Paegan and Xander Hesar; Brelan and Jah-Ma-el; Coron and Dyllon McGregor; Shalu Taborn; Roget du Mer; Thom Loure, Sentian Heil, Storm Jale, and Ward Summerall; Tyne Brell; Chase Montyne. Conar grinned when he saw Belvoir. The burly old warrior grimaced. "Here I thought my instructor days were over!" There were several Conar didn't know, a few he remembered from the Labyrinth, one in particular, and it was to this man his eyes strayed and lingered. "Come," Occultus commanded and the man walked over to them. "Conar, this is Misha. He is from the Outer Kingdom." The man didn't hold out his hand; neither did Conar. They looked at one another, evaluating, assessing. Conar knew they had once met outside that hell hole, he just couldn't remember where and when. "I don't recall hearing your name before." "His name was never spoken because they didn't know it." Occultus folded his arms over his chest. "He arrived at the colony along with Grice, Tyne, and the others. He never told them his name, either. They didn't need to know." "But I knew yours," the man said and thrust out his hand to Conar. Gripping Misha's flesh was like gripping iron. The wrist was inflexible, strong, granite-like and the fingers that closed around Conar's wrist were like the springs in a steel trap. "I am honored, Highness," Misha, letting go of Conar's wrist. He dipped two fingers to his brow, then turned to join the others standing near a large round table. Conar looked at Occultus. "I've never known anyone from the Outer Kingdoms."

"Nor are you likely to meet many. They keep to themselves in that barren ice land." "How did he come to be sent to the Labyrinth?" Occultus' thin smile was knowing. "He put himself at the docks the day before Sentian and the rest were brought there. He hit a guard and wound up with the others being transported to Tyber's Isle." "Not very smart." "It was, if Tyber's Isle was your destination." "Why would he—" "To be where you were." "How did he know?" There was genuine confusion on Conar's lean face. "We sent him there." The blue eyes widened. "You knew I was there?" "From the moment your ship set sail from Boreas Harbor, I knew your destination." He could only stare at the tall man. Things were coming together in his mind and he knew Occultus realized it. The smile on the thin face with its high, aristocratic cheekbones was teasing. "You will learn, my friend, that I do not tell all I know." Conar shook his head in exasperation. "It would have saved a lot of grief for my brothers and son." "Not when there was nothing they could do to help you. Only Brelan could do that, as it was pre-destined." He clapped his hands, gaining the men's attention. "Be seated, gentlemen! We have much to discuss." Sitting beside Occultus, with Shalu on his other side, Conar listened to what had been planned for him and grew worried. If he managed to accomplish even half of what Occultus intended, he'd be a formidable opponent, indeed. *** Conar turned a baleful expression to Grice Wynth. He sat down heavily on the floor of the palace guard's training room, sweat pouring from him. The stinging salt of his sweat seeped into his eyes. He ran the back of his arm over his forehead. His head ached and his muscles felt as though they were being pulled apart. Grice had been having him lift progressively heavier weights since six that morning. It was now four in the afternoon. "As I said, you thought you were in pretty good shape." Grice leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. "Now, you know better." "I know only that, at this rate, I'll have a hernia before the day is out." He ran his hands over his face. "I lifted enough rocks at the Labyrinth to last me, thank you." Grice grinned. "But that wasn't professional weight training." "Weight training?" Conar scoffed. "You've got nothing on the Tribunal's inquisitors!" "Do you give the others this much trouble, or just me?" Grice inquired, lifting a black brow. "He gives us all trouble," Rylan sniffed as he limped into the room. His foot, injured so long ago in the waters of the Labyrinth, was bothering him. A sure sign that rain was lurking. "Even Shalu?" Grice asked. "Well, not every one of us, I suppose." Rylan chuckled. "He fears that one. I know I do!" "Do you, little brother?" Grice had taken to calling Conar the pet name both Brelan and Jah-Ma-El used. He could see

the pleasure it gave his companion. "I may be stupid, but I'm not crazy, Wynth. I dread Tuesdays. The training isn't all that difficult, but his tongue can whittle a man down to size in seconds. The least little thing I do wrong…" He ran his finger across his throat. "Better you than us," Rylan agreed. Occultus had set up a schedule of training for Conar with men who were experts in their field. He was allowing Conar six months of vigorous training before the next convocation occurred. It would be then that the men would report on Conar's progress before the entire nucleus of the Wind Force. There were eleven who were coaching him on the weekdays, and the weekends were split with three men on Saturday and three on Sunday. He wasn't given a day he could call his own. As Conar rested, he listened to snatches of conversation between Rylan and Grice. They were discussing him as though he wasn't there. He tuned out the words. It was bad enough to hear their words from the days' training in his sleep at night—what little sleep he got, for either Se Huan or Brelan were forever nudging him awake—but the sleeplessness was starting to take its toll. Mornings found him bleary-eyed and exhausted, impatient with criticisms, petulant when admonished, downright abusive when told to do extra to make up for his failings. As if the daily regimen of physical and mental nagging wasn't enough, he had to hear them in his sleep and when he rested! Shalu: "That is a spear, you little son-of-a-bitch, not a piece of paper! You do nottoss it away, youaim it andthrow it!" Paegan: "If you hit the water like that again, you'll break your fool neck! Tuck you head under your arms! Extend! Extend, dammit!" Roget: "That's not strategy! That's stupidity. What the hell makes you think such a ploy would work? You'd think your great-aunt Petunia had taught you how to reason!" Storm: "Use your knees. You can control a horse better with your body than with your hands. Let him know who's in charge. Who taught you how to ride? Sadie MacCorkingdale?" Chase: "No, no, no!Aimabove your damned target, notat it! The arrow will naturally fall with gravity. I wish I knew who'd taught you how to string a bow!" Tyne: "Who the hell taught you how to wield a sword? Your mother?" Misha: "Who taught you how to run? Your grandmother? A four-year-old could beat you in a foot race! You need to develop rhythm. Your stride is wrong." Rylan: "Who the hell taught you how to throw? Your wet-nurse? Throw that boomerang like that again and it'll take your fucking head off!" Thom: "Animals are not trusting by nature. You have to earn their loyalty. Rush up on a beast like that again and you may not live long enough to remember what you did wrong! Who taught you to saddle a horse, anyway?" Even the words from Occultus were often sharp and scathing when he mispronounced an invocation or forgot the words. But Jah-Ma-El's hard remarks were the worst. Conar had had no idea how intelligent and nimble minded his brother was. Or how wise. "You must learn to see yourself as an empty vessel, Conar. Devoid of substance, drained of knowledge but ready to be filled. Embrace the teachings as though you were a man dying of thirst. Drink it in. Savor the feeling as it slides down your parched throat, for just as water will replenish life, so will correct knowledge save your life and the lives of those dependent upon you." Brelan joined the three men in the guardroom. He glanced at Conar sitting on the stone floor and raised a brow. "Is this howyou train him, Wynth? He doesn't get mollycoddling from me." With a tired sigh, Conar came to his feet. "Is it time already?" "I'll meet you in the boxing ring. Do ten laps around the gym before I get there." Conar opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the others looking at him, he snapped his mouth shut, vividly

remembering the last time he had played hooky. He'd been tired of it all and had gone for a swim. He knew no one would follow, not where he was going, so he stripped and plunged into the waters of the large outside pool where training had been held. He had looked up to see Roget standing on the wooden walkway surrounding the pool. Du Mer was glaring at him. "Get out!" Conar grinned and dove neatly into the deeper section. He came up, his arms neatly cleaving the waters. "I told you to get the hell out of there!" He winked. "Come get me!" If it had been just an ordinary summer's day, Roget would have accommodated him and Conar knew it. If it had even been a cool spring day or late autumn day, Roget wouldn't have hesitated diving in and dragging his ass back to the water's edge. But considering that it was in the mid-twenties, with snow falling in large clumps, the water was frigid and mist-shrouded. As he cut expertly through its lapping waves, Conar felt himself fairly safe from du Mer's anger. And it was anger. Roget was standing on the platform, wrapped in a thick woolen cape, shivering, his eyes hot, his body cold and his voice trembling with the blast of arctic air blowing over him. "If you d…don't get your b…butt out of there," Roget chattered, "you'll b…be the sorriest bastard this s…side of the Alps!" Roget spied a rock. He had all but decided that if Conar didn't get out of the water, he was going to take that rock and whack him with it! "You wouldn't dare!" "The hell I wouldn't!" Roget shouted, amazed Conar had known what he was thinking. Conar chuckled, dove under the water where his shoulders wouldn't be the pale purple they had become with his swim in the merciless chill. He surfaced after a long underwater period and treaded water, looking about him for Roget. He grinned. Du Mer was gone. "No balls," Conar chided to the absent man. "Blue balls!" He cleft the water again, swam for a good three minutes under the water, surfaced and heard a sound that chilled him where the water hadn't. "Having fun?" Conar murmured a heart-felt, "Oh, shit!" He turned to face the voice, then pushed at the water, putting as much distance between him and the three men staring at him across the wafting fog. A finger crooked his way. Conar shook his head. "Go away. I'll get out in a minute." The finger crooked again. He shook his head. "I don't trust you." Rylan Hesar looked to his little brother. "He doesn't trust us, Paegan." Of all the men Roget could have gone after, he picked the two who had been spawned in the wild, frigid waters of Virago. The only men who were not adverse to diving into the water. Later, coughing, spitting out water, and groaning, he lay gasping on the snow-covered walkway where the two had

dragged him after a brief scuffle. They'd captured him and held him underwater until he thought he'd drown, and that's when Conar vowed he wouldn't play hooky again. And that he wouldn't argue either. He'd found out it wouldn't do him any good. Especially not when there were others to take sides against him. Besides, Conar was convinced the men were latent sadists! Now, with a snarl of pique, he headed for the gym, his ears burning from the mocking laughter following him. *** "Conar McGregor, this is Pearl." Occultus indicated the man standing in the center of the wrestling mat. He cocked one brow at the look on Conar's face, then folded his hands into the sleeves of his deep green robe. "He will be your instructor in the art of body wrestling." A slight smile touched the thin lips as the wordbody sank into Conar's feverishly working brain. His grin widened as Conar snapped his head around. "I'm not training with this…this…" He turned to glare at the new man. "Person!" "You will," Occultus said in a reasonable voice. "I won't!" Conar started to leave, but Occultus nodded at Pearl, who moved with lightning speed. He took hold of Conar's arm, placed his hip against Conar's and levered him over his shoulder and to the floor. Conar landed hard on his rump. He sat there, mouth open, eyes devoid of the shining hate of a moment before, too astonished by the stranger's actions to have actual thought. As the reality of what happened struck him, his mouth snapped shut into a thin line. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he ground out between tightly clenched teeth. He came off the floor, lowered his head and plowed into the stranger's gut. Pearl staggered back at the momentum of the all-out attack, but he held his ground. Circling Conar's midsection with his arms, Pearl jerked him of the floor, fell backward to the mat and tossed Conar over his head where the young Prince landed flat on his back. Glaring at the ceiling, his lips pressed tightly together, Conar was barely aware of the man standing over him, his hand extended in help. With a snarling rage, he sat up quickly, snaked out a lightning fast hand and clasped the stranger's ankle, dragging the foot out from under him. He grinned maliciously as Pearl collapsed with a surprised grunt. Satisfied that he had redeemed himself, Conar got to his knees and was pushing himself up when he was tackled, the stranger's body prone across his back. Before he could react, his left wrist was caught in a steel-like grip and pressed firmly to the floor. A hard arm snaked under his right armpit and Pearl's right hand locked across the back of his neck. Conar's left shoulder dipped to the mat and stayed there. Despite bucking and twisting to get free, all he managed to do was increase the hold Pearl had on his upper body. The rock-hard body wouldn't budge. Conar's grunts and snorts and snarls of rage only seemed to amuse him. "Do you give?" A pleasant, gravelly voice, somewhat effeminate in its smoky quality, asked near his ear. "Go to hell!"Conar hissed, groaning as the pressure increased on his arm. His fingers went numb. "All it takes is one shoulder pinned to the mat to win a competition. You were no challenge." Suddenly the pressure was gone. Conar twisted around, sitting up as he rubbed his left shoulder. He glared at the stranger with loathing. "Pearl is a champion, Conar. He has yet to lose a match. If you want to be good at what you attempt, you must learn from the best. If mediocrity is your goal, any teacher will do; any man can be average. It takes a special man to be a champion." "There'snothing that…man…can teach me that I want to know!" Conar came to his feet.

Occultus snorted. "It seemed to me he bested you." "Does he want to fly with the eagles or run with the dogs?" Pearl quipped. Conar squinted, his breathing loud and deep through his nose. A muscle bunched in his jaw as he glowered. The blue orbs flicked with distaste, assessing what he was seeing, and it was plain in the frigid depths that Conar found the man lacking. Though shorter than Conar, Pearl was broader in build. His dark brown hair was coarse, clipped short around his ears, but grew long and thick on the nape of his neck. His brown eyes were liquid, soft and seemed far older than his years—thirty, if that much. His face was round, soft, his nose only slightly too long. His lips were full and a deep coral color, much like a woman's. His hands were dainty, moving with motions that were, to Conar, the telltale sign of his true nature. "Like what you see, big boy?" Pearl giggled, fluttering his lids. He puckered his lips and made a kissing motion, winking audaciously at Conar's sudden growl. Conar swung his head to Occultus. "I will not let this faggot touch me!" he shouted. Occultus shrugged. "He already did, and you don't appear any the worse for it. I see no change. Do you, Pearl?" The gravelly voice was vastly amused. One thin brow rose in challenge. "What I see is a fine example of prime male flesh, Your Worship. I can'twait to get my hands on him again!" "In your dreams!" Conar yelled, taking a step toward the stranger. Occultus moved so quickly he was only a blur. Conar turned to him as Occultus blocked his way. He was vaguely aware that Pearl was speaking to him through teasing laughter. "Oh, I have no doubt I'll dream of you!" The pouting lips were more than Conar could stand. "You worthless piece of shit!" "Shit isn't worthless, my Prince. It is good for fertilizing, if nothing else. Would you like me to fertilize you, my Prince?" "That's it!" Conar said in a low, deadly voice. He pushed against Occultus' chest and began to stalk away, but groaned with furious frustration when he found himself somehow on his knees, on the floor with the strangeron him again. Two strong hands had a tight hold on his wrists, locking them to the mat as Pearl straddled him. "Get off!" Conar spat. When Pearl didn't move, Conar fairly screamed the words. "Get off me, you turd!" Pearl's hand wedged through Conar's spread legs as he attempted to flip him to his back. He felt the arm rub against the separation of his buttocks, felt it move over his vulnerable genitals. A black haze of horror filled Conar's mind. He screeched, jerking away from the surprised man with a wild scramble of knees and elbows as he crawled his way across the mat. He came to his knees in a lithe bound of quaking rage, facing the man like a cornered animal. He crouched there on the floor on all fours. "Conar," Occultus spoke in a calm, reassuring voice, realizing the error of what had just happened, "Pearl was attempting a regulation hold. Nothing more." Conar's heart slamming in his chest. His breathing was shallow and rapid, his blood pounding in his temples. He wanted to leap on the bastard who knelt ten feet away and pull the beating heart out of the man's chest. "I am sorry," Pearl said, but Conar's shriek of mindless fury stilled the apology. "Don't you ever, ever do that to me again, you son-of-a-bitch! I'll take your fucking head off if you ever put your hands on me like that again!" Pearl came to his feet and walked slowly to where Conar crouched. He stopped only a foot away, looking with sorrowful eyes at the man whose face mirrored an ancient evil that had caused such a violent reaction. "I am truly sorry. I meant no disrespect. Please accept my apology?" He held out his hand.

With a surge of fury, Conar came to his feet. He knocked away the offered hand with a snort of contempt. He glowering, hoping the bastard would come at him again. "Pearl has tendered you an honest apology. You must accept it as a gentleman." There was a strong note of warning in Occultus' cultured voice. "Like hell I will! I'm not about to let this queer try to shove his…" "Conar!" Occultus rarely raised his voice, but when he did, he received immediate attention. Both men's heads snapped toward him. "You should be ashamed for thinking that! Apologize this instant!" Conar gathered together a mouthful of saliva and spat on the floor at Pearl's feet. "The only apology should be from this bastard's father for not having drowned the faggot at birth!" He rushed from the room, his hands clenched into fists. Pearl laughed. "If I hadn't grown such a tough skin over the years, that would have hurt!" He clucked his tongue, bringing his shoulders up with an exaggerated daintiness, pretending to shudder delicately. "Such atemper does our little Prince have!" "And no manners!" Occultus snapped, stalking after Conar. Conar felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, his fist going back to crash into the intruder's face. His arm shot forward only to be caught in Occultus' surprisingly strong grip. The two glared at one another, Conar's fist held secure by fingers that were deceptively inflexible. Pain shot through his fingers, but he refused to blink. The battle of wills held. When Occultus let go of his hand, his fingers were numb. "Get back in there and do what I expect. You will accept Pearl's apology and tender one of your own." "I won't." Occultus looked down his aquiline nose. "Do it or the training stops here." "Suits me just fine! There's nothing that queer can teach me that I want to learn!" "Alltraining will stop!" There was no compromise in the sorcerer's cold face. Conar stared for a long time. If he thought silence would bring even a flicker of concession, he soon found he was wrong. From experience, Occultus knew there were silences that consume the mind, take it over, numb it, paralyze it. And there were silences that could destroy…a man…a friendship. Some silences, left to go on too long, are irreversible, their damage eternal. "What's it to be?" he asked. Conar was loath to back down, but he knew his yielding was the only thing the man would accept. Still, some minor arrogance of pride lurked in his heaving chest. "I don't want to apologize!" "Why?" The word was an explosion of disgust. "Because of what he is!" "Because he is different from you?" "Because he's a useless piece of shit!" "Because he is a homosexual?" "Aye!" Occultus took in a long breath and held it to tamp down his temper. He had never dealt well with prejudices. Men who held such opinions were even more of a nuisance to him. He wanted nothing more than to slap the smirk from Conar's

self-righteous face. "And am I a worthless piece of shit to you?" His voice was as reasonable as he could force it. "Are you like him?" "Do I prefer the companionship of my own kind to the allure of a woman?" Occultus stared hard at the young Prince. "I, too, am a homosexual, Conar." There was only a flicker of movement in Conar's eyes. He had known all along. After all, the man had once been a leading member of the Domination. He felt no repulsion toward Occultus as he had always felt toward Tolkan, Tohre and the others; he did, however, have a healthy respect for the man and a grudging like for him that, at the moment, he found hard to summon forth. "What bothers you about Pearl is his mannerisms, isn't it? Heacts homosexual,looks homosexual,speaks the way a homosexual is supposed to speak. And you feel threatened." "I'm not afraid of him—" "Then what was that reaction that burst out of you when he accidentally touched you?" Occultus folded his arms over his chest and examined the shame that crossed Conar's quiet face. "Perhaps his touch thrilled you." Instinctively, Conar took a step backward. His cowardice angered him even more. "It made me ill!" "It frightened you. You quivered like a little boy. Your face turned pale, your hands turned clammy and you slithered across the floor like the coward you are." The venomous accusations in Occultus' face stung him. "I am no coward!" "You are frightened of Pearl and men you conceive to be like him." His lips raised in scorn. "You are a biased, intolerant, hypocritical bigot. A spineless, weak bastard who strives hard to make himselffeel brave, but we saw just how brave you really are in there. You turned tail and ran. Pearl touched you at the core of your cowardice, didn't he, Conar? He put his hand right on the source of what you've always considered the strongest part of you and turned you to jelly!" Occultus laughed, and the laugh was evil, malevolent. "You're just fine when it comes to bullying women, I bet. You can rant and rave and have them trembling in their petticoats if they just happen totouch you; but when it comes to a man, you can't handle it, can you? You're just a sniveling coward who runs away and hides when the going gets rough!" The laughter stilled. "I guess that's why Appolyon and his men had such a fine time with you in the Labyrinth, eh? Just fodder for the stronger man's will!" Tears stung him. He glared with hurt at the man whose face was a stony facade of unfeeling, uncaring mockery. It was too soon after his humiliations at the Labyrinth for him to have regained all his self-respect. Occultus' words were like the barbs of the whip that had torn his cheek apart. They left a wicked gash in him. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Occultus asked in a hard voice. "To be ridiculed. To be made aware of your shortcomings, either real or imagined in your mind or the mind of your accuser, when there is nothing you can do about them at the time being. It stings the pride; it wounds the spirit. Injustice is the same in any language, in any race, in any situation. Prejudice hurts the soul within you. What is different, is scorned; what is weak, is crushed." Occultus could see the effort it was taking for Conar to retain his composure. He didn't like hurting the boy. Sharpening his claws in the thin fabric of Conar's new life, for the boy had been hurt far too much and far too often; but as Conar's father had once remarked, sometimes only pain could get the boy's attention, cut through his shell of resistance. "There is an important lesson you will have to learn about the men you are going to be leading, Conar. Every one of them is an individual. Each has his own dreams, desires, talents, needs and fears. What one can stand, another can't. Where one is strong, another may not beas strong. To be a good leader, you have to recognize individuality, recognize it and allow it to be. No two men think exactly alike nor do they accept their fates in the same way. One might crumble beneath the weight of his sorrows while the other might revel in the challenge adversity brings.That is individuality. That is what sets each of us apart from the next. That we are different is our strength. If we were all alike, shared the same beliefs, the same likes and dislikes, the same goals, I would imagine the world would be so bland, we would not want to live in it." "My men will think like me or I will not tolerate them near me! I don't like that—"

"I didn't say you had tolike the men you train under or that you lead," Occultus argued. "Youwon't like them all; you may not likeany! But youwill have to accept them for the way they are in order to get the most from them." "I think I know what to do! I've led men before!" Occultus sighed, laid a hand on his pupil's shoulder, ignoring the stiffness that turned the muscles hard. He locked his pale gaze with Conar's and lowered his voice to a soft caress. "There are times when the man who leads finds he has bitten off more than he can chew, and finds himself choking on words and actions he may later regret. It is the wise man who can swallow his pride and digest his anger. If he doesn't learn to do that, he'll find himself constipated with his own stupidity. When that happens, he becomes just one more hemorrhoid on the asshole of life." Conar blinked, his teacher's words hitting him like a stone. He was amazed to see the smile teasing at the corner of Occultus' mouth. He turned his head, letting his shoulder relax where the thin hand lightly touched him. "What does that make me?" he asked in an exasperated voice. "What you called Pearl…a worthless piece of shit." A snort of laughter shot out of him with force. He brought up his head to look at Occultus. He chuckled at the man's bland expression. "I can be sometimes, can't I?" "Yes." Occultus removed his hand. "Go back in there and apologize." "I don't like him." "As I said, you don'thave to like him. You just have tolisten to him." "He'd better not make any moves I don't like!" Occultus snorted. "Be sure and tell that to the men with whom you engage in combat. I am sure they will oblige." Conar knew when he was beaten. Pearl looked up as Conar entered the gym. "You don't have to say it to me, Your Grace." "Don't tell me what to do!" Occultus spun on his heels, his thin face set in a horrific frown. Pearl turned waspish with vindictiveness. He lost all trace of compassion for the dunderhead. "Well?" he snapped, cattily. "I'm sorry!" Conar shouted. "I apologize!" "I accept!" "I'm so pleased!" Conar growled and stomped out of the gym. "I'm so glad!" Pearl shouted back.

Chapter 5 He sensed her nearness even though he didn't see her. In her way, Se Huan was protecting him. She was never far from him even when he was training with his men. She lurked nearby, idly walking, chatting with the children who seemed to follow her. He would feel her attentiveness on him and would look her way only to see her head turned in

another direction, but the caress of her eyes lingered and he felt somehow relieved that she was watching over him. But it did not prevent the horrible nightmares from coming, nor the new dream that brought him wide awake and gasping for air that night. "What is it that terrifies you so, Highness?" she asked. She stilled his trembling, clutching him with such force she panted from the pressure. She stroked his fevered brow and felt his quivering breath fanning her neck. "Can you not tell me what it is that hurts you so?" He pulled away from her, curling up onto his side, his knees tucked up to his chest. He was trembling still, his breath ragged and he flinched when she laid her gentle hand on his bare shoulder. "It wasn't the same dream," he told her. "Worse than the other?" He shuddered. "Much worse." She molded her body to his, her chest to his back. "Can you speak of it?" There was a long moment of silence. "It was about the children." "Kehoe and Blossom?" She rubbed his shoulder, smoothing the bunched muscles. He buried his face in the pillow. "My children." Se Huan felt his loss, his loneliness, his nearly unbearable hurt. She felt for him, ached for him. Occultus had related to her the deaths of Conar's offspring at the hands of his enemy, Kaileel Tohre, but Conar had never mentioned his sons and daughters to her before. His doing so was a strong indication of how close they had become over the last eight months. "I dreamt they were all sitting around me and then started disappearing. One by one by…" His tears began. "I am here for you, Highness," she said softly and put her arm around his waist to hold him. *** Conar woke just after dawn's first light. Se Huan's thigh was draped over his, her breath sweet against his shoulder. Her hand was splayed against the lower part of his belly and he was stunned to find himself aroused. "Beloved," she whispered in her sleep and drew in a quick breath as her hand dipped lower to caress him. He turned to her, a violent jerk of his body, a quick fumble with his hard hands. He pushed her over, ignoring her squeal as she came awake. He covered her naked body with his and tried desperately to enter her. He was hard, his manhood thick and pulsing with need, but when he tried to push past the entrance of her vagina, his hardness turned to flaccid rejection. "No!" he snarled, trying still to breech her. "Dammit,no!" She could hear his frustration, feel the fury pounding through him. She didn't move; she didn't put her arms around him, for she knew it would anger him more. She didn't speak, for words would not have soothed the terrible rage in his dark face. She did not look away, either, for she sensed it would have appeared to him a chastisement, a rejection. He looked into her lovely face, then flipped off of her, turning to his back, his arm flung over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Se Huan," he told her at last in a choking voice. "I thought I could. I hoped I—" "Shush. Give yourself time, Highness." He knew precisely what he needed, but he had no way of gaining it. Sheer willpower did not seem to be enough to rid himself of his guilt over Liza. He sought ways to purge himself of her, staring at him out of the darkness as he sought to betray her. She would always be on his mind, for she was entrenched in his heart. Try as he might, he could not erase the memories of what it was like to hold her, to make love to her. In his daydreams he could feel her warmth, smell her sweet perfume, taste the glory of her on his lips. No, it wasn't time he needed…it was Liza.

"Tell me how I may help." His tears became sobs. Not because his grief, his losses, had suddenly reared their vanishing heads, but because his fury was beyond his control. "There's nothinganyone can do!" "That may not be so. But you will not know unless you let them try." Se Huan lay awake, his body cradled in her arms and vowed, come morning, she would seek a solution to his pain; if there was one to be found, she would find it. *** "A man who has been brutalized can never quite trust anyone again. To trust is a human quality and he doesn't feel like a human now. They almost succeeded in making him as brutish as themselves, but they didn't count on his ability to love. Love can override trust. Love is blind." Occultus rarely allowed audiences with females, but this one was special. She had a major role to play in the making of Conar McGregor's new identity. He leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. "You must understand, Se Huan. They violated him in ways beyond the physical. They raped his soul. The physical aspect of it is passing; there is nothing there to see of it; but the stain on his soul is what is causing him such a problem." "And that is what causes these terrible nightmares?" "Not altogether. They tried to purge his self-esteem and all but managed to do so. They strove to take away his identity, his individuality, his sense of self, of being a man, and that is mostly what causes him pain." Occultus templed his fingers and rested his chin upon them. "What they had not counted on, though, was by the very act of isolating him, they gave him a prominent place in the society of the penal colony. If he had not been the center of everyone's attention, we might well have lost him." "I don't understand, Master." Occultus sighed. Females were exceedingly stupid. He spoke to her as though she were a retarded child. "If Conar had not felt what little support he had from those around him, minor though it was and well-hidden from those who meant him harm, he would have turned in on himself. He would have become the animal they wanted him to be. As it was, even though the men could notshow him their love and support and respect, he managed to feel it. That is what sustained him, kept him alive. That and his great love for his woman." Se Huan nodded. "He calls out her name in his sleep." "He probably always will," Occultus sighed. "It is his one failing, I'm afraid." "You think love a failing, Master?" "Not love, Se Huan. His obsession with this one woman." Until then, Emperor Tran had not spoken. "You think her a bad influence on him?" "It isn't a question of influence, Your Celestial Highness; it is a question of her interfering with his destiny." Occultus laid his hands in his lap. "I cannot allow that." Tran scowled, his handsome face forbidding as he looked at Se Huan. "Is his sleep no better? Perhaps if he rested more, the dreams would leave him." "He sleeps less and less, Highness," she answered. "It is the same whether I am in his bed or not. When he rises in the morning, he is more tired than when he went to bed. Once the dream wakes him, he rarely goes back to sleep." "Then why not give him something to insure that he sleeps without dreaming." Occultus looked at Tran. "I can give him a drug to make him sleep soundly, but I do not wish to do that as yet. He is in training and I would prefer he negotiate the dreams without my assistance. If he can do so on his own, he will be the stronger for it."

"But he doesn't seem to be handling them, Occultus," the Emperor said. "Is there nothing you can give him to stop the dreams?" "The gods will not allow my help in that way." "I do not understand." "The only way he can dispel the nightmare is to break a sacred vow he made long ago. Are the two of you willing to help him do that?" "What kind of vow?" "The vow of Joining." Tran was torn between his desire to ease his wife's mind regarding their nephew, and in doing so, relieve Conar's and his desire not to meddle where he might cause irreversible problems. He understood well the code of honor that would prohibit Conar from doing something he had taken an oath never to do. Especially the vow of fidelity. "But," Tran began with a frown, "if I remember the transcript from his trial…" "Yes," Occultus said, "there were the times with the servant girl, Gezelle, but Conar now understands there were other forces making him do what he would not normally have done. He committed adultery. The shame of that bothers him. It is a matter of sins adding to sins with him." "He would see it as a sin, whatever it is that would be necessary to make these dreams stop?" Se Huan asked. "Yes," Occultus agreed. "But it would help him?" Occultus nodded. "It would guarantee the demise of the dreams." "I would do anything in order to help him, Master." "Even with the knowledge that he might come to hate you for interfering? Would you still be willing to help him disregard his solemn oath to his wife?" "I could live with his hate if I knew I had helped him." "Has he told you what it is he dreams?" "I have asked on several occasions, but he will not tell me." She frowned. "I am not sure he remembers the dreams once he wakes." She looked up. "I was not prying, Master." "I know, Se Huan. You were concerned." Occultus clasped his hands together and smiled. "Women never pry, do they Your Celestial Highness?" Tran grinned. "Most assuredly not!" Se Huan blushed beneath her smooth ivory complexion and ducked her head to the gentle teasing laughter Tran aimed her way. "Look at me, Se Huan," Occultus ordered and the girl raised her delicate oval face. He looked at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap as she sat on her heels on the rice mat at his feet. He sighed. The girl was on the verge of tears. "We were not insulting you. It was a jest." "A male-oriented joke, Se Huan," Tran said, smiling. "Tell me, Se Huan. Are you still a virgin or has he managed to breech you?" The girl's face turned a deeper shade of red. Her lotus petal lips parted in shock. "I am still pure, Master." "I ask because what you will be required to do to help Conar is to give him free access to your body. Let him make

love to you. Let him lose that part of himself that is causing the nightmare. I know you have eased his physical needs as you have been instructed, but you have not gone beyond that, have you?" His matter-of-fact tone lessened the severity of her blush, but she was embarrassed by such talk in front of the Emperor. "He has put his hand on my." she swallowed, "breasts." Her blush deepened again. "And my legs and…neck." Her voice went low. "And he put his fingers in…" Her voice choked off although her lips moved in a silent finish. The gods save him fromhonest females, Occultus groaned inwardly. "But he has not taken your maidenhead even though he has ascertained you still possess it." He hid his smile as the girl winced and shook her head. "Well,that he will have to do if the dreams are to be put to rest." A hesitancy went through Occultus' voice. "If hecan do it." She looked up at Occultus with hurt eyes. "You think he would be shamed by taking me?" "He would feel the same with any woman. Conar is an honorable man, and honorable men hold to their vows. To him, he is as married today to the lady as on the day they were joined. He betrayed her before. He never wishes to betray her again. Do you understand?" "The Empress stressed that to me, Master. I was told not to instigate anything that he did not want to do." Her oval face was blushing again. "But to ease his needs if he would let me." "I know," Occultus assured her. "What you do for him is a kindness, Se Huan, but it will take more than his passivity to your lips to still these dreams. They are of a nature a woman would find hard to understand. I know what his dreams are, for I have had them myself." He saw Tran's head turn toward him. "He is unsure of his manhood. He is not certain that he can function as a man. The shame of what he allowed them to do to him eats at his soul. It hurts him so intensely he can not deal with it. It doesn't matter that he had no control. As he sees it, he let them use him. He doesn't know what he did to deserve it, but, in his mind, he sees it as a punishment for not being man enough to stop it. The dreams reenforce this notion because of things that have happened in his past. There have been other times when he had no control over the things that happened to him. To not be in control, is to not be a man. In essence, what he feels is unmanned, weak. When he can not sustain an erection in order to enter Se Huan, he feels castrated, in a manner of speaking." Tran's brows rose. "That makes sense! Such dreams would be terrifying to a man." "I would imagine the dreams are of being castrated. That would be, indeed, terrifying." "How will making love to me help him, Master?" Her head ducked. "Beyond the obvious." "By taking you, by feeling that rush of sexual release inside your body, he will dispel the notion that he can not function as a true man. Along with that will come his lost self-esteem and self-worth. That is the only cure for his dreams. Are you willing to have him feel guilt for taking you in order that he get a good night's sleep? What is the worse of the two evils?" "You trivialize it," Tran said. "It's more than a good night's sleep that we are talking about." "Eventually the dreams will go away, with or without Se Huan's. It might take a month, six months, even six years. Do we let him suffer that long when we have the means to end his torment?" Se Huan surprised them by speaking what was uppermost in her mind. "Has his lady been as faithful to him all these years, Master?" Occultus looked at the girl. "Would that make a difference?" "If his lady has been a true and faithful wife, it would be wrong for another to try to corrupt him when it is his faithfulness that matters to him. Even if he must live in this nightmare world a little longer before letting his lady be the one to purge him of them. Could she be brought here?" Occultus shook his head. "That is not within the realm of possibilities at this time." "But she has been faithful to him?" Se Huan wanted clarification. "What if she had not?" Tran countered.

"If she has not, then the vows have already been broken. He could not be held accountable for the breaking of his own." Occultus cocked a brow at her, surprised at her wisdom. "He broke the vows before. Many times. I believe the guilt of that is hard for him to bear. She forgave him, but he never forgave himself. He may view his eventual downfall as stemming from his infidelity." "You think so?" Tran asked. "Then if that's so, by breaking them again, he fears more hurt." Occultus agreed. "Whether deserved or not." "His lady, Master?" Se Huan prodded. "No, the lady has not been faithful to him." Seeing the fire of hatred beginning to grow in the young woman's eyes, he cautioned her, "but you must not tell him." "But would it not make his decision to take me easier?" "I would presume so, though he will feel the guilt nonetheless. It is his nature. He loved his wife very much." "But she betrayed him!" "Not in the way you mean. She believes him dead, Se Huan. Everyone in his homeland does, except his enemy, Kaileel Tohre." "If he weremy husband, I would remain faithful to him evenshould he die!" "But that is the way of our people," Tran reminded her. "His is not the same culture. They do not see a Joining as we do." "It would not matter! I would not want another to touch me after him! It would be wrong." Occultus nodded. "In Chrystallus, perhaps, but not in Serenia, and certainly not when the lady in question is destined to be Queen and sit beside the King of that land." "She is Queen?" "Yes." "But his brother is King, is he not? The man they call A'Lex?" "Aye." It was imperative Se Huan not tell Conar who sat upon the throne of Serenia. He was loath to hurt a man who had been hurt too much already. "But you must not tell him." "She sleeps with this man?" "Unfortunately she has born him children. She has children by three of his brothers. Do you see why we can not tell him? It would hurt him deeply." "Then she has given up all right to him. I have no qualms about taking him from her!"

Chapter 6 Shalu sat on the stone bench beside Conar and grinned. "Hard day, fledgling?" Conar glared, a heavy scowl on the scarred face. "Go away."

The Necroman chuckled. "You have no sense of humor." "I have a headache. Now, go away." "You're pissed at that little fellow." A sigh of frustration came from Conar. "I'm not going to ask you again to go a—" "Then don't, because I have no intention of doing so." "I'mordering you to get the hell away from me!" Here it is, Shalu thought with excitement. He's finally decided to take over. It just took longer than expected for him to start giving orders like the monarch he once was, to start assuming leadership and command. "And if I don't?" Conar stood. "Then I'll have your black ass in chains before the hour is out!" Shalu blinked, his lips pursing angrily. "He really got to you, didn't he?" "Guards!" Chrystallusian soldiers hurried toward them. Shalu swung his eyes to Conar and was surprised to see a look of pure vindictiveness. "You called, Highness?" a warrior asked. Conar's gaze was on Shalu. "Well?" Shalu nodded. "Have Xander him give you something for that headache." The Necroman stood and walked away, his head high. Several hours later, Conar finally sent for Xander. The headache had gotten worse. The Healer, accompanied to his room by Brelan, examined him. "How long has he had these headaches, Brelan?" Xander inquired as he mixed a white powder with a small glass of water. "Nearly all his life," Brelan answered. He was seated in a chair beside Conar's bed. "I think they started when he was fifteen." "Thirteen," Conar mumbled. He was lying on his back, his arm over his eyes to shut out the light. "I remember." A wide grin pulled at Brelan's lips. "Do you recall how you thought you came by them." Despite the blinding pain the light caused him, Conar peered out from beneath the weight of his arm at his brother. "I certainly do!" he whispered,then again hid his eyes beneath his arm. Xander extended the glass of milky-looking water to Brelan. "I wish I'd been able to give him a potion like this at the colony when his headaches plagued him." Brelan took the glass. "Need help getting up?" he asked Conar. Conar managed to push himself up on his elbows enough to let Brelan place the glass to his lips. He looked at Xander. "Is this shitty-tasting stuff?" Xander snorted. "What difference does that make? Drink it." "We've always had trouble getting him to take medicine." Brelan shook his head. "He's just as bad now as when he was a kid." "I bet it tastes worse than shit," Conar allowed Brelan to place the glass to his lips. He hurt so badly he couldn't bring up either of his hands to pinch his nostrils closed, so he just didn't breathe in while he drank. He felt his tongue go instantly numb as the potion flowed down his throat. He grimaced, lowered himself to the pillow and winced as he took

in a cautious breath and tasted something as bitter as bile. "It's worse than shit, Xander!" "But it will stop the headache." The Healer sat on the only other chair in the room. "Tell me what he thought had caused the headaches when he was a boy. I imagine whatever he thought was rather comical." "Why?" Conar snapped, his head beginning to spin, but it was a pleasant spin, he thought whimsically. "Because of the way Brelan reminded you and the way you answered." The Healer glanced at Brelan. "And I would imagineyou had something to do with the way he thought?" Brelan chuckled. "Humph," Conar snorted. He was so wonderfully wrapped in velvet now. Sounds were coming to him from slightly farther away than they had before and he was losing the pain that had been eating at his right eye. His words were slightly slurred. "He got his scrawny ass whipped something fierce 'cause of what he told me." Brelan shrugged. "He was alwaysso intense as a child. And believedeverything." "Such as?" Xander prompted, eyeing a smiling Conar who was staring at the ceiling as though looking at a beautiful woman. "Such as makin' me b'lieve my brains was bein' gobbled up." Brelan pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He was watching Conar's face mellow. "Conar and I always had this problem—" "Brehad a problem… I believe it was me." Conar's face screwed up with confusion. "No, I had a problem…and it was Bre." "You had it right the first time." "I bet youboth were a problem," Xander said. "He just wouldn't leave me alone," Conar grumbled. "I was always trying to get him in trouble," Brelan confessed, "and I was the one who always wound up in trouble. This particular day, I wanted him to go with me to this old lady's hut." He poked Conar's arm. "Remember old lady Harrelson?" "Mean old bitch…" "That she was." Brelan looked at Xander. "Meaner than snot. I devised this plan to get back at her for something, I don't exactly remember what now, but—" "She told Papa on you for stealin' apples from Felias Spiel's orchard." Brelan smiled. "That's what it was! I was going to spread pig shit on her door handles. I wanted Conar to help me and he wouldn't." "Mean trick," Conar admonished with a slow shake of his head. "I said if he didn't, I'd cast a spell on him." "What kind of spell?" Xander asked. "He'd make the gobbledegookins suck out my brains!" Conar said. "What are gobblede—" "Critters, Xander," Conar mumbled, shivering. "Badcritters." Brelan leaned back in his chair. "I invented these things that could crawl into your bedroom at night and slither down your ears and munch on your brains."

"Hurt like hell, they do," was the barely audible input. "I even showed him one." "Million legs.Real bad critters." "Actually what I showed him was one of those green worms you find on tomato plants." "Hadhorns and stuff.Bad stuff." Conar held up his finger and made a spiraling motion. "Crawl down and round and round and down in your ear. Hurts like hell." "What I didn't know was those headaches would start that very night and when he woke up screaming about the goobledegookins eating out his brains, pleading with Hern to get them out of his ears, Papa naturally assumed I had something to do with it." Brelan frowned. "I couldn't sit for a week my arse was so black and blue." "Badarse," came the sleepy reply. "The thing was, Conar didn't believe Hern when he told him those headaches were not abnormal, that other people had them. He couldn't convince Conar that there weren't goobledegookins in his head." "Theywere there!" Xander chuckled. "So what happened?" "Papa made me retrieve the goobledegookins." Brelan shook his head. "I went out to the garden and got four or five of those green scrubs and then went to Conar's room. He still had a slight headache and I told him I'd get the critters out of his ears if he'd promise he'd help me smear pig shit on old lady Harrelson's doorknobs." "And did he?" "Smeared shit allover her door knobs!" Conar held up his hands as though they were still covered with offensive offal. He wiped them on the front of his shirt. "And I got my arse blistered again when Hern caught us. Conar was made to clean the doorknobs for his part in it and I was on the receiving end of Hern Arbra's belt." "So how did you remove the goobledegookins?" Xander asked. "Cayn gave Conar some of what you must have given him—" "Shitty-tasting stuff." Brelan laughed. "Aye, and when he woke, I showed him all the goobledegookins." "Badcritters crawling 'round in my head." Conar nodded, a little smile on his puckered lips. "Bre got 'em out!" "And when he got another headache? How'd you explainthat ?" Xander asked. "Fortunately he was wiser by then. He knew I'd lied to him because he went out with the cook's daughter, Joannie, to pick some vegetables one morning and saw those worms crawling around on the plants. He was madder than blazes." "Mad…der…than…" Conar began to snore gently. "You two must have been hell in a handbasket," Xander commented. Brelan turned soft eyes on his brother. "We put each other through hell, if that's what you mean." He stood and pulled the coverlet up to Conar's waist. "You love him very much, don't you?" "More than he'll ever know." ***

The headache lasted four days, not an unusual occurrence in the Conar's life, but as Xander later told Occultus, he had not had many headaches while interned at the penal colony and none that lasted more than a day. "That makes me wonder if it wasn't the pressure of his lifestyle that caused the headaches in the first place," Xander remarked. "His position in the realm, you mean?" Occultus asked. "Sometimes just knowing there's more expected of you than you think you can deliver will cause tensions. That tension manifests itself in the headaches. The pain is intense, but the headaches are a safety mechanism that releases the pressure inside the sufferer. If he didn't have the headaches, he might not be able to deal with the tension." After the headache subsided, Conar was once more in the gym, waiting for what he thought had caused his first bout of migraine in more than eight years—Pearl Allegria. Conar sat in the corner of the gymnasium. Rain fell heavily beyond the opened doorway; thunder rumbled pleasantly in the hills to the north of the harbor. There was no lightning in the gray sky, but the wind twisted the trees in the garden. The smell of damp earth filled the room. And damp mushrooms. Conar hated mushrooms, hated them all his life. Mushrooms were sly, sinister clumps of vegetation that he didn't trust to be edible no matter who set them before him, so he simply refused to eat the slimy, earth-smelling gray globs. Mushrooms, even those that tasted well enough to be eaten, could well be poisonous. It was best to leave them the hell alone and he did. He glowered at the dozen or so bushels of the smelly things lining the wall. He had argued with the servants who had left them there, knowing how the loamy smell would permeate the already damp room; but the servants were adamant. It was too far across the courtyard to the kitchens; by the time they could carry the baskets there, the mushrooms would be soaked. "What the hell difference does that make?" Conar fumed. "You got to wash them, anyway!" But the servants left them along the walls and scurried out into the rain. "I hate mushrooms," he sniffed beneath his breath, eyeing them as though they would attack him. He moved farther away. Pearl was late. A half-hour late, to be precise. Conar peered out the doorway. The sky was almost black with storm clouds and the rain poured in slanted sheets across the tiled roofs. And Pearl was late. No doubt the mincing little twerp didn't want to get his dainty feet wet! Conar thought with a snicker. With a snort of disgust, he got to his feet and decided to leave. Rain or no rain, Pearl or no Pearl, he wasn't sitting in the damned room with those damned mushrooms one minute longer. He hunched his shoulders, thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his loose trousers, and ducked outside. He gasped as rain hit his bare shoulders, but he took a running jump off the covered passageway and headed across the courtyard. "Prince Conar!" He recognized that hated voice! He chose not to listen to it, not to let on that he had heard. He kept running, his bare feet making soft indentations in the grass. He had waited for the little bastard; let the little bastard wait until tomorrow to aggravate him any more. "Come back, Prince Conar!" "Go to hell," he muttered as he zig-zagged around a puddle of water. Pearl's grating, gravelly voice rose again, this time with less volume. Conar grinned maliciously. "You'dbetter give up, you little faggot! I ain't coming back!" He had almost made it to the overhang of the guard's barracks when he looked up to see Roget, Brelan, and Shalu standing there, arms across their chests, blocking his path. "Don't you have a lesson with Allegria?" Brelan asked. "It's raining!" Conar snapped as though that explained why he wasn't in the gym. He tried to get past Roget, but du

Mer stepped in front of him. "Allegria's waiting for you." He was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, water cascading down his nose and chin. "Let him wait!" he scowled and tried to move between Roget and Shalu. "He mademe wait!" Shalu stepped closer to du Mer, his eyes hard and unrelenting. "Heis the teacher, you are the pupil.You wait for him, not the other way around, fledgling." The bastards weren't going to let him in out of the rain. He glared at them, saw Chase, Tyne and a few others peering at him from the barracks' doorway, and ground his teeth together. "Get back to the gym," Brelan said. With an angry snort, Conar stomped back toward the gym. His footsteps sent splats of water gushing up beneath each footfall. Seeing Pearl standing, hands on hips, in the doorway of the gym, watching him slinking back like a scalded dog, did nothing to improve his mood or the tempo and force of his steps. He stepped up on the porch. Pearl blocked his entrance. "Get the hell out of…" Conar saw the look of determination on his teacher's face. "What?" Pearl pointed to his wet, mud-splattered feet. Conar let out a ragged sigh of frustration. In Chrystallus, one did not enter a building with dirty feet. He took his hands out of his pockets and searched around on the tile floor of the overhang for something to dry his feet on. He saw nothing. He looked at Pearl. An inscrutable look crossed the man's face. "May I have a towel, please?" Conar ground out. "Why, certainly, Highness." Pearl turned, bent to the floor inside the doorway, and picked up the towel he had dried his own feet upon. He extended it to Conar. The Prince had to hop from one foot to the other in order to dry his feet, for if he sat under the overhang, he would have sat in water. The tile floor was slick with rain. Having to perform such an ungraceful, ridiculous-looking thing with, he was sure, Roget, Bre and the others looking, made his jaw tighten. When he was finished, he dropped the towel to the floor and glared at Pearl. "You may enter," Pearl said and walked into the gym. "Faggot!" Conar spat beneath his breath. The room smelled more like mushrooms than before. The earthy odor was nauseating, overwhelming to a man who detested the things. Conar wrinkled his nose and added that insult to all the others for which Pearl was responsible. "Ready to begin?" Pearl asked in a voice that always sounded as if the man had a terminal case of sore throat. The voice, like the man, irritated Conar beyond imagination. "Let's get it over with!"

Chapter 7 Liza stood with her shoulders bowed, her hands trembling, her soul shattered. She could hear Legion's soft voice,

Teal's softer answers, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands. She didn't even flinch when Legion shut the door to their chambers, padded softly to her, and put his arms around her. "We know Brelan is in Chrystallus," he said, turning her so he could pull her to his chest. The news had come to Boreas Keep by way of secret messengers. Legion had learned that Holm van de Lar had sailed some eighty-odd men into the harbor of Chrystallus' capitol, and only one casualty, Hern Arbra, had been among them. "I've sent word that we need him. If the news is correct, he has brought everyone back safely." He didn't think she needed to know about Hern. "It's too late, now," she said, all hope gone from her voice. "Tohre left this morning. He has taken Corbin from the Temple to the Abbey of the Domination. Our son is out of our reach now." "There must be a way we can get him back. The men of the Dark Overlord…" Liza pushed away from him. She watched his blue eyes squint with fresh pain as he took in her ravaged face. "Liza, I—" She shushed him with her fingertips. "You and the others have done all you could." She walked to the window where she had kept a vigil for several days. Legion took her in his arms again. "There must be a reason why Brelan didn't come back right away, sweeting. He knew how important it was to get Corbin away from Tohre before our son turned six." That this wonderful man had claimed Conar's son as his own was a good mark next to his name. That he loved Corbin, was another. "He forgot," she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. Legion could hear the betrayal in her voice. "There has to be more to it than just forgetting." With all his heart, he hoped there was. If Brelan had just simply forgotten about the timeliness of removing Corbin from the Wind Temple at Corinth, he'd slit the bastard's throat. "It doesn't matter now," she whispered, her hitching sobs giving way to a torrent of pain. "There's nothing we can do." She collapsed against him. He picked her up and carried her to bed. "There has to be someone who can help," he said as he laid his wife on the bed and sat beside her. Liza curled into a tight ball. "There's no one. Not anymore." Legion wished Conar had lived. If he had, Corbin would not be interned in the Great Abbey of the Domination high in the Serenian mountains where no mortal man could follow. But, Legion realized with a pang of guilt, he wouldn't be with Liza now had Conar lived. "We can't give up hope," he whispered. "Somewhere, there's got to be someone who can rid us once and for all of Kaileel Tohre!" Liza began crying, her broken sobs painful to hear. Legion was lost, his own heart breaking, and all he could do was lie beside her, mold his body to hers and hold her as she poured out her torment. Long into the night, they lay that way, each wide awake, unable to close their eyes. Near dawn, Legion fell into a troubled sleep, his grunts and groans giving evidence of the turmoil in his soul. With care, Liza eased out from under the heavy weight of his arm and left their chamber. Barefoot, she traveled the cold stone corridors of Boreas Keep, padded silently down the spiral stairs where once her beloved had been manhandled to his bridal chamber by the man who now claimed the room as his own. Passing the portraits of long-gone McGregor's and their ladies, Liza deliberately looked away from the spot where once the portrait of the Prince of the Wind had hung. It was whispered in the halls of the mighty keep that no matter how many coats of paint were brushed across that pale rectangle of wall, the spot would not be filled in. The surrounding color was still darker than the spot where Conar's likeness had hung. The Temple was colder than usual. The flimsy nightgown was little protection against the chill draft that flowed over the Queen of Serenia as she knelt before the altar. Trembling with the cold and with the agony that filled her, Liza A'Lex stretched out on the floor, arms spread wide, face to the carpeted runner that led to the altar.

"Bless me, Gracious One, for I have sinned." Legion had quietly followed his wife from their chamber. As he stood in the nave, listening to her confession, he began to cry for his own guilt was crashing down upon his shoulders. He had desired this woman from the first moment he had laid eyes on her at the swimming hole near Lake Myria. Though she was his brother's woman in heart and soul and in all else that mattered, Legion A'Lex coveted her as he had never coveted anything else. His love for her was so great, that he had once made entreaty to the gods to have her as his own. "Careful what you wish for," his father, King Gerren, had once said. "You just might get it." And at what cost? Legion thought as he wrapped his arms around his chest. The woman he loved was his, but two men had died to see that happen. One man's death was of no consequence, but the other's was an inconsolable agony Legion felt every day. "He wanted you to have her," Teal had said countless times. "Why do you insist on feeling guilt when you know he would want you, above all others, to be at her side?" Legion walked to one of the pews and tried to blot out his wife's tearful words to her gods. He sat, rested his arms on the seat back in front of him and laid his head on his crossed wrists "Why?" he silently questioned his own god. "Why do I feel guilty for loving her? For having her to wife?" Because Conar's life was the payment to have her, a brutal voice in his mind reminded him. A wail of misery, such utter hopelessness, brought up Legion's head. He saw his wife standing in front of the altar, tearing her gown. A moan pushed from his depths and he was out of the pew, running to her. Just as he reached her, she collapsed. He caught her. "Conar!" she whimpered, her body limp against Legion. "Conar!" Legion sank with her to the floor. His heart felt the shards of her grief. "Conar!"she keened on a long note. He pressed her cheek to his shoulder, rocked her against him, making shushing sounds to quiet her frantic sobs. "I am sorry," he groaned. "I am so sorry I could not save him for you." "I failed him." "No, sweeting. You did not." "I let his son be taken." Tears coursed down Legion's stricken cheeks and as he gathered his wife tighter against him. "No, my love. You must not blame yourself. Blame me." But Liza was beyond hearing. She was lost in sorrow, her mother's heart breaking at the loss of her child. Her keening was shrill, mindless, as she clung to Legion. "Lisa, don't," he pleaded, knowing the force of her grieving would make her sick. "What have I done? What have Idone ?" "You've done nothing. You are an innocent in this." "No!" she shrieked and jerked out of his grasp. She stumbled to her feet, her hair wild, her eyes bruised with tears, her body trembling as though with the ague. "I betrayed him with you. And with Galen and Brelan! I lay with you and gave you a son. I lay with Galen and bore him a son. I whored with Brelan and a daughter was born of that adultery!" "Don't say such things. You…"

"And this is my punishment! To have all that is left of Conar be taken and corrupted by the very filth that made my beloved's life a living hell!" Legion flinched, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his own guilt. "No," he said over and over again, shaking his head. "You can not—" "I love you!" she shrieked, her voice so shrill the crystal globe on the Presence Light cracked down the middle. "I love you, Legion A'Lex and see what that love has cost us?" "Merciful Alel!" Legion scrambled to his feet. He grabbed her arms and shook her. "Do notdare blame our love for this! Our love is the only decent thing to come of this entire mess!" "I will be the death of you. If you do not get away from me, I will cause your ruin!" She pushed at him, but he would not allow her to break free. "Liza, stop!" he ordered, corralling her flailing arms in a firm grip. "Stop it, now!" "Conar is dead because of me," she wept. "Galen died because he dared to stand up to Tohre to save Conar's son. I will be Brelan's death, and if you stay with me, I will be your death, too!" "No!" "I want my son!" "We'll get him back. If it's the last thing I do, I swear I will get him back no matter what!" Liza screamed, her pain so great nothing but the darkness of unconsciousness could save her fragile sanity. She collapsed in Legion's arms. He swept her up, holding her high against his panting chest. His angry eyes bored into the statue of Tethys. "How can you allow her to suffer like this? Haven't you done enough harm to this woman?" From the dark corner of the room, a woman stepped out of the shadows. Her long black hair fell to her waist in curling ringlets. Her green eyes were filled with remorse as she stepped down from the altar and extended her hand to Legion. In her palm was a red crystal vial. "This will help ease her pain." Legion stared at the beautiful woman and felt an immediate stirring in his loins. He backed away, suddenly alarmed by his body's reaction. "I am Raphaella. I am the Windweaver." "Help her," Legion said, shuddering. He had heard of Raphaella Chastayne and her infamous keep, World's End, where upon entering its doors, no traveler ever returned. He took another step back. "This is the only help I can give for now," she replied. "But one day, her pain will be erased. I promise." She moved her hand closer. "Take this. Give it to her. Her sorrow will be greatly eased." "What is it?" Raphaella sighed. "It is nothing that will harm her." Reluctantly, he allowed the woman to lay the vial in his hand. As his fingers curled around the vial, he could feel the warmth of her flesh and felt his manhood leap. "Take your lady to your chamber," the Windweaver ordered. "Part her lips and pour the contents of the vial into her mouth. Let her sleep away her sorrow." He opened his palm, looked at the vial, then looked up again. Raphaella was gone.

"Lady?" he asked, searching the room. Liza stirred in his arms, whimpering in her unconscious state. He took one last look at the Mother Goddess and turned away, carrying his lady-wife back to their chambers.

Chapter 8 He was lying flat on his back again, aftre being tossed through the air like a damned rag doll. He had landed better than usual, but his spine had felt the impact nevertheless. He got up, crouched, made a lunge… Flat on his back once more, but at least facing the other way this time. He stared at the ceiling with a look of astonishment. Surely he wasn't this stupid! Why the hell couldn't he best the little faggot? He had a good fifty or so pounds on the man. He had muscles on his muscle's muscles. He did exceedingly well in every other training, so why the hell wasn't he doing well atthis? He sprang up from the floor with a vile curse, intent on bringing the little turd down this time. He lunged… Tumbling head over heels, he came to rest with his cheek pressed close to a bushel basket of the offending mushrooms. He gagged from the smell and slammed his hands on the mat in frustration and fury. Getting to his feet, he turned, faced the supercilious little snot and… Landed on his left side in the middle of the floor. His forehead wrinkled with frustration; that last tumble had rattled him good. His body began to ache all over and a dull throb had began in his right temple. "That's all I need!" he hissed, recognizing the onset of another headache. He tried to ignore it; other parts of him hurt worse. He got up slowly, shaking his head to clear it of the ringing, wincing at the immediate stab of pain. He turned to face Pearl. He stood a moment and then resignation compressed his lips. He took a step forward… On his side, his arm folded under him so painfully he thought it might be broken. His head pounded, for the jolt of cartwheeling through the air had jarred his teeth and made him bite his tongue. He could taste blood. This was ridiculous, he thought. He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He glanced at Pearl and snarled, his lips actually pulled back over his teeth. He scrambled to his knees, pushed up from the floor and lowered his head, intent on plowing into… He hit the wall headfirst with enough force to dent the bamboo. His yelp was loud as he slid down the wall and landed painfully on his shoulder. He didn't get up. He turned over on his back, lifted his knees, and brought his hands up to rub at his temples. His head screamed with pain and his eyesight narrowed down to the thin, cone-shaped tunnel that reminded him this was going to be one ofthose headaches. Already the nausea had started and his hearing was dull and muted in his right ear. He felt something hit his bare foot. He raised his head just enough to see a good-sized mushroom lying between his spread legs. He craned his head to look for Pearl just as another mushroom landed on his stomach. Pearl Allegria was sitting in the middle of the mat with his legs crossed, a bushel of mushrooms by his side. In his lap was an arsenal of the gray fungus. He was grinning like an idiot. He lobbed a spongy missile at Conar, hitting him squarely in the middle of his chest. Conar pushed himself up on his elbows in time to be bombarded with a mushroom bomb on the tip of his nose. One, two, three more mushrooms sailed over to him. "What the fuck are you doing?" he snarled. Pearl's grin widened. He threw a larger mushroom, with more force, straight at Conar's face. Conar ducked and the fungus went sliding past. He sneered at Pearl and was smacked in the right eye by a good-sized

mushroom. He yelped, putting up his hand. "Dammit! That hurt!" "Oh, no!" Pearl cried in mock horror. "Does little Princey-Poo have a wittle boo-boo?" He cocked his head and wagged his brows. "Poor wittle Princey-Poo." He puckered his lips in a pout. Conar sat up. He glanced at the mushroom baskets behind him, looked back at Pearl. The puckered lips smacked, sending Conar a loud, wet, kiss. "Kissy, kissy, kissy!" Conar got up, walked to a basket, grabbed a handle, dragged it back to the edge of the mat, then, despite his dislike and heaving stomach, plunged his hands into the crop of smelly fungus, grimacing at the slimy feel. With his hands full, mushrooms cradled against his bare chest, hatingthat feel even more, he sat on the mat facing Pearl. "You want war?" he asked, brows raised in challenge. "You got war!" He aimed a mushroom straight at Pearl's grinning face. To the casual observer who might have been watching this War of the Fungi, it would have appeared that the two men had lost their reason. Mushrooms were pitched with force by one man to the other in a frenzy of pelting, squishing gray splats. The mushrooms bounced off noses, grazed cheeks, clipped ears, smacked into chins and made a complete mess on the rice matting. The gray globs sailed about the room, stuck in the bamboo wall panels, slid across the floor and huddled in the corners of the room where they were retrieved for further combat. The two men scrambled around the floor, scooping up pieces of the soft missiles, slipping and sliding over the aftermath of their fight, lobbing fungi, emptying the remaining baskets until the floor was covered in a slick, earthy smelling carpet of broken and pulverized mushrooms. Intent on nothing save the bombarding of the other man with as many mushroom globs as he could scoop up, Conar had completely forgotten about the headache that had threatened to disable him. He scuttled across the room, slid his hands through squashed mushrooms, then scrambled on all fours to smear slick gobs of the carnage over Pearl's face and chest. "Oh!" Pearl gasped, dead mushrooms invading his mouth. He spat, shoved Conar away, then gathered a handful of fungus to slather across Conar's naked belly. Conar slid away on his rear end, crab walking backward on all fours, from his attacker and then lobbed a handful of at Pearl. Then he flipped to his knees, scrambled over to Pearl and started to shove a handful of goop… "What the hell are you two doing?" Conar's hand stilled. He turned to see Shalu standing, open-mouthed, in the doorway. There was a look of surprise on the Necroman's face as he swung his eyes from Conar to Pearl and back again. The big man's hands were on his hips, and when his large mouth snapped shut, a heavy scowl came over his face. "Have you men lost what little minds you had?" he bellowed in his deep timbre. He surveyed the room, his face filling with disapproval. He let his gaze settle on Conar. "Get up and shower, McGregor! Occultus expects you in his chambers in twenty minutes, or did you forget you had a lesson with him tonight?" Conar blushed, ashamed for Shalu to have seen him covered in mushroom refuse, acting like a three-year-old. He glanced at Pearl, slimed with fungus, and groaned. He didn't dare look at Shalu. "I said to get up and get showered, McGregor!" Shalu ordered. "I'll be there shortly," Conar said. "See that you are!" Shalu turned abruptly on his heel. Conar got up from the floor, his head away from the man sitting on the mat. He tried to brush away some of the mushroom carnage from his chest and shoulders. He was coated in fungus. He looked at his feet and saw mushroom mush squishing between his toes. "Poor wittle Princey-Poo gonna get a spanking for being a bad wittle boy!" Conar's mouth opened to snarl, but he couldn't quite get the angry words out as he looked at Pearl's mushroom-caked

nose. "Maybe Princey-Poo get sent to bed without supper!" Pearl said and his lips moved into a pretend pout. Conar tried his best not to laugh. He really did. But a coughing rumble deep in his throat bubbled out. His laughter came in bursts of staccato chuckles that had him bending over, his hands on his knees. "You look like hell!" "And you don't?" Conar glanced at the glob of mushroom clinging to Pearl's nose. Pearl screwed up his face, stuck out his tongue, and sent Conar into fresh spasms of laughter. "I don't lookthat bad!" Pearl grabbed Conar's ankle and jerked, sending the him crashing face down on the mat. "Yes, you do!" Instead of being angry, Conar doubled over with glee. He was still laughing when Pearl took a handful of mushrooms and pulverized Conar's hair. Pearl slid the remainder down Conar's back and over his shoulder. "Had enough?" Conar scooped up a handful of mushrooms, and rubbed them into Pearl's face. Hearing Pearl sputter made Conar laugh so hard his sides hurt. When the waistband of his breeches was pulled out and a gob of mushrooms creamed over his belly and tickled down his crotch, he stopped laughing. "Now,have you had enough?" For a moment, neither spoke. They regarded one another with eyes no longer filled with laughter. A strange mood settled over the room and brought back sanity. Conar got up slowly and ran the back of his hand under his nose. He looked out the door for a long time, watching the rain. When he looked back at Pearl, there was no longer any trace of hostility. He put out his hand. Pearl smiled. He reached up to grasp Conar's hand, half-expecting the young man to try to throw him, but the fingers were steady and firm as Conar levered him to his feet. He looked into Conar's carefully controlled gaze. "Friends?" he asked in his gruff, smoky voice. He was all too aware Conar still held his wrist. "Pleasant enemies." Conar let go of Pearl's hand. Pearl shrugged. "I can live with that for now." Conar regarded him with steady eyes. "What do you want from me, Pearl?" It was the first time Conar had ever said his name. Pearl liked the sound of it in Conar's soft Serenian drawl that was being gently corrupted with the odd-inflections of the Chrystallusian tongue. He shrugged again. "Marriage?" A slow, genuine smile touched Conar's lips. "I'm already taken. Sorry." "You'resorry!" Pearl said in a woebegone voice. "Allthe good men are taken!" Conar's smile died. "Not all." Pearl drew in a breath. He knew a compliment when he heard it. His face turned red and he ducked his head, suddenly very shy around this golden god. He heard Conar leaving yet he couldn't look up, he was staring intently at the mound of mushrooms caking his feet. "Hey!" Pearl pulled his head up, his heart ready for whatever scorn was coming. "I still hate mushrooms." Pearl could only nod, still waiting for harsh words. "Good eve, Pearl." Conar's gentle smile returned. He put up his hand in farewell and stepped out into the rain.

Pearl stood stunned for several moments. He had been training Conar for more than three weeks. A faint smile touched his lips. Well, not exactlytraining him, he thought. It was more likepreparing him for his next instructor. He envied the man who would be training Conar next. Pearl knew his pupil would learn to be a good wrestler now that the hostility and stubbornness was gone. He sighed. Conar McGregor would be even better than him. "Better than any man alive," he whispered. *** A dusty messenger entered the wide gates of Emperor Tran's palace and asked to speak to Master Nikabuto, the Court Physician. It was to this man, whose great healing powers were known throughout the entire world, that the messenger was taken. Within a few minutes, Shalu was in Nikabuto's chambers. "Kym!"Shalu shouted. "Never in my wildest dreams did I think you would be the one to bring me news of home!" Shalu crushed the messenger to him in a bone-smashing hug. "Your lady thought it would be best.Papa! You're suffocating me!" Conar had hurried here with his friend, praying it would be good news for Shalu. Obviously it was. The young woman must be his eldest daughter of whom he had spoken many times. A sad smile lit Conar's face. His own daughter, Tamara, would have been about this girl's age. "Conar!" Shalu bellowed, draping his arm around the small girl. "Come meet my Kymmi!" Conar took the delicate cinnamon-colored hand that was extended shyly toward him and raised it to his lips, then placed a feather-soft kiss on the upturned wrist. "It is my honor, mam'selle." Kym turned to her father. "PrinceConar?" she asked in an awed voice. "ThePrince Conar?" He winked at Conar. "Risen from the dead and ready to roast his enemies!" Fifteen-year-old Kym Taborn stared at Conar and lost her heart for the eighth time that week. Her oval face blushed. She lowered thick, sooty lashes over warm coffee-colored eyes. She dropped gracefully into a curtsy that made her father's eyes roll to the heavens. "The honor is mine, Highness," she whispered in a throaty voice. She raised her head, close-cropped with thick, glistening curls, and smiled. Shalu laughed, swatting the girl's backside. "He's too old for you!" He scrunched his daughter close to his side and placed a loud kiss on her forehead. "What of home? How is your mother? Your brothers and sister?" "All well," she answered, her stare still on the gorgeous blond man who stood before her. Her feminine mind was racing.Who said he was too old? She batted her lashes and was a bit put off by the light chuckle and condescending grin the man gave her father. "Stop flirting!" Shalu warned in a gruff, teasing voice. "He has a son older than you!" An immediate light came into the girl's face. "Here?" Conar couldn't help but see the gears turning in her head. Neither could Shalu. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "He looks just like his father." Kym's inquisitive eyes flicked over Conar, assessing, appraising. She liked what she saw despite the wicked twin gashes on his tanned cheek. Somehow the scars gave him a sexuality that was hard to ignore. His bright blond hair, worn long in a queue, his sensual lips that had a slight trace of a smile, his physique, all combined to make Kym breathless. But it was his eyes that held her attention, gained her immediate notice. They were the most beautiful blue she had ever seen. "Just like his father?" she asked in a low whisper.

"Exactly," Conar told her. "Where can this son be found?" "I haven't seen you in nearly seven years, girl, and you want to go chasing some boy?" Shalu lowered his brows and stuck out his thick lips. "How am I supposed to take that?" Kym stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "Like any father would!" She looked at Conar. "Where did you say your son was?" "You'll probably find him in the stables. That's where he usually is." "He likes horses?" she asked in a breathless gush. "Devoted to them." Her face turned positively radiant. She smiled, realized she was giving away feminine emotions, and schooled her face into a carefully blank, teenage girl look. "Well, perhaps I might find him there when I see to my pony," she sniffed with all the disdain a teenager can muster. "Perhaps," Conar agreed gravely. "Does he have that wicked scar, too?" "Kym!"Shalu gasped, shocked. Despite his smile and light words, Conar's face bore the pain of rejection. "He is all of one piece, mam'selle." "You apologize to Conarnow!" Shalu thundered. "Shalu—" "No!She has insulted you!" He gave his daughter a fierce scowl. "By what right do you do such a thing to a friend of mine?" Kym stared at her father with hurt. "I meant no disrespect," she said, her gaze lowering. "If I have insulted you, I am most apologetic and I am humbly ashamed." There was something strange about the girl's apology. Conar put his finger under her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. "You meant no insult?" he asked. "No, Highness. I find your scars to be—" "Be quiet!" Shalu ordered. Conar held up his hand. "You found them to be what, mam'selle?" Kym's cinnamon-colored flesh darkened. She dropped her voice so low it was almost inaudible. "I find them very sexy." Conar's brows drew together. He glanced at Shalu who was gaping, staring hard at his eldest child. Conar had a hard time schooling his face before he could look back at Kym. When he did, his words were as soft as hers had been. "You don't find them horrible to look upon, mam'selle?" With the innocence and honesty of youth, Kym spoke her mind. "Of course not!" she sighed with exasperation. "Who would?" Conar smiled. "Who, indeed?" "Didn't you say you had to see to your pony?" Shalu warned. Kym glanced at him and her face brightened. "I do!" She curtsied once more. Shalu watched her run lightly away from them, and opened his mouth to apologize to Conar.

"She really didn't find them all that bad," Conar remarked, smiling. Shalu didn't know what to say. He just nodded. Conar didn't appear to be upset; didn't appear to be even hurt by the thoughtless remark. If the gentle smile on his face was any indication, he was rather pleased. "I believe I have a lesson in a few moments," Conar said. "For once, I don't think I'll mind." Watching his friend stride off, Shalu sighed. Conar was an enigma he wasn't sureanyone could ever solve! *** "Who'reyou ?" a strong masculine voice asked. Kym Taborn found herself staring into eyes so like the Prince's, into a carbon copy of Conar McGregor's face, that she knew this boy had to be his son. "I am Kyminda Taborn. Who areyou ?" she asked, arching a thin black brow. "I am Wynland." "Wynland what?" "Just Wynland," he told her with just a hint of pique. "You're not legal, are you?" she asked, studying him for the trace of male arrogance that usually came when you call them illegitimate. Wyn lifted his chin. "No, but Iam the firstborn son of—" "Wyn!"Sentian Heil warned. When Wyn looked his way, his face a bright crimson, Sentian shook his head. "Iknow who his father is," Kym informed the older man standing at the corral's gate. "You do?" Sentian asked, wondering who this brash young woman belonged to. "Naturally. My father told me." Kym turned her attention back to Wyn, liking what she saw. "And just who is your father?" Sentian inquired. "King Shalu," she said with an air of importance. Her stare fused with Wyn's. "I am legal firstborn daughter." "Who'd have thunk it?" Wyn sneered. He looked at Sentian, hoping Heil would smile at the point he'd scored, but Sentian looked rather green around the gills. "Does Shalu know where you are?" Sentian asked. "He sent me," Kym said. She looked at Wyn again. "Your father said I'd find you here." Wyn arched a blond brow. "Why?" Kym shrugged. "I suppose because he thinks he's too old for me." Sentian coughed, choked, and found himself staring at the young couple. They were gazing at one another as though sizing each other up. Blue eyes swept down a tiny wisp of a girl; brown eyes roamed over wide shoulders and thin hips, long legs. Heil was vividly reminded of two cats circling one another, looking for a flaw in the other's armor. Wyn frowned. He didn't like bold females. He pretended to scowl, but her lovely face only looked smug, content, like a cat's lapping up cream. He wasn't sure he wanted tobe this girl's cream. "Well, now. A bit on the shy side, aren't you?" he sneered with all the nastiness a sixteen-year-old boy could dredge up. Kym smiled, her little teeth white in the dark of her face. "Not when I see something I want." "Well, you'd best not want me."

"Don't you like girls?" "They're the only game in town for me!" "I was beginning to wonder. Do you ride?" she asked, eyeing him up and down as though she had her doubts. "Better than you, I bet!" "We'll see," she said, enigmatically. Her saucy gaze ranged over him. "We will see." She walked past Sentian and entered the corral, looked for her mount, and ordered one of the stableboys to saddle it. She glanced back only once to see if Wyn would follow her. "Be careful," Sentian warned his young charge as Wyn stomped past him into the corral. "I'll make her eat dirt!"

Chapter 9 Despite Se Huan's promise to do otherwise, she was unable to entice Conar to make love to her. No amount of urging, pleading, or pouting would sway him. He would simply smile that sad smile of his and gently remove her arms from around his neck, her hands from his body. He would thank her for her generosity, then depart, leaving her frustrated, but proud of the man. And of late, even her tender mercies which eased the sexual ache in his body had been refused. It had been more than a month since she had last been allowed to use her talents upon him and she had returned to Occultus in shame. Master Occultus was not alone. Seated on a low divan was an extraordinarily lovely white woman. Shimmering lights sparkled in the autumn-kissed skein of her honey-blond hair. Blue eyes the color of a warm summer's day peered from behind a heavy sweep of long, thick tawny lashes. Her skin was as flawless and rosy as a ripe nectarine, and her figure was one that could stop any man in his tracks. Her lips were a dark pink and there was a faint blush of lavender color on her lids. Her cleavage, rounding softly from the gown of deep purple silk that molded her body like a second skin, was high and full. Her feet were bare, small and delicate looking, as were her hands. She wore no jewels and there was no adornment on her gown. She seemed to view Se Huan with a touch of amusement. "How have you fared?" Occultus asked, bringing the girl's gaze to him. "I have failed, Master." Occultus nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "I thought perhaps you would, girl." "I am unworthy of him. He no longer wants any form of affection from me." She glanced at the woman and wondered why such a confession before her would cause her immediate alarm. There was no expression on the exquisite face, but Se Huan could see great interest. "It is not you who he finds lacking," the blond woman said, her musical voice low, sensual. "Your hair, your complexion…you remind him too much of Liza and he cannot bring himself to mate with you." She smiled, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. "It is Conar's failure, not yours." "We are grateful for your efforts, Se Huan," Occultus said. "This lady will try her luck." Se Huan turned to the stunning beauty who watched her with merry contempt. The woman was laughing at her behind the correct facade of her gentle smile. "But he does not know this one! She might alienate him even more, Master. Why do you feel she will succeed where I have failed?" Her face pinched with distaste.

The blond woman laughed. "I fear she is jealous of me, Occultus!" Occultus frowned. He detested female jealousies. "Do not let your vapors hold rein, Se Huan. Do you not want what is best for him?" "How willshe be better for him? He knows me!" "My dear child," the woman stressed in a bored voice, "Conar and I are well acquainted. I have known him, far better, and far more intimately, than you ever will. I have known him longer thanyou have been alive!" "Do you not want what is best for Conar?" Occultus repeated. Se Huan lowered her eyes. "You know I do, Master." "Then what does it matterwho relieves him of the burden of his dreams? This lady has no designs on him. If she did, I would not allow her access to him." He sat in his chair, dismissing the whole sordid conversation. He knew the blond woman would fail, as well. "You may go, Se Huan." Se Huan stood uncertainly. She returned the woman's icy blue stare with leaping brown fire. When the woman turned her face, dismissing Se Huan, the Chrystallusian girl's face glowed with fury. Bowing slightly, she left the room, her heart thudding fast. Occultus sighed with distaste as the door closed. "You will sleep in his bed tonight." "Have no fear, Occultus," the woman assured him. "I will succeed. I have before." She smiled, hoping her feigned respect for him covered her true loathing. Nothing could prevent her from accomplishing her goal. She had come thousands of miles because she had sensed a rift in the veil over Chrystallus. When she had arrived, she had been stunned to learn Conar was alive. Immediately, a plan had formulated in her mind. "I'll make him mine," she whispered as she walked to the room allotted her. "Iwill!" *** He was flat on his back again, his lips clamped shut with frustration. He could feel Pearl bending over him, could even see that taunting smile through his closed eyelids. His head ached miserably, pounding so furiously he thought he'd pass out. Pearl was on his knees, sitting on his heels. He gazed at his pupil. "You dorealize you have a problem, don't you?" "You're my biggest problem, Allegria." "Do you know what it is?" "No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you?" Conar snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "God, my head hurts!" "Well,of course, I'm going to tell you!" One slim hand fluttered in the air. Pearl made a face at Conar's groan of annoyance. "You're just such a meany, aren't you?" Conar snarled at Pearl's deliberate attempt at sounding "faggoty," as Conar had termed it. His aching head was making his teeth hurt. He massaged his right temple. The nausea was starting in his throat and his right eye felt like someone was poking a red hot stick into it. Pearl continued to kneel beside him, waiting. "What, dammit?" Conar shouted and wished he hadn't ,for his brain slammed into his skull with enough force to bring a sour belch to his lips. "So this is the way it is," Pearl began, ignoring the look of intense agony on Conar's face. "Wrestling is a state of mind, my young Princey-Poo. Naturally it takes brawn." He puffed out his flat, thin chest, twisting his shoulders back and forth, raising his arms, flexing them, to show non-existent muscles. He looked at his slightly mounded biceps and

shrugged. "Is there a point to your rambling?" Conar managed to croak. "You have to use strategies in wrestling." He thought for a moment. His eyes brightened as an idea struck. "Look at it as a conquest. Like the conquest of a beautiful woman." His lips twitched. "Or in my case, a beautiful man." He frowned when Conar made a rude snort. "Anyway, what's the first thing you do when you're trying to seduce a would-be partner? You compliment him, right?" "I complimenther!" Pearl clucked his tongue. "You showerher with attention; you lookher over; you slide a little closer and maybe finger a curl of hair, smooth a ruby red lip. Then, you lether thinkshe's the one doing the catching. Lether think it'sher idea." Conar held up his hand. "Stop being Kehoe." "Beg pardon?" Pearl asked. "Stop stressing the word her!" "Right. You let him think it's his idea that the two of you are going to get together and make wild, passionate love somewhere, sometime soon. Then, you move in for the attack! You let him see some of your weaknesses, then you pounce. Youpounce, Princey-Poo! Overtake him with your—" "Her!"Conar corrected and gagged on bile. "Sucha meany! You overtake her with your brawny arms, crush her willing body to yours and take her to heavenly bliss!" Pearl sighed dramatically, caught up in his vision of romantic love. "Do you see what you've done?" "I came; I saw; I pounced." Conar frowned. "Typical McGregor male reaction." "Yes, your body is what you use to conquer her with, but it is another part of your anatomy that does the actual winning far in advance. Brains are far more important that brawn." "Is this leading anywhere? If so, get on with it!" Conar snapped, annoyed. In the last five weeks of their acquaintance, he had learned that Pearl had a most convoluted way of speaking. Often he went off on wild tangents of thought that left Conar staring with confusion. "You're such a bore!" Pearl pouted. "Whatis your problem today?" "My brain actually hurts." "See! That's what I'm talking about!" Pearl said in a jubilant voice. "You have to wrestle here!" He put a cool hand on Conar's brow, "before you can wrestle here!" The hand moved to Conar's hard biceps. Conar gazed into Pearl's excited face. He narrowed his eyes. "What you're telling me is that I'm not concentrating." "Precisely!"Pearl folded his arms across his chest. "You're not as obtuse as I thought." "It's hard to concentrate when your head feels like the insides of a ceremonial drum!" "Do you have a headache?" Pearl asked impatiently. "Why didn't you just say so?" "I did!"Conar shouted and winced, nausea nearly making him throw up. "Oh, for the love of Jon!" Pearl positioned himself at Conar's head, putting his fingers on Conar's temples. "What? More torture?" Conar grumbled. "Shutyour eyes. And your big mouth!" Pearl made tiny, circular motions on Conar's throbbing temples. "You know what you need, Pearl?" "Shut up."

"You need a husband." "I offered; you refused." "Someone you can mother." "One child at a time is enough, thank you." "Be serious!" "Iam being serious! You're such a child sometimes, Conar!" The headache began lessening in intensity. Pearl's fingers were cool, soothing, lulling Conar into a light doze. "Do you have a lover, Pearl?" Conar had come to accept the man's friendship and his companionship and it wasn't unusual to see them deep in conversation during those times Conar was allowed respite from his instructions. The two played chess and a card game ofDowns together, almost every Saturday, after Conar's last lesson of the day. They discussed philosophy and books and tried to outdo the other with as dirty a joke as they could remember. "Not now." Pearl's hands stilled. "There is a cute Diabolusian who's been hanging about lately, but he doesn't seem particularly interested inme. He likes blondes, I think." He ran his fingers through the yellow glory of Conar's silky hair and reveled at the feel of the thick mane. "We'll just have to find you one, I suppose." "What?" "A lover," Conar mumbled, feeling more drowsy as Pearl's fingers worked their magic. "I know!" Pearl teased, gently tugging on Conar's hair. "Why don'tyou volunteer until someone suitable comes along?" He giggled as Conar glowered up at him. Pearl had learned over the years that to lapse into what he often termed his "character assassinations" put straight men in a better frame of mind, less threatened by his bent, when they were talking with him. Conar usually ignored the way Pearl minced about the, instinctively recognizing it for it was—a silly act meant to hide Pearl's fear of being ridiculed. "I thought you said I was a bore?" Conar reminded him. "But a cute bore!" Pearl teased, making his fish mouth kisses at Conar. Conar grunted. Pearl was an ultra-sensitive man with a keen intellect bordering on genius. He had a marvelous sense of humor and a mouth that could spout some of the dirtiest jokes Conar had ever heard. By deliberately swishing and swaying like a brazen bar maid, by batting his long eyelashes in exaggerated fashion and making his little fishy mouth kisses, flirting outrageously, Pearl had brought down all the stumbling blocks. All the pent up emotions, fears, phobias, and prejudices Conar had had concerning homosexual men had dissolved with Pearl's blatant over-exaggeration of the habits most straight people associated with homosexuals. He made such habits seem comical. Besides, Conar thought with a grin, Pearl knew he truly enjoyed the put-on act. He knew Pearl could tell by the way he tried to cast a jaundiced eye on the mimicry, while striving to keep his lips straight, that he was intrigued by Pearl's act of self-preservation. "Why do you degrade yourself like that?" he'd once asked. Pearl had looked at him with huge cow eyes. "To get your attention!" He had. He had also garnered Conar's friendship. "Why don't you be my lover until someone better comes along?" Pearl sighed. "Although I doubt anyone better than you ever will!" When there was no answer to his outrageous proposition, he realized Conar was sound asleep. A tender smile touched Pearl's lips. He took his hands away from the shining gold hair. Just sitting here looking at the innocent

beauty of Conar's face made Pearl want to cry. He erased the terrible twin scars that ravaged the tanned left cheek, wondered what the other scars had looked like that Occultus had vanquished only a week before he'd met Conar. He would have liked nothing better than to kiss this precious man on the forehead, to show him just how much he respected him. Conar's sleep didn't last long. Ten, maybe twenty minutes at most. He woke, crying out with terror, finding himself in Pearl's arms, being cradled to the man with fierce protectiveness. "You were dreaming, Conar. Just dreaming." With the security of friendship, Conar pressed his cheek against Pearl's chest. "Oh, god! I can't take much more!" He clung to Pearl, striving hard not to cry with hopelessness and frustration. *** Wyn followed his father and uncles to the practice range and sat on a large boulder, patiently waiting. His father strung one of the long bows, nocked an arrow, sighted a target far down the field, and aimed. Wyn put up his hand to shield his eyes and watched with awe as the arrow flew unerringly to the center of the target. "Not bad," Chase Montyne remarked, slipping Wyn a sly wink behind Conar's back. "You could have hit a little more to dead center, but I can live with that." Conar let loose another arrow, which split the previous arrow in twain. Without a word, he withdrew another arrow, sighted it and hit the target dead center. "Good enough?" "Fair," Chase answered. "You should have hit it in the center the first time." Wyn whistled. Coron and Dyllon stared at Conar with open-mouthed wonder. Feeling someone watching him, Wyn turned and looked into the Necroman's unsmiling face. "What time did you come in last night, young Wynland?" Shalu asked, one brow slashed upward in challenge. Wyn swallowed, looked at the others, then slowly returned his attention to the black man. "It wasn't late, sir." He cringed, hearing his childish, immature voice cracking. "That's not what he asked, Wyn," came Conar's soft voice. Wyn saw his father studying him as he leaned on his bow. Why he felt like a ten-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar Wynland didn't know, but he knew he was blushing. He was being taken to task for something. What, however, he didn't know. "I was in by twelve, Papa." "Isn't that a coincidence?" Shalu rumbled. "That's about the same time Kyminda arrived at our apartments." The hawk-like gaze pierced Wyn. "Might she have been with you until then?" If there was one thing Wyn had learned over the years from his father's many mistresses—who had been more than willing to teach Wyn a thing or two—was that you didn't compromise a lady's reputation. If punishment was needed, you took it on yourself. Despite the fact that he was afraid of Shalu with his gruff, rough voice, and that he didn't like the blank look on his father's face, Wyn took a deep breath and spoke as succinctly as his trembling knees would allow. "No, Highness. She wasn't with me, but I heard her say she was planning on walking down by the ponds. Perhaps she might have done so and fallen asleep there?" "Fallen asleep, you say?" Shalu commented. "Alone?" "Aye! Most assuredly alone!" "You left a lady sleeping alone by the pond?" Dyllon asked, his face expressionless. "That was most ungentlemanly. Anything could have happened to her." "I didn't leave her…" Wyn stopped, looking at his father. No help there. He looked at his Uncle Coron and saw only polite attention on his face. Wyn didn't want to look at Shalu, but when he did, he saw storm clouds gathering on the face. He wanted to groan. "I thought you said she was alone," Shalu said.

"Well, what I meant to say was…well, shewas alone… I sort of watched over her." "You spied on the lady?" Dyllon asked with indignation. "No!I sort of… I kind of… I…" He looked at the ground. "I kind of followed her to make sure she'd be all right and I, well, I guess I fell asleep, too." "While you were watching out for the lady?" Coron inquired. "Aye." "The two of you slept together?" Shalu thundered. "No!"Wyn nearly yelped. "We…were…" "The two of you were sleeping," Dyllon said. "But not together!" "She was sleeping; you were sleeping." Shalu's face turned as hard as rock. "Even if you were miles apart, you two were sleeping together, weren't you?" Wyn's face paled. He found his father watching him intently. "Papa?" he pleaded. "Kym was asleep and you stayed nearby to protect her. Is that it?" his father asked. Wyn nodded fiercely. "That's exactly what I did. I protected her!" "How considerate," came Shalu's rumble. "I take it you are fond of Kyminda." Wyn raised his eyes. "She's… Kym's…well, she's sort of…" "Nice to be with?" his father supplied. "Aye!" Wyn heaved a sigh of relief that his father, at least, understood. He didn't like the secret smile on his Papa's face, but at least he wasn't looking at him like the Necromanian King was. "When youwatch over her again, young Wynland," Shalu said, "make sure you have her home before your father and I have to come looking for you." Wyn's attention jerked to his father. "You…you came looking for us?" Conar nodded. "A most reassuring sight it was to see the two of you sleeping like babes by the pond," Shalu said, smirking. He wanted to add "fully clothed" but he'd had enough sport with the boy for one day. In truth, he trusted Kym, and knew Conar trusted Wyn. "We didn't…what I mean to say is, we wouldn't have…" Wyn looked to the heavens. "I would never do anything to compromise your daughter, Highness." "He knows, Wyn," Conar answered. Wyn turned beet red as the others laughed. "Leave the boy alone," Chase admonished. "You've got him pissing his pants." He walked to the boy and ruffled his hair. "Don't let them get to you. They've all been where you were a moment or two ago!" "Many times!" Dyllon admitted. "Wyn?" Conar called. "Come walk with me." He hastened to his father's side and smiled, liking the way the blue of Conar's eyes was mellowing. He liked the way

the strong bow arm draped across his shoulder as they left the others. "I am proud of you," his father said as they walked. "Why? What did I do?" "For wanting to protect your lady. That shows courage and respect, not only for her, but for her father, as well. We weren't spying on you last eve. We were out strolling and came across the two of you." "There wasn't anything to see, Papa." "I know." Conar motioned for Wyn to sit beside him on the ground. He crossed his legs and pulled the quiver of arrows from his back, laid them on the grass and looked across the field. "You are growing fond of her, aren't you?" "Kym?" Wyn asked, playing for time since the question had taken him aback. "Have you another lady?" Wyn shook his head. He screwed up his courage. "I want no other lady, Papa." He didn't quite understand the look on his father's face. He thought it might well have been disappointment, sadness, denial; he wasn't sure. There was a long pause. Conar took a deep breath and faced his son. "Do you love her?" Wyn nodded. "Are you sure it is love?" "As sure as I am that tomorrow will come." "How can you tell that it's love and not infatuation? Lust, or a similar feeling?" Wyn blushed. Only in his fevered dreams did he think of Kym with anything close to lust. Not once had he tried to touch her or undress her with his eyes as he had a score of other girls. Not a novice to the art of making love, he was sure Kym was. Her virginity was something he prized. "How can any man tell if he's in love, Papa? You can't eat; you can't sleep; you find yourself thinking of her day and night. You write silly poems to her; you carve her name on everything you see. You find yourself making excuses to go by her apartment. You leave the building when she does so you can bump into her. I just know I love her, Papa." "You're too young to really know, don't you think?" "Both Uncle Coron and Uncle Dyllon married before their sixteenth birthdays," Wyn protested. "Their brides were younger still." "That was a mistake my papa made in allowing them to marry so young, but the Tribunal put pressure on him to give his blessing." "But they've been happy." "They have." "How old were you when you fell in love with Liza?" A shadow crossed Conar's face. "Older than you are now." "And yet you knew you loved her, didn't you, Papa? If your father had said you were too young to love her, would you have listened?" "I have no way of knowing, but to answer you as truthfully as I can… I probably wouldn't have." He took his son's hand. "I want you to be happy, Wyn. I want you to find a love that will last. One that will be everything to you. One that won't hurt you as my love for Liza has hurt me."

It wasn't disappointment he was seeing on his father's face. It was sadness, a terrible, lonely sadness that he understood. He covered his father's hand with his own. "I do love her, Papa, and she loves me. Is it wrong? Arewe wrong to love one another?" "Why would you think it wrong?" "Because we are of two different countries. Two different religions. Two different—" "Races?" "Does that make a difference?" "To some men it would." "Does it make a difference to you, Papa?" Conar took another deep breath. "Not if the love you have for her is genuine. Not if her love for you is just as genuine. It will be difficult for you both. There are those who will shun you. There will be those who will curse and malign you. Your children will suffer for the prejudices of others. But if the love you have for one another is strong, you can overcome the greatest difficulties." He slipped his hand out from under Wyn's and cupped his son's cheek. "Marriage is always an iffy proposition. You never really know someone until you've lived with them. Money matters and child rearing are the two most deadly destroyers of marriages. But if you learn to compromise, learn to adjust, there is nothing you cannot overcome, and adversity often makes a marriage stronger." "Would you give us your blessing when the time comes?" Conar smiled. "I would. You're young, she's even younger. Don't rush. These years of your life are the best of all the years you will have. Never again will you be as free or unencumbered. Enjoy each day. Make the most of it." Wyn nodded. "Do you think her father will be a problem?" Conar looked past Wyn's shoulder. "Why don't you ask him yourself." Wyn slowly turned to see Shalu leaning against a tree not five feet away. "Listen to the things your father says and add this one piece of advice," Shalu told him. "Never raise your hand in anger to your lady. It is also best to remember the old adage about not going to bed angry. You don't sleep well if you do and you may find your breakfaston your head instead ofin your belly come morning!" "You have no objection to Kym and me…ah, well…you know…courting?" Wyn stammered. "I have no objection to youspending time with my daughter." The hawk-like gaze sharpened. "I think the word 'courting' is not quite appropriate as yet." "But would you be adverse to Kym and me, well, being together when we're older?" Because he was Conar's bastard son, Wyn was fearful the Necromanian King would deny such a marriage. "Are you worthy of my daughter's hand, young Wynland?" Wyn raised his chin. "I will make myself worthy, Highness! I will make myself worthy of whatyou expect from a son-in-law." The Necroman came to tower over Wyn. He put his huge hands on his hips and stared at Wyn with an expression like the gathering of a storm. The dark face was set and hard. "I will expect a lot from the man who would become my kinsman." Wyn glanced at his father, and saw himself being regarded with keen expectation. He stood and held out his hand to the Necroman. "I give you my word as the firstborn son of Prince Conar McGregor that I will be everything you will ever want in a kinsman, King Shalu." Shalu thrust out his hand, taking Wyn's wrist in a grasp designed to be painful, but Wyn didn't even blink. "Word given in his name are words I hold sacred. Live up to them and you may one day be as good a man as your father."

After Wyn left them, the two warriors sat in silence, looking at the lowering sun across the training field. They were comfortable in one another's presence; neither had to say words the other already knew. Both were content with the alliance they felt had already been formed between their two houses. "She'll give him a run for his money," Shalu sighed. "And he'll give her the time of her life." "And they'll give us grandchildren who will be holy terrors." Conar let out a long breath. "Does that word make you feel old?" Shalu shrugged. "I've always felt old. But grandchildren are supposed to make you young again." There was pain in Conar's voice. "I'll never feel young again, my friend." The sun sank gracefully below the horizon. They sat in the gathering dusk, side by side, in silent companionship.

Chapter 10 He felt tingling across his lips and swung a hand to his lips, rubbing the itching surface. Once more the sensation slipped over his lips and he puckered, twitching them from side to side, sniffling. He heard a light, musical giggle and came instantly awake, his eyes wide. In the light of the single candle, he saw a nimbus of golden hair shimmering above him, the hair glowing with red and orange tints. Although he couldn't see her face, he could see the naked expanse of creamy skin and realized with a jolt the woman in bed with him was naked. "Are you sure you have the right bed, Milady?" he asked more casually than he felt. He knew Chase had been exceedingly busy of late. In the semi-darkness, it was more than conceivable this strange woman had erred. Another light giggle emitted from the woman. She caressed his chest, smoothing the hair between his manly breasts. Conar gently removed her questing fingers. He became aware of her warm thigh rubbing along his. He raised an brow in annoyance and withdrew his leg from contact with hers. "Montyne's room is down the hall. I'm sure he's waiting for you." He moved as far away from her lilac-scented body as he could get without getting out of the bed. A voice, low and throaty, sultry, wafted to him. "I can well remember a time when you liked the waywe played together, Conar Aleksandro." There was something alarmingly familiar in the voice. A challenge in her smoky words that made him start. "Who are you?" He felt a sensation along his spine that wasn't at all pleasant. "Don't you know?" He was more annoyed than ever. He didn't like playing games with strange women, although he had a wicked feeling this woman was no stranger. He turned and lit the lamp on his night table. His mouth dropped open so comically, she let out a tinkling burst of delight. "Oh, Conar! If you could see your face, dearling!" she cooed. She laughed delicately, setting her high breasts to jiggling. When she saw his immediate attention go to the firm mounds, she arched her back to give him a better look. "Raja?" he croaked, staring at her with something akin to horror.

"None other!" she teased. Snuggling down in the bed beside him, she rested her head on his chest and then wound her right hand around his waist, taking advantage of his confusion and stunned silence to press her naked body close. Of all the women he had ever known, Raja DeLyle was the one he most hated and feared. His first woman—he had been but a child when she seduced him at Boreas—she had also initiated several of his brothers as well as Roget and Teal du Mer. She was an insatiable sex addict whose taste for young boys had caused Conar to have an unsavory view of most females. He had a vivid memory of once telling Liza about her. His fear and disgust of the woman had not lessened. "How did you get in here?" he asked, barely aware of her caresses. "For that matter, how do you come to be here at all?" She licked the puckered flesh over one of his paps, smiling with delight when he jumped as though he had been stung. "Don't do that!"he shouted, prying her away from his body. "You used to like me to do that, remember?" "What are you doing here?" He moved away from her, too aware of his own nakedness. Raja sat up. She drew a long lock of golden hair over her shoulder, across her naked breast. Her mouth was set in a tiny, wounded pout, but her velvety eyes sparkled with desire. She didn't answer, but drew up her knees and let out a groan of seductive need. "Raja!" His gaze slid sideways, despite his good intentions of not staring at her breasts, the loveliest he had ever seen. He took in a hasty breath, her beauty affecting him as it had done when he was a boy. He remembered well what her body was like beneath his. "I refuse to answer until you get that menacing 'Gerren tone' out of your voice!" Closing his mouth in exasperation and annoyance, he hesitated before changing tactics. She had always been stubborn, used to having things her way, a selfish woman who thought only of herself and her needs. "I apologize if I offended you," he lied. "That's better." "Will you answer me, please?" With a sweet, tantalizing smile, she gazed at him. "I have lived in Chrystallus before. I have a small house a friend left me when he died. Until a few weeks ago, though, I had been in Diabolusia. I left Serenia when Galen took the throne and went to live in the court at Deseo, near Hieaj. Serenia was becoming a cesspool filled with Tribunal shit." He hadn't forgotten Raja's tendency to use gutter language. He was surprised only that it appalled him as much now as it had when he was young. "I may decide to go back when you ascend the throne where you belong." Although his face was calm, his tone wasn't. It was hard. "I have no intention of ever sitting on the throne of Serenia." "You don't mean that!" "Have you forgotten that my father had my birthright revoked?" he asked, the memory still hurting after all these years. "Oh, pooh! No one cares about that! You were destined to ascend the throne and you shall!" "I don't want to. The man Tohre appointed does a well enough job, I'm told. The people respect him and apparently care for him. Let him play monarch until I'm ready to destroy Tohre." "The man who is sitting on the throne? Don't you know his name?" she inquired, laying her hand on his steel-like arm. "I haven't cared enough to ask." He wished she wouldn't touch him.

"He isn't royalty. The people would prefer you to him." She raised her hand to his cheek, running her thumb along the vicious scars. "For this alone you deserve to take the throne." He moved his head away from her. "What do you want, Raja?" "Do I have to want something to visit you?" He swung his legs to the floor. The nearness of Raja's loveliness was taking its toll on his senses. The woman might well be in her fifties, but she was still desirable, sensual. He was about to stand when he felt her hands on his shoulders. "I knew they had beaten you, but to scar you in such a fashion is sacrilege!" She placed her lips on one deep, wavering line. "It hurts me to see this." He looked around at her, hearing the grief in her voice, and was surprised to see twin tracks of moisture easing down her alabaster cheeks. It unnerved him. He would not have thought the woman capable of tears for anyone, not even herself. He saw, not the pity he imagined he'd find, but a great sadness. "Do my tears surprise you?" she asked in a hollow, toneless confession. "Would it shock you to know that you are the only man I have ever cried for, Conar McGregor?" "I can't imagine why," he answered, totally taken aback by her candor. "You wouldn't." She brought his hand to her cheek, ran his fingers down her tearful flesh. "I have cried many tears over you, my beloved." He eased his hand out of hers. "I asked you why you were here." She looked at him, gauging his emotion, and when she realized he was looking at her with nothing but curiosity, she turned before he could see her anger. Her tone did not match her fury. "When I was told Prince Conar McGregor was here, that he was alive, I wept with joy!" She looked up at him through her lashes and saw disbelief on his handsome face. "I did!" "I'm glad," he answered dryly. "I asked to be allowed to comfort you, to give you the happiness we had shared when we were together in Serenia." "If memory my serves correctly, the last time weshared anything was when I was seventeen. That's a long while ago." He almost smiled, for the woman was as transparent as glass. "That doesn't matter! I still have feelings for you! Occultus gave me his permission to come here tonight. I had every intention of succeeding where Se Huan had failed, but I can't deceive you like that. You have been hurt enough." Conar had no idea what the woman was talking about. She'd never had any feelings for him other than lust. She'd never had feelings for anyone other than herself. Weeping with joy? Not damned likely! And what happiness had they shared? He supposed if you considered animalistic bouts of unrestrained coupling and violent sexual release happiness, then Raja DeLyle had been ecstatic! He, on the other hand, had been only mildly pleasured by her none-too gentle lovemaking. She had taught him how to please a woman, mainly her, but had given no thought to his pleasure. And just what the hell did she mean when she said she meant to succeed where Se Huan had failed? Failed at what? He looked with astonishment at the tears falling down Raja's face, a face remarkably untouched by time's hand. She could well pass for a woman half her age. For some reason that annoyed him more than he could stand. "Quit that infernal crying," he grumbled. "It's not becoming. It makes you look weathered." "I really do love you," she swore, ignoring his insult. She looked so miserable, but she'd always been a good actress. Her mood swings were legendary and one could always tell when she'dinitiated another young boy, for Raja strutted about the keep like the cat who had eaten the canary.

Her avowal of loving him didn't ring true. If there was anything she might love more than herself—doubtful—it might have been his power and position, power and position she thought he would once again have. "Hold me," she whimpered, reaching out to him. "Raja…" Sighing, he pulled her into the comfort of his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. He stroked the gleam of her golden hair as it cascaded down his chest. He had no delusions concerning her. She wanted something. "It must have been so painful," she whispered, her hand running down his side, tracing the thick bands of scars on his flesh. Her tears might be genuine for the scarring of a body she had once found beautiful, he thought, but her grief did not extend to the pain and suffering that had accompanied the scarring. "What was it Se Huan failed to do, Raja?" "Occultus sent her to seduce you. To make you so mad with desire for her you would take her. It was his idea for her to ease you the way she did, the way you allowed her to do, but he wanted you to penetrate her." Though her words shocked him, he didn't let on. Her plain way of speaking was so normal for her, he didn't dwell on the shock. "Why?" "He believes you feel emasculated because of what happened to you." Her hands tightened on him. "They did that to you as a boy, too. The rape, I mean. I remember." Her cheek pressed into his cheek. "I remember holding you, comforting you." He ground his teeth. "Why did he think me taking Se Huan would matter?" "To force you to face your nightmares and overcome them. By tricking you into taking Se Huan, he thought the dreams would disappear." She looked at him through tear-drenched lashes. He was so astonished by her words, he failed to see the sly gleam in her eyes. "I told him you would not want to betray your wife with some stranger. I reminded him that your vows at the Joining were sacred to you. You are honorable. Taking just any woman would not be your way. If you wanted to make love to the girl, you would have. No one should try to force you into breaking your Joining just to prove you are still capable of screwing a woman." A part of Conar raged at Occultus and his underhanded presumptions, but a part of him warmed to the knowledge that both Occultus and Se Huan had tried to help him. His face softened at the memory of Se Huan coming to him, offering herself the night before. She hadn't wanted anything for herself. Just for him. The girl had been genuine in her affection for him. Unlike the whore plastered to him now. "Conar?" He looked down at her with irritation. "What?" "I can make the dreams go away," she whispered seductively. It was all he could do to keep his lip from curling. "The dreams will go away. I have them less frequently." "That's not true and you know it. You were having one when I slipped into bed beside you." That wasn't true but he had no way of disputing her. "I am told they come every night and that your sleep is constantly interrupted. You cannot close your eyes without dreams taking over. Occultus feels this does your training harm. I agree." He looked away. It was true the dreams were getting no better. They were getting worse, if anything. His lack of sleep would soon begin to undermine his health and he hesitated asking Xander for something to make him sleep. He wasn't even sure Occultus would allow such a drug in his system. Yet, he was powerless to keep the dreams at bay and his sleeplessness was taking its toll. It sapped his energy, destroyed his peace of mind and left him listless at times. Raja put her hands on his shoulders and pulled, urging him to lean against her. She settled him close to her and put her arms around him. "Do you think making love would help?" "I don't know, Raja." "Do these dreams make you feel worthless?"

"They make me feel empty inside." His voice was lost, a mere whisper. It didn't matter that he was leaning against a woman he had never trusted, never even liked. He needed the comfort of a soft body and gave in to the warmth of hers. "Tell me what's in your heart, Conar. Maybe speaking of it will help." She had always been good at getting Conar to voice his troubles, his most intimate thoughts, when he was younger. She knew she could again. She stroked his hair. "Talk to me, dearling. Tell me how you feel." "There's nothing inside meto feel. There's a space where love once was, a gaping hole in my heart that was once filled with the sweetest of joys. There's only a memory of that love there now, a fading memory." He looked at her. "I loved her, Raja. She was everything in life to me. I swore to be faithful. I learned what it was to reallyneed to be faithful to her. I betrayed her and I swore I would never do that again." "I understand." "I can't make love where love does not exist. To take a woman for the sake of taking her doesn't hold any allure for me anymore. Can't you see? I don't think I could have sex with anyone other than her, so what good would it do to try? Would failing make the nightmares stop or would it make them worse?" Raja looked at him,really looked at him. She had not seen him in more than thirteen years. He had just turned thirty at the coming of the new year. Gone was the youth she had seduced with her womanly wiles. Gone was the young boy, tragically scarred for life by men who had used him as a plaything. Gone was the mistrusting, arrogant Prince who had once called her a whore. The round face was devoid of youth and lined with the tracings of suffering and heartache. The blue eyes were not as bright, as innocent as they once had been. The slim body was no longer thin and lean. All the things that had thrilled her when she was younger—young men with virile, supple bodies that could make love all night and still crave more—were gone in his sad face. Yet, Raja found him more alluring than ever. His eyes were stronger, gleaming with a man's intelligence, wisdom, and pain. His body was strong, thick, and heavily-muscled. She wanted him more than ever. "You are right of course. You took your vows seriously. For you, there would be no honor in casual coupling. I admire that." She entwined her fingers with his. "Occultus told me to stay the night with you because he doesn't want you left alone with your dreams. You don't mind, do you?" She saw him frown. "I will keep to my side of the bed and be on my best behavior." He chuckled. Such a thing was nigh impossible with her, but he didn't want to spend the night alone, and didn't want to argue. He would have preferred Se Huan's sweet body beside him. "I swear to be good!" "That I will have to experience to believe!" She kicked him with her bare toes. When he told her she could stay only if she kept her hands, lips, legs, and breasts to herself, she stuck out her tongue. "Such conditions!" "Conditions that leave no margin for error in case you decide toroll into me in your sleep." "And what if youroll into me?" "Not likely." She smiled. If what Occultus had told her was true, he'd be in her arms before the night was through when the nightmares came calling. "Who'd want to paw such a stick-in-the-mud as you?" she snorted. "Se Huan." "Obviously the girl has no taste!" As he lay sleeping beside her, Raja propped her head on an elbow and stared at him. Despite the scars on his cheek, the man was as handsome as any she had ever seen. His hard, sweat-glistened chest caused her to ache with need and when her gaze slid to the slight jerk of the sheet at the juncture of his thighs, her face shone with hunger. Conar had been taught the art of lovemaking by an expert—her. He knew every trick and nuance to send a woman

crashing into the oblivion of release. It was going to be harder than she had thought to arouse in him the frenzied, mindless passion and raging lust she planned, but not impossible. Men were creatures of habit. Sex was sex to them. One woman, one body, willing or not, was as good as the next. It had been her experience that love was a word men used only to get a woman into bed. She did not understand the concept of such a vague—without monetary or power value—ideal as that of love. Unfortunately, Conar was different. He had once known true love and viewed things in a different light. Where it might be difficult to bring him to heel where sex was concerned, it was well within her abilities and her desire to do so. She wanted him. She had always wanted him, and feared she always would. "If you try and fail with me," she told his sleeping face, "it might be disastrous to you. I can understand your reluctance to make an attempt. But then again, what difference will it make?" The businesswoman in her saw him as a challenge. The whore in her never saw him at all.

Chapter 11 Conar had had less than five hours sleep in just as many days. His head ached miserably, his temper was short. He felt so tired it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. Occultus allowed him a week's vacation. His mornings were to be spent on the beach, either lying on the clean white sand or floating on the softly caressing waves in one of the small boats the palace kept for such pleasure. His early afternoons were spent sitting on the rocks, looking out to sea, his eyes on the horizon, and his late afternoons found him in the palace library,book in hand. He had wanted no company and those who loved him had been warned to stay away. He spent the evenings playing chess with Pearl or Brelan, or sat quietly in his aunt's garden. His nights were also filled with heavily drugged slumber. "One more day is all I can allow him," Occultus said as he poured a glass of wine for himself and Brelan. "I wish it could be longer, but the drugs I am administering are highly addictive. Addiction is the last thing he needs." "Then what?" Brelan asked and took a sip of the wine. "His instructions with Pearl are over. He has one final skill to learn." Occultus sat on a large fat cushion and crossed his legs. "I mean what happens once he's no longer given drugs? Will the nightmares return?" "I am sure they will." Brelan tipped his wineglass, draining it, while Occultus waited patiently for him to speak. "He told me Raja had offered to sleep with him." Brelan made an ugly snort. "The woman's goal is to sleep with every man who might possibly wield any power." "One never knows when one will need the assistance of aspecial friend," Occultus said wryly. "Precisely," Brelan sneered. "I'd rather have Conar hump the most gruesome, diseased hag Diabolusia has to offer than have him bed that one!" "As would I." "And yet you gave her permission to seduce him." Brelan didn't actually accuse with his tone, but the implication was there. "I knew he would turn her down." Occultus set aside his wineglass and folded his arms over his silk-clad chest. He gazed at Brelan with amusement. "I knew Raja would twist things to suit her, makingme the villain in this. She would

have told him that she was against such underhanded tactics to rid him of his problems. She would have played to his sense of honor where his Lady-wife was concerned and then would have offered her assistance. I knew Conar would see through her." His lips moved into a hard line of disdain. "The bitch's motives as selfish; he would have recognized them for what they were." "Then why allow her near him, Master?" "The ways of the gods are not always revealed to me, Lord Brelan. If it were left up to me, I would not allow her near him." "You fear for his safety with her?" "No, I fear for his soul. But I am the servant of the gods. When it is time, They will reveal to me the reason They have set this woman in your brother's path. Until then, we must bide our time, and be there if Conar should need us." "And watch Raja like a hawk." "Aye," Occultus agreed. "And watch her like a hawk!" *** Conar laid aside his book and looked through the lacy branches of the tree to see an eagle soaring through the heavens. He watched the bird of prey until it sailed out of sight, then crossed his arms under his head and closed his eyes. If he concentrated, he could see her face. For a long time, he thought he had lost the memory of that beautiful visage, but in the last few weeks it had returned to haunt his dreams. The nightmares had fled and he suspected that was due to the potion Occultus insisted he take each night under the guise of being a vitamin drink. "That potion," he muttered, "is closer kin to Meggie Ruck's dream garden variety than any Healer's vitamin drink." "Talking to yourself, Milord?" Se Huan sank gracefully to the grass. "Am I interrupting?" "No," he said and closed his eyes again. "A copper for your thoughts." He smiled. "I see long black hair that curls at the end when it's wet. I see vivid green eyes that sparkle with humor and mist with the merest hint of sorrow. I see a tiny waist and shapely hips and pretty little feet that can be so cold in winter…" He smile drifted slowly from his face. "Your lady," " Once she was mine," he replied, opening his eyes. "And will be again?" He was silent a long time, his eyes searching the heavens for the answer. At last, he drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. "She will never be mine again." "How can you be so sure?" "Because the world moved on. I have moved on. And she has moved on." She heard tears in his voice. She gripped his hand as he pressed his lips together so hard a white line formed over his upper lip. "I am sorry I made you think of her." "I think of her every moment of my life. With every breath I take." The sheen of tears in his eyes made the azure depths shimmer. "Brelan says she's happy. The man at her side loves her and has done well by her. She belongs to him and as long as she's happy, that's all that matters." A solitary tear eased down his scarred cheek.

*** Sweat coated his body. His heart pounded like the crashing of the tide during a hurricane. He put a trembling hand through his hair and stared into the darkness. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and laid his cheek on the cool fingers. "They are still there?" Se Huan asked, softly stroking the tense muscles. "Aye." His voice was ragged. "I had hoped they had left you." She sat up in bed, letting the coverlet fall from her. With regard to his dictates, she slept now clothed in a silk shift that kept her warm, enticing flesh from touching his. Her hand slid down his back. "Is it the same dream? Has it changed at all?" He shook his head, unable to answer. He brought up his knees, put his elbows on them, and buried his face in his hands. Se Huan knew he was silently crying. "Can we at least try to dispel these awful dreams?" Her heart broke as she watched his shoulders tremble. "Let me see if I can do something to help." "It isn't the release I need, sweeting." "Then, what?" she challenged, coming to her knees beside him. "Tell me what will help and I will move heaven and earth to make it so!" She flinched from the stark misery lurking in his face. "I need to know that Ican, Se Huan. I have to know that Ican! But I'm afraid to try." "Why?" "If I fail, I…" He shook his head. "I'll know there's something wrong with me!" One moment she was kneeling beside him, the next she was atop him, her lips pressed tightly to his, her hands roaming freely over his body. Her tongue plunged between his lips and drew sustenance from his sweet mouth. Her breasts pressed against his naked chest. She used every movement of her body to inflame his; she used every touch, every kiss, every breath to make him want her. She used every wile and technique she had been taught to bring him to erection, and when at last her small hand closed around the tumescence of his manhood, throbbing, steel-hard, she sighed with satisfaction. She drew up her shift, straddled him, her lithe thighs gripping his with the sheer force of her own building desire. "I'll hurt you like this," he said, remembering the obstruction of her maidenhead. "Let me—" "No!" she whispered. "Letme!" Her thighs tightened; she began to lower herself to him. Her hand guided him toward the entrance to her womanhood. She was vaguely aware of his hands on her willing body, stroking, caressing, fondling her through the silk shift. Her one objective was to impale herself upon his shaft before he tried to stop her. But Conar's entire being was focused upon the throbbing ache in his loins. He needed the fulfillment she promised. His hands gripped her slim hips and he helped position her atop him, preparing to drive home. "I love you." She found herself partially breached, felt pain as the size of him stretched her. He heard a loud buzzing, a blinding burst of white-hot pain going through his head, zig-zagging back through both temples, and nausea galloped up his throat like the erupting lava of a volcano. His erection shrank with sudden swiftness. "No!"he screamed, frustrated beyond the limits of endurance. "Dammit! No!" He arched against her, pushing his flaccid flesh along the wet silk of her vaginal lips, but he remained useless. He groaned in anger and twisted, burying her beneath him as he continued to pommel her flesh with his, seeking entry, demanding the return of his erection. Feverishly he pounded against her to no avail. His flesh was a soft reminder of his nightmare.

"Oh, god!" He rolled off of her, covering his face with his hands. He shook uncontrollably. Se Huan lay there for a moment, her body aching for the loss of something she had never known, but needing it just the same. Tears slid down her cheeks. She cradled him to her with the gentleness of a mother with her child. He buried his face in her neck, and sobbed until she thought his heart would break. She stroked his hair, hummed to him, until sleep claimed them. She did not awaken when he crept silently, furtively, ashamedly from their bed and went in search of another's help. *** Morning found him staring bleary-eyed out the window of Raja's room. He sat with his hands clenched, his full attention on the soft rain pelting the windows. "Perhaps you were trying too hard, love," Raja told him as she knelt beside him, caressing his taut thigh. "Sometimes these things happen." "Not to me. Not ever before." She smiled gently. "Then you were lucky. Every man I have ever known has experienced such as you did last eve." She laid her head on his thigh. "With your sleeplessness and worry about the dreams, you cannot expect to perform as though you have not a care. Besides, it has been a long time since you made love with a woman." She ran her fingers to the juncture of his thighs and caressed him. "We'll try again tonight. I promise you we will see an end to this problem." He nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. He had tried with Se Huan and, against his better judgment, with Raja. Neither had been able to help him. Four times Raja had tried to bring him to release; each time she had failed. Each time he had neared the moment of entry, his flesh had shriveled as though being touched with ice-cold pain. Blinding fury had lashed through his temples; nausea had sprung up like a charging beast. His passion had died instantly and his distaste had seemed like a vicious reminder that this was not what his manhood was seeking. Now he sat watching storm clouds building in the distance and knew he would not try again with Raja. Or Se Huan. There was another answer, there had to be, and he must find it on his own. *** "Conar? What are you doing here?" "May I speak with you, please?" "Of course! I'm sorry! Come in, come in! I don't know where my manners are! Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?" Conar shook his head, declining the invitation to sit. "I'm not thirsty." He looked about the hut, taking in the sparse furnishings, the Spartan walls and floors. He hunched his shoulders, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his breeches. "Is there something wrong?" "Not really." He looked away, his forehead wrinkling with unease. His body seemed as taut as a freshly strung bow. He looked fitfully about as though he half-expected a gobbledegookin to jump out at him. "May I be of some assistance?" "I don't know." The answer was too quick, too highly charged. "Maybe." The word was a staccato burst of uncertainty. "I hope so." "You know I'll help in any way I can." Conar nodded, his wary eyes straying beyond his companion to the bedroom. He flinched, seeking a way out of his predicament.

"Take your time," Pearl told him in a soft, reassuring voice. "I'm in no hurry." Conar took a hitching breath. He viciously plowed one of his hands through his hair, tugging on the golden mass, gathering his courage from the pain in his scalp. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He slammed his hand into his pocket once more. A muscle worked in his jaw as he sought to ask what he had come to ask. Pearl watched him with worry. "Does this concern something Occultus has ordered you to do? Something you find distasteful?" He thought perhaps Conar had already been introduced to his next instructor, a man Pearl both feared and admired. When Conar shook his head, Pearl was at a loss. "Has someone offended you?" Again the vigorous shake. "Didyou offend someone?" Pearl asked in accusingly. "How did you know?" Pearl waved his hand. "Because you'realways offending people!" "I haven't offended anyone!" "No, you just scare the shit out of them!" Pearl mumbled. "Will you just listen?" Conar shouted. He was on the verge of running from the room. "You don't everlisten!" "I'm listening!" Conar took a deep, steadying breath. "How'd you know…what you wanted?" He's finally lost his mind, Pearl thought with dismay. The nightmares had finally pushed Conar over the edge. "I haven't the foggiest notion what…" Sudden, clear understanding hit him as he looked into the dismal face filled with such acute embarrassment. "Oh, I see what you're asking." Conar looked away. "Sit down." Pearl gestured toward one of the plush cushions on the floor. He waited until Conar settled before he took another cushion and sat facing his guest. He was aware Conar's body was as tight as a coiled spring, his knuckles white where he gripped his knees. The blue eyes held stubbornly, unwavering, on Pearl's, but Pearl knew it was taking a great deal of self-control and courage for Conar not to look away. The young man wasn't making it easy on himself. Pearl took a deep breath, arranging his thoughts until he could formulate an explanation that did not ramble, did not dissemble, would not confuse and provoke. He wanted desperately for the words to be right, for the explanation to make as much sense to Conar as it had to him over the years. He took great pains to keep his voice light and narrative. "Let's say that I come to visit in your hut quite frequently. You serve me ale, but I don't particularly like ale. I don't want to be impolite and offend you because I respect your right to choose what it is you serve in your home. So, I drink the ale, not wanting to hurt your feelings, even though I prefer wine. A fact of which you are not aware. "If I should invite you to my home, knowing your preferences, I would naturally serve us both ale, because I want you to be relaxed and happy while you are visiting. Again, not wishing to offend, I would wait until you had left before pouring myself a glass of wine. "That is much the way it was when I was at home with my five brothers. I drank the ale, never truly understanding why I didn't care for it. They drank it, a manly drink, and I drank it, too, but I never did develop a taste for it. I had not as yet tasted the wine I would learn to love and need. "When I was sixteen, a boy, not much older than I, gave me just a sip of his wine." Pearl closed his eyes, remembering. "It was sweet, gentle, and flowed through my senses, intoxicating me with its body and strength, its essence. I took a sip more and was hooked." He looked at Conar. The tawny brows were drawn together in thought. "I had always felt as though a part of me was missing somehow. When I was with a woman, I didn't particularlydislike it, but I didn't particularlylike it, either. But when that boy put his hands on me that day, I knew in my soul I had found the missing part of myself." Conar nodded as though the explanation made perfect sense. Pearl was relieved the gods had allowed him to have his say with clarity.

"Why are you here, Conar?" Conar flinched. "I tried to make love to Se Huan last eve." "And could not do so." "I also tried to make love to Raja." Pearl made a face. "I can see why you couldn't bring yourself to get it up withher!" "Both times I lost… I couldn't…when it came time to…" "I see. And this has never happened to you before?" Conar looked away. "I've never considered myself to be a satyr who could mount any maiden, willing or not. There have been times when I couldn't arouse myself to take a certain woman, but never,never, have I lost an erection before taking one." "And yet most men have had that problem at some point. It's not so unusual." Pearl stretched out on his side, propped his head on his fist and crossed his ankles. "Even a lover as great as I has had such an annoying problem on occasion." "It's more than just being unable to sustain an erection!" Conar stood up, his hands clenched into fists. "If it were just that, I wouldn't be worried. I'd put it down to exhaustion or worry or illness or just the woman!" He looked at Pearl. "I can understand my reluctance with Raja. I've never liked her, but Se Huan is different. I wanted her, Pearl. I really wanted her." "What changed your mind?" Pearl asked, coming to his feet. Conar violently shook his head. "I wish to the gods I knew!" he shouted, turning his back on Pearl's probing stare. He sat down with a hiss of anger. Pearl hunkered beside him. "Was it more than a physical reaction to these women that made it impossible for you to consummate the act?" Conar's silence was his answer. "You felt repelled by them, is that it?" Conar nodded. "And you're concerned that what happened in the Labyrinth has changed you, altered you?" Again the nod. Pearl put his hand on Conar's shoulder and made him turn around to face him. "And you're worried that perhaps the ale has lost its power to attract you." "Aye." The answer was bitter. Pearl let out a long breath. "And you've come to me to see if what you fear is true." Conar's eyes fused with Pearl's. He didn't speak. He couldn't. Pearl smiled warmly and touched Conar's scarred cheek. "It took a lot of courage for you to come here. There was a time when you couldn't have. Now you are concerned, terrified, that you have been changed because youcan come to me for help." "I have to know, Pearl." Conar's voice broke with despair. "I know." Pearl stroked away the stubborn fall of bright flaxen hair. He gently cupped the back of Conar's head and tenderly brought Conar's mouth to his in a soft, hesitant kiss. At first Conar felt repulsion, stark terror. Pearl's lips were as soft as any woman's and his breath was as sweet. When the lips touched his a second time and lingered, tasted, the mouth wasn't demanding, was not triumphant, only hesitantly tender and unsure, vaguely searching for a response.

When Pearl withdrew, he smiled. "Did that disgust you?" Conar shook his head. Only Pearl's right hand was in contact with Conar's flesh, slipping over his shoulder, up his cheek once more, the thumb lightly moving across Conar's lower lip. "You are such a handsome man." Pearl kissed the tip of Conar's nose. "Ah, my sweet Prince, you're trembling." His voice was gently admonishing. "Are you afraid of me? Afraid I'll hurt you?" There was a long, pregnant pause. "I'm not afraid of you, Pearl." Pearl's hand cupped Conar's chin. "Do you trust me enough to know for a certainty that I won't hurt you like the other men did?" Tears filled Conar's blue eyes. "I trust you." Pearl made up his mind. He unbuttoned Conar's shirt, pushing the silk from Conar's shoulders in one graceful motion. The shirt slid down Conar's arms and landed in a pool at his waist. Pearl's gaze swept over Conar's naked chest, lingering on the area where he knew the man's heart thudded with unease and fear. He placed a soft, delicate kiss over the spot and could actually feel Conar's heart slamming into his ribcage. Conar tensed, feeling Pearl's lips on his chest, his tongue swirling around the tender nubs of his paps. He drew in a harsh breath when Pearl's fingers moved to his waistband. He swallowed convulsively, painfully aware that his loins ached with some nameless desire he could feel building inside him. He felt a lurch in his belly as his breeches came undone, the fabric laid open. Pearl's fingers were cool as they glided over his lower belly. "Conar?" His head lowered in agreement. He knew a moment of sheer panic as Pearl's fingers slid into his breeches and molded themselves to his flesh. His manhood leapt and became fully erect. Pearl gripped him lightly. The shaft was velvety and pulsed with a power Pearl ached to know. He caressed Conar and smiled. "Does my hand disgust you?" Conar shook his head. Pearl molded his lips to Conar's mouth as his hand had molded to Conar's manhood. His tongue slipped gently between Conar's startled lips, tasting, demanding a response. He felt the molten steel in his hand leap again; he worked it until the steel was a throbbing shaft of demand. "You're ready, my Prince," Pearl whispered against Conar's mouth and slowly, sensuously withdrew his hand. He pushed on Conar's shoulder and made him lie down. "Pearl?" came the fretful entreaty. "Shush." Conar stretched out on the floor and felt Pearl's hands on his chest, his sides, his belly. Conar's hands were to either side of his head, his fingers flexing with anxiety as Pearl's lips traveled over places where he had only moments before put his hands. Conar was almost on the verge of hyperventilating, so rapid was his breath rushing in and out of his lungs, his heart pounding so loud he could hear it. Pearl's hand slipped between his legs. Conar groaned, involuntarily arching his hips against the caressing hand. He could hear the rustle of silk as Pearl touched him, tugging gently on the breeches, drawing them down over his hips. A moan, a whimper of fear formed in the back of his throat and he felt Pearl's hands pull away as the silk breeches left his hips. He tensed, his body going as rigid as his shaft. When Pearl tugged on his shoulder, he took a deep breath, turned and lay flat on the floor. He heard the rustle of Pearl's clothing being discarded, became aware of the other man's body moving up his, one leg insinuating itself between his own, could feel the hard stab of Pearl's erection against his buttocks. As Pearl loomed over him, slid between his thighs, pushed his legs further, he panicked. "I can't! I can't do this, Pearl!"

He pushed Pearl none too gently away and came to his feet in one lithe bound, shaking from head to toe. He backed against the wall, his breathing coming in gasps of revulsion. He was trembling so hard his teeth chattered as he covered his nakedness with his hands. Pearl sat up and folded his hands in his lap, covering his hardness. "I knew you couldn't," he said, his gravelly voice filled with compassion. A gentle smile touched his lips. "And now you know for a certainty you haven't developed a taste for forbidden wines." "Then what the hell is wrong with me?" Conar shouted, on the verge of a screaming fit. Pearl came to his feet, pulled on his breeches, then handed Conar his own clothing. "Prison, my friend. Six years of hell without a woman. Without the right woman, I would imagine." Conar jammed his legs into his breeches. He looked up with hope. "Can that be it? Will it take the right woman to chase away the demons? What if evenshe can't end the dreams?" "I would venture to say she might not be able to, dearling." Conar's heart skipped a beat. "Then what do I do?" "The dreams are in your mind, my Prince; not in your body. These dreams…do they deal with what happened to you in the Labyrinth? Men that tormented you?" Conar's face turned hard with remembrance. "Aye." "Are there other men in these nightmares from another time? Men who have hurt you? Men who have the same qualities, or lack thereof, in common? Men like me?" "They are nothing like you, Pearl Allegria. You are honorable; these men were not." Pearl blushed. "They are men who hurt you. Men who have tried to degrade you." At Conar's grunt of agreement, Pearl understood. "And in those dreams, do they emasculate you? Do they take away that part of you that has always been a symbol of what you are, of how you see yourself; a man with natural cravings? In your dreams, have they twisted those cravings? "Aye. Cravings I have not been able to satisfy," Conar whispered. "True." Pearl took Conar's hand. "The ability to satisfy those cravings is localized in that part of you that your nightmares tell you is no longer there. Do you understand?" "I guess so." "In your dreams, your manhood has been taken away. Correct? No doubt it was taken away in such a manner that you felt great terror and pain. Am I right?" "Aye." "Without the mental security of knowing your manhood is still intact, you cannot perform as you should, as you are used to performing." Pearl's voice took on the excitement of the instructor he was. "It is much like a man who has spent his life as a great artist. His paintings have always fulfilled him, for they are a natural extension of his own self. But if that man were to lose his hand, he could no longer paint. He then has two choices. Never paint again, or learn to paint with his other hand. Your problem is in your mind, not in your body. Your subconscious tells you that you no longer have a hand with which to paint. Do you spend the rest of your life without the great joy of painting, or do you try to regain a semblance of that great joy by using your other hand?" "By turning away from the ale and embracing the wine?" Conar smiled. Pearl smiled, too. "I think we have just successfully demonstrated that wine is not your pleasure. But think. Do your dreams come from your inner fears, or have they been placed there by some outside force to put doubt in your mind?" Conar frowned. "You think some evil is at work?" "It could well be."

Conar's mind working furiously with the possibility. But who would gain by doing such a thing? As far as he knew, Tohre still thought him safely chained in the Labyrinth. Some spy of the Domination's here in Chrystallus? Some man among those who had fled the prison colony? He knew that could not be. At least he hoped it was not true. "Would Occultus do something like that?" Pearl shrugged. It was on his tongue to deny such a possibility, but his logical, precise mind stayed his tongue. He thought a moment. "If he thought it would benefit you in some way. He knew you had been raped; he told me as much. He knew how it had affected you." "So, if he put the dreams in my mind, he put them there to teach me a lesson." His face filled with seething contempt. "What kind of lesson?" "I don't know. Did these dreams start before or after you arrived in Chrystallus?" Conar took a deep breath. "They began on the way here, but Occultus knew I was coming. He knew where I was all along but never told anyone." "Maybe his motive was to rid you of your fear of the things done to you." "If that was his aim, it backfired!" "But it might not have been Occultus," Pearl reminded. "Who would benefit?" Conar looked at Pearl. "It seems like something a woman would do, doesn't it?" Pearl's lips pursed. "Raja?" "I don't think so, unless it was her intention on being mycure!" Conar's sneer said what he thought of the woman. Could she have known where you were?" "No, I don't believe she could have." Pearl threw up his hands. "We may not ever know if someone was responsible or if the problem is entirely in your own mind." He sighed. "I wish I had the answer for you, dearling." "I think Occultus sent me to you to teach me a lesson. A lesson I have learned. Not all homosexual men are like the ones who abused me." Pearl ducked his head. "There are more like me than like those who tortured you." "I have known some of the priests at Boreas who were of the same bent; one who was my guide on my Joining day seemed different. Not all the priests prefer men; I have seen those who were as randy as any teenage boy and chased everything in skirts." Pearl nodded. "I think it unnatural for a man not to be allowed to take a mate. It matters not if the mate is of his own sex or not. Nature does things in pairs. Why should the priesthood be any different?" He fluttered his eyelashes. "Of course, nature does things in female-male pairings." "Which way do you see yourself, Pearl? Male or female?" Pearl giggled. "I always wind up on the bottom, so to speak. Does that answer your question?" Conar blushed, a smile of discomfort on his face. "I guess it does." Pearl touched his knee. "Let me tell you about men like me. What is different and unique is often looked upon with fear and suspicion. Until you know firsthand the qualities of that strangeness, you tend to shun it; you tend to distance yourself for fear some of the strangeness will rub off. You fear it might harm you. It is an inbred reflex for any animal to mistrust those who are unlike themselves. It is easier to ridicule those who do not conform or to ignore them than it is to try to see similarities that might well exist. "In the animal world, when a new and strange beast comes lurking about, the other animals sniff and stare. They watch with wary eyes until he either proves he is as strong, or stronger, as cunning, or more so, than they, or that he is weak and vulnerable to attack. If he turns and fights, most of the time the other animals will scatter if they think he

might come out the winner. But if he turns a gentle, what they considerweak, side to them, they go straight for his throat. Not unlike the human race that also preys upon those unable to protect themselves, who want only to be left alone to live their lives as they see fit. "What crime is it when love is what generates the difference in us? You see no harm in it when it is between a man and woman, for that is the way you have been taught and that is the way of your normal inclinations. But is there such a terrible evil when two men, or two women, love one another, and the natural expression of that love is sexual intercourse? Who does it hurt? You? Anyone? Are you forced to take part? Forced to watch? Love is a wonderful emotion. It should never be tainted by what people think of the lovers. "Look at your son and Shalu's daughter. There are those who would say their keeping company is wrong. Are they hurting anyone? Are they trying to make others do the same? Those two are falling in love. What harm are they doing to you and me? As long as they do no harm to their fellow man, why should harm befall them because the gods have let them fall in love? Why torment them for loving, or punish them for your failings and inadequacies? Why make them the butt of your viciousness simply because they dare to be different? Will it not be hard enough for them to have their lives held up to the scrutiny of people who do not know them, norwant to know them, just because they are not of the same race?" Pearl's eyes softened. "Or the same sex? Love is precious. It should be treated so." "But there are those who use their strangeness to hurt others," Conar said quietly. "You have only the knowledge that the Domination showed you. True, they hurt others, and they hurt themselves. But that is part and parcel of their sect, not a true indication of their nature. They are not rational. They are not sane. They aren't even normal. They don't use their sex drives with one another as a love outlet; they use is as a weapon, a device for punishment, for control, for torture. They manipulate with it, they degrade and humiliate with it. They use it to take away self-esteem, courage, peace of mind. They twist the act of love into something vile and vicious and evil. Their brand of sexual pleasure is sadomasochistic, for they as much enjoy the pain as they do inflicting it. That isn't love, the special bond between two people who have found one another." Pearl walked to the doorway, looked out at the softly falling rain. "Sure, there are those among my kind who do not want a commitment to love. They don't want attachments. Just like those among your kind who are promiscuous, looking for pleasure, a night's release. But isn't that often true of relationships between men and women? You don't necessarily have to love someone to be attracted to them, desire them, want them. As long as you do no harm to another, what harm is there in wanting that moment of pleasure?" Conar smiled. "When I was younger, that was the way I rationalized all my affairs." "Conar's Law…if it itched, scratch it! And if it ached, soothe it!" Pearl laughed. "I've heard all about your exploits, my Princeling!" "From who?" Pearl batted his lashes. "I'llnever tell!" "Coron, no doubt," Conar grumbled. "I've seen you talking." Pearl giggled. "He'salmost as cute as you." "Hiswife is a jealous little viper." "He thinks so, too! There was a time when my joking about one of your kin in such a way would have enraged you." "I know your tricks, Pearl Allegria." "We're not so different, you and I, are we?" "Probably not." "You have no idea how good it is for me to be able to touch you and not have you cringe. How wonderful it is that I can take you in my arms and comfort you and know you are not feeling anything but the great affection I have. That I am able to show you the friendship and admiration any of your men can show you and not have you stiffen. I am secure in who I am and who I will be tomorrow, in who you are and who you will be tomorrow. And I know when you leave here this afternoon you will understand that you are the same man who was sent to the Labyrinth and that in no way have you been changed."

"If Occultus does nothing else for me save having given me the honor of knowing you, I will still count myself a lucky man." "No, sweet Prince, it is I who am the lucky one. I have the honor of knowing that you understand and accept me for who and what I am. Such things are few and far between for a man such as I." "You are one of my men," Conar said. "You won't be treated any differently."

Chapter 12 Conar had already completed his training with the others, but this last teacher was proving to be more strict and uncompromising that all the rest—Shalu included—put together. From the first day of training with this man, Conar had gone from being curious to resolved, to annoyed to obstinate to furious. His emotions regarding his instructor were on a seesaw of rage alternating between the desire to kill the man or to kill himself and be done with it. On the first day, Conar had arrived at a lonely span of beach to find the same little Chrystallusian man who had first welcomed him to these shores. The man was sitting cross-legged on the warm sand, facing one of several cliffs. He didn't speak, but pointed a bony finger at the rock formation. When Conar looked at the cliff, standing about twenty feet tall, he saw a rope dangling from the top. He was just minimally curious at why it was necessary for this man to see if he could climb the cliff. But calmly, and perhaps too confidently, he began to ascend. Climbing the rope was harder than he had first thought. Only one third of the way up, his hands were on fire, despite his heavy calluses. He could feel the sting of the hemp cutting into his flesh and his shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. But with the resolve of his pride, he ground his teeth and made it to the top, panting and grunting once he achieved his goal. He peered over the edge. A face like one of Holm's monkeys stared back at him from the sand. The Chrystallusian still sat where Conar had left him. There were a few streaks of white amid the black in the man's hair, but Conar couldn't determine his age. The eyes seemed older than the wrinkled face and they were blatant with disgust. "So, what now?" Conar called, miffed that the man appeared out of sorts. He frowned with annoyance when the monkey man, as Conar had nicknamed him, raised a thumb, turned it downward, indicating that his pupil was to descend the cliff. The going down wasn't nearly as bad as the going up, but Conar's hands burned from the coarse rope and his shoulders aching from the pull. He brought his cupped palms to his mouth and blew into them as he drew near the small man. He thought he would explode when the monkey man jerked his thumb upward. Conar's mouth dropped open. "You've got to be kidding!" A look of obstinacy settled on Conar's face as the thumb jerked viciously upward once more. From experience with his teachers, Conar knew better than to argue. Muttering obscenities, he stomped to the rope and began to lever himself up once more. He clenched his jaw to the pain in his hands, but managed to gain the top, taking longer than the first time to get there. He didn't bother to ask what he was to do, but climbed back down again, wincing as new blisters burst and bled, making the rope slick with blood. Not bothering to walk to the man, he stood, rope in hand, anger on his face and turned around to stare at the monkey man. He wasn't surprised when the thumb jerked upward and the monkey man's black eyes regarded him with placid indifference. "Shit!"He grasped the rope and dug one booted foot into a crack in the cliff. He would be damned it he would let the bastard get the best of him. He'd been tortured by the best, had known pain far greater. Although his face was set in surly lines of contempt, his brain screamed with pain. He strained up the rope and stood, hands on his hips, blood staining the fabric of his breeches, staring out toward the mountain range, his back to the beach. He took deep,

calming breaths, his mouth set and hard. Once he was able to regain composure, he looked down at the beach. The monkey man was gone. Livid with outrage and furious with the fates that were playing him for a fool, Conar cursed the monkey man, all his ancestors, all his animals, and anything else that might even be remotely connected to him. The next morning, his hands hurt him so much he could barely shave. He had wound strips of ointment-coated linen around his palms and there was a light pinkish, yellowish fluid already coming through the fabric as he crimped his fingers as tightly as he could in order to hold his razor. "You're to go to the beach again today," Brelan told him, sticking his head in Conar's room. "For what?" "Same beach, same instructor." He closed the door with a snap. Conar gawked at the closed door. "Damned if I will!" But here he was. Same beach, same monkey man, higher cliff. He held out his bandaged hands. "See this?" The thumb jerked upward. "I can barely move them!" The thumb jerked upward twice more. Three times up, three times down. Conar's hands looked like raw meat. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out that night when Se Huan bathed and re-bandaged them with a foul-smelling, stinging concoction that made Conar leak in his breeches when it was applied. "That hurts worse than the rope burns!" he screeched, but she only looked blandly at him. In the days that followed, six in all, he climbed progressively higher and higher cliffs until he could scale an eighty-foot rock face with ease. His hands had callused over, although they still hurt so badly it brought tears to his eyes when he gripped the rope each morning. On the seventh morning, the man was sitting at the foot of the first cliff. Puzzled, Conar nevertheless shrugged his broad shoulders and walked there. There was no rope. Dropping his head to his chest, he sighed. "I suppose I'm to climb all these cliffs nowwithout the rope?" When there was no answer—the man had yet to speak even one word to Conar in all the time he had beeninstructing him—he dug his hands into whatever purchasing point he could find and laboriously scaled the cliff. Going up was a hell of a lot easier than coming down. He nearly fell twice, losing his footing more times than he could count. He scraped his shins, tore a hole in his breeches, and gouged hands that began bleeding again. When he finally put his booted feet on the beach, he didn't bother to ask for instructions, he just started to climb the same cliff again. Up three times, down three times as he had every day prior to that. "Next," a gruff, clipped voice snapped. Turning to face the monkey man, Conar could only stare. He felt as though he would drop in his tracks and it wasn't even eight in the morning yet. "You want me to climb each of these damned cliffs today?" With an angry shake of his head, the man spat: "One day, two cliff." "Two day, four cliff, huh?" Conar snarled. "We see if little bird make up two cliff. If satisfactory to teacher, maybe two cliff more tomorrow." The monkey man

leveled that same inscrutable stare at Conar. "If not, same two cliff." "If satisfactory to the teacher…" Conar murmured as he stalked to the next cliff. Looking up at the thirty-five-foot rock face, he mentally groaned. More of the man's antecedents joined in the virulent curses Conar had reserved for him and his family. What followed was ten more days of exasperating attempts to please the man. The third and fourth cliffs took eight days to master to the teacher's satisfaction. With scraped elbows, broken fingernails, bruised shins, knees and forearms, ruined breeches and boots, Conar managed on the eighth day to ascend the fourth cliff for the third time. The monkey man was gone, a sign the work was at least acceptable. If the monkey man had still been sitting there, Conar would know the same two cliffs would be scaled the next day and the next and the next until he was content that Conar could do it well enough to suit. Unfortunately for Conar, the ninth and tenth days were horrible experiences. The fifth formidable cliff proved to be the worst. He had gotten only ten feet up its face when the rock he was holding let loose. He lost his grip and fell, gouging a long furrow in his right forearm as he tumbled downward. He landed in a crumpled heap at the base of the cliff and lay there gasping, for the air had been knocked out of his lungs. A shadow fell over him. He looked up into the monkey man's face. "Not good," came the gruff remark before the man ambled off. "N…not g…good?" Conar gasped. "Not…good?" He glared at the man's retreating back. He had never felt such fury. "Go…to hell you…little son of a…bitch!" The next day found him stony-eyed and sullen as he crossed the span of beach before the monkey man and started up the cliff. No matter how hard he strove to gain the cliff in the time he knew he was expected, he fell short of the mark by at least twenty minutes. He would gaze across at the sixth cliff, easier in his estimation, and blow out hot breaths between gnashing teeth. By the end of the tenth day, he was ripe for a fight. His frustration at having been constantly sneered at by the monkey man as he descended the cliff for the last time that day was enough to make him clench his fists and stomp away before he could be told to ascend once more. He half-expected to be called back, but only sly, contemptuous laughter followed, making his ears burn. As luck would have it, he encountered Brelan and Roget as he tramped back to the palace. Their good-natured remarks made him even madder, for he felt they were laughing at him, too. He turned an enraged face to them. "The two ofyou can go to hell, too! And take that fucking little ape with you!" Turning to one another with confusion, both men decided to see what could have caused Conar to be so out of sorts, so they followed him to the beach the next day. It was a good thing Conar didn't know they were watching from the safety of the first cliff, because both had scaled it, without a rope, with ease, in half the time Conar had taken on his first trywith the rope. The monkey man was sitting at the base of the fifth cliff and calmly watching Conar approach. Both Brelan and Roget felt him scrutinizing them, yet he didn't turn his head to acknowledge their presence. Even from the distance at which they sat, they saw one dark slash of a brow go up as Conar came to stand over the man. To his credit, the man didn't even flinch when Conar began his angry shouting. "I will not climb that damned cliff again!" He stood with his hands on his hips and glowered. "Do you hear? If you want me to climb that last cliff I will, but I won't climb that son-of-a-bitch there!" He jerked his thumb toward the fifth cliff. For what seemed like hours, the man stared up at Conar with indifference. No words were spoken from the tight, uncompromising lips. None were needed. The displeasure and cool assessment was written plainly on the pinched face. Finally, one thin hand raised in the air and the thumb came up. "I won't do it," Conar whispered, squinting. The thumb jerked toward the cliff. "No!" Conar screeched. "I will not do it!"

The thumb jerked. Viciously, insistently. In a quiet, carefully controlled and modified voice, soft and deadly, Conar leaned over the man. "I said no." The thumb jerked once more. "I told you, no!" One moment Conar was bending over the man, and the next, he was lying a good six feet away, flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The man hovered above him, then bent with his face close to Conar's and placed a wickedly jabbing thumb painfully into Conar's midsection. "Little shit hasbig mouth. If little shit's effort was as big as his mouth, he could have climbed six cliff in one day!" The thumb pressed harder, making Conar groan. "Something little shitwill do before I through with him is learn he does not sayno to teacher!" Conar lay gasping, his midsection on fire as the hard finger jabbed into it. The bastard couldn't weigh more than seventy pounds soaking wet, yet here he was keeping a man almost three times that weight down on the ground with a single scrawny thumb. And he had tossed Conar about like a straw in the wind. "How the hell did you do that?" The man twisted his thumb. Conar thought he would faint from the pain. But then the thumb withdrew. The man straightened, crossed his thin arms over his chest, and stared at his pupil. "If little shitbird want to know, he climb cliff to satisfaction of teacher.Then, he might be taught." The monkey man sat on the beach and crossed his legs. "Teacher make no guarantee." The thumb went once more into the air. Conar struggled to his knees, wavering, holding his stomach. In the distance he heard the roll of thunder. He saw towering gray clouds scudding low overhead. "It's going to rain," he said sullenly, rubbing his belly. "Rain. Shine. Cliff still be there." "Aye and they'll be slick with rain, too! I could break my damned neck!" The monkey man made a rude sound. "Little shitbird think war fought only in sunshine?" Knowing it was useless to argue, Conar started to climb. Something caught his attention and he turned toward the first cliff. Seeing his brother and du Mer, knowing they had witnessed his humiliation a few moments earlier, he clenched his teeth together. With every rock he grasped, he visualized the monkey man's neck in his hands. Perhaps it was the anger or the shame at being humbled, or merely the fact that he didn't relish being caught on this seventy-foot cliff in the coming rain. Whatever it was, he made it to the apex of the cliff in well under the required time. He turned a triumphant smile down at the man just as the first drop of hard, stinging rain struck his head. The monkey man was gone. So were Roget and Brelan. Throwing back his head, Conar howled to the sky. He had never been so angry or frustrated. He stood on the cliff, getting soaked, barely flinching as lightning began to crackle around him. His hair was plastered to his forehead in lank strips. It was in a near rage that he descended the cliff, started to walk away, looked up at the cliff's forbidding face, and began to climb again. Three times up, three times down. The little man watched from a section of overhang not more than fifteen feet away. The rain obscured most of the rock face from view, but he could see enough to know the boy was making the climb again. A gentle, proud smile puckered his thin lips. He nodded as Conar descended a second time and then automatically began another ascent, although now the rain was so hard it had to be painful in the boy's face. His third ascent was faster and done with much more finesse and expertise. "Little bird may learn to fly yet," the little man sighed as he ventured out into the rain. *** He sat on the sand in front of the sixth cliff and crossed his legs. There was a dull gray sky overhead and the rain

would surely come again by noontime. With any luck, they would be finished and inside by then. He sighed and tried to ignore the aches in his bones, the slight tingle in his fingers. He shifted uncomfortably on the wet sand and cursed the advances of age. Turning in the direction of the palace, he frowned. His pupil was late. He, too, had been later than usual since he had to report on Conar's progress to Master Occultus. Young people had no sense of duty, no sense of honor in these times. Something plopped down beside him. A small round pebble glistened on the wet sand. The teacher picked it up just as another glanced off his hand, and another bounced off his shoulder. Though fully understanding, he clamped a tight control on his lips where a ghost of a smile threatened to steal over the wrinkled countenance. "Little shitbird well today?" "I've got a cold," came the nasal reply, accompanied by a sneeze. "What comes from playing in rain." He looked up to the sixth cliff where Conar sat, legs dangling over the side, arms crossed over his chest, a satisfied grin on his full lips. "What now?" Conar called down. "Little bird can safely say he has pleased his teacher. If he climb down, he will be taught how to fight Chrystallusian-style. Think little shitbird can be taught to fight this way?" Conar laughed. "Do I have a choice?" What passed for a smile on the teacher spread across his face. "Little shitbird should know by now he does not." Conar started his climb down the cliff. As he reached the ground, he was surprised to see the man standing at the base of the cliff, his hand held out. Warily, he gripped the thin, delicate wrist. "I am Ching-Ching. I have been waiting a long time to train you, Conar McGregor." *** True to his word, Ching-Ching, warrior and advisor to the Emperor of Chrystallus and one of the three men Brelan had risked his own life to rescue from the horror of Tyber's Isle many years before, began to teach Conar to fight in the style of his ancestors. It was a rigorous, grueling training, but it was deadlier than any other known form of self-defense. The spinning, flying kicks, the acrobatic maneuvers, tumbles, flips, were choreographed like the steps of an intricate dance. It was a fighting skill of great beauty and grace and yet painfully lethal. The weapons used in such fighting, pointed star-shaped throwing implements with razor-sharp cutting edges, long wooden staves with sharpened points, iron lengths of round pipe attached to heavy chain, were all instruments designed to maim and kill instantly and with little effort. But also there were breathing exercises, meditations, exercises that seemed totally out of sync with the rest of the fighting skills, yet that firmed and controlled the muscles in ways ordinary exercise and muscle-building could not. As Brelan and Roget joined Coron, Dyllon, and Wyn on the cliff that day, they watched as Conar strove to master the intricate steps and kicks, the utilization of the deadly weapons. It seemed that the things he was learning from Ching-Ching came faster and easier than a mortal man should be able to achieve. It was then that they began to suspect there was more involved than just the capabilities of a mere mortal. There was magic at work. Magic of the most potent kind. "Did yousee that?" Roget whispered as Conar struck out in a vicious kick that decapitated a straw figure on the beach. Brelan had heard of this particular form of fighting, but had never seen it employed. It was fascinating, and unnerving. "He'll be formidable by the time they're through. No one will be able to stand up against him." "Isn't that the idea?" Coron asked with a sidelong glance.

Brelan was worried. He knew Conar's training was meant to be used in their war against the Domination, but the ease with which his brother used his new and deadly skills chilled him. "He'll use these things wisely," Dyllon commented, "if that's what you're worried about." "Aye, but sometimes anger makes a man do things he wouldn't ordinarily do. When he has abilities his opponents do not have, he might be tempted to do away with them altogether when only a beating would suffice." Roget looked at his friend. "Conar wouldn't do that." "There's so much anger in him." Brelan glanced at Roget. "And more anger to surface, and you know it." "Do you blame him for being angry?" Dyllon asked. "After everything he's been through?" "I don't think you have to worry about Conar," Roget put in. "He'll take that anger out on only those who have caused it." "That's what I'm worried about," Brelan admitted gravely. "There are some who have caused him grief that he doesn't even know about as of yet." Coron laid his hand on Brelan's shoulder. "You mean Legion and Liza?" "I have tried a hundred times to talk to him about it, and a hundred times he's stopped me, which is just as well…since the knowledge of it just might kill what's left of his soul."

Chapter 13 The men turned as Conar stormed into the weight room, cursing Ching-Ching, his horse, his family, his hut, his clothing and even his hair. There was a livid bruise on Conar's left cheek, a nasty-looking scrape on his chin, and dried blood under his nostrils. He withdrew his sword from its scabbard and hurled the sheath into a far corner. He faced the men, scanning them with blue eyes that held a malevolent challenge. When no one rose to the bait, he raised his lip. "None of you old women feel like exercising?" Shalu laughed. His amused look made Conar livid with rage. With heavy, purposeful strides, Conar hovered over the seated man. He tossed his sword to his left hand and dipped the blade to the floor. "I'll even fight you with my left hand if you fear the right so much!" Shalu merely grinned wider. He winked at Roget. "I hadn't noticed how dark his eyes had become, du Mer. Could it be he has enough fertilizer in his head that it's turned them dark?" He looked back at Conar. "Could that be it, Shit-for-brains?" Conar's mouth twisted. "Is that why you're the color you are because you're full of shit?" Shalu sighed as though being much put upon. He really didn't want to fight but the insolent child was asking for it. Never let it be said that Shalu Taborn, Necromanian King, was not accommodating. Slowly he uncoiled his massive frame and stood towering over Conar, stared into blue eyes now less belligerent and perhaps a tad wary. "Baby birds shouldn't insult the eagles with whom they attempt to fly," another instructor commented from the weight bench. "They just might get their feathers plucked before they have time to molt. Is that what you want, baby bird?" Conar was intensely sorry he'd started this. He could see everyone regarding him with wry humor. Unfortunately, his pride would not allow him to back down. He raised his chin. "Aye, that's what I want." The moment he said it, he realized his stupidity. The laughter only served to increase his anger. Without any caution,

he lunged at Shalu. Before he knew what had happened, he was flat on his belly, both arms behind him, Shalu's hard knee in the small of his back. "Tweet-tweet, baby bird!" Shalu said. "Who'll be the first to pluck his feathers?" "No!"Conar shouted. By the time they were finished with him, he'd been stripped, slathered in oil, then, adding insult to injury, covered with talcum powder. If they could have found tar and feathers, no doubt he would have been covered in that. Leaving him with no clothes, robe, towel or loincloth, they laughed their way out of the room. Conar sat huddled in the corner, fuming with humiliation. "Come out, baby bird!" Chase taunted him from outside. "We got some nice fat worms for you!" Rylan chimed in. "We promise not to stare at your manly attributes!" Pearl giggled and the others howled. Conar threw a hateful look at the open doorway. Just how the hell was he going to get out of there? He seethed with icy fury as he tried to drown out their mocking laughter and insulting catcalls. He grabbed a handful of hair on both sides of his head and screeched in frustration. "A warrior must learn humility as well as ability," a gruff voice spoke. He glowered at Ching-Ching, standing in the doorway, and felt like strangling him. The Chrystallusian seemed impervious to the hard look. "I don't need your goddamned philosophy!" "Perhaps, perhaps not. I think you learned a valuable lesson today, don't you, baby bird?" "Stop calling me that!"Conar shouted. "You prefer shitbird, instead?" Ching-Ching laughed and ignored Conar's vulgar response. "I have the right to call you whatever I wish. You call me the monkey man, do you not? Do you wish to fight me, as well?" "No, thank you," Conar ground out from between tightly clenched teeth. "I thought not." Ching-Ching sat on the floor beside Conar. "Whom do you wish to fight next? Du Mer? Saur? Brell? Each of them would be accommodating, I am sure." "How come you're not speaking in broken Serenian like you always have before?" Ching-Ching grinned. "Because I have no desire to do so. My speech pattern served its purpose with you. You thought me uneducated, unlearned, a country boy, eh? It was the way I thought best until I was ready for you to know otherwise. Now, when I speak to you, maybe you will listen. You have seen my harder side; now, view the gentler. I speak to you as I would my son, had I been blessed with one." A derisive laugh came from Conar's lips. "I made a fool of myself, didn't I?" "You do not fight your allies, fledgling. Save your anger for your enemies. You will have enough of them. You are restless. That is to be expected. Your men know this. They are restless, too. When Occultus decides you are ready, you will begin to take back all that has been stolen from you. Until that time comes…go slowly. There is time. And there is still much to learn." "Like humility." "And self-denial. You are descended from a long line of powerful men. Generations of WindWarriors course through your veins. You have inherited their natural abilities, but we have begun to enhance those abilities to the point where no mortal man will be your equal. It is up to you to do what must be done to satisfy your ancestors vengeance against the Domination. "Learn to control your rage, fledgling. Learn to control it, or it will control you. Learn patience. Humility. These are things I am afraid you have never been taught. In the flick of an eye, a man can die from lack of direction. That man might not be you, but a comrade who depends on your ability to function with a clear head and calm nerves in a

crisis." "I thought I did fairly well in the Labyrinth at controlling my rage." "The Labyrinth would have crushed a lesser man, Conar. The tortures that were practiced on you have only strengthened you, made you less vulnerable to physical and mental pain. Even your stay in that horrible place taught you a well-learned lesson. You can survive anything! Even the good-natured taunts and pranks your friends played on you today." Ching-Ching's monkey face split into wrinkled lines of humor. "It also taught you that you are not yet as invincible as you thought." "It also taught me something else." Ching-Ching inclined his head. "When to know I am in a losing battle." Conar smiled, a smile touched with sadness. "I owe them an apology." The wrinkled smile grew wider and the thin lips twitched. "A wise decision, baby bird!" *** Apologizing to the men was as hard as Conar had anticipated. They joked and made stinging remarks about his anatomy as he made his way to the gym where they had stashed his clothing. He kept his temper under control, knowing they were doing everything they could to antagonize him, but realizing they were shielding him with their bodies from curious eyes as his ungracious, naked walk took him through their ranks. He took their barbs with a tight smile and strode as calmly as he could into the gym, retrieved his clothing. His ears and face burned from the remarks as he stepped into his clothing and soiled it with the oil and talc. In his room later, Conar flung off the clothing and plopped into the bath Se Huan had made ready for him. He had viewed her hastily concealed smile, heard the stifled giggle and knew everyone in the palace was privy to what had happened. He lowered himself into the tub and sulked, refusing to answer even her most innocuous questions, for he could see the wry humor in her face. "He's like a sore-tailed cat, Se Huan." Jah-Ma-El came into the room carrying a tumbler of elixir Occultus demanded Conar drink each night. The stuff was particularly vile, green and mossy, a potion to make him sleep soundly yet not develop any long-term desire for it. He had resisted drinking it at first. But after having his nostrils pinched shut by Jah-Ma-El, his body pinned to the bed by the others while Tyne poured the mess down his throat, he had learned to drink it of his own accord. "He is not in the best of tempers, Lord Jah-Ma-El. I shall let him pout. Perhaps after he drinks his bedtime bottle he will be a good baby bird." Se Huan giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as a wet sponge hit her in the backside. "Get out of here! Both of you! And take that shitty elixir with you!" A wicked gleam entered Jah-Ma-El's eyes. "Se Huan, would you be so kind as to get Shalu and Roget and Sentian—" "I'll drink it," Conar snarled. "I thought you would." His brother handed him the tumbler, watching with uncontrolled mirth as Conar gagged on the liquid. "Conar, you are such a baby!" "You don't have to drink this shit! By the gods, it grows on my tongue before I can swallow it!" He grimaced, scrunching up his eyes to scrub at his tongue with his bath sponge. Later, alone in his bathing chamber, Conar leaned back in the water. He wasn't angry at anyone. He wasn't even all that ticked off about having to drink the poisonous concoction. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth, then extended into a full-blown grin. He was a lucky man, he thought. He had brothers who loved and cared for him, friends who needed him and whom he needed, allies who had only his best interests at heart. He had more people looking out after him than anyone else he knew. In his uncle's palace, he was

given everything they thought he could desire in the way of food, drink, comforts. They saw to his every need before he knew he had such a need. There was only one thing left that he desired and didn't have. The smile vanished from his finely chiseled mouth. He stared off into space. He had almost forgotten what true desire was in the Labyrinth. His existence there was a living hell of brutal beatings and forced labor; there was no time for thoughts of creature comforts and desire. No opportunity for thoughts of a woman to give him comfort. Now, his thoughts flew across the broad mountain range that separated him from his homeland. A fleeting worry tumbled through his mind. Why had no one pressed the issue of Liza with him? Why had no one forcibly sat him down and said, "It needs to be discussed"? Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about her, but no one actually knew how. And that made him wonder. And it worried him. Were things so bad, so irrevocable, that his brothers and friends were afraid to tell him? Did they suspect that the knowledge of the way things actually were in Serenia might hurt him? He thought that might be the case. He knew she had formed an attachment to some man in Boreas. He suspected it might well be one of the knights from the court, but he had no way of knowing for sure. He didn't want to know. Standing up, he plucked the towel from the stand and began to dry off, his eyes locked on the far wall. He had let Liza slip through his fingers like the hot sand of Tyber's Isle. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't remember exactly what she looked like. He had a vision of long, flowing black hair like Se Huan's, eyes the color of the jade in his aunt's crown, and the innocent, sensual smell of lavender; but that was all he could remember of the woman who had been his reason for living. With the bitter taste of Occultus' elixir invading his senses, his mind began to dim, to release him from this world. He padded to his bed and curled up on the mattress, thoughts of the distant peaks of Serenia and the treasure they held growing more and more faint until they dissolved. Sleep claimed him for a time. *** Raja watched him from the corner of his room. She stood by the Cheval mirror, where, Webspinner that she was, she blended into her surroundings with the aid of magic. She squinted as she perceived his thoughts. A tight line of anger stretched her pouting lips. She would take his mind from that bitch if it were the last thing she ever did!

Chapter 14 The months steamed into summer, cooled to autumn, then plunged into the harsh winter of Chrystallusian snow and sleet. As winter warmed and thawed to spring, Conar's training was at last to end. It had taken longer than Occultus had originally planned; nightmares still plagued the young man and training stalled time and again as he rested a week at a time. There were still dark circles under his eyes from his lack of proper sleep, and lack of sleep caused a slight, tired droop to his shoulders. But his eyes were clear and bright, and his shoulders were proud and strong. As the last day of his training drew to a close, he, along with those who had trained him and would be fighting beside him, were called in the temple where Occultus held reign. In the vast reaches of antiquity, the temple of the Great Empire of Chrystallus had emerged long before any other building or edifice. Built as a tribute to their god, Chrystus, the people erected their own huts and hovels from canvas and rushes. Denying themselves life's luxuries, they fashioned the soaring walls of the finest marble and stone. Carved the most elegant of teak woods for the doors and window sills and archways. Laid down the very best of parquet

flooring in patterns so intricate and beautiful they boggled the mind. And studded the statues of their ancestors and their patrons with the most precious of jewels. The altars were cast from pure silver and gold and the chandeliers were hand-blown crystal. Only the best of everything went into the Great Temple of Chrystus. Through primitive writings and hieroglyphics, the scholars were able to piece together an ancient civilization that had thrived on the land before the Chrystallusians arrived. This people worshipped the fierce god of the Fire Winds, Mei-la-motep. Such was their faithfulness to the Great One, a deity they worshipped with such devotion and diligence, that it nearly destroyed their culture, that they willingly sacrificed their newborn children and young men and women of child-bearing ages to His hungry altars. Realizing too late their grave mistake, the people began to die out and they knew that without new, vital blood of young men and women to regenerate their numbers, the culture of the Asotek people would vanish. In the ancient lands that now encompassed Western Serenia and parts of Eastern Virago, there was at that time a group of inhabitants simply called The People who roamed the land, taking from it only what was needed and no more. They did not wage war on their neighbors; they did not go raiding for goods and food. They taught peacefulness and love, and by teaching their children the wisdom of putting back to the land that which was taken, the race flourished, keeping wisely to themselves and staying away from those fierce tribes of the southern lands, people like the Asoteks, who warred among their own. They revered their aged, never killed another human unless it was to protect their own lives and the lives of their children. Before killing for meat, they would ask the pardon of the animal about to give its life so that a human could live, and then cry for it as it lay dying. They were a gentle, meek race whose very innocence was almost their undoing. But when the Asoteks came raiding, seeking fresh blood with which to repopulate their declining number, it was the farmer people of another tribe that came to the aid of The People. These people were the Chrystallusians. Homeless, wandering from place to place, seeking good land on which to settle. They sought the Land of Plenty promised to them by their ancient god. Taught self-reliance and self-defense from generation to generation in order to survive, the Chrystallusians helped The People thwart the Asoteks, defeat them, and they finally settled on Asotek lands when the last of that warrior race had died out. The People were glad to have such industrious and peace-loving neighbors among them, for they valued peace above all else. It was with breeding among this peaceful people, the pure lines of which are now all but extinct, that the people of Chrystallus began to come into their own. The two cultures, quite similar in appearance, demeanor, and values, blended well together. Some of the beliefs and customs of The People were incorporated into Chrystallusian culture, but the Great Temple of Chrystus, with its golden altars, came strictly from the ancient teachings of the god of the Chrystallusians. When the last of the pure lines of The People began to dwindle, to become lost in the merging of the two cultures, a great cry went up among The People. Their culture had become so assimilated with the Chrystallusian culture, the loss of their own identity was fast becoming a real threat. Only a few of the pure warriors of The People truly understood the significance of such a loss, and by the time they did, it was too late. There were a few warriors who ventured away from their land, seeking to keep themselves and their culture pure. Several women accompanied the men and they fled into the mountains of Serenia, into the plains of Virago, where they set up teps, lodgings made of tall poles and canvas. They traded with friendly tribes along the Great Cous River and set up their own village. The women made themselves available to the men of their tribe and many young came with the first snows of the new year. Occultus Noire was directly descended from The People. With his raven black hair and piercing blue eyes, the high cheekbones and dusty complexion, he carried within him the finest traits of a race whose numbers had dwindled to less than two hundred. Occultus had been among the young men who had left their home to try and preserve their bloodline even though he had not wanted to help provide young for their tribe. Why that was, he did not know; he knew only the thought of mating with a woman filled him with dread and distaste. Because of his reluctance to accept any woman to his pallet, he was designated a hunter and ventured off for days at a time in search of meat with which to feed his people. It was in the wild foothills of the Serenian mountains, while stalking a large elk, that Demonicus, then Arch-Prelate of the fledgling group called the Brotherhood of the Domination, had first seen the young Occultus and persuaded him to come to the Wind Temple at Century. "You will gain much knowledge and magic with which to help your people."

"But my duty is to mate with one of the women of my tribe and produce young," Occultus explained, intrigued by the notion of going back to his tribe as a holy man. "Is that what you wish to do?" "It is what is expected." "We do not mate with women," Demonicus had told the young boy, smiling at the relief he had seen on Occultus' face. "We do not expect anything of you that you do not expect of yourself. Come and see what it is like at the Temple. If you do not like it, you may go at any time." But once at the Temple, Occultus did not want to leave. He embraced the concept of the Brotherhood with open and eager arms. Teaching the boy all he knew, Demonicus was not surprised that Occultus rapidly took to magic and soon outshone his master. Less and less thought was given to going back to his tribe, a chore he had not wanted to pursue, and more and more effort went into learning the runes that gave him power and status among the others of the Brotherhood. Occultus showed ferocity and hunger for that power and it held him in good stead with the sect. Only one man, a descendent of the Asoteks, a man somewhat older than Occultus, a man named Tolkan Coure, disliked the boy and did everything he could to block Occultus' rise to power. Jealous and envious, Tolkan gathered together a group who felt the same mistrust of the boy and set about to cause his downfall. On his deathbed, Demonicus handed the power scepter to his young protégé and Occultus Noire became the youngest Arch-Prelate to ever accept the mantle of leadership in the sect. Sensing trouble brewing with Tolkan, Occultus set himself apart from the others and devised a way to circumvent even the most powerful of sorcerers. He drew a pentagram, a triangle within a five-pointed star, set two wavering lines through its apex, and instilled in that symbol a power so great, so encompassing, that it could all but destroy any power it was set against. By using the Pentagram Seal of the Domination upon his enemies, Occultus achieved a widely respected and feared reputation among the Brotherhood's members. Years later, a power-mad and hungry Tolkan Coure would learn the secret of the Seal of the Domination and use it on Occultus, stripping him of his power and using what influence he had to have the Arch-Prelate impeached. Since he had many friends among the Brotherhood, and because he was still feared among most, Occultus was deported instead of killed. He was left on Tyber's Isle to die. Occultus escaped from the Labyrinth only a year after his internment. His map had led Brelan to the penal colony, had shown the way to the secret passages. He had stowed aboard one of the prison transports and made his way to Haelstrom Point. From there, he trekked through the mountains until he was once more in the snow-misted land of his birth. Home, surrounded by members of his tribe, Occultus calmed his fury. He hardened his heart against the Brotherhood that had betrayed him and set about to formulate a revenge so exacting, and so final, the Domination would be destroyed for all time. What he had invented, the Seal of the Domination, that symbol which restricted and nearly erased any power from a man unlucky enough to have it placed within his palms, he knew he could nullify; and Occultus managed to find a way to do just that. Then, he calmly waited for the champion he knew would one day come… Conar McGregor. On the evening of Conar's initiation into the final phase of the plan to retake the lands and treasures Kaileel Tohre had stolen, those men of the power structure of his force gathered in the black marble halls of The People's chamber of the Temple of Chrystus. Set aside for the worship of that tribe, the chamber had not changed in more than five hundred years. The influence of the Lost Warriors, as The People were now called by the Chrystallusians, extended no further inside the Temple of Chrystus than the walls of the Wind Chamber, as it was named; but its power could be felt even before the doors leading into the chamber were opened. The Wind Chamber was to be Conar's launching pad to revenge against the Domination and all that it had done to him and his people. And to Occultus Noire. Thick, wide doors of hammered gold led into the round room of the Wind Chamber. The ancient symbols of The People embossed the doors. The symbols told the tale of a race of people who loved the land and the animals that roamed upon it. They told of the great flying ships that brought the first people to the land, of the flood and the great fire that nearly destroyed the world. They told of the rebirth of The People, of the retaking of the land from the ashes and the Deathwielder. On the lintel was a single word…Jobatik. It was the name of the first settler to claim the lands

on which The People were instilled. Those who entered His door were welcomed. Inside the chamber was a low altar carved from a single piece of teak. Upon it rested a cloth of silver that had been embroidered with the names of the Chief Deities of the Lost Tribes, those of the ancients who had settled the lands of The People. The glow from the silver wall sconces filled with pure white candles and the blazing torches studded about the twenty-foot-high walls, was the only source of light. No windows, no other doors broke the smooth stone walls of native pale yellow fieldstone. The floor was of highly polished gold-veined brown marble and cast such a shine, one could see himself in the reflection. Crinkles of silver light, spread out along the dark ceiling of rough-hewn cedar boards that fanned out from a center hub like the spokes in a wheel, flickered from the candles and torchlight. Incense, dark and mysterious, yet pleasant to the senses, wafted about the room from braziers placed at the Four Stations of the Chamber. Each brazier faced the direction from which it was named… Norus, Zephyrus, Boreas, and Eurus—the ancient names of the Wind, Itself. Under the cloth of silver were the special weapons that had been forged and honed especially for the young man who would wield them. Gathered in a semi-circle around the altar were Grice Wynth, Chase Montyne, Shalu Taborn, Rylan Hesar and Tyne Brell, each one a royal heir to the rightful throne of their homeland. Behind them on a slightly elevated tier, sat the second and third in line for the rule of their lands—Paegan Hesar, Chand Wynth, Coron and Dyllon McGregor. Behind them on still another riser, were the royally connected sons—Brelan Saur, Wynland, and Roget du Mer. Behind them, at the top of the cantilevered planking were those who were important in Conar's training—Storm Jale, Pearl Allegria, Sentian Heil, Ward Summerall, Belvoir, Holm van de Lar, Ching-Ching and Thom Loure. Standing along the walls behind the altar were those who had aided the young Prince in some way, either as instructor or friend, but who were not as close to him as the others. These men, numbering fourteen, included Misha, the Outer Kingdom warrior, Mister Tarnes and Mister Andrews. Jah-Ma-El, robed in the pale gray robes of an acolyte, stood behind and to one side of the white crystal throne of the Emperor Tran. Conar's uncle sat with dignity, his head held high, his hands resting lightly in the lap of his silver kimono. Seated cross-legged upon a white silken mat, Occultus faced the altar, the men at his back. His long black hair with its flares of white at the temple was woven into two thick waist-length braids tied with white rawhide thongs. Upon his head was a full war bonnet of jet black raven feathers that cascaded down his back and lay in a soft curve around him. When he stood, the headdress swept the floor behind him with a soft whisper. His clothes were of white buckskin, tasseled at the arms and legs with long strips of fringed rawhide and beaded at the tips with white crystal spheres. His breastplate was made from the bones of the antelope and worked with thin silver thread and crystal bead. His narrow feet were encased in soft white doeskin, an intended affront to the female gender. Twin streaks of vermilion were arched over his high cheekbones and down his aquiline nose. A one-inch-round circle of silver adorned the center of his high forehead. His pale blue eyes were heavy with kohl, the black coloring flaring up toward his heavy brows. There was no smile on Occultus' face, no movement in his body. His breathing was deep, regular. His spine was perfectly straight. Looking at him, the men were reminded of a barbaric picture of lethal strength. Occultus stared at the altar. His mind and his body were ready for the ceremony. He had fasted for three days, having nothing but purified water and unleavened bread upon arising that morn. His heart and soul had been ready for a long time for the ceremony. He had prayed long and hard in his chambers for many years and even more so during this day and long into the seemingly never-ending afternoon. He had wanted to leave nothing to chance where Conar was concerned. He wanted no problems, no unforeseen difficulties to mar the events of this night. Sitting on his prayer mat, waiting for the entrance of the man who would set things right for them all, the sorcerer felt an unease he could not name. Some alien power flowed through the room. He had a strong suspicion Conar had gone beyond what he, himself, had taught him, what anyone had taught him, had ventured into a realm where Occultus would never be able to follow. His vague misgivings sent a trickle of fear down his spine, yet he could not say he was overly troubled by the feelings. He trusted his God to deliver them from the Domination and whatever the Great One decided, Occultus would accept. Yet, it was the unknown that had always frightened him. If what he suspected was true, the young man who would this night undergo the transformation to a new destiny, that of Overlord of the Wind, would, indeed, become a force that no man could stand against. His dark thoughts went back to the previous night. He ground his teeth, clenched his fists so that his nails dug into his scarred palms. He should have known the trouble was coming, but his mind had been on the ceremony, his heart and soul involved in fasting and prayers. He had been prepared for what he thought might happen; it had been the unknown quantity that had caused the evil. It had started during the evening meal, the last meal Conar would ever eat.

Conar sat between his aunt and Raja DeLyle at the long table in the formal dining hall of the palace. His uncle sat at the head of the table, Conar at its end, facing the Emperor. The young man seemed nervous, expectant, for the next night would see him at the end of his long journey. He didn't appear hungry, but his aunt, the Empress, had enticed him with fruit and wine. Occultus watched as Raja whispered something in Conar's ear. He leaned as far away from her as space and politeness would allow. Raja looked furious, and flounced up from the table, pausing only long enough to throw a hard look at Conar before storming out of the room. "Must have been something I said," Conar quipped, making the others laugh. Across the table, two sets of pale blue eyes met. Occultus lifted an inquiring brow. Conar shrugged, an annoyed frown on his handsome mouth. He shook his head as if to say it was of no importance. Turning his attention to his aunt, he raised his goblet to the Empress' beauty. Unhappy, Occultus sat back in his chair, a mild unease nagging at him. He argued most of the day with Conar, trying to dissuade him from taking Se Huan with him when he left for Serenia, but Conar had been adamant. The nightmares still rode him hard and he said he needed the girl's nearness to chase away the demons. Occultus reluctantly agreed to Se Huan's departure. Raja had tried unsuccessfully over the last year to entice Conar to make love to her. Her single-minded pursuit had become a matter of court gossip and humor. The more she chased him, the less likely it appeared he would surrender. He avoided her like the plague and even had guards stationed outside his quarters. Her bad temper over the last two months had calmed somewhat and she seemed to back off; but Occultus wondered. Raja DeLyle was not a woman to give up easily. Occultus tugged at the sleeve of his personal servant and spoke in a low whisper. "Have a warm, scented bath prepared for His Grace. I want him in bed earlier than usual." Overhearing the comment, Jah-Ma-El looked up. "Do you think he will go willingly to bed early, Master? He seems nervous and jittery." "He will need his strength for the ceremony tomorrow night. Make his elixir stronger. Put a few drops of laudanum in it. I want no nightmares to interrupt his sleep." Jah-Ma-El bowed and walked to Conar's side. "Occultus wants you to retire, now. He's having a bath prepared for you. You will receive the elixir tonight." He smiled at Conar's grimace. After only a token argument, Conar nodded. He was tired and the prospect of a warm bath made him sleepy. He was sure even the vile elixir wouldn't be so bad after all the wine he had consumed. Besides, the elixir sedated him and held the nightmares at bay. He bowed to his uncle and to Occultus, kissed his aunt good-eve, then left the hall amid a chorus of jeers and good-natured insults. Conar smiled to his men as he passed, and when he was sure neither his aunt nor Kym Taborn could see him, he raised his middle finger to the men in salute, grinning widely at their guffaws. "Promises, promises!" Pearl called, and the laughter escalated. It was usually Jah-Ma-El's duty to bring Conar the elixir, but on this night, having consumed more mead than normal, he was happy to give Se Huan the task. He trusted the girl, so it was only a small breach of security when Jah-Ma-El handed the goblet to her and trundled off to bed. Two masked men grabbed Se Huan on her way to Conar's room. Held, kicking and clawing at her abductors, she was carried into a rarely used bedchamber. The next morning, a maid found her. Her neck had been broken, her tiny body brutally abused and battered. "Conar was in his bath when Se Huan met her horrible death. He heard nothing," Roget informed Occultus and Tran. "He is grieving terribly." "I'm sure he does not understand why he felt nothing of the pain the young woman endured," Occultus said. "The two had become close, finely attuned to one another. Their special bond had been strong and secure. Now, he feels he is once more alone."

"The bitch had a hand in this," Brelan snapped. "And I should have sensed what was coming." Occultus shook his head. "But it was not the gods' will that I know." "What happened afterward?" Tran inquired. "Raja's henchmen gave her the elixir. She took it to Conar's chamber. He was displeased to see her and asked why Jah-Ma-El was not there. The bitch probably had a good excuse prepared." "He told me she sat on the floor beside his tub," Roget put in, "staring at the juncture of his thighs. Rather than arousing him, her gesture repelled him. He asked her to leave, but she refused, telling him she would be spending the night." "He said no," Brelan added. "Her outbursts all week long had been a culmination of three months worth of pawing at him and meaningful looks that had set his teeth on edge. He was growing tired of it and was planning to ask Uncle Tran to expel her from court. She began to argue, so he snatched the goblet and drained it to be rid of her. He says he remembers the taste was like rancid milk, much worse than usual." "That was the tenerse she added," Occultus said through clenched teeth. "She said it was laudanum, but he knew that taste," Roget remarked. "Conar says he was so angry, he did not suspect anything when she plunged the goblet into his bath water, dredging the last remaining liquid from the sides. He says she laughed, then tossed the goblet into the fireplace." "Getting rid of the evidence," Tran stated. "The effects of what she gave him were almost instaneous," Brelan said. "When he went to get out of the tub he said his head felt heavy and his vision swirled with pinpoints of bright light. He says his knees were wobbly when he finally managed to lever himself up. He was so disoriented, he couldn't even put on his robe so he staggered to bed and fell across it." "He didn't hear her throwing the bolt on the door lock," Roget continued the tale. "And then?" Tran asked. "He would not say," Brelan answered. Occultus nodded. "The Emperor and I will speak to him and decide what must be done to the witch." Brelan and Roget bowed to the two men and left. Ten minutes later, Conar was admitted to the royal chamber. The prince's eyes blazed with fury, his hands unclenching and clenching at his sides. A hard look had turned his handsome face to stone. "Well, Conar," Tran said, "tell us."

Chapter 15 "I felt the first flickering of passion winding through my belly. I felt my manhood stir; it came alive. A raging lust raced through my lower body. I groaned with the intensity of the feeling my fingers caused as I stroked myself." Conar lowered his head, hot shame flooding his face. "Take your time, son," the Emperor said. "I felt her hand on my thigh. I raised my head; it was throbbing so badly and spinning so violently I could hardly move. But I managed to see a body hovering beside me."

"Who did you see?" Occultus asked quietly. "I couldn't see the face clearly at first. All I saw was long, flowing black hair and green eyes peering at me out of the darkness. The sharp scent of lavender filled my senses and made me ache with need. I reached out for the woman kneeling over me, pulled her beneath me. When her face was lit by the candle on my table, I looked into a face so lovely and so sensual I wanted to cry." He buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, guilt ravaged his face. His voice was devoid of life, analytical, as though he were speaking to a classroom of students. His eyes were dark with remembered pain and self-loathing. "I pulled the woman beneath me and buried myself deeply within her. She curled her legs around my hips and molded her body to mine. I called her name over and over again as I spent my seed inside her warm cavern. I reveled in the feel of her, took joy in the pleasure of her slender arms gripping me tightly, thrilled to the release that ripped through me and set my body to trembling. "No sooner was my seed released than another wave of desire tore through me and I wanted—I needed—Ihad to have her again. I felt I would explode if I didn't get inside her quickly." Occultus looked into his mind and saw the images Conar was seeing through his closed lids. He could hear the same sounds Conar had heard, could smell the same lavender and the stench of passion-filled bodies. Conar brutally gripped her buttocks and plunged deep, hard, pummeling her with his body. Moans of frustration, passion, and lust had come from him in cadence with his animalistic, furious thrusts. He spent himself once more to the sound of a woman's laughter. Two, three, four more times during the night he rode her body into sweating, slick subservience. He clawed at her, bruised her waiting lips with his own, squeezed and kneaded her breasts as though they were clay. He bit and sucked at her nipples until they bled. By morning, her vagina was red and bloody, his penis, the same, but while he had been taking her, he had felt nothing but the aching, itching lust that ripped through him. The fulfillment of many years of deprivation was his only intent. "It wasn't until the first rays of light began drifting through the room that I was able to see her clearly for the first time." There was such overriding shame in the words, such hopelessness, that Tran walked to his nephew. "You don't have to say anymore if you don't want to," the Emperor whispered. Conar moved away from his uncle's nearness. "I didn't see long black hair; I saw blond. I didn't see pretty green eyes; I saw cold, calculating blue eyes filled with the unholy light of satisfied lust. There was no warm and lovely face staring back at me; it was a vengeful face glowing with triumph. Gone was the sweet smell of lavender; all I smelled was the cloying odor of spent semen." Conar looked at Occultus. The sorcerer nodded, understanding the silent question. "The nightmare has been laid to rest," Occultus said quietly. Aye, the sorcerer thought with fury, the nightmare had been laid to rest with the thrust of Conar's manhood into the body of that whoring bitch! But laid to rest in the wrong body. "I shoved her away and managed to get off the bed. I stumbled to the door and threw the bolt, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of that room, away from her smell." "Jah-Ma-El and Roget were outside the room," Tran stated. Conar nodded. "They had heard me yelling." Tears slid slowly down the prince's pale cheeks. "I told them to get her out my room before I killed her! They started pulling her from the room. I told them to cover the slut's body with the bed sheet, to get her nakedness out of my sight." "They brought her to us," Occultus informed Conar. "You will need to confront her," the Emperor said. "Here, before us." Conar paid scant attention as guards filed into the room with Raja. Raja laughed. "Can you not look at me?" "Shut up, bitch," Brelan snarled.

"You did not mind looking at me last eve, did you, Milord? You didn't mind dragging your hands over my curves or slobbering over its roundness with your lips." Her laughter was wild and high. "Or thrusting into me with—" "Shut up!"Brelan yelled, taking a step forward as though to hit her. "Oh, the brave man you are, Brelan Saur!" she shouted. "Conar's keeper?" She turned to Conar. "Do you really think she has been faithful to you?" "Silence!" Tran shouted. "She betrayed you. Many times. Ask Saur! Ask him how many times she betrayed you with him, Conar, before you feel guilt over fucking me!" "Be quiet, slut!"Occultus raised his hand to slap her. Conar grasped Occultus' fist with his own strong hand. "Let her speak." Raja turned her hateful gaze to Occultus, her lips stretched into a fine, evil line. "You fear him, don't you, Occultus? He has more power than you will ever have!" "You'd better fear him, whore!" Occultus said. "You are the one who will know his fury if you don't keep your lying mouth shut!" "The truth won't hurt me! Only him!" "For once in your life do something good!" Roget demanded of her. "It is the five of you who are doing him harm; not me! I haven't lied about his precious lady! It wasn't me who hid from him the extent of his bride's unfaithfulness!" "Explain!" Conar's sharp word was a burst of condemnation. Raja lifted her chin. "There have been three since you." She smiled as he stiffened. "Men all known to you." "Who?" "Conar…" Brelan stopped when Conar turned hard, accusing eyes on him. Raja laughed. "He doesn't want you to know, my Prince. None of them want you to know about the men who have lain with Elizabeth Wynth!" Tired of the game, intent at getting the truth, Conar closed his fingers around a handful of her hair. Dragging back her head sharply, he snarled into her face. "Who?" "Three of your closest acquaintances," she gasped, pain filling her suddenly fearful eyes. "Your brothers. She has children by all three!" Conar's face turned white. He jerked his hand away as though he'd been struck by a viper. "You arelying!" "Why should I lie? I have what I came for. Why should I care how much or how often your precious Liza has sinned?" She taunted him with her red lips. Her eyes swept the room. "Ask them what three brothers of yours have plunged themselves between her lying thighs!" "Get her out of here before I kill her!" the Emperor snarled. Conar stepped away from her for fear he would do her actual harm, as well. "Galen was her first. You knew about him, didn't you? I think she waited all of two weeks before she married him. But she was already impregnated with his child. She must have lain with him before you were even lashed to the whipping post. She had a second child by him, too. Two sons. Galen proved he was very much a man, indeed!" Conar reached for her, but she scrambled from the chair, putting as much distance between them as the room would allow.

"She's a whore, Conar! A faithless whore!" "I'll kill you," he growled. "Best to kill her lover, the father of her third child, her daughter. He's the only one she hasn't been legally wed to. Galen was barely in his grave when she let him slip between her thighs. Ask Brelan Saur if his daughter looks like him or his precious mistress, Elizabeth!" "Damn you!" Brelan shouted. Conar turned to stare at Brelan, shock on his face. "Then there's her third husband, the man she is married to now," Raja hurried on, watching Conar closely as he stood rigid and silent not more than two feet from her. "She has a son by him. I hear she's pregnant again. Galen made her Queen when he married her and she is still Queen. Ask them who sits the throne beside her now!" Conar shook his head as though to clear it of her words. "Legion A'Lex! It ishe who thrusts between her whoring legs. And she loves him for it!" Conar lunged, his hands winding around her slender throat. "Bitch! You're lying!" "True!" she gasped, digging at his fingers, raking her nails over his flesh. "All true." His thumbs bit into her windpipe. "Get her away from him before he kills her!" Tran shouted. Roget and Brelan tore Conar from her. Conar was beyond caring as he jerked away from them. He rounded on Brelan. " Tell me she's lying!" "No lie!" Raja croaked, holding her throat. "Tell him, Saur!" Brelan glared. "You've done your dirt and youwill pay for it, you whoring bitch!" "You're afraid to tell him the truth, aren't you?" Her eyes raked the room as her hands had raked Conar's now-bleeding flesh. "Cowards! You fear what he will do if he knows the truth!" Conar looked at the men. Roget could not meet his look; Brelan's face was pained, angry, filled with shame. Occultus' face was blank, carefully so, and Tran's was worried. It was at that one lost moment that Conar knew what the witch had said was true. He looked at Brelan. "Let me explain," Saur tried to say. Conar shook his head, not wanting to hear explanations. He looked so vulnerable, his eyes sad and fragile as though the answers to his questions might tear him into a million irretrievable pieces. "Is it true?" His voice was as soft as fog. Even before he asked, even before Brelan looked into his eyes, even before the actual word was spoken, Conar knew. One word. One horrible word. "Aye." That was all it took to change Conar's life forever. To alter what could have been and what now would never be. Not Raja's immediate death sentence nor her final words as she was dragged away would alter what happened that fateful morning. "I have always wanted you, Conar!" she screamed. "I have your babe already seeded within my womb! Will you let them slay the mother of your child?" Occultus probed her with his senses and found she was, indeed, implanted with Conar's seed. "Shall we spare her life?" Conar looked at her with hate, hate as cold as the ice on the zenith of Mount Serenia. He gave one word. One quick and decisive word. "No."

*** The Empress found him later that morning in the portrait room. They had been searching for him for hours. She looked over the devastation and frowned. To destroy such beauty was a sacrilege, but she understood her nephew's pain. She sat beside him on the floor where he knelt, staring moodily at the destruction he had wrought. "Are you finished?" she asked. "Is the rage gone?" She calmly took the dagger from his clutched fist. She looked at it and shivered. It was a deadly weapon, two-edged, sharp as sin and twice as lethal. "That's a dangerous weapon, Aunt Dy. Be careful." She tucked it in the pocket of her gown, then folded her hands in her lap. "A woman's tongue can be a dangerous weapon, too. It can cut deeper than any blade and be twice as deadly. The only difference between a cut this dagger can give and the one Raja slipped into your heart is that her cut isn't mortal." "It might as well have been." He drew up his legs and circled them in the protection of his arms. He laid his head on his knees, shutting out the room. "I am sorry, Conar." She really didn't know what else to say. "You knew all along what Liza had done. You all did." "Yes, and several times Brelan tried to tell you, but you didn't want to hear. But I think you suspected something was wrong, else you would have questioned someone about her." "I never dreamed she would have betrayed me as she has." Dyreil turned from the cold, repressed anger she saw. Instead, she looked at Elizabeth McGregor's ravaged painting. He had repeatedly slashed the lovely, smiling face. Only the marriage band on her left arm was visibly untouched by his fury. "She believed you dead, son." "I am dead." "You are very much alive." She placed her slim fingers on his thigh. "Only a man so alive could feel the hurt you are now experiencing." She could tell he was trying not to cry, refusing himself the luxury of crying. His teeth were tightly clenched, his breathing slow and even, despite his coiled fury. Dyreil removed her hand. "I want you to listen carefully, Conar. Don't interrupt. Let me have my say, and when I am through, you may rant and rave all you wish. You may ignore me if that is your desire, but give me the courtesy of your attention because I am your aunt." He nodded. "At this moment," she began, sitting up straight as an arrow, her spine taut, "you are angry. Furious, and that is well within your rights. You feel Liza betrayed you, that Legion and Brelan betrayed you, as well." "They did." She sighed. It was best he get this out of his system first. "In what way, child?" "You have to ask?" His voice was tight with surprise. "They let her marry Galen! I never would have thought they'd let such a thing come to pass!" "If memory serves me correctly, Galen said you asked him to take Liza to wife." He flinched. "I didn'task the bastard;I begged the bastard! And do you know why?" He looked at her. "I was being tortured! Kaileel Tohre threatened Liza's life! I had no choice but to beg Galen to take her!" "I understand your reasoning. But you thought Legion and Brelan would prevent that." "I thought they would take care of her, Aunt Dy! I thought they would see that no harm came to my lady!" His eyes

filled with tears, but he swiped angrily at the telltale moisture. "But Legion A'Lex took care of her in his own way, didn't he?" "Would you not have wanted a man you trusted to look after her?" "I didn't trust Galen!" "Galen didn't hurt her." "She bore him a son! Two sons, if what Raja swore was true." His aunt nodded. "What she said was true, but there are things you have not been told." "What? That she enjoyed sleeping with him? How soon after I was taken away did she have his brat?" "Conar, that isn't—" "How soon?" His anger was festering. Dyreil was not privy to what Brelan knew; she knew only what the public knew about the birth of Corbin McGregor. "Less than a year later." "How much less?" Dyreil lowered her head. "Less than eight months." He stared at her, not wanting to believe it. When he looked away, his face was hard as stone. "Are you ready to listen now?" "Say what you must and be done with it!" he demanded, his belly turning with nausea. Dyreil had a fierce desire to slap him, but she kept her hands in her lap and spoke to him as though he wasn't particularly bright. "It was a terrible time. A time of weeping, a time of unbearable sorrow for us all. Those of us who loved you were stricken with horror when you were taken from us. We all thought you were dead." "I wish Ihad died." She took his face in her hands and turned his angry visage to her. "Don't youever say that again, do you hear me? You're stronger than that. You're not some milksop, starry-eyed twit who moons about the place because someone took his favorite toy away! Use that famous anger of yours for something more constructive than self-pity!" "Such as? Beating Brelan to a bloody pulp?" "If that's what you want to do! Do it before the ceremony tonight because after that you might well kill him and I don't think that's truly what you want." "Then you don't know me very well, Aunt!" "I know you better than you know yourself! After tonight, you will be the most powerful man in the world and the most deadly. If you can't control yourself now, do you really think you'll be able to then?" He jerked his face from her grip and looked at the wreckage of Elizabeth's painting. "If I go through with it." "You are our hope. Our champion. The man destined to bring all of us together. We lost you once; we will not do so again!" "The only people who care about me are people who want something from me, isn't that right?" His face was granite hard. "For what I can do for them?" "When Brelan and Legion took you down from that damned post, the people of Serenia fell to their knees, wailing and moaning in hopelessness. Tolkan had to have known how much you were loved and revered." "They'd lost their champion!"

"Stop being so damned cynical! Those people loved you! They were saddened by what had been done. That's why Tolkan couldn't let you live. He couldn't chance your people rallying to bring you back from exile. The only way for him to win was for you to die." "But Tohre wouldn't allow that." "Because his unholy love for you would not let you die. So they did the next best thing—sentenced you to a living death in the Labyrinth. And in doing so, Tohre punished you for not returning that unspeakable love!" "Maybe I should have." He laughed, but the laugh was eerie and not quite sane. She ignored his remark, fearful to probe such a terrible comment. "After you were gone, Liza was inconsolable…" "For how long? A few hours? A day?" She ground her teeth. "We thought we would lose her, too, Conar. She took to her bed and refused to eat. No one left her side for fear she would harm herself. Gezelle even slept in the same bed with her for days because Liza was so quiet and remote. Cayn gave her drugs to make her sleep; drugs that had to be forced down her throat because she didn't want them. Medea came to Boreas and took Liza back to Oceania; Brelan accompanied them so Liza would have someone she trusted close to her at all times." "It's always been Brelan, hasn't it, that Medea trusted with her daughter?" A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Always, Brelan." "Medea knew he loved Liza." Conar's head snapped around to his aunt. "The son-of-a-bitch has always loved her!" "Even before you did, son." "So her family kept reminding me!" "You were never told this and I hesitate to tell you now, but…" He kicked the wrecked painting. "Don't spare me, now! Is there anything that can hurt me any worse than I've already been hurt?" "You knew Brelan loved Liza; you knew Medea cared deeply for him. If it had not been for Medea's great love for your mother, and the promise made so long ago between them, Liza would have been given to Brelan as wife." She lowered her head. "Brelan knows." Conar stared at her with fury. "That's not true!" "Why would I lie? Do you think I tell you this to hurt you more?" "Brelan is a bastard son. She is a firstborn Princess. She might have been betrothed to Rylan Hesar or Tyne Brell or Chase Montyne, but never Brelan Saur!" She stared at him for so long he felt the hair on his neck stirring. When she finally spoke, her words were like stones dropping into the room. "Liza was not firstborn girl child of Shaz and Medea." "She's older than the other girls! Older by several years! Why would you think otherwise?" "Because the other girls were Medea's daughters by Shaz Wynth. Liza was not." She waited for him to digest this news. The look on his face was chilling. "Liza is Shaz's daughter, that much is true; but she is not Medea's birth-child. Medea was her mother only by love." His brows together in confusion. "Who the hell was her mother?" "You're not going to like what I have to say." A stunned look crossed his face. "Don't tell me Raja is—"

"Of course not!" Dyreil hissed a word so unladylike and so out of character it made Conar blush. "If that bitch has ever given birth to anything, it was a suckling demon!" "Then who?" "Don't interrupt if you want to hear the whole thing. What I have to say is vitally important and I think it will explain to you why all this has happened." When he nodded, she began her tale. "Liza's mother was a powerful sorceress like Medea and your mother. I belonged to the Sisterhood, too, but I never became the magic-maker that those three women became. Some of us never aspire to that sort of thing." If Conar was surprised to know his aunt belonged to the Multitude, he didn't let on. She had his full attention. "This woman had already seduced Shaz Wynth once before, giving him a son who later died. It was stillborn, if I remember correctly. Shaz had been drugged, much as you were last eve, and when he awakened to find that slut in his bed, he almost killed her. It was Medea who stopped him from doing so. So instead, he exiled the bitch to Diabolusia, but the whore wouldn't remain there for long. She came back and did her evil business again, striving to do what she eventually did—get Shaz in her bed. And that time, she got what she wanted. A girl child, the firstborn girl child of the King of Oceania, was conceived… Liza. "Shaz was horrified that he had been tricked again by the woman. He hired assassins to kill her so her blood wouldn't be directly on his hands. But she escaped his noose and vanished. She sent word that if he sent killers after her, she would go to the Tribunal with the whole sordid story. He could not allow that to happen for fear of Grice and Medea being hurt." Dyreil felt drained, hot, and her head ached. She pushed back a stray wisp of golden hair. "You remember the kind of woman Medea was? In her younger days, she was a force to be reckoned with also. She hired men of her own, men under the direction of her Sentinel, Andre Belvoir—" "Belvoir?" he gasped. "MyBelvoir?" "Aye! She sent these men to find the bitch and had given them strict orders that they were to take her to the worst nunnery they could find and entomb her lying, whoring person there forever. But despite the magic Medea used and the implements she had sent with Belvoir and the others, the bitch escaped the trap. "By then it was almost time for Liza to be born. The woman knew she couldn't hide forever and knew it was vitally important for Liza to be brought up as the firstborn daughter of Shaz Wynth. So she contacted Medea through an emissary." Dyreil looked at her nephew. "That lady was your mother. She came to Oceania and asked for a Council at the Shadowlands. What that meant was a gathering of all the Daughters of the Multitude to sit in judgment of what this woman had done." She let out a long breath and continued. "We gathered in the Shadowlands three days before Liza was born. Both sides of the story were presented to the Great Lady and the decision of what to do to the bitch was left up to Her. She polled the gathering and found not a single women there who did not want this woman cast out from the Daughterhood. She listened to the evidence, then retired for some time before coming back with Her judgment. When the decision came, though, we were stunned, dismayed. But you must trust Her will, for She is a wise woman. She had decreed that Medea take and accept Liza as her own child." "What did Shaz think?" he asked, assuming the man must have been outraged. "Shaz trusted Medea. She trusted the Great Lady. She told him the child was destined to be named his firstborn female heir and he accepted it." Conar snorted. "Men do stupid things when a woman has her claws on his—" "Stop!" She pursed her lips. "I will not hear such filth from your mouth!" He looked away, blushing. "I'm sorry." "So Medea went off to Ionary to visit Chase's mother. She stayed a year, and when she came home, she had the girl-child with her." "How did she explain the child being a year old?"

Dyreil shrugged. "I think that may have been the true start of the terrible rumor you believed about Liza being deformed. Whenever Medea took the child out in public, she covered her little face so no one would suspect her true age. After six months, it was all right to let people see her. They just said she was big for her age." "I can't believe Shaz would go along with all that phoniness, that deception." "Liza was Shaz's child. He loved her from the moment he set eyes on her. Do you remember when you first found out that Liza loved your children? Remember how you felt? Well, Shaz felt that way when he realized Medea loved his daughter." He wanted to change the subject. "What happened to her mother?" "She was punished by the Great Lady. She had dared to interfere with the destiny laid forth by the Great Lady's consort—the Master of the Wind." He looked at her with surprise. "It's true. Our Patroness is the mate to the Power to which you will be consecrated this eve. The Windmaster had carefully planned the mating of His champion and the Chosen Child of the Sea. But the die that was cast was not the one the Windmaster had thrown. But if the legends are true, the eldest daughter of Shaz and Medea would not have been the mate you deserved." Conar was even more confused. "Why not?" "Because according to the legends, only a girl-child of the royal seed of Oceania and a Daughter of the Multitude would satisfy the gods and Their ladies as a mate to the Champion of the Wind. Their mating would be a merging of sea and wind, the two most powerful forces in the universe. This whore had taken the power of the gods as her own, replacing the womb meant to conceive the wife destined for you, but she was of the Multitude, herself, and was of royal Oceanian blood, as well. She fit the legends even though she was not the one chosen to bear the firstborn girl-child of the house of Wynth." "What did they do to her?" His curiosity overcame his anger. "I will tell you in my own good time! Now, not only had this woman committed a sin against the Multitude with her deception, she had committed an even more vile sin against humanity. She had lain with a man of her own family, her own brother, to conceive her child." Conar was too shocked to speak. He turned pale. Liza? Born of an incestuous relationship between Shaz and this unknown sorceress? Dyreil nodded as though she had heard his thoughts. "She had seduced her own brother. The Sisterhood was livid with outrage. And because this bitch had used magic to do her dirty deed, she was condemned to be locked away so that she could not use her magic again in this world. She still has a limited amount of power, magnified by the man who is her Sentinel, but I think if the Daughterhood could, they would kill him so she can't channel what power she has left through him." "Who is he?" "We don't know. Only the Great Lady does and She would not tell us. For some reason She protects him. She cast the whore into a prison where her magic is usable. In the outside world, Raphaella's magic is weak. The only way she may leave her prison is if a Daughter calls her forth and I know none that stupid who would do such a dangerous thing." He had heard that name once before. He squinted, trying to remember where. "She is known as the Keeper of the Loom, for it is she who weaves the web of mischief that has plagued the Daughterhood off and on for nearly thirty years. She was a good friend to that slut who seduced you last eve. They call Raja the Webspinner. I have heard that the two women have always been thick as thieves. Two of a kind, if you ask me! "They are, I hate to admit, extraordinarily beautiful. Raja has that pale blond hair and those startlingly blue eyes. Raphaella is dark with pitch-black hair and eyes the color of dark emeralds. I've often heard it said that she is the most beautiful woman to have ever lived." She shrugged. "I suppose that is so. But I have always thought that beauty must first come from within, and that one has no beauty inside her, only evil.

"I've seen her," Conar whispered. He shuddered, remembering. "In the garden at Boreas." "Impossible. She cannot leave her keep. You have heard the stories of World's End? That is where she is imprisoned. No one who enters that keep may ever leave it again. No one!" "Bit Isaw her, Aunt Dyreil." "You can't have, I tell you! The only way she could have left is for someone to have summoned her and not even that bitch, Raja, would do such a dangerous thing!" "Liza was with her." He stood, his booted feet crunching the destroyed painting. "I spoke with her after Liza had gone." Dyreil's face blanched white. "Youspoke with Raphaella? What did she say?" He shook his head. It seemed vitally important that he remember her exact words, but a nagging feeling told him it would do no good. "She told me some silly riddle, but I can't remember it. It didn't seem all that important. There was something about…" He willed the memory to come. It was there, lurking. Just a touch of it, but it was enough to cause great grief in his heart and eyes. He turned a stricken face to his aunt. "She told me to beware the Spinner's brew." Dyreil drew in a harsh breath. "She knew what Raja intended?" "It would seem so." "What was the riddle? Can you remember any of it? Perhaps it will help to solve this thing." He shrugged. "All I remember is the overpowering urge I had to take her, right there, in the garden, on the ground like a common peasant, with my wife less than fifty feet from me. Looking at her actually made me ache with need even before she put her hands on me." "She touched you?" "Nothing came of it. I ran away." It was not a proud thing he had done, the running away, but he sensed from his aunt's reaction that it had been the prudent thing. "She is dangerous. Apparently even to her own daughter. If she could have, I am sure she would have had you that night. Make no mistake. What stopped you?" He plowed a shaky hand through his golden hair. "I thought of my…of Liza, of the great love I had for…" He glared at his aunt. "Why the hell have you told me this? What possible difference does it make?" Dyreil looked at him for a moment, fashioning just the right words. "If Raphaella has found a way to control her daughter's destiny, to manipulate Liza in order to either gain her eventual release from World's End or, in some way, to take revenge on the Multitude for her punishment, she'd let nothing stand in her way. Not Liza, nor Liza's love for you, nor yours for her. I don't think she would ally herself with the likes of Kaileel Tohre, but I can't be sure. If she could use his sordid love for you against you and Liza, to tear the two of you permanently apart, I think she would if it suited her purpose. Of course she professes to love Liza, but that may not be true." "You think she had a part in what Raja did last eve?" "If her intention was to separate you and Liza, it worked, didn't it? It effectively has driven a wedge between the two of you." "Liza did that with her unfaithfulness." He jammed his hands into his pockets. "What happens now, Conar?" He looked at the ripped painting of his wife. "Whether it is a scheme of her mother's doesn't matter anymore. She is Legion's woman now." His voice turned cold and bitter. "His responsibility." "Will you not try to reclaim her once you are home?" "I will not."

"Why?" she asked, her heart aching for him. "Because I no longer want the whore."

Chapter 16 Occultus sighed. It was only a matter of moments before Conar would enter the Wind Chamber. Only an hour before his true destiny would be settled on his broad shoulders along with the mantle of leadership. The sorcerer glanced at the men assembled and could find no fault in any of them. They had been chosen for their loyalty and their ties to Conar. Not a one would ever betray the young Prince. Even as Occultus' thoughts wafted around, his attention strayed to Chandling Wynth and a tremor of unease shot through him. He looked closer at the young man and shook his head to clear it of the slight nagging. Chand was Liza's younger brother. He loved Conar, would never harm him. Occultus focused his attention on the altar where it would all end. He knew Conar would appear as soon as he was finished with his prayers in the Sanctuary of the Gods where a golden statue of Alel, the Great Deity of the Serenian people, sat before a black marble altar. Occultus had felt a moment's displeasure that Conar had requested time alone in the Sanctuary, but he had put his fears to rest when Conar had turned a hesitant smile to him. "It is my birthright," Conar had said. "If I am to do the bidding of the gods, I must seek a blessing from Alel. I must find the peace that has been shattered this day." Reluctantly Occultus had agreed, but it had been with a strange feeling of doom. Now, as time dragged on, he was beginning to worry. What was the boy doing? Was he bargaining with his god? Occultus knew about the favor-granting that was part and parcel of the Serenian's religious training. They believed their god would grant a favor for a favor. Was Conar seeking such from Alel? Occultus hoped not, but in the back of his mind lay a feeling of unease that would not go away. If the boy asked a favor, and it was granted, what might his god require in return? Time would tell, Occultus thought dismally. Conar, despite all of his training, was still impulsive; if something did not immediately happen, Conar was often impetuous, headstrong, and nearly every time his impatience had gotten him into trouble. With all his heart Occultus hoped Conar would spend his last hours wisely instead of making bargains with false gods. If Conar had made a bargain with the Dark Forces, at the moment of his acceptance into the Wind Chamber, Occultus would know just by looking at him. *** He knelt, his hands clasped together on the thick marble altar as he stared into the golden face of Alel. He had been there for more than two hours, glaring into the calm, peaceful face of his god. It was a handsome face, strong, gentle, benign. The statue's spread arms beckoned Conar to place his burdens in the capable hands. Had it not been for the cold in his heart, Conar might well have done so, but his fury was beyond his control and he gazed at Alel with hatred. When he opened his lips to speak, his voice was hard and uncompromising. "From the moment I was conceived, You have manipulated me. I have never had free will. Not even my parents had a say in the way I was brought up. You let me spend my early childhood in the safety and love of my mother's arms and then You set me on a pathway to hell. You took away my childhood, forced me into a situation where fear and pain and degradation replaced the safety and comfort and love my parents had given. The things You allowed to be done to me when I was a child are unforgivable." He gazed at the statue with speculation. "Did You enjoy it, Alel? Did You take pleasure in watching me being beaten, starved, tortured? Did You laugh at my screams? Did You smile at my tears? Did the sight of a helpless boy being raped every night thrill You?" He clenched his fists. "Was it necessary?" He lowered his head until it rested on the cold marble of the altar. "Did I

need those horrible things done to me to become the man You wanted me to be?" He looked into the statue's face. "How do You justify the torture of a small child? What possible purpose could that little boy's torment have served?" He slammed his fist against the slab. "You used me! You let me suffer for Your own sick enjoyment! There was no lesson for me to learn. You wanted to see if You could break me! You wanted to know if Conar McGregor could be destroyed." Conar's teeth drew back in a snarl of rage. "But that wasn't enough! You saw that I could be broken and You let me be. Then You made me whole again when I left that horrible place. But You weren't finished! You had to let the pain carry over into my manhood, and it was there that it became even more unbearable!" His hands stretched out on the wide expanse of the altar as though he had been crucified to the stone. He gripped the black marble with fierce strength. "I could hear You laughing every time Liza disappeared. I could hear Your rumble of glee each time I was forced back into the loneliness You had made a special part of my life sentence." He slowly raised his tear-wet eyes to his god. "Why did You bother giving her to me, giving me such wonderful happiness, if You were going to take it away?" His voice quivered with agony. "Why let me glimpse what heaven could be like then send me to hell?" Tears coursed down his cheeks. His voice broke; his lips trembling. "What did I do? Why do You hate me? How did I fail You, Alel? I never once reneged on anything I swore to do for You. What did I do to incur Your wrath?" He sat dejectedly on his heels, his head sagging with defeat. He brought up his hands to cover his face, staring at his god through his fingers. "You were the first to betray me. I loved You, I respected You. I tried to keep Your commandants. I looked to You for help and what did you do? You punished me, took away everything I was or hoped to be. You took her away, took away my home, my family." He stared at the scars in his palms. In supplication, he held them up to the statue. "Look what You let them do! I will carry these for the rest of my life. Don't You think it's time the suffering stopped? Haven't I suffered enough to satisfy Your need to see me humbled?" He clenched his fists and pushed himself to his heels. "I think I've been punished more than enough! Your pupil has been chastised. He's learned his lesson. You have brought him down to his knees, pleading like a child, begging like the coward You have made him. What more do You want?" His pale blue eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. The air turned colder. "What more do you want? I've nothing left to offer. You want my life? Take it! It means nothing to me!" A wind began in the farthest corners of the room, a low keening sound that stirred his thick blond hair. "Isit my life You want?" The wind howled in denial. "You want me?" The sound surged, echoed across the small room. His face filled with a cunning light. "You want Your champion, is that it?" A rush of wind rocked him back. He grabbed the altar to keep from tumbling over. "You want the Chosen!" he shouted. "You want the Overlord of the Wind?" Freezing air blasted through the sanctuary and chilled him. "Then I demand something in exchange for all the suffering You have dealt me!"

Something painfully cold brushed across his face, seemed to pierce him, and he began to tremble with the frigid air. "You're going to have to give this time and not take away!" The room had become an antechamber of the farthest reaches of lightless space. Conar's hair blew wildly about his head, snapping into his eyes, blinding him, stinging his cheeks, hurting him, but he ignored it. "If You want Your warrior, the champion You say I am to be, then You're going to grant me what I want and You'renot going to demand anything in return!" A moan roared over the room, rattling the statue on its marble stand. "I'm not asking much," Conar whispered against the chilling wind. His cheeks went numb, his lips the same, but he forced words through chattering teeth. "I'm not asking to give her back to me. I'm not even asking You give back the years You stole. I'll chalk that up to my stupidity in believing in You, in believing that good existed somewhere in my wretched life!" The golden statue wobbled on its base. "It's a simple thing, really, a small request. A mere drop of compassion on Your part, if You are truly capable of granting compassion." He looked at the statue. "Youdo have power to do one simple thing, don't You? Youare all-powerful, aren't You, Alel, my god?" Blue light gleamed down from the azure eyes and shone like twin beacons on the kneeling man, impaling him. "You want me?" Conar shouted into the deafening roar of the ice-cold wind. "You want me to fight for You?" A burst of blue fire shot forth, landed on the altar slab, turning the marble to white light. "Then harden my heart, You bastard!" Conar screamed. "Turn it to stone within my breast! Cut out the mercy! Destroy the compassion! Toughen my soul! Harden it! Numb it! I don't care! Tear it out if You want, but smother every ounce of kindness and love left in it!" His voice was a scream of animal fury. "Erase the memories of her, those precious brief and shining moments You allowed me to know! Hollow me! Drain me! Make me as merciless and unfeeling asYou are!" The light upon the altar snaked up his arms. Burning pain made him howl with agony, but his voice bellowed into the cold wind. "I will be Your warrior! I will kill for You! Destroy for You!" "You do not know what you ask!"came a thunderous roar. "I know I don't want to hurt like this for the rest of my life! You caused this; You fix it!" "What you are asking is not the dominion of Alel—it is my help you seek, Conar McGregor. Not his!" "I don't care who grants me the favor!" He raised his fist from the slab and the light still clung to his flesh, flowing down his chest to his waist. "I am the Windmaster.I am your master, Conar McGregor!"the voice shook the statue, tumbling it from its slab. It fell and shattered. Conar became encased in the white light, his body burning with it. He forced down the scream of pain and turned his face to the blazing light pouring in a white-hot shaft from the ceiling. "You like hurting me, don't You?" He was in agony, but he would rather die than let loose the scream. "All of your kind do!" The statue's pieces vibrated on the floor. The room seemed to tremble. White light flooded the room until it was the only thing visible. "Heed my word, boy! If I grant what you wish, you will know a loneliness like nothing you have ever felt before. Are you sure you wish to experience the pain?"

Conar fell to the floor, his knees drawn up to his belly as the white light invaded every pore of his body. He groaned and convulsed as though he was in the grips of the Labyrinthian Fever. "This is pain, Conar McGregor!"the deity whispered. "This will be your pain if I drain you of everything you wish taken away." Lightning flashed from the ceiling, ran down the walls, crackling and snapping all along the floor, turning the ultra-lit room into a blazing starburst of silver light. The room turned to a freezing storm of slashing snow. "Shall I drain you of all humanity, Conar McGregor? I shall, if you wish—I will fill you with the spirit, the power, the hate of the Dark Wind!" "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he howled. "Take me and kill what is human left inside me!" Numbing cold spread through him. The taste of mercury filled his mouth. His hands formed into claws as his freezing fingers cramped. He was shivering so hard his teeth clicked together. "You have what you asked for, McGregor!"the voice rumbled. "Live with it!" He felt her slipping away, his love for her dying in his breast. He sobbed, his voice breaking, wretched and lost in his aching throat. He groaned. "Take her out of my heart, Master, " he whispered as the cold claimed him. "Take her out of my heart as You have taken her out of my life!" *** The doors to the Wind Chamber opened as though by unseen hands, and the men turned. Silhouetted against the bright light in the antechamber stood Conar McGregor. Occultus sighed with relief. He had begun to think Conar would not come. "Enter Prince of the Wind!" He raised his hand. "Enter and meet your destiny!" Conar's heart slammed painfully in his chest; he was finding it difficult to breathe. His experience in the sanctuary had made him weaker than he had thought; his legs felt like rubber as he slowly entered the Wind Chamber. He felt languid, feverish, but he was still cold inside, so cold his teeth chattered. One part of him screamed to escape this so-called destiny before it was too late. God, but he hated that evil word with its control of his life. Yet, another part of him longed for the power he knew would be invested in him. He hoped whatever god he had spoken with had listened to his plea and had taken from him that which he no longer would need. Compassion when he had taken Liza from his heart. His footsteps brought him closer to the future. With each step, he was shedding a portion of his other life, a life he hoped to leave behind forever. Gone would be the young man whose carefree lifestyle had endeared him to his people, brought smiles and laughter to those who knew him. Gone would be the young man who had wed the lady of his dreams. And lost her. Gone would be the heir to the throne of his homeland, for tonight he would denounce all claims on the McGregor name. Gone, too, would be the young man falsely accused of the seditious crime that had sent him to the whipping post, that had stripped him of his birthright and had tortured his body and soul, and had sentenced him to a living death in the bowels of Tyber's Isle. Gone would be the man who had allowed himself to be abused, who others had hurt, mocked, and bedeviled. Gone would be the man who'd had no control over his life. With each step toward the black marble altar, Conar McGregor shed his life as a young bird its birth feathers, and a young life would become an ancient one. He knelt before Occultus and bowed his head. "I am ready, Master."

Unfolding his tall frame, Occultus came to his knees. With a thin hand, he raised Conar's face and scanned it. A stabbing bolt of understanding hit the sorcerer. "Oh, Conar," he whispered, his fingers tightening on Conar's chin. "What have you done, child?" Conar's gaze never wavered. "What had to be done, Master." Occultus shook his head. "I would have had it differently for you." "It could be no different." Occultus stood, his hands extended to the kneeling man. As Conar's strong, capable hands settled in Occultus', the sorcerer drew him forward and embraced him. "You are truly the Chosen, my son," he said in a cracking voice. "Stand!" Jah-Ma-El called. The men in the room came to their feet. Occultus released Conar and turned to those gathered. "You have come to witness the consecration of this man to the Master of the Wind. Is there one among you who denies his right to ascend to that honor?" Heads moved emphatically back and forth. No one spoke. "Then I declare the ceremony may begin!" Conar was told to sit, facing his men, and Occultus stood behind him, his arms spread wide. The sorcerer began to chant in a language not heard for more than two hundred years. The war chant filled the air with a singsong, monosyllabic hum that sent musical vibrations throughout the room. With his head thrown back to the heavens, the black war bonnet cascading down his back, Occultus called on the gods of The People to aid the Lost Warriors to the Wind Chamber. He begged Their blessing on the young man seated at the base of the altar. In an ancient tongue of the Great Tribes, he summoned the warriors of the past to join them, to add their voices to the blessings. Sentian Heil felt something brush past his face. He looked around and saw nothing, but others turned their heads as well, and Sentian knew somethinghad flitted by him. Holm van de Lar was the first to see Them. He stared in awe as the walls seemed to ripple and the first of Them came through from the Other Side. "Sweet Holy Petunia!" He nudged Pearl Allegria. "Will you look at that?" Ghost-like images seemed to seep through the fieldstone walls. They soared upward as though caught by some alien current, streaking through the torchlight, haloed in the sconce light. They wafted upward with the smoke and incense and seemed to cover the ceiling, and then They soared downward and played about the heads of the men staring up at Them with gaping mouths. "Let us make welcome the Warriors of the Wind!" Occultus said in Serenian. "They are here to aid your Overlord!" Long dead voices spoke in different languages: Chalean, Ionarian, Viragonian, and Necromanian…the native languages of the men gathered. Their humming rose, Their voices singing in communion with Occultus who had resumed his war chant. They sang to a steady, hypnotic drumbeat that seemed to be coming from miles away. A soft throbbing began, like the sounds of a thousand horses' hooves. The walls and floor seemed to shake. The smell of sagebrush and mesquite mingled with the old smell of campfires and flaming wood. Thunder cracked outside the Wind Chamber and rain beat against the stone walls and cedar ceiling. "Come, Warriors of the Lost! Come and join us! Lend us Your wisdom and knowledge! Grant us Your protection for this man!" A howling wind ripped through the chamber and nudged the men against one another. Their hair was tossed wildly about their heads and their clothing rustled. They looked at Conar, sitting with a small smile on his face, and marveled that he seemed so serene. "Come, Mighty Warriors! Give him Your blessing! Let him know he is Your Chosen!" Conar felt eyes on him. White shapes moved about him, making him giddy as They spun and shifted, danced and whirled. He felt something touch his shoulder, his thigh, his ankle, his arm, and he inhaled deeply as an unseen hand smoothed his blond hair with a gentle, loving touch. He felt an invisible finger run down his scarred cheek, felt hands

caressing his scarred back. Something touched his forehead, lingered, then moved on. A hundred times he felt touches that he could not see, but felt all the way to his soul and beyond. "Is he Your Chosen?" Occultus shouted about the keening wind. With a horrendous crash, a single bolt of lightning shot through the ceiling and struck the center of the black crystal altar, setting the silver cloth to glowing. "He has been accepted by us!"a moaning voice shook the room. The wind grew to gale force and then calmed to a stiff breeze. "Sweet Holy Petunia!" Holm whispered again and the altar cloth sizzled with a gleaming intensity. "Kneel before your champion!" Jah-Ma-El told the men. The men sank to their knees and looked at Conar with awe-struck faces. Occultus stepped forward and took one end of the silver cloth in his hand. He pulled and another burst of spectral light shot through the room, making the men cover their eyes. "Behold!" On the altar was an array of deadly-looking weapons, each unique, each designed especially for Conar McGregor. "Bless these weapons!" Occultus said in his ancient tongue, and each witness was surprised he could understand the words. "Bless and Protect the man who will wield them!" A spreading silver mist formed over the altar. It began to rise in a spiraling shaft of blinding light until it reached the ceiling, where it flared into a prism of bright, multi-colored lights that resembled the giant spokes of a spinning wheel. "It is the Circle of Life," Occultus said. "And from it will come the mightiest of weapons!" The ghost images converged along the high walls, standing shoulder to shoulder around the chamber and held up Their arms toward the wheel image that had formed on the ceiling. "This is the Mandalon! This is the Great Circle of the Lost! Let he who sees it, see the beginning of life!" The wheel began to rotate counterclockwise, seeming to pick up speed as the long dead voices began to chant in a keening wail that filled the room. Everyone put their hands over their ears to stifle the penetrating sound. All except Conar and Occultus, who were beyond hearing anything. Their concentration was on one another. "Are you ready to assume your new station in life, Conar McGregor?" He nodded. "Then humble yourself at the Altar of the Wind!" Conar knelt on the cold floor and waited. Surges of immense power flooded his body; his skin fairly crawled with electricity. When the wheel above shrieked, he looked up, realizing he was directly under the glowing hub of the image. "You are at the Center of the Wind, Conar McGregor," Occultus told him. "Youare the Center of the Wind!" The wheel lowered as he watched. It shifted, tilted, straightened and moved closer. When the spokes began to break away from the central hub, Conar knew a moment's panic. The spokes turned, aimed at him, then began to move forward. A beam of light snapped up from the floor and washed over him, then through him. A tremendous force jolted him. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but it rocked him to his core. He jerked, and expectant, he looked at the descending spokes and saw they were nearly on him. "Look not at the danger that is coming to you, Conar McGregor!" Occultus warned. "Look to the way to stop it!"

The points of the spokes were razor-sharp and deadly-looking. They would penetrate flesh, bone, and marrow. His body glowed, lighting the way for the lethal missiles. He tensed, expecting to feel pain when the points made contact with him. The first one struck. He moaned as the shaft dug painfully into his shoulder. He could feel blood running down his chest and back. Spokes pierced his thigh, his side, his arm. He whimpered. The pain wasn't as bad as he had expected, but it stunned him. He was shocked to see Occultus grinning at him. "They strike and you are not mortally hit! Use your power to deflect the remaining spokes!" He saw two of the missiles aimed at his chest. He ground his teeth to his pain and held up his hands. When he did, he felt his entire being gripped by an unseen hand, squeezing his body. "You are in His hands, now!" Occultus said. "You belong to Him!" The Light pulsed around him, in him, through him, and he felt himself being claimed, branded, impaled with the power in that giant hand. His body felt fever-hot, then cold, then hot again. He trembled, he quaked, he stiffened. His breath caught in his throat, then rushed from him in a sudden burst. His heart pounded, his pulse slowed. He felt another burst of light shoot through him and then he felt an utter calm settle on him which he had long been denied. It was the peace of total and complete control. Of a mighty power that no other man had ever wielded or ever would. The energy flowing through him was impregnable, unconquerable, invincible. And he knew it. He reveled in it. He thrilled to the power that coursed through his veins. He felt, no, heknew, like the gods, Themselves, who sat in the vault of the heavens. Looking at his hands that somehow had nestled themselves within Occultus', he saw a silver glow racing along his flesh. He heard a voice coming to him from the depths of his soul. "You are the Chosen! The Warrior of Warriors. From the moment of your conception, you were marked with the power of the Great Ones. It is you who has been ordained as the Warrior Priest who will crush the Domination. Every pain you have suffered, you will be avenged. For every sorrow you have known, you will find release. For every man who has ever raised his hand to you, you will find ten thousand who will rally to your cause." Conar looked around, saw the men staring at him with love, respect, and awe. They were smiling, tears running down their faces. "You bargained for that which I had no desire to give you but I granted it unto you, Warrior of Warriors. From this night forward, you will no longer be the mortal, vulnerable man known as Conar McGregor. That man is no more. He is dead, as dead as the thorn bush. It is the spring of a new wind. It is the dawn of the Wind of the Dark!" Conar felt Occultus flinch. The sorcerer's hands jerked away from his. The pale blue eyes staring back at him with stunned disbelief and wariness were not the eyes of his teacher; they were the eyes of a man who fears and who knows why. He tried to smile at the sorcerer, to reassure him that he was the same man Occultus had trained, but the smile would not come to his lips. "What have you done?" Occultus whispered. "What have you bargained for, Conar?" He tried to smile again, but his lips felt frozen. He searched his heart to find the warmth that would reach out to Occultus, but found only cold and vacancy. He tried to feel compassion for the man's fear, but could not. He strove for any emotion and was shocked to find only hatred remained in his arsenal of feelings. "Oh, Conar," Occultus groaned. A tear fell down his lean cheek. "You are One with the Dark Wind, child. He has claimed you as His own." His shoulders slumped with misery. If the men gathered were aware of the great import of what had happened, they gave no sign. Conar reached out to Occultus.

"Not now. Don't touch me now." Conar felt the hurt deep in his soul and yet he felt a glimmer of hope, as well. If he had been totally drained of the humanity he had sought to have taken away, would he have felt the pain of Occultus' rejection? He wanted to say something encouraging, but Occultus pointed to the weapons on the altar. "These are forged for the Overlord of the Wind. They are his alone. Look upon them and know their purpose is the destruction of the enemies of the Wind." Black-handle daggers made of the purest obsidian, their ebony grips molded to fit only one man's fist, were arranged in a circle at one end of the altar. Seven daggers in all. One for each of the Seven Kingdoms. In the center of the altar slab was a deadly ebony crossbow. The black quarrels were fletched with raven feathers that glowed blue-black in the silver glow of the revolving wheel hub. Black caltrops, Death Stars, spears, boomerangs, and blow guns were clustered at the far end of the altar. At the opposite side of the altar was a folded garment made of what appeared to be black silk. On it were boots of soft black leather studded with silver conchos and tassels of braided rawhide. Wide black leather gauntlets and a belt of braided black rawhide lay alongside the garment. Three black feathers attached to a silver concho sat on one side of the garment and a single black onyx bracelet had been placed on the other side. It was the arsenal of the Chosen. Occultus picked up the bracelet, seemed to flinch as it settled in his aristocratic fingers, then walked to Conar. "This is your new marriage bracelet, Conar McGregor. With the placing of this bracelet, you become the earthly consort of the Lady of the Waters." Conar stood, not knowing if Occultus had mentioned this particular part of the ceremony or not. He waited until Occultus motioned for to join them. "Remove his shirt," Occultus ordered. Jah-Ma-El unlaced the shirt from behind, slid it over Conar's shoulders and down his chest. Jah-Ma-El's hands were ice cold on Conar's bare flesh. Occultus slipped the bracelet up Conar's left arm and settled in above his elbow. "She is a demanding mistress, Conar. She is the Keeper of the Gate, the Mate of the Wind. She will either be your strongest ally or your worst enemy. Anger Her and She will destroy you." He stepped back, his face filled with great sadness. "I can only give you one warning concerning her, my son. She is not as she appears to be." Conar's heart lurched. "The Great Lady?" Occultus nodded. "You are now Her husband." Overhead a shrill squeal sounded. The men looked up. The hub had stopped spinning and was pulsing with a deep silver glow. The glow began to dim. The torches and candles went out one by one until the only light came from the hub. "There is one more weapon you will need." Occultus lifted a hand toward the ceiling. With a heavy crash of thunder that shook the room with a reverberating roar, one of the spokes that had been aimed at Conar—and which had stopped at his command—broke free of the rest. With a blinding ray of pure blue light, it shot toward Occultus, sliding into his outstretched hand. The spoke burst into a ball of flames that lit the sorcerer's face like a demon visage from the Abyss. Conar stared at the flaming brand in Occultus' hand and marveled that the man's flesh did not shrivel. He saw a pained expression on the sorcerer's face, but knew the pain was an inner pain, not a physical one. He looked into the sad blue eyes that met his. "Against all I have ever wanted, against that which should have been, you have been given, not the weapon I had asked for or expected, but this one." He held his two hands around the base of the flaming brand and moved his arms in a wide arc above his head. The flames vanished, leaving in their place a mighty broadsword, its glistening black beauty awesome in its deadly purpose. The men sat in silent rapture before all light was sucked from the room. Then, a solid band of blue light leapt up from the floor and struck the tip of the sword's blade, ran down its length, encasing it in a starburst of blue light.

The sorcerer held the blade straight up in the air, both hands tight on the grip. "Behold!"Occultus shouted. "Behold the Sword of the Dark Wind!" Chase Montyne flinched. His face turned as white as the snows of his homeland. He met Shalu's startled expression, turned and sought Brelan's wide and shocked eyes. Shalu buried his face in his hands. "By all that is unholy." "What's wrong?" Rylan asked, looking from Chase to Shalu. "What's happening?" Tyne Brell stared at the weapon in Occultus' hands. He had never seen its equal and knew he never would again. This was a weapon of such sinister beauty and awesome lethality, that he was afraid of it. He shuddered. This, indeed, was what his old fencing instructor would have called a "widow-maker." The pommel was black obsidian spiraled from tip to shank in a wide grip. A crescent of silver curved downward on each side of the pommel and to each side it swirled in twin arcs above the huge hilt. Each arc and the top of the pommel were embedded with gleaming diamonds that caught the light and refracted it around the darkened room. The hilt was fashioned like a stretched out "W," the bladeguard a double section of curving black onyx, and the X-shaped blade with its four deadly cutting edges was three feet of black carbide steel. Sharper that anything known to man, better than the best the mountains of Ionary could provide. The tip of the blade caught a fleeting beam of light and the point burst into a multitude of fiery shafts. "This is the Deathwielder!"a voice boomed from the four corners of the room. "It was the sword of the Dark Warrior who is death! Now, it is the sword of our Chosen! The man who wields this worthy weapon is death to his enemies!" Occultus pointed the sword at Conar's heart. He had one brief burst of fear that his hand would slip and run the young man through. A part of him almost wanted to. To end this before it got out of hand. "Give him his weapon, Warlock!"the voice commanded. Grief ravaged Occultus' face. "Do you accept this fate, Conar McGregor?" Conar grasped the sword's blade with both hands, barely feeling the razor-sharp edges cutting furrows in his palms. "I accept everything the Dark Wind has granted. I am His champion." Occultus wanted to pierce Conar's heart, for only weapons forged for the Overlord of the Wind could ever kill him, destroy him. He could be hurt by other weapons, weapons that could draw the blood from his body, rend his flesh, but none save the ones forged for his hand, and his hand alone, could take his life. He stared into Conar's raised eyes and knew a moment of indecision. Should he allow this young man to live his life without warmth, or love, or compassion? Should he set loose on the earth a man who was no longer human, but possessed with the power of the Darker Forces of Justice. "I am the Chosen," Conar told him, reading his thoughts. "There will be no other like me. No other will follow. If I lead, I lead. What's it to be, Occultus?" Occultus let out a wavering sigh of emotion. "Aye, you are the Chosen." He withdrew the sword from Conar's grip, winced at the bloodstains on the blade, and then held out the sword, extended in his own hands toward Conar. "It is your weapon." Conar took the sword. The sorcerer retained his own hold on the weapon. One tawny brow cocked in question. "You must know your weapon, Conar McGregor. You must understand the chilling power you have been given with its possession. "In the pommel are the stones of power. Crystals placed there by the gods. "Agate, to strengthen your vision; Rose quartz, to strengthen your hearing; Jasper, to give you the strength you will need to wield this blade; Garnet, to hone your willpower; Adventurine, to increase your perception; Peridot, to give you patience; Tiger Eye, for courage; Bloodstone, to insure you long life; Moonstone, so that your emotions will be balanced; Sodalite, in order for you to know great physical endurance; Smoky quartz, so you may win any challenge; Chrsysocholla, to dispense with guilt and fear; and Rhodocheosite, to relieve you of emotional stress. "The blade has been forged with the crushed stones of amber so that you can absorb negative energy; Amethyst, to increase your clairvoyant power; Selenite to aid your telepathy; and Tourmaline to attract the cosmic forces to you.

"The obsidian dissolves any illusions you may have. You must understand that you are the Warrior of Warriors!" Occultus let go of the blade. He turned to the others and motioned for them to stand. He raised his hands in blessing over Conar's head. "Behold! I give you the Dark Overlord of the Wind! Let no man stand against him! By the right of the Great Ones, by the blessings of the Lost Warriors, by permission of the Master of the Wind, Himself, I consecrate this warrior to the Dark Wind!" Chase, Shalu, Jah-Ma-El and Brelan winced almost in unison. This was not what had been wanted. Each of the four had more than a working knowledge of sorcery, and the forces instilled in Conar were terrifyingly powerful. A shiver ran down their bodies as they each realized just what an untouchable foe Conar would truly be. Conar trembled with the power cascading through him. The hair on his head and arms, legs and chest vibrated. His breaths came in ragged cadence to the wild beating of his heart. He could barely see for the tears streaming down his cheeks. He was oblivious to the blade burning his palms. The ruby red blood dripping to the floor meant nothing to him. "At least the Black Ascendancy has not sent…" Chase stopped, his heart stilling. "No," he groaned, listening to the sound that had blocked his words. "Pray the gods,no!" A high-pitched shriek penetrated the room. A black shape darted down, swooping with sharp talons extended, and came to land solidly on Conar's right shoulder. Conar looked into the red glare that seemed to impale him. He felt a quiver of apprehension before the black shape shrieked again, flapped its wings, and folded them around itself. "No!"Occultus leapt forward, but was too late. With a suddenness that left Conar stunned, the black shape melded into the flesh of his sword arm. "Conar, no!"Shalu fell to his knees before Conar. "Oh, god,no!" Conar felt the searing, blinding, tearing agony and could not stop the scream that bubbled out of his mouth. He pitched forward and lay still, his fingers still clutching the blade. Brelan came off the platform, Chase at his side, Jah-Ma-El close behind, and the three formed a semi-circle around Conar. Tears running down his cheeks, Shalu looked into their tight faces. "By all the gods, this is a most evil thing that has entered our friend." The others began to shift uneasily forward, straining to see, but stilled when Occultus, his voice edged with terror, howled in panic. "Know you not who this is?" His hands shook so badly he had to fold them under his armpits. "The legends named him long ago. Thisis the Dark Wind. This isConar!" Conar's eyes snapped open. Those closest to him—Shalu, Brelan, Jah-Ma-El and Chase—saw clearly in the murky light and drew back with gasps of fear and disbelief. Shalu moved back from Conar with a look of terror. "You mustn't look at…" Shalu began, but Roget brushed him aside. Conar's eyes, so brightly blue like the sky on a lovely summer's day, had darkened to a deep, deep sapphire. The pupils began to elongate even as the men watched, stretching like those of a feline, then turned a feral red in the dim light cast from the wheel overhead. They pulsed, glowed, turned a murky, spectral green chatoyancy like a cat's eyes in a sudden beam of light in the dark, and then glowed red again. The green returned, stayed only a second, then the pupils returned to their normal size and the alien colors fled. The dark blue color remained. More had changed within those frightful eyes than just the color or the shape. A silver fleck of deadly power shimmered in the depths. Each man clearly saw the leashed power. "Conar McGregor is truly no more," Chase whispered. "This man is the Raven. He has been marked with the sign of the Dark Wind!" He pointed to twin black intersecting arcs on the back of Conar's sword hand. The mark looked like a

child's drawing of a bird in flight. Instinctively, the men edged back as the young man sat up. They watched as he stared at his palms. The pentagon was no longer there, but two red, scorched lines diagonally bisected the cuts caused by the sword so that a cruciform now scarred his palms. The Seals of the Domination that had negated his powers were gone. In their place was a Seal far more powerful. The X-shaped brand of the Black Ascendancy, Itself. Conar looked into Occultus' stunned face and smiled, but there was no warmth in that smile, no emotion on his finely chiseled lips. He held up his hands for the sorcerer to view. "I have what I asked for, Teacher," he said in a deadly voice. Brelan shuddered. The smile his brother had bestowed on Occultus had frightened that man, had frightened them all. It wasn't a human smile; it was a predatory leer. It was a smile as full of evil intent and revenge as any smile Brelan had ever seen emblazoned on the face of Kaileel Tohre! Conar turned over his right hand and stared at the black mark on his flesh. His smile slipped away. "It is the Brand of the Dark Wind," Jah-Ma-El whispered. Prince Conar McGregor pushed himself up from the floor. He met each gaze for a moment, silently passing his regard from one man to the next until he met Brelan's worried look. He held up his hand so Brelan could see the mark. "See what betrayal does to a man?" he asked. The deadly smile returned. "It changes him."

Chapter 17 During the time their leader was concluding his studies with the instructors Occultus had chosen for him, those men who would be making up the phalanx of Conar's troop were undergoing specialized training of their own. Occultus made sure they were turned into an elite fighting unit with each man responsible for certain areas of operation. Brelan would be second in command, answerable only to Conar. He would be in charge of every aspect of military maneuver, overseeing the carrying out of each mission. Third in command was Shalu. His job was to oversee arms and ammunition. Directly under him was Roget du Mer who, as Sergeant-at-Arms, was given supervision over the men who would form the fighting force. Grice and Chand were put in charge of the physical training of the recruits; Tyne, a swordsman of great expertise, was put in charge of the training of the combat troops. Chase was put in charge of the archers; Rylan was given charge of the special unit that would be part of the covert operations force. Thom had charge of the animals that would move a major force of fighting men; Sentian was given total supervision of the war horses and the training of the beasts plus overseeing the instruction of the riders. Xander Hesar, along with Johnson Herndon from the Labyrinth, became the Force's two-man medical unit, and would later train nearly a dozen others as assistants for the field. Paegan and Holm were put to use in re-fitting theBoreas Queen, turning her into a man-'o-war with sails borrowed from theVortex. They painted the ship jet black once they had scuttled the prison transport, and they gave her a new name:The Ravenwind. Her ensign, a blood-red standard adorned with a screaming black raven, was hoisted up the topgallant and proudly proclaimed the ship the property of the Wind Force. Ching-Ching and Pearl would be training the troops in hand-to-hand combat; Belvoir was given the job of keeping those troops in line. Storm would train the cavalry and chose two of the men who had joined them from the Labyrinth, Nyles Belyeaux and Kirke Lanier, to help him. Misha was asked to train the troops in signals and code, and Ward would be responsible for seeing those codes were sent.

Jah-Ma-El, loath to do any physical labor, was allowed to do what he did best—create mischief with his magic. In all, twenty-two men, plus Conar, made up the original force, now known as the Brotherhood of the Wind, but the men called themselves the Wind Force and they were well-trained, well-disciplined and capable. But more importantly, they were ready and eager to do battle with the evil that had destroyed their lives, had scattered and slaughtered their families, and had made them fugitives—penniless, homeless, and madder than hell. At Occultus' suggestion after the consecration of their leader to the Dark Wind, each of the men took new names, code names, by which they would now be called. Each swore an oath of allegiance, in blood and on the graves of their dead loved ones, to carry out to the best of their ability the total and final destruction of the Domination. By doing so, they took on a challenge that would defy the demons of the Abyss. "So you will know one another, and those who will join our cause," Conar told them, "I will give you a sign with which to greet one another." He lifted his right hand straight out in front of him and made a fist. He then extended his thumb and little finger outward, then curved them inward. "This is the sign of the Raven." It became a salute, one man to another. Emperor Tran had his arsenals opened, his blacksmiths working overtime, and his military training rooms available and at the disposal of the men. Shalu had sent word to his homeland, via the network of spies that regularly transversed the border between Necroman and Chrystallus, that his people were to gather the finest horses, break them, and ready them for the troops that would be converging in his homeland. Craftsmen from the two countries were set to work manufacturing special clothing, tailor-made for the individual warrior. Every important area of military operation was covered. Within two months, information concerning Kaileel Tohre's doings began to trickle in. Rylan's covert operatives had spread out in the Seven Kingdoms, gathering information, feeding it back through the growing network of spies that the men jokingly called theundercurrent. With each bit of news, a growing file on the whereabouts of troops, arsenals, shipping routes used by the Tribunal Guards, and prison camps where detainees were kept was compiled. It was passed on to those whose job it was to evaluate the information and give their recommendation to Brelan and ultimately, Conar. Along with the scattered bits of worthwhile information, came a man here, a woman there, who sought to work with the underground resistance force rallying against Kaileel Tohre and the Brotherhood of the Domination. Each new recruit was checked, re-checked, and checked still again. Most were evaluated by at least three individuals before allowed access to secret training camps throughout the Seven Kingdoms, set up by men personally trained, and vouched for, by one of the original twenty-two man vanguard. No man or woman came searching for the Wind Force without either a noble or valid reason. But if a recruit proved untrustworthy, he disappeared, meeting an end as befitted his deception. Fortunately for the Force, such traitors were few and far between and caught at the beginning of the operation. Those who had proved themselves worthy were given a chance to play a major part in returning things to the way they had been before. Not a single one of the recruits met Conar. As far as they were concerned, the Emperor Tran, under the directorship of the sorcerer Occultus, was leading the battle force. The men they trained under—Sentian, Storm, Thom, Ward or the others—were introduced as loyal warriors who had fled their homelands to Chrystallus. No one saw the blond man who stood in the room where they were being questioned, for his black outfit hid all but the deadly gleam in his alien eyes. His was the image of an executioner as he stood silently with arms crossed over his thick chest, booted feet wide apart, staring intently at the recruit; and not one potential recruit ever questioned who he was nor did they deem it safe to speculate. Sometimes, though, as in the rare cases of Tribunal and Domination spies, he was the last sight they ever saw this side of the Abyss. It had been inevitable that word would get back to Tohre that a sizable force was gathering in the mountains of Chrystallus. Spies for the Domination were eagerly awaited, and each new recruit was looked upon with wariness and caution until he or she was proven safe. But such was the Arch-Prelate's ego, he paid scant attention to what useless bits of information were fed back to him concerning the Force. He ordered a haphazard investigation, and when he received word that the troops were ill-trained, outnumbered by his own guard, and poorly outfitted, he took the messenger at his word. Something Conar made sure he did. Since Tohre had gained no foothold, did not hold any power, in the icy country of Chrystallus nor in the jungle country of Necroman, he was content to let the renegades exist unbothered. There would be time enough to crush them if they ever made it to Serenian soil. After all, he reasoned, what force could stand against his seasoned Tribunal Warriors and Temple Guard?

Not that it mattered. Tohre's fate had been sealed many years before when a six-year-old boy had raised horror-stricken eyes and cried to Alel for help. *** On the night before the departure, a feast was prepared for the men and women who would be making the wicked trek through snow and ice to their final destination—Serenia. Wine flowed generously. The food was cooked to perfection and was so abundant, come morning the leftovers would feed nearly all the poor inside the palace grounds. Laughter ran through the celebration hall where commoner and royalty mingled for one last abandoned time before they buckled down to their dangerous work. Occultus sat watching Conar. He had become a force to be reckoned with, this blond-haired warrior of warriors. His natural abilities, his regal bearing and inbred sense of right and might, had come back swiftly over the last two years of training. He had been used to command before Tyber's Isle; he had been accustomed to having authority, making demands and decisions, sure they would be carried out without question. The Labyrinth had tried to steal those qualities, but in the end, he had discovered they were only lying dormant, ready at his command to spring forth. Leadership had come back as a natural extension of the authority he wielded, just as the authority had come back with the confidence his men had in him. He had honed those qualities of command like he had honed his magnificent body. With determination, with perseverance, and with success. He had become a man for whom other men warily stepped aside. The icy-steel gaze was cold to those he did not trust or instinctively recognized as foe, lethal to those he knew meant him or his cause harm. The hot stare he could turn off and on like a water tap warned those intelligent enough to realize he meant business, that he wasn't a man you crossed and got away with it. He was loved, but also feared; he was admired, but treated with caution; he was respected, but left alone. No one really knew what lay hidden in the depths of those cold, alien, sapphire eyes. Occultus watched Conar smile at something his son said and shivered. That smile was evil, as cold as the ice on the crests of his birth-mountains. And his laughter, when he laughed, was just as cold as his eyes, and as deadly. The sorcerer couldn't shake the feeling that something so vile, so malevolent, so intent, lurked behind that coldness, watching, waiting, yearning to leap forward and destroy, that even Conar could not control it. Should that nameless force ever erupt, Occultus doubted if Conar would even try. Closely watching his pupil, taking in the way the warrior missed nothing going on around him, the hard mouth, the strong hands toying with his dagger, the restless way he shifted in his chair, Occultus knew the time of the Dark Wind had come. This man was as ready as he would ever be, and only time would see the final solution to his problems. Leaning back in his chair, the sorcerer lowered his head, saying a prayer for the peace of mind Conar had always been denied. If things in Serenia were as bad as Occultus suspected, Conar would thirst for even more blood and vengeance, and there were helpless ones who would suffer greatly in the pursuit of his goal. Innocent, helpless ones…like Elizabeth A'Lex. Occultus worried about her. As he worried about the strangeness developing in Conar. There were things Occultus had been told about his pupil that made the ice along his spine shift. Conar never looked into mirrors anymore. Perhaps the image of himself hurt too much. His face was like carved granite, his mouth set. There was no more warmth in his face than there was in his voice. The mirror no doubt let him see what he thought of himself and the ravages of his scarred cheek was nothing in comparison to his savaged soul. And his sleep was not as it should be. The void of his grief over the news of his wife's unfaithfulness was slowly being filled with too many hours of taxing work and nights spent planning for the downfall of his enemies. When he wasn't on the training fields, he was running along the mountain roads with Chand Wynth. When he was not climbing the cliffs, barefoot and shirtless, he was on the archery field with quiver after quiver of quarrels at his feet. He was up long before dawn, awake long after moonrise. He didn't seem to need that much rest, but the haunted look in his eyes was mute evidence that his soul needed something his body would not allow it to have. Brelan had tried to reason with him. "Don't let anger overcome you! The whole Force knows you're still distressed over the situation in Serenia." "Allow me my distress!" Conar had shouted. "That is all I have left. Don't try to take that away from me as well!"

"It's a sin to punish yourself for something beyond your control." "My sins aremy sins and I will be the one to atone for them!" Shalu had also tried to talk to him, but despite his persistence and bullying, had gotten no further than had Saur. "Why the hell did you do that?" Shalu shouted when Conar had sent a woman recruit fleeing from the room in hysterical tears. "I don't need a babbling female getting in the way of my men! She wasn't Force material." "She was a well-trained spy! Rylan, himself, trained her!" "If he trained her, it must have been under the sheets!" "I did not!" Rylan shouted. "She's a married woman!" A vicious and chilling laugh came from Conar. "They make the best whores, don't they?" Occultus had shaken his head when the men repeated Conar's words to him. But Brelan's hurt was the hardest to explain away. "I thought I knew him better than anyone, Occultus. Now I realize I never knew him at all." "You knew the man he was. The new man you see is still in his birthing." "The gods help us when he comes to full age!" Shalu snorted. "You don't want to provoke him," Occultus warned. "This new man is a formidable opponent not to be underestimated. His pain is beyond tears, beyond even agony as humans know it. It is a raw and bleeding wound, festering and malignant, alive with squirming parasites. And just like any wounded animal, he's dangerous." "I realize his suffering and humiliation was more than any man should've had to bear," Brelan agreed, "but he is becoming the evil done to him." "There's something wrong with him," Pearl added. "What happened to his ability to love?" "The Dark One sucked it out of him," Chase Montyne murmured. Occultus wanted to change the subject. "One of you will have to try to make him listen. I would nominate Saur, but I think you and Conar have been at loggerheads too often. He needs someone he won't pummel if the mood strikes him." "Like who?" Jah-Ma-El quipped. "Like you," Shalu answered. And so Jah-Ma-El had gone reluctantly to the archery field that next morning where Conar was busy hitting target after target dead center. "May I speak with you?" a nervous Jah-Ma-El inquired as he stood twisting his hands. "What do you want?" "I think you know." He looked up when his brother made a hateful snort. "Occultus sent you to lecture me on my conduct?" There was fire in the cold eyes, heating them to the boiling point. Conar's body was rigid with distrust and anger. "Why the hell can't you talk to a person in a civilized manner?" "Because I'm not a civilized man, you son-of-a-bitch!" "I can see that." Jah-Ma-El started to walk away. "Don't turn your back on me!" Conar shouted.

Jah-Ma-El looked over his shoulder. "If you want to feel sorry for yourself, that's your business. But I don't have to watch you do it!" Occultus frowned at the aging warlock when Jah-Ma-El reported to him. "You got no further than I expected, Jah-Ma-El." "There's has to be a way to reach him," Grice sighed. He looked at his best friend. "If anyone can, it will be you." And so Brelan was sent again. Conar looked at him as he sat beside him at the indoor pool. The two didn't speak. Conar sat for a moment, expecting Brelan to open the conversation. When he didn't, Conar dove into the pool and surfaced at the far end, staring across the rippling water at Brelan. "I take it it's your turn to bedevil me for awhile," he yelled, treading water. "Aren't you supposed to try to make me ashamed of the way I've been behaving?" Brelan simply stared. Conar sank beneath the water, swam a long time under the gently lapping waves, then bobbed up in front of Brelan. "Are you supposed to wear me down with that look?" His lips curled in scorn. "You can't, you know." "Why don't you grow up?" Steel sharpened Conar's words. "Why don'tyou just leave me the hell alone?" "You may think you've reached the point where you don't need anyone, little boy. Physically that may be so, but I don't think you'd really like to be left alone, would you? Didn't you get enough of that at the Labyrinth?" Quiet, ravaging pain entered those cold eyes. When Conar answered, he spoke of himself in a self-degrading tone, belittling the man he once was. "That man didn't like being alone; I don't care one way or the other. I'm stronger than he was." "No, you've just developed a nasty habit of thinking only of yourself." Conar's mouth twisted with fury. "I gave up my life for the good of the Wind Force! What the hell didyou give up?" "The only thing you gave up was your ability to be reasonable! This damned snotty attitude is wearing thin! If you don't watch out, you're going to wind up having someone's fist rammed through your face!" Conar came out of the water in a lunge of fury. He splashed water over Brelan in the process and reached down with vengeful hands to pull Saur to his feet. "You wannatry putting your fist through my face?" Brelan looked into a face rabid with rage, filled with hate, but held his ground. "You want a fight? You can't carry on a normal conversation withanyone without your temper making a fool of you. If you want to hit me, go ahead; I won't stop you. That's all you know how to do anymore—to push everyone who cares about you as far away as possible!" "Who the hell do you think you are?" Conar's hands tightened on Brelan's shirt. "Your brother." Conar's body was tight with coiled fury. He shoved away Brelan. "Leave me the hell alone before I wind up hurting you!" "Sooner or later you're going to need someone's help in handling what's causing this anger. You can't do it on your own. Can't you see that?" "I don't need anyone's help! I don't needyour help! Just get out of my sight! Get out of mylife!" He turned to go, but Brelan gripped his shoulder and spun him around. "And that's something else that's gotten to be a nasty habit. Running away when the truth gets too close for your liking!"

Conar drew back his fist, intent on smashing it into Saur's smirking face. "Do it," Brelan said. "You've been wanting to." "Damn you!" Conar spat, lowering his fist. "Why can't you mind your own business?" "Because I love you. I'm worried about you, just like all the men are. This brooding is destructive. Something has to be done to snap you out of this moroseness." The grief had been driven deep. It had brutalized his soul. And he didn't know how to deal with it. He was hurting and knew Brelan understood, but he didn't know how to go about exorcising it from its hiding place. "What do you want from me?" He shook free of his brother's hold. There was such paralyzing pain in the dark eyes. "No matter what I do, it's wrong!" "Sit down? Will you talk to me?" Brelan reached out to touch him but he backed away. "What are you afraid of? Are you afraid to let people close to you anymore?" "People who get close to me have a way of getting hurt." "So you keep them at a distance? What kind of life is that?" "A life of not being bothered by bumbling fools and incompetent jackasses! I can't, andI won't, tolerate fools who I have to mollycoddle and lead about by the ears! If a man doesn't know his job, he'll not be one of mine for long. I'll not be anybody's babysitter. Not even yours!" Brelan's patience snapped. "How can you be so damned stupid? My god, you're become cruel and insensitive as well as unreasonable. You hurt people just for the sake of doing it. Do you really think that makes you better than those you sneer at?" "I'm not sneering at anyone! I just want to be left alone to do what I have to do. Stay the hell out of my way and you won't have to worry about my insensitivity or unreasonableness!" "God, I wish you'd listen to yourself!" "Just walk away and let it go. You're not going to change how I feel, you're not going to lessen the hate I feel—" "Most men don't hate like you do. They learn to forgive and forget. Your hatred is growing." "Most men haven't been where I've been. You don't forget hell; you don't forgive those who sent you there." "Is Liza one of those to be blamed for your sojourn into hell?" Conar stilled, his tawny brows drawing together in sudden hurt. The scars that slashed across one bronzed cheek jumped. "Why won't you let go of it? There's so much you don't understand; things I can't tell you about now. If you don't let go of the hurt, it's going to cripple you. It makes the loneliness worse." Conar shook his head. "I'm way past the point of being lonely." "You know what I see when I look at you? A heart that was once warm and tender and sweet turning cold and hard and bitter. There doesn't seem to be anything I can say to stop that from happening. The horrible things that have happened to you keep haunting you, wearing away the fabric of your sanity. One day, only a slender thread will remain if you don't let us help. Just like the rest of us need your help. The men of the Force are like the branches of an oak. We can reach out to shade and protect our lands, but without the mighty oak, itself, alive and well and flourishing, the branches will wither and die.You are that oak. Without you, we don't stand a chance." "I don't want to lose any more people I care about. If I don't let them close to me, it won't hurt so bad if they leave." Brelan understood now. He put his hands on Conar's shoulders, surprised when his brother didn't move. "We're not going to leave you. We're here for you. Whether you like it or not." Conar's voice was dead, emotionless, but the fear on his face was there. "The gods bless you with something and They see how happy it makes you. They let you keep it for awhile, treasure it, grow to depend on it. But if you grow to

love it too much, They get jealous, angry, so They punish you by taking it away. Eventually They may give it back if you're willing to pay a high enough price. But always,always, in the back of your mind, is that fear that They're going to take it away from you again, and the next time They'll take it away for good." He looked away. "Like They took Liza from me." "Conar, she's—" He held up his hand. "Never bring her up to me again. I mean it." Brelan watched Conar walk away. There was no longer the livid rage on the scarred face, but there was still the distance that had erected a barrier no one seemed able to climb.

Chapter 18 Three events shaped the man the Wind Force would know as Raven. The first had been Raja DeLyle's sorceress seduction of him. Even after being told the elixir meant for him had been tampered with, he still blamed himself for succumbing to her. He had wanted to keep himself as pure as the last day he had seen his beloved lady, Liza. He had wanted to be able to look into her lovely face, take her in his arms, swear his love had been as faithful as it was on the day he had been taken from her. Secondly, Raja's declaration of Liza's betrayal, and with whom, had torn at his heart, had shattered what was left of the idealistic young man he had once been. It wasn't so much the fact that she had been lover to three of his brothers, or that she had borne children by each of them. It would have been cruel, and foolish, for him to expect a woman who believed her husband dead to remain chaste and celibate, especially a woman as vital as Liza. And he knew how much she'd cared for Brelan and Legion. Both men loved her, as well, and if truth were told, it would have been Legion he would have seen with her. That she had slept with both men hurt him, but he understood. What had hurt him the most was the time in which she had done it. Over and over in his mind he heard those twice-damned words that Raja had screamed at him. "She waited all of two months!" The bitch's assertion that Liza had been pregnant before her wedding to Galen had been confirmed by his aunt. In his mind, he saw, not the woman he had loved so desperately, but a woman who had long craved the crown of Serenia, and a woman who had eventually gained it, not once, but twice. Legion's part in all that had happened did not go unnoticed, either. Conar had expected A'Lex to protect Liza, to see that Galen did not realize his plan to marry her. But Legion had failed. He had allowed the cursed marriage to take place and had been unable to keep Galen from taking Liza. A betrayal in itself, Legion's marriage to Liza after Galen's death only served to make Conar even more furious with him. He started to hate his brother, and that hate began to fester into something more…the red-hot stab of unnatural jealousy and brooding revenge. Oddly enough, he didn't seem to mind Brelan's part in the affair. For reasons he could not understand, Conar pitied Brelan. It might well have been because he knew Saur, like him, had loved and lost the one woman he would ever love. That, Conar knew, was punishment enough. And then there had been the murder of Se Huan. Even under ordinary circumstances, when a good and cherished friend dies, the ones left behind are stunned, numbed by what has happened, unwilling, and often unable, to accept the finality of the situation. Se Huan had become Conar's oasis of calm and tranquillity in his disorganized life. She had chased away his nightmares and lovingly given herself to him in the only way in which he could honorably accept her. And she had understood. She had not pressed him for something he could not, and would not, give. It was her devotion, and quite possibly her love for him, that had ultimately taken her life, and he was all too aware of that. It was her dying, unknown and unfelt by him, that tore at his heart. He blamed himself for not being able to protect her as she had protected him. His inability to do so ate at him, turned him bitter with self-contempt.

"If I can't even protect one small girl, how the hell am I supposed to protect a kingdom?" he had asked Occultus. Despite his friends' best efforts, his vicious, unsettling attitude seemed to grow steadily as though it was a malignancy. Something else happened that would cause him sleepless nights and problems—Raja's disappearance. One moment she was in the custody of Tran's donjon, the next she was nowhere to be found. Obviously she'd had help, either mortal or supernatural, but her whereabouts could not be traced. She was gone, her two accomplices mysteriously slain. Along with Raja's disappearance, two arrows and two daggers from Conar's personal arsenal came up missing. *** Brelan sat beside his younger brother by the fireplace in their uncle's study. "We'll be leaving on the evening tide. Holm will drop anchor near Fealst and I'll find a way to get to Boreas on my own." "You'll be careful?" Saur smiled. "As careful as I ever am." Conar snorted. "Try a bit harder, okay?" Brelan put a heavy hand on Conar's knee. "I will." He stared into Conar's face. "I'll never get used to your eyes being that odd color." "The darker the eyes, the darker the soul." Brelan looked away. He was used to self-contemptible words from his brother, but it still made him uneasy. He wanted to change the subject. "How long do you think it will take you to get to Shalu's palace?" "A week. Ten days, tops." A strong hand went through flowing blond hair. "I don't know how long we'll be there, but you know how to get word to me as soon as you've reached Boreas." "What am I going to say to Legion?" Brelan was nervous about the answer. "Don't tell the bastard anything." Conar stood and walked to the sweeping window that faced the east. "By the time the Raven comes calling at his door, he'll know all I want him to know." "But shouldn't I tell him about us? After all, he isn't our enemy. He should be apprised of what we're going to begin." He turned and fixed his brother with a hard stare. "Tell him nothing. Understood?" "Not even that you're alive?" "Especially not that!" Brelan walked to him, laid a hand on Conar's shoulder. "They have a right to know you're alive. At least let me tell Eliza—" Agonized fury tore across his scarred face. He grabbed Brelan by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. "I will see you in hell before I will let that happen!" he sneered into Brelan's strained face. "You don't tell her shit!" "Why?" It was as though reason suddenly returned to him and he realized he had his brother pressed against the wall. He backed off, his hands spread wide. He viciously shook his head. "I wantno one to know I'm alive. Do you hear? Promise me you won't tell anyone." "I don't see what harm—" "Dammit! Promise me!" "All right!"Brelan yelled back.

Conar relaxed. He sat on the hearth again. "I have my reasons." There was no sense arguing with him, Brelan thought. He'd lose. Men didn't argue with Conar; they obeyed him. "I'll do what you want, Raven." A derisive laugh came from Conar's chiseled mouth. "You have trouble saying that name?" Brelan frowned. "I'm just not used to it." "It's always been my name, did you know that?" At Brelan's look of inquiry, Conar lifted one thick brow. "In the ancient Oceanian tongue, the word 'Conarus' means 'black-winged scavenger.' If that is what I am to become, the name is fitting." "Tohre will think so." The laughter left Conar's lips. "He'll not like my scavenging, that's for certain. Soon, there will be nothing that bastard does that I won't know about." *** Brelan was already on boardThe Ravenwind, Paegan and Holm saying their good-byes to the other men. Conar stood on dock, gazing up at the ship that was, by rights, his. He sighed. When he was little, he had sailed on theBoreas Queen with Holm. He had enjoyed it more than anything else in his childhood. "She's a beauty, isn't she?" a soft voice intruded on his memories. Xander Hesar, the Healer, walked toward him. "She'll do her part." "As will we all." "I'm sure you will." Conar waited until the man was close to him. "I haven't thanked you for all you did for me in the Labyrinth." "It wasn't necessary." "It is. I am grateful for all the times you helped ease my pain." He gripped the Healer's wrist. "You saved my life more than once, and my sanity constantly. Thank you." "I did what I could. I only wish I had been able to do more." Conar let go of the wrist. "I've been told you knew Cayn? Where did you meet him?" "In the Labyrinth." Conar's tawny brow shot up. "I never knew he was there. When was this?" "Before you were born, obviously!" The Healer grinned. "He volunteered to serve there for a few years. I was there already, and when it was time for him to leave, he trained me as a healer. It was a way for me to have some dignity in that hellhole. For the most part, I was left alone." "Why were you there?" Xander shrugged. "Political reasons. I made one too many enemies among the Domination in Virago." "Who was Chief Priest there, then?" "A bastard named Faulkus. Tolkan Coure's younger brother. A mean-spirited son-of-a-bitch, but not as bad as I hear Tolkan was." He looked at Conar and saw a ridge of white around the young man's lips. "I suppose you know all about Tolkan, though, don't you?" "More than I ever wanted to. Why'd they send you to the Labyrinth? What'd you do?" "You know you don't have to do much to incur their enmity. Faulkus took exception to my marriage and made sure I

didn't have the lady long." A glimmer of hatred shot across the Healer's face. "The Domination had other plans for my wife." Conar put a hand on the Healer's shoulder. "They sent you to the Labyrinth to get you out of her life?" "They told the world I was dead and then they wed my lady to another." A stab of rage went through the dark blue eyes. "They have a knack for doing that." "I loved her. I will always love her." Xander ground his teeth, speaking through a tightly clenched jaw. "There has never been a day that I have not thought of her, of what could have been." "What, perhaps,should have been?" "Aye!" Xander touched Conar's cheek. "The Wind be favorable to you, Lord Conar. I'll keep you in my prayers!" Spinning on his heel, the Healer practically ran up the gangplank. He didn't turn until Conar called to him. "My mother loved you, too, Xander." The Healer stared. When at last he could find his voice, he heard his words trembling. "How did you know?" Conar grinned, his eyes showing warmth for the first time in a long time. "It was merely a guess." "No one must know!" Xander came halfway down the gangplank so no inquisitive ears could hear. "Know what? That I'm a bastard? That the entire line of my father's loins are bastards?" Conar laughed. "It doesn't bother me." "Don't say that! No one must know her marriage was not legal!" "In the sight of the Tribunal I am sure it was legal. Otherwise, they would've never allowed them to marry. Only in the sight of the gods and man is itnot legal." Conar looked toward Serenia's distant snow-capped mountain range. "But it doesn't matter, anyway. The monarchy is at an end, in Serenia and everywhere. When the Raven flies, there will be one rule—mine!" Xander shivered. The man with such terrible power was frightening to look at. He wouldn't want to be Conar's enemy. There was strength of purpose in those icy orbs, but there was also a promise. The promise that nothing would ever stand in his way again. "Use your power well," Xander warned gently. He laid a comforting hand on the young man's hard shoulder. "Please don't let the past govern the future." The anger softened. "I have no past. And my future is like the wind. It will carry me where I need to go; where I am needed. As for my power, He who gave it, will govern it." "Conar, when I was first at the Labyrinth, I knew a terrible hatred deep in my soul. A hatred so viral it nearly destroyed me. When I learned your mother had been given in marriage to another, and that it had been a love match, I wanted nothing more than to die. Cayn stopped me. He gave me a purpose, a reason to live…" "I, too, have a reason to live, my friend. I am going to see all those responsible for my living death pay for every moment I suffered!" His gaze went to the tall peaks once more. "And the gods help them, so will those who have caused me grief!" *** "I said no, dammit, and no is what I meant! What part of the word don't you understand, Wynland?" "Papa, please! Give me one good reason why I can't go!" "I have said you can't, and that's the only reason I have to give!" "That's not good enough!" Wyn yelled back at his father. He stood his ground, staring at his father with the same stubbornness. His chin raised another fraction of an inch and he pursed his lips together as tightly as his father's.

Conar would have liked to have throttled him. Never had he raised a hand to any of his children, his past preventing him from ever doing so no matter how much they had angered him. But as he glared at Wyn, and the boy—no, Conar thought with fury, the youngman —glared back, his palm itched to slap the smug look of defiance off Wyn's face. "Neither Coron nor I are being allowed to go with him, either, Wyn," Dyllon remarked and flinched as Conar's dark eyes swung to him. "This is between me and my son!"Conar snarled. "Aye, it is!" Wyn echoed, flicking his annoyed glance over his youngest uncle. "And I'm going to have a reasonable answer. Why the hell can't I go?" Rylan Hesar glanced at Jah-Ma-El and silently whistled. What had been intended as a last-minute family get-together before the men left for Necroman had turned into a battle of wills. Coron and Dyllon had protested, too, wanting to return to Serenia, but Conar had also forbidden them. Older than the boy, the two brothers had understood, if not accepted the fact, that their roles would have to be played out in Chrystallus. Besides, both young men had wives and Conar refused to allow the women along on general principle. But Wyn was not so handicapped, and had revolted at the idea of being left behind. "Dammit, Papa! I want an answer!" The strong young arms of a swordsman-in-training folded over a chest starting to widen and thicken like his father's. He tossed his long blond hair out of his eyes and braced his feet wide apart. "Why can't I go?" Conar was vividly reminded of similar arguments he'd had with this boy's grandfather and that knowledge ate at him. I'm turning into my father, he thought dismally. He fell back on one of his father's favorite excuses: "I don't have to give you an answer!" Conar shouted. "I only have to give you an order and I expect it to be obeyed!" "That's not good enough! I'm too much my father's son to meekly accept what I'm told without comment or thought. I'm just as much my own man as he is!" "You smartass!" Conar took a step toward his son. "Who do you think you're talking to?" "Ithought I was speaking to my father, but I can see I'm speaking to the Raven, instead. So, I'll ask him. Why can't I go to Serenia?" Conar looked at his brothers—Jah-Ma-El, Coron, Dyllon. He looked at his cousin, Rylan. He glanced at his uncle. He didn't see any help in any of their faces, and suspected he wouldn't have received any had he asked or had they been able to provide it. He turned back to his son. "You want an answer? As the Raven, I say you are to remain in Chrystallus to help train the men your uncles will be recruiting. We cannot train them in the field. We don't have the time or resources to do so. To send them into the field ill-prepared, up against seasoned Temple Guards, would be dangerous for them and even more so to the men on the Force. I need men I can trust at my back. Men I can trust with our lives!" Wyn nodded. "As a member of the Wind Force, I can accept that, but as your son, I cannot. Any man can help my uncles train. I would rather be with my people, fighting for my country. That is my birthright. Now, as my father, tell me why I can't go!" Conar took another step toward his son, aiming to hit him. Any other man would have backed down, but not Wyn. He didn't even flinch as Conar cruelly gripped his shoulder. "As your father, you little snot, I say o remain in Chrystallus because I…" The blue eyes flickered, the hand on Wyn's shoulder tightened even more, but the boy showed no signs of pain. Conar stared into Wyn's stormy face and saw himself eleven or so years earlier, standing before his own father, demanding to know why he couldn't venture out in the midst of a killing storm to be with Liza. "Because what?" Wyn prompted. Conar saw his father's face superimposed over Wyn's, staring at him with a knowing look that had once warned him just such a day, just such a scene as this, would one day be his to play. Had it really been this hard for his father? Conar thought. Did I give him just this much trouble when I was young? If I did, he prayed silently, I am sorry, Papa. I'll make it up to you. The pain of knowing he would never see his father again this side of heaven made him falter, made his words heavy in his throat. His voice was softer than the men had heard it in a long time. "Because I have already lost everything I

have ever held dear. You are my only son, Wynland, my only child. I will lose no more." He crushed Wyn to him in an embrace that squeezed the air from the boy's lungs. "I would lose what sanity I have left if I were to lose you." Wyn's arms went around his father. They clung to each other as though gripping a lifeboat in stormy seas. "Let me go, Papa. I want to be there for you. I don't want to lose you again, either!" Conar shook his head. "If I had to worry about you, what good would I be to my men?" He pushed Wyn. "Here, with our aunt and uncle, with my brothers, you are protected. Here, you are safe. Here, I would not worry about you. Don't make this any more difficult for me than it already is. It will be hard enough to leave you behind." He swept a lock of blond hair from his son's forehead. Whenhad the boy gotten taller than him? "Let me have at least some measure of peace in this lifetime." Wyn buried his face in his father's shoulder. "I love you," he whispered, giving in to tears he hadn't wanted to shed. "And I love you." Jah-Ma-El turned away. He'd seen the look in Conar's eyes when he said the word "love." He didn't think Conar knew what the word meant anymore.

Chapter 18 "As soon as I leave, I want you to send the message to our men in Virago, Chale, and Ionary. Tell them to meet you in Boreas on the fourth day of August." Rylan nodded, watching Conar tighten the cinch on his black stallion. "You'll watch your back, now, right?" "Don't worry about me." He made sure the cinch was secure, then turned to Rylan. "Just make sure you keep yourself safe, Hesar." "I plan on going to the palace as soon as I reach Boreas. Brelan will need to know about the latest. Is there anything you want me to do until you get there?" There was a snort of contempt from the finely chiseled mouth. "Keep her warm for me!" He swung up into the saddle. He looked at the hand Rylan had placed on his thigh. "Don't keep doing that, Conar." "What?" Rylan let out a tired sigh. They'd all been through this before. "Elizabeth is part of the past. Let her stay there." Conar's look would have quelled a normal man, but Rylan simply stared at him with worry. "She's very much a part of my future, Cousin. She just doesn't know how much!" He jerked on the horse's reins and dug his heels into the wide flanks, clicking his tongue. He had named the big black steed Seachange and had once chuckled evilly when asked what the name was supposed to mean. "I named my Serenian mount Seayearner for I longed for something only the sea could give me. The sea gave me something all right. A bitch who broke my heart! Once more the sea has provided me with a mount and this steed bears the name that has brought forth the Dark Overlord of the Wind! I have been changed by the unfaithfulness of the sea." Rylan watched him gallop to the head of a column of men. There was dismay on Hesar's face as he turned to the men behind him. "Let's get going."

He and eight others would be leaving for Boreas on a pirated Diabolusian galley, since that vile country was still on friendly terms with the Tribunal regime. No one would think to stop a galley that flew a Diabolusian banner. Hesar glanced back from the gangplank. Conar sat ramrod straight in the saddle, his spine taut, his shoulders squared. With his blond hair glimmering in the harsh winter light, he sat with gloved hands crossed over the saddle horn and waited until the last of his men had moved into line behind him. The heavy fur-lined cloak that covered him from high collar to boot and lay draped over his stallion's rump blew back with the stiffening breeze. Rylan saw the black shirt and breeches that were now Conar's only color of clothing. "Take care, Cousin!" Conar called, lifting his hand. His steed pranced sideways, straining at the bit, and he clucked his tongue, stilling the massive animal's instinct to break into a run. He pulled on the reins; the beast obeyed. The jingle of harness and the plop of hooves on stone carried in the chill air. A light snow was already falling and it was predicted that a heavier fall would come before evening. The men were anxious to depart before the mountain passes to the south became slick with ice. Gathered along the northern wall of the palace, along the road that led down to the passageway to Necroman's border, were the many peasants and bondspeople who had worked to make this campaign a reality. They forged weapons, housed recruits, broke horses and helped train them, fed and clothed the more than one-hundred men who would be making the trek to Necroman behind Conar. These people had been loyal and friendly, and he was determined to show them respect and thanks despite the cold numbing his lips, hands, and toes. He looked up at the high palace walls and waved to his aunt and uncle. There was no moisture in the hard depths of his cold eyes—he had vowed to shed no more tears in his lifetime—but there was a dragging pain in his heart at leaving his relatives, at leaving behind his brothers, his son, the two nephews and one niece—the new generation of the McGregor line. He wondered at the feelings, amazed he could still feel anything after his bargain with Alel, or whatever god he had found that day in the sanctuary. "Maybe it's only her that's been erased from your heart," an inner voice taunted. He thought her name, her face, and found nothing. He was satisfied. With a grim nod of pleasure, he hoped she'd been removed from his caring. He looked at the people who had braved the frigid temperature to bid him farewell. He put his right hand over his heart. "You have my eternal gratitude for all you have done. We take with us your kindness and love!" His words were chips of ice, but no one heard the coldness. They did not want to. They smiled as he put his heels to his horse and the long line began to move. "May the Wind be favorable to you, Lord Raven!" a woman's warm voice rang out over the chill air, and her chant was repeated here and there until every throat was alive with the words. It would become his new battle cry. *** "May the gods ride with you, my darling," the Empress Dyreil whispered through tears. Her husband's arm draped her shoulder. "He'll be all right, Dy," Tran said and kissed her forehead. Dyllon patted his aunt's shoulder. "He rides with the Wind." "Heis the Wind," Wyn corrected. He watched until the troop of men were no longer visible as they wound their way along the serpentine pathway into the white mist of the snows. "May the Wind be favorable to you, Papa." Wyn turned away, his mind divided between the man he loved and the slim Necromanian girl who had captured his heart and had left with her father on the trek. She had been the real reason he had wanted to go, but had dared not tell that to the Raven. His father might have understood, but the Raven wouldn't have. The last thingthat man would understand would be young love. *** They made camp for the night at the entrance to Miku Pass, the first of five treacherous switchback passes that would lead them through the mountains to Necroman. Snow had yet to reach this first pass, but already the air was becoming thick with cold and damp. The swirling snows they had left in the foothills would soon catch up with them.

Cook fires were set and the meal began. In all, one-hundred-and-three men and six women were making camp on the overhang of Shiku Pass. The campfires ranged over a fifty-yard stretch of frozen ground and sent small spirals of smoke into the darkening sky. Twenty-seven pack animals were scattered along the long line of troop mounts, and because taking care of so many animals was a major chore, the men ate in shifts, lookouts posted to keep away predators and spies. Conar was restless as the men set about their tasks and ate. He had eaten his meal in silence, striding away from the others, plate in hand, gaze on the far peaks of his homeland as he stood and mindlessly shoveled food into his mouth. No one had bothered him on the trail; no one bothered him now as he sat well away from his men and their chatter. His black-booted feet were spread apart, his hands dangling between his open thighs. He stared at the snow at his feet. His silences were becoming as much a part of him as the frown on his face. Those who loved him watched in worry as he stood and walked to the edge of the precipice that overlooked the Valley of the Gods. He stared, unblinking, at the tall Serenian mountain range beyond and his stare grew colder than the air. The scene repeated itself night after night as they made their way through the now-deep snows. Laboriously, the horses struggled through the banks, up rapidly inclining pathways, through heavy curtains of blowing snow, down descents so treacherously slick with ice the horses skidded and their legs swept out from beneath them. Then they would reach the next pass, the next campsite. Conar would eat, then turn his silent, angry gaze to the peaks of Mount Serenia. He would shun idle conversation, ignore the few remarks sent his way, answer only questions that didn't set his teeth on edge. His full attention was riveted on what lay beyond the snows of Chrystallus. The last camp was made near Shiku Pass. They found the cavern where many ancient Chrystallusian and tribal warriors had passed their days and nights in preparation for harmless cattle raids against neighboring countries of Necroman and Serenia. The cavern was big enough to house all the men and animals. Fires were lit, meals prepared, and the men settled down in heavy furs to wait out the storm that had begun earlier in the day. Winds whistled like demons and a crisp, chilling breeze blew through the entranceway where some horses were tethered to make room in the farther reaches of the cavern for the troops. Steam rose from the nostrils of man and beast as the wind raced along the corridor and hovered at the wide entrance into the largest portion of the cavern. "It's a good thing we made it here before that storm struck," Grice told his brother, Chand. "How long do you think we'll have to stay?" "We may be here awhile," Shalu answered. He handed Conar's meal to him. "Three, maybe four days from the looks of it." Conar nodded his thanks as he accepted the food. He shoved a large mouthful of beans and pork in his mouth. "It'll give the men time to rest." "What about you?" Shalu inquired, searching the tired face that glanced at him with annoyance. "I'm fine." "I see," Shalu snapped, bestowing a warning look on his daughter as she nudged his knee in exasperation. "He's starting to annoy me!" the Necroman replied to Kym's look of chastisement. Several men carrying firewood came through the cavern. They stamped snow from their boots and dumped their loads of fuel near the big campfire around which Conar and the others sat. "There's lots of wood, Lord Raven," one informed his leader. Conar nodded, continued to eat his food without looking up. "When you go out again, make sure you tether yourselves to one another. There'll be a whiteout by morning. I don't want anyone getting lost." "Aye, Milord!" the man said. No one needed to ask how Conar knew about the whiteout. "Don't you be going off out there either," Shalu said, "without one of us attached to you." Conar looked up, a forkful of beans half-way to his mouth. His face went granite-hard. "I can take care of myself." "Go to the pit!" Slau snarled. He had better things to do than spar with Conar.

Kym ducked her head, biting her lips to keep her smile from showing. When she looked up through the black fringe of her lashes, she saw Conar frowning at her. "You should have stayed at the palace." "You should have let Wyn come and I wouldn't be getting into anyone's way," she said boldly. The dark eyes, eyes others were afraid of but she found heavenly to look into, softened. "And neither henor you would have gotten a damned thing done for making goo-goo faces at each other!" He put down his plate and walked to his pallet. He threw off his fur cloak, then plopped down. Restless, cold, and angry at having snapped at Shalu and Kym, he found he couldn't sleep. He drew the fur cloak over his shoulders and turned from one side to the other until he was exhausted; he punched the rolled fur he used for a pillow so many times he lost count. Finally he sighed. He found he just wasn't sleepy. His eyes rolled to the heavens and he threw off the fur with a disgusted snort. He sat up, raked his hand through his hair. He looked about the cavern, heard snores that made him growl beneath his breath. He had forbidden anyone to sleep near him, desiring the solitude he knew would be afforded him once he pressed the point; and press the point he did. The company only seemed to make him nervous, and less inclined than usual to be civil. The nightmares had fled, but he found sleep more elusive the closer he got to the high peaks of the Serenian mountains. There was a jerk to his body movements that had not been there before leaving the palace. Everything he did, he did with haste and rapidly decreasing patience. His horse's saddle wasn't as quick in coming off as he thought, and he would push aside the man doing it and finish it himself. If he didn't get his meal ladled out first, he would spoon it into his own plate, shoving aside whoever got in his way, snarling like a beast protecting his food. The men understood, but he didn't. He sat a long time and watched his men sleep. He made note that Grice slept on his right side; Chand slept on his back, mouth gaping, snoring; Jah-Ma-El was hunched down into his furs and seemed to be sleeping on his belly with his ass in the air like a little child. Roget was curled up in a fetal position, his ass to the fire. Tyne and Chase slept near one another, facing in opposite directions. He swung his inspection to Sentian, finding the source of the worst snoring. Early the next morning, after a night spent watching others sleep, he was out of the cavern, his nerves to the breaking point. He knew just how many seconds there were between Sentian's first intake of breath and his godawful snore. He knew just how often Shalu had sighed, Thom had burped, and Belvoir had farted. He knew just how many times Chand had mumbled and how many times Tyne had smacked his lips. He knew if he didn't get out, he'd start on a killing rampage that would seriously reduce the amount of leaders among the Wind Force. It was right after the false dawn and the snow was thick on the ground, some soft flakes still randomly falling over the pristine surface. He stood with his back to the mountain and glared over the distance that separated him from the frosty peaks of his birth. He stood with his booted feet planted apart in the deep snow, the insteps of his leather boots covered with the sparkling white fluff. His hands were on his hips, his unwavering dark gaze glued to the tallest peak, Mount Serenia, where he knew the Monastery of the Domination was located. He was heedless of the cold, although he had left his fur cloak in the cavern. The thick quilted lining of his black silk tunic and breeches did nothing to eliminate the chill, but his body temperature was like his temper—red hot and oblivious to cold. So steady was his gaze, so concentrated his scrutiny, so lost were his memories in that dark, hell-hole of an abbey, he failed to hear the furtive crunch of snow behind him. So intense was his anger at what he was feeling, all danger was ignored. It wasn't until he felt the pain, heard his name shouted in warning, that he became aware that anything was wrong. *** Roget had awakened only moments after Conar had left the warmth and safety of the cavern. He turned toward the place where his friend had been sitting and, upon seeing the furs thrown back, knew instinctively Conar was outside, staring at the mountains as he did every idle moment. Sighing, Roget sat up. He could account for everyone with one scan of his trained eyes. He frowned. Conar had gone out on his own. Reluctantly flinging aside his furs, he got up and stretched, annoyed that he had to leave a warm pallet to babysit a man who should know better. "Went out on his own?" Shalu grumbled, sitting up. He scratched at his wide chest.

"Looks that way." Roget picked up his fur cloak, flinging it around him. "I'll go with you. I gotta piss." Shalu stood, dragging his fur blanket around his wide shoulders. "Sometimes I think that boy has shit for brains!" Chase Montyne came wide awake, probing the intrusion that had awakened him from a sound sleep. He sensed a disquiet, a quiver in the air and he stood up. He didn't see Conar, didn't see the Necroman or du Mer. His gaze swung to Jah-Ma-El and he wasn't surprised to see the man sitting up with a blank look on his thin face. Chase didn't bother picking up his fur. He started toward the cavern's entrance, his bare chest gleaming in the faint light cast by smoldering campfires. Both Roget and Shalu exited the cavern just as the first rays of the sun came up behind the mountain. The rounded hump of Mount Hesnu's shadow flowed out to where Conar stood looking over the dark valley below. But the mountain was not the only shadow cast. Silhouetted on the southern slope of the mountain's shadow was the unmistakable shadow of an archer. Turning puzzled eyes to the overhang above, expecting to see one of their men guarding Conar's back, Shalu was the first to see the stranger, a quarrel nocked in his crossbow, his aim leveled at Conar. "Conar!"Shalu shouted, but too late. The quarrel sang through the still air and the sound of a dull, meaty thud echoed over the precipice. Du Mer had already begun to run toward Conar. There was a distance of perhaps ten yards separating them. The thought of a quarrel finding its way into his own back didn't even occur to him. He was intent only on reaching Conar, on protecting him. He saw the impact of the missile as it struck his friend and thanked whatever god was looking on that Conar had pivoted reflexively at Shalu's shout and his right foot sank deep into the snow, twisting his body sideways and downward, making him stumble. Bewildered, Conar looked when the searing pain registered in his left side. He had felt the impact, heard the thud, but the pain hadn't come for he was numb with cold. He didn't actually feel the fire of the black-fletched quarrel until he saw the damned thing sticking out of him in the fleshy part of his side near his hip. His first thought was of his torn breeches. He was just getting them broken in. His second thought turned his blood to ice. The quarrel sticking out of his ruined breeches, sticking out ofhim, was one of his own! Puzzled, he looked up at the mountain, saw the archer fleeing, then glanced at Roget who seemed to be running toward him in slow motion. "Hey, du Mer! That son-of-a-bitch tore my breeches." He reached for the quarrel, putting his hand on the shaft. He squinted, meaning to pull the thing free, but the pain was so intense he nearly vomited. His knees buckled. He felt an excruciating jolt of agony as he slammed into the snow on his knees, his teeth clicking, tasting blood where his back molars clipped his vulnerable tongue. He heard Roget screaming his name, over and over again, the words echoing off the mountains, but there was a loud buzzing in his ears, as well. He saw Shalu running toward him, caught a glimpse of Chase and Jah-Ma-El tearing out of the cavern, saw their shocked faces. The world began to turn, spinning, pain ripping down his thigh and leg. Roget slid forward on his knees, his arms reaching for Conar. "That miserable cocksucker tore my breeches, du Mer," he hissed, then pitched forward. Roget caught him under the arms as he fell. *** "Hold him still," Shalu ordered. "It may break off when I pull it." Roget had carried Conar into the cavern, shouting at several men milling about the entrance to find the man who had tried to kill Conar. He had gently laid his leader beside the fire on a pallet Kym had rushed to make ready with layers of borrowed furs. Kym slid her legs beneath Conar, cradling his head in her lap, her soft hands sweeping back the thick mane of loose blond hair. "What if the shaft does break, Papa?" Shalu grimaced. "Then I cut it out, girl!" His words were staccato rasps of anger. He grasped the six inches of protruding shaft and glanced at the men who held Conar down. He knew they would do as he asked. Taking a deep breath, thanking every deity he could name that Conar was still unconscious, he slowly pulled on the shaft. He felt it

give, sweat popping out on his face. His lips moved, praying again that the shaft would come out intact. That wasn't to be. As the quarrel came free, Shalu cursed. The head of the shaft was still inside. "Damn, damn, damn!" He swung his fierce gaze to du Mer. Roget had been told to heat a dagger just in case this happened. He had also prepared a needle and thread. If Shalu had to probe for the shaft's head, Roget knew the only way to properly close the wound would be to cauterize it and suture it closed. He drew the dagger from the coals beside him and held it so Shalu could gingerly take the wrapped grip. Gritting his teeth, Shalu brought the dagger to Conar's exposed wound. He felt like screaming when he saw the dark eyes flit open. They were dull with pain, but they were conscious of their surroundings. His hand poised, unwilling to inflict any more pain on the man beside him. Conar's eyes cleared. He saw the knife. He swept his vision around the men holding his arms and legs. This was too much like his nightmare for him not to be aware of it. Sweat poured from his flesh. He felt the telltale signs of Labyrinthian Fever crawling over him with sticky fingers. He felt cool hands on his brow and flinched, his head tilting back to get a look at who was above him. He saw Kym Taborn's tearful face and almost smiled. Not quite like his nightmare, he thought fleetingly. Turning his gaze to Shalu, he nodded. Shalu took another deep breath. Before he could lose what nerve he had, he wedged the hot knife through the puckered slit in Conar's hip, feeling the rigid muscles tense with pain. Conar's neck arched back against Kym. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out. It felt as though his entire left side raged with an internal inferno. He saw pinpoints of light behind his tightly closed lids. "Oh, Papa. You're hurting him!" Kym cried, her fingers threading through Conar's hair to keep his head still. "Shut up!"several men shouted at once. The cords of Conar's neck stood out sharply against the pallor of his skin. He was barely aware of Kym's tears falling in his face, her hands pressed tightly on his scalp. Shalu's face glistened in the glow of the campfire. Not a sound, save the labored breathing of the man lying at his mercy, penetrated the silence. He was aware of the men watching from the shadows of the cavern, could feel Roget's intent gaze on his hands as he probed the wound. He could feel the obstruction of the steel quarrel tip and felt it move as he slid the knife deeper. The thing was wedged tightly in the flare of Conar's hipbone. Blowing breath over his upper face, Shalu eased the knife deeper, hearing Conar's gasp of agony. "Faint, boy!" he begged, unaware he had spoken aloud. "Dammit, faint!" "I…can't…" "Papa! Please! You're hur—" Kym felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked up into Thom's face. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he kept his huge hand on her, warning her not to speak. She cradled Conar's head tighter to her. Shalu wasn't aware that Kym had spoken. It was doubtful he would have heard an explosion going off in his ear. His total concentration was on the quarrel tip. He was oblivious to the men crowding closer, didn't hear Tyne Brell telling Chase Montyne that they had found the archer, his throat slit by some unknown accomplice. "One of ours?" Grice asked. "Never seen the bastard before. A nomad." Tyne glanced at Conar's straining face. "A Hasdu, I think." Shalu wasn't even aware that Conar's gaze was glued to him. He eased the dagger to the left, felt it give and held his breath. Conar's lower jaw trembled. His head shook from the awful effort to keep quiet and as still as possible. He saw the exact moment Shalu found the tip, although the pain was so intense he didn't feel it dislodge.

Slowly, Shalu began to drag the steel back through Conar's side. He eased the knife out of the wound and his face fell. The very tip of the missile was still inside the bone. There would be no way to retrieve it short of surgery, and there was not a surgeon among them. Even if there had been, there were no instruments, no medicines to utilize. Everyone knew that. So did Conar. "Close it," he said softly. "But Conar…" Shalu began. "You've done all you can. Close it and be done with it." Conar's voice was weak, hoarse and his face was flushed with what Shalu recognized as the onset of fever. "I won't do it!" Shalu shouted, coming to his feet in one lithe bound. "I'm not hurting you anymore!You do it, du Mer!" The Necromanian King began to sob, his face crinkling, and he ran from the cavern, his roar of misery echoing through the cavern. Never would Kym have imagined her father doing such a thing. The man had always prided himself on his detachment, his control. Necromanian men did not cry. Not even for their dead. She looked at Conar. She wasn't surprised to see them staring up at her. "Not a sign of weakness," he seemed to need to tell her. She nodded. She knew it wasn't weakness. Her father must love this man very much to feel for him the way he did. She caressed Conar's fevered face. She managed a wavering smile when he turned his cheek into her palm. "Are you ready?" Roget asked, kneeling beside him, the glowing blade of another dagger held in his hand. "As I'll ever be," Conar assured him, keeping his gaze on the lovely young woman above him. When had her short crop of tight black curls relaxed and grown so long? When had she gotten older? When had her dark complexion lightened to a creamy perfection of Oceanian ivory and Serenian rose? When had the brown depths turned emerald green? "Relax, Beloved," he heard a faint whisper drift through his fevered brain. "Relax and feel no more pain." The red-hot dagger was thrust into the wound. But he didn't feel it. Instead, he slipped slowly over the edge of consciousness. "Sleep, Dearling," the same voice crooned. He had the uncanny feeling that he could smell the sweet scent of lavender wafting above him as his world spiraled into blackness. It was a scent he had grown to hate.

Charlotte Boyett-Compo Charlotte Boyett-Compo is the author of more than two dozen novels, the first ten of which are theWindLegends Saga. For nearly three full years, Charlee has remained—first with Dark Star Publications, and now with Amber Quill Press—the company's most popular and best-selling author. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer's Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia, and now lives in the Midwest. Most any fan of electronic books—or fans of dark fantasy and suspense—has at least heard her name mentioned, if not purchased at least one of her many offerings. This prolific author has not only managed to gain multiple nominations and awards for her work, but better still, has built a fan base whose members border on the "fanatical." Currently, Charlee is at work on at least several books in her various series and trilogies.

Amber Quill Press, LLC The Gold Standard in Publishing Quality Books In Both Print And Electronic Formats

Horror Mystery Mainstream Fantasy Historical Young Adult

Western Romance Science Fiction Paranormal Action/Adventure Suspense/Thriller Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

About this Title This eBook was created using ReaderWorks®Publisher 2.0, produced by OverDrive, Inc.

For more information about ReaderWorks, please visit us on the Web at www.overdrive.com/readerworks