Windseeker

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Table of Contents WINDSEEKER PROLOGUE PART I: 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

PART II: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Epilogue Amber Quill Press, LLC

WINDSEEKER by CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO

Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

Windseeker 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 © 2002 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ISBN 1-59279-023-2 Cover Art © 2002 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: T.M.D.

Thank you to all the readers who have been pleading with me for the sequel. Sorry it took so long. I hope you’ll love Brelan as much as you’ve loved Conar!

PROLOGUE "He was considered to be the greatest warrior Serenia had ever known," the Talespinner agreed. "His was the stuff of legends, they say." "Tell us about him, Grandfather," the child asked. "Aye!" another little boy said. "Tell us about the Prince of the Wind." The old man smiled, his watery eyes crinkled with amusement. "Don’t you boys ever get tired of hearing about him?" "No!" the children, all boys under the age of twelve, shouted in unison. He shook his mane of thick white hair and gazed up at the stars over their campfire. It was such a clear, beautiful night, just a hint of fall in the air. He could hear the waves breaking on the shoreline not far away and, if he tried hard, could smell the tang of salt spray. "You were a friend of his, weren’t you, Grandfather?" someone asked. "Aye, that I was, Jordie," the old man sighed. "A good friend, weren’t you, Grandfather?" The old man’s lips twitched. "One of his best friends, boy." He ran his hand over his wrinkled face. "One of his very best friends." "Please, tell us about him." Sniffing, the deep dimples in his cheeks quivering with emotion, the Talespinner sighed and began, his ancient voice breaking with memory. "He was a golden man, was our Prince. Tall, slim. He had eyes the color of the sky; so pretty a blue you’d think they belonged to a girl. He wasn’t muscular, not at first, anyway; that came later. But he could wield a sword almost as well at Prince Tyne Brell of Chale, who was considered to be the best swordsmen of his time until the Raven came. "His people loved him, for he was a just man, a good man and he was ever loyal to those who were loyal to him." The Talespinner’s eyes grew dark with long-ago shame. "Even when you did not always stand by him, he stood by you." "And he rallied the people against the evil of the Domination, didn’t he, Grandfather?" one of the boys whispered.

"Aye," the old man answered, his thoughts coming back to the boys at his feet. "He did at that." "Did you fight beside him, Grandfather?" A half-remembered laugh, the laugh of a free-roaming gypsy, the wicked laugh of a man who had narrowly escaped many a trap, came from the Talespinner’s lips. "I tried, at any rate," he said. "What about his lady?" a little boy asked, his head dipping in embarrassment as the other boys moaned in mock exasperation. "Ah, his lady!" the Talespinner sighed. His fading eyes closed for a moment, picturing the lady in his mind. "She was a goddess, she was. All midnight dark hair and eyes the color of emeralds. A little thing she was, trim and fit." He winked. "She could wield a crossbow better than any man in the Prince’s Elite Guard." "You’re joking!" a little boy said, as if on cue. "No, I am not!" the old man gasped. "She saved my hide a time or two with that wicked bow of hers!" "Tell us about the priest," came a shuddering voice. The old man sobered. "Why do you want to hear about him?" "He’s part of it, isn’t he, Grandfather?" the youngest boy asked. The Talespinner nodded. "Aye, he was the worst of it, he was." "Tell us!" "His name was Tohre, Kaileel Tohre, and he was the most evil man to ever draw breath on this planet or any other. He was a viper in the midst of the doves." "What about the others, Grandfather? What about his brothers and the men of the Elite? Tell us how it all started. We want to hear it again!" Chuckling softly to himself, the Talespinner nodded and looked up to the garden wall, his watery gaze straying over the seagate to the vast expanse of darkness beyond where even the stars seemed hidden. "Well, it began when he made a pact with the demons," the old man said. He shook his head. "When the Prince of the Wind became entrapped by the very evil he had always fought…"

PART I: Chapter 1

"What the hell are they doing now?" Teal asked, squinting up to look at Thom. "I’m not sure you want to know," Legion sniffed. He was sitting on the ground, his back to a large boulder, his ankles crossed, arms folded across his massive chest. "Whatever they’re doing doesn’t concern us, du Mer." Thom Loure scampered back down the ledge, sat on a rocky outcropping, and took the wedge of apple Teal du Mer handed him. "You know," Loure said, taking a large bite out of the juicy flesh, "I don’t remember ever being that horny when I was Coni’s age." He grinned around the mouthful of apple. "How ’bout you, Legion?" Legion snorted. "I don’t think anyone in the history of the world has ever been as horny as Conar McGregor." He made a wry face. "You’d think he had invented sex all by himself." Teal turned, pulled himself up the ledge, and peered down. His eyes went wide with wonder. "By the gods! They’re still at it." Legion reached out to tug at du Mer’s shirt. "Will you get your ass down from there before he sees you?" Teal slapped away his hand. "He can’t see me." "All right," Legion warned, "if he catches you spying on him, you’ll wish he hadn’t." Looking up at the brilliant spring sky, the sun sending rays through a few scudding white clouds, Thom stretched out his long legs in front of him. He followed a careening sea gull as it made its way across the heavens, dipping and soaring, its wings barely moving in the stiff breeze. "He’s as free as that gull." The big man mused. He scratched his bald pate where bristly black hair was beginning to show. "It’s good to see him happy." Legion nodded. He took a deep breath and looked at the high-flying gull. "Liza’s the reason. She’s made him content." Thom brought up his lanky legs and circled them in the perimeter of his equally lanky arms. He squinted, lowered his rubbery forehead into a frown, and pursed his thick lips; signs the big man was thinking. "They’ve been married, what now? Two years almost?" Loure nodded. "Aye, two years, and the bloom is still on their marriage. No fights, no arguments, no spats." He turned his big head toward Legion A’Lex. "Is that normal?" "No," Legion said, "not as far as I can tell." "Highly unusual," Teal du Mer mumbled. "Or so I’m told." Legion craned his head around and reached up to tug on du Mer’s cambric shirt. "Damn it, Tealson, will

you come down?" Teal slapped away his hand and Legion took in the unwavering stare on his friend’s dark face. "Just what the hell’s so gods-be-damned interesting, anyway?" Thom, his curiosity aroused, pulled himself back up the ledge. "By the sweet mercy of Alel! What is the man doing to her?" Legion scampered up beside him and let out a slow whistle. "Wouldn’t you think that would hurt?" Teal shook his head, a faint blush beginning to form on his dark gypsy face. He plowed long fingers through his chestnut hair, ruffling the thick curls. "Do you think he’d tell us where he learned that trick?" the half-breed asked. "Aye, and just how will you explain to him how we know he can do such things as that?" Legion sneered, his bearded face tight with impatience. He gawked down the ledge. "Merciful Alel! How is that possible?" Thom’s large mouth dropped open and he blushed. "I don’t believe I would like to try…" Teal and Legion put rough hands on Loure’s shoulders and jerked the Elite captain down the ledge, for Conar’s head had swung toward the ledge above him. *** "They’ve been there all morning," Liza said, her sweaty cheek now resting on her husband’s bare shoulder as they lay on the chill beach beneath a soft fleece blanket. Prince Conar McGregor turned to the rock ledge and a gleam of menace lit the pale blue depths of his wicked eyes. "Have they really?" he asked in a low growl. His wife laughed. "It’s not the first time they’ve been near when we’ve made love, Conar. They do know we do it, Milord." "I’m not inclined to have them spying, lady." Liza pulled a long tress of ebony hair over her shoulder and tickled his nose with it to erase the stern lines on his handsome face. Conar’s voice was tight with annoyance. "And it will be the last time they do so." "I care not how much they know this woman loves her man, Milord." Despite the protection of the blanket, he felt ill at ease with other people viewing their moments of passion. "Well, I care." He sat up and shook his golden mane of hair. "They’ve got no business tagging along behind us, anyway." A tiny frown marred the perfection of Liza’s forehead. Her sweet oval face puckered in echo with her coral lips. "Are you going to say something obnoxious to them?" "Not necessarily," he answered as he leaned over and picked up his cord breeches. "But I’ll be

gods-be-damned sure they don’t spy on us again." He wiggled his lean flanks into the tight garment. " ’Twas probably your father’s doing," his wife reminded him. "With all the problems your twin, Galen, has been causing of late, I think your King fears for your safety." She frowned, her husband’s safety uppermost in her own mind as well. She took the gown he handed her and wriggled into it under the covers, pulling it on over her feet and hips. "Your father thinks Galen may try to do you harm, Beloved. I agree." "The two of you had better be worried for Galen’s safety," Conar hissed. "That ill-begotten brother of mine has always plotted against me in one fashion or another. That’s nothing new. He’s just pissed off now that I’m happy with my Toad." Liza giggled at his wagging brows as she pulled the gown over her arms. "Very happy if this afternoon was any indication, Milord." Conar grinned. "Besides, Galen won’t try anything for awhile. After the last raid I sent my Elite troops on, he lost face." His wife turned her back for him to do up her buttons. "Running off all his sheep and cows was a bit much, Conar." There was humor tugging at her lips. "I sent them back, didn’t I? It was a harmless enough trick. It made him aware of just how vulnerable he is to me. I believe he thought himself immune to retaliation. I proved the bastard wrong." He wedged his hand inside the back of her gown and cupped one naked breast, pulling her against him. His lips found the pulse point at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and he nibbled on the sensitive flesh. "After all, I have the Outlaw’s blood in me, you know," he whispered. "Conar!" she gasped, wiggling away from him. "Stop that!" Conar withdrew his hand, returning his fingers to her buttons. "Why is it you deliberately arouse me, Liza, and then leave me wanting?" He sighed. "You do it all the time." "I do no such thing. You just can’t seem to keep your hands to yourself, Milord." "I have no desire to. You’re mine to play with as much as I like." Her eyes went to the rock ledge where she had seen movement. "He wasn’t happy when he found it was me that you had married." "Who?" Conar asked, glancing at the ledge. "Galen," she said, her brow furled. "He was very upset." Conar shrugged. "He wanted you and he thought that, once I was wed to The Toad, he’d make you his mistress." "Let him find his own Toad," she mumbled as she turned into her husband’s arms and linked her lips with his. "I like well my master." Conar drew back his head and looked at his wife. "I thought you once said you had no master, Liza."

His wife shrugged. "Things change, Milord." He tightened his arms around her. "That they do, Milady." His lips swept down to hers. *** "Do you think it’s safe to see what they’re doing?" du Mer asked his companions. "One of us should. It’s getting late," Thom quipped. "You do it, Legion." Mumbling, the Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces pushed his way up the ledge and froze. Legion A’Lex’s eyes widened, he grinned, and then slipped back down the ledge to sit. "What are they doing?" Teal inquired as he looked at Legion’s smiling face. "We’re slipping, my friends." Legion grinned and then stood, dusted off his cords. Looking at one another, Teal and Thom also stood and gazed at the beach below. What they saw made their faces turn beet red with humiliation. There in the sand where Conar and his lady-wife had lain was a sand drawing of a naked man complete with a somewhat out-of-scale erection. Beneath the drawing were the words:What you didn’t see . "He’s going to kill us," Teal said miserably. "Or maim us," Thom agreed. "Or both." Legion chuckled. *** "Are they still there?" Liza asked as she and her husband wound their way up the pathway to the seagate. Conar glanced behind him and out to the jut of jagged rock where his brother and friends were standing, talking. "Aye, they’re there." He reached down to sweep away her gown from one of the sharp thorn bushes that lined the pathway. "They’ll be expecting me to come after them." Liza stopped on the narrow stone riser and looked back at her husband. "You aren’t going to do anything silly, are you, Conar?" Tawny brows lifted in surprise. "Me?" He grinned. "What would I do?" A fine black brow crooked. "What, indeed, Milord?" *** The three men kept waiting for Conar to do something, to say something, to acknowledge their

transgression against him, but he didn’t. Instead, he constantly walked by them, whistling and smiling, eyeing them with humor, and never once opened his mouth. None of them dared draw a breath of relief, for with Conar you never knew what he’d do next or when; how he would attack you; usually when you were least expecting it and were at your lowest level of defense. They felt sure he’d eventually get around to punishing them for spying on him so they kept well out of his way as much as possible. Legion, Teal and Thom might not have continued following Conar and keeping an eye on him, but others of his Elite like Storm Jale and Marsh Edan, and even some of his father’s personal guard kept a careful watch. King Gerren took seriously the threats on Conar’s life, and the men of Boreas Keep were taking no chances. "It’s not just that disgraceful twin of yours," the King fumed after hearing once more of the nasty threats Galen was making against Conar, the future king of Serenia. "It’s that damned Hasdu thing, as well." "They wanted me for ransom, Papa," Conar answered, referring to the attack that had been made on him and his men where Thom Loure’s own twin, Rayle, had been slain. "I seriously doubt they would have done more harm to me than injuring my pride." "That Hasdu sword barely missed your dangly, Conar!" his father snapped. "Does that sound like they meant you no harm?" But his son only shrugged away the incident. "The bastard talked a good threat, Papa, but he was expert enough with that curved sword to have actually maimed me if that had been his intent." "I’ve heard things, Conar! Rumors that the Hasdu want you, not to hold for ransom, but for their prisoner. They mean to lock you away for life, for whatever reason they see fit. Does that sound like idle threats? I am worried!" Conar, on the other hand, wasn’t concerned. He knew who was circulating such ridiculous rumors. He also knew who was behindthat person, and simply bided his time. He knew the day would come when he and his fraternal twin, Galen, would clash and he would make the stupid fool pay for all the worry caused to their father. Enemies came and enemies went, but unfortunately for Conar, Galen and Kaileel Tohre, the High Priest of the Domination, would be the bane of his existence until he could do something about them. He believed Tohre had been behind the Hasdu’s attack and it wouldn’t have been to some dark Inner Kingdom dungeon to which Conar would have been taken either. It would have been to one of the hell-cells of the Abbey of the Domination. "I’ll take care of it, Papa," he told his father. "There’s no reason to concern yourself." "Conar!" King Gerren threw up his hands in annoyance. "Doesn’t anything worry you?" "No," the young man said, and grinned. He had no time for Tohre’s plots and schemes and even less time to think about them. His lady-wife’s smiling face banished all thoughts of intrigue and sinister doings from his mind. "I’ve got everything under control, Papa." Conar might not have worried, but his wife did. Liza’s every waking moment was spent in trying to convince him to be careful, to watch his back, and not to grumble about the men shadowing him like his own shade.

Her eyes swept dark corners, evaluated strangers and friends alike, with close enough scrutiny to amuse Conar. If he wasn’t concerned, why, he asked her just a couple nights ago, should she be? "Because I worry about you, Conar!" she said in exasperation. "Becauseyou don’t worry about you!" Conar laughed and tweaked her nose, making her even more furious with him. "Don’t, Milady. I can look after the both of us well enough." But Liza wanted to take no chances with the life of the man she loved and swore to protect. Her lips spoke silent incantations to goddesses only the Daughters of the Multitude knew existed. She made entreaties to Conar’s own gods and lit candles in the Temple to keep her husband safe. She even had an amulet minted for him to wear for protection. "Liza," Conar groaned with exasperation as she slipped it over his head. He plucked at it with distaste. "It’s ugly, woman, and it clanks against my WindWarrior medal." "Humor me," she answered and went about her precautions as though his lowered looks did not effect her in the least. Others in the keep at Boreas watched the young woman’s diligent care of her mate with approval. Young Prince Conar had garnered for himself the perfect wife, a lady who both loved him and looked out for his welfare. That their Prince was happy, happier than he had ever been, wont to smile and laugh and jest with them as though he had not a care in the world, made the Princess a saint in the eyes of the keep’s inhabitants. "She’s what he’s been needing!" they said. "He’s a different man, he is!" "Our bonny lad!" Indeed, Conar McGregor was a different man than the one who had ridden out that day over three years earlier to pay a visit to his brother Galen’s keep at Norus. The man who had come back from that visit had been a vile-tempered, vulgar-talking, drunken aggravation to the servants. He had not endeared himself to those around him during that time, nor during the long months he had sent his men looking for a girl called Liza who had disappeared from the Briar’s Hold Inn. It was only when the young Prince and his cohorts had trampled the countryside with the lady his people now knew was the Princess Anya Elizabeth, Prince Conar’s betrothed, that he had begun to again show a more human side to his nature. The love that his people had always held for him blossomed to adoration. "But he did get bad again," Herbie, the aging kitchen helper, remarked to one of the new scrubwomen. "When his lady-love vanished and he had to come back here to marry the woman his Papa engaged him to." "Didn’t know his lady-love and the Princess was one in the same!" Sadie, the cook, put in from her stew pot. She lifted her ladle and took a sip of the bubbling brew, nodded in approval and then returned the ladle to the pot. "The Prince was a regular demon, he was, on his wedding night. Oh, you should have heard the dirty little ditty he recited about the Princess in front of her kin!" Sadie chuckled. "His Papa almost had the lash

taken to his backside for that piece of mischief!" "Would have served him right, too!" another of the cooks added. "Embarrassed that sweet little girl something awful, he did!" Herbie shushed the women with a stern look. "It all came out to rights, though," he reminded them. His face took on a dreamy look. "I ain’t never gonna forget standing there in the courtyard when he unveiled her. By the sweet merciful Alel, that is a day this land won’t forget no time soon." "He didn’t know the lady he was courting was really his intended?" the new scrubwoman asked as she wrung out a rag in the sink. "Didn’t have a clue!" Sadie chortled. "All that suffering the little demon had thinking he was gonna have to spend the rest of his life with a woman he despised was for naught. He’s always had the luck of the devil. Always has had things go just the way he wanted them to. Even with him flaunting Tribunal law by keeping company with a light-o’-love, he weren’t punished. He lifted the lid on a warlock’s box and it turned out well for him in the end." Her face crinkled with spite. "But one day that little bugger ain’t gonna be so lucky!" "And he’s different in more ways," one of the dairy maids added. "You should’ve seen him ’fore the lady came. He downright mistrusted women in general. Weren’t all that polite to any of us." Sadie sniffed, her steely glare running off the buxom girl with distaste. "Weren’t no need for him to be polite to the likes of you women who couldn’t wait to hoist your skirts up for him! He got what he wanted from you." The dairy girl turned up her nose. "He was a practiced lover, he was." She blushed at Sadie’s knowing look. "Or so I been told." "Well, he ain’t no more!" Sadie snarled. "Leastwise not to no one but his lady!" She nodded. "Better not be, is all I can say. Not unless he wants to lose his thing!" "He treats every lady with respect, now," Herbie scolded. "Ain’t a single one of you who don’t get a nod of greeting or a thank you when it’s warranted." The dairy girl agreed. "He be polite as all get-out to even them what he wouldn’t give the time of day to before." Sadie put down her ladle and stomped to the oven where she poked at the rolls rising on the hearth. "The lady’s made him look at women in a new way," she said grudgingly. "He might not respect some of ’em, but he don’t show no outright hostility no more." She lifted a pan and set the rolls into the arched recesses of the brick oven. "In that way, I suppose you could say the little bugger has changed." "Still arrogant as the day is long, though," the assistant cook mumbled. "Always has been and I reckon he always will be." "He’s the Prince Regent," Herbie snapped. "He’s got every right to be a touch uppity, don’t you think? He’s gonna be sitting on the throne one day." "Alel help us when he does," Sadie grumbled. "He’s gonna turn this kingdom upside down with his devilish ways."

"He’s gonna make us a fine King," Herbie snorted. "You just wait and see!" Sadie let out a long breath. "Well, with the lady at his side, he might turn a fair mind to the people. She’ll keep his horny little ass in line, I’m thinking." *** "Checkmate," Legion said, grinning. Teal pushed back from the chess table and folded his arms. "I’m not going to play another game with you, A’Lex." "Sore loser," Legion remarked as he lifted his snifter of brandy to his lips. "Has he done anything to either of you?" Thom asked as he looked up from the mending he was doing on one of his dress tunics. Legion glanced at the Captain of the Elite. "Not yet, but I’ve been holding my breath." Teal got up and walked to the window, looked out at the recruits Sir Hern Arbra was putting through their paces. "Maybe that’s what Conar wants us to do." "Knowing that shitty little brother of mine," Legion quipped, "you may be right, friend Teal." "Don’t get complaisant, though," Thom warned. "If you do, he’s sure to strike when you least expect it." "He’ll do so at his peril," Legion groused. He stood, stretched his aching muscles, and joined Teal at the window. "Belvoir still here, Thommy?" Thom nodded. "He’s training the squires this week." The tall man shrugged his slumped shoulders. "Glad I ain’t in training no more. That man’s the very devil." "Worse than Hern?" Legion asked, looking around. Thom glanced up from his sewing. "There’s some that say he is. Storm and Marsh had to do their annual physical last week. They told me Belvoir nearly ran their asses off on the field." He grinned. "Heard tell he told them if they was gonna be protecting the young Prince, they had to be in better shape than the boy’s enemies." "He’s got enough of ’em," Legion sighed, turning away. He sat in a chair by the fire and stared moodily into the leaping flames. "You’ve heard the rumors about the Hasdu’s putting a bounty on Conar’s head, haven’t you?" "Conar doesn’t believe those rumors," Teal answered. "He thinks Galen’s behind most of it. At any rate, it ain’t a death bounty. From what I hear, the bastards want him alive and well." "So they can toss him in one of their prisons and throw away the key," Thom put in. He looked up, his forehead crinkling. "If these rumors are true, why do you reckon they want him?" Legion shrugged. "Serenia never has been on friendly terms with any of the Inner Kingdom emirates.

Maybe they think if they got Conar, they’d have leverage along the trade routes." Teal shook his head. "It’s more than that." When both men glanced at him, Teal blushed. "Just a feeling." "What kind of feeling, gypsy?" Legion scoffed. "As you keep telling us, you don’t have the sight your mama possessed. If you did, you’d win more often without having to cheat!" Teal sneered. "I don’t have to cheat, A’Lex, to lose!" "What kind of feeling?" Thom echoed. "You feel something may be truthful in the rumors?" A dark look passed over Teal’s face. "I can’t explain it, Thommy. I just think there’s more to what the Hasdu’s want from Conar than just security for their shipping. I don’t think we’ve heard the last from those bastards that killed Rayle." Thompson Loure’s face hardened and his black, beady eyes took on a glint of steel. "I’d like to find the bastard what ordered my brother’s death." He crushed the tunic in his huge paw of a hand. "I’d tear him apart!" "We may get the chance one day," Legion told him. "If these rumors are more than just that, we may have more to worry about than just Galen’s puny threats against Conar. Galen isn’t a real problem; we can handle him. But the Hasdu are another matter altogether!"

Chapter 2 The days at Boreas Keep stretched into long hours of laughter and happiness for the young Prince of Serenia. The nights of love in his big oaken bed were too short. His smiles warmed the chill days and his boyish laughter lightened even the darkest of nights as he sat at the harpsichord with his lady and coaxed her into singing "The Prince’s Lost Lady" with him. "You are happy, aren’t you son?" his father asked one evening as he passed Conar on the stairs. "Happier than I have any right to be, Papa." Conar embraced his father, surprising the man. "Happier than I ever thought I would be." King Gerren stood on the steps, looking after his favorite son as the boy skipped down the stairs like the child he had never been. Gerren turned his eyes to the portrait of his wife and smiled. "He’s going to be all right, Moira. Our boy is going to be all right, after all." *** Conar poked his head in the kitchen door and looked around. He caught Sadie watching him and smiled. "Did my lady come through here?" he asked, walking over to see what Sadie was making.

"Don’t you have better things to do than snoop about my kitchen?" the old woman snapped. Conar draped a loving arm around Sadie’s stooped shoulders. "Where’s Liza?" he asked, aware the cook would know. "Going about her business, I’d think!" Sadie sniffed, moving out of his light embrace. "Such as what you ought to be doing instead of bothering folk." "You wound me, Sadie." He reached out to pick up a bit of pastry she was rolling. He found his fingers soundly smacked by her spoon and drew them back with a grimace. "That hurt," he protested and brought his knuckles up to suck on them. "Then don’t be putting your grubby paws where they ought not to be!" Sadie growled. She bumped him with her hip. "Get out of my kitchen and leave me be, boy!" Before the old woman could react, Conar planted a wet kiss on her weathered cheek. "I love you, too, Sadie MacCorkingdale!" he whispered. He winked at her look of surprise and left the kitchen, whistling. Sadie snatched up a rag and scrubbed vigorously at the place on her cheek where the young Prince’s lips had branded her with a fire hotter than the flames in her cook stove. "Little bastard!" she hissed. "You don’t like him, do you, Granny?" Sadie turned, her angry eyes softening as her tow-headed sixteen-year-old grandson slipped out of the pantry where he had been hiding. "I’d forgot you was in there, Robbie," she said, holding out her ample arms to the lad. Robbie MacCorkingdale let the old woman hug him, although he didn’t like the feel of her withered, flabby arms around him. "You gonna stay and have some supper with me?" Sadie asked as she ran her arthritic hand up and down his taut back. "I got to get back to the Temple," he said, easing out of her embrace. "Master Tohre is expecting me to help him this eve." Sadie frowned. She didn’t like the High Priest. There was something about Kaileel Tohre that worried her and she especially didn’t like her grandson living at the Temple in Corinth with the man. "You didn’t answer me, Granny." "About His Nubs?" she scoffed. "No, Robbie. I don’t like the pompous little bastard." Robbie’s face took on a sheen of hero worship. "But he’s the Prince Regent, Granny. He’s going to be our King one day." "So everybody keeps reminding me!" Robbie’s smile faded. "Won’t that be a good thing?"

Sadie shrugged. "With that one, you can never tell what he might do." Her face softened and she sighed. "You’re sure you can’t stay?" Robbie shook his head. "But I’ll be back in a few days." "That’s a long ride to Corinth, lad." "It’s worth it to see you." Robbie didn’t tell her it wasn’t her he was there to see but the young Prince who he’d been ordered to keep an eye on. "Note everything," High Priest Tohre had ordered. "I want to know everywhere he goes, what he does when he gets there, who he sees. What his plans are for the next week. If you hear of him planning to leave the keep without that bitch of a wife, I want to know immediately. Do you hear me, Robert?" Young MacCorkingdale had done exactly as the priest had ordered, keeping as close an eye on the young Prince as he could without being found out. It was a task he didn’t mind, for he was in awe of the twenty-one-year-old heir to the throne. Everything the Prince did only made the young man admire him more. "Don’t let him fool you," Tohre had warned. "He’s not the hero you think him." But Robbie disagreed. To him, Conar McGregor could do no wrong. He was loyal to his people; devoted to his wife; beyond corruption. If there was anything Robbie was sure of, it was Prince Conar McGregor’s steadfastness in the face of every temptation placed in his path. He was strong, powerful. No man could bring the young Prince down from the pedestal on which Robbie had placed him. "I’ll tell you about him sometime," his grandmother said as he opened the door to leave. "Who, Granny?" "Conar McGregor." His name on her lips sounded like a curse. "When you’re ready to know of it, I’ll tell you all about him." Robbie’s brows drew together. "Something bad?" he asked, but he didn’t think that could be. His hero was incapable of doing anything bad. "We’ll talk," his grandmother answered cryptically. On his long ride back to the Wind Temple at Corinth, Robbie wondered at the old woman’s mysterious words and the look of pure hatred he had seen in her watery eyes. *** Something wasn’t right. Waking from a light sleep, Conar reached for his wife only to find the place where she slept empty and cold. He softly called her name, thinking she was in the bathing chamber. When he received no answer, he got out of bed and pulled on his breeches. The room was pitch black, with no light seeping through the slit between the velvet drapes. It was the last month of the year and the wind howled, sending gusts of snow against the windows. Striking a flint,

he lit the lamp beside their bed, cupped the flame in his hand, and held up the tapered glass. "Sweeting? Where are you?" The room, like his bed, was empty. It sent a shiver of displeasure down his spine. Liza had often vanished before they were wed, and although she had not dared do so since that November Joining night two years earlier, her absence still rankled him. If she was not where he could see her, hear her, know precisely where she was, Conar McGregor was ill at ease until she was once more at his side. Not having Liza close at hand was his one great fear. "Liza?" he called again, becoming worried. He padded barefoot to the fireplace. Setting the lamp on the mantle, he stoked the ashes in the hearth, added a log, and rubbed his hands together. The cold was biting. He thought fleetingly of his shirt that hung on the chair by his bed, but dismissed it, taking up the lamp and going to the door. He stepped into the darkened hallway. Only silence greeted him and his brows drew together. Where the hell could she be? He searched every room on the main sleeping floor, grinning at Legion, Teal, and Hern as they snorted and slurped in their sleep. He hesitated, watching Legion mumbling, and thought fleetingly of pouring the man’s pitcher of water over his sleeping form, but shrugged away the idea. Legion’s time would come, he thought, and eased shut his half-brother’s door. Gezelle, Liza’s lady’s servant, had locked her door, but he had no reason to think his wife would be there. For some reason, the two were not as close as they had once been and rarely spent time together, except the rare occasions when Liza needed the services of a personal maid. There appeared to be coolness between them he could not understand, since he didn’t think Liza knew of his brief affair with Gezelle. At least he hoped she did not. Neither woman had ever mentioned it to him. It was not something of which he was proud, but then again, neither was it something he regretted. The thing had simply happened. It was over and done with and best forgotten. He had made a sacred vow to Alel that it would never happen again. There were two guestrooms, but Liza was not in either one. He held the lamp high and walked down the spiraling stairs to the main hall. As he descended, he glanced at his mother’s portrait and smiled. "Good eve, sweet lady," he said, bringing his right hand to his lips then touching his fingers to his mother’s cheek. "I love you." The portrait’s beautiful face peered back at him with silent, painful memories. He turned away, sudden sadness making him sigh with regret. He had been thirteen when his mother had taken ill and died. He walked softly through the main hall, the study, glanced down the corridor leading to the Great Hall, opened the door to the kitchens and shone his lamp into the silent, night-dark room. Frowning even more fiercely, he headed back to the Great Hall and the room beyond when he noticed a light draft swirling about his bare feet. He squinted in the flickering light, focused, and realized the door to the study was partially open. He peeked inside and saw that one of the doors leading into the garden had been blown open by the wintry breeze.

He cocked his head to one side, listening closely to the voice. "Do you not understand? I am afraid!" The words came from beyond the garden door. He slipped silently across the room. When he heard Liza’s soft voice again raised in gentle protest, his nerves snapped along the endings, warning him to be quiet. As another voice spoke, he felt a quiver of disquiet creep down his spine and he hastily blew out his lamp, setting it on a nearby table. His bare feet made no sound as he crept to the narrow double doors and stood listening to the whistling voice. He looked through the crack between the two doors and saw movement in the garden’s shadowed depths. As quietly as he could, he slipped through the doors and into the mist of gently falling snow, heedless of the cold on his bare shoulders and feet, for the sound of that unknown voice bewildered him. The magnificent oaks and willows that spread their branches over the flagstone pathways were now skeletal old men, their arms hovering over the dead and dying vegetation as though trying to protect it from the ravages of winter. Rose bushes and hydrangeas shrubs were denuded of their blooms, sitting like widows at a dance. There was a smell of rotting leaves, dried earth, mildew, and snow about the high walls surrounding the garden. A pathway spiraled down to the massive wrought-iron seagate that stitched together the flagstones at the garden’s end. Snowdrifts, dry leaves, and an occasional fallen limb covered the path. Overhead, the moon sailed through a dark gray mist of snow and sweeping cloud. Very little light lit the garden, but every now and then, a moonbeam, freed of its prison of ice crystals, would shine on the far end of the garden where two benches faced one another. Liza was sitting on one of the benches, her thick woolen cape wrapped protectively around her. She sat so still, her face upturned to pay close attention to the voice that spoke from the darker confines under a spreading oak. Conar heard Liza’s whisper and the gentle sigh of the other voice answering, then saw Liza bury her face in her hands. "Am I lost, then?" Liza sobbed. Alarm racing along his soul, Conar eased himself around the vacant bushes, under a low-hanging sweep of willow, and slipped silently to an oak nestled closest to the one from where the strange voice was coming. Placing his hand on the rough bark, he cautiously peered around the trunk to see who the visitor was. The breath caught in his throat. He blinked. Blinked again and stared. He could not credit what he was seeing. Though he heard his wife’s soft whimper of sadness, his full attention was on the woman who stood before her. He loved Liza and thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, but the woman who stood talking to Liza was beyond compare. Her beauty outshone Liza’s by a full measure even, though she was obviously older. A haze surrounded her, a wavering mist of ice blue light that shone on the snow at her feet and lit her face in an eerie glow. Her face also shone with an inner light, breathtaking to behold. It was her face that held Conar riveted for it was, by far, the most exquisite face he had ever seen. The mystery woman’s eyes were dark. Brown, black, Conar couldn’t tell from his distance, but they were slightly tilted and he thought of his Uncle Tran, the Emperor of Chrystallus, whose eyes were tilted

in a like fashion. Her swan-like neck was long and delicate. The shoulders above the neckline of the lavender gown swirling about her in the blowing snow seemed to draw his gaze to her full bosom and slim waist. One fragile-looking hand reached out in supplication to Liza; Conar followed the slender curve of her arm as she let her hand rest on Liza’s shoulder. She shook her head in answer to Liza’s whispered question and Conar could not stop staring at the lush beauty of her dark hair. Black as midnight, parted in the middle, hanging down her waist to the bend of her knees, the woman’s hair was shining and radiant in the hesitant glow of a moonbeam that seemed to momentarily float down to her. As she moved, the silken tresses floated about her face, framing the soft oval shape and calling Conar’s attention to her slightly upturned nose and delicate cheekbones. Her lips were full and a deep scarlet red. They glistened as she wet them with the flick of a small pink tongue and Conar found himself shivering. When she spoke, her voice somewhat louder than before, he closed his eyes and listened, for her voice was soft and sultry, low and inviting, and it made him tingle. When she spoke, he could hear waves breaking on some alien seashore, the wind soughing in strange, oddly shaped trees. He grew oblivious to everything else around him, even the lovely woman who was his wife. It made him desperately want what he knew he should not. What he thought never to want again: the conquest and subjugation of a strange woman’s body by his own. He ached from the need to possess her. "I love my husband dearly," Liza said. "He is my life. Without him, I am nothing. I would not want to live." "Nothing lasts forever, Daughter," the woman replied in a chiding voice. "That which we treasure more than we should, we risk losing to the gods’ displeasure." "But our Joining was sanctioned by the gods. Why would They wish to tear us apart?" "Have I said that was Their wish?" "But you said—" "I have told you your love will be tested. His will be tested even more." Tested how? Conar thought. In what way? "And his strength will be gauged by the gods, Themselves," the woman prophesied. "His eagerness in wishing to possess you, to protect you, to keep you at his side, will be challenged." "I will not let anyone, god or otherwise, take Conar McGregor away from me!" Liza shouted, her fists clenched at her sides. "He is mine!" "You are his keeper, Daughter, not his owner." "Aye, and as such, no one but me has the right to him!" "It has been written that the Prince of the Wind will belong only to the woman who will prove herself to be the most worthy of him. That may be you or it may be a woman he has yet to meet. You, Anya

Elizabeth, may not be Serenia’s pride, after all!" "I will slit the throat of any woman who tries to take my man away from me!" Liza vowed, angrily swiping at the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I will gut her then feed her rotting carcass to the werebeasts who prowl the hills of Diabolusia!" Conar shuddered, knowing his wife fully capable of doing precisely what she threatened. Her hand on a crossbow rivaled his own. She might even be as good with the deadly weapon as Chase Montyne of Ionary, the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the world. Suddenly feeling the cold intensely on his bare flesh, between his toes, and along his naked shoulders, he turned to go back inside, but the sweet, electric voice of his wife’s companion cut through him like a red-hot dagger and riveted him where he stood. "Then heed what I tell you, my Daughter. Pay close attention, for I may say it only once: Time will tick away the hours ’ere this thing is done. Hearts will break and hearts will mend, ’ere love again will come. The answers you seek to find this night are hidden all too well; for before you journey once more through light, you must first make journeys through hell. The loyalty will never be fully taken, of that I can promise you true; but ’twill not be ever yours, I fear. Beware the Spinner’s brew!" Conar heard Liza’s muffled gasp of sorrow and it tore his attention from the gorgeous woman who had captured his sexual desire. Liza’s head was bent; her sagging shoulders so painful for him to see. He would have gone to her, but her words stopped him. "Will I lose him, then?" she asked, her face stricken with agony. "Will she take Conar from me?" "Not in the way you mean, but he will not be yours forever." Conar’s heart skipped a beat. He would be Liza’s until the day he died, and, if there was indeed a heaven, even after his dying breath. He opened his mouth to protest, but Liza stood and ran down the flagstone path and through the double doors, her muffled sobs boring into his soul. He turned, crouched under one branch, and meant to follow, but he heard the woman’s sighing voice and he stopped, turning to find her only an arm’s length away. "I will speak with you, Conar McGregor," she whispered, her gaze going down his body in a full sweep of dark, thick lashes. A slight smile touched her sensuous lips. She flicked out her tongue to moisten her lips and a trill of laughter came from her beautiful mouth when she heard him suck in his breath at her open invitation. "Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?" "You," she stated, her eyes flaring. "And I will have you." Conar gaped at her. "What the hell are you talking about?" "You are all I knew you would be, McGregor. A man worthy of my affections." Conar felt a tightening in his breeches and backed away from her. Never had he felt such a strong urge to throw himself on a woman and ravish her. Never had he known the intense desire to rend and tear and hurt. To conquer. It was a feeling he didn’t like and one he wasn’t sure he could control. He took another step back, away from the threat she posed and the growing urge within him to mate with her on

the cold, frigid ground. "Who are you?" he whispered with fear in his voice. She looked at him with eyes as ancient as evil itself. Her body moved slowly, gently, to the keening moan of winter wind. He felt his pulse quicken, his breath catch in his throat, as she smiled. Her smile was predatory, an invitation to things dark and unnatural, to barbaric practices that had long ago been outlawed, to pain and pleasure all rolled into one. Her smile was like nothing he had ever seen, and it tore him apart inside, for it was—alive with a soul—dark as it probably was. "Who are you?" repeated, his voice low and fearful. "What do you want?" Her lilting laugh was evil, filled with promise and threat and challenge. She turned her head to one side and her lips formed a petulant pout. "Who do you wish for me to be, Conar McGregor?" she asked in her throaty whisper. "What would you have me want from you? I can be whatever you desire, Sweeting." He backed still further away and shook his head. "I don’t know you and I don’t want to." Her lips stretched wide and again she laughed. "How can you be sure?" "How did you get in here?" he asked, his heart thundering in his chest. He looked around, more for a route of escape than anything else. There was a need inside him to get away from this woman, if, indeed, that was what she was. By the look of her, by the looks she was giving him, he wasn’t sure the exquisite being before him was human. "I was called. I came." Her answer riveted him to where he stood on the frozen flagstones. "By whom?" "By the one you calllove ." The mysterious stranger lifted her hand and slowly clenched her fist, smiling evilly at him the whole time. "God!" Conar gasped as his groin tightened to a painful throb. He could actually feel her fingers on him, although she was a good ten feet away. His eyes opened wide. "Whatare you?" He groaned, feeling that alien hand caressing him as intimately as his wife had done only a few hours before. A laugh as gentle as the tinkle of crystal bells chimed over the garden. She looked hard at his full lips. Again, her tongue licked her lips and she smiled as his attention locked on the wet flesh of her mouth. "I have told you. Whatever you want me to be." "I want nothing from you!" He sucked in his breath as spectral nails raked gently over his testicles. He stumbled as he took another step back, his hands going down to protect himself from her supernatural touch. Her lips puckered in a pout. "Oh, but you do, sweet one." She put up her hand and traced the outline of her lips with one finger, circling the red flesh. He felt soft flesh encompassing his rigid manhood, a sweet, velvet tongue circling the swollen head. "Leave me alone!" he gasped, edging away from her. "Please!"

"And leave you to suffer, Milord? I would never do that." Her laugh was taunting. She wet her lips with her tongue once again, lowered her scrutiny to his crotch, and then lifted her gaze to his lips before she slipped her pink tongue inside her mouth. "You seem worried, Conar. Do you doubt your loyalty to your woman?" He felt the ghostly mouth release him and he staggered, both relieved and disappointed. He shook his head, moving away. He stumbled against a tree root protruding from the frozen ground and almost fell. He put up a hand to keep her at bay. "I want you to leave. Now." His voice was thick with some fierce emotion he could not understand. "Keep away from me." "You want no such thing, Conar. You would like nothing better than to have me stay." "I want you gone." He could feel his groin throbbing with desire and he whimpered, not understanding what was happening. How could he feel this way? What was she doing to him? The woman’s lips stretched into the most seductive invitation he had ever seen. The dark eyes blazed with an inner fire that seemed to melt the snow around them and he felt sweat forming on his face. "What you want, I can give you. Let me give you what you want, McGregor." She ran her hands down the sleek sides of her gown, brought them up to cup the ripe fullness of her breasts. Her hands swirled over the bodice, lifting, separating, and squeezing together the firm mounds. "Would you not like to touch me, Conar?" "No!" His expression of denial was loud and fearful, but he also knew passion, unholy and relentless, blazed over his sweating face. "Oh, but you would. I can see the need in you, sweet Prince. I can smell the need seeping from you." Conar groaned, feeling his manhood leap at her words, his juices oozing from the swollen tip. What manner of woman was she that even her mere words, spoken in such a way, could make him hot with a need he dare not quench? A need he wanted more than anything this side of paradise to resist? A need darker than any he had ever experienced? "Touch me, Conar," she commanded. "Put your hands on my flesh." She took a few steps closer, encouraged when he did not move away. "Put your hands on flesh that is warm and firm. Run your fingers over my nipples; dip them into the very essence of me." His eyes widened with sheer terror. Her words were doing things to his body that should not be happening. He felt hot, he felt such sexual tension mounting in his body, he feared he would unman himself before her. There was actual physical pain between his legs, a desire building that brought with it a wicked craving that made his blood boil and his manhood ooze with excitement. "Leave me alone," he pleaded, his voice no longer sure, no longer firm. He was on fire with a yearning he neither wanted nor could ignore. "Go away!" "I think not, sweet Prince." She licked her lip again, letting the slick flesh move slowly, enticingly, wetly over her mouth. "I want you." "Keep away from me!" he gasped, his knees weakening.

"No," she answered, her lips coming together in a moue of denial. "You want me, too, McGregor. Admit it." "I want no such thing!" "You want me. Your manhood throbs with the need to plunge deep within this body." "No!" She smiled and his entire being melted, his very flesh so hot he imagined he could feel the snow sizzling on his bare shoulders as it lit upon him. His need grew so great he could barely move. He ached. He hurt. He needed. "I am yours for the taking, Conar McGregor," she cooed. "To do with as you will. To use as you desire." He had to force his gaze from her shiny lips. He backed away as she took a step closer. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt the bulge straining between his legs. It was a sharp, unbearable need, overpowering and insistent. He hovered between heat and icy chill as his body struggled with his honor and his heart. "I want you gone," he managed to say, his breath coming in shallow spurts. He backed up until he felt the cold stab of the fountain’s rim behind his knees. "Are you so sure you would rather not have me stay?" She advanced, gliding toward him on silent feet, and reached out a slim hand to touch his cheek. Conar groaned, low in his throat, deep in his soul. Her touch was like velvet, like the warm kiss of the sun’s rays of a spring day after a harsh, dark winter. He shivered, savoring the touch, marveling in the deep, sensual need running rampant through his quivering body. As her fingers moved, caressed his chilled flesh, he stared into eyes as black as onyx. "Would you have me go and never know the feel of my lips on yours?" she asked and moved so that her body touched his. Conar gasped, sucking in his breath at the sensation of her lush curves easing along the hard length of his body. He couldn’t breathe; couldn’t speak; couldn’t seem to move. He was drowning in her gaze, his blood boiling. "Would you not wonder what my mouth would taste like?" Her thumb eased over his mouth and smoothed the flesh along his upper lip, parting the full flesh and stroking his lips so tenderly he wanted to cry with the pain of it. The silk of her thumb slipped slowly into his mouth, pulled down the lower lip and slid across its length. Her fingernail grazed his teeth. His knees wanted to buckle. He whimpered, his ache building to the point of release. He wondered that he could stand there, trembling as he was, without sliding to the ground in a mangled heap. "Would you not forever wonder what it would have been like to return my kiss, Conar McGregor?" She took her thumb from his lip, brought her hand to her mouth, slipped her index finger between the scarlet lips, and sucked on it. She wet it before putting the tip to Conar’s mouth, circling his lips with her moistened finger, tracing his flesh with her own saliva.

An animalistic groan came from him, the sound of a creature in the throes of some great exacting torture. His eyes flared with shock, with intense desire, and it was all he could do not to crush her to him, to ravage her like the rutting beast he felt he was becoming. "You want me as you have never wanted another woman. Don’t you, McGregor?" For a moment he couldn’t speak. His need was too great, his agony too intense. He held her gaze, feeling her index finger slip between his lips. Without thinking, without conscious awareness that he was doing so, he sucked it deep into his mouth, wetting it, circling it with his tongue, drawing on it as though it were her nipple, until she withdrew it and brought the moist tip to her own lips. "Do you want me, McGregor?" "Aye," he forced out between parted, gasping lips. "I do want you!" Again, her smile grew evil. Her fingers came to him, threaded through the gold of his hair to bring his face forward, toward hers. She lifted her head and covered his mouth with her own, drawing on his lips as though she would drain every ounce of resistance from his body. Her kiss was mind numbing, as intoxicating as an expensive vintage wine. When she pulled back to look at him, he felt a hunger such as he had never known. "I want you," he said gruffly. "I want you, as well." With their gazes locked, she put her arms around his neck, pressed herself to him, and molded her body as tightly to his as their clothing would allow. She rubbed against him and a light laugh came from her seductive lips as his needful groan came barreling up from his soul. As her lips again took his, the heady sweetness of the touch was nearly his undoing. Of their own volition, his arms went around her, drawing her to him, tightly clasping her body, his lips moving beneath hers until his mouth became the captor; he, the ravisher. He deeply thrust his tongue into the sweetness of her mouth and growled, feeling her own slip around his as she suckled him. He lifted her free of the ground and slid her rump onto the rim of the fountain behind him. He slipped between her legs, pushed up her gown, his hands fumbling at his own clothing, his fingers groping for the buttons that kept his breeches closed. "Aye, McGregor," he dimly heard her whisper. "Aye." He saw the spark of satisfaction in her eyes as they kissed, as he found the top button of his cords and popped the pearl stud through its opening. He strained against her, felt her hand slide down his shoulder, around his arm, over his thigh and go to the bulge in his breeches. Her fingers found him and molded their delicate flesh around him. "Um," she moaned against his lips and her tongue pushed his aside to probe deep within the recesses of his mouth. This is wrong, he thought. Horribly, evilly wrong! Yet even as the thought pricked at his conscience, he pressed her tighter to him in a fevered embrace that brought sweat to his underarms.

"Conar, you should not be doing this," another voice broke through, louder than the pulsing of his heart pushing hot blood through his veins. "This is wrong, son." "Is thisreally what you want, my child?" a deep, grandfatherly voice sadly inquired. "What of your lady-wife?" From the mists of fever in his brain, he heard another voice, Liza’s, as clearly as though she was standing before him. "Will she take Conar away from me?" It was as though lightning had speared him. He jerked, stumbling away from the mysterious woman. He knocked her hands from him, put the width of the fountain between them and stood trembling, his breath ragged in his throat. "What’s wrong, my Prince?" she cooed, sliding off the fountain and moving toward him. He put up a hand and backed away. "I…I am taken." The woman turned her delicate head and looked at him from the sweep of her lashes. "Do you love her?" "With all my heart." He strove to get his racing pulse under control. "And yet your body aches for mine. Why is that, Conar McGregor?" Her gaze lingered on his crotch, where the evidence of his hot desire still leapt. She drifted toward him and he became aware for the first time that, where she walked, no footprint was left in the swirling snow. He locked his gaze with hers. "I don’t know who you are or what you are, woman, and I don’t care." As she glided toward him, a seductive smile on her lips, he shook his head in violent denial and put up a restraining hand. "Stay where you are! Don’t come any closer!" "You don’t trust yourself with me, do you?" she asked, her eyes flashing with triumph. "If I were to touch you again, my sweet Prince, you would be mine. Forever." He vehemently shook his head. "No. I would not!" "Are you willing to test what I tell you?" She moved closer and smiled when his back came up against the stone wall of the tool shed. "How can you be sure you do not want what I am offering?" Conar stumbled along the wall, tripped over dead shrubs, and crashed into a trellis before putting himself out of the woman’s reach. "I don’t want anything from you!" "Not even knowing I can pleasure you like no woman ever has or can again?" she whispered. Her gaze went to the still-lingering bulge at the junction of his thighs. "I can see you want me." "What you see belongs to Liza McGregor and Liza’s it will stay!" he shouted. Her smile vanished. "Not always, my Prince." "Aye, always!"

Her delicate shoulders rose in a shrug. "As you will, but before I leave, if that is truly what you want me to do—" "Aye, I want no part of you!" His fear oozed in waves down his sides. "Then listen well, for the time of reckoning is closer than you know." She looked at the window above his head and smiled, then returned her gaze to his. "I will give you a riddle to solve." "I don’t want to hear any gods-be-damned riddle!" "Perhaps not, but remember it, for your life may well depend on it one day: Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, thrice the blow will come. Torn the flesh, shed the blood. Beware the source, my son." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He felt a sudden terrible aching in his heart, a flash of pain rip through his side, his arm, and his hand. A soul-wrenching despair shot through him hard enough to leave him shaking. "You will know when the time comes. You will remember my words. You will hear them even though your powers will be at the lowest ebb in your life." "I am no sorcerer—" "Oh, but you are, sweet Prince of the Wind." She laughed. "One of the very best. And well you know it." "You’re wrong." Her laughter chimed and then, with a suddenness that blinded him as though all light went out, her glow vanished and a piercing cold went through him. He reached out, wanting her back, needing her back, aching for her, but his hand encountered snow. Gone without a trace. He stood for a long time, his flesh turning blue with the cold, his brow furrowed in confusion. He finally became aware of the damp, chilling wind and turned his face toward the heavens, feeling a great sorrow welling up in him, a sorrow he could not understand. His eyes went to the window of his room, the window that faced the garden. He saw Liza framed in the casement. The moon had cleared the sweeping clouds and a bright beam of light lit her as she stared down at him. "Liza," he whispered, wondering how much she had seen. A shiver went through him as he turned and raced back to their chamber. Liza did not turn to him as he entered. She still stood by the window, her hand on the thick drape she had pulled to one side. She was staring intently into the garden as though she could see what he could not. "I woke to find you gone," he told her, feeling as though he had done something very, very wrong, and

knowing deep in his heart that he had. "I went to look for you." "She let you see her." It was not a question; it was an accusation. "Who was she?" he asked, afraid of his wife’s answer. She turned to face him. In the glow from the fireplace, he saw her hand sweep before her in a sign of denial. "Never, never follow me when I am about the Multitude’s business. If you wake to find me gone, Conar, know this: I will always return. Even through the Maelstrom itself, I will return to you. Never believe me gone from your side for long. My running days are over, as you once told me." Her voice was hard and brittle. "I may leave you for a while, but Iwill return!" Her words confused him. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that he was losing her. "Who was that woman, Liza? What is she to you?" She stared at him. "I don’t think you truly want to know, Milord." He took a step toward her, but when she stiffened, he stopped. "Is she a sorceress? One of your goddesses? I must know." Liza shook her head. "It is not something you need to know. I can not imagine why she would show herself to you." "At least tell me her name. Let me know who my enemy is." Liza frowned. "She is not your enemy, Conar. Mine, perhaps, but never yours." "I don’t want anything to ever come between us, Liza," he protested, not really hearing her. "I need to know who she is. She…she…" "She aroused you," Liza finished for him. "She tried to seduce you." A sad smile touched her lips. "She has that effect on every man who sees her." "For one moment I…" He looked away. "You wanted her so badly that you ached." When his stricken eyes leapt to hers, she nodded. "But you resisted, or else you would not be here now." "I am in love with my wife, Liza. No woman could make me turn away from you." He held out his hand. "I will never leave you!" She looked away, a sob catching in her throat. Her gaze went to the corner of the room where a small spider was tenaciously spinning a web. She flinched and tore her eyes away from the webspinner. "Her name is Raphaella, Milord. She is a powerful, dangerous woman, but she is not your enemy. That you resisted her has put you in good stead with her and she will be your champion forever. That, I swear." He went to her and would have taken her in his arms, but she sidestepped him and sat on their bed. She held up her arms to him. "Come to me, Milord Conar!"

There were tears in her voice, and he wasted no time in going to her. She turned into his embrace and buried her face against his bare shoulder, wincing at the chilled feel of his flesh, trembling as the thought of his hard flesh turned cold with death flitted unbidden through her mind. "Hold me, Conar!" she begged. "Hold me as though there may never be a tomorrow!" "Hush, now. Our tomorrows will be many and long. I would rather die than not spend my life with you." Sleep was a long time in coming for Liza that night. She knew her nightmares had just begun. *** Galen McGregor’s dreams were filled with Liza. His waking thoughts were on her lovely face and sweet voice. His fantasies took him to exotic lands and to the heights of shared passion with her imagined form. But his realities brought him crashing to earth. When he had known his twin was miserable, sick that he was being forced into a loveless marriage with a woman thought to be hideously deformed, Galen had been overjoyed. Never had the golden Prince of Serenia been prevented from having something he wanted; never had something Conar McGregor held dear been taken from him as his beloved Liza had been. To have Conar in misery, suffering, even from so minor a thing as having to marry someone he didn’t want to, had Galen laughing until the very moment the veil had been drawn from Liza’s pretty face. From that moment, Galen’s dreams had become nightmares, his thoughts vile and vengeful. His fantasies, ones of misfortune for his twin. His realities, the knowledge that Conar had won still again, and in the winning, had claimed the lovely Liza for his lawful prize. Galen now dwelt in a perpetual state of drunken stupor, his days filled with snarling rage, his nights with whimpering dejection. Curse him! Galen thought as he sat brooding in his study within the dank and dismal walls of Norus Keep. Curse them both, father and son! Once more Conar had escaped the fate he so richly deserved while he, Galen, had been left to suck hind teat still again. Was there no end to his hated brother’s good fortune? If there had been any semblance of love left within him for his brother, Galen thought, it was long gone. If there had ever been one ounce of compassion buried deep in his bitter soul, it was hidden so deeply even the gods couldn’t find it. His rancor toward his twin had become a suppurating wound oozing venom from his heart to flood his system with poisonous thought. He wanted Conar out of his life forever and he knew only one person who could see that it would be done… Kaileel Tohre. Slamming his fist into the paneling of his study, Galen felt a great satisfaction at the physical pain. Pain was something he understood. It was something he relished on occasion. Not the pain in his heart—that was unbearable—but the physical pain that momentarily took his mind from the agony rotting away his soul. He could bear the pain he felt on the outside; it was the pain within him, throughout his entire being,

that haunted him with burning barbs and taloned fists that gripped him with the red-hot sting of jealousy. That was a pain that could not be eased. Raking blunt fingers through his dark gold hair, Prince Galen McGregor narrowed his pale blue eyes and cursed the fates that had made him the second-born of the two. Although he bore a striking resemblance to Conar, his own hair was much more coarse than Conar’s silky sheen; his face was cast in the same roundness, but Conar’s was more handsome, more bold; the blue eyes were direct where Galen’s tended to shift away. "You got it all, didn’t you, Conar?" Galen hissed, picturing his twin. "You got the personality and the loyalty; you got the crown." His lips curled. "You got the woman." His anger seethed within him. "Damn you to the Abyss, but I hate you!" Shouting for his steward, Galen slumped into his chair and squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the raging headache tearing at his right temple. He dug a fist into the flesh, pushing the pain as hard as he could, feeling no relief, but relishing the pressure, for it stopped the image of Conar’s smiling face from obscuring his vision. The headaches were something new, something Conar had had since a boy, but a malady Galen had developed only of late, and they were getting worse. "Aye, Your Grace?" the steward asked, setting a fresh bottle of brandy beside his master. "Get that damnable sorcerer in here!" Galen demanded, his trembling fingers now rubbing the area over his eye. Fresh spasms of pain shot through his head. He gagged. "Tell him I need something for this misery!" "I have already sent for him, Highness," the servant said, worried, for the Prince’s face was pinched white with agony. Galen flung out a hand, the closest he could come to thanking the one servant in all of Norus who was ever loyal to him. That the servant despised Jah-Ma-El as much as Galen was some consolation. A vicious sneer formed on his handsome face as he thought of Jah-Ma-El, the bastard brother Galen refused to acknowledge as his own kin, but took delight in thinking of as Conar’s sibling. It was no secret Jah-Ma-El worshipped Conar. Nor was it a secret that Conar was the only McGregor who claimed the wretched man as part of the family. Considering the loyalty Jah-Ma-El obviously felt toward Conar, it was no wonder the situation of wresting the power from Conar had not been resolved. Jah-Ma- El had been utterly useless over the past three years. Nothing he had done had worked. Galen hated his bastard brother more than ever. Jah-Ma-El’s ineffectiveness was now causing serious problems. Only that morning a messenger had come from Tohre, telling Galen that his brother and Liza were being honored at a festival to celebrate the third anniversary of their Joining. "This should not have been allowed to go on as long as it has," Kaileel had written. "You asked to be allowed to take care of the situation and I, reluctantly, agreed to let you do so. Now, it is of the most urgent nature that you see the problem solved. I must have Conar within my total control before the spring equinox. If you can not achieve our mutual objective, matters will be handled here by the Brothers." The message had only added fuel to Galen’s impotent rage. To his feelings of inadequacy. Kaileel’s words were like shards of ice as Jah-Ma-El now crept into the room.

"What kept you, imbecile?" Galen spat. "Give me something for this ungodly pain!" A stench rose up from the magician’s unwashed body. "I came as soon as I was called, Highness." He held out his hand and flinched as Galen snatched the vial of painkiller from it. Galen’s lip curled with disgust. The man looked as though he had been sleeping in his robe; his thinning hair was spiked in several directions and there was a gray scum covering his hands and neck that testified to Jah-Ma-El’s reluctance to take a bath. How, Galen wondered, could this unkempt ass be his own kin? "I want her, Jah-Ma-El!" Galen snarled, covering his nose to help blot out the man’s putrid odor. "I want her now!" "I am trying—" "If she is not removed from him by the equinox, Tohre will move against her." Galen’s gaze turned hard. "If anything happens to her, I will see you burned at the stake!" He leaned forward in his chair. "And I will personally light the rushes!" "But I have done everything I know to do!" Jah-Ma-El whined. "She protects herself well. I told you when all this started that she would be a force to reckon with. She is of the Multitude! What more can I do?" "You told me you could get her away from Conar!" Galen shouted, pain exploding in his temples. "You said you could separate her from him so my men could take her. Once I have her here, Conar can do nothing. He will have lost her forever!" "I told you I could try to separate her from Conar, Your Grace, but with all the threats you’ve made against him after the Joining, she has stayed protectively by his side. Together, they are invincible. What is it you think I can do?" Galen bounded from his chair and grabbed the front of Jah-Ma-El’s filthy robe. "Conjure up something she will not suspect. Not something aimed at her, but aimed at that sorry brother of mine. Set it on Conar! Do you hear? Set the demon on Conar! Lethim suffer as I am suffering!" Jah-Ma-El’s face turned white. "I will not injure my brother." Galen’s eyes nearly bulged from his red face. "Your brother? Your brother?" He struck Jah-Ma-El across the mouth, staggering the thin, lanky man and making him crumble to the floor in a heap. "Slime from my father’s prick! You have no relation to this family, filthy bastard!" Jah-Ma-El looked up, his torn mouth set and hard even though his eyes were afraid and his lips trembled. "I will do no harm to Conar," he repeated, his chin rising. "No matter what you do to me, I will never harm Conar." With his face a mottled splash of rage, Galen bent over and put his face close to Jah-Ma-El’s pinched one. "The Master wants him, Jah-Ma-El. You and I both know why. He has entrusted me to see this done and, in the doing, has agreed to letme have Liza. He, himself, dares not interfere, for he would be the first one Conar would suspect."

"Conar will know who’s behind this anyway. Does the Master actually believe Conar will not know?" Jah-Ma-El cringed as Galen drew back his hand to hit him, but the blow never came. Instead, Galen stared down at him. "The Master’s actions are his own. He has reason to stay out of this. It is up to you to bring Conar to him. If he can not be brought to heel, the Master will have him slain." All color drained from Jah-Ma-El’s face. "He would not do that." A hateful smirk settled over Galen’s face. "If you don’t find a way to take her from him, Conar will die, Jah-Ma-El. I have already given the orders to my man inside Boreas. He has a deadly poison that can easily be added to Conar’s wine." A slow, evil smile spread over Galen’s lips. "A poison that is undetectable, untraceable. Conar will never know what he has ingested until he hears the wings of the Gatherer coming for him!" Up until now there was never any serious intent to harm Conar, for Galen had set into motion mostly threat and talk against his twin. Jah-Ma-El did not think the man actually wanted Conar’s death; but love, such an all-consuming love as the one Galen had for Liza, might cause a man to do things he would not ordinarily do. Looking into Galen’s obsessed eyes, Jah-Ma-El thought him quite capable of fratricide. Galen wanted the crown, claiming it as his birthright, and that, combined with the dislike Galen had always harbored for Conar, and which had now turned to bitter hatred, might well mean that Conar’s life did, indeed, hang in the balance. Jah-Ma-El could not take the chance that Galen was bluffing. Galen stared at the man hovering at his feet and knew the precise moment Jah-Ma-El took his threat seriously. That it was only a threat, that Galen could never bring himself to kill Conar, Jah-Ma-El could not suspect. If things were to be accomplished on time, Jah-Ma-El had to believe that Conar was in mortal danger. "I see you believe me," Galen whispered. Jah-Ma-El lowered his head. "What is it you want me to do?" "If she is concerned with his safety, she will be less concerned with her own." He glanced at a portrait hanging over the mantle, turning his head to the side to study the twin boys who flanked their mother. It was the day of their third birthday and it had been a happy time for Galen. Conar had given him a present that Galen still had: an arrowhead of solid amethyst. It was the only material thing Galen McGregor had ever held dear. It hung on a silver chain around his neck as it had for more than twenty years. He looked away. "I want this woman, Jah-Ma-El. I deserve her. She will be a fitting Queen to sit beside me on the throne of this land. With her dark beauty and my fair, we will be a couple to rival the gods and goddesses. Can you not see the children she and I will make?" Jah-Ma-El wanted to tell him that no couple could compare with the one that Conar and Liza made, but he did not. "Did you ever love him?" Jah-Ma-El asked instead, seeing where Galen’s gaze kept returning. "Has there ever been any love for him in your heart?" Galen turned his back on Jah-Ma-El, ignoring the question. "Harm him. Don’t cause permanent damage, but hurt him enough so he will be out of my way for a time. If she is distraught over him, she will be careless of her welfare and then my men can take her with ease." He walked to a table and poured a large amount of brandy into a tumbler. "I will have her, Jah-Ma-El."

With tears streaking down his dirty face, Jah-Ma-El got to his feet and bowed to his master, leaving the man staring up at the portrait. Galen lifted the brandy. "To you, my brother. Causing you a little pain is better than causing you death!" He drained the tumbler and sent it smashing into the fireplace. What had Jah-Ma-El asked? Had he ever loved Conar? Galen laughed, a sound filled with self-loathing and contempt. "Aye, Jah-Ma-El, I loved him once. But he never returned that love." Sitting in his chair, Galen buried his face in his hand and realized the horrendous pain in his head had not eased. Not that it mattered. The pain in his heart was far worse.

Chapter 3 Conar’s blond head rested in his wife’s lap as they sat beneath the willow in the garden. Spring had come early, bringing with it a few overly warm days of sunshine and brisk breezes. The snow had melted away and the blossoms sprinkled about the flagstone pathway filled the air with a multitude of perfumes. The water once again flowed in the fountain and the leafy arms overhead sheltered the peaceful, walled-in garden from the hot sun. The spring equinox was only a few weeks away, but already the blooms about the garden were heavy on bush and shrub. "I’m going to the kitchens," Thom called to them from his place beside the library door. "Want anything?" "Wine," Conar answered. He watched the tall man slip through the library doors and then glanced at his lady. "Alone, at last!" Liza looked uneasily about them. They were never left alone for too long at the time, not since the incident at the anniversary party and what had happened afterwards. She was accustomed to having a member of the Elite or one of the palace guards hanging about in the background. She craned her neck and saw Storm and Marsh sitting at the far end of the garden by the seagate, playing a game of chess. Ever since their anniversary party four months earlier, several real attempts had been made on Conar’s life. She was worried. He had become violently ill at the party, having to take to his bed with horrible stomach cramps that had alarmed Healer Cayn and terrified her. "I can’t say for sure," Cayn had growled, "but I’d say someone fed him a massive amount of purgative." "But not poison?" Gerren asked, fear on his face.

Cayn shook his head. His lips pulled back over an angry snarl. "But someone wanted to be gods-be-damned sure he got as sick as a dog!" Then there had been the dagger that had come out of nowhere, sailing through the air with a loud swoosh of deadly intent. Had it not been for Hern’s quick thinking, the blade would have struck Conar in the back, close to his heart. "Hasdu!" Hern had yelled at the top of his lungs. "This is a Hasdu weapon!" A vigorous search of the keep and the surrounding countryside had not turned up a trace of the nomad assassin who had thrown the deadly missile. "Do youstill think the Hasdu mean you no harm?" the King had yelled at his son. Conar had not answered, but Liza had seen the concern flitting across his face. Two days later, the cinch of Conar’s saddle had been cut. As he raced du Mer’s new gelding across the training field, the cinch had let go and Conar slid with a painful crash to the hard-packed ground, the wind knocked from him, his left arm twisting awkwardly beneath him. "Is it broken?" Teal had asked as he leapt from his own mount to kneel beside his friend. "Bruised and scraped all to hell," Conar said, wincing as he sat up. "Sprained, maybe, but not broken." "You could have broken your neck with a fall like that." Conar looked at Seayearner, his huge black steed standing a few feet away, grazing with contentment on the tall field grass. "Aye, that I could," he answered softly. He looked back at Teal. "Maybe I was meant to." And only a few hours after Conar and Teal returned to the keep, Conar limping, Teal looking sorely embarrassed, the young Prince had come down with a violent fit of vomiting, gagging so violently, Cayn had feared this time he truly had been poisoned. "What did he drink?" Legion had shouted at the cook as he grabbed her and spun her to face him. "Storm said he saw you give him something!" "I gave him some lemonade," Sadie shouted back. "You accusing me of giving the man something to hurt him?" Liza stepped between the two of them. "Of course, not, Sadie. We know you’d never do anything to hurt His Grace." "He was given something!" Hern snarled. "The boy’s sicker than a drunk weasel!" "I don’t know what it was that he ingested," Cayn told them all that night. "Whatever it was, it was meant to put him in his bed and it has." "From now on, I want three men watching him every minute!" the King ordered. He turned to Legion. "Don’t let him out of your sight!"

Now, Liza watched him as carefully as Legion, Teal, Hern, Thom, Storm, and Marsh. Having the two Elite near as they sat in the garden made her less anxious, but she would just have soon had Thom there as well. "Liza?" She jumped, her gaze going to her husband. "Aye, Milord?" "Don’t you want to be alone with me?" he asked in a hurt, little boy’s voice. "Is that why you sent Thommy away?" Conar grinned. "He offered, Liza." "Aye, and you knew how long it would take him to get Sadie to give him the key to the wine cellar," she scolded. "Maybe I should have asked for a rare bottle, then." He leered at her, then reached up a hand to draw her head down to his eager lips. "One kept far back in the room." "You are incorrigible!" she said when his lips released hers. "I am horny, Madame." "A condition you seem to perpetuate, Milord," she sniffed and picked up the lavender-tinted rose he had plucked for her earlier. She smiled in appreciation as she inhaled its heady aroma. "The roses in this garden have no thorns," he told her with a resigned sigh. "Did you realize that?" He picked up a long tress of her hair and tickled his nose with it. She twirled the rose in her slim fingers. "I had not thought of it. Why is that?" He smiled. "There’s a legend. Want to hear?" When she nodded, he pointed to where Storm and Marsh sat. "See the thornbush by the seagate?" She looked at the twisted, gnarled bush and a slight, unhappy frown crossed her face. "It looks so forlorn sitting all alone." "There’s a reason why its all alone." He took her hand and brought the palm to his mouth, his teeth nibbling at the tender flesh between her thumb and forefinger. "And?" she prompted, trying to withdraw her hand, for the sensations he was causing were turning her hot with passion. She was relieved when he brought her hand down to his chest and cradled it against his shirt. "My mother used to let us come with her to the garden." He glanced up at her with a happy smile. "Like you do with my children." He lifted her hand and kissed it again. "She’d tend her flowers and tell us stories of her homeland, Virago, and about our heritage. We would listen with rapt attention, for she could tell stories in a way others could not. I think I was four or five, and Legion was ten or so when she told us the story of the thornbush. There were four other boys with us that day. One was Teal and the

others were my illegitimate brothers." He looked at her. "Like you, she never turned away one of my father’s sons. No matter how others felt about them, she loved them because they were his sons and were a part of him." He shook his head. "I think Mama would have loved them even if he hadn’t. She even cared a little for Jah-Ma-El." "Jah-Ma-El?" She had heard that name before but couldn’t place it. Why did the name conjure up the image of a friend? "He’s not important," Conar said. He didn’t like to think of his brother and where he was, what he had become. Liza sensed his reluctance to speak of the man. "Did your mother love Legion well?" Conar laughed. "Too well, sometimes. He got away with murder. Aye, she loved him." His face turned soft. "As you love my children." "See how well The Toad has treated you after all?" she teased. "How she would not let them keep you from your children?" His grin widened. "Knowing you truly accept them and go with me to see them is a reward I had not expected of The Toad." "You really didn’t know what to expect, now, did you?" she asked, swatting his arm with a lock of her hair. "Toad or not, this woman was not about to see your children orphaned, or you denied access to them. Besides, they are mine, too!" Conar felt a thrill of pride roll through him. She might not care at all for the mothers of his children, although she did not shun them as some women would have, but she was utterly devoted to the children themselves, and they loved her beyond measure. He sighed and closed his eyes, content with the world and the match he had made with this wonderful woman. "Conar! The legend?" She nudged him, not wanting to allow him to fall asleep as he so often did when they were talking like this. "The place is calledThe Garden of the Reckless Lovers . Mama was especially fond of the tale because it taught a moral lesson. The legend says that Alel was asked a favor. A promise was made in return for having the favor granted, but once the favor was granted, the one who asked reneged on his promise and Alel was cheated. "He is the greatest god in our pantheon and is all-powerful, all-knowing. He is a merciful and loving god, but He can also be a very unforgiving and vengeful god. When you ask something of Him, you must keep the promise He requests. If you don’t, He will exact a revenge that you will find hard to accept. "Sometimes the things He asks are small, like a promise to buy a new bell for the Temple or to put flowers on an unattended grave. Other times, His demands are more important and are hard to accept. But whatever He asks in return for the favor, you should be prepared to do, for His punishments are often severe." "Have you ever asked Him for anything?" Liza questioned, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. His eyes darkened with memory. "A shadow fell over me once. I begged to see the light again and He

granted my prayers." "Was His demand hard on you?" "Not really. It was important, though." He squinted, trying to remember. "When I asked Him for the favor, He told me through a dream that it would be a long time before I would be required to make good on my promise, and it was. It was about five years later the demand came. I was eighteen." He looked at her. "Only a few months before I met you." "What was the promise?" "That I would help someone who could not help themselves." "And you did," she replied, never doubting he would make good on a promise. "I dreamed there was a little girl crying. I could hear her, but couldn’t see her. I had that same dream for three nights in a row and, on the morning of the fourth day, I rode out of the keep knowing I would find her. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew Alel would guide me. I rode for nearly two days, all the way to the seacoast, near Ciona, before I found her." His face shadowed with grief. "She had been hurt." "And you made it right?" She smiled down at him with love. He took a long breath and let it out slowly. "I made it as right as it will ever be for Jenny and her parents." He shook his head. "But I’m not sure what I did really helped her." Liza wanted to ask him about what had happened, but his face had taken on a closed look she recognized all too well. Conar held many a secret from her, and when his eyes turned blank as they were now, she knew better than to question him further. "How did the garden come by its notorious name?" she asked, deciding to get back to the original conversation. He seemed to mentally shake himself from the past. He refocused and looked up at her. "There was a brash young man who had fallen in love with his neighbor’s betrothed. He desired her more than anything in the world and would have done anything to have her as his own. He tried to woo her, but she was afraid her husband-to-be would slay them both if she gave in. The young man knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her, so he went to Alel, begging the Great God to intercede. Alel, it is said, is a romantic, that He is softhearted where lovers are concerned. He told the young man He would grant him one night with the woman in exchange for giving a great deal of money to the poor. Times were very bad that year. There was famine and drought, and the poor were having a particularly hard time of it. They needed money to buy food and water. "So, the young man swore he would give a wagon full of silver coins to the poor if Alel would grant him one night with his love. The young man truly thought that if he could have but one night with her, she would see her love was greater for him than her fear of her husband-to-be and would run away with him. "Alel knew the man was lying. He can tell if you are true and honorable, and the young man needed to be taught a lesson. So He granted the man his one night with his neighbor’s betrothed; but He told him that it would have to be for one night, and one night only, for the woman’s husband-to-be was a good man and deserved better. He said there could be no repetition of that night, ever, if the young man did not want to suffer the consequences."

"So the man was warned?" Liza asked. "Severely warned, it was said; but he didn’t pay any heed. He wanted more than just one night, so he employed the services of a great sorcerer to see that the lady would fall so hopelessly in love with him that night, she would never want to leave him. He had been planning all along to trick Alel, for he had no intention of keeping his bargain with the Grandfather. "When dawn came the next morning, the lady could not bring herself to leave, for her heart had been truly ensnared by her lover. She forgot all about her husband-to-be, who sat at home grieving. The young man swept her up on his horse and carried her to this very keep where he was personal servant to King Kyle, my great-great-great-grandfather. "The lovers spent their second night in this garden, beneath the willow where we are now. It is said that, if you listen closely, you can hear their sighs in the wind through the willow branches and her laughter in the waters of the fountain. "Alel let them have their second night, but then He came down from the vault of heaven and confronted them by the seagate. Such was His wrath that He decided to leave them in the garden together forever. Even though the young woman had been innocent in the matter, having been seduced through sorcery, it didn’t matter to Alel. Sometimes your punishment for not adhering to His wishes draws someone you love into the punishment along with you. Sp He punished the young woman, for he knew how much it would hurt her lover to see his beloved suffer for his crime. "Alel took up a red rose bush by the seagate, and one by one, plucked away the thorns. He squeezed the thorns together in His hand and fashioned a bush of them, placing it beside the seagate. He blew His breath on the flowers and shrubs near the seagate and withered them so they would never grow again. Then He walked to the far end of the garden, where the roses grow now, and placed the rose bush, now minus its thorns, there where you see it. Then He sucked in His breath and drew the souls from the young man and his lover. When He exhaled, He blew the young woman’s soul into the rose bush and the young man’s into the thorn tree. Their bodies He cast into the Abyss where they must suffer for all eternity. But their souls are still here in the garden where they can see one another, but never, ever touch again. And for an eternity now, the rose grows alone, the only one of its kind in the garden, for no other roses will grow here. It bows its head in shame, unsupported, forlorn. And the thornbush sits on unhallowed ground where no other life may grow; alone and tangled in its own deceitful branches." Liza gazed at the thornbush that stood so forlornly by the wrought-iron gate. She grew sad by the way the branches seemed to weave in among themselves as though in shame and hopelessness. She glanced at the rose bush, whose flowers drooped on the vine, their lovely, lavender-tint seeming blue with melancholy. "But they say one day a love will bloom in the land that will reunite the thorn and the rose. New life will bud from the tangles of the thornbush." "That is a sad tale to tell children." "Maybe, but it makes its point," he said. "It cautions you to love wisely and honorably." "And did you learn?" "I believe so."

"What other things did you learn here from your mother?" she asked, ignoring his smug smile. "I learned all about women in this garden." "Oh?" She couldn’t help but laugh at his expression. "What exactly, Milord?" "That most of them can’t be trusted." He sat up and leaned back against the tree trunk. "Your mother told you that?" She couldn’t believe any woman would scar her son in such a way. "Other women taught me that." "How many other women, Conar?" He grinned at her. "More than my share." "I can well imagine," she sniffed and laid her head on his shoulder. "I saw your mother once." "Where?" "In Oceania. She had come to visit my mother. I thought she was very beautiful." "She was considered to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms." "How old were you when she died?" His eyes narrowed with pain. "It was after I came back from the Great Abbey. I was thirteen. I had not seen her since I was five." Liza turned to him, shocked. "Is that normal? I mean, I know the young men of the royal families are sent to the Temple to train. My brothers were, but I thought you were allowed to return home on High Holy Days and for other special occasions. Grice and Chand came home nearly every weekend." "I didn’t." Something in his look made her hesitate in asking anything more about the Temple. He never spoke of his days there, and when she asked him about those times, he usually changed the subject or ignored her. "So what did you learn from the ladies of Boreas, Milord?" she asked, trying to restore his good mood. He lifted one brow. "Why do you want to know?" She looked at her lap. "I was just curious." He grinned. "You are jealous." "Curious," she said emphatically. "Jealous!" He nudged her with his shoulder.

"Not in the least, Milord." Her nose went up in the air. "Just curious." "Curiously jealous." He chuckled and saw her blush. "How old were you?" Her face turned redder still. This was something they had never discussed, but like most women, Liza was inquisitive about from where her husband’s talents had come. "I was six when I lost my innocence and somewhat older when I lost my virginity." He snatched up a twig and started to peel away the bark. "Is there a difference?" "Afraid so," he answered, looking toward the fountain. "In what way?" She wedged under his arm so she could lean against his chest. "Do you remember the first time you saw one of your father’s mares being bred? Or one of your dogs?" When she nodded, he shrugged. "Then you lost your innocence when you saw the sexual act being performed, either by animal or human. You lose your virginity when, well, when you lose your virginity," he said with another chuckle. "How old were you when you and this woman…" "Thirteen." Liza giggled. "Eager, weren’t you?" Smiling slightly, he shook his head. "Not as eager as my teacher." "An older woman, I suppose. It’s always an older woman, isn’t it?" "Usually." "What was she? Sixteen? Seventeen?" "Thirty-two." "You’re joking!" she gasped, stunned, and pushed away from him to look into his face. "That’s old!" "Not at all. She was a Lady-in-Waiting at the court, a ward of my grandfather, actually. She had an insatiable appetite for ‘young virgin flesh,’ as she called it. She couldn’t wait to initiate all the young men at court." "I have her to thank for my pleasure, then?" Liza sniffed. "Most of it." Conar stood and, for the first time, wished Thom would hurry with the wine. He took hold of a low branch of the willow, dragging it down. "Did she approach you, then, or was it the other way around?" Liza inquired, envying the woman with all her being.

"She found me here one day studying a book on military strategy. She took hold of that part of me she wanted." He shrugged. "She’d already initiated Legion, Teal and Teal’s older brother, Roget. I had been avoiding the bitch like the plague." "Why?" Liza asked, surprised. "Because I didn’t want to beinitiated ." "By her?" She looked at his stony profile. "By anyone." He pulled the willow strand from the tree and fashioned a crown, bending down to place it on Liza’s gleaming hair. "But weren’t you curious? I’m sure you and the others talked about their experiences?" "I didn’t." "I thought all boys were hot and ready since birth!" She thought of her brothers, who had chased after anything in a skirt since becoming old enough to know girls were vastly different, and far more entertaining, than boys. "I already knew about sex," he said quietly. "By watching?" She giggled, picturing him as a small boy spying on his older brothers. His face was devoid of expression. He scanned her lovely eyes and it was as though he was trying to come to a hard decision. "In part. I had seen animals before I left for the Abbey, and I saw human sex there." Her cheeks tinted with embarrassment. "You didn’t like what you saw the man and woman doing?" Conar’s face stayed carefully blank. "I was interned at the Great Abbey until I was thirteen, Liza. There were never women allowed there." "Then how could you have seen…" Her mouth went wide as she stammered to a stop. She blushed down to the tips of her toes. "Sweet Merciful Alluvia!" He turned his back on his wife. He couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust on her pretty face. "Men do that to one another?" She couldn’t accept that. How? she thought. His hands clenched into fists. "Some do." "And you watched?" Her face turned even redder as he flinched. "How could your father have allowed you to go, knowing what those men do among themselves?" "He thought I was still in Corinth at the Wind Temple, where your brothers were, Liza. But even had he known where I was, I don’t believe he would have been worried." He shrugged. "It would never have occurred to him that I would be allowed to see something like that." Conar walked to the fountain and sat.

"Didn’t anyone know those things happened there?" Conar shook his head. "After I had left training, a young man who had connections to Prince Rylan of Virago informed Papa about the sexual practices of some of the priests at the Wind Temple. Papa was shocked. It’s common knowledge now, but then, it was not to be discussed. I was the first of the royal family to have been chosen to train at the monastery and, like I said, he didn’t know I was there until I was brought home by one of the Grand Master’s servants." "What did he do?" Conar shrugged. "What could he do? The Temple is a law unto itself. What they do is their own concern. Papa went before the Tribunal and told them he refused to let any more of the royal family take part in the live-in arrangement at the Monastery. He has made sure there are advocates with each of the boys who train at Corinth now." A faint smile appeared on his lips. "Coron and Dyllon were spared having to go. The Temple didn’t want them, since they had had me. My brothers were taught by a teacher-priest in the keep." Liza sat beside him. "It must have been awful for you to see something like that." Conar had been trailing his hand in the water. He stopped and took up a bright, gold water lily. With water dripping from his fingers, he held the beautiful flower out to her, but avoided looking at her. "Milord?" she asked, her hand going to his shoulder. She watched him try to smile, but his lips could do no more than tremble. "It’s getting late," he whispered. "I think we’d better see if Sadie locked Thom in the wine cellar." "Conar?" "Let it go, Sweeting. There are some things you have no need to know. Didn’t you once tell me that?" She caressed his cheek with her hand. "There is pain in your heart, Beloved, and I would erase it. Ever since I have known you, I have seen it lurking there. Isn’t it time you shared that pain with me?" He turned his face so that his lips were in the palm of her hand. Gripping her palm to his mouth, he planted the softest of kisses there. "You are my life, Elizabeth McGregor. I have wanted, needed to talk to you about this for so long, but I’ve never known how to start." He looked away. There was a hitch in his breath as he spoke again. "I have never wanted to cause you worry." "Something happened while you were at the Abbey, didn’t it? What? Did they try…" He attempted to smile, but couldn’t. He put up his hand to cup her chin and tugged gently. "They did more than try." He let go of her chin, her look of shock making him flinch with well-remembered shame. She sat in stunned silence as he waited for her to accept what he had said. At last, tears filled her eyes. "You were molested?" He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Neither could he look at her. "They molested you?" she pressed, the horrific notion sending waves of pain through her heart. Liza put

out her hand to touch him, but something stopped her, told her it would be the worst thing to do. "Did you tell anyone? Legion? Cayn?" He shook his head. "The only one who knows is Hern. I didn’t need to tell him. He guessed." "Why haven’t you told someone?" "I was too ashamed, Liza. I was afraid of what they would do to me. What people would think of me." "Even now? Now that you are a man?" She couldn’t imagine her husband being afraid of anything. "You don’t understand how something like this can make you feel inside. How terrible you see yourself. How weak it makes you seem to have allowed…" She shook her head in denial. "You can not be held accountable for what was done to you as a child." "There are those who would wonder if I had not become like the others at the Abbey." "How can one time…" She watched him look away, pain etched on his face. "It was just the one time, wasn’t it?" She felt a tremor of fear go through her as he mutely shook his head. "More than once?" He nodded. "How many times?" He stared sightlessly across the garden. His hands were clutched together in his lap and he seemed oblivious to everything around him. "Every night of my life from the time I was six until I left that horrible place." He turned to face her. "I came home, my spirit broken, too ashamed to live, and slashed my wrists." He seemed to become aware that he was crying, and he angrily reached up to wipe away the signs of his weakness. "I wanted to die rather than have them keep on hurting me. I couldn’t take anymore." She put out a trembling hand, wanting to hold him, needing to let him know how much she loved him, but he stood and walked away. Conar could hear her crying behind him, but he couldn’t go to her. His memories of the abuse rose up to render him immobile, immune to the wretched sounds of his wife’s tears. Some detached part of him listened, but it didn’t really seem to matter. He was lost in the past and his body was feeling every hand that had ever touched it. "Is that how you came by the scars on your back?" she asked. "Was it Kaileel Tohre who did those things to you? Is that why you bear the scars of his belt on your back?" His voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Sweeting, he was only one among many." She was on her feet, grabbing at his arms. "What did they do to you?" she shouted, unaware that Storm and Marsh had both risen at the sound of her raised voice. A self-pitying laugh was forced from him. "It would be easier to say what theydidn’t do." Although the two Elite could not hear what was being said, they knew something was wrong. Both men stooped, withdrew their crossbows from the ground, and stood facing the young Prince and his wife.

"Beatings and mental abuse were all part of their strategy, Liza. They use it to control you. To break down your defenses, to make you vulnerable. Sex was secondary. It was almost like a reward, a reward for those who had broken a boy’s will. Being able to control a young mind, to strip it of its natural inclinations, to numb it to ordinary moral concepts, to cripple it, to twist it was what they most enjoyed. So the sex was like a dessert to them. They would find your one weakness and pray on that weakness, Liza. They would enhance it. They would hurt you with it." "I don’t…" She was trying to control the scream welling up inside her. He looked at her. "I am terrified of closed-in places, Liza. I have been ever since I was three and nearly died when one of my brothers locked me in Mama’s armoire. Kaileel knew about my fear and used that to control me. If the beatings didn’t work, or the starvation, or the mental abuse, being locked inside a stone crypt would." Remembered terror haunted his eyes. "I nearly died every time they forced me into that thing. It was the sort of torture that can do more harm than all the physical and mental abuse a child can undergo. You get a clear, close look at your own mortality and your inability to control your life. When they do something like that enough times, you will do anything to keep them from doing it again." He lowered his head, tears falling down his face, his shoulders shaking violently. "Even go willingly to some man’s bed to keep it from happening." "I’ll kill him!" she spat, her hands clenching into fists. "I’ll slit Kaileel Tohre’s throat!" Storm and Marsh looked at one another and decided to walk toward the couple. She started past Conar, but he took her struggling body into his arms, trying to stop her sobbing. "Liza, shush," he whispered. "It was a long time ago and is best forgotten." "No one harms the man I love! No one! I’ll kill that worthless bastard!" "His day will come, Liza," Conar said, pulling her head to his chest, a little amused at her language. "There are others who will be hurt if Tohre is reported now. Let me handle it. I made myself a promise a long time ago to see him cast out of this kingdom." He put his hand on her chin and raised her face to his, gazing down with pride into her avenging face. "Together, we will destroy the Domination, Liza. I can feel that." "We will destroy the entire Temple and all those deranged—" His fingers silenced her. "Not all of them are that way, Liza. There are some whose sexual preferences run to other men, but they would never dream of forcing those preferences on another, especially a child. Only those of the Domination, those consecrated to that vile entity, Raphian, force children into having sex with them." He could feel her trembling with rage. "They must be stopped, Conar!" "And we will stop them, beloved. There are men within the Temple who are resisting the Brotherhood of the Domination every day of their lives, but they can do no more against that evil than I could as a child." "I will not see you hurt ever again by their evil!"

"With you at my side, I’m not worried, little one." "Your Grace!" Thom shouted. Conar felt the sting of the viper’s fangs as it flung itself at him from its place of concealment at the fountain’s base. He looked down at his punctured thigh and saw the reptile coiling itself to strike again. He went for the dagger at his thigh and the venomous creature struck again, snagging the back of his hand. He cried in pain and lurched backwards, dragging his wife with him, spinning her sideways, shoving her as far behind him as he could, protecting her with his own body, making sure she was out of the range of the striking viper. He felt the hit come again and again in his calf and he flinched, spinning around to confront the snake, wondering how the reptile could strike so many times, so fast, and so unerringly. An arrow sang through the air, burying itself almost to the flèche in the soft ground, severing the viper’s head from its writhing body. "Conar!" Liza screamed. He glanced up briefly to see Storm’s anxious face as he held a struggling Liza in his arms. It was the last thing Conar McGregor saw before darkness opened its gaping jaws and swallowed him.

Chapter 4 "He took four hits before Marsh killed the damned thing," Legion told his father as they took the stairs to the sleeping chambers two at a time. "How the hell did a viper get in the garden?" Gerren snarled. He barely broke his stride as two Elite Guards snapped to attention, one throwing the door to Conar’s room open for his King. "There are no vipers in Serenia!" Thom glanced up from his place beside the unlit fireplace. "Highness, I am sorry." Shame filled his face. Gerren shook his head. "Not your fault." He glanced at Cayn, the Healer, whose hands were gently wrapping medicated linens around the fang marks on Conar’s thigh. "How is he?" Cayn sent him a look of concern. "He’s a strong, healthy man, Majesty, but four hits?" He shrugged. "I truly don’t know." His eyes went to Liza, who sat on the opposite side of the bed. "Others will do what is needed beyond the help I can give." Liza stared at the Healer. She gave a slight nod of understanding and her fingers tightened around her husband’s limp hand. Cayn stepped back from the bed. "Du Mer has been kind enough to let me use his room. Watch the

Prince closely and, if there is any change, call me." He bowed to his King, let his gaze rest momentarily on Liza, and then left. Gerren turned to Thom. "The viper was placed in the garden?" Thom let out a long breath. "We think so." The King looked at Legion. "Hasdu?" "Aye, Papa, it would seem so." Thom cleared his throat, gaining everyone’s attention. "I’m to blame. If I hadn’t left him—" "Nothing would have changed," Liza told him. "You didn’t see the serpent; Conar didn’t see it; I didn’t see it." Her troubled eyes locked with Thom’s. "And if anyone should have seen it, Thommy, it should have been me." *** He dreamed. He stood on a hill overlooking the village of Iomal where he had first come to meet his beloved. He observed the meadowland ablaze with spring colors, the grasses swaying in the soft breeze, changing colors as they moved. Beyond, he could see the wavering heat of the desert sands wafting up to the heavens, and beyond that, the giant cottonwood trees of the forest that rimmed the high sand dunes. If he listened hard, he could hear the call of sea gulls over the dunes, even though Iomal was more than sixty miles from the ocean. He thought he might even be smelling the lavender-scented flowers that dotted the dunes, but wasn’t sure; the tang of the sea filled his nostrils. Nearby, the meandering stream that ran by the old ruined abbey near Rommitrich Point gurgled and slipped over the shallow rock bed. It was a pleasant sound, peaceful and calm. The air was cool, the stream inviting, the wind soft, the sun bright with the promise of life. He sat on the scented tufts of new-grown grass and pulled up his knees, circling them in the perimeter of his arms. He smiled. He was at peace. "Conar?" a deep, cheerful voice called to him. He turned his head and saw the old man sitting on a rock a few feet away. The man smiled at him and he answered the gentle, sweet smile. "Are you happy, Conar?" His wrinkled face was warm with welcome. "I am, Grandfather," Conar answered, "but I miss my lady." "You love her very much, don’t you, son?"

"Very much." "What would you do if you were to lose her, Conar?" The smile left Conar’s face. "Are you going to take her from me, Grandfather? Is that what you will ask of me for the happiness I’ve had these past three years?" "I think not. But you know nothing is forever, Conar." Conar looked away. "I know." Stretching his aching back, the old man stood and gazed toward the setting sun. "You called me. What is it you need, Conar?" "My life, Grandfather. Is that possible?" "Will you fulfill your bargain to me if I grant it?" "You know I will, Grandfather. I always keep my word." His face went still with worry. "Even if what I ask is hard to accept?" The kindly eyes seemed to bore to the center of Conar’s soul. "Nothing would be as hard as losing the woman I love, Grandfather." The old man shook His head. "There are some things far more painful, child. Would physical agony deter you from wanting to go back?" Conar wiped at the tears on his cheek. "Not if it meant we could be together. I have suffered before. Physical pain can be endured, but life without Liza would be a torture I could not bear." "How much are you willing to sacrifice to keep her, Conar?" "I would give up everything I own." The old man put a gnarled hand on the prince’s shoulder. "You may go back whenever it pleases you." "What do I do in return, Grandfather?" He was suddenly very afraid of the answer. "You will know in time, but let me warn you, child: Beware of false claims made in my name, Conar. When I seek something of you, you, and you alone, will know of it. No others." Conar’s lids closed. When he opened his eyes, Liza’s smiling face was beaming with love. "Good morn, Milord," she said, her voice tight with emotion. Conar smiled, felt her lips on his, and closed his eyes again. ***

"Are you hungry?" somebody asked. "Do Diabolusians stink?" another snorted. Conar looked around as he came fully awake. People filled the room. He looked at his wife and grinned. "I’m starving." Liza ran her fingers down his stubbled cheek. "I knew you would be." "How do you feel?" his father asked, coming into his line of vision. "About as bad as a Diabolusian smells, I would imagine!" Hern Arbra, the Boreas Master-at-Arms, snorted again. He folded his thick arms over an equally thick chest and lowered his blue gaze to Conar. "How do you feel, brat?" "Full." "Full?" The King’s forehead wrinkled in concern. "Gotta pee," Conar said. Laughter rang out, relieved laughter that took some edge off the tension. Legion and Teal nodded at their bedridden friend and headed for the door that Thom opened, leaving with them. The King kissed his son’s forehead and laughed. "See to him, Marsh." King Gerren winked and motioned Hern out of the room with him. Conar craned his head over the bed as his wife knelt to retrieve the chamber pot. He looked at Marsh. "I can pee by myself." "I hope so, Commander," Marsh answered, but stayed where he was. Conar glanced at Liza. "Are you going to stay, too?" He threw back the covers and eased his legs to the floor. His head swam a little but he felt reasonably well. "Do you want me to hold your hand?" she teased. His look made her blush to the roots of her hair. "You can holdthat , Milord!" she whispered and walked primly toward the door. Holding on to the bedpost, Conar slowly stood. He smiled at his wife. "In the pot, Elizabeth. In the gods-be-damned pot." Liza nodded. There had been many times when that had not always been the case. Conar could feel Marsh Edan and Storm Jale smirking as they stood sentinel by the door. He heard one of the men stifle a laugh and looked up at them with murder in his eyes. "It splatters sometimes, you know!" "Of course, Your Grace," Marsh said with a serious expression. Conar’s lips thinned with intent. When he was finished, he called to Marsh. "Would you get this before I

spill it?" He held out the pot. Marsh, casting a quick, nervous look to Storm Jale’s amused face, frowned. He knew that too-sweet tone. Jale looked quickly away, his lips pressed tightly together. Marsh let out a sigh. "Marsh?" Conar prodded with an innocent expression. "Aye, Commander." Marsh looked at the chamber pot and back up into his prince’s expressionless eyes. He walked to Conar and reached out an unsure hand. "Marsh?" Conar asked, again, his voice sweet and silky. "Aye, Commander?" Marsh didn’t like that tone any better. "Don’t spill it." Conar smiled. "Aye, Commander." With a grim, expectant look on his bearded face, Marsh reached for the pot. No one would put it past the prince to let go of the damned thing at the last moment. He heaved a sigh of relief when Conar held it long enough for him to get a good grip on the white porcelain handles. He looked up in relief. "Thank you, Marsh." Marsh let out a long breath. "You are welcome, Highness," he said from between clenched teeth, deliberately adding the title he knew Conar detested. From his place beside the door, Storm couldn’t stifle a giggle. Marsh’s face went red, from his bright blond hair to his darker gold beard. His green eyes squinted with exasperation, but his lips twitched as Conar settled back in bed. "You find this amusing, Jale?" Conar asked as he pulled the coverlet over his legs. The smile quickly vanished from Storm’s young face. "No, Highness." "That’s good, Jale," Conar said with one tawny brow raised. "We wouldn’t want Marsh to think you were laughing at him, now, would we?" "No, Commander!" Storm snapped out with military precision. A light knock at the door saved him from further rebukes. He looked at Conar, who nodded. Storm, with great relief, swung open the door. Gezelle, a tray of food in her hand, looked closely at the prince, searching for signs of weakness and illness, and when she was satisfied he was, indeed, well, she advanced into the room. "Your lady sent up everything you like, Milord." Conar looked at the tray she placed in his lap and grinned. Crisp bacon, lightly scrambled eggs, toast, jam, fried potatoes, and a wedge of tangy cheese, made his mouth water. He took up his fork and crammed a large portion of eggs into his mouth. "There is apple cider and hot tea," Gezelle told him. "Sadie will bring them up."

Conar’s brow rose. "Sadie’s gonna climb the stairs to bring me juice?" "We have been worried about you, Milord. I would say most of the staff will be visiting between now and the time you are up." She smiled at his beaming face, then wiped his chin where a bit of egg had clung. "And your food is being tasted before you get it." He bit into a piece of bacon, feeling genuinely pleased. "You’ll make some man a wonderful wife one day, ’Zelle." "Some day." "Don’t you want a husband?" he asked around a mouthful of toast. "When the time is right." Her gaze slid from his. "When the man is right." "But, of course, I shall have to approve of the bastard." Gezelle shook her head. "So you keep telling me, Milord." " ’Tis the gods’ truth, ’Zelle." "Aye, Milord." She picked up some discarded clothing, headed for the door, and waited for Storm to open it. "And he’d best be good to you, too!" Conar snarled. "Else, you’ll be a widow soon enough!" Gezelle laughed. "Then, best you find me a rich man, Milord!" Conar chuckled as Storm shut the door behind her. He looked at the Elite and shrugged. Storm wouldn’t do; he was married. He turned to Marsh Edan and watched the man as he sat polishing a pair of Conar’s boots. Marsh was good-looking. He was tall, six-foot-four or five. He was dark despite his golden hair and green eyes. There was a strength of purpose in his lean, square, bearded jaw, and Conar knew the man to be scrupulously honest and very religious. He was third in command behind Thom and Storm in the Elite and he was definitely a prime consideration in husband hunting. Gazing intently at the man, Conar folded his arms behind his head and chewed his bacon. When Marsh happened to glance up and find his prince’s eyes on him, the Elite stilled. "Marsh?" Conar inquired in a serious voice. There was a slight hesitation before Marsh answered. "Aye, Commander?" "Have you a mistress?" Marsh’s mouth dropped open. There was another one of those odd gleams in his prince’s eye. With a long, drawn-out breath, Marsh answered. "No, Highness." That gleam sparkled at the unintended insult and Marsh felt an uneasy tingle down his spine. "Why, Sir?" Conar’s grin was sly. "Have you thought about Gezelle?"

*** Conar had been ordered to stay in bed for the remainder of the week. He was not a happy invalid and, when he was finally allowed to leave his chambers, he was trailed everywhere by at least two of his Elite and several others who justhappened to be lurking about. Usually Marsh and Storm were his bird-dogs, but sometimes it was Marsh and Thom. Occasionally, it was all three. Conar would eye them with annoyance, order them to leave him alone, but they stuck to him like tar, so he finally gave up complaining to his father and Legion about their presence and, if not accepting it, at least adjusted to it. It was on the sixth day after the incident in the garden that Conar was allowed outside. He had asked to be allowed to go to the Temple to give thanks for his life, and Cayn had granted his permission. The King agreed, as well, with one provision: he must not go alone. His shadows would be following at a discreet, but within arrow-range, distance. "Better now, Your Grace?" James Brigman asked as Conar came into the altar room. The thin priest with the tonsure had come twice to visit his prince while Conar was convalescing. "I think so." He glanced back at Marsh and Thom, who had paused at the door. "I’d feel better if I wasn’t followed about like a child." James smiled. "But those who love you would not." He unfolded a small oblong of material and extended it toward his prince. Conar accepted the prayer stole that was required, thanking James as the priest bowed and left him alone to pray. After kissing the fringed hem of the pale blue stole where the Great God’s name was stitched in gold thread, Conar draped it around his neck. He glanced about, saw he was alone, then knelt before the Altar of Alel, bowing his head as he brought his fingers to his heart in respect. Closing his eyes, he began to recite the prayers of thanks that were Alel’s due for having given his life back to him. He could feel his men’s eyes on him as they stood in the doorway, but he tried to blot out their presence and concentrate on his prayers. "You may leave," a voice broke the silence. Conar opened his eyes, looked up at the face of his god, and sighed. "With all due respect, Your Holiness, we are to stay with His Grace," Thom said, his voice tight with anger. "The King has ordered us to—" "You may not be here!" the voice barked. "This is a holy place. You are not permitted within this room." Conar craned his neck to look behind him at the commotion in the doorway. "His Majesty has ordered us to guard the prince," Marsh snapped, not about to be intimidated by the man who was trying to make them leave.

"He needs no protection within the walls of this Temple!" "We are to guard him!" Kaileel Tohre raised one long, taloned finger and pointed it at the majestic statue of the Great God Alel standing behind the altar. "Prince Conar is guarded by Alel, Himself!" He glared at Thom Loure. "Leave, else I will have my guards remove you!" Conar saw Thom look around the priest to him and he nodded his acceptance. "Are you sure, Commander?" Thom asked. Conar glanced at Kaileel and then turned, locking his gaze with Thom’s. "I’ll be all right, Thommy." He didn’t look back at Tohre as he spoke again. "No one would dare harm me here, would they, Tohre?" Tohre glared back at Conar then turned his icy glower to the Elite. "You heard him! Go!" Conar faced the altar, deliberately closing his eyes, continuing his prayers. As he finished his last words, he felt a movement close behind. His hand eased down to the dagger at his bandaged thigh. "Do you really think I would harm you, Conar?" Without looking at the man, Conar got up from the floor and took the stole from his neck. He kissed its hem and laid it on the altar. As he turned to leave, he swept over Kaileel Tohre with a piercing look of contempt. Tohre’s hated voice stopped him in his tracks. "Alel kept His promise to you. You must now keep yours to Him." Conar didn’t turn. "What the hell do you want, Tohre?" Kaileel glided silently forward until he was only a few inches behind Conar. " ’Tis not what I want, sweet prince, but what He wants of you." Conar took a step back, his mouth lifted in a sneer. "And you presume to know what Alel wants? The Great God would never lower Himself to consult with the likes of you." "Do not speak to me in that disrespectful tone. You have been told before not to do that." He took a step closer, surprised when Conar held his ground. "I would have thought you had learned your lesson in how to behave. Perhaps you need a reminder." "You no longer have a hold on me, Tohre." Conar felt his stomach lurch, but he closed the distance between them until he was almost nose to nose with the man. "You will never have a hold on me again." Kaileel stiffened. He could smell the warm scent of cinnamon oil wafting from the prince’s body and his nostrils quivered with delight. He ached to put a hand on the young man’s freshly-shaven cheek, to touch his smooth lips, but he forced himself to stillness. "I wouldn’t be so sure, Conar," Tohre answered, his gaze going down Conar’s tall frame. "Screw yourself," Conar said sweetly and started to walk away.

"I will not allow you to ignore me!" Conar turned. His face burned with loathing. "Leave me alone, Tohre. I mean it." "The obligation must be met, Conar. Your duty is to perform what is expected of you." "I have no obligation beyond what I, myself, feel." "Alel spoke to me in my bedchamber at the Great Abbey. You remember my bedchamber, do you not, Conar?" Conar clenched his jaw and spoke through grinding teeth. "Damn you to the Abyss, Kaileel. I’ll not play these vile games with you!" "The Brotherhood plays no games with you. They are deadly serious in what they do." His voice lowered. "In what they want from you." "I know that well enough, but what they want and what they are going to get are altogether different!" "Be warned, Conar. You will pay for the insults you fling at us!" "There’s nothing you or the rest of them can do to me anymore, Kaileel." "They will take your woman, your handmaiden, from you. She’ll be given to another!" "What the hell does Gezelle have to do with this?" Kaileel came to him, his grin a lethal sneer of revenge. "Despite the times you have lain with that whoring bitch, she is not your woman, Conar, although she would surely like to be. I speak of the handmaiden given to you at the Joining." Conar flinched, his mouth opening in a shocked gasp of outrage. When he spoke, his voice was a slender thread of sound. "Such lies are dangerous even for you, Kaileel. I would be very careful what I said if I were you." Kaileel Tohre laughed, making the hair on Conar’s neck stand up. "No lie, sweet child. Raphian, our Supreme Entity, has chosen her for another." "Go to Hell!" Conar shouted, and turned to leave, but Tohre grabbed his arm, spinning him around. "If the obligation is not met, if you do not give her up, I can promise that your punishment will be more severe than you will be able to bear! Alel, Himself, has warned you of that!" He shook Conar. "You will be disciplined horribly, Conar. Is that what you want?" The young Prince looked with a sneer at the taloned hand that gripped him. "Let go," he said quietly, steel in his words. "You were predestined to join with us, Conar. You were a Chosen. You disregarded the calling; abandoned your training." He jerked on Conar’s arm. "You took unclean female flesh to you, but all that can be overlooked. You can come back to us and we will forgive you!"

"Let go, Kaileel." The steel-tipped voice became deadly and flat with uncoiling rage. "If you do not come back to us of your own free will, terrible things will happen to you, Conar!" There was pleading in the man’s pale eyes. "I don’t want to see you hurt!" "I…said…let…go." "You will do as you are told or suffer the consequences!" Conar calmly covered Tohre’s fingers with his own. "Either take your hand off me or I will break it off at the wrist!" He pried the priest’s fingers from his arm, cruelly bending back the thin, taloned fingers until the High Priest moaned and snatched away his hand. "You will regret defying us, Conar. You defy the Power of the Domination. You learned nothing as a child." Conar’s mouth twisted with hate. "I’m not six years old anymore. I’m not at your mercy in that vile Chamber of Dreams. I’m a man, despite what you and the others tried to do to me!" "I loved you!" Kaileel shouted. "I love you still! Why can’t you understand that?" He felt his grip on the situation rapidly falling away. "Love me?" Conar scoffed. "Do you call what you did to me, love? You tortured me; you beat me; you raped me, Kaileel! I was too young to know what it was you did, but I was not too young to feel the pain you took pleasure in inflicting. I still bear the scars of yourlove !" "It is our way. You know that! It is the way we have always—" "Damn your black soul to hell, Tohre!" Conar screamed, then hissed, "Tormenting a child is not love! Raping a six-year-old is not love! I wasn’t so young that I didn’t feel the shame and humiliation of what you made me do, and I am not so old that I don’t still feel your vile hands on me in my dreams!" He took a step closer. "And they had betterbe dreams and not your filthy hands." His face went livid with fury. "Touch me ever again and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear!" Conar stalked from the room, slamming the Temple door behind him. Kaileel sat down heavily in a chair by the baptismal font. When had the boy developed such a backbone? When had he become so immune to the Domination’s threats and presence? He let out a wavering sigh. The woman, of course, he thought with disgust. She, who had forged Conar’s will from iron to tempered steel. She, who had stolen Conar’s love away from Kaileel. "I do love you, Conar," he whispered. "I will always love you, but I will destroy you." He buried his face in his hands and wept. "Master?" a soft voice called. Tohre raised his head and stared at the young acolyte waiting to be acknowledged. "What?" "It has been done, Master."

Kaileel wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "Are you sure?" "Prince Galen sent word a moment ago." The young man walked to Tohre and knelt beside him. "Is there nothing I can do to ease your pain, Master?" Kaileel’s eyes leapt over the lean, tawny-haired, blue-eyed boy. He reached out a hand to touch the smooth cheek. "Aye, Robbie. I think, perhaps, there just might be."

Chapter 5 "There’s a man waiting outside to speak with you," Legion informed his brother. "He’ll not give his news to anyone but you." He glanced at Conar’s rumpled appearance, his week’s growth of beard, the dark circles beneath the blue eyes, the unmade bed. "Have you had any rest?" Conar sent him a damning look. "Where is this man?" "I think you should rest. I think you should—" "I think you should mind your own gods-be-damned business, A’Lex!" Conar screamed. "Get the bastard in here!" Legion’s mouth turned hard, but Teal shook his head in warning, and Legion didn’t say what he had intended. He spun on his heel and jerked open the door. "Storm! Bring that man here!" Like a snarling, caged tiger, Conar stalked the length of his chamber until the villager entered. Not even giving the man a chance to say anything, Conar was on him, pinning him to the wall, his hands wrapped in the man’s shirt. "Tell me what you know!" There was an angry, haunted, terrified look on the young prince’s face. The villager trembled as he began to speak, but his words were strong, the recitation no doubt repeated many times between his home and the keep. "A man came to my village early this morn, before the sun rose, Your Grace. He said you would remember him from Norus Keep. His name is Belvoir, André Belvoir. He said to tell you he is, and always has been, a servant to the royal household of Oceania and that Norus is where the princess is being held. He bids you know she is well, but that they are drugging her to keep her from escaping until Prince Galen can make plans to flee Serenia." "My wife is at Norus?" Conar’s face turned hard. "Aye, Highness," the villager told him. He was breathing hard, for he had run most of the way from his town to the keep. His sides heaved and his eyes were filled with concern for Conar. "We searched Norus," Teal snapped.

"Aye," Legion said, "but it makes sense if you think on it. When we sent men there, Galen was too damn obliging. Where the hell they could have put her while we searched is a mystery." "If Galen took her, then Jah-Ma-El must have hidden her," Conar said, releasing the villager. Legion made a rude sound. "You really think Jah-Ma-El capable of doing any real magic?" "The question is, where the hell does your brother plan on taking her when he flees?" Teal asked. "To Diabolusia," Conar answered. "Where else could the bastard go? No one else would dare give him sanctuary." Legion glanced at the young villager. "What’s your name?" "Sentian, Lord Legion. Sentian Heil." "You have our thanks, Heil. You will be rewarded if we find your story to be true." He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, for he was concerned only with the grim look of desperation on Conar’s pale face. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "We’ll get her back." The villager cleared his throat, bringing Legion’s attention back to him. "Is there something else?" "I beg your pardon, Lord Legion, but will you be sending troops to Norus Keep?" "What concern is it of yours what we do?" du Mer asked, not particularly liking the way this man was looking at Conar. "I am no soldier, Lord du Mer. I am no spy, either. I seek no reward, nor want one, for bringing this news. All I ask is that he let me be among those he sends to Norus to back bring his lady." He looked at Conar. "I am loyal to you, Your Grace. As loyal as any man in this room." Conar held the man’s gaze. "What is it you do, friend?" "I sharecrop for my father-in-law, Felias Spiel, Your Grace. He has the old farm near Wixenstead, the one that once harbored the Viragonian outlaw, Syn-Jern Sorn, during the Holocaust." He smiled tentatively, for his Overlord’s face was no longer hostile. "You are married then?" Conar asked. Disappointment came over Heil’s face. "Aye, Your Grace. Does it matter?" "I will personally lead the troop to Norus," Conar began. "I will need good men at my back." "Conar!" Legion warned, but Conar’s hand silenced him. "It is not an easily taken stronghold and the siege will be long. I ask you if you are a family man because every man who marches at my side is entitled to have provisions supplied to his family in his absence. And, the gods forbid, if something should happen to him while in my service, to have his family taken care of for the rest of their lives. I would see his family lacked for nothing."

Conar held out his hand to the villager. "If you want to come, I would consider it a blessing. We will need every sword arm we can find to take Norus. Good men are hard to come by, Sentian." He managed a weak smile at the stunned look on the villager’s face. Sentian didn’t know how to respond. Did he drop to his knees to kiss the hand offered to him? Did he grip the prince’s wrist in his hand as one did a valued friend? Did he bring those strong-looking fingers to his forehead as one does an honored family member? "Your Prince is offering you his sign of peace, Heil!" Teal smirked. "Will you let him stand there all day like that?" Sentian slowly lifted his hand. The prince was offering him the sign of peace as though he were an equal? He hesitantly gripped his Overlord’s right wrist and felt a thrill of emotion run down his spine. "I am honored, Highness," he whispered in awe. Such strength in that wrist! he thought. This was the sword arm, the right hand of the Serenian throne! "He’ll lose that worshipful look after training with the Elite for awhile, eh, brat?" Hern growled from the chair by Conar’s bed. Sentian’s mouth barely functioned. His voice was a squeak of sound. "The Elite?" "What did you think?" Conar laughed, the first real laugh he had had in over a week. "But the Elite…" Legion laughed, too, and slapped the man so hard on the back he stumbled under the assault. "He does as he pleases, Sentian. You’re one of his precious Elite whether you know one end of a sword from another." Legion glanced at his brother. "And I pray to the gods you do." "My life is yours!" Sentian swore to Conar. "I am fair enough with bow and arrow. Better than most at horse-breaking and training." "Pack your things, Sentian," Conar said as he walked to the window and drew the drape aside to look into the garden. "We will leave within the next few hours." "Aye, Your Grace!" The man turned to go. "And Sentian?" Conar said over his shoulder. "Aye, Your Grace?" "Kiss your wife and let her know you love her before you go." Teal watched the door close. "Do you trust him, Conar?" He had reservations about the man, who looked like the kind who would cheat at cards. "He can be trusted." "I believe so, too," Legion echoed. "If he proves otherwise, I’ll kill him." ***

Seventy-five men rode from Boreas Keep that day. One hundred more would join them on the road that separated the Northern and Southern Zones. Still another twenty-five would come from Downsgate, the du Mer stronghold, and one hundred each from the Eastern and Western Zone capitals. Oceania would send more than three hundred soldiers, archers and cavalrymen within the week; and the Principalities of Chale, Ionary, and Virago would swell the regiment to over twenty-five hundred who would make the trek to the arid lands that held Norus Keep. Even the Inner Kingdom emirate of Rysalia, a life-long enemy of Serenia, but friend to Oceania, would send two dozen of their best archers to lay siege to Norus Keep. Forty-nine battle wagons, sixteen supply carts filled with weapons, twenty-two ration carts, and twelve water wagons would roll behind the main troop. A cook wagon supplied with utensils and braziers rolled first in line beyond the column of troops. Close behind came the armament wagon, carrying extra javelins, quarrels, bows, and maces. At the head of the columns, Conar sat his black destrier, Seayearner. Both he and the steed were dressed in full battle armor: thick brown leather and bronze chain mail, for Conar’s men strongly suspected an attack on the road. On the steed’s saddle was draped the black crystal crossbow that belonged to Liza, and on his own back, Conar had slung her quiver of quarrels. His grandfather’s broadsword crossed over the quiver and rode high above his right shoulder in a fancy baldric that had once belonged to the Outlaw. Within the cowl of his tunic, Conar’s blue eyes slitted with revenge. The men who rode with Conar McGregor were, for the most part, seasoned warriors. Most came from the King’s Force, either active duty or retired, but numbered among them were some seventy of Conar’s own Elite Guard, all deadly men with the hard resolve of revenge turning their faces to granite. All had gone to their knees to swear fealty to Conar and his lady-wife before leaving Boreas Keep. Now, they rode behind their young Overlord with blood in their eyes and palms that itched to take lives. Legion had spoken little to his brother on the trek. Speech wasn’t easy over the stamping hooves and jingling harnesses, the creak of battle wagons bringing up the rear, and it wasn’t really necessary. He knew all too well what his younger brother was thinking. The trek would take four days, if they did not wait for the wagons and carts; six to eight, if they did. Legion could see from Conar’s expression that he had every intention of reaching Norus Keep by dawn of the third day as if he had made this journey alone. Thom rode beside, and a little behind, Conar. His beady black gaze never left his commander’s back, nor did his big hand stray far from the bow at his thigh. His hearing was cocked to catch even the faintest sign of danger and his back was ramrod-straight in the saddle so he would stay alert. At noon on the second day, the force crossed the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed named Lucifus, and they entered the Southern Zone. The air became stagnant with heat, despite a cooling mist that had showered them as they left Boreas the day before. Strange, twisted plants with sharp, deadly thorns grew out of the barren wasteland. Venomous reptiles peered at the passing horsemen with hungry, hopeful eyes. Huge arachnids scuttled about the hot sand and seemed to disappear as though the land had swallowed them. A lone scavenger would stop to watch, but it would keep its distance, its mouth slathering for the taste of the sweaty flesh moving close to its lair. When sunset came, the troop passed through the tall dunes bordering the road. It was the spot where Rayle Loure had been slain. Thom’s lids flickered with remembered loss, but his attention remained on his Prince’s back. His huge hands tightened on the braided reins, but he gave no other sign of the terrible pain in his oversized chest.

"He wishes us well, Thommy," Conar said softly, never turning to look at the man behind him. His own gaze was on the high dunes from where the killers had come. "Aye," was all Thom could reply, thankful he wasn’t alone in his grief. Winding close to the thick forest near Rommitrich Point as darkness fell, the men dismounted and let their horses water at the shallow stream near the old ruined abbey. Conar glanced toward the fallen-in roof and looked away, his heart heavy. He patted ’Yearner’s head as the great black horse drank from the stream, but he didn’t speak to his men as they cared for their own beasts. Mounted again, his silence preyed heavily on those around him, but his privacy was inviolate to them all. Toward midnight, the troop reached the pathway of cobbles that marked the entrance to the Hound and Stag Inn. Conar gave it a cursory glance as he pushed his horse past. "The men need rest, Conar. I’m sure the wagons stopped long before now," Legion told him in a quiet voice. They had long since outdistanced the rumbling, creaking war caravan. Only the cook wagon had stayed with them, since it was pulled by six fleet stallions. Conar nodded, his mind far beyond the immediate needs of those around him. He drew on ’Yearner’s reins. "We’ll rest," he said, swinging one long leg over his stallion’s head and sliding to the ground. He handed the reins to Thom and walked a little way from his men, his head down, his shoulders sagging. Thom would have followed, but Legion held him back. "Let him be alone, Thommy. Just keep a watch." Legion caught the fierce, protective scowl on the big man’s wide face, the look of annoyance in the beady black eyes. "Stupid request, eh?" Legion laughed. Thom Loure raised his chin and pierced A’Lex with a stony reprimand. "Exceedingly." "How’s he holding up?" Teal asked as he made his way around Legion’s big bay. He had ridden with his Master-at-Arms from Downsgate. "Well enough, I suppose. Quiet. If he doesn’t get some rest soon, he’s gonna drop in his tracks." Legion hunkered down on the cooling sand and took a long drag from his water bag. "But just try telling him that. I don’t think he would have stopped if I hadn’t reminded him, and those damned viper hits have got to be hurting him." "What happens if we get to Norus and Galen has already fled with her?" "Then we ride for Diabolusia, my friend." "Invade the country?" Teal wasn’t happy. "Do you think he would hesitate, du Mer?" Legion snapped. Teal ran a hand through his hair. There was no need to answer. "Thom?" Conar called as he stared into the blackness of the night. Loure was at his side in a second."Aye, Your Grace!"

Conar smiled at the man’s breathless anticipation and shook his head in exasperation. "Calm down," he gently reprimanded, "I only wanted you to find a man somewhere in this throng. His name is Sentian Heil. He’s the one who brought word of Liza to me." He didn’t look at his Elite captain, but could feel the man’s hesitation. "It’s all right, Thommy. I’ll be fine." Thom shifted from one foot to another. He didn’t like leaving the prince unprotected. He saw his young Overlord turn, one golden brow cocked with expectation. "Go, Thom," Conar ordered sternly. Thom spun on his heels, his black eyes going immediately to Marsh Edan who had come up to Legion for orders. Thom jerked his chin over his shoulder and saw Marsh nod in understanding. The Elite third in command moved away from Legion, leaving the man speaking, and placed himself where his bow could protect the Prince. "It’s a good thingyour life isn’t in danger," Teal said, then chuckled as Legion growled in irritation. Conar sat on a rock and clasped his hands, letting them fall between his spread knees. He dropped his chin to his chest. His head throbbed with the heat, the smell of sweaty horses and wet leather, unwashed and perspiring men, and the dust that seemed to clog his nostrils and throat. His rump ached from the long ride and he felt chafed along his underarms and the crease of his thighs from the chain mail. He stared at the sand. He was so very tired, but he would not, dared not, let anyone know it. He had not slept for more than a few hours in a week’s time, and his head, pounding unmercifully, reminded him that he hadn’t eaten all that much, either. The viper wounds plagued him, stung, and, he thought, still oozed a bit. He tried to ignore the aches and pains in his body, believing the ache in his heart of more consequence than any bodily discomfort. He let out a deep sigh and his head sagged lower. Flinching only a little, he felt hands on his tense shoulders, massaging, easing the aching hardness. "Thank you, Sentian," he said quietly, instinct telling him the man’s identity. "You should rest, Your Grace," Sentian said, his fingers moving into the thick golden hair on his Overlord’s scalp. "I’ll rest when I have my wife in my arms again." He groaned with pleasure as the strong fingers crept down the column of his neck. "We will get her back, Your Grace. Never fear." Sentian smiled. The tight, bunched muscles were beginning to relax and his prince’s breathing was steadier and not so deep with fatigue. "Do me a favor, will you?" "Anything, Your Grace," Sentian said, his fingers stilling on Conar’s broad shoulders. "Thom Loure, Marsh Edan and Storm Jale are all members of my Elite. I’ve known them all a long time, that’s true, but within the last nine years, they have become treasured friends." "But you want me to watch them?"

Conar chuckled. "I can’t imagine why you’d want to." Sentian’s eyes narrowed with confusion. "You don’t suspect one of them of having something to do with the princess’ abduction, Your Grace?" "That wasn’t what I was getting at. Will you rub my right shoulder again?" He let out a long breath as Sentian’s hand began to rub his tired muscles. "What concerns you about those men, Your Grace?" "They ceased to call meYour Grace long ago." He shrugged. "Sometimes they forget, but most of the time they call me by my given name." "I see," Sentian replied. "So if I hear them using such a disrespectful way of addressing you, I am not to take exception, then?" Conar leaned back, his head resting against Sentian as the young villager ran his hands down Conar’s shoulders and rubbed the taut muscles of his upper chest. The firm hands spread over his shoulders again and then gripped their way down his arms. Conar doubted the man even knew he was taking liberties his Overlord would not have accepted from anyone else. "Doesn’t that chain mail hurt your hands?" Conar asked, craning his neck to look up at Sentian. The man laughed and held his hands for Conar to see in the glow from the full moon. "I have calluses on my calluses’ calluses, Your Grace!" He returned his fingers to the muscles of Conar’s neck. "I barely feel the links." "I would appreciate it if you would not burden me with that title when you and I are alone." "Aye, Highness," Sentian’s heart swelled with pride at knowing his Overlord trusted him enough to be left alone with him. Conar grinned, snorting little bursts of humor from his nostrils. "‘Highness’ is also a title, Sentian. My name is Conar." The hands stilled. "I could not…I would not be so disrespectful…I would rather…" He stammered to a stop as Conar closed his hand around Sentian’s. "I don’t know why it is, Sentian, but I feel a closeness to you that, frankly, baffles me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have permitted you to touch me." He held Sentian’s hand as the man made to take his hand from Conar’s shoulder. "If I hadn’t wanted you to continue, I’d have stopped you when you first laid hands to me." He reassuringly squeezed the strong fingers. "I am not given to forming quick friendships, nor am I one to accept a man at face value as I have accepted you. But I find I trust you. I need someone outside of family who can deal with me as the man I am, not the Prince Regent. Can you do that?" He craned his neck and looked up into the man’s startled gaze. "Can you be a friend to me, Sentian Heil?" Sentian’s heart thudded. "I would be honored to be your friend, Your…" He scrunched up his face. "…Friend." Lightning speared the sky to the west. Conar turned that way. "Looks like we’ll get rain."

"We need it," Sentian remarked, thinking of his crops back home. "How long have you been farming, Sentian?" Conar sighed as the young man’s hands again began to knead his shoulders. "All my life, it seems. My parents farmed in the Western Zone when I was little. When they died in the flash flood in the Year of the Rose, I came to Boreas and then met, and married, my lady. Then, I went to work on my father-in-law’s land. We have a good farm. We do right well." "Is that what you always wanted to do?" Conar could feel himself nodding off and opened his eyes wide to stay awake. "I wanted to be a soldier, but I never had the opportunity until now." He went to his knees and started working on Conar’s lower back, smiling as the prince moaned with delight. "I’ve picked up extra work as a horse trainer now and again and found I was very good at it." "Think you could handle ’Yearner for me?" Conar asked. "Master John Boggs is the Stable Master, but for some reason my horse doesn’t particularly care for him. I think it may be his voice. ’Yearner is sensitive about being yelled at, and overly sensitive about whose hands touch him." Just like his master in that regard, Conar thought, grimly. "I can handle him." "He can be a beast if you let him." "Then I’ll handle him like I do my woman!" Conar’s smile faded. "Did you take her in your arms before you left like I told you?" Sentian grinned. "I did more than that!" Conar shook his head. "Just what I need, another randy Elite."

Chapter 6 A cry came from the crenelated walls of Norus Keep. It was the dawn of the twelfth day Liza had been in Galen’s possession. A steady, light rain was falling, making the damp earth smell musty as the sand darkened to a quagmire beyond the keep’s crumbling walls. It splattered in the sluggish, green, scum-shot moat and sent a putrefying smell to assault the nostrils of the keep’s defenders as they ringed the crenellations and hovered in the chilly turrets. The wind was slight, but heavy storm clouds brewed in the west and promised a turbulent turn in the weather. The

turret’s stones were rain-slick and oozing slime down the cracked sides, and the men inside felt chilled to the bone, despite the day’s heat. As Galen reached the high observation tower to view his brother’s forces, lightning began to flash with increasing vengeance in the distance. He looked to the cromlech that marked the southern passage into Norus’ lands and chuckled. A dust cloud hovered just beyond the rise, for it was not raining to the south where the Serenian and Diabolusian borders met. But that would soon change; the sky was rapidly becoming a gunmetal lowering of lightning-streaked vista. That rising cloud of dust had been what had caused the alarm and Galen clenched his jaw in dislike. That had to be the troop from Oceania. No doubt the bastards had docked at the mouth of the Lucifus River where it fed into the South Boreal Sea and had then brought their mounts ashore. He wondered just how many troops King Shaz was willing to risk to rescue Conar’s bride. Another cry came from the northern battlement. Galen’s face shone with malice. He nodded. That was his ill-begotten twin! "The Master has sent word that you will receive help from him soon. Hold your position as long as you can and then expect to flee at a moment’s notice." Galen turned his attention to the High Priest who had joined him on the battlements. "Is Jah-Ma-El conjuring?" The priest sneered. "The fool is worthless. Master Kaileel Tohre has already summoned the help you will need…" He looked to the gathering storm clouds on the horizon. "…Raphian." Galen flinched, his face turning white. "Why?" The priest looked down his nose at Galen. "To defeat Conar McGregor, Your Grace. No other entity can challenge the Prince of the Wind and succeed." A gnarled hand went up to push a flying strand of hip-length, solid white hair behind a thin, stooped shoulder. Rain hovered on the man’s aged cheeks. He blinked, his almost transparent eyelashes fanning over piercing eyes devoid of both expression or feeling. "If you have some worry about your brother," the priest said, his upper lip raised in dislike, "then you had best speak now before the real sorcery begins." Galen turned his attention to the point where King Shaz’s men had been sighted. The rain was beginning to settle the dust as the troops drew near. He shivered and hunched into the protective covering of his great cape. He could see Shaz’s men dismounting to make camp and looked to the north where Conar’s main force would be doing the same thing within a matter of minutes. He could feel the priest staring at him and he turned his face to the man. "Conar means nothing to me." A rare smile touched the old priest’s thin lips. "That’s good, Your Grace, for he will be destroyed soon." Left alone on the battlements, Galen watched as his twin rode within eyesight of the keep. He knew Conar couldn’t see him, but he could feel the hate rolling up to him from below. Galen knew it would be a long, uncomfortable siege before he could take Liza to Diabolusia. Rain glistened on Conar’s face as he halted his men out of range of the keep’s archers. His blond hair lay damp on his shoulders and tiny droplets rested on his thick lashes. He had removed his cowl an hour

earlier, for the smell of wet leather and cambric was making his head hurt. Absently, he put up a hand to rub at the spot above his right eye where pain seemed to congregate. "From the looks of that sky, we’re going to be in for a drenching, Coni," Legion warned. Conar turned in his saddle and spoke to Thom. "We’ll make camp here. I want to see the men you’ve chosen as battalion leaders as soon as you deploy them." He glanced at Legion. "See that the runners know what is expected, big brother. I don’t want a man who doesn’t know precisely where and when to do his job or to whom he is to report." "Aye, Commander." Legion grinned, liking the way his little brother took charge. Dismounting, the young prince held the reins and patted Seayearner’s sleek, damp nose. His gaze went to the movement beyond the keep to the south. "Du Mer? See if that’s Grice Wynth, Liza’s brother, leading that troop. If so, bring him to me as soon as he can get free." A booted foot crunched gravel and Conar glanced up to see his third in command striding toward him. Marsh Edan’s face was set and hard. "How are you holding up, Commander?" When the prince didn’t answer, Marsh glanced at Legion, who shrugged. He cleared his throat. "What do you want me to do, Commander?" Marsh asked, running his hand over his wet beard. He had taken on the responsibility as Conar’s personal valet, taking on the duty even before they had left Boreas, for he had emptied many a chamber pot at the keep since that first day. It was not a task he relished, but rather performed grimly. Conar looked at him. He had unmercifully teased Edan while he had been ill, punishing the stalwart Elite for having had the temerity to titter at Conar’s adherence to Liza’s demand of how to use a chamber pot. The two men had become chess partners during Conar’s convalescence and had developed a strong admiration for the other’s talent with the game. "I have a special project for you, Marsh," Conar said, draping his arm around Edan’s shoulder. "Will you see that I have a spare chamber pot in my tent? With all this rain, I just might need to pee more than usual." Marsh rolled his eyes and ducked under the arm resting heavily on him. "Aye, right!" He sent his Overlord a withering look as he stalked off, water squishing beneath his boots. "Don’t get pissed off, Edan!" Conar shouted and snorted when Marsh waved a hand in dismissal. "That’s no respectful way to treat your Prince!" Legion glanced at Thom as they walked toward the main body of the troop. "At least he’s been able to hold on to his humor." Standing in the now-pouring rain, Conar’s eyes went to the dark silhouettes of the men standing on the high walls of Norus Keep. A few torches still burned stubbornly, but he knew even those would soon be extinguished as the rain soaked the pitch. It was barely dawn and soon there would be need for torchlight anyway. In the encroaching glow of the morning sky, the keep looked worse than when Conar had seen it last some four years before. Rot pitted the eighteen-inch-thick walls. Fallen-away chunks of mortar and stone lay scattered in the brackish moat, while pieces of the crenellations and turret blocks had crumbled and

lay on the edge of the moat like toys of some ancient giant’s offspring. Withered vines grew up the moisture-encased walls and ran into the moat where vines ended in waterlogged stumps. The giant drawbridge showed gaps in the planking, the chains so rusted, dark lines scored the pale gray wood. Yet, despite the outward signs of rot and decay and the overpowering stench, Conar knew the keep was almost impenetrable. From the long-snouted reptiles in the brackish water to the archers with their long bows and javelins on the battlements, Norus Keep was deadly serious in its defense. And he had held no hope of Kaileel Tohre having been left out in the plans for the siege. The bastard would have conjured well for this. Blood would run dark and thick before the keep surrendered. It could be taken, he was sure, but it would be a long siege that could last for many months. Months he didn’t have. Conar felt the reins being eased from his hand and he glanced behind him to find Sentian Heil. The handsome, brown-haired young man was drenched to the bone, but his lips were drawn back in a warm smile. He blinked rapidly as rain fell from his long lashes and he raked his strong fingers through the crop of hair to see better. "Are you all right, Commander?" he asked, not yet comfortable with calling the prince by his given name. He saw Conar’s lips quirk and made a mental note to practice saying the name until he could actually speak it to his Overlord. "I’m fine." Conar clapped Sentian on his back. "No need to worry about me, Master Heil." He grinned when Sentian ducked his head. A much-worn cambric tunic stretched far too tightly over Sentian Heil’s well-developed chest, and although the cord breeches he wore had seen better days and were several inches too short for his six-foot frame, they weren’t shabby. A loving hand had kept them well-mended. His boots, however, were without heels and the leather was cracked, one bare toe already peeking through the hole. Conar chided himself for not having had Hern outfit the boy in the Elite uniform. "We need to get you a dry tunic, Senti," Conar remarked. "And some dry boots." "I forgot to thank you last night for the coins you sent my wife before we left. It will help buy some land for the horse farm I would like to start." Sentian’s gaze shifted away from the startled look on the prince’s wet face. "You put the coins aside to buy a plot of land?" Conar asked in astonishment. "I meant for your wife to use that to buy provisions for your family." Sentian was afraid he had insulted the prince. "She is frugal, Commander. She always puts money aside for our horse farm." "When we have my wife back safely in Boreas, I will see that you have your farm, Sentian." Sentian was hurt. "I ask no reward for loyalty, Sire." "And you have received none. The coins I sent were for your family. You are now a registered Elite and that money was your first month’s pay. As for the land, that, too, is part of your service contract, Sentian.

Every Elite is a landowner, as is every palace guard and every one of my father’s personal guards. Each man is given acreage in appreciation of the service they give the McGregors." Conar shook his head as Sentian tried to protest. "I understand your honor, Sentian, but if you are one with me, then you are one with my honor, as well." He put his hand on Sentian’s shoulder. "What good is wealth if you can not reward your friends because they are—friends?" Sentian couldn’t tell if the moisture running down his face was from the rain or the tears choking him. "Thank you, Your Grace." "Conar!" the Prince corrected. "Unfortunately, my friends call me many things. I believe ‘shithead’ is a particularly fond nickname they have for me; but I prefer Conar." He spotted Thom and whistled, gaining the captain’s attention. "Come get ’Yearner, Thommy!" "Let me, Your…" Sentian blushed at the cocked brow turned his way. He swallowed hard, as though he were in great pain. "…Conar," he ended, feeling giddy with the name on his tongue. "See? That wasn’t so bad, now, was it? Thommy can see to my steed. I want you with me." He turned his gaze to the wall above and a frown puckered his lips. "There’s not a man here that wouldn’t die for you or your lady," Thom said as he took the horse’s reins from Sentian. "Let’s hope no man has to," remarked Legion, pulling his cloak about his shoulders. "How are you doing, Commander?" Thom asked. "He’s gonna catch cold," Legion snapped. "Your tent is up, brat. You need to get yourself inside before you’re flat on your back." He eyed his brother’s tired face. "How are you really, Coni?" "He says he’s fine," Sentian answered for his Overlord when Conar just stared at Legion. Legion shook his head. "You’ll find he has the tendency to need baby-sitting, Heil." "And the Vice-Commander often needs his ears boxed," Conar snapped. "Not by you, brat." Legion grinned. "I made setting up the tents a priority. From the looks of that black cloud speeding this way, we may be in for a true drenching." "Did you expect this to be easy?" Conar inquired. "Galen would have seen to the weather." "Do you think that slimy little snake of a brother of yours is behind this rain?" Legion snarled. "If I get my hands on Jah-Ma-El, I’ll wring his scrawny neck!" Conar couldn’t help but smile at Legion’s refusal to acknowledge Jah-Ma-El ashis brother. "I know Galen isn’t trying to work magic. He never finished his training at the Temple and he’s never finished anything he’s ever started." He glanced over his shoulder at the keep as he walked toward the tent Legion had indicated. "Not until now, at any rate." Thunder rolled heavily across the steel-gray sky. The rain started coming down in a torrent of blinding, stinging pelts. Nothing could be accomplished in the downpour, so the men ran for the dry comfort of

Conar’s huge tent. Drawing aside the flap for his Overlord, Sentian would have waited outside, but Conar pushed the man ahead of him and into the tent. "I wondered how long you were planning on taking a bath, Conar," Teal said as the men entered. He took a long draft of his warmed brandy. "Grice’ll be along in a few minutes. He’s seeing to his troops. I liked him right off. Looks a lot like Liza." He eyed Conar. "Are you all right?" Running his hands through his sopping wet hair, Conar nodded and then shook rain onto Teal’s upturned face. "The devil take you, McGregor!" Teal sniffed. "Have a care, du Mer, before you find yourself outside instead of in." Teal snorted, suspiciously eyeing Sentian as the young villager awkwardly stood a few feet inside the tent. "You wouldn’t dare turn me out." "Don’t be so sure," Conar snorted. Teal glowered at Sentian. "You want some brandy?" Sentian smiled."I would appreciate something to warm me, Lord Teal." Teal smirked, regarding the villager with caution. "I had forgotten you know who I am. My reputation does proceed me." "Isn’t that the truth?" Thom snorted as he ducked into the tent. " ’Yearner’s taken care of." He shot his eyes to Sentian’s strained face. "Pay no attention to du Mer. He’s a cunning bastard, this du Mer brother, but harmless." "Harmless?" Teal growled. "Not likely. Cunning? Aye, and diverse of talent, as well." "And loud of mouth," Legion snapped. "And slow of wit," Conar added as he stretched out on a carpet. "And he cheats at cards," Storm Jale amended as he, too, joined the men inside. He looked at Conar. "How are you holding up, Commander?" "Beware of du Mer, Heil," Marsh agreed as he pushed Storm aside to get in from out of the rain. "He’s a neighbor of yours." Teal glanced up at the villager. "You are?" "My wife’s family farm’s near your southern pasture." Teal’s smirk faded rapidly and his voice was short and quick. "What does your wife look like?" He hoped he hadn’t messed with her.

"Sit down, Sentian," Conar commanded, then watched the anticipation on Teal’s face as Sentian took a cup of hot brandy from Legion and sat on the carpet next to Thom. "My wife is one of Felias Spiel’s daughters, Lord du Mer." He took a sip of the brandy, warming his hands around the hot mug. Teal swallowed. How many of them had he fooled with? He tried to remember. There were seven. Five of them were maids at his manner house, and all five had warmed his bed within the last month. And all were married. "Areyou all right, Teal?" Conar asked and grinned. "You know my wife, Lord du Mer. She’s Felias’ youngest. You and she used to play dominoes together when her mother was your father’s chatelaine." Teal’s eyes grew wide in astonishment. "Your wife is Sherind?" "The one and the same." "You won Sherind’s hand?" Teal asked with a low whistle, his opinion of the man changing. "It took me awhile, but I did." Sentian laughed. Teal pictured the red-haired beauty. He had been a bit in love with her since he was a boy, but Sherind would have nothing to do with him in that way. Her heart, she had declared, would go to the man worthy to carry on her father’s farm. "She’s a good woman," Teal said with an emphatic nod. If Sherind had married this man, he was as good a man as they came. "She’s one of the best, Lord du Mer." "Call me Teal." He smiled at Sentian for the first time and held out his hand in greeting. Rain pelted the tent as the men sat about with their brandy and ale. Storm brought the news that the cook tent was up and food was being prepared. The sounds of hundreds of men making camp was deafening and he had to shout to be heard. By noon, the weather turned even nastier. A gust of water poured through the tent flap as Prince Grice Wynth, Liza’s eldest brother, hurried inside. "You look like a drowned cat, Wynth!" Legion joked. "Damned foul weather to be doing anything in, eh?" He took off his rain gear, handing it to Marsh, nodding his thanks to the Elite, and eagerly snatched the mug of spiced ale Teal extended toward him. He nodded to the men he didn’t know until his eyes rested on Conar, whom he had seen only twice in the three years since his sister’s marriage to the Serenian Prince. "Are you all right?" he asked, sipping his ale. Conar stood, annoyed with the way the men seemed to be pampering him. "Why does everyone keep

asking me that? I am fine! Just fine!" Grice chuckled, reaching out his hand to Conar. "And in a very good mood, I can tell." "What took you so long?" Conar asked. "I expected you several hours ago." Grice shook his head in exasperation. "Would you believe the old demon-salts who’ve been with the Oceanian Forces longer than I’ve been alive have forgotten how to pitch a tent? They thought I should show them, as if I knew!" He sat near Legion. "That’s what comes of not having had to fight in over a hundred years." He gripped Legion’s wrist. "It’s been a long time, my friend." "Too long," Legion agreed. "How’ve you been?" "Alive." As the men talked, Conar drew the tent canvas aside, looking into the gloom. So dark was the sky, so heavy the rain, he could barely discern the tops of the battlements. The keep was a black blob of shadow hunched over him. Here and there a solitary archer marched from one end to the other, but the force of men who had been on guard when Conar had ridden up went unseen. "She’s still there," Grice said quietly, laying a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. Conar turned to look at him. "How can you be sure?" "Because Galen is there. I saw the son-of-a-bitch up on the battlements when I came into the tent. He even had the gall to wave. Do you believe that?" "I believe he’s lost what little mind he had. He’s a fool to think he can get away with this." Grice downed the last of his ale. "Try not to worry about her, Conar. You’ve a good and loyal ally in Belvoir. He’s our mother’s man. He’s a Sentinel." "A what?" Conar had never heard the term before. "A Sentinel. They are trained by the Daughters of the Multitude as a guardian, a messenger, men they trust to personally protect them. Belvoir will protect my sister with his life. He’ll be her messenger until the day she chooses her own Sentinel. He’ll protect her from this nefarious business Galen McGregor has engineered." "He’s not behind this." "Who is?" Grice asked, surprised. Was there more to this than he and his father knew? Conar shook his head. "All that matters is I get Liza back, at any cost." Prince Grice Wynth was a tall man with eyes the color of dark rum. Flashes of silver speckled his deep black hair at the temples; his lean face bore the unmistakable lines of a man who spent most of his time out-of-doors. His lean body matched the leanness of his face, but beneath the loose gray tunic, his chest was strong and powerful, his arms a hard ridge of muscle honed from years of constant weight training and calisthenics. He commanded his men with an iron will and dogged determination, never asking any to do what he had not done first. He was also educated, studying ancient battles with infinite care. He never

left a stone unturned. Grice turned a fierce face to Conar. "If I get to Galen first, I’ll kill the bastard." "Don’t kill him," Conar whispered. "He’s mine." Grice walked with Conar as the Serenian prince poured himself another hot mug of brandy and offered his brother-in-law a refill. "Better make it ale," Grice said. "Brandy goes straight to my head." "His, too," Legion remarked. "Go easy on that, brat." Conar took a sip of the brandy and then sat, leaning against a travel trunk and stretching his long legs. "Don’t mollycoddle me, A’Lex." "No matter how long it takes, Conar," Grice said, smiling at the two brothers glowering at one another, "my men and I don’t leave this keep until Liza is back safely." Conar nodded his acceptance. "I must tell you men this. If, for whatever reason, my lady is not able to leave this keep, then neither shall I ever leave." "Don’t talk like that," Legion snarled. " ’Tis the gods’ truth, Legion. My life is worthless without Liza." Teal stared at him. "If you don’t leave, then neither will I." "Nor I," Sentian piped up, speaking in unison with Thom. They looked at one another and the spark of a budding friendship took hold. "That goes for Storm and me," Marsh said. "I can think of no better way to leave this life than with the ones I shared it with," Grice said. "Every one of us will leave this place and with Liza beside us!" Legion vowed. "I’ll drink to that!" Grice held his ale aloft. The others did the same. All except Conar. In his heart, he suspected he would be the only one left behind when they rode away with Liza to safety.

Chapter 7 Prince Galen McGregor sat beside Liza’s bed, her cold hand held lovingly in his. He raised the slender

fingers to his mouth and placed kisses on their tips, then brought her hand to his cheek, savoring the feel of her flesh. With his other hand he swept back the soft fringes of hair over her high forehead. "I love you," he whispered to her sleeping form, trailing his fingers down her cheek, and listening to her quiet breathing. He sighed, bringing her fingers to his lips once more. Jah-Ma-El entered the room, a tray of potions in his trembling hands. He set the tray on the bedside table and looked uneasily at Galen. "It is time for her medicine." Galen nodded, but did not speak. He closely watched the sorcerer who opened a dark amber bottle and poured a spoonful of thick-looking liquid into a spoon. "You are sure that drug will have no lasting effects?" Galen asked, worry crinkling his brow. "The Master assured me it would not." Gently lifting Liza’s head, Jah-Ma-El parted her lips with one hand while he let the thick liquid trickle down her throat with the other. Liza moaned, her lids fluttered and a single, short and violent tremor went through her before she lay still again. "Is she aware of what is happening?" Galen asked, his eyes searching the sorcerer’s. Jah-Ma-El held Galen’s gaze. "I think she is." His lips twisted in disgust. "No, I know she is." "That is the only part of this I regret," Galen whispered. He ran a hand over his face. Jah-Ma-El glanced at him with wonder. He had never known him to show any emotion other than anger, but Galen McGregor was crying. "Does it surprise you that I have true feelings for this woman?" "Do we truly need to keep her drugged?" Jah-Ma-El countered, loathe to answer such a ridiculous question. Galen looked away. "I can’t allow her to be awake long enough to aid Conar. Her rune stone has been destroyed, but the Master fears her familiar may have gone elsewhere. We must keep her asleep until I can take her from this place. I would give up much for this woman." "So would Conar." "She will come to love me in time." "Conar will not give you the time. He’ll never let you live long enough to leave Norus." "Conar can do nothing!" Galen shouted, placing Liza’s hand on the bed and standing to face his half-brother. "Her heart may belong to that bastard at the moment, but her body belongs to me! That is more than he will ever be able to say again!" "Her heart will always be with our brother. She is his woman."

"She is mine!" Galen screamed, pushing aside Jah-Ma-El. He strode to the door, threw it open and slammed from the room. Jah-Ma-El shrugged his thin, stooped shoulders. Let the man posture and rant all he would, Conar’s woman would never truly belong to him. Gazing down to the lady, he smiled. She was so very beautiful, a worthy bride for his beloved brother, Conar. Her dark skin and midnight hair were perfect foils for Conar’s blond male beauty. Her lids were closed over the glory of those bright green eyes, but Jah-Ma-El had seen them flashing with fury and vengeance the day Kaileel Tohre’s men had brought her to Norus. "He will kill you, Galen McGregor!" she had shouted before they forced the drug between her clenched teeth. "Conar will kill you all for this!" Jah-Ma-El had stood in the shadows of the great hall, marveled at the fight still left in her even as she began to succumb to the drug. One guard had nearly had his eyes gouged. "Aye," the lanky warlock whispered as he tucked the covers around her, "you are the perfect bride for our Overlord, Milady." He placed an affectionate kiss on her rosy cheek and then traced the back of his fingers down her cheek. "And I will do everything I can to protect you, Sweeting. You are Conar’s lady and Conar’s you will remain." Alone in his chambers that night, the sorcerer sat at his window, his tall, gangly frame jammed into a chair, and brooded as he watched the campfires of the troops below. He rubbed a filthy hand down his lean face, and smoothed what was left of his thinning black hair. Somewhere in that throng was his precious half-brother. A grim smile touched Jah-Ma-El’s lips. Maybe this time he would get to speak to Conar, get to hear Conar greeting him when the Prince Regent stormed the keep to recover his lady-wife. He never doubted Conar would. He, himself, was many things, Jah-Ma-El thought: a coward, a liar, a thief; but his one and only true devotion, his only unwavering loyalty, belonged to Conar McGregor, as it always had and always would. Conar was the only one who cared whether he lived or died. Only Conar loved him. Jah-Ma-El sighed. He would give his worthless life for Conar or his ladylove. What good would life be if there was no Conar? And if there was no Liza, what manner of man would Conar Aleksandro McGregor become? There was hard resolve on Jah-Ma-El’s lean face. No one would take Conar’s woman from him. He would see to that if he had to risk the trek into the Netherlands of the Domination’s spite. He vowed to see Kaileel Tohre’s vile plan defeated even if his own life was forfeit in the bargain. *** After Jah-Ma-El had gone to bed, while the keep was deadly still and no prying eyes lurked about to carry tales to the men camped at Norus’ walls, Galen crept back to Liza’s room. He stood looking at her, his heart filled with the immense love he had never known himself capable of feeling. "I do love you," he said to her. "I love you with every ounce of feeling in my body, lady."

Liza moaned as though she had heard him. Her head turned on the silken pillow beneath the sweep of her ebony hair. "I will show you just how much I love you, Sweeting." His hands went to his tunic. He pulled the soft material over his head, tossing the pale green silk on the foot of Liza’s bed. As he unhooked the buttons of his breeches, he found himself staring at the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath the white satin nightgown. He could see the pulse beating slowly in her pale throat and his body ached with love and need. There was only a slight hesitation as he pulled aside the covers and slid beside her under the satin sheets, only a moment’s remorse at the way he touched her so intimately as she lay sleeping. Her skin was as soft as the petals of a gardenia and held the scent of the lavender fragrance she preferred. As he stroked her arm and the silky expanse of her shoulder, he inhaled that delicate scent and it made his shaft ache with fullness. The feel of her flesh against the pads of his fingers was more intoxicating than the most potent brandy and it set his juices to flowing. Threading his fingers through her thick ebony tresses, he lifted a lock to his nose and inhaled the perfume clinging to the strands, then placed the soft lock to his lips and tasted it. He buried his face in her curls and sighed with pleasure, closing his eyes as he settled his body closer to hers. His fingers splayed over her chin and slid down her throat and then further down until they rested in the center of her breastbone. He held his palm there, feeling the steady beat of her heart, reveling in the warmth of her soft flesh. He shifted lower in the bed, braced himself on his elbow and lay his cheek against the creamy perfection of her left breast. He hooked his finger in the gown’s neckline and pulled it down until he revealed the soft coral tip of one nipple. With infinite care, he circled the aureole with his index finger, then ran his thumb over the sweet nub, stroking the protrusion until the flesh hardened. Smiling, he claimed the nipple with his lips, suckling, gently nibbling. He cupped her breast, lifting the weight of it to his mouth, then circled the expanse with his tongue. She tasted faintly of lemon and the firmness of her breast pressing against his chin sent a shiver of excitement through him; his manhood leapt with anticipation. In her forced sleep, Liza groaned, her body reacting to the invasion. She writhed beneath his assault and a whimper escaped her parted lips. Galen McGregor had always reveled in the experience of the flesh. Sexual expeditions with numerous partners had given him a keen sense of being. He defined himself by such experiences. He had taken great delight in the feel of other bodies beneath his and the sensations of other hands—hard, male hands—upon his willing flesh. His world had been one of perverted pleasures that often left bruises upon his partners and blood smeared on the bedsheets. His satiation had come from the coarse skin and sinewy muscles of palace and temple guards or the soft, beardless flesh of young boys with soft muscles and sweet, tender lips. But now his world had shifted on its axis and what had once thrilled him, made him ecstatic with forbidden pleasure, was but a blink of the eye compared to the overpowering urges he felt as he slid his hand down Liza’s belly and tugged her gown upward. The satin smoothness of her thighs, the wiry silk of her pubic hair, the slick warmth of her vaginal lips was more pleasurable than anything imaginable. The scent of her womanhood as he parted her nether lips hardened his erection more than he would have thought possible. As he slipped his finger inside and felt the involuntary constriction of her muscles, he groaned with pleasure. Probing deeper, feeling the rough interior walls, searching for that small convex shape he had discovered the night before—that place when

touched and stroked brought Liza to climax—he knew true bliss. He withdrew his hand and rose above her, settled himself between her milky thighs and positioned his shaft. There was only a tiny pull at his conscience as he took her. He had not missed a night coming to this room to lay with her. Each morning brought a raw shame he had never known when he thought back to what he had done, but the guilt did not overshadow the raging hate for the man who truly had the right to the lady’s heart and body. If anything, it sweetened the taste of revenge. *** It was the morning of the second day of the siege. A scorching sun was already blistering the hot desert sand and sending mirages into the air. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed and bit; reptiles and arachnids slithered and crept closer to the encampment. The storm had lasted for three days with blinding rain, buffeting winds, and hail the size of hen eggs. Small streams were now beginning to dry up around the tents and lean-tos over which the cook fires had been put away. The carcasses of several horses and the bodies of five men had been buried, all victims of the vicious lightning that had severed the skies and rained down death. Three dozen men had tried to scale the keep’s walls, but burning pitch, arrow, spear and sword met them. They had fallen to the fetid moat where hungry reptiles had made meals of their screaming bodies. Legion’s archers had picked off a dozen of Galen McGregor’s men, but a full score had replaced them in a matter of moments. When a man fell from those battlements to his death in the snapping hell of the moat, the besiegers roared, drowning out the poor soul’s screams. Legion A’Lex was supervising an all-out attack on the northern wall where flaming arrows arched high into the air to land behind the crenellations. Every now and again came an agonized scream as an arrow hit its mark. Grice Wynth, the Prince Regent of Oceania and Liza’s brother, held the southern sector of the keep with two catapults, his men hurling stone after stone against the wall that had shown the most crumbled state. Teal du Mer’s men were on the eastern side. One contingent kept the archers on the battlements busy while another unit took spear and arrow to the inhabitants of the noxious moat. Thom Loure led the Elite on the western side. With the sun at their backs, their arrows flew high over the walls and found many a slow-moving, unsuspecting body with which to make contact. Conar sat in his tent, going over a makeshift floor plan of the keep. The plans he had brought from Boreas had somehow been misplaced. Or stolen. He knew his twin had spies among his men. The young prince looked up. Grice Wynth stood framed in the harsh light, a look of intensity on his bronzed face. "Conar, he’s calling to you from the battlements. He has Liza with him." No one spoke as Conar hurried from the tent. Every eye was trained on the high tower where the personal pennant of Galen McGregor fluttered in the stiff breeze. The dark blue triangle with its gray sparrow snapped in a sudden gust of wind and sounded like the pop of lightning.

Conar’s jaw clenched as he saw his brother on the high wall. His twin was holding Liza’s limp body, her long hair sweeping over his left arm, her bare feet dangling over his right. Conar took a step closer, but Grice took hold of his arm, restraining him. "Be careful, brother," Wynth said urgently. He pointed to the archers on the battlements. Conar away jerked his arm. "What is it you want, Galen?" he shouted. There was reasonable complacency in Galen’s mirthless laugh. "You’re not dense, Conar! You know gods-be-damned well what I want!" Legion hurried to join Conar. "Think before you speak." Conar’s hands were sweating as his fists opened and closed at his sides. He heard Legion’s warning, noted it with a hasty nod. "Bring me my wife, Galen. And when you do, I’ll make sure you spend what little time you have left in this world in the bowels of Tyber’s Isle!" Legion groaned. "Well thought, Coni. That should make him hand her over right away." Galen’s laughter rang out over the still air. "It’s not me who’ll be going to prison." "What is it you want?" Legion yelled. "I want nothing from you, bastard," Galen shouted. "I have what I want here in my arms." Conar stiffened; his face turned red with anger. He snarled like a savage beast preparing to strike as Galen shifted Liza’s body closer to his. "If you think holding Liza for ransom will get you the crown, Galen McGregor, you are badly mistaken. It will only get you hanged!" Galen shrugged. "I have no need of the crown anymore." He chuckled. "I have found a treasure far greater than the golden circlet of Kings." Conar started forward, but both Grice and Legion blocked his way. He had to shout over their shoulders. "If you’ve touched my lady—" "What can you do if I have?" Galen called. "Go away. Keep your gods-be-damned crown!" "We will take this keep and put every warrior inside it to the sword for what you have done," Legion shouted. "But if you send the princess down to us, you will be granted safe passage out of the country. I swear that as Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces." Galen snorted in derision. "Go to hell, A’Lex! You’ve no authority over me! You’re nothing but a random squirt from the king’s loins. If your mother hadn’t spread her whoring legs, you wouldn’t be standing where you are, thinking to give me orders!" "You’re a dead man!" Legion threw back. Conar glanced at A’Lex’s face. Who was it that had cautioned care? When Legion’s hard eyes met his, Conar shrugged. "Works for me," he drawled. "Try reasoning with the bastard, Conar," Grice snarled. "Making the fool angry will accomplish nothing!"

Looking up at his twin, Conar backed away from Grice and Legion’s blockade. "Send my wife down to me, Galen, and I’ll let you leave peaceably. If you don’t, I swear to the gods, the halls of Norus will run deep with your treacherous blood." Grice threw his hands up in defeat. "That’s not reasoning, McGregor; that’s threatening!" "Do you honestly think I believe your promise of safe conduct, Conar?" Galen sneered. "I’d have an arrow in my back before I could cross into Diabolusia." "You have my word, something I do not give lightly! Let Liza go and you’ll be safe." Laughter, harsh and brittle, floated down to the besiegers. "If I go, Conar, my brother, it will be with this lady at my side!" Again Conar started forward. It took both Grice and Legion to tear him away from the place where one of Galen’s men could easily have hit him with arrow or quarrel. "You won’t keep her, you sorry ass!" Conar screamed, struggling with his brother and brother-in-law. "You won’t!" Walking closer to the edge of the crenellation, Galen raised Liza higher against his chest. Even from the distance that separated them, Galen could see the agony on his twin’s face. He placed a soft kiss on the gleaming black hair. When he heard Conar’s shout of fury, laughter escaped him. "She has hair like silk, Conar! It’s almost as soft as the flesh along her back and as sleek as down between her satin thighs!" Animalistic rage filled Conar. He strained against the strong arms holding him. He opened his mouth to let fly the fury mounting in his throat just as Galen stumbled, pitching forward against the wall, colliding with the waist-high stonework, nearly losing his grip on the woman in his arms. Conar lurched against the hold on his arms, his knees nearly giving way beneath him. He stumbled, himself, catching the men off guard and managed to pull free of their restraint. "Keep your hands off me!" he shouted as Grice reached for him. He tried to go between the two men, but Legion placed himself in front of his younger brother, shielding him from the line of fire. Galen stared with horror at the wall into which he had collided. A thin crack was coursing upward from the stone ledge floor and snaking out in a multitude of directions along the mortared joints. The sound of cracking stone made his heart beat like a hammer, and he, too, lost his normal color as the wall began to crumble downward to splash in the moat. A gust of wind pushed against him and he staggered, coming perilously close to the opening on the battlement. Conar sucked in his breath, his heart ceasing to beat. He screamed at the top of his lungs, shoving Legion out of his way. "For the love of Alel, Galen! Be careful!" Galen stumbled back from the opening. He clasped Liza closely, fearful of her falling to her death. It mattered not at all to him that he might die in the fall, as well. His main thought was of her and her safety. He barely heard Jah-Ma-El’s roar of fury. "Give her to me!" Jah-Ma-El snarled, forcibly taking Liza out of Galen’s trembling arms.

Legion’s voice was filled with intense hatred. "Jah-Ma-El! You’re a dead man, too!" "He won’t hurt her," Conar snapped, his breathing and heartbeat returning to normal as he watched Jah-Ma-El disappear from sight. "He’ll watch over her." "The bastard’s a warlock!" Legion snarled. "He brought the damned storm. He—" "Won’t hurt her!" Conar finished, turning to glare at Legion. "I know my brother." "You’d better hope you do." Conar could barely breathe. Fear parched his lungs. He had come so close to losing her. So very close. His warrior’s mind seethed with a variety of the most vile tortures he would like visited on his twin; his lover’s mind filled with the red-hot poker of jealousy; his princely mind calculated the consequences of Galen’s acts. Combined, he was of a mind to see Galen McGregor hanged. He took a deep breath and made his voice steady and emotionless as he called up to Galen. "Let Jah-Ma-El bring her down, Galen. Not one single man will come through that gate after you." "She stays with me! You will never get her back!" "I’ll gut you, you miserable shit!" "I’ll seeyou in hell!" "Not before you swing from the tribunal’s scaffold!" Legion barked. "How quaint," Grice complained, looking to the heavens. "You McGregors are such a thoughtful family." "Give her back to me, Galen!" Conar bellowed. "Liza is mine. I have taken her, and I will keep her!" Before Conar could snarl a reply, a cry from the battlements stopped him, drawing everyone’s attention. He looked behind him at the place where the lookout was pointing. A solid cloud of dust stretched as far across the horizon as the eye could see. The sound of many hooves vibrated over the distance; the rumble of war wagons filled the air with the clamor of a death rattle. "Who?" Legion asked Grice. "I sent for your cousins Rylan and Paegan Hesar. I would imagine they brought Chase Montyne and Tyne Brell with them, from the looks of that war party," Wynth answered. Grice was speaking of the three young Princes who ruled the lands of Virago, Chale, and Ionary, principalities that bordered Serenia and Oceania. All four men had attended Conar and Liza’s wedding. All had strong ties to the Serenian prince. "No matter the amount of men you gather," Galen shouted, "you will not have her back! Ever again!" He raised his chin. "I may never wear the crown of my homeland—"

"Count on that!" Legion screamed. "—But he," Galen said, pointing to Conar, "will never have Liza to Queen, either! Look elsewhere for your heirs, Conar, for it will bemy seed that springs from Liza’s beautiful body!" Conar leapt forward, coming up hard against the brick wall that was Legion and Grice. He bounced off Grice’s strong chest and bellowed with insane rage. "I am going to turn you inside out, Galen McGregor! I will geld you and stuff that filthy piece of flesh you love so much down your perverted throat!" He struggled to get free of his brothers’ hold, cursing them as he did his twin, but they pulled him toward his tent, trying to reason with him. "He’s not going anywhere," Grice reminded him. "Let up, Conar!" Legion shouted, pulling on his brother’s arm. "We’ll get her back!" "Look!" someone called from the battlements. Grice glanced back to see what the man was yelling about. He stopped, his own body jerking as Legion’s momentum pulled Conar toward his tent, taking Wynth off balance. "A’Lex," he whispered, unable to speak above that level. Legion cast an annoyed look to Wynth, glanced back, and stilled. A huge black veil filled the entire vista of the southern sky. Green and yellow shapes swirled and blended within the black mass as though the bruise of the horizon was alive with maggots trying to infest the wound of the heavens. Silent lightning flared through the blackness, forked in a multitude of directions. A red tinge crept along the definitive line between earth and sky and seemed to be burning the heavens with hellfire. A low moaning, keening sound came from the depths of the blackness, echoing across the desert, filling the ears with an unpleasant pressure. The riders of the advancing war party, and the men staring up at the tower, those defending the keep, turned as one, taking in the sight that loomed toward them from out of the south. Conar freed his arms from Legion’s hold and turned to face the rapidly advancing veil of black. Only a handful of men there knew what it was, and he was one of them. His stomach turned; his eyes narrowed into pinpoints of hate; his hands clenched into fists. He wasn’t even aware of the man who had walked his horse over to him, sliding from his steed to take a position beside him. "Raphian," Prince Chase Montyne from Ionary breathed as he stood beside Conar. "Aye," Conar acknowledged. "Who else?" The rank smell of vomitus suddenly washed over the men and made them gag. A frigid wind, silent, killing, settled over those assembled. The light was suddenly extinguished from the sky as the veil loomed overhead. "He wants me," Conar told Montyne without looking at the Ionarian prince. "That would be my guess," Chase agreed, glad it wasn’t him the demon was after. With a suddenness that left the men breathless, the wind picked up in velocity and sent them crashing into one another with the gale force of a hurricane. Sand flew up from the desert floor pelted their eyes, stinging the flesh even as the cold pierced their clothing. The wind brought with it sound, sound such as

the men assembled had never heard. The din created by the howling, moaning, keening wind made it impossible for anyone to hear over it. It was an eerie, wailing grind that grated on the nerves and made the men cover their ears as the pressure increased. Unable to see above the base of the keep for the sand and black mass of cloud that now hurled itself upon his men, Conar flung his arm over his face, shielding himself from the sting of sand. He stumbled against Chase and felt his friend’s hands steadying him. From out of the deepest, darkest black of the sky came an even darker patch of ebon. It came with the sound of a million hissing vipers, a million buzzing insects, a million rustlings of arachnid limbs. An image too horrible to imagine, too vile to ponder, emerged from the veil of cloud. Raphian, the Storm God, the Destroyer of Men’s Souls, looked out of the swirling mass of sky. Its long, leathery neck bent and twisted. The slavering gap of Its mouth opened to reveal row upon row of sharp, pointed teeth that clicked together as the giant maw of Its mouth opened and closed. A thin drool of noxious phosphorescent green fluid dripped onto the desert sand and hissed as it struck, bubbling, boiling. The triangular green head that resembled a viper’s glistened with glowing scales the color of a dead man’s flesh; the beady red eyes flashed the firelight of evil so immense, so infinite, that those who looked into them were lost, falling to the sand, their minds gone forever. A forked tongue shot out of the gaping mouth and struck Conar a glancing blow on his shoulder. Fluid seared through the prince’s shirt. He howled in pain, grabbing his shoulder as he went to his knees. Chase reached to help him, but a blast of frigid air threw him back. Raphian laughed, Its breath so foul it overshadowed the other noxious smells. Conar held his injured left shoulder. He could feel the split skin throbbing, burning, tearing. His teeth were pulled back in a feral line of pure rage. He had fought this enemy before. And lost. "I will not let him have her!" Conar shouted. He tried to raise his head, but the sharp wind and blowing sand pelted his face, and he lowered his head again. "She is lost to you," Raphian barked and Its voice seemed to slither over Conar like the filth of a privy, but allowing no others to hear. "Only the Domination could have returned her to you, but since you are no friend of theirs, the bitch is lost to you forever. Give me your soul, Conar, and she shall be returned, unscathed, to her brother." The triangular head grinned, Its teeth flashing a dull yellow in the dark recesses of Its gaping maw. "But you, I will take with Me." Conar struggled to his feet in the crippling wind. "I will defeat you!" he yelled, trying to bring his head up. "I will send you back to the hell in which you were spawned!" The laugh was vile; the chortling an insult. "I have no fear of you! You have no power to joust with me!" "Then fight me! Fight me and see who wins!" Raphian slithered Its neck down so that Its huge head was only a few inches above Conar. The smell of It took Conar’s breath away. It was a thick, cloying smell like rotting flesh and made the young prince’s eyes water.

"You never took your initiation, did you, Conar?Only one of My own can do battle with Me and even hope to win!" "I will get her back!" Conar felt a freezing blast of wind fall on him and he went to his knees again, his arm flung over his face to keep the sand from blinding him. "You lost once before. You are as chaff in the wind to me." Conar brought up his watery vision to the demon. His eyes moved over the glistening, scaly face until they found the slitted viper’s eyes. The elongated pupils flared, squinted, tried to impale him, to destroy his soul, but Conar held its malevolent, fusing glare. "I will win this time! I have an amulet too powerful for you, Raphian! I have love!" For a moment, the demon seemed to diminish, to back off. Its eyes filled with uncertainty; Its face took on the look of the hunted instead of the hunter. But a brief surge of fear crossing Conar’s face brought the demon’s leering mouth into a vicious, triumphant grin. Conar felt something strike him hard. He fell to his back, his arms and legs spread wide as though he had been staked to the ground by invisible hands. Sand swirled all around him, hiding him from his men, but the place upon which he lay was free of sand and obscuring black cloud. Above him, the Storm God hovered in a clear patch of glowing gray mist. "You are what you are," Raphian cooed. "You can never escape the retribution set upon you by the Domination, Conar McGregor. No magic is as powerful as Ours." The demon’s voice lowered in volume to the insinuating whirl of a mosquito. "You want her back?Then go to Tohre. Only Kaileel Tohre can get her back for you and you know the price he will require!" The demon’s tongue flicked out. The split in the forked appendage dragged over the juncture of Conar’s spread thighs. Caressed him. Lingered only a fraction of a second before withdrawing. "You belong to Me," the demon hissed. "Come to Me or lose the bitch forever." Cringing, expecting an agony of unbelievable proportions, Conar felt only a thick slime of wet, saturating heaviness along his manhood. With a gurgling, sucking sound, the Storm God withdrew Its long neck into the black mist of cloud. In the twinkling of an eye, it scattered the mass across the sky until only a few wisps of gray streaks remained against the vivid blue. Conar felt violated in the worst way. He jerked, pulling his body into a fetal position in defense, curling in on himself, protecting his very soul. He gagged, bile flooding his dry mouth. He blocked out the normal sounds that returned. He didn’t feel the hands on him, lifting him, carrying him to his tent. He didn’t see his twin’s shocked face peering down from the battlements. He didn’t hear Chase Montyne’s prayer that followed in his wake. "The gods help you, Conar," Galen muttered as he watched his brother being taken away. He turned, his eyes going to the heavens. "What have I done?" he whispered. "What have I set into motion?" He blanched at the scream that tore from Conar’s tent. Legion and Grice held Conar to his cot, listening as the primitive scream bubbled out of the young

prince’s mouth. The sound was filled with defeat and hopelessness. It filled the air and wafted across time and space until it came to the ear of another. Kaileel Tohre set back in his chair in the Temple sacristy. He made a steeple of his fingers and let his chin rest on their tips. "I have you now, Conar," he whispered to the silent room. "I have you now."

Chapter 8 Jarod Chaseton Montyne of Ionary, a small principality that borders Serenia to the southeast, was a quiet man with a gentle smile and easy laugh. He was a shy man whose face could instantly turn red when he became embarrassed. He was not as adept as other men of his rank at hiding his feelings; his fair complexion and light blue eyes gave his secrets away in the blush and in the way his long, tawny lashes swept timidly downward over the pale orbs. Chase had come by his station of power when his eldest brother, Morgan, had fallen from an overly excited stallion and had been forever crippled, unable to move or speak. The crown had rested securely on Morgan Montyne’s golden head, but it rested lightly on Chase’s. The real power behind the throne, the true hand wielding that power, belonged to Chase’s mother, Genevieve. The Queen Mother feared her son would never be the dynamic ruler his father and brother before him had been. Chase was far too sensitive and dreamy to make a stern monarch. He was given to writing sonnets to comely lasses and, the heavens forbid, to trees and mountains and such. His charity was well-known, but so were his astonishing fits of handing out the monies of the treasury without properly ascertaining whether the person, or persons, deserved such good luck. His mother was often heard to say: "Chase would give away the key to the strongbox if one but asked for it!" It took a diligent watch over the young man to see the principality did not bankrupt itself. But in one thing, Chase Montyne truly excelled. He was the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms. His expertise with crossbow was common knowledge. As he stood beside Grice Wynth outside Conar’s tent, Chase’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. He had not a mean bone in his body, but when his friends were threatened, Chase Montyne would move heaven and earth to help them. Listening to Conar’s snarls of outrage as Legion tried talking sense to him, Chase understood perfectly well his old friend’s feelings toward the Domination. After all, he had had dealings with the bastards, himself. His early childhood, like Conar’s, had been spent in the Great Abbey of the Domination, high atop Mount Serenia. Had it not been for his brother Morgan’s ill-starred destiny, Chase would have remained there to be initiated into the evil that had been reserved for him. Like Conar before him, Chase left the monastery a few months shy of his thirteenth birthday. "By the gods, but I hate that son-of-a-bitch!" Grice snarled, glaring up at the battlements where Galen McGregor stood looking down at them. "It galls me to see him gloating. It makes me want to scale the gods-be-damned wall and pull his fucking head off!"

Chase chuckled softly. "As good a wrestler as you are, Wynth, I don’t believe you could do that even if you were given the chance. But he does need to be incapacitated." "And do you think you can incapacitate him?" Grice snapped, eyeing his friend’s calm face. "I think so." Grice snorted. "How? Gonna write him a nasty limerick?" Chase turned surprised eyes to his old friend. "Who told you about that?" "About you being the author of that dirty little ditty Conar recited at my sister’s wedding?" "I was a bit intoxicated when I did that." He blushed to the roots of his fair hair. "Does Liza know?" Grice grinned. "What do you think?" Chase would have answered, but the young Serenian prince stormed out of his tent, Legion A’Lex close behind. "Norus is impregnable, Conar!" Galen shouted when he saw his brother emerge. "The walls may crumble, but the portals will hold. You’ll never make it across my moat!" "How’d you like to swim in that moat, Galen?" Conar snarled, knocking aside Legion’s restraining hand. As the two brothers swapped insults, Chase kept his eye on the distance between himself and where Galen McGregor was positioned on the battlements. Furtively, he tested the wind, the height, the trajectory, and the attention of those on the crenelated walls. "Can you really hit the bastard from here?" Grice asked softly, not even turning to look at Chase, but more than aware of what the young man was planning. A lethal smile appeared on Montyne’s lips. "If I can’t, no one can." He eased a bolt from the quiver slung over his left shoulder. As casually as though he was killing time, Montyne stretched the gut on his weapon and slid a bolt into the tiller’s groove. He slowly lifted the crossbow, almost absentmindedly, and rested it on his left hip. "No one seems to be looking your way," Grice said, smiling. "That’s just fine by me," Chase said as he brought the weapon up, sighted it, and crooked his finger around the trigger. "Go back to Boreas and find you a new wife, Conar!" Galen taunted. "Your old one is in far better hands!" Conar jerked away from Legion’s hold and almost stepped into the line of Chase’s fire, but Grice shoved him hard, toppling the smaller man. "Damn you, Wynth!" Conar yelled. His vision leapt beyond his brother-in-law to the crossbow in Chase

Montyne’s steady hands. What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion. Legion watched as the quarrel flew from the crossbow, turning his head to follow the high arc in the air. He heard Galen’s shout of stunned surprise as the blue-vaned missile buried itself in his shoulder, only a few inches from his heart; heard Chase’s snort of disgust that a rambling gust of wind had altered the quarrel’s course; heard Conar’s groan of despair and his own grunt of disappointment. He vaguely heard the shouts of the men on the walls as they gathered in front of Galen to protect him from further assault. Conar’s lips pulled back over his teeth when, through the assembled men on the walls, he saw the Master-at-Arms, Belvoir, catching Galen before he could tumble from the keep. He sucked in his breath as another section of the high wall dropped into the moat. He peered at that section of open battlement where Galen lay, as someone, no doubt the old healer, pulled the quarrel free of his twin’s flesh. He also winced at the inhuman scream of agony that tore from Galen. "I’m sorry, Conar," Chase told him. "Damn you to the deepest pit, Montyne!" Galen shouted, struggling to his feet, shoving away the Master-at-Arms. "I promise, you will pay dearly." He clutched his ravaged shoulder, blood coursing through his fingers. "You willall pay dearly!" Chase brought a freshly nocked weapon up to his face. "I’ll aim a tad lower this time!" Galen took a hasty step backward, well away from the gaping hole in the battlement. "You’ll not get another chance, bastard!" His gaze locked with Conar’s. "I’ll think of you while I am in her bed tonight, sweet brother!" Legion leapt forward, making a grab for his brother even as Grice did. Chase had thrown away the crossbow and also hurried forward, blocking his friend’s suicidal rush. Arrows and lances quivered in the sand within a few feet as they dragged the young Serenian toward safety. Kicking and screaming, pulling against the three men, Conar was shoved into his tent and the exit blocked by not only Grice, but Chase, Storm and Sentian, as well. "Did you hear what that rotten bastard said?" Conar bellowed. Legion stepped directly in front of him, denying his effort to get out of the tent. "Calm down, little brother. You’ll accomplish nothing like this." "Did you hear him?" "We heard," Grice answered. "Just tell us what you want done." Conar felt cold and hot at the same time. He spun on his heel and stared at the rear of the tent where his grandfather’s sword gleamed in the candlelight. He took a long, deep, steady breath and turned to face Legion. "I want this rubble brought down about his ears!" "There won’t be a stone left standing if that’s what you want," Legion said.

"That’s exactly what I want." Grice nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll get." "If we leave, will you behave?" Legion asked as he motioned Chase to follow him and Grice. Conar nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The need to shed Galen McGregor’s blood filled his mind. Grice firmly laid a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder. "Don’t come out until you are sure you can think rationally. We don’t need to be carrying you home on your shield, my brother." Conar covered Grice’s hand with his own. "I’ll be careful." He tried to smile, but couldn’t. "Just get my lady back." *** By the morning of the fourth day of the conflict, most of the southern wall had fallen away to within ten or so feet of the moat. Huge craters pitted the northern and eastern walls, and a section of the western wall neared collapse. A barrage of stones, culled from the quarries near Dunswitch, was steadily thrown against the keep day and night, assuring no rest for the inhabitants. The chunks of rock scattered in the moat, and began to form a bridge three feet wide across the noxious water on the southern rim; reptiles sunned themselves on the rocks and glared with disdain at the besiegers. A few of the scaly creatures had arrows sticking out of their tough, leather-like hides. "Keep those arrows flying!" the Rysalian captain shouted at his squadron of archers. "Keep those bastards away from the eastern wall!" Scaling ladders stood ready for use as soon as the defenders vacated their positions. Swords had been honed, daggers sharpened, lances dipped in poison. The men of Conar’s force were ready. There was no doubt in their minds that this would be the day Norus Keep fell. "Have you seen him?" Grice asked Prince Tyne Brell of Chale. Situated on the Southwestern shore of Lake Myria, the minuscule Principality of a hundred or so inhabitants sat on the spit of land between the Serenian Zone of Zephyrus and Diabolusia. The young prince looked up from his sword. "Conar?" When Grice nodded, Tyne shrugged. "He’s by the eastern wall pacing a gully in the sand." He held up his weapon to the bright morning light and ran his thumb down the finely honed edge. He put his thumb to his lips to draw on the slight trickle of blood that gave proof to his sword’s deadliness. "That’s a lethal-looking piece," Grice told him, admiring the broadsword. "A gift from your father," Tyne said. "Papa gave that to you?" Grice took the sword from Tyne and whistled. The blade was razor sharp, the basket hilt in the shape of a three-leaf clover, the bladeguard curved and spiraled on either side to protect the wielder’s hand. On the pommel was a multi-faceted crystal that caught the sun’s rays and sent a prism of colors sparkling about the sand. Its grip was finely tooled brown leather, hand-stitched with the young man’s initials, and decorated with other clover patterns. Tyne smiled. "You like it?"

"I’ve nothing this fine." Grice handed the weapon back to his friend. "But then I don’t wield a blade as well as you do, Brell." "You do well enough," Tyne assured him. He stood and eased the sword into its scabbard and then flung the leather baldric over his right shoulder, adjusting it to comfortably fit. He grinned at Grice’s frown. "What’s your problem, Wynth." "I do well enough. What you mean is I don’t injure myself." "Just as long as you injure someone else, what difference does it make?" "That piece of yours is a widowmaker." The smile slipped from Brell’s lips. "It was meant to be, Grice." Tyne Brell wasn’t a tall man. In fact, he was barely over five feet, but his prowess with a sword more than made up for his lack of statue. He was as rapier-quick as the blade he carried. Light on his feet, quick of mind, deadly of purpose, sure of aim. The ultimate swordsman. His black hair, parted down the middle and slicked back with pomade, gleamed in the sunlight, and long, spiky lashes framed his creamy brown eyes. A fine matting of hair covered his thin chest, hiding a heart as soft as a feather, and as faithful as the sunset; but he could be as hard as stone when angry, and as double-dealing as need be where honor and friendship was challenged. It might not show that Brell was bothered, but you didn’t want to take the chance that he was. The Chalean brogue that so fascinated the ladies, confused the men. How could such a sissy-sounding fellow, short of statue, thin of muscle, be a danger? It was a question many a man had asked himself as he lay dying for having questioned Tyne Brell’s honor. "Legion wants you," Tyne remarked, nodding at A’Lex. Grice glanced Legion’s way and then extended his hand to Brell. "If I don’t see you after the fight, then I’ll see you when we meet Alel." Tyne smiled and took Grice’s wrist. "I wouldn’t be so sure you’ll be heading that way, Wynth! Best make your peace with the Wind here and now!" Grice laughed and strode away, glancing over his shoulder at the small man who was grinning broadly. "I’ll be whereveryou are, Brell!" *** It took nearly eight hours for the keep to fall. The sun had set by the time the first soldier scaled the ladder and dropped into the outer stairway of the crumbling wall. Three floors of the keep could be seen through the gaping hole as men flooded over the ladders and into the stairway, pushing and pulling more stones out of their way as they reached the first of many blackened doors. Shouts came from the southern wall as that ladder fell into place and the fight began in earnest. The clash of steel on steel and the screams of wounded and dying rang out over the still desert night. The blood lust of men at war shone in the wavering torchlight on the devastated battlements. Splintering walls, crashing wood, falling timbers all made a racket that kept up long into the evening and

through the first rays of dawn. Torches and flaming arrows lit the faces of the warriors, lighting the cruel countenances of men who would give no quarter; flickered off the faces of men who had come not to expect any. Cries began to diminish; the clang of steel began to die away. As the first spread of rose covered the horizon, a stillness settled over the desert. Thom flashed a sooty grin to Teal du Mer. "They are giving up!" Teal raised his eyes to the lintel of the doorway through which they had just entered the lower portion of the keep. His mind swirled with pride at the men who were fighting so gallantly for Conar McGregor. "He said not to be lenient with these bastards," Storm remarked as he stood his ground beside Marsh and Sentian. "I don’t intend to be." Marsh drove his sword forward and upward inside a Norus defender. Standing at the edge of the moat, Conar waited impatiently for the massive drawbridge to come crashing down. He heard the rusted chains screaming in protest as his men chopped at the hemp holding the pulley. He had been listening to the shouts of victory, the screams of death, and the pleadings for quarter he had denied his men to give. His fingers itched with sweat as he stared hard at the studded plank wall that kept him shut out. When the wooden structure began to fall with a squealing protest, his heart pounded harder. He didn’t even feel Legion’s hand on his shoulder. "It won’t be long, now," he told his brother. "Not as impregnable as we thought, eh?" Grice answered Legion’s remark. "Not with the combined might of six kingdoms behind us." Chase glanced at Conar and wondered why his friend looked so strange. "It’s been too easy," Conar said quietly. "Easy?" Aghast, Legion’s brows shot up nearly into his hairline. "Have you any conception of how many men we’ve lost?" "More than we should have," Conar answered. He felt cold. Cold and strange. Chase looked at the keep. "Is it true that Norus has never been taken?" "Not before today," Conar said, his voice as soft as the wind. "And you think some demonic…" Chase was stopped as the clank of chain unwinding sounded and the resounding crash of the heavy drawbridge came thudding to earth across the moat, kicking up a storm of reddish dust and shaking the ground. A cheer went up from the men and they began to pour across the wooden planks. Legion started forward, Grice close behind, but he stopped and looked back where his brother and Chase Montyne stood side by side. "Conar? Aren’t you coming?" When he noticed Conar’s pallor, the intent way he was staring at his men as they surged into the outer bailey, he halted. The hand gripping his broadsword with lethal purpose tightened. "What’s the matter?"

Conar slowly looked at Legion. His voice was a mere whisper, a shifting in the breeze around them. His eyes were haunted. "There’s no need for me to go in." "Why not?" "She’s not in there." "What?" Legion had to struggle to hear the man speak over the deafening roar of shouts and running feet. "Coni is right," Chase stated. "She’s not in the keep and neither is Galen." Legion was about to argue the point, since no one could have possibly left the keep without the hundreds of besiegers seeing them go. As it was, he never got the chance, for Teal’s shout drew his attention to the guard tower to the right of the portcullis, and he looked up. "I have a jackal here, Conar!" Teal shouted, and shoved a bound Jah-Ma-El to the edge of the short wall rimming the tower. "Want to see how big a splat he can make from here?" He half-pushed Jah-Ma-El over the edge before yanking the slender man back by his long, greasy hair. His grin as Jah-Ma-El yelped in pain made Legion snort with laughter. "Save his worthless hide for the hangman. The executioner needs the practice!" Legion shouted. "Bent will see how tall he can make the skinny bastard!" Conar stared hard at Jah-Ma-El. He could see the pleading in his brother’s eyes, although Jah-Ma-El said not a word. The thin man’s mouth trembled; his big, black eyes widened with fright in a pinched face. The slender body quaked with terror as Teal toyed with him, pushing him closer to the edge. But still, Jah-Ma-El did not cry out, did not beg for quarter. The Serenian prince did not see the grown man Jah-Ma-El had become, but the young boy he had saved from death by hanging years earlier. He did not see the sorcerer who had no doubt helped Kaileel Tohre abduct Liza, but the little boy who had used his sixth sense to send comfort to Conar on nights when death would have been preferable to living. He did not see the pleading eyes of a treasonous subject, but the wounded eyes of a kinsman. "Should we hang him here and now and save Bent the trouble?" Legion demanded. Conar felt numb. Dead. His heart ached so painfully he could not breathe properly. He ignored Legion’s request and met Jah-Ma-El’s tearful gaze with calm acceptance. "Let him go, Teal," he said so softly no one heard. When du Mer again pushed Jah-Ma-El to the short wall, taunting him with death, Conar managed to raise his voice. "Du Mer! Let him go!" Conar turned to Sentian Heil. "Go get my brother, Sentian." "He’s a part of this, Conar," Legion warned. "Don’t show him any leniency just because he’s blood of your blood. Papa won’t." "He is blood of your blood, as well, A’Lex." "I don’t claim the prick."

Sentian had wasted no time in doing his Overlord’s bidding. He hurried back with his quarry, shoving the man so hard, Jah-Ma-El collapsed into a heap at Conar’s feet. Jah-Ma-El cowered, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin chest, his head bowed. He knew he was going to die. He knew there was nothing Conar could do to save him even if the prince wanted to. He was ashamed that he could not stop from trembling. His body was shaking like a feather in a stiff breeze. He could feel the hostile eyes of the men gathered around, but most of all, he could feel Conar’s intent gaze. "I am sorry," the slender man managed to say. "I am sorry, Your Grace." For a long time, Conar didn’t speak. His attention was glued to the top of Jah-Ma-El’s oily hair where the thin, lank strands were alive with lice. He could smell the rancid odor of Jah-Ma-El’s unwashed body, the fetid stench of his clothing. He glanced over the gray-tinted expanse of seldom-washed flesh and shook his head in pity. "By the gods, but the bastard fairly reeks!" Grice remarked, covering his nose. Conar glanced at his brother-in-law, and then turned his attention back to Jah-Ma-El. Finally, he hunkered beside the man who had yet to look at him. Jah-Ma-El flinched. "Let me question him," Legion said. "I’ll get the truth out of his worthless hide." Conar shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was like the soft caress of a lover. "Look at me, Jah-Ma-El." The man flinched again as though he had been kicked. He slowly shook his head from side to side. "I can’t, Your Grace." "Look at your prince, you sorry bastard, or I’ll have the hide stripped from your—" Legion stopped as Conar held up his hand in warning. "Look at me, Jah-Ma-El," Conar repeated. "I am too ashamed, Highness," Jah-Ma-El whimpered. A long moment passed, then Conar cupped Jah-Ma-El’s greasy chin, lifting the man’s face upward. He anchored the slender man’s face and asked softly, "Where is she, Jah-Ma-El?" The prostrate man gave a long, low groan. "Where is my lady, Jah-Ma-El?" Jah-Ma-El flung himself face down on the ground, his lips going to Conar’s dusty boot. "I am sorry, Highness. Forgive me. Please forgive me." With infinite patience, with the softest of voices, Conar posed his question as gently as he knew how. "What are you sorry for, Jah-Ma-El?" The warlock didn’t want to look up at his Overlord. He didn’t want to see the blazing anger he could hear beneath the soft words. He didn’t want to see the disappointment, the knowledge of having been

betrayed stamped on Conar’s face. "Please, Highness. Kill me. I don’t deserve to live." He kissed the cuff of Conar’s cords. "I am unworthy to even be near you." Willing himself to a charity he did not feel, Conar laid a hand on Jah-Ma-El’s shoulder and caressed the filthy garment. "I am not angry at you. Just tell me where my lady is. That is all I ask." "Gone," Jah-Ma-El whispered, turning his head so his cheek rubbed against Conar’s fingers. Conar’s jaw clenched, the muscles working. "Gone where, Jah-Ma-El?" Slowly, Jah-Ma-El raised his head and wanted to cry. The pain in his brother’s eyes was horrible. It was there for everyone to see. To know that he had, in part, caused Conar’s agony, hurt Jah-Ma-El more than anything ever would again. "I tried to stop Them, Highness," he whimpered. "Truly, I did. But They were too powerful. They took her and Galen, both." He brought up his hands, palms outstretched to Conar. "I would have given my life for her. See? I tried to stop Them." Conar glanced at his brother’s palms with unconcern. The flesh was badly burned, oozing, and criss-crossed with wavering lines that had been branded into his palms. The skin was split, red and swollen, raw-looking and, without doubt, painful. Particles of sand were caked in the indention. He shook his head to rid himself of any compassion. "Where did he take her, Jah-Ma-El?" the young prince queried. Jah-Ma-El shook his head. "You can’t go after her. You know you can’t." Conar’s voice went cold as ice. "I asked you…where?" Unmindful of his precarious position, Jah-Ma-El grabbed Conar’s hand, bringing it to his dirty cheek. "You can’t go after him! They’ll capture you! It’s what Tohre wants you to do. You can’t walk into his trap!" "What the hell’s he babbling about?" Legion demanded. "What’s Tohre got to do with this?" He snatched Jah-Ma-El’s clothing, ripping them, but Conar viciously knocked away his hand. "Leave him the hell alone!" Conar snarled. He stood and threw back his head. For a long moment, he ignored the questions flitting about. His jaw was working with an inner attempt to bring his fury under tight control. Finally, he spoke in a voice as hard as steel. "Set a charge inside that gods-be-damned keep, A’Lex. I don’t want one single stone left standing when you are through. Make sure every surviving defender is sent back to Boreas to stand trial for treason. Every man but Belvoir. Turn his ass over to Hern. He’ll know what to do." "He’s my mother’s man, Conar," Grice said softly. "Then turn him over to Wynth. As for women, see them to the nunnery at Galrath." Chase’s mouth dropped open. Galrath Convent had the worst reputation among all the nunneries of the Seven Kingdoms.

"What about the wounded?" Tyne asked. "If you don’t think they’ll live long enough to make the trip, kill them and be done with it." Legion looked away from the death he saw on his brother’s face. "If Liza isn’t here—" "She isn’t!" came Conar’s snarl of rage. "Thom, have Seayearner saddled. Now!" "Conar! No!" Jah-Ma-El pleaded. "You can’t go there!" He reached for the prince. Conar glanced at the man who had crept forward on hands and knees, who clutched his leg with fevered restraint. "I have no choice, Jah-Ma-El. You helped see to that." Jah-Ma-El jerked. He let go of Conar’s leg and buried his face in his hands as he began to rock on his knees. "Don’t go," he cried, over and over again. "Please, don’t go. I beg you!" "What do you want done with him," Legion asked, kicking Jah-Ma-El’s bare foot. Jah-Ma-El lifted his head. He had no right to ask anything of this man, but his cowardly soul had no choice. "Highness?" "I can’t help you, Jah-Ma-El," Conar said without emotion. His blue eyes glazed. "I can’t even help myself." "Then he’s to be tried for treason?" Legion said to clarify the order. "Hung?" Conar adamantly shook his head. "No! Papa will have him sent to the Labyrinth. Whether he has ever claimed Jah-Ma-El or not doesn’t matter. He is still kin. But I will not see him hanged for his part in this. I will speak on your behalf to the Tribunal." Jah-Ma-El had no illusions about what would happen to him. Conar would never be able to stop the Tribunal from hanging him if that was what they chose. "I can ask nothing, Highness." "You haven’t." Conar looked at Sentian. "On your honor as an Elite and as my friend, Heil, see that my brother reaches Boreas unharmed." His face softened. "He is dear to me." Jah-Ma-El heard the words and began to sob brokenly, his keening causing the hair to stand up on the men’s necks. "Aye, Milord," Sentian vowed and helped the quivering man to his feet. Conar turned away, yelling for Thom to hurry with his horse. "Just where the hell is it you thinkyou’re going?" Legion snapped, grabbing Conar’s arm. Conar snatched his arm out of Legion’s grasp. "Where you can not go." "If you have some idea where they, whoeverthey are, have taken Liza, then…" Grice began, but Conar shook his head, stopping him. "I have no idea where she is, Wynth, but I do know how to go about getting her back." He began to

walk away, Grice, Legion, and Chase close on his heels. "Let me go with you, Conar," Chase asked. "I go alone, Montyne." "I can be of some help." The Ionarian stopped as Conar faced him. "I don’t need to worry about you, too, Chase. Where I go, I go alone; what I must do, must be done alone." "But Conar, you know—" Chase started, but Conar’s exasperated snort cut him off. "Leave, Montyne! This isn’t your fight." He stomped off. "I can’t let you go anywhere alone," Legion snapped, matching his brother’s stride. He wasn’t prepared for the anger that greeted his words. He found himself pulled up by his shirtfront and brought nose to nose with Conar. "Youcan’t letme go? Who the hell do you think you are? I give the orders. Not you! I do as I please, and it’s high time you realized that!" Conar let go of the man’s shirt and shoved him away, turning his back on Legion’s surprised look. He could feel the surprise turn to anger as he stalked away and he heard Legion ordering Thom, Storm, and Marsh to follow him. Conar spun on his heels and pointed a finger at Thom. "Stayhere! That’s an order!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. His furious eyes scanned Marsh Edan and Storm Jale. "All of you stay here! I need no bodyguards. Where I ride, I ride alone! Do I make myself clear, A’Lex?" "Perfectly clear, Highness!" Legion snarled as he watched Conar swing onto Seayearner. Grice shook his head at Legion. "Are you going to just let him ride off?" Legion spat hard, his mouth set in an unforgiving line. "What choice do I have? My prince has spoken!" Wynth snorted. "He might be able to command you, but I bear just as much rank as he." He turned to his second in command. "Have four guards follow Prince Conar at a safe distance." "Tell my man, Sean, to pick three of our men to go along, as well," Tyne Brell added. "I’ll send six of mine," Rylan Hesar said with heat. Conar McGregor’s big, black stallion easily outdistanced the fastest of the men set on his trail, lengthening his mighty stride until only a thin cloud of dust rose over the dunes to mark his passing. When the men following him rode over the same dune, Prince Conar McGregor was no longer in sight.

Chapter 9

He debated long and hard over what he was about to do and didn’t give himself time to consider the certain outcome. He rode hard to reach the Temple at Corinth, catching sight of the high fieldstone barrier wall encircling it just as the sun rose in the east. It was a lengthy, hard and tiring ride up the switchback trail that wound into the lowest portion of foothills of Mount Serenia. Bordered thickly on both sides of the serpentine road, the pathway leading up to the massive wrought iron gates protecting the Temple of the Winds was wide enough for only one horse and rider. Closed in, secluded, the Temple was hidden in the untamed forest beyond Corinth, the Western Zone capital, hidden from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the uninitiated. As he skirted the tall monoliths to either side of the terminus of the roadway and caught sight of the two Temple Guards flanking the gates, Conar knew a moment’s sheer dread. His mouth went dry, his palms flooded with sweat, and his heart began to pound furiously in his constricting torso. He watched the guards come to attention, their pikes not barring his way, but held upright, at arms’ length from their muscular chests. "You are expected, Highness," one of the guards told him, the tall gates swinging open on well-oiled hinges. Sitting well back from the roadway, the Temple of the Winds was a squat structure, earth-bermed on all but the eastern side. The roof was domed with solid gold plating and shone brightly in the glaring light of the morning sun. There were no windows, no break in the dark fieldstone surface, except for the twelve-foot-wide double doors made of gold over eight-inch-thick steel plating. Two tall, conical-shaped turrets rose to either side of the building; a crenelated watchtower loomed from the rear of the structure. A single guard watched as Conar walked his steed to the front steps. He dismounted, tossing his reins to a waiting guard, and took the steps into the Temple two at a time. He barely glanced at the guards who opened the wide portals. His heart triphammered in his ribcage and his mouth was no longer dry. It flooded with a bitter, nauseating film. A young acolyte, clothed in the saffron robe of the higher order of pre-initiates, sank gracefully to the floor as Conar entered the reception area. He stretched out his arms and lowered his head in obeisance to the gold-flecked marble floor. "It is a pleasure to serve you, Highness," he said. He raised himself to kneel at Conar’s feet, his young eyes old beyond his years as he gazed into Conar’s set face. "How may I please you?" Conar’s lip curled upward in scorn. It wouldn’t take this boy long to lose his reverence of the royal family. The priesthood discouraged it. No doubt the golden-haired teenager would be punished for this show of respect. He knew this boy—Robbie MacCorkingdale, Sadie’s grandson. "Where is Tohre?" Conar asked. Pale blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "I do not know, Highness. Was he expecting you?" The boy’s cherubic face, with its rosy cheekbones and fresh, clear complexion, became mottled with embarrassment. "He isn’t here, Highness."

"He knew I’d be here. Where the hell did the bastard go?" he snapped, ignoring the acolyte’s surprised gasp at having Kaileel Tohre spoken of with anything less than supreme respect. "I…don’t…I…" the boy stammered to a stop as he looked past Conar. He dropped his forehead to the floor, his hands crossed in front of him in complete submission. Conar didn’t need to glance behind him to know who had entered. "He’s at the Monastery, Conar." A cold, scarring finger of fear and hate ran down the prince’s spine. He turned, his breath catching in his throat, and he mouthed a single, hated word—Tolkan. An old man stood gazing intently at his visitor. Hair as white as snow fell in long, silken waves down his thin back and slightly-stooped shoulders. Midnight blue eyes, so dark they appeared black, peered out of a too-thin, too-sallow face. A beak of a nose lifted haughtily, and the slitted eyes became glazed with an emotion bordering on rancor. They looked at the world with an evil so vile and so steeped in depravity, it made the hair on Conar’s arms stir. The jet-black robe covering the man from just under his chin to knobby ankles labeled his rank as Arch-Prelate of the Order. The ancient man glided forward on bare feet and his thin lips stretched into a grin of pure malice. "Does Tohre know you are seeking him, Conar?" The voice was oily smooth, the deep-set eyes lascivious as they swept Conar from head to toe and back again. Conar wanted to run, as fast and as far as he could get from this place. But most of all, he wanted to get as far away from this particular man as time and space would allow. It was all he could do to find his unsteady voice. "You know gods-be-damned well why I’m here." Conar took an involuntary step back as the man advanced. He had to force himself not to turn tail and run. "That I do, sweet prince," Tolkan said. "Your trip home has been a long time in coming." Conar furiously shook his head. "I’m not here to stay. I came for—" "For your lady-wife." The old man chuckled. "I know." Tolkan glided still closer and stretched out a hand with nails as long and grotesque as the ones Kaileel Tohre sported. Sharp and curling points of gold lacquered and vermilion-tipped obscenity. The scarlet tips grazed the young prince’s cheek in a lingering caress. Conar had seen the hand coming, and he had known the priest was going to touch him, but trying as hard as he could, he could not make himself pull away from that vile touch. He shivered in panic. A low groan of disgust bubbled from his mouth as Tolkan ran the wicked nails down the smooth surface of his flesh and along the tense column of his throat, settling against the strong tattoo of pulse throbbing in the thick column of his neck. A momentary flare of deep-seated hunger shone in the old man’s narrowed eyes, but then he smiled, revealing yellow-stained teeth that seemed too long for his mouth. "You never did like to be touched, did you, Conar?" he asked, his voice soft and seductive. There was fresh pain in Conar’s face as the old man turned his hand and the long nails ran down

Conar’s shirtfront before withdrawing. Tolkan smiled. His gaze crawled hotly over the young man’s shivering, settling for a moment on the thick gold hair combed carelessly to the side; the tawny brows arched over pale blue eyes now narrowed with pain well-remembered from long, long ago. The prince’s broad nose with its flaring nostrils, the finely chiseled lips with their dark pink coloring, the mole below the right corner of his mouth, the deeply cleft chin, all combined to turn a spasm of awareness in the pit of the old man’s gut. His evil gaze went over the wide shoulders, flew over the lean and narrow hips, swept down the long legs, and then moved with insulting slowness back up the tall frame to settle on eyes regarding him with fear and dread. "You have become an extraordinarily beautiful man, Conar." Conar had to tightly clamp his lips to keep from groaning. He flinched, his hands opening and closing at his sides as he stared. He could actually smell the essence of evil rolling from the thin body. "Tell me how to get to the monastery. That’s where Tohre is, isn’t it?" Tolkan pursed his thin lips. "No man goes to the Great Abbey unless he seeks the Rites of Passage into the Order. Is that what you are seeking, Conar?" "You know perfectly well what I want." He looked away. "And you know what Idon’t ." Tolkan shrugged one thin shoulder. "Iknow you want your wife." A plummeting twist shot through Conar’s belly, but he raised his chin. "Tell me how to get to Tohre. I will deal with him." His tone made it clear that he thought Tohre the lesser of two evils. Tolkan’s lips stretched wide over his stained teeth. "I am pleased you have decided to meet your obligation to us." "Don’t count on it," Conar hissed. The old man laughed. He looked behind him. "Take Prince Conar to the Abbey." He turned back to the young prince and grinned hatefully. "He has an appointment with destiny." Conar turned away before he lost his nerve. As he walked, feeling the old man’s eyes on his back, he heard Tolkan’s malicious laughter and nearly made a break for it. Not that he would be allowed to leave, he thought, as two Temple Guards escorted him to his horse. He was well and surely trapped and there would be no turning back. Before he mounted, one of the guards blindfolded him while the other tied his hands. The taller of the two helped him to mount, then looped the silken cord binding Conar’s crossed wrists around the pommel of his saddle. He had no idea how long they rode, but he knew it had to have been well over two hours, for his arms were almost numb with cold and his hands tingled below the binding cord. The two men did not speak as they rode. Only the harsh soughing of the icy wind and the jingle of harnesses penetrated the silence. When they finally stopped, he heard the rumble of gates opening, the clanking of armor and weapons, and then the hollow crash of the portal shutting behind them. His hands were untied before someone lifted him down from his horse, but they would not allow him to remove his blindfold. In fact, they retied his hands behind his back so he could not. He suffered the indignity, his jaw clenched, because he knew he had no choice.

Left standing within the chilly confines of the Abbey’s antechamber, Conar could smell the odor of some strange incense. The cloying aroma wafted under his nostrils and made him giddy. He wobbled on weak legs as he stood in enforced darkness, his hands still bound. He tensed as someone took him by the arm and led him further into the building. He felt disoriented and sleepy as he walked, and shivered from the cold. The soft patter of feet sounded behind him. He half-turned his head in that direction as his companion stopped and let go of his arm. He felt hands on his hair, untying the scarf around his head and he blinked as a blazing light replaced the darkness in which he had spent the last few hours. "You didn’t keep me waiting too long, my prince," Kaileel’s amused voice from behind. Conar didn’t look around as Tohre slit the thin rope binding his wrists. He eased his aching arms in front of him and chafed the band of restriction the cord had left on his bruised flesh. "Did they hurt you?" Tohre asked, moving in front of the prince. Conar looked into the face of the one man he hated more than any other. He loathed the white-blond hair and the hooded, deep-set blue eyes. His stomach turned at the mottled flesh that wobbled beneath Tohre’s chin. The skull-like head with its thin, colorless lips made him want to gag. The skeletal nose and high cheekbones seemed to be almost devoid of flesh, for the skin along those features was stretched taut. Though not tall, Tohre carried himself with a haughtiness that somehow made him seem larger than life. "I asked if they hurt you, Conar," Tohre repeated, glancing at the bruises on Conar’s wrists. "What do you care?" Kaileel Tohre’s tone was friendly, helpful, the tone of a father speaking lovingly to his child. "Only I am allowed that honor, Conar." Conar forced himself to stand still. He lifted his head. "Will you get her back for me?" There came a steady-eyed reply. "Aye, you know I will." "At what price?" Though deathly afraid of the answer, he would not look away. "You know that, as well." Conar looked at the raw place on his wrists with well-remembered pain. "What you ask is too high a price." With a gentle smile, Tohre’s voice went soft and generous. "It is a matter of how much you wish to pay to have her returned." His head snapped up. "She is my life, Tohre!" "And you shall have to give up your life to save hers." Conar turned his head, no longer able to look at Kaileel Tohre’s smiling, evil face.

"Conar," Kaileel said reasonably, "you seek revenge on your brother for taking your woman. I can grant that. You want her returned; I can grant that. I can grant those things because I want something that belongs to me returned; I seek revenge of my own." Conar tensed. "Is that what you call it…revenge?" A soft twitter came from the too-thin lips. "It is called many things, I suppose, but revenge is the nicest way of putting what I want from you." He smiled as a tremor went through the man whose back was to him. He saw the blond head lower, the wide shoulders sag. "Your paying of the full price is the only way it will be if you wish to ever see the woman again. Else, she remains with Galen for the rest of her life, and you know that, with him, she is expendable." Conar stared at the floor. He could feel clammy sweat under his arms and in the creases of his thighs. He had to ask, knew the answer already, but had to ask the question gnawing at his vitals. "Is she with child?" "I will abort it. It is but a moment’s work." "If he has hurt her…" he began, his lips drawn back over grinding teeth. "Not as of yet, but…" Kaileel shrugged. "Who knows with your brother?" "Get her away from him." He locked his gaze with Tohre’s. "Right now. This minute." Kaileel clapped his hands. A young man appeared out of nowhere. "Have the Princess Anya Elizabeth removed from Prince Galen’s care immediately. Take her to one of the cells near my chambers. See that a guard is posted to keep Prince Galen away from her." The young man bowed and hurried off to do his master’s bidding. Conar squeezed his eyes closed. She was so close. So very close. "May I see her?" he asked, ashamed that his voice held a note of pleading. "When you have made good on your bargain to us." The prince opened his eyes, dull and dead as they were, and stared unseeingly across the antechamber. "Take this horror from her, Kaileel. Don’t let her remember anything he did to her." "I will wipe away all memory of Galen’s touch from her body and her mind, if that is your wish." He stepped close to Conar and hesitantly put his hands on the prince’s arms. Conar lowered his head, but he didn’t pull away. Encouraged, Kaileel lightly caressed the hard muscles along the man’s upper arms. His gaze was tender as he looked at Conar’s bent head. "Pay the price and I shall make it so, Conar." Conar felt as though a heavy wheel was turning slowly over his chest. He hurt. He hurt in ways he thought never to hurt again. He felt things he had prayed to Alel he would never have to feel again. Slowly he raised his head and turned his face. The two men stared at one another. Kaileel put one of his hands in the center of Conar’s back and gently moved it up and down the tense

spine as though trying to calm the young man. "Your only hope is through me, Conar. You understand that, now, don’t you?" Kaileel Tohre’s touch made Conar ill. He could feel the heat of it through his shirt. He wanted to run, to hide from that vile touch. He had felt it before. "What is your decision?" Conar took a deep breath and his voice was only a whisper. "Free her, Kaileel. Free her and I’ll do what you want." He had to look away. "You will accept the mandates of the Domination?" Revulsion shone on Conar’s face. "Aye." "Like unto like?" There was a long hesitation before Conar could force himself to say the words. "Like unto like," he whispered. "Look at me, Conar," Kaileel said softly. Conar’s face filled with shame, his heart with agony. "Kaileel, please, don’t." "Look at me, sweet one," Tohre insisted, turning Conar toward him. Conar’s eyes filled with what might well have been remorse as he buried his face in his hands to avoid looking at the Tohre. He gently tugged the young man’s fingers from his face. He crooked one forefinger and placed it under Conar’s chin, raising the terrified face to meet his own. "Kaileel, don’t—" "You know what will be demanded," Tohre interrupted. He had to grip Conar’s chin as the man tried to pull his head away. His voice was a soft caress as his eyes roamed over the prince’s handsome face. "You know what they will do to you if you do not declare to me." Conar’s chin trembled as he tried to keep the tears of shame at bay. "Can you promise me it will be only you?" "After the Rites of Passage, aye, I can." A flicker of regret shot over Kaileel’s face. "Until then, I can not." Conar jerked, pulling away from the priest, running the back of his hand across his mouth. The words were like daggers burying themselves under his flesh, burning brands sloughing off portions of his skin, twisted hemp flaying his bared back, opening up his soul. "You must make the choice, Conar, or it will be made for you, and you know who will bid first for you." Kaileel’s face filled with tight concern. "Do you want Tolkan as your master?" "No!" "Then declare yourself to me and I will do my best to see that pain is minimal."

Conar didn’t trust the man. He hated him. He feared him. His lean face filled Conar with a revulsion so deep he found it hard to breathe. For a long time he couldn’t speak, couldn’t say the words that would seal his fate. He had no choice, and knew he didn’t. But handing over his soul to this man was killing him. Shadows of his past filled his mind, the instruments of instruction so degrading, so vile, they had turned his body into a screaming mass of agony and shame. He could not stop the fearful shivers coursing through him and looked away from Tohre’s anxious face. "On my love for you, Conar," Kaileel told him, "I will swear no others will lay hands to you after you have declared me your master." He watched with avid fascination as a single tear eased down Conar’s cheek. There came a ragged breath and a tremble of Conar’s lips. "Is there no other way?" "None. You knew that before you came." A hard shudder went through Conar’s body. He lowered his head, defeated. "I will give myself to you." "Of your own free will?" Conar glanced up at the triumphant face. "If that’s what you want to call it." "You will not fight me?" "I will not fight you." "You will do as I bid?" Conar’s voice was weaker, less sure. "Just promise you will let me go back to her when this is done, Kaileel." "You will do as I tell you?" Kaileel repeated, twisting the dagger deeper. Conar let his gaze slowly return to Kaileel’s hated face. He looked into those vengeful eyes with indifference and sighed. "I will do as you tell me as long as I am allowed to return to my lady." His voice was flat, emotionless. Tohre smiled. "Then it is done. I shall have her returned to your brother, Legion, at once." "And Galen?" The High Priest shrugged. "What do you want done with him?" There was no longer any anger or spite or revenge in Conar’s face. Only bleakness and terrible resignation showed on the handsome visage. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Send him away, Kaileel. Get him out of the country before our father finds him and sends him to prison for what he’s done." In surprise, Tohre’s head turned slightly to the side. "You would protect him after what he has done? After being the cause of you finally coming to us?"

He met the Priest’s look. "He is my brother. You used him to get to me. Despite what he is, what you have made him, I will not see him punished for something you caused." "So be it. No harm will come to him as long as he does not interfere in our business." "And after the…the…" Conar couldn’t say the words. "Your consecration to Us?" Kaileel finished. "You will be free to return to Boreas, and the life you were living." "And then?" "You will use your new powers as we see fit." Tohre left him standing alone in the center of the room. Kaileel’s footsteps had already died away, but the stench of the man still permeated the room. Conar stumbled to a low stone bench and sat down heavily, his hands hiding his face from what he had done. He had no illusions about the kind of power of that Kaileel had spoken. He would be able to summon the demons and entities that Tohre could. He would also be at Their beck and call. Slowly he lowered his hands and raised his head, staring into space. From the moment he had learned it was Galen who had Liza, he should have known he would end up at the Abbey. They had been trying all his life to capture him. Now They had. He could no more fight Them on Their level than he could soar across the tips of Mount Serenia’s highest peaks. They might well allow him to go back to Boreas, even sit upon the throne of his homeland, but They would rule him; They would control who and what he was. He might even be allowed to keep Liza at his side, but it wouldn’t matter. After the Rites of Passage, he would be One of Them, and Liza would be lost to him forever. He was lost.

Chapter 10 Legion A’Lex moved his hand to Liza’s brow and frowned when she buried her face deeper into the softness of her pillow. He turned to Healer Cayn. "She will be all right, won’t she? There will be no aftereffects of the drugs?" "She’ll be fine, Legion," Cayn assured. "No doubt she will have a vicious headache when she fully awakens, but there will be no problems." He arched his tired back, for he had been sitting at the young Princess’ bedside for nearly a day.

Lord Legion nodded relief. "I’m staying here. As long as Conar is away, I want someone to be with her at all times. We won’t take a chance of letting her slip through our fingers again." "The prince might well slay his twin if he finds him." The healer looked into Legion’s tanned face. "Not that anyone would blame him. It was a vile thing Galen did." "More so than usual." "He held her at Norus for nearly a month, didn’t he?" Cayn inquired, tugging the young woman’s covers over her shoulders. "Why do you ask?" Cayn didn’t like being the bearer of bad tidings, but he knew a decision had to be made. "I examined her at the King’s request. I think you know what I found." From his place at the foot of Liza’s bed, Teal du Mer glanced at Legion’s set face. "He raped her?" Legion hissed. Cayn nodded. "She is with child." Teal whistled softly. Hearing such damning news put a whole new light on the situation. He said quietly, "Conar will kill him." A’Lex made a rude sound with his lips and turned away from Liza. "When we found her sleeping in one of those filthy dungeon cells at Norus, I hoped to find Galen nearby. I wanted the pleasure of skewering that slimy rodent on the tip of my broadsword. It’s just as well I didn’t find him. Conar will want Galen’s blood onhis sword." "He’s not to find out," Cayn told him. Legion stared. "At Papa’s orders?" "Aye, I am to abort the babe." Teal flinched. Even if Liza was awake and agreed to such a thing, Conar might not had he been there. "Will you tell her?" "No," Cayn sighed. "That’s well enough," Hern Arbra said as he walked into the room. He was there to stand guard, at his King’s orders, so Legion could rest. He had already been apprised of the young Princess’ condition. "She would grieve even if the babe be Galen McGregor’s." "If Conar had waited before going off like a madman, he might well have been with us when we found her and this discussion would be moot," Teal reminded them. "He won’t like what it is you will be doing, Cayn. We all know how he feels about abortion." "Why did Jah-Ma-El lie to your brother?" Cayn asked, ignoring du Mer. He didn’t like the idea of aborting an innocent babe anymore than the gypsy. "I heard it said that he told Conar the lady was not at

Norus, that she had been taken elsewhere." "Jah-Ma-El really believed that," Teal told him. "Bent, the executioner, found that out when he was questioning Jah-Ma-El last eve." "Conar isn’t going to like it that Jah-Ma-El was tortured, either," Legion snarled. "He didn’t want that to happen." "That wasn’t his decision to make," Hern Arbra said from the far side of the room. "That was the King’s edict." "But his own son…" Cayn said, shaking his head. Hern sniffed. "Prince Conar has been missing for over a week. King Gerren has sent men all over this kingdom, and there has been no word of the prince’s whereabouts. If loosening the tongue of one son—one of no importance—can bring about news of another—much loved and needed—then the King did what was right." "Jah-Ma-El’s a human being…" Cayn argued. "I wouldn’t make that distinction," Hern snapped. Cayn regarded the man with unease. "I don’t suppose you would, Hern." "Don’t get high-and-mighty on me, Cayn Summerton!" Hern grunted, shifting a chew of tobacco in his mouth. "You don’t care anymore for that weasel than I!" "If we only knew where Galen went," Legion interrupted. "Conar is most likely on his trail." Hern squinted. "I’m beginning to think he took wings and flew to Diabolusia. The brat could be following him there. If it’s Galen he’s after." "Where else would he have gone?" Legion asked. Something in the big, muscular man’s attitude as he leaned negligently on the hearth irritated A’Lex. "Do you know something we don’t?" Hern crossed his arms over his chest and one booted ankle over the other. "Seems to me he would have gone where he thought the lady was." "She was at Norus," Teal put in, flinching as the hard, cold blue eyes turned on him. "Aye," Hern agreed, "but the brat didn’t know that, du Mer." "If you know something, Hern—" Legion started to say, but Hern’s gruff voice stopped him. "If the brat thought she was gone from Norus, then his lady wasn’t there when he left. You might have found herafter he’d gone, but that was what you wasmeant to do." He faced Legion with a widespread stance of challenge. "The brat went to where he knew her to likely be found." There was such self-assurance in Hern Arbra’s expression, Legion had to concede the man might possibly be right. "And where would that have been, Hern?"

"Hern may know, but he won’t tell," Prince Chase Montyne said from the doorway. Hern grunted, but made no comment. He’d never cared much for the sissy-looking blond-haired heir to the Ionarian crown. The blue eyes were too soft, the thin body too lean, the handsome face too vapid for Hern’s taste. Chase might well be the best archer in the Seven Kingdoms, but Hern thought him too effeminate. There was a heavy look of misery on Chase Montyne’s face, as if sensing what Hern thought of him. "No matter how you feel about me, I am a true friend to Conar. I only want to help." Legion felt the undercurrent between the two men. He wondered what they knew about one another to cause such acute shame on Chase’s face and such intense dislike on Hern’s. "It don’t matter how good a friend you are to him,Highness ," Hern stressed. "Can’t no one help him do what he’s about. But he should have been stopped from going to that place." "And how the hell was I to stop him, Hern? You tell me that. Where the hell did he go anyway?" Legion asked, exasperated with the veiled remarks. Hern jabbed a strong chin toward the Ionarian prince. "Let him tell you. I have things I must be about." He stomped out of the room. "Where, Chase?" Legion snarled. "I think he may have gone to Corinth." "Corinth?" Teal questioned. "To the Temple of the Winds? Why?" "A good question," Legion injected. "Conar has no dealings with the Temple anymore. Why would he go there?" Teal shrugged. "To ask for help in getting Liza back?" Chase looked away from du Mer. How could he tell them their friend had gone there to sell his soul? *** He took the rolled parchment from the messenger and sighed with relief. Liza was back at Boreas Keep with Legion and Teal. They would keep her safe for him. He laid down the scroll and stood by the tall window that looked into the subterranean courtyard of the Great Abbey. The rocky layers of crimson and emerald formations housed the Garden of the Furies: the twisted, demented statues of the Domination’s pantheon of gods. He looked with disgust at the black marble monstrosities, some so vile to look upon it hurt his eyes. He could still name a few of them, but he tore away his gaze, his head aching. The firelight cast from torches imbedded among the rocks and ledges within the underground courtyard was the only light entering the room in which he stood. He leaned his head on a pane of glass and was not surprised to find the window’s surface unpleasantly warm. After all, they were near the very pits of the Abyss. If you looked far off to the left along one jagged ledge, you could actually see the thick iron doors that led into the Pit. He could hear the Storm brewing outside even though he was a good mile under the earth. The howling,

keening dirge of hell-sent wind carved a pathway through his gut like the sharpened blade of an assassin. It moaned; it hissed; it spat at him through the dark room. They would be coming for him soon, for the Storm had been called up just for him. He had toyed with the notion of trying to escape, but he knew he was being closely watched. He could feel the eyes on him even now. Hot and angry for his blood. They waited, lurked, itched for his final capitulation. Shivering, he pushed away from the window where the light from the torches cast his haunted face in red and green relief. He forced himself to sit in the room’s only chair, folded his hands between his knees, and hunched forward, trying desperately to calm his rapidly fraying nerves. Every sound made him jump, and he would look about expecting to see guards coming for him. Conar had always prided himself on being a strong man, a man who finally had taken charge of his own life. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a man to be reckoned with, a man to be feared. He saw a man who had known what he wanted out of life. He was almost twenty-three years old. He was a skilled swordsman, an expert horseman, a respected leader of his people. He was married to the woman he loved more than life itself. A shiver of fear ran down his spine. Aye, he loved her. She was the reason he was in this evil place awaiting a fate far worse than death. Her life, her safety, her retrieval from Galen, was what counted. If, in realizingthat goal, he had to sacrifice his mortal soul, then so be it. He brought up his hands and covered his face. His mind screamed warnings, but it was too late. Far too late. He knew all too well what he had set into motion by coming to Kaileel Tohre. He had no misconceptions, no illusions about what would be done to him. He could see his destruction at Kaileel’s hands as surely as he could see the flames leaping through the cracks of the doors to Hell. "What have you done, Conar?" he asked himself in a ragged voice. "Holy Alel, what have you done?" An echo, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, reminded him that what he had done was save both Liza and Galen from harm. Galen would go free, cowering somewhere in exile to avoid him and their father. His would be the ultimate revenge, Conar realized too late. Galen would live to see him at the mercy of the Domination, a fate he had so often wished upon Conar. He might never wear the crown in Conar’s stead, but he would never have Liza. That was the only good thing that would come of this travesty. That, and Liza remaining safe from Tohre’s revenge. He felt a heavy rock settle on his chest. Aye, Liza would be safe. Liza would never know Their evil, but he would. He would feel Their vile touch on him for the rest of his life. Struggling to keep the scream from pouring out of him, Conar strained to hear the footsteps that would soon be coming. His nerves were stretched so close to the breaking point, even the beat of his heart was maddening. No doubt this waiting had been part of his punishment for having defied Them for so long. The gods only knew what other vile punishments the vultures had in store. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but he couldn’t. His lungs felt constricted with sheer terror and a lump sat in his throat. He began to understand that he wasn’t nearly as brave as he liked to think. He realized with shame that he was, after all, a coward.

He let out a ragged breath. He was cold. Colder even than when Tolkan had locked him in the— He tore his thoughts away from the Arch-Prelate. Kaileel had sworn to him that Tolkan would not get hold of him. He refused to even entertain the idea that Kaileel would lie about that. By all that was holy, he would surely die if Tolkan Coure ever touched him again. He almost had once before. His memories of a childhood inside these very walls were like red-hot pokers tearing off bits and pieces of his lacerated flesh. The pain was so well-ensconced in his memory, it might well have only been endured the day before. "Oh, god!" he moaned, remembering pain that could not even be expressed in human words. It was a pain he knew he was to experience again. He slumped down the wall, his head banging on the paneling—once, twice, three times. He drew up his knees and clasped his hands between them. He shivered from head to toe. "What are you waiting for?" he whispered to the silent room. "Why don’t you come?" One trembling hand came up almost of its own accord and he ran the backs of his fingers across his dry mouth. He could feel his throat continuing to close up. His breathing grew rapid, shallow, painful, his stomach bunched inside his chest cavity. "What are you waiting for?" he screamed. *** King Gerren took his eldest son’s arm in a firm grip as Legion came out of Liza’s room. "Any word?" "I’m sorry, Papa," Legion said and drew his father away from Liza’s door. It had been a long night of the young woman crying for her husband. Cayn had finally given her something to make her rest easier, although she had, as yet, not fully awakened from the drugs she had been given at Norus Keep. "No word at all." Gerren stared at his son. Legion had been the first of over two dozen illegitimate sons born to him, and he loved Legion A’Lex second only to Conar, his firstborn legal manchild. "He can’t just have dropped off the face of the earth!" Gerren hissed. "It’s been nearly three weeks since he rode off from Norus." Legion shook his head. "I know, Papa. I’ve sent men everywhere. Even into Diabolusia. We got word back that Galen had been seen there, but not Conar. Dyllon sent men into Necroman, as well. King Shalu, believe it or not, was gracious to the men. He even sent men of his own with them to question his people, but no one knew of Conar. The last anyone seems to have seen of him was when he cleared the rise near Rommitrich Point. That’s where Chase and Grice’s men lost him." "What of the messenger Montyne had you send to the Temple of the Winds?" Gerren fell into step beside his son as Legion headed for the stairs to the ground floor. "They told us he wasn’t there. The Vice-Prelate even allowed us to search the Temple. Conar isn’t there, Papa. Neither Tolkan Coure nor Kaileel Tohre was there. They are on pilgrimage to their Monastery in the Serenian Alps. I doubt either of them would have been so accommodating to us if they had been in residence."

"Yet Chase seems to think they know where he is." "Jah-Ma-El hinted that Tohre had something to do with Liza’s kidnapping. If that’s true, could Conar have gone after him at the Monastery?" "That vile place is known only to the initiated of the Domination. Conar would never be able to find it." "But he may be looking." Chase Montyne stood on the balcony above the two men. Like Conar, due in part to the shared childhood of abuse the two men had endured, he could feel other people’s pain as surely as he could feel his own, and it hurt him to know there was nothing any of them could do to help Conar McGregor. He turned, his eyes brimming with tears, and made his way to the room allotted him. Fumbling blindly with the handle, he rushed inside and flung himself face onto the silken coverlet. He buried his hands in his thick blond hair and sobbed. *** In the rat-infested dungeon of Boreas Keep, the thin man sat hunched over, his stomach cramping with watery pain. His robe was stained even filthier than was usual, now with the fetid stench of his own bowel movements. He felt things scampering over his dirt-encrusted and vomit-flecked bare feet, and he swatted viciously at the moving tide of vermin. Putting up one shaking hand to push a lock of thin, greasy black hair from his lean face, he could smell an odor that made him gag. His back burned where the lash had been laid to it, his shoulder throbbing where the brand of traitor had been applied to the torn flesh. His hands also throbbed with burning pain, the palms oozing pus where they had been scorched with still another branding iron, an iron never seen by the executioner, Bent. Jah-Ma-El tried to stretch his legs to relieve the godawful cramping in his gut, but the shackles around his thin ankles pulled taut and he could feel the scabs breaking open. He stilled and laid his head on his bony knees. Snot dripped down his ragged mustache and three-week-old growth of beard, but he paid no attention. There was something more vital about which to think. His beloved brother was in mental agony. He could sense it even from this distance. Could feel it. He had no need to question what it was Conar was facing. He knew all too well from first-hand experience. He had warned Conar. Or tried to. He knew Conar had known what would happen if he went looking for Tohre. And now it was about to begin. Jah-Ma-El groaned. Tears cascaded down his dirty cheeks. "Alel, save him," he pleaded with a god he knew had given up on him long ago. "Please save him." It was almost time. The Hour of Passage. Even from the bowels of the keep, Jah-Ma-El could hear the wind keening outside. Even though his palms had been branded with a ban to prevent him using magic, he could hear that wind. The old walls, with trickling moisture seeping down, reverberated with the sounds of thunder no other mortal could hear. But Jah-Ma-El could hear it booming beyond the keep. He could smell the flash of lightning’s brimstone spears. The frigid air was creeping in around him, making his breath visible in the pitch-black cell. "Sweet Alel!" Jah-Ma-El cried, struggling against the rising panic beginning to grip him. "Don’t let my brother suffer as You let me!"

*** He struggled against them, twisting and turning, trying to escape. He cursed Kaileel over and over again, his eyes blazing with fear and rage at the man who stood by frowning as he was being forced to his knees in front of Tolkan Coure. "You lied to me!" he screamed, jerking on the men who had pushed him to the floor. "You lied to me, Kaileel! Damn you. You lied!" Kaileel looked away. "Tohre made you a promise I would not allow him to keep. Blame me for your predicament if you must blame someone," Tolkan said, then grinned. Conar screamed every obscenity he knew until a black silk scarf was forced between his teeth to silence him. Still, he fought them until they restrained his hands and feet with tight leather straps. He did his best to get free, arching back his head and striking out with bound feet, but the men who held him were stronger than he was. They eventually had him on his knees before Tolkan. He twisted, bucked, but only managed to tighten the leather around his wrists and ankles. "He has never liked being restrained, has he, Kaileel?" Tolkan remarked. Kaileel didn’t answer. Seeing the blind fury in Conar’s face when they had finally come for him, he knew the young prince had realized the bargain he had made, of his own free choice, had been turned against him. Conar had tried to run, but one of the guards had tackled him, bringing him down on the marble floor, hard enough to bloody the young man’s nose and chip a front tooth. "Is this necessary?" Kaileel had asked as the guards began manhandling Conar. "Must he be subjected to the Retribution?" "He will be initiated, Tohre. That he knew already. But he will also be punished for all the trouble he has caused me over the years." The old man’s eyes gleamed with malice. "I think he must know that. See how he fights?" And Conar had fought. Seeing Tolkan had been enough to let the Conar know there was more in store for him than just the Rites of Passage, agonizing as they would be. Kaileel looked into those terrified blue pinpoints and felt a tremor of fear go through him. He wasn’t sure Conar could withstand the Court of Retribution. Few men had. Tolkan walked to where the guards had Conar kneeling and took a handful of the prince’s flaxen hair, dragging back his head. "You are going to suffer greatly for your sins, my son," the Arch-Prelate told him. "We will make your sword strong, your will, inviolate. I shall personally oversee your disciplining." He was barely able to keep his grip on Conar’s hair as the young man tried to twist his head. "Pull all you wish. It is you who feels the pain!" Conar looked frantically at Tohre. There was stark knowledge in the look he sent Kaileel’s way. Knowledge that his pain was only beginning. "I will see to his punishment, Holiness," Kaileel said. "No need to burden yourself."

Tolkan turned a leering grin to Tohre. "Ah, Kaileel! Do you not realize that I know how it is with you? You would be lenient. He would not suffer as I want him to. He must be punished for his abandonment of us, his interference on occasions too numerous to count. Are you forgetting his hatred of us? Of you? His meddling in our affairs?" Kaileel ground his teeth and tried to place a respectful look on his face and tone in his voice. "He has done relatively minor damage to us, Holiness. You might cripple him if you send him through the Court. He is a hero to our people, and that is to our advantage when we convert him. If he is unable to function properly because of the Retribution…" The aged face of the Arch-Prelate hardened into a grimace of reprimand. "Do not presume to tell me what small amount of damage this boy has caused me! His meddling has brought about blocks in my overall plan!" The old man leaned close to Conar’s face and pulled back the young man’s head so far the cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief. "He must be made to understand that hewill do as he is told. He will be what he was meant to be! The only way to accomplish that is through immense pain. I have found that to be the only way to bring this stubborn boy into submission. Reasoning and cajoling do not work; only pain will accomplish what is needed here!" "But you might hurt him beyond—" Kaileel protested. "Enough!" Tolkan shouted, letting go of Conar’s hair. "I will see this boy’s spirit broken. He will submit to me as I see fit!" He turned, speaking over his shoulder. "Prepare him for me, Tohre." The muffled scream through the black silk gag made Kaileel’s face turn pale. *** Conar slowly raised his head and stared with white-hot rage at the man who entered his holding cell. His hands were still bound behind him, attached to the stone wall beside him by a thin length of hemp so that he could not get off the cot on which they had put him. His ankles were tied together, his knees drawn up to his belly as he sat glaring at the intruder. The black silk gag was still in place and his mouth felt torn and numb from the pressure. His light blue silk shirt was ripped at one sleeve, the laces pulled through the fabric so that the shirt gaped open all the way to his navel. "I haven’t long," Tohre whispered as he closed the cell door. "You must listen carefully to me, Conar." He knelt on the moist floor beside Conar’s cot and withdrew a vial of purplish liquid from his robe. Holding the vial up to the flare of the single torch lighting the cell, he saw Conar glance at the it. "This is tenerse. It is a powerful drug. It has many purposes, but chiefly among those purposes is the ability to deflect pain. You have some idea of what Tolkan has planned for you. I can’t stop him. I gave you my word that this would not happen. I promised you. I tried to stop him, but you saw what happened. This is the only way I can help you." There was deep accusation before Conar deliberately looked away from his tormentor’s face. "I may not be able to stop him from taking you to the Court, but I can lessen tremendously the severity of what you’ll be subjected to this night. He has trusted me to prepare you with this." Again he held up the vial. "Given with a touch of taro root, this will heighten your pain as he wants. Mixed with vinegar, as this has been, it will have the opposite effect." Conar refused to look at Kaileel.

"If I remove your gag, will you not make a sound? Will you take this without causing a fuss?" Conar turned his head. Slowly, he shook his head in denial. "Why?" Kaileel hissed. "I am offering you a drug to erase the pain of what Tolkan will do! You know what he will do, Conar." Again the blond head moved back and forth, the blue eyes hard with resolve. "Is it that you don’t trust me?" Kaileel asked, but Conar continued to simply stare. "Are you afraid I have lied again? I have not. This potion will help you get through the agony. Tolkan will hurt you, Conar. He will put you through agonies you have only dreamed of. Please…" He stopped, for the young man was violently shaking his head in refusal. Tohre got up and sat on the cot, ignoring the way the prince tried to move away so their bodies would not come into contact. He laid the vial on the floor and then he reached out to remove Conar’s gag. Taking the prince’s face in his hands, he cupped Conar’s cheeks. "Why? Tell me why you won’t allow me to help you." Conar moved his jaw to ease the ache. He yanked his head from Tohre’s grip, gathered a mouthful of saliva, and then spat in the High Priest’s face. Tohre flinched. He didn’t wipe away the spittle, but moved his foot until his boot covered the vial of tenerse. He crushed the glass beneath his foot. "I offered you my help and protection, and you refused," he said calmly. Getting up from the cot, he stared at Conar’s set face. "You are on your own." Conar’s voice was hoarse as he answered. "I always have been." No one could help him. Not even Tohre. Tolkan had seen to that. One of the old man’s acolytes had already made a trip into the cell. The taste of tenerse and taro root was still on his tongue.

Chapter 11 "Promise you will do as I ask and never reveal to anyone what I have requested of you." Sentian Heil knelt beside the bed and took the soft hand offered to him. "I am yours to command, Highness. I swear on the heads of my little ones that I will keep your counsel." He brought the slender,

trembling fingers to his lips and respectfully kissed them. "I am ill, Sentian. I am too weak to do what must be done. I must have your help, and as one of Conar’s Elite, I trust you to do my work for me." "Whatever you ask, it shall be done, Milady." Liza sighed. Her mother had just such a confidant in Belvoir. For as long as recorded time, the Daughters of the Multitude had chosen brave, intelligent, and trustworthy men as Sentinels, Guardians. The Grace of the Great Lady gave each Sentinel certain powers so that he could unerringly do his mistress’ bidding. She squeezed Sentian’s hand and laid back on the pillow. His name, whispered to her in the darkness by the Great Lady, made her asking all the easier. "They think I do not know what Cayn did, but I do." At Sentian’s look of puzzlement, she shook her head. "It doesn’t matter. It has made me weaker since, in taking a life, my life force was drained somewhat." Her eyes softened as his frown deepened. "There will be many times when you won’t understand the things I say, or the things I may ask, but you must never question them." The young man placed his right hand over his heart. "I swear to you. On my honor." She searched his honest, forthright face and made her decision. "I am of a group of women called The Multitude. One of the Daughters of the Sea." She let go of his hand. "It is true we are sorceresses, but our magic is of the good ways, not the black arts. I have need of a Sentinel, a Guardian, to protect me. To do for me what physically I can not. In the language of my people, your name means ‘Protector.’ I believe Belvoir sought you out specifically at my mother’s command. Her command came from the Oracle at Shadowlands, our magical place. It is because the mistress deemed it so that I have chosen you as my champion." She was so weak, so tired. Her head ached and she felt feverish. A veil of mist clouded her vision concerning Conar’s whereabouts and she knew that was, in part, because they had taken her amulet. But Vanion, the familiar who had been given to her at her initiation into the Daughterhood of the Multitude on her sixteenth birthday, was still with her. And his nagging voice, stilled somewhat by whatever vile charm had been placed upon her, was telling her Conar was in terrible trouble at the Great Abbey of the Domination. She sorely needed Sentian’s help. "Tell me what you want me to do, Highness," Sentian vowed. He knew precious little about the sorceries of the WindWarriors of his homeland, even less about the magic of their womenfolk. Being little more than a serf, he’d had no dealing with the magi of Serenia, and had never thought to. Liza patted his cheek. "My husband has you call him…?" Sentian blushed. "He likes me to call him Conar, Highness." "And I would prefer you call me Liza." "I could not…" he began, but the young Princess put her fingers on his lips. "Shall I call you Mr. Heil?" Sentian blushed an even deeper shade of red. "Nay, High…Liza." "Good. Then we understand one another, my Sentian."

"Ask what you will of me and I will die before I let you down!" "Go to Ivor Keep. Belvoir is there. He is my mother’s Sentinel. Bring him here to me. I will need the three of you to bring my Beloved home from that vile place." Her voice grew weaker. "The three of us?" Sentian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. "Who else is there? Where is it we are to go? Where is His Grace?" Her voice was a mere whisper. "Conar’s mother had a guardian here. He will go with you." Sentian stood, drawing the coverlet over his mistress’ shoulders. He nearly screamed as a hard, heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and faced Hern Arbra, the Master-at-Arms of Boreas Keep. Hern grinned. "Skittish, ain’t you?" "You scared me," Sentian stammered and swallowed hard. The man must be wondering why he was in the princess’ bedchamber. Alone. "I was asked to…" Hern cut him off. "I reckon I’ll be going with you to get Belvoir." With disdain, his hawk-like gaze swept over Sentian. "You ain’t much, but between the two of us, maybe me and Belvoir can make you a Sentinel for the little princess." He jerked his head over his shoulder in demand that Sentian follow him out of the room so Liza would not hear their conversation. Once outside the door, Hern put a heavy hand on Sentian’s shoulder. "It’s a rare honor, indeed, that you’ve been given. Not many men get the chance to serve the Multitude. Not a single one has ever betrayed a Daughter’s trust." His eyes bore into Sentian’s. "Am I clear, brat?" Sentian could feel the warning in Hern’s gruff words. "I would die before ever betraying either the lady or her husband." Hern nodded, taking the young man’s measure in an easy glance. "You’d best be knowing where the prince is before you make such high-sounding oaths." Sentian squared his shoulders. "It doesn’t matter, Sir. I would follow after him into hell!" "And that’s exactly where we’re going!" *** Kaileel could hear him screaming. He stood beyond the door of the Court of Retribution and listened, made himself listen. His hands were sweating; moisture dripped down his shoulder blades, in the center of his chest, and under his arms, despite the fact that he was in the bowels of the Abbey and nowhere near a fire. "How much longer will they be?" Kaileel looked at the man who had spoken. "Until Tolkan is satisfied that Conar has been given the full impact of the Retribution." He looked away. "It could be tonight, or it could be a week from tonight." "That long?" The screams were getting on his nerves. He winced as another bloodcurdling howl came

from behind the oaken panel. "How long does it usually take to—" "Until Tolkan is satisfied!" Kaileel shouted and pushed the man out of his way. "What the hell do you care? You are the reason he is here!" Galen’s face turned pale and he nervously glanced away. He had never intended for Conar to be harmed. He didn’t think he would be; Tohre had said as much. Now, his twin was lying at the mercy of Tolkan Coure. The screams were pitiful, soul-wrenching. To know they came from your own flesh and blood bothered Galen more than he would have thought possible. To know he had been partially to blame for causing Conar such grief did not set well on Galen’s thin shoulders. "You can’t blame me for this!" Galen snarled. "You let Tolkan have him!" "Do you think I had a choice?" Kaileel yelled. "It was out of my hands the moment he came to the Brotherhood for help in getting back his wife!" His face twisted into a line of hard hate. "Something you were directly responsible for causing! You wanted the bitch! You asked me to help you take her away from your brother. I only did whatyou asked of me!" "You would have killed her! You lied to Conar and lied to me. You had no intention of letting me keep her!" "I did not! Conar can be controlled through her. She is my only hold over him." Another prolonged yowl of wavering agony ripped from behind the door and both men stilled. Galen brought up his hands to cup his ears, but Tohre grabbed them, forcing them down. "Listen to what you have caused with your lust, you worthless piece of cow dung! If he can withstand the pain, you can withstand the guilt of having caused it!" He shoved Galen against the stone wall and hurried away, tears in his eyes. Tears he had thought long dried up. "You wanted him punished! You told me you did! You share the blame!" Galen shouted. He opened his mouth to curse the High Priest, but another horrible bellow of pure terror and pain gripped him in a steel claw of torment. Galen beat on the door that led into the Court of Retribution. He pounded so furiously, his fists became bloody. "Conar!" he cried, heaving his body against the portal. "Conar, forgive me!" He slipped down the oaken panel, his forehead scraping on the wood as he sat heavily on the cold, stone floor. "Forgive me," he whispered, then buried his face in his hands and wept. *** Tolkan Coure smiled, a smile as evil and vile as the darkest sin. He watched intently the ritualistic torture being carried out before him. He looked upon the blood-splattered table on which Conar McGregor lay spread-eagle and his smile widened. He followed the Retributionalist’s hands as they administered still another punishment, inserted another rod, twisted it, and the young prince screamed long and loud. Two more such punishments and they would be through with him. Two more like the eleven before and Conar would be a babbling fool.

"His heart may not stand the strain, Holiness," one of the Retributionalists said. The priest spoke loudly to be heard above the moaning, groaning and gagging coming from the bound man. Tolkan took a few steps toward the table. He had refrained from doing so in order not to be splashed by the blood and bodily fluids. He peered into the wild, pain-glazed eyes. He shrugged one thin shoulder. "He’s strong. He’ll live. Carry on." The next to the last punishment brought a hard convulsion of tremors from the victim and another loud, agonized scream. The blond head whipped back and forth, and then tilted suddenly to one side. All movement in the room stopped as the Principal Disciplinarian lifted one of Conar’s lids and then placed his ear to the bare chest. "Well?" Tolkan asked with annoyance. The Principal Disciplinarian straightened up. "Merely unconscious, Holiness." "Revive him and get on with it!" The icy water splashed over Conar’s white face and chest. He moaned, his lids fluttering open. He turned his head, his eyes searching, but there was no recognition as they singled out Tolkan. There was nothing in the wild blue depths but pain. "Get on with it, I said! Push him to his very limits!" Tolkan was curious to know what the scream would be like as the final punishment was given, the last rod used. He tilted his head to one side and paid close attention as the punishment was administered. He wasn’t disappointed. The scream was like nothing he had ever heard before. *** Outside, a lightning bolt streaked across the heavens and crashed into the midst of Ivor Keep. Hern Arbra could smell the brimstone as easily as he could smell his sweat. He reached down to pat his huge ebony stallion. "Ready?" Belvoir asked as he mounted his black steed. "Aye," Hern remarked, patting the horse to calm him. His steely gaze went to Sentian and his bay. Not exactly the ideal horse for a Sentinel, but it would do for now. "I’m ready," Sentian said, rather defensively. "Good," Hern snapped. "Then we ride, brat!" The gates were secured behind them as the three men left Ivor Keep for the Temple of the Winds in the Western Zone. It would probably be close to noon of the next day before they would arrive and another two days before they would find the informant at the Temple. Sentian glanced at the two burly men flanking him on the road to Corinth and he shuddered. He

wouldn’t want to make an enemy of either of them. He was glad they were allies, for what they were about was a mission that could see them dead and buried. "Don’t worry, bratling," Belvoir joked. "It’s not the first time me and Hern have been up against the Domination for our ladies." Sentian tried to smile, but his lips felt frozen. It might not be their first time, but it was his, and he prayed fervently it wouldn’t be his last! *** Legion shook his head. "What you want to do is impossible! Get back in bed!" Liza frowned, put out by his superior male posturing. She placed her hands on her hips and stared daggers at her brother-in-law. "I don’t tell you what to do…" Legion snorted, raising a thick salt-and-pepper gray brow. "…Most of the time," she qualified, "but this is important to me. And to Conar." "Absolutely not! You are not going to the dungeon to see that little…" Liza stamped her foot, not something she ordinarily would lower herself to do, but the man’s stubbornness became more than she could tolerate. "Damn it! Who’s the royalty here? Me or you?" Teal grinned, covering his mouth with his hand as Legion threw him a disgusted look. "Now where do you suppose she learned that?" "I can’t let her go roaming around unattended!" Legion snarled at du Mer. Teal sobered. "Of course not." "And I can’t be dancing attendance on her all the time!" "Naturally, not," du Mer agreed. "She hasn’t been well." Teal nodded. "Aye, everyone knows that." "And she has to be watched in case Galen decides to take her again." "That goes without saying." "And she has a habit of getting into trouble." Teal nodded, sagely. "I couldn’t agree more." "She thinks everyone should stop what they’re doing and wait on her hand and foot!" "Naturally," Teal said. "She’s royalty."

Liza’s green gaze ripped through du Mer, but the gypsy winked at her. "And not only does she want to do something stupid, she wantsme to accompany her!" "So I’ve heard." "And I am not going to do it!" "Most assuredly not. Isn’t a good idea." Teal winked again. "I just can’t be bothered with shit like this!" "Without a doubt, you can not." "Look at her! She’s grinning like a fool at me, du Mer!" Legion hissed. "I can see that, old friend. Might as well give in to her to keep peace, eh?" Legion flung down the book he had been reading and stalked over to Liza. "Well? Are you coming or not, Madame?" *** Jah-Ma-El shielded his eyes to the harsh light flooding his cell. He blinked, catching the lilting aroma of lavender drifting through the opened doorway. Although he could make out three forms behind the flare of the light, he couldn’t identify his visitors, the first he’d had since being thrown into the rat-infested place. "You are Jah-Ma-El?" a soft, feminine voice asked. Jah-Ma-El knew immediately who it was. "Aye, Highness," he whispered, barely able to speak for the terrible cold he had contracted in the freezing, drafty cell. "How may I serve you?" Liza took Legion’s arm and raised it higher so that his lantern would cast light on the thin man chained to the slick wall. "They have hurt you, Jah-Ma-El?" she asked, sweeping aside her gown to squat beside him. "For the love of the gods, Liza!" Legion protested. "Don’t get too close to that vermin!" "He’ll not hurt me, will you, Jah-Ma-El?" she asked, smiling into the man’s filthy face. Jah-Ma-El lowered his eyes, unable to look into the beautiful countenance of his Beloved brother’s lady. "Nay, Highness. Never would I do such a thing." "As if you hadn’t already!" Legion snarled, handing the lantern to Teal. "Liza, you’ve seen the bastard. Now, come away before you catch something." Liza looked up at her brother-in-law. "Leave us for a moment, Legion."

"What?" "Please? Put the lantern on the ledge by the door and leave. He can not harm me." She looked back at Jah-Ma-El. "They have him chained!" "Liza—" "Please!" she snapped, her chin jutting out, leaving no room for argument. Legion’s own chin jutted out with annoyance. "I’ll be just around the corner!" he bellowed and brushed past du Mer, who hestitated before following. Liza stroked back a greasy fall of dirty hair from Jah-Ma-El’s forehead, surprising the man before he could jerk away his head. "No, lady!" he croaked. "Do not touch me. I am vile. You will soil yourself." He cringed into the corner of his cell, cowering, his eyes lowered in shame. "Do you love my husband, Jah-Ma-El?" Her question startled him. He lifted his eyes to see friendship written on her lovely face. Friendship and a comradeship that was all too obvious. "With all my heart, Highness." "That night when I visited with him at Norus, it was you who called to me, wasn’t it?" He nodded. "And it was you who cared for me while I was being kept in that place?" He turned his face from her, tucking his chin into the filth of his tattered robe. "I am sorry, Highness, for my part in that." She felt his hurt and shame. "I know, Jah-Ma-El." She reached inside the pocket of her gown and pulled out an object. "I have something of yours." Cautiously, he lifted his head and looked at what she held. His eyes flared with terror and flew straight to hers. "It is yours. I’m returning it." She placed the object in his hand, closing his fingers around it. Jah-Ma-El gripped the jade jar. "Do you know what this is?" Liza nodded. Once more she touched him. This time her cool fingers caressed his bearded cheek. "I know Galen had possession of it. I would imagine he obtained it from Tohre." A single tear crept down her lovely cheek. "And I know that if my Sentinels are not in time, Tohre will have one similar to this with Conar’s soul inside it." Jah-Ma-El shook his head in denial. "They will not do that to him." "Then, what? I must know, Jah-Ma-El. If I am to help him, I must know." "You have not been able to see him, have you, Highness?" "No, and I’m not sure why. They took my amulet stone, tampered with my familiar but—"

"They have something of yours, lady," Jah-Ma-El said sadly. "I once tried to steal it, but Tohre is careful with it." Liza’s forehead crinkled. "Tohre has something of mine? What?" "A braid of your hair. One Conar once wore around his wrist." Liza let out a long breath. "And I know how Tohre came by that." She angrily shook her head. "I had forgotten about it and so had Coni. I may not be able to get it back, but I can somewhat neutralize its power now that I knowwhy I have been unable to help Conar on my own." "I will do all I can." He held his palms out to her. "They put the Seal of Negation on me, Highness. My powers are all but gone; but with the possession of my soul, I may be able to wield some little power of the Blue Way that they don’t know I can utilize." "The Blue Way?" Her voice was soft, quiet. "I am impressed, Jah-Ma-El. You are very special if you have been given access to one of the Multitude’s powers." Jah-Ma-El tried to smile, but his lips were so severely parched, cracked and bleeding from the fever he had endured, he could only manage a grimace. "I was given that power to help my brother. I knew I would need it one day." "And that day has come." She put her hand on his and squeezed. "I will see that you are given treatment by the Healer, Jah-Ma-El. Take heart. I have learned you will not be hanged with the others who plotted my kidnapping. They will send you to Guilder’s Cay." Jah-Ma-El knew better. If they had told her otherwise, it was to protect her. He might not be hanged, but he’d be spending the last of his days in a penal colony far worse than Guilder’s Cay. "Just help Conar, Highness. I don’t matter." "You do to him, so therefore, you do to me," she assured him, standing. Her face was cast in shadows as she looked down at him. "I’ll see you get better food and are unchained. I will not have you treated so." He lowered his head, not wanting her to see his tears. "Thank you, Highness." "Liza. My name is Liza." She turned to go, sensing the man’s discomfort and humiliation. "One more thing. If they will not steal his soul, what will they do to him?" Jah-Ma-El slowly lifted his head. His tear- and dirt-streaked face paled with worry. "They call it Transmigration, lady. They will draw out his soul and place it into another’s body." Liza’s blood ran cold. "Whose body?" She knew, but hearing Jah-Ma-El say the name was like the blasting torrent of freezing waters from Lake Myria. "Kaileel Tohre’s."

Chapter 12 The heavy scent of musk lay over the darkened corridor. Fiery torches sent out a thick layer of gray smoke that settled near the top of the stone archways leading away from the stairway, and drifted along the corridor, sliding down the damp walls and curling about the flare of staggered torchlight. An eerie green glow hovered about three feet off the sticky, rush-strewn walkway, swirling and blending, turning in upon itself as it met the smoke drifting down from the ceiling, the glow shifting as unseen movement rattled the undercurrents. Rat voices chirped among the rushes, and the winging of bats, deeper within the corridor’s cavernous, vied with one another during a momentary lapse into utter silence. The steady drip of unseen water trickled and plopped, echoing back like gunshots along the walls. At the thick, iron-studded door leading into the Chamber of Ordination, unsettling whispers wafted from under the portal. A cadence of voices oozed around the lintels and over the threshold, seeped into the long, dark corridor to send the rodents scurrying in fright. Other sounds leaked out: the tuck of a timbrell, the shuffling of feet, the rustling of cloth, the occasional, pitiful scream. Behind the massive black oak doors, deep in the bowels of the secret Monastery of the Brotherhood of the Domination, the Great Abbey of Raphian, a ceremony so vile and malefic was taking place that only a select, elite group of men were allowed to attend. Twelve men, all of the highest rank of the Ordination Team, moved about, their whispered chants and counter-chants echoing off the thick stone walls and settling like an icy slab of marble on the nerves of the thirteenth man who lay bound before them. Only a handful of men ever ventured behind these doors and survived the Rite of Passage. Even fewer were able to go on to the next step in the initiation process: The Final Rite of Consecration. Those who did became the Chosen Ones of the Great Supreme Entity: Raphian, the Destroyer of Souls. Those who lost their sanity while undergoing the vile ceremonies of the ordination process were interred, alive, within the black Sarcophagus beyond the Altar of Souls, never to be seen again. Sitting in the center of the room was an altar slab of pure gold cast in the cruciform of an X. The structure’s arms and legs flared wide at the intersections and thick bronze bands were embedded in the apex of each leg. A circle of golden candelabras surrounded the Altar of Souls, their glow reflecting off the precious metal and sending sparks of light onto the blood-red floor upon which the altar slab stood. The Chamber of Ordination was circular, its diameter ringed with scrolled concentric circles bearing the Blasphemous Entities of the Domination’s Pantheon. The names were scripted in gold leaf and intertwined within the perimeters of a large, black hexagram. At each point of the hexagram, a burning brazier, three feet wide by three feet tall, sat cupped in the valley of three criss-crossed iron legs, each tripod standing three feet up from the marble floor. In the angles between the points of the hexagram sat the Six Receptacles of Secretion, small pentagonal caskets of crystal that held the bodily fluids drawn from the Brotherhood’s initiate. Along the retable at the altar’s apex sat three more receptacles used at the Final Rite of Consecration, the ceremony performed at the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth week after the Preliminary Rite of Ordination. Circling slowly counterclockwise around the altar, seven High Priests, each clothed in the deep green robes of the Abbots of the Order, chanted the Rune of Belonging, a sing-song command that bound the

initiate to the Order. Each Abbot, one from each of the Seven Kingdoms, carried in his hands a golden chalice into which the Six Secretions taken at the ceremony would be placed. At the foot of the altar stood the Cardinal of the Ordination. Clothed in the scarlet robe of his office, Kaileel Tohre’s eyes never left the initiate, whose screams had subsided to garble half-phrases and incoherent mumbling. Inside the sleeves of his robes, Tohre’s nails had dug into the flesh of his forearm as each new scream subsided into a whimper of pitiful hopelessness. The long, curving nails gouged thin craters of flesh from his arms and blood stained the robe’s inner lining. Pale blue eyes flickered, the thin lips tightly compressed, the breath held, but there were no outward signs, no telltale weakness to show to the others, that Kaileel Tohre felt anything but the great import of the moment. Standing at the head of the Altar of Souls, Tolkan Coure fastened his hooded eyes on the young man whose head sagged between the two upper arms of the cruciform. The initiate’s throat was arched backward; the cords stood in sharp relief. Blood trickled from his parted lips; he had bitten through his tongue at some point during the evening. His eyes were glazed, pain-filled, wide and staring. The hands clenched into agonizing claws with each fresh spasm of agony. The wrists were clamped tight under the bronze bands, as were the ankles, and fresh, moist bruises were already showing on the scraped flesh. Tolkan smiled. The initiate’s full lips pulled back in a rictus of pain and the sweet harmony of a piercing scream wafted over the old man. Such a sweet, fulfilling sound, he thought. Conar was in agony. Chanting moved round him. Words as old as the very dawning of time slithered over him. Hideous incantations, unheard by those outside the sect, worked their evil deeper and deeper into his susceptible mind. The cloying incense transcended his body, seeped into the pores to poison and corrupt. Cold, prodding fingers coated with noxious slime drew patterns on his naked flesh. They touched him. They stroked him. They caressed him. They hurt him. Daggers with blades so sharp and so thin the cutting edges were almost invisible to the naked eye, put a shallow cut here, a nick there. Cuts so light they would leave no scar, but would draw from him those fluids necessary for the culmination of the ceremony. And they stung just the same, and seemed to underline the other, more refined tortures he was feeling from some Unseen Source. He was partially aware of what they were doing. He knew from his experiences as a child that this ceremony would give him the Power these men already possessed. He also knew there would be another, more prolonged, more hideous, more painful ceremony to follow, in a few days, and it was that ceremony which filled him with both abject terror and hopelessness, for he knew he would never be the same again. His body was chained, immobile, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Although he shivered from the frigid air, his body was fevered, burning with an inner fire he knew would never be quenched. It could never be.

It was the fire of hell being instilled within him. He felt another twist of pain and squeezed his eyes shut, tears welling in the blue depths. They were torturing him and he hurt so badly his mind barely functioned beyond the pain. He tried to cringe away from another sharp flick of agony and heard Kaileel’s voice raised in warning to the Abbot who had just caused such intense pain. He swung his head from the sight of Tohre’s red robe. He doubted he would remember this evil place if he survived the night’s torture. In case he didn’t, he wanted to take the memory of it to his grave. He moved his head, his view inverted as he glanced at the candelabras, anything to take his mind from the agony. He tried to focus on the high, blood-red walls that seemed to be running rivers of blood down the slick, sweating stone. But his vision jerked away, danced off to the candle flames of the black tapers in the candelabras circling the altar. A splatter of blood hit his face and he tried to lift his head, to look at the black goat carcass suspended above him. The viscous, cooling blood covered his naked body.It ran down his sides and behind his shoulders, matted in his hair, trickled between his thighs. He gagged at the slimy feel of it running between his spread legs, and had felt a sharp, twisting agony in his manhood. He couldn’t stop the scream as the sudden, sharp pain of it thrusting upward inside his body ravaged him. The chanting had changed, he realized. It was now so intense, filling, invading, that he found himself eagerly awaiting each nick and cut the daggers made, each horrible twist of pain from the Unknown, Unseen Entity that gripped his flesh in an ice-cold hand. He felt each stab of pain and gloried in it. His body was on fire with it. Some strange incense wafted under his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, the aroma permeating his mind, saturating it with a vile sickness that left him weak and drained. Susceptible. It interfered with his concentration. It intensified the pain. "Feel the pain," Tolkan cooed, floating into his line of vision. The old man hovered with a grin of pure malice on his weathered face. "Feel the beginning of a pain you will grow to cherish!" Conar’s stomach heaved as Tolkan’s sharp nails ran over the heaving muscles of his chest, the thin, wrinkled hands kneading the flesh, down his belly and into the thick crop of blond curls at the juncture of his thighs. The Arch-Prelate rubbed in the chilled goat blood, spreading it over Conar’s naked body, lubricating his manhood with the viscous slime. He shut his eyes to keep from seeing Tolkan’s leering face. He couldn’t shut out the sound of the Arch-Prelate’s maniacal laughter, but he could drown it out with his own scream of outrage when Tolkan’s hands lingered, probed, mauled. A splat of goat blood hit his cheek and he reflexively turned his head. The goo slid into his ear, and he shuddered as it went further into the ear canal. It, too, burned. He began to cry again, his nostrils dripping mucous. An Abbot moved over him, scooped the thin, white fluid into a chalice, and then moved away. Another turned Conar’s head, held his mouth over a chalice, and Conar drooled uncontrollably into it. They had his tears; they had his urine; they had the seed; they had the yellowish ooze from numerous open sores. They now had the Six Secretions, and the ceremony was ready to be finalized. "There is a Storm coming, Conar!" Tolkan lifted his arms over the prince’s prone body. "In the tempest you will become One with the Brotherhood of the Domination. You will live to serve Our needs, Conar McGregor. As morning light spreads over this land, so shall your power spread."

Kaileel’s voice echoed over him. "You will wield power more awesome than any who has gone before, for you will have the combined power of the White and The Black Paths. With the howling wind, you will obtain swiftness. With the pelting rain, you will have strength. With the hail, you will know the ability to destroy all who stand in your way. With the cyclone, will come a power so immense, not even Alel, Himself, can stand against it!" "You, who are the Chosen One of the Chosen, will be at the head of our army, and with you as our leader, nothing can stand in our way!" Tolkan’s eyes flared with insanity as he flung his arms to the heavens, invoking the Bringer of Storms, the Destroyer of Souls to lay ruin to the countryside around them in preparation for Conar’s coming. "Come, Evil of Evils! Come, Lord of the Serpents! Bring to us the cleansing fire of Your destruction!" A keening wind surged through the chamber. The air turned noxious with the smell of burnt flesh and sulfur. Ice cold currents of air ripped about the room and extinguished the candelabras, leaving only the glow from the braziers. Lightning bolts surged overhead, flicked down the moist walls, ran along the ceiling, hissed as the current connected with moisture. Loud booms of thunder shook the room and set the goat carcass swaying on its wrought-iron hooks. Conar’s head was lifted. His lips touched the cold rim of a chalice. He tried to turn his head, but whomever, whatever, was holding him, caught a handful of thick blond curls and forced the his head steady. He tried to press his lips together, but could not keep them closed as Tolkan spoke. "Open your lips, sweet prince. Open your lips and drink of the fluids that course through your precious body." Tolkan took the cup from the Abbot and put it to Conar’s lips. "Drink. Drink and become One with Us!" He couldn’t stop himself from drinking the bitter, slimy liquid. From his childhood, he knew what was mixed with the urine, mucous, semen, tears, pus and saliva—the blood and bodily fluids of the men moving about him, the blood of the sacrificed goat, his own blood. All mixed with the Holding Potion that would lock them together. His throat worked convulsively as he swallowed, his fingers spasmed as he digested the vile concoction. An immediate numbing began in his lips and his tongue felt thick and leaden in his suddenly dry mouth. His head started to swim unmercifully and a bright, flashing stream of light swirled over him to snap away the last remaining vestiges of human thought and recognition. He was becoming One of Them. "Pain is Power, Conar McGregor!" Tolkan said. "There will be a surging power in the pain you will experience. Embrace it, Conar. Take it into you. Feel the agony and draw your strength from it!" With a suddenness that snapped his eyes wide open, a tight squeeze of gut-wrenching pain gripped his belly. He arched his back, his mouth gaping in his effort to scream, but no sound issued forth. He sucked freezing air into his parched, burnt lungs, and gagged as the vile stench of his own burning flesh filling his nostrils. His belly started severely cramping, his head splitting apart. His ankles scraped raw as he tried to bring up his knees to ease the torture of the cramps. His mouth opened in a silent scream of pure agony. His vocal chords seemed paralyzed. A crackling noise shot through the room as he strained against the horrible wrenching pain, pulling on his restraints, and he snapped the bones in his left wrist. No one noticed. "Do you not feel the ecstasy in the agony, Conar McGregor? Do you not feel the sweet promise of the climax to end all climaxes? You are about to go beyond pain to the plethora of torment only the gods, Themselves, know!"

A piteous moan escaped Conar’s lips, a whining, hopeless cry for help. A thin stream of mucous ran from his nostril and tears cascaded down his face. An Abbot rushed forward to gather the liquids. Jerking on the arm restraints, Conar broke his right wrist, as well. He didn’t even feel that break, but Kaileel placed a hand on the young prince’s wrist. The bones automatically knitted. "Let him feel the pain, Tohre!" Tolkan shouted. He does, Conar thought wildly.He feels it . The pain grew more intense with every breath. He tried not to breathe. He could smell his urine and semen running down between his legs, could feel the touch of a cold chalice against his manhood—gathering. "As you are bound to this altar," Kaileel said, "so shall you be bound to our Brotherhood. As you are one with the pain, so shall you be one with the pain the Brotherhood has had to endure at the hands of the unbelievers. Draw strength from your pain, Beloved. Let It claim you for Its own!" Tolkan moved to the head of the Altar of Souls. He lifted Conar’s head, willing the young man’s pain-glazed eyes to his own. "You are Ours, Conar McGregor!" By all that was holy, and unholy, he hurt!Conar had never known such raw, intense agony. Nothing Tolkan had ever done to him as a boy could compare with the torture he was now enduring. He felt as though his very innards were being drawn from his body in quick, unrelenting jerks. He tried to look away from Tolkan’s triumphant face, but the old man held his head still, satisfaction on the lined face as he enjoyed watching the suffering. "Endure, McGregor," Tolkan taunted. "Endure!" Kaileel came forward, and put his lips close to Conar’s ear. "You will be the stuff of legends, my Beloved. You will be our champion. You now have within you the power you were destined to wield. Do you not feel it drawing out the goodness in your soul? Can you not feel the virtues being stripped away? You are being hollowed out. Your soul is being cleansed of the purity instilled in it at birth. When the Rite of Consecration binds you, the supremacy of evil will fill every pore of your precious body. Evil will course through your veins. I will teach you all you will ever need to know about the Magic of Evil. The seeds that have been planted within you will grow and I shall cultivate the harvest of them. After the Rite of Consecration, there will be only one of us, my sweet prince. Two bodies, one identity!" His lips moved to Conar’s and he drew on the fullness. Conar’s pain flared white-hot and then faded with the suddenness with which it had come. His mind reeled with the sparkling, spinning colors flashing around him. His body was on fire with a need of which he could not name. He ached. He writhed under his bounds. He looked to Tohre as Kaileel’s lips came away from his own. "Kaileel?" he whispered. "Make it stop!" Kaileel let his lips slide to Conar’s cheek, touching the warmth of the stubbled flesh. Gently he kissed the prince’s blood-splattered cheek. "You are empty, an empty vessel waiting to be filled. When the time comes, you will know the fulfillment of that desire. You will know the all-encompassing pleasure of being One with Raphian." Tolkan bent over him. "Only the Brotherhood can assuage the need and soothe the ache you are feeling.

Only the Brotherhood can take away the need and replace it with ultimate, total satisfaction. But you must endure." "No," he whispered. "You must, Beloved," Kaileel told him. "Strive to put the pain from you." Conar felt hands lifting him. He turned pleading eyes to Kaileel. To Tolkan. Neither smiled at him, but he could feel their power. He began to cry. "You will be taken to a solitary cell. You must live with your pain. On the sixth day from this one, at the sixth hour of that day, we will come for you again." He felt cold, hard hands on his ankles and arms as they lifted him from the blood-soaked altar. His head lolled to one side as they carried him. Even as they brought him into the small oubliette that would be his home for the next five days, he was unable to do more than writhe beneath the touch of the hands that received him into the small, windowless hole. They laid him on the cold, moist floor, clothed him in rough material, tied his hands behind his back, his ankles together, and then left him, shutting off the only source of light—the hatchway leading down into the three-foot circular cell. He looked up as the hatchway closed, shutting out all contact from the world, and he knew he should scream. Knew he wanted to, for closed-in places had always held a specialhorror for him. He just simply couldn’t scream, although his heart lurched and his mouth flooded with bile. His throat worked, still struggled to scream, tried to make any sound at all. Tears fell heedlessly down his pale cheeks and he turned his face into the rushes on the floor and wept. Long before his paralyzed throat allowed him the luxury of a purely animalistic howl of agony, his mind ceased to function. By morning’s light, he was as numb to the horrors of his degradation as his voice was hoarse from his screams.

Chapter 13 Sentian, Hern, and Belvoir crouched behind a barrier wall beyond the last row of trees that surrounded the Temple of the Winds. All three were bone-tired and their eyes gritty with sand and sleeplessness. Hern had developed a severe headache that plagued his eyesight even more and he reached up a large hand to ease the pain in his left temple. "You all right?" Belvoir asked, risking a low voice as he watched the Temple Guards patrolling the entrance. He scratched at the long, jagged scar on his cheekbone and flung his long, black braid over his shoulder. His wide forehead crinkled with concern for his friend. "I’ll do," came the husky, annoyed reply as Hern nudged Sentian further along the barrier wall. "You

make an excellent obstacle, Heil—move!" "How are we supposed to get past the guards?" Sentian whispered, looking from one of the much older men to the other. Hern’s craggy face was flint-hard; Belvoir’s equally rugged face was set and tight with resolve. Hern looked the young man up and down and then curled his lip. "We walk in," he snapped. He reached into a velvet pouch hanging on his wide black leather belt and withdrew a rose-colored crystal. "Ready, Belvoir?" "As ready as I can be." The former Master-at-Arms from Norus Keep turned to the youngest member of their trio. "Stay put until we whistle, Heil." "What happens if you get caught?" Sentian asked. "Thenyou get His Grace!" Hern snapped. He patted Sentian on the back with enough force to make the young man cough. "What ifI’m caught?" "Where’d you come up with this brat, Belvoir?" Hern snorted. He pulled the hood of his black tunic over his face, then moved with all the stealth and agility of a jungle cat as he blended into the thick stand of trees. Belvoir grinned at Sentian and disappeared, leaving Sentian blinking at the swiftness of their movements. He was in over his head with these two older warriors and he wondered briefly if the Princess Liza knew he wasn’t in the same league. A low whistle wafted on the breeze; his mouth dropped open in surprise. They hadn’t been gone that long! The whistle came again, and Sentian could have sworn there was tight annoyance in the low, soft trill. Not giving himself time to think, he moved into the trees and toward the gate. "Not bad, bratling," Hern said as Sentian jumped, crying out as the older man appeared as if by magic. Hern’s rough sword hand tightly plastered itself on the young man’s mouth. "But you got to learn not to be so damned noisy!" Belvoir slipped into sight and the gates leading into the Temple Compound swung open. Before Sentian could ask how, the two men propelled him through the gates, past a wide fountain and up the steps. He looked behind him to see what had happened to the two guards, but neither was within sight. He had one brief glance at the watchtower at the rear of the low structure, but there was no guard there, either. If he was surprised that there were no guards at the doors, he didn’t show it. It was best he didn’t ask how, after all. Once inside the Temple, it took the men a little less than ten minutes to find what they were looking for—the sleeping chambers of the initiates. They slipped past guards who didn’t seem to see them, walked through rooms where men slept and never once disturbed them, looked in on men reading, writing, and praying. To Sentian, it seemed they were invisible to the inhabitants of the Temple, and when he finally questioned Hern, the burly man let out a low, soft chuckle. "They can’t hear us or see us, brat." He held up the rose-colored crystal. "The lady saw to it." He poked a thick finger at Sentian’s pouch. "You got one of these beauties, too." He grinned as Sentian opened his

pouch and found the crystal he didn’t even know he carried. "That’s just one among many you’ll learn to use, boy. Guard it well." The crystal felt hot and cold at the same time, and Sentian fiercely gripped it lest he loose it, afraid if he dropped it, they would be caught. He turned quizzical eyes to Hern. "We’ll teach you the proper use of it, bratling. Don’t you worry." "In the wrong hands," Belvoir added, "it can be dangerous." Encouraged by both Hern’s and Belvoir’s confidence, Sentian was only mildly anxious as the three men split up, each going in a different direction in search of the informer who would be taking them to the Great Abbey of the Domination. They slipped unseen into many cells, a red-haired lad of around twenty their target. Liza had explained they would know him by the large strawberry birthmark on his forehead. Passing down a corridor where most of the sleeping cells stood empty, Belvoir, his game leg beginning to bother him, limped into one of the larger cells and let out a silent whistle. He backed out of the cell, his large mouth grinning from ear to ear, and hurried to find Hern and Sentian. Hern looked up from his close scrutiny of a sleeping man and saw Belvoir motioning to him from the doorway. "Found him?" Belvoir shook his head. "Even better!" He tugged the Master-at-Arms from Boreas with him down the corridor until they found Sentian. "Brat! Come along!" Following close on Hern and Belvoir’s heels, Sentian could almost smell Belvoir’s excitement. The big man’s shoulders were hunched in a tight lift and his bull neck was thrust forward as he hurried silently down another long corridor and stopped at one door. "Look who I found!" He swung the door inward. "You’ll want this one to see you, so think yourselves visible to this jackal!" Sentian came up short as he slipped into the cell. Even though he had never seen the sleeping man up close, there was no doubt who this bastard was. He took a lethal step forward, intent on killing the man who awoke to stare at them with horror. "You are dead!" Sentian snarled and lunged. Hern blocked his way, grabbing Sentian’s arm and hissing, "Not now, brat!" He pushed away Sentian and turned to face the trembling man. Belvoir drew his black dagger from its sheath. The ebon crystal blade shone in the light cast from a lone candle that sat on the terrified man’s night table. "How do we find His Grace?" "I’ll make the bastard tell!" Sentian promised and tried to get around Hern. He stumbled as Hern shoved him, putting up a warning hand as Sentian tried to take another purposeful step forward. "We need him," Hern reminded Sentian. Arbra’s pale eyes glistened with warning and his white hair gleamed in the candlelight. It was as though the man’s entire body radiated power, and Sentian held his ground, even though he was fearful of the now-dangerous look in the warrior’s eyes. "As soon as he tells us what we want to know, then you can kill him."

Sentian smiled, and anyone who knew him would have backed away from that smile. Anyone who didn’t know him would have run from it. "Who sent you?" Galen McGregor stammered. He had pushed himself as far up the wall as his legs would allow. He held out his hands in supplication. "Did my father send you?" "I’ll ask you this once more and not again. Where is he, McGregor?" Belvoir took a menacing step closer to the young Serenian prince. "How do we get to His Grace?" Galen’s face paled. "Conar?" "Is there another?" Hern snorted. Belvoir spat on the floor. His emerald gaze ran insultingly over Galen’s thin body. "None that I know of, anyway." "You’re looking for Conar?" There was a measure of relief on Galen’s suddenly sweating face. "You’ve come for him? How did you know where he was?" Sentian surprised even himself when he shoved Hern out of the way, almost getting to the cowering man before Belvoir blocked his way. "Tell us how to find him!" Sentian bellowed, "or I’ll geld you!" Galen shook his head, his arms crossing over his face, for he feared the man would attack despite Belvoir’s intervention. "He’s at the Abbey!" "We know that!" Hern spat. He dragged Galen off the cot and slammed him hard against the wall. "Tell us how to get there and you might live to see daylight." He glanced over his shoulder at Sentian. "And then maybe again, you won’t." "You have to help him," Galen whimpered. "I tried, but they sent me here. There isn’t much time. The Consecration will be tomorrow night." He gasped as Belvoir threaded his strong fingers through Galen’s flaxen hair, dragging the man’s head to the side. "What game are you playing, Prince McGregor?" he hissed, tugging painfully on the hair. "You have to believe me, Belvoir!" Galen cried, tears of pain and fear coursing down his cheeks. "They’ll destroy him if you don’t reach him in time. They’ve already hurt him so badly." Sentian let out a low, animal growl of pure rage and made for Galen again, only to be brought up short by Hern’s hard arm across his neck. He tried to get past the older man, but Hern let go of Galen, put his hands on Sentian’s shoulders, and shoved as hard as he could. With a grunt, Sentian slammed into the far wall and slid down, his spine throbbing, his ears ringing. "Let us handle this, Heil!" Hern told him, and then turned away. Belvoir twisted his hand in Galen’s hair and felt a large portion of the flaxen strands pull loose from scalp. He tightened his hold, nevertheless, and grinned evilly at Galen’s groan of agony. "I wondered when you’d finally realize you had some feeling for your brother. Now tell us how to get there."

"He won’t tell you anything!" Sentian protested. "Even if he does, the whole thing would be a lie. He tried to kill Conar." Galen vehemently shook his head. "I did no such thing. They never told me they were going to hurt him. I thought they would just make him sign away the crown. I never wanted to see him hurt. Kaileel promised me the throne and Liza. He never said anything about what Tolkan had planned for Conar. I don’t even think Kaileel knew what Tolkan was going to do." "What have they done to him?" Sentian bellowed. "Be quiet!" Belvoir warned. "Your damned big mouth is going to get our asses in trouble!" Galen whimpered, his fear of telling the men how to get to Conar, and of being found out, greater than his fear of the three warriors. He trembled from head to toe and his breathing became ragged. "They’ll kill me if they find out I told you." Hern gave a snort of disgust. "We’ve no time for histrionics, you little snot!" "But they’ll kill me if I tell!" "And I’ll kill you if you don’t!" Sentian assured. Galen jerked away from Hern, knocked Belvoir’s hands from him, and slid to the floor in a heap. "If I tell you, you have to take me with you." Sentian spat on the man. "You think we care what happens to you? They can gut you!" "Take us there, then," Belvoir decided. "Take us there and I’ll see you go where Tohre can’t reach you." A flare of hope momentarily lit Galen’s eyes until he realized there was nowhere safe from Tohre. "He’ll find me." "Not where I can send you," Belvoir said. "Where?" It was a hopeful, mere breath of sound. "World’s End." Hern rolled his eyes to the heaven. "Not the brightest thing you’ve ever promised, Belvoir." "You can do that?" Galen whispered. "My lady can," Belvoir stated. Sentian had never heard of the place, but obviously the others had. "Where’d you say this place was?" "She knows the way?" Galen asked. "Only she does," Belvoir answered.

"What kind of place is it?" Sentian asked. "You don’t need to know," Hern snapped and turned his attention to Galen. "Then, what’ll it be? Do you lead us or do we leave you here and look for someone else?" Galen managed to push himself up the wall. He straightened his clothes. "Can you guarantee she will help me? Can she protect me from Tohre and the Domination?" He licked his lips. "Can she keep me from being killed?" Belvoir nodded. "She’ll see you get what’s due you." "If you’re telling me the truth, then I’ll take you to him, but it won’t be easy to get past the guards there." He sidestepped the men, keeping well out of the younger man’s reach, for he didn’t like the fierce scowl on the otherwise handsome face. "Do you know the way?" Hern wanted clarification. Galen nodded. "Kaileel has taken me there many times. He never thought to blindfold me." He shrugged one thin shoulder. "He’s never considered me a threat." "You aren’t," Sentian informed him. His hands itched to circle the conniving bastard’s throat and squeeze until there wasn’t any life left in the face that bore such a strong resemblance to Conar’s. Galen raised his chin, no longer afraid of these men, for he realized they needed him as much as he needed them. "Despite what any of you think, I meant Conar no real harm. He’s not only my brother, he’s my twin. There is a bond." Sentian spat on the floor. "A bond of betrayal!" Galen defiantly raised his chin. "I will do anything to save him from what Tolkan plans." "That is?" growled Hern. "They will consecrate him to the Domination tomorrow evening." "And just what the hell does that mean?" Sentian demanded. Galen looked away with shame. "They will take away his soul and make him One of Them." He didn’t have time to duck before Sentian’s fist shot forward and brought the stars down from the heavens. *** He sat so still. Not a flicker of an eyelash, not a discernible movement of his chest as he breathed. He made no sound. He stared straight ahead of him, past what was before his sight. There was an inner vision that kept him so perfectly still, that made him ignore the agony subsiding in his body. That kept him so still and quiet.

He had not eaten; he had not slept. He had taken only watered wine during his four days inside the oubliette. They had untied his hands on the morning of the fourth day. Now, he sat with knees drawn up, his wrists resting on them as he kept vigil. His body still ached in dozens of places; his manhood throbbed with a fiery pain that brought tears when he relieved himself. His vision was still blurred and his throat was raw from screams. His head ached horribly, but he ignored that pain; he was used to that. There were far too many other hurts to warrant one lingering long on his mind. He felt such detachment from his surroundings that he all but ignored the rodents scampering about on the filthy rushes. Occasionally he would swat one as the flea-infested creature came too close, but most of the time, he simply chose to disregard the squealing things. Once, he might have been terrified of them coming so close. Once, he might have died within the confining walls of this closed in, darkened place. But not now. Now, it didn’t matter. There were dark circles under his eyes, bruises, cuts, welts over most of his flesh. A few deep abrasions bothered him as his nerve-endings became aware of them, but he tried to overlook them. They were nothing compared to the burns. Two interlocking oval marks had been burned deeply into the flesh of his upper left thigh near the crease of his groin. They were Tolkan’s brands, brands of ownership. Tolkan Coure’s personal ownership of him. Those hurt him most of all. His wrists and ankles were scraped raw, oozing pus, pus his jailers daily drained. He knew why. It was the same reason they came to take away the chamberpot each morning. His left wrist hung at an odd angle, since no one had bothered to set it. He didn’t even think they were aware this wrist had also been broken before the other one had. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. What did he care? A sound overhead at the opening to his cell made his blue eyes flicker, but he didn’t move. Wasn’t even curious to know what they were doing. What did it matter? His ears took in the creak of the metal grating as it was scraped away from the opening. He heard the slide of the hemp ladder, the first heavy pull on the rope as the visitor started climbing down toward him from the twenty-foot height. Involuntarily, he lowered his head, for the fall of light hurt his eyes, but he gave no outward sign that it made a difference. Kaileel Tohre stepped down from the last rung of the hemp ladder. He held up his lantern to better see the prince, and what he saw made him squint with concern. He felt something alien, something beyond his belief. He felt something akin to contrition at what he had helped do to this man. "Conar?" Conar turned his face. He had not heard that hated voice for nearly a week. He didn’t want to hear it now. A sound that might have been a moan of despair escaped his compressed lips. What did Tohre want? Kaileel hunkered beside him and placed the lantern on the floor. "Look at me." Though he tried not to, didn’t want to, Conar turned his head.

Kaileel flinched. The man’s face was devoid of life, of expression, of warmth, of vitality. He seemed to take a long time before he finally focused on Tohre’s face. "Leave me alone, Kaileel." Kaileel raised his hand and a chalice appeared out of the darkness. "Drink this. It will help," he said quietly, extending the chalice to Conar’s lips. Conar looked at the goblet, then shook his head. A stab of fear ran through Kaileel’s black heart. He tensed. "You must drink this, Conar. You must! I insist." With a defeated sigh, Conar allowed the rim of the chalice to be placed to his lips. He closed his eyes as the foul-tasting elixir flowed into his mouth. He swallowed, grimacing as the taste flooded his senses. The aftertaste rocked through him like a sledgehammer. He stiffened, his eyes going wide, his lips drawing back in a rictus of agony. "No!" Kaileel whispered, reaching out to grab Conar as the full impact of the brew gripped the prince. "Kaileel!" he screamed, wrenching forward against the High Priest, horrible pain ripping through his body. He doubled over, held stiffly against Kaileel’s chest. Sheer torment ricocheted through him at an alarming speed. His gut cramped, his head spun, his throat felt raw and burned with the taste of acid. "Here!" Kaileel shouted, another chalice suddenly appearing. "Drink this! Now!" He thrust the chalice to Conar’s lips and poured the potion down the convulsing man’s throat. "Kaileel, help!" Conar whimpered, bucking in the grasp of Kaileel’s arms. He struck out, felt himself clasped tightly to Kaileel, and then slumped as his entire body went numb from head to toe. His eyes rolled up in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness. It took a full ten minutes before he woke, another ten before he could make his vocal chords work. His ears buzzed, but he could hear Kaileel’s soothing voice, see the man’s hands moving over his face even though he could feel nothing of the touch. "You’ll be all right, now, Beloved," Kaileel told him, threading his fingers through Conar’s matted hair. "What…what was that?" Conar managed to croak through lips that had blistered from the first elixir’s touch. "The potion was outlawed years ago. If Tolkan knew I had given it to you…" Kaileel shuddered. "Why do you have to keep hurting me, Kaileel?" Conar pleaded, finding Kaileel’s eyes. "Ah, Conar," Kaileel sighed, shaking his head. He let the man slide out of his arms, nodding at the movement that had been restored to the prince’s body. "There was no way I could have known, else I wouldn’t have given you the first potion." "Known what?" "There is still some good in you. Not even Raphian’s minions realized how deeply ingrained that good

resides within your soul. The Rite of Passage should have purged it from you, but it did not. Not all of it." He let out a long, harsh breath. "You still have enough left in you to make you fight the Transmigration. What hold we have gained over you is not complete. It has been blocked, no doubt, by the love you bear that bitch. Now, the Rite of Consecration will be harder still." "In the end you’ll win." Kaileel, for the first time, wasn’t so sure. "I would have thought the prime evil within you at your birth would have held sway at some point in your life. I have tried to make you see that part of your nature." "I am not evil, Kaileel." The voice went soft as a whisper. "At least, I wasn’t." "You resisted. I failed somewhere. You should have felt the need to be One with me." "It wasn’t from lack of you trying." Conar shivered, remembering vividly his abusive childhood in this ungodly place. "The ancients say: As the twig is bent, so shall the tree grow." Kaileel’s pale eyes narrowed in consideration. "You should have changed long ago. All the signs were there. All the right feelings were instilled in you, but you resisted. I have no explanation." "There is a greater power than evil, Kaileel." Conar’s head swirled. It grew difficult to speak and he was very, very tired. "And what power is that, Beloved?" "You wouldn’t understand." Kaileel stroked Conar’s dirty hair and became surprised when the man didn’t flinch or try to move away. His face softened with love. "How do you feel otherwise?" A hoarse, grating whisper. "I hurt, Kaileel." The High Priest felt a catch in his throat. "I know, Beloved. That is why I brought the treacle in the first place. It was to take away the poisons in your system. I would never have given it to you if I had known your body could not tolerate it. I wished only to soothe you." Conar turned to lie on his side. He drew his knees close to his chest, his left wrist cupped in his other hand. He grimaced as the bones in his wrists scraped against one another. "Is it broken?" Kaileel asked. He reached out, careful to hold the hand straight as he took it. "Conar, why didn’t you say something to one of the guards?" "It doesn’t matter." "It does! I could have healed it." With a voice strained raw from the horrors he had already endured, Conar answered him. "There is nothing you can give me that will ever heal me." "I could have saved you from—"

"From what? From Tolkan’s wrath? From his hands on me?" A hard shudder went through his body before he looked over his shoulder. "Did you enjoy watching me suffer, Kaileel? Do you enjoy seeing it now?" "All this could have been avoided." "Not once I gave myself up to you." Kaileel had been ordered by the Tribunal to give the prince information he truly did not wish to deliver. If there was any way he could avoid it, he would, but he knew They were listening. "I must…" he began, then looked away from the torment stamped on Conar’s face, and cleared his throat before looking back. "I must tell you…you did not have to come here to get your lady back. You could have retrieved her on your own." Conar’s forehead crinkled. "I don’t understand." Kaileel drew in a deep breath before he delivered the coup de grace that would seal Conar’s fate. He held the young man’s puzzled gaze. "You had the power within you to take her back of your own accord. All you needed to do was use it. The gods would have snatched her away from us and returned her to you. Had you but known the Incantations of Deliverance, she would now be safe in your arms and you in hers. If you had completed your training in the Temple, you could have eaily rescued her and you would not be here with us. But you have ever been stubborn, Conar, and your arrogance has been your undoing. You have never listened else you would have remembered me telling you long ago that you had such power." For a long moment, Conar said nothing. He simply stared at his tormentor—this man who had caused him such agony all his life—then smiled and a sad, bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips. Kaileel blinked with surprise. "This knowledge does not anger you, Beloved?" Conar shook his head, feeling even more listless and numb. "What difference would it have made if I had known? I would never have used that ungodly power, and you know it." He lay down. A slow rush of breath escaped the full lips and he was fast asleep, the drug having taken full control of his mind. "Sleep, Beloved," Kaileel whispered, putting a trembling hand on Conar’s dirty blond hair, stroking his head. "Sleep, and when you wake, the wrist will be healed." He placed a soft kiss on Conar’s brow. "I love you." His thin lips touched Conar’s, gently, then looked into the prince’s sleeping face. "And you will come to love me."

Chapter 14

"If you’re going to ride with us, brat," Hern snapped, his voice tight with pique, "you’d damned well better learn to curb that quick temper!" He jerked on his horse’s reins and sent the beast into a light trot. He glanced over his shoulder at Sentian. "It can damned well get a man killed!" The four men were on the curving trail that led into the mountains. The pathway was only wide enough for one horse at a time and the sheer drop down the incline was dizzying to behold in the pale gleam of moonlight peeking from behind high clouds. Belvoir was in the lead, his black stallion almost invisible as it moved steadily upwards. Next came Galen, nursing a throbbing, swollen jaw, his face burning with humiliation and anger. His hands were crossed in front of him and he was tethered to a long leash held by Belvoir. A rough kerchief had been wedged tightly between his teeth, putting a tremendous strain on his jaws. Hern rode behind the prince with Sentian bringing up the rear. Upon raiding the stables of the Temple of the Winds, Hern and Belvoir had come back with two huge black destriers for Sentian and Galen. Refusing to leave his own horse at the Temple, Sentian had been allowed to bring the steed with them as far as the crossroads and then turned it loose on the road back to Boreas. "I have trained him since he was a pony." He pouted, watching his horse canter off. "Live with it," Belvoir snapped. He eyed Sentian’s big black and grinned. "That’s a better steed for a Sentinel." "Aye," Hern agreed. He looked at the black tunic and breeches Sentian wore. "You just might make the lady proud of you, yet." Galen followed their conversation with avid interest, although he had no idea what a sentinel was. He did, however, suspect it had something to do with Liza. They had forced him into a set of black clothing they had brought along for their informant, and he felt a part of their group, even if they treated him like the outsider he was. Not a single sheen of metal could be seen to catch the moon’s light on harness or bit or spur. The daggers strapped to the three warrior’s thighs were black crystal and ebony ironwood. The crossbow slung over Belvoir’s saddle was made of the same materials. Reins, bits and bridles, pommels, stirrups and cinches, had been either painted black or wrapped tightly with black material to keep the clink of metal from sounding as they rode. Even the horses’ hoofs had been wrapped with black burlap to muffle the echo of hoof beats on the rocky mountain road. They rode for nearly an hour at a steady, easy pace, moving ever upward into the frigid air of the Serenian Alps. Mount Serenia rose like a beacon before them, its snow-covered zenith and sides shining brightly in the moon’s bright beams. A cold breeze shifted over them, but the three able to speak made no comment, afraid even the slightest whisper would echo on the winding path and alert the Abbey of their arrival. Just before three A.M., Belvoir brought his horse to a gentle stop. He held up his hand in warning. He had sighted the flare of torchlight around the next turning. Hern slid silently from his horse and patted the sleek nose, cautioning the animal. He jerked his chin at Sentian, and saw the lad dismount with equal caution.

"What now?" Hern asked Belvoir, his voice as soft as the night breeze, as he walked to Belvoir’s side. Belvoir nodded to where Galen sat his horse. "Do you trust him?" "Do you?" The two men turned in unison as Sentian joined them. Neither had heard his approach. They looked at one another and smiled. Hern grinned. "He’s learning." "Get him down, brat," Belvoir quipped to Sentian, nudging his square chin toward Galen. Sentian smiled."You trust me to touch the bastard?" "Aye, I trust you." Galen felt the sharp tip of a dagger at his jugular as Sentian pulled him from his horse. "Make one sound, one false move, give me reason to think you pose a threat to His Grace, and it will be your last. Understand?" Sentian pressed the tip into Galen’s flesh; a thin trickle of blood oozed down the prince’s neck. Galen swallowed and nodded only a fraction for fear the dagger would sever his throat. He let out a hard breath through his nose as Sentian took away the weapon. He heard Belvoir instruct the young Elite to remove the gag. With the constriction gone, Galen moved his aching jaw in a circle and glared his defiance at Sentian. "You’ll regret the way you’ve treated me, serf. You’ll end your days in the Labyrinth!" Sentian took a step closer to Galen. "You’re mine, McGregor." His dagger was a blur as it slipped through the hemp binding Galen’s wrists. Hern winked at Belvoir. Here was, indeed, one of their own. Neither of them had to worry about this brat. The lady’s sentinel had been wisely chosen. "Where to from here?" Sentian demanded. "There is a passageway into the Abbey that only a few men know about," Galen said, ignoring Sentian’s glower. "I can show you the way. Even the horses can be hidden inside." "How do you know of it?" Belvoir questioned. "Kaileel showed me. He comes here on occasion to inspect the Abbey and doesn’t want Tolkan to know he’s here." "Why?" Hern snapped. "I thought they was as close as shit in a constipated man’s bowels." "Kaileel hates Tolkan. I don’t know why, but I think it has something to do with Conar." "Then lead us in," Belvoir decided, "but if you’re playing a game, McGregor, you will spend eternity in the fires of hell."

Galen nodded. He had no intention of playing these men false. They were his only hope at getting Conar out of the place. He walked a few feet down the pathway and stopped, running his hand over an indention in the rockface of the mountain. He shoved against the stone and a low, grating sound broke the silence as the rockface moved in on itself, revealing a wide passageway large enough to accommodate the steeds one at a time. Belvoir peered inside the gaping doorway. The place was as black as the grave. "There’s a flint and bundle of rushes just to the right of the doorway, shoulder height." Galen eased through. He plucked something from the wall as he entered, and the flare of flint to flint and the swish of a fire being ignited let the men know he had told the truth. Sentian led both his and Hern’s stallions into the large opening and was surprised at the cavern’s size. It could house ten such horses. He looked about, spying several dark corridors. "All but one of these is a dead end," Galen explained as Hern hurried forward and looked into one long tunnel. "Most have drop-offs that will kill you if you don’t know they’re there." "Which one is the right one?" Belvoir asked, lighting another two torches to thoroughly illuminate the cavern. He didn’t care much for dark places. "I’ll lead you in," Galen told him. "No," Hern snarled. "I’ll lead with you at my side." He drew a length of hemp from his belt and retied the prince’s hands, then looped the belt around his own waist. "If I fall, so will you!" Hern moved into the tunnel at which Galen pointed. He placed his back to the wall, sliding forward cautiously, drawing Galen with him. Belvoir brought up the rear. Sentian moved in close to Galen with his dagger drawn and within striking range of Galen’s back. "I promise," he told the prince as they slipped down the dark tunnel, "I will kill you if anything has happened to His Grace. Count on that." "Leave off," Hern hissed. He glanced at Sentian’s hard face. "If anything has happened to my boy, I’ll be the one to take out this little shit. That’s my right!" Galen glared at Sentian. "I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, serf, but I don’t want anything to happen to Conar, either." Sentian put his face up close to Galen’s. "You took his woman. You are the reason he is in this vile place. Did you think that would make him feel good?" "I don’t have to answer to a village gruel! My reasons for what I do are my own!" "Hush!" Hern cautioned, coming to a stop and pushing Galen out of the way to grab a handful of Sentian’s tunic. "I told you to leave off, Heil! We’ve got work to do. There’ll be time enough to test your manhood when we have His Grace out of here!" He shoved Sentian away and then jerked on Galen’s tether. "Keep your mouth shut, too! This is not a pissing contest!" He jerked again on Galen’s tether just for the hell of it, then eased down the corridor. Sentian felt Belvoir’s hand on his shoulder. He turned hostile eyes to the older man.

"Easy, brat. It might be best if you remember one of the greatest teachings of the WindWarrior Society. There is a fine line between love and hate, and oftentimes they are one and the same." He jerked his chin toward Galen’s retreating back. "He’s a scheming bastard. But right now, he’s our only hope. Watch yourself and watch that big mouth of yours. If ’tis you who causes our Overlord to come to harm, I’ll gut you. Do I make myself clear, Sentian Heil?" Sentian nodded. "But I will settle it with him when we get back to Boreas Keep." Belvoir shook his head. "We’re going to leave his ass here." Sentian’s brows shot up. "I thought you told him you would send him to…" A dry, mirthless chuckle issued from Belvoir’s thin lips. "Even if I knew how to get to World’s End, I wouldn’t take him. I told him the lady would see he got his due, and she will. Galen McGregor has much for which to atone. And he’ll atone for it right here…where it started!" *** "Your Grace?" Belvoir called softly, his hand gently shaking Conar’s shoulder. He shook the prince again and was rewarded with a slight groan. "They’ve got him drugged," Hern spat and eased around in the small, oval cell so that he could help Belvoir bring the man to a sitting position. From the lantern light Heil was holding overhead as he sat on the grating’s edge, Hern saw the bruises and cuts on his young protégé’s face and drew in a lethal breath of fury. "Sons-of-bitches! Look what they’ve done to him!" "That’s nothing compared to what they will do if we don’t get him out of here!" Galen hissed from his position halfway down the rope ladder. "You’ll have to carry him up, Belvoir. He’ll never wake in time to climb this ladder himself." "Don’t be telling them their business!" Sentian snarled and struck Galen on the shoulder with his booted foot. "You want to be caught?" Galen shot back as he turned furious eyes to the servant who had kicked him. "They’ll be coming for him by dawn’s light. He has to be prepared for tonight." "Your Grace!" Hern said, propping Conar against him and lifting the sagging head. "Wake up, brat." There was another groan and the blue eyes fluttered once, opened, and tried to focus before again closing. Conar’s head sagged downward. "We’ve come to take you home, Your Grace," Belvoir said. He peered into the mauled face. "Your lady sent us, Highness." Conar couldn’t focus on the blurring, shadow-crossed face before him. He couldn’t understand the words, either, for they seemed to be coming from some place far, far away. Hern cupped Conar’s chin, turning the battered face toward him. "It’s me, brat. It’s Hern. You have to help us. We’ve got to get you out of here. Can you walk?"

He strained to make sense of the buzzing, incoherent phrases, but couldn’t. He felt numb—disembodied. Who were these men and why were they tormenting him? He closed his eyes. "Highness!" Belvoir warned. "Stay with us, Highness!" "You have to carry him," Galen repeated, his whisper carrying up to Sentian. "They can’t, fool! They’re too big to make it up the shaft with His Grace!" Sentian would have kicked the bastard down the ladder if he could, but he wasn’t prepared for the fierceness with which Galen shot up the ladder and literally pushed himself up and over Sentian. "Get out of my way, and give me that!" Galen growled, yanking the lantern from Sentian’s hands. "Get down the ladder and bring him up!" He pointed at a piece of rope lying by the hole. "Tie his hands and then loop his arms around your neck. You can bring him up that way." "Do you think I’m as addled as you?" Sentian shouted, ignoring Hern’s command to be silent. Nevertheless, he lowered his furious voice. "I take one step down that ladder and you’ll shut the grating!" "Hern!" Galen hissed, pushing Sentian out of his face. "This ill-conceived serf will have to bring Conar up the ladder! You and Belvoir are too heavy. One of you come up here and keep me company. This little bastard doesn’t trust me." "Damned right, I don’t!" Sentian agreed. Belvoir’s head popped up from the oubliette’s opening, his face livid with rage. "If the two of you don’t knock it off, I’m going to whack off your nuts!" He pulled himself onto the floor and spun Sentian around in a hard grip. "Get your lily white ass down there and get His Grace before I put my foot up it!" Sentian wasted no time in lowering himself into the shaft. He glanced sheepishly at Hern’s angry face and then knelt beside Conar. He put a gentle hand to the prince’s cheek. "Your…" He corrected himself. "Conar?" Conar’s ears popped with discomfort. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He tried to focus on the face wavering before him and was able to make out a few disjointed words: "home," "help me, now," "will get you out of here." The face finally floated clearly into his vision. He tried to place the man hovering over him. "It’s me, Milord. Sentian." "Senti?" he whispered and his voice was like a rusty gate. " ’Tis me. Can you walk?" Sentian saw the blond head shake in denial. "Then I’ll carry you." He took the length of rope Galen had given him and reached down to wrap it around Conar’s wrists. "Don’t," came the fearful reply. "Don’t tie me up again." Sentian looked into Hern’s suddenly still face. Hern’s eyes filled with tears as he stared at Sentian. "You’ve got to do it, brat. There’s no other way to get him up the ladder." He took Conar’s wrists, crossing them in front of him and holding them for Sentian to tie. "Please…" the pleading was heartbreaking. "Please, don’t."

Sentian quickly looped the hemp as tightly as he dared around the injured wrists, flinching as the rope pulled open the raw, oozing flesh. "You’re hurting me, Senti." "He ain’t meaning to, brat," Hern said softly. He put his hands under Conar’s armpits and pulled the semi-conscious man up with him as he stood. Sentian ducked and Hern placed Conar’s bound arms around the young Elite’s neck. "Get up them steps in a hurry!" He grasped the ladder in one thick paw as he started to heave himself up. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he levered himself out of the hole and fixed Galen with a piercing, furious glare. "I could kill you!" "Not you, too!" Belvoir snorted, keeping Hern away from Galen. It wasn’t easy going up the ladder. Sentian was relieved to see Hern bending over the opening, waiting to take Conar’s limp body. The older man gripped the prince under his arms and lifted him free, and with Galen’s aid, laid him on the stone floor. Conar’s head rested against Hern’s wide shoulder as the man knelt beside him and cut through the bonds at his wrists. He managed to lift his thankful gaze into the hovering face. "I’m all right, Hern," he croaked and was rewarded with Hern’s grunt of disbelief. "You’ll be all right once you’re safe in your own bed with me at your side!" Hern sniffed and ran the sleeve of his tunic under his nose. Belvoir glanced at his old friend and saw the tears on the weathered cheeks. "Get yourself together, man!" He scooped Conar up in his arms as though the prince weighed no more than a feather. "Let’s get the hell out of here before someone comes looking for His Grace!" Once outside the ceremonial rooms, the men wasted no time in winding their way through the long, smoke-filled corridors to the entrance of the underground complex that housed the Chambers of Magic. It seemed strange to Hern that no guards were about. He mentioned it to Galen. "There’s no need. No one but those of the higher orders of the Domination know where this place is. The rest of the men here are never allowed outside these walls. What do they need guards for? The Abbots and Prelates control what needs controlling through magic. Your crystal has hidden us well enough. "Don’t borrow trouble by thinking about why we are getting along without hindrance." He glanced at Conar’s limp form. "He’ll have to ride with one of us." Galen scanned Conar’s bruised face. He’ll never be able to sit a horse on his own. He’s too ill." "Don’t you worry!" Sentian growled. "You won’t have to hold him!" "That wasn’t what I meant!" "Shut the hell up!" Belvoir insisted. "I’ve had all the yap out of you two I can take!" "The brat will ride with me!" Hern insisted.

"I can sit a horse," Conar mumbled, but none of the men paid any attention. Sentian ran ahead as they caught sight of the tunnel leading into the hidden cavern. By the time the others joined him, he had the doorway open and was holding the reins of Hern’s horse. "I’ll hold him until you get in the saddle." Belvoir thrust out his arms. Hern mounted and bent low in the saddle to take Conar from Belvoir’s arms. Conar felt a slight throbbing in his wrists as Belvoir handed him up to Hern, but ignored it. Nothing really seemed to be bothering him. He thought he could ride well enough, despite the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his head up or his eyes open. Why wouldn’t they let him have his own steed? "Seayearner?" he questioned softly. "What, brat?" Hern asked, bending his head to catch the words. "My gods-be-damned horse, Hern," Conar mumbled. "I want my gods-be-damned horse." "His what?" Belvoir questioned. "His horse!" Hern said with disgust. "That damned black hell-steed of his." "It’s corralled inside the Abbey grounds!" Galen gasped. "We can’t get it. Even if we could, that brute wouldn’t let any of us get near him!" "I can," Sentian assured him. From his tunic, he withdrew the rose-colored crystal. "Give me ten minutes. If I’m not back, ride out." Hern glanced at Belvoir, heard Conar’s whisper of denial, looked back at Sentian, and grinned. "Go for it, brat!" "No," Conar moaned. "They’ll catch him, Hern." "No they won’t." Hern watched the young Elite slip silently up the pathway and disappear around the bend where torchlight spilled over the rocky roadway. It took less than five minutes for Sentian to come walking nonchalantly down the pathway with Seayearner in tow. His full lips were wide with a smirking grin. "Walked this"—he smirked at Galen—"brute , right past four guards at that gate. Opened the gate myself and danced through without them even seeing the portal open or close. ’Yearner didn’t make a sound." He patted the velvet nose. "Knew I was coming, didn’t you, boy?" The horse nodded as though it understood. "We just waltzed right out—" "Get yourself mounted, Heil!" Belvoir snapped, his lips twitching, "and stop bragging." His eyes slid over Sentian. "It don’t become you, brat!" Sentian raised his chin. "I am no brat, Belvoir." Hern snorted. "I guess not."

Belvoir mounted, and gathered Galen’s horse’s reins. Sentian swung into his saddle and trotted forward with Seayearner in tow. Galen stood where he was, his face suddenly pale. "You’re leaving me?" Belvoir heeled to his stallion’s flanks and headed down the incline, Galen’s mount behind. "You can’t leave me, Hern!" Galen’s voice was hushed with shock. "They’ll kill me!" Sentian laughed."You think we care?" "They’ll take you in your brother’s place," Hern reminded. "I find that fitting, you arrogant little pimp!" "You can’t do this!" Galen put his hands on Hern’s leg. "Please, you can’t do this!" He saw his brother regarding him with detachment as the blond head leaned against Hern’s wide chest. He had no way of knowing Conar was almost totally unaware of what was happening. "Conar, please. Don’t let them do this!" Hern nudged his horse forward, bumping the animal into Galen, knocking him out of the way. "You promised me sanctuary!" "Stop," Conar whispered, trying to gain Hern’s attention. He felt something wasn’t right. "Tolkan will torture me for this!" Galen cried, his hands clutching Hern’s leg as he ran beside the older man’s horse. "You promised!" "You’re staying," Sentian took delight in saying. Conar’s mind was foggy, his eyes rolling about in his head as he tried to get them to work properly; but there was nothing wrong with his heart. They couldn’t leave Galen at Tolkan’s mercy. "Hern, stop," he ordered, trying to raise his head. His voice was scarcely audible and he tried again, this time as loudly as his parched throat would allow. "Stop." "Hern!" Galen shouted, disregarding the threat of someone at the Abbey hearing him. "I don’t want to die, Hern!" "But you’re going to," Sentian assured him. "No," Conar said, his throat closing on him. Despite what Galen had done, had helped to do to him, he couldn’t let Tolkan get his hands on another McGregor. "No," he tried again, annoyed when neither Hern nor Sentian seemed to hear him. "Stop this horse, Hern." "Conar, please! I don’t deserve this!" Galen fell as Hern kicked him away, going to his knees in the rocks strewn over the pathway. He held up his hands in supplication. "Please!" "Stop, Hern," Conar whispered as loudly as he could. His words came out in a single rush of air and his head fell forward. "Conar!" Galen pleaded. "Don’t leave my brother," Conar mumbled, trying to stay conscious. His lids would not obey. His last thought was of Galen and the pitiful, moaning, keening cry that echoed after them:

"Conar…r…r…r!" *** Kaileel Tohre had been reluctant to leave the Great Abbey before Conar’s consecration to the Brotherhood. He had argued long and hard with the Arch-Prelate, but Tolkan had insisted Tohre resume his duties at the Temple to take away any suspicion that the Domination knew the whereabouts of the prince. The High Priest had been only mildly reassured that Conar would suffer no more physical torture. The healing potion Kaileel had given the man had been meant to make sure Conar suffered no pain while away from Tohre’s protective influence. His hate, and envy, of Tolkan Coure’s position in the Brotherhood, were the main reasons Kaileel did not trust the Arch-Prelate’s words concerning Conar’s well-being. Tohre hated the old man with almost as much reason as did the young prince. Tolkan had been Tohre’s sponsor many years earlier and Kaileel had never forgotten the agony he had suffered at the hands of the, then, Cardinal of Ordination, a position Tohre now held within the Brotherhood. Leaving Conar in Tolkan Coure’s care was not something Tohre had wanted to do. When Conar had been interned at the Abbey, Tolkan had relentlessly tormented the boy. His punishments of the child were spoken of in hushed whispers. The boy was battered so badly, so thoroughly, so expertly, that long before he left the Abbey, his spirit had been broken. Treated so, confined as Conar had been, even the strongest mind would bend. Conar’s had not only bent, it had snapped, and the boy had tried to kill himself. Tolkan’s conduct had appalled even the most hardhearted among the Brotherhood and Kaileel had been finally forced to go before the Tribunal of Conduct and the Arch-Prelate of that era, Sager El-Balidar, to keep the boy alive. Such intervention among the members of the Brotherhood was rare. Only once, in its centuries-old tradition, had any other member been censored by his brethren. Occultus Noire—his name never spoken again within the Domination’s society—had been cast out by his fellow priests, and defrocked. When the Tribunal of Conduct ruled in favor of Tohre’s charges against Tolkan, had ordered any access to the prince, any contact with him, denied to the old man, Tolkan vowed vengeance. And, not being able to take that vengeance out on Tohre, had taken it out on the child in the form of an Abbot who owed his allegiance directly to Tolkan. His revenge had almost cost Conar his life. Since early childhood, long before Conar had been sent to the Temple of the Wind at Century, the boy had developed an intense fear of enclosed places. His phobia was so strong, so all-pervasive, all you needed to do was threaten him with confinement to gain the boy’s immediate cooperation. Tolkan had only once used such a corporal punishment on the child, had seen its destructive capability, and had not used it again. He wanted the boy submissive, not mindless; but once the child had been taken from Tolkan’s hands, it mattered next to nothing to the old man whether the boy was capable of functioning as a normal human or simply left to stare mindlessly into space. So, as his ultimate revenge against Tohre, Tolkan ordered the Abbot of Discipline to remand Conar to the ceremonial chamber where recalcitrant boys were dealt with. Within that chamber was the ultimate horror for the young prince. They say the Abbot who took Conar to the Chamber of Discipline that morning smiled when he had the acolytes force the screaming boy into the black oblong crypt used to deter stubbornness. He stood with a malicious grin on his weathered face listening to the babbling, incoherent words pouring from the child’s mouth, the pleading, the begging, the tearful entreaties, and had nodded in satisfaction. He had turned to one of his helpers and laughed.

"If he comes out alive," he said as the crypt’s stone lid slipped into place to shut out all light, all warmth, all air, "he’ll never give us another moment’s trouble." He patted the stone sarcophagus where dozens of unwilling victims of the Domination’s vengeance had died in an agony of breathless horror. "He won’t bother anyone ever again!" One acolyte, bothered greatly by what he was helping to do to Serenia’s future king, made his way to Tohre’s chambers. Nearly killing themselves in the headlong rush to get to the boy, Kaileel and the acolyte had pulled the eleven-year-old, unconscious and breathless, from the crypt. Conar’s eyes had stared in horror, his limbs stiff and rigid and cold, his mouth opened in a silent scream of terror. Kaileel had placed the boy on the replaced lid of the crypt and had breathed life into the bluish lips, and had held him as the trembling, crying youth thrashed about. "You are safe," he told the child. "Hush, now. You are safe, Conar." It was after Conar’s wildly thumping heart had slowed, his face losing the pale yellow hue of death, that the boy jerked away from Tohre and tried to escape. He knocked aside one of the burning braziers, igniting Tohre’s robes as the High Priest tried to catch him. In saving Conar’s life, Tohre had been badly burned, near death, for several weeks. Not even the healing potion could take away the horrid burns that would forever scar the High Priest’s neck and chest. Despite his fear and loathing of the man, Conar had been contrite. His tender heart ached for the pain he had caused another human, no matter how vile the person. His guilt came from his understanding that Kaileel had saved his life and, in return, Conar had almost killed him. It was a hold Kaileel learned to use over him when the boy became too troublesome and unreasonable during teachings. All Tohre had to do was remind him that he had caused another great suffering, and the boy would bow his head and Kaileel could do with him as he pleased. Now, sitting alone in his office, his mind in the past, Tohre was unprepared for the arrival of an unannounced visitor. The door opened and a robed postulant stood aside as the woman walked past him. Kaileel looked up at the Princess Anya Elizabeth McGregor, then sat in his chair, a smile hovering on his thin lips. "How may I help you, Highness?" Liza noted his deliberate refusal to rise. She had expected his ill manners to carry over into the privacy of his chambers and was not surprised that he failed to show her respect. "You have something of mine." Kaileel steepled his fingers and tapped the vermilion tips together. "And what would that be, Highness?" His smile was malicious. In three steps, she reached the man’s desk. Putting her hands on the top, she leaned forward. Her upper lips curled with disgust. "He made a bargain with you to spare me. I’m no fool. I know what you are; you know what I am. That is beside the point. You tried to corrupt him—you failed." "I have no idea what you are talking about, Highness. What is it I am supposed to have done? And to whom?" With one sweep of her arm, she cleared his desk of papers, ledgers, books, and quills. She trembled with the force of her anger and her utter loathing of the man sitting before her. Had she her dagger, she

would have plunged it into Tohre’s black heart. As it was, she forced herself to take a calming breath and locked her fiery green gaze with Tohre’s cool one. "By all that is holy, and unholy, Tohre, if anything has happened to my man because of you, I will slit your throat!" Tohre stood slowly, calmly, and swept his vision over the destruction cluttered beside his desk. When he glanced up, his look seemed to pity her. "I think you should lie down, Highness. You do not seem at all well." His insulting gaze crawled over her. "Perhaps it was your ordeal at Norus that has temporarily unhinged you." She slapped him, her hand lashing out before she could stop herself. His hand went over his left shoulder and she thought he meant to strike her in return, but anger settled in his rigid spine. "Yourman?" he taunted. "Yours?" He came around the desk and put his face close to hers, surprised when she did not back away. "He is mine, now, bitch!" he shouted, spraying her with spittle. "Can’t you feel that?" She backed away from the insanity in that hated face. His aura had a smell to it, a strong, evil, unclean smell like sulfur. He grinned at her, daring her to contradict him. "I know you have the braid of hair I gave Conar long ago. I want it back! When you try to use it again, you’ll find it useless anyway. My men went after my hubsand, Tohre. He is no longer in that evil place you took him and you’d better hope he is in good health when they return him to me!" She saw a flicker of surprise go over his face before the mask of hatred settled once more. "You didn’t know that, did you?" "You lie. Conar is where I left him." His tone said he wasn’t truly sure of that, though. "You think so? Well, you’re wrong. You know I have the power. You fear it. If you don’t, you should." Liza clenched her teeth. "Between us, he and I will defeat you and your kind!" Kaileel probed her mind. He let his power glean the truth of what she was saying. "He is mine, Tohre," she told him, "and mine he will stay! I am the Keeper of the Wind!" Tohre turned sharply away from her, feeling her probinghim this time, studyinghis inner feelings, and was even more surprised when he found he couldn’t block out her probe. Alarmed, he swung around to face her. He saw her knowledge in the wide horror of her green eyes. "Stop!" he commanded, advancing on her with the intent of strangling her. A strange look of mixed horror and compassion filled Liza’s face and she moved rapidly away. Her voice was threaded through with disgusted wonder. "You love him?" Her voice broke as the true meaning of what she had learned filtered through her horrified mind. "No. No," she whispered, the truth harder still to say. "You arein love with him!" "Get out!" he thundered. "Get out while you still can, bitch!" He came at her, his fist raised to pummel, but she ran, leaving him standing in the middle of his office, his body trembling. A spasm of panic rushed through Tohre. If Conar had managed to escape, there would be hell to pay. Tolkan would see to that.

He stretched his mind, probed the ether around him, and felt something slither past his vision. He tried to focus on what was lurking just outside his awareness. Was there something there? Or was he borrowing trouble? Sitting on the floor, he brought his hands to his temples and pressed hard. Therewas something there! He could feel a Rift in the Veil. The answer came to him with the speed of a lightning bolt…Conar was in trouble. He could feel It now, pressing in on him like the sliding crush of a marble crypt lid.

Chapter 15 At the base of Mount Serenia, some five miles from the Great Abbey, the three men dismounted to rest their steeds from the taxing descent down the serpentine trail. Hern eased the young prince into Sentian’s waiting arms, and they all sat down to canteens of welcome water. It was Hern who first noticed the haze. "What the hell…?" he asked. From the icy zenith of Mountain Serenia, a flowing, green haze oozed down the rockface. A noxious stench drifted in its wake and the wind began to pick up with freezing blasts. Conar was barely conscious, his mind still fogged with Kaileel’s brew. His wrists no longer pained him, but the bone in his right hand had not fully healed. It throbbed a bit in the cold wind and he cradled it in his left hand. Hern stood, his hawk-like face intent. "Is that fog?" "If it is, it’s like no fog I’ve ever seen!" Sentian replied. Conar, sitting propped against Sentian’s chest, heard their voices as though they were standing hundreds of feet from him. He glanced up the mountain, and his breath caught in his throat. "I don’t like the looks of it," Belvoir stated and reached for the bag of crystals at his waist. The fog slithered closer. It swirled in upon itself, shifted, folded back along its base, and then shot high into the air, turning a deep crimson as it moved. "Whatis that?" Hern shouted. Conar knew all too well. "What do we do?" Belvoir asked.

"We meet it head on," Hern answered. "No," came Conar’s soft reply. He tried to push away from Sentian, to stand, but his legs shot out from beneath him and he slid back into Sentian’s arms. "Highness, lie still!" Sentian snapped and tried to keep the young man seated, but Conar pinned Heil with a fuzzy glare. "Help me up, Sentian," he ordered, and again tried to gain his feet. His knees buckled and he lurched against Sentian. "Damn it, man! Help me up!" Sentian looked at Hern, who shrugged. They wouldn’t be able to handle whatever it was coming their way unless they knew what they were about to fight. Not having been at Norus when the demon Raphian had come calling, nor he had ever encountered evil, Hern had no conception of what slithered toward them. But Belvoir had seen the demon. "Remember what happened last time one of those things came at you, Your Grace." Belvoir stepped in front of the young prince. "Help me up, Heil!" Conar pushed against Sentian. "Highness, please! Don’t go near that thing." Heil remembered Norus, too. "Damn it, Sentian! Help me up!" Conar tried again until Sentian finally held him partially erect. "And, damn it,don’t call meHighness ," he snapped, his words slurring. Sentian braced his Overlord, helped him walk forward a few steps. He looked at Hern, begging for the man’s help. Hern saw the worry on his protégé’s bleak face. "What is that thing, son?" "My jailer," Conar mumbled, forcing himself to stay awake. These men couldn’t fight what was coming—only he could. Or at least he hoped he could. Red flecks of lightning crackled in the core of the haze; the wind turned frigid with a hurricane force that swept the men against the rockface. "Holy Alel!" Sentian shouted as he braced Conar against the wind’s onslaught. "What is that thing?" Hern bellowed, shielding his eyes from careening shards of debris. "Raphian," Conar whispered. "He’s come to take me back." *** "Liza?" Legion walked to where she stood at the window and put his strong hands on her shoulders. He felt her tremor and drew her against his chest. She rested the back of her head on his shoulder and wondered for the thousandth time why his touch had the ability to calm her when no other could; not even Conar’s touch could chase away the demons as effectively as his big brother’s. She turned in A’Lex’s arms and pressed her face close to his heart. She could hear the steady, calm beat through the crisp cotton shirt. Snuggling against him, she felt protected and safe.

"I needed you to hold me, Milord Legion," she said quietly. Legion felt the now-familiar rush of pleasure that ran through him when he had reason to touch this woman. He knew well enough how his wayward heart felt toward his brother’s wife. "He’ll be back with us soon," he told her, kissing the top of her head. She tightly hugged him. "Are you always so sure of things?" "Of course, I am. I am half-McGregor." She craned her neck to look into his face. She answered his warm smile with one of her own. Then, she caught the flash of hidden, forbidden love in his blue eyes. Her smile faded. For a long time they stared at one another, his eyes searching hers for something he knew he’d never find there. Finally, he looked away and eased his arms from her. "He’ll be home soon," Liza told him. Legion nodded. "Where he belongs." His eyes narrowed with deep hurt. "With you." Liza would have answered, but A’Lex put up a hand. "Good eve, Milady," he whispered and left, his boot heels sounding hollow and lonely on the flagstone floor. *** Conar pushed away from Sentian, annoyed when the young man’s hands still tried to hold him. "Don’t touch me! That’s an order!" He took a wobbling step away from the others, ignoring Hern’s muffled curse. His attention was on the rapidly advancing crimson haze, his nostrils quivering with the inhuman odor. Eerie red light washed his face, shadowed his eyes, and threw his cheekbones into prominent relief. "Don’t get close to it, brat!" Hern shouted over the keening wind. "You’re not yourself yet." Conar squinted with disappointment. He had been a fool to think he could escape from Tolkan so easily. Now, these good men might die for trying to save him. He let out a long breath, the others totally forgotten as he faced the demon uncoiling toward him. He could just see the faint oval of the reptilian head forming inside the haze. Conar knew a despair in his soul that overwhelmed him with grief. To lose his own life was one thing; to be responsible for others dying was another. Heart aching, he did the only thing he knew to do—he raised his head, opened his arms, and called to the demon only a few feet away. "You want me?" he screamed into the face of the grinning, drooling reptile. "Here I am!" "Your Grace, no!" Sentian shouted and took a step forward, putting himself between his prince and the haze. He howled in agony as the demon’s forked tongue shot toward him, severely lashing Sentian’s chest. He stumbled to his knees, holding his ravaged torso. "Don’t you dare!" Conar screamed with rage, going to his knees beside Sentian to take the injured man in his arms, their roles now reversed. His fury had leapt beyond mere mortal anger. "Touch one of my men again and I will destroy you!"

Hern groaned. Did the lad think threats would save them? He half-expected to be devoured on the spot, to be blasted with a fiery hiss of breath that would reduce them to cinders, but was surprised as the demon seemed to hesitate. Conar felt something rip loose inside him. His body surged with some nameless force that slowly brought him to his feet, his eyes on the menacing, hissing serpent-god as It spat. Its venom landing close to Conar’s feet, but didn’t touch him. The hair on Belvoir’s head stood up. "It’s afraid of you, brat." His face beamed with certainty. "The gods-be-damned thing is afraid of you." Conar could see the uncertainty in the creature’s beady red eyes as It glared at him. He took a step forward and the reptile pulled back Its neck. "Belvoir’s right. The beastis afraid of you!" Hern shouted. Conar looked back at Hern and nodded. Raphian, the Destroyer of Souls, was backing off. The sure knowledge that he could wield such restraint over the demon filled the prince with an immense sense of energy. He looked at his hands, amazed to see squiggles of blue lightning playing along the fingertips. His entire body tingled with it. Coursed with it. Invested with it. This new potency filled him with confidence. "You are no match for me, McGregor!" the demon hissed, but with a level of fear. Conar began to realize what was happening. It was the beginning of the power the Domination had invested in him at his ordination. He didn’t question it. He didn’t care to know how he had acquired it, how it had come full-blown, at last. All he knew was that he had the ability to defeat the demon, to save his men, and he had every intention of using that power to do so. "Back off!" he bellowed, taking a step closer to the vile thing. He wasn’t at all surprised when the haze retreated. "You are no threat to me!" Raphian howled. Conar smiled. It was a smile as evil as the grinning leer of the serpent-god. "You gave me the power to be a threat to You, Raphian." While it was true that the Domination had instilled in him the power to make war on the demon-god, it had not supplied him with the power he was currently utilizing. None save Kaileel Tohre realized the immense untapped reserve already inside the young man even before they gave him what power they had. They had not known that there was power, untarnished by evil, not as yet refined, still undisciplined, never hinted at, but immense and limitless, within the young man at his conception. It was that power which kept Raphian at bay. "You are a fool, Conar McGregor!" Raphian growled, his putrid breath washing over Conar. "Andyou are weak!" Volatile fury blasted over the men as the demon reared high Its triangular head. Its slathering, gaping mouth opened wide as though about to strike. Thousands of sharp, yellow teeth lined the mouth; blood-red eyes narrowed into oblongs of evil. The forked tongue shot toward Conar, the cleaving going to either side of him, but never coming into contact with the prince’s flesh, for there was now an invisible

shield protecting him. Conar’s laughter echoed on the icy wind. He stood his ground, never moving. With a purpose that flared his pupils wide, he fixed his gaze on the maw of the serpent-god, on the whipping tongue as it waved about his face. He could hear venom dripping on the ground, bubbling, hissing where it fell. He laughed."You can’t touch me, can you?" "I will take your men instead!" Conar shook his head. He stood between It and his men. He knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that as long as he was in the forefront, the demon was powerless to harm them. "I will make you watch them die in agony, Conar McGregor!" Conar’s lips began to move with incantations he didn’t realize he knew. He had no idea what they meant, from where they had suddenly sprung. His breathing grew deep and slow, and his face filled with an unholy light. Belvoir took a few steps toward Conar. The prince spun around and fixed the man with a furious glare, pointing a rigid finger at the Master-at-Arms. "Stay where you are!" "You heard him!" Hern bellowed and dragged Belvoir back. "Let him handle it." The burly warrior’s face was filled with overwhelming admiration for the man he thought of as his son. It was something no man had ever seen on Hern Arbra’s weathered features before that day. Nor would they see it again for any living being other than Conar McGregor. "I will slay you, McGregor!" Raphian screamed with fury. "Then do it." Conar’s voice was a soft, caressing whisper, seductive, challenging. There was humor on his lips. "You wanted me, Raphian. What are you waiting for? Here I am!" "I will take everything away from you!Your woman. Your children. Your friends. And when I am through with you, I will take your very soul!" Conar’s hand shot out. In a jagged spear, lightning flew toward the center of the haze. The creature screamed in agony, a cacophony of utter torment. "You want a piece of me, Raphian?Then, come and get it !" Conar challenged, taking another step toward the demon. A furious screech of frustration rent the frigid air. The mountain trembled. Rocks slid down the pathway, cascading over the rockface and into the precipice to land with distant crashes in the valley below. The sound reverberated through the mountains and over the valley and into the suddenly boiling, heaving sea beyond Boreas Keep. It hung suspended in the air like a thundercloud and the haze around the demon turned from red to the sickeningly, eye-hurting shade of green it had been upon Its arrival. "Come and take me, Raphian! You wanted me so badly! Come and try to take me now!" Raphian’s leering face bucked in anger, the eel-like neck twisting and snapping as It bobbed over the men. Venom gushed from the great maw. Where the venom landed, fires started and the earth gave way in large chunks.

"I will punish you, Conar McGregor! I will give you grief such as you can not imagine! You will die in agony, Conar McGregor!" The prince’s name echoed off the mountains, shooting across the skies with thunderous discord. "Go to hell!" Conar screamed defiantly. He flung his arms wide. "Go back to the abyss from which you sprang!" Another bolt of lightning zinged from his fingertips. The creature howled in protest. "I command you to leave!" Sentian Heil, hurting so badly from the lash across his chest, could barely see straight and yelped with sheer terror as the creature reared over them, surged forward as though to snap them up, and then vanished as though It had never been there. "God!" Sentian breathed, feeling the wet stain of urine flowing down the seat of his pants. Conar stood perfectly still, his heart thundering. He felt Belvoir’s hand on his shoulder and he turned, the smile of victory frozen on his face. He glanced at Hern, the smile growing wider. He winked, and then his eyes rolled up in his head as he pitched forward into Belvoir’s arms. Hern chuckled. "Welcome home, brat." *** "He’s home!" Wyn yelled as the top of his lungs. His skinny legs pumped furiously beneath his tunic as he ran from room to room in search of Liza. His blond hair tumbled wildly about his head. His blue eyes, so like his father’s, shone with an inner light that seemed to have a life of their own. "Liza!" His plaintive cry, rising on the last syllable in childlike petulance, rang out through the marble halls and echoed back. "Papa’s home!" Liza smiled. Her husband’s child from a brief encounter with a serving wench came bolting though the solarium door. "Be careful, Wyn!" she cautioned when the child nearly fell as he scurried to her side. "He’s home, Liza!" Wyn cried, grabbing her hand. "Come on! He’s home!" Liza’s heart beat so fast she could barely breathe. They’d had no word of him in more than six weeks; she’d had no news from Belvoir, Hern, or Sentian in more than five days. Her telepathic probes had garnered little more than a slight shadow of movement and her fears had grown steadily over the last two days since her visit to Tohre. Running as fast as they could, they reached the main doors and skidded to a stop at the sight of four horses tethered to the front hitching rail. Although Seayearner was one of the horses, there were no riders in sight. "Where?" Liza asked breathlessly, turning to her stepson. "Back inside!" The boy pulled her into the main hall. They were about to start searching the lower rooms, when a soft voice called to them in greeting. Together, they turned. Conar stood in the doorway of his father’s library. Bright sunlight cast from the room haloed his blond hair. Although he had lost quite a bit of weight and his face was stubbled with beard and shadowed with

dark circles, there was a warm smile of love on his face as his son bounded into his arms, nearly knocking man and boy to the floor. "Papa, I missed you!" Wyn cried and tightly wrapped his thin arms around his father’s neck, his legs around Conar’s waist. He buried his face against his father’s shoulder. "I really missed you." Conar fiercely hugged the boy, closing his eyes to the sweetness of his child’s body. "And I missed you," he whispered into the boy’s thick hair and kissed the flaxen curls. "Everybody was worried about you, Papa," Wyn scolded, drawing away a little so he could see his father’s face. "Are you all right? You look tired." Conar looked into his wife’s tearful face. He tried to smile, but his lips quivered. He looked back at Wyn. "I’m fine, now, Wyn." Wyn glanced behind him. A knowing grin, too old for his years, lit his sun-freckled face. He whispered in Conar’s ear. "I bet you want to be alone with Liza for awhile, huh, Papa?" Conar blushed. "Aye, Wyn, that I would." The boy laughed and his legs unwound themselves from his father’s waist. He slid down Conar’s tall frame and clapped his hands in delight. "I’m gonna tell Rory and the others that you’re home!" His merry laughter floated back to them as he ran in search of his siblings. All Liza wanted to do was look at him, at his precious face, his beloved body. She couldn’t have taken a step on her own if she had tried. Tears eased down her cheeks. She put up a trembling hand to wipe at the telltale moisture. He walked to her, stopping only a few inches from her. "Hello, my lady." Her chin quivered. "I am happy to see you, Milord…" Her voice broke with emotion. She tucked her chin against her chest, suddenly very, very shy in front of this man who was her husband. Her lover. Her heart. A faint smile touched his full lips. "Look at me, Sweeting." When she glanced up at him, he tilted his head to one side and studied her lovely face. "You are well, Milady?" "I am now." "Unharmed?" She could only nod. He opened his arms. She stepped gently into them, laying her head on his chest as his arms closed tenderly around her. She slipped her arms around his too-lean waist and let out a tremulous sigh of relief. "I have missed you so," he breathed against her hair, his voice filled with longing. He put his index finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. He lowered his head, and tenderly placed his lips against Liza’s. It was, by far, the most chaste kiss he had ever bestowed upon her, but at the touch of her husband’s mouth on her own, a flare of red-hot passion ran though her, and she felt as though her knees would

buckle. She groaned deep in her throat and pressed herself closer to him. She felt his body respond. His hands went under her legs, his arm behind her back as he lifted her and cradled her high against him. She nodded at his silent question, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Though his own legs were weak, not so much from passion, but from the abuse he had suffered, he managed to carry her up the stairs. He didn’t see others watching him. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. His full attention was on the woman in his arms. A woman he had been willing to forfeit his soul to keep. *** She awoke with a start and looked to his side of the bed. Her eyes met the steady, unwavering gaze of her husband. The quick smile of happiness vanished from her lips before she could speak, for there was neither life nor warmth in the look he gave her. He lay there, his head propped on his fist, and didn’t speak. The emptiness in his gaze unnerved her. Unable to bear the silence any longer, Liza caressed his cheek. "What’s wrong, my love?" A fleeting smile passed over his lips. "I was watching you sleep. You looked so innocent." Something dark flared in the deeper striations of his irises, some spark that turned his mouth bitter, his gaze bleak. Liza sat up in the bed, her heart lurching with concern. "I know what you did for me." His face filled with shame. "And you could offer yourself to me? Could make love, knowing how befouled I had become?" "You are my husband; I love you. What you did, you did for me. For us, so we could be together." She reached out for him again, but he turned on his side away from her. "Not now, Liza." "Conar?" She kissed his cheek, saw he was crying. "Beloved, don’t." "I had no right to lay with you last night. I am unclean, Liza." His voice broke. "I should have waited until this evil had been purged from me. I may well have contaminated you." She pulled him against her, cradled his shaking body as he sobbed. "It will be all right, Milord. You’ll see. Now that we are together, everything will be all right. I will never let anything hurt you again." He turned so that he was in her arms and buried his wet face against her soft bosom. Clutching her to him like a drowning man, he held her so tightly her ribs ached. He fell asleep with his head on her breast, his hand tangled in the black sweep of her ebony tresses. Tears speckled his long, tawny lashes and his breathing was ragged even as he slept, giving rise to her suspicions that dreams tormented him. "They will pay for all they have done to you, Beloved," she whispered as he groaned in sleep. "I swear they will!" *** Conar was home only a week before trouble began. His days were spent with Liza; the first part of his nights were spent in her arms, the second part in the

grip of nightmares so vivid he would awake with a body drenched in sweat, gasping, shivering. It was on just such a night that Liza lit the lantern beside their bed and turned to face him. "It is time we talked, Conar. You can’t go on like this night after night. You are making yourself ill." She looked at his haunted eyes, the dark circles still there after a week of good food and rest. He had gained no weight and his hair was not as shiny as it had been. He was sitting bolt upright in bed, his head in his hands, his chest and face drenched with perspiration. "I know," he said miserably through his fingers. "Then talk to me. Tell me what it is that you dream." She knew better than to touch him when he was like this, for her touch seemed only to hurt him more. "I can’t remember them when I wake. I can’t remember any of them." She knew he was lying. "Why not? I would understand." "No, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t." "Does it have something to do with what you told me happened to you as a boy?" When he flinched, she knew she had touched on at least part of it. She ached to take him in her arms. When he bowed his head, she wanted to scream. "Did they…did Tohre…were you hurt again in that way?" He shook his head harder. "Not in that way." He ground his teeth, his lips pulled back in a grimace of shame. "They were saving that for later." "Then, what, Conar? What did they do to you?" She made the mistake of putting her hand on his shoulder. He jumped as though she had branded him with a hot iron. He threw back the covers, got up, and stepped into his breeches. "Where are you going?" she asked, coming to her knees on the mattress. "For a walk. Stay here." He saw her go to get up. "I mean it, woman! Stay here!" He hadn’t meant to shout. He could see the hurt on her confused face, but he had to get away from her. Away from the thoughts running rampant through his fevered mind. He had to get the hell out of their room before he did, or said, something he would regret. Slamming the door behind him, he gasped and trembled from head to toe, his back pressed against the door. Liza curled up in their bed and hugged his pillow to her. She inhaled, smelling his special cinnamon scent. Her heart ached. Conar needed help, but she had no idea how to give it. There was only one other person beside Kaileel Tohre who knew what had happened to Conar as a child, and she meant to speak to him come morning. *** "Can’t sleep?" Legion asked as Conar sat on the rim of the garden’s fountain. Conar hadn’t seen his brother when he exited the house, or else he wouldn’t have entered the garden.

He needed no company, no companion save the brandy bottle. He took a healthy sip and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "What are you doing out here so late?" he inquired, frowning at Legion, who was leaning against the seagate. Legion pushed away from the wrought-iron barrier. He deeply dug his hands into his pockets and came toward Conar. "I could ask you the same thing if I had Liza in my bed, little brother." He had meant his words to sound teasing, but they hadn’t come out that way. In the bright light of the full moon, he could see Conar hadn’t taken them as they had been intended, either. "She’s not likely to ever be in your bed, so there’s no need for you to worry about it!" Legion’s brows shot upward. "A touch snotty tonight, are we?" When Conar took another long sip of brandy, Legion sat on the fountain beside him. "Care to tell me what’s eating you?" "Nothing." Legion nodded as if in agreement. "You enter the garden every night about this time?" "What I do is my business. I am not a child and I will not be questioned like one!" "Then act like an adult and you’ll be treated like one." "Get your ass back in the keep," Conar growled, standing. "Are you spoiling for a fight? Is that it?" Legion politely inquired, more than willing to oblige, for he wasn’t in the best of moods either. "Is that your answer to everything?" "When you’re in such a damned ornery mood, physical pain seems to be the only way to get, and keep, your attention." Conar’s voice was as cold as the ice on Mount Serenia. "That seems to be everyone’s answer to getting my attention, doesn’t it?" His body quivered in rage. "Causing me physical hurt?" "Whatis your problem, Conar?" "My problems are my own." "Well, you’ve got enough of them without having me as one of them," Legion challenged as he stood to face his brother. Conar wanted a fight so bad he could taste it. His hands itched to smash into A’Lex’s belligerent face. He wanted to pummel the man into mush. He wanted to kill him. "Go ahead," Legion told him as though he had read Conar’s mind. "Take your best shot." He wanted to. By the gods, but he wanted to. But something stilled his hand. "Go to hell!" he shouted, and stomped off, his spine rigid with anger. "See you there!" Legion shouted back as the library door banged shut.

Chapter 16 "There are just as many marks on his soul as there are on his flesh, Milady; and Kaileel Tohre put them there, as well," Hern Arbra told Liza that next morning as he walked with her near the soldier’s compound. He had been expecting her to eventually seek him out. "He told me they raped him when he was child," she said quietly, and through the down sweep of her lashes, saw Hern nod. "I figured as much, although the lad has never told me so." He turned his worried face to her. "He did tell me they beat him and that he gave in to what they wanted of him." She plucked a leaf from the white oak spreading above them. "It must have been difficult for him to admit that to you." "Did they…did they do…that…to him this time?" Hern’s face filled with pain. "He says not, but whatever they did, hurt him even more. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. He says he feels unclean." "It was a filthy place in that we found him, Milady." "It is more than that. It is something they did that makes him feel that way. Some part of the ceremony they performed, I’ve no doubt." She looked into the distance. "Did he ever tell you why he tried to kill himself?" "Aye, but if he hasn’t told you, he doesn’t want you to know." Liza studied the man. "How can I help if I don’t know what troubles him, Hern? How I can take away his hurt?" Hern took her small hand in his gnarled, callused one. "Just be there for him, Milady. Be there when the dreams come. Be there when he needs you. Sometimes a man needs to be held just like a small child. He might not want to admit that, might not ask you to do it, but, in the back of his mind, he’s wanting you to comfort him, to protect him. The lad is no different despite what he tries to hide. He has known more hurt in his short lifetime than any ten men. He’s never asked for a woman’s help; he might not ask for yours. But you can help most by simply loving him as I know you do." He up put his free hand to cup her chin. "As he loves you." Liza let out a ragged sigh. "He is my life, Hern." "He would have given his life for you. He would have let them do anything to him to save you, Milady.

That’s a rare love; a love I never thought to see him have for anyone." "His trust is so hard to gain." "And yet you gained it with ease, Sweeting." He took hugged her. "There have been too many people in the boy’s life who have hurt him." He eased her away. "But I know you never will." In a rare show of love, he kissed her forehead, and smiled sadly. Liza watched the Master-at-Arms walk away. He turned and waved, smiled his lopsided grin before disappearing down the winding path to the combat training fields. She stood there a moment, and then turned, gasping as she came face-to-face with her husband. "Good morn, lady," he said. "I thought you were out riding with Teal and Legion." Guilt stained her face red. His gaze went to the pathway where Hern was no longer in view and then came back to her. "He can’t tell you what you want to know, Liza." "I’m not prying, Conar. I…" "I know," he interrupted. He lightly gripped her hand as she placed her slim fingers in his. He began walking past the compound, into the forest toward Lake Myria. They walked for nearly a half-mile in silence. The air was turning cool from a coming rain. He removed his brown leather jacket and draped it over her shawl-covered shoulders, his arm holding the warmth of the garment in place. She wrapped her left arm around his waist and leaned against him, her head tilted into the crook of his shoulder. "Are you warm enough?" he finally asked. "Aye." She bent down to pick up a pheasant quill, twirling it in her slender fingers. "What time did you come to bed last eve?" She hadn’t slept after he left. Not even when he returned, smelling of plum brandy, several hours later. He had eased into bed, careful not to rouse her, and turned his face into the pillow. She heard him sobbing, felt the bed trembling, but felt instinctively he did not want her to know. Conar shrugged, pulling her closer. "Around four, I think." She didn’t know what to say, how to open the talk she knew they must have. Her mind raced with opening gambits of conversation, but he dropped his hand from her shoulders and stepped away. He sat on a rock under a tall birch, spread his knees wide apart and motioned for her to join him. She sank to the ground in front of him and leaned her head on his left leg. "Conar—" "I can feel it inside me, Anya Elizabeth." She looked up, startled. Never once had he called her by her formal name. His face was drawn, uneasy. He stared into space as though he could see something no one else ever had before.

"I can feel it growing inside me with every passing minute." "What is it you feel?" Her heart wanted to break when he looked down at her. "Long ago, you told me I would remember what happened to me at Norus. You said I would remember it when it was time for me to remember; when it would matter to me." His hand stilled in her hair. "You…youunderstood the power that was in me. You knew it was there even though I didn’t. Well, I feel it. I know it’s there, now. I wish to the gods I had known it was there long before!" She searched his unhappy face. "It always has been, my love. From the very beginning. It lay dormant until the gods were sure you could handle it." "No. It lay sleeping until Tohre and his masters awakened it, corrupted it. This thing…this filthy thing inside me is evil, Liza." His face crinkled with shame. "It’s eating me alive!" She came to her knees and cupped his face in her hands. "What you’re feeling is the power surging through you. It’s giving you a new way to look at life. But what you’re feeling is natural." "It is evil! I am repulsed by it!" he shouted, pulling his face from her grip. He threw back his head and glared at the branches overhead. "It is taking over what I am. What I was. It…it…" He searched for the right words. "It puts thoughts in my mind that shouldn’t be there. It’s trying to get free, to get out of me. It wants to do evil and I’m not sure I can stop it!" "The power is only as evil as the man who wields it, Milord, and you are not an evil man." Her eyes pleaded with him to try to understand the nature of the precious gift with which he had been blessed, that he could use that power for good, to help, to protect his people. "You don’t understand!" Conar could hear her thoughts as clearly as though she had spoken. "I understand you are frightened by the sheer volume of power inside you. I know it is hard for you to see—" "You don’t understand!" he repeated. He lowered his head. Disgust and loathing washed over his face, turning it dark with rage. "It is no longer just this power I was born with. They raped that when they raped me. They raped it. They mated with it. They violated me in my mind, Liza. They have taken away what was good and filled me with some loathsome, wicked being who is incapable of being normal ever again. Of beingclean, ever again!" His eyes were tormented. "They raped my very soul. Don’t you see?" "You are a good man, Conar McGregor! You always have been and always will be!" she shouted. "Evil can not touch you unless you let it!" "How do I stop it?" he screamed. His entire body shuddered with some nameless fear. He looked desperately at her. "How do I stop it?" She took him in her arms. "We stop it! Together, you and I. We stop it!" But he wasn’t sure they could. ***

Conar stared up at the man. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head to clear it of the man’s droning, officious voice. "I am regretful that we can not help you, Majesty, but there is nothing we can do to him," the Premier Tribunalist said. "We only have your word that he has caused you trouble." "Isn’t my word good enough?" He was amazed they would dare question his honor. The Prince Regent’s honor. "Unless you have specific charges that can be corroborated by an impartial witness, it is your word against the Arch-Prelate’s. Are there specific charges, Majesty?" The Tribunalist’s thin mouth stretched into a fine line of sneering contempt. Conar had gone to the Judiciary Committee of the Tribunal to have Kaileel Tohre censured. He knew he couldn’t give the Tribunal any hold over him by mentioning the Domination’s attempt to possess him. They would have reported it directly to his father and that was something he couldn’t permit. It would have been tantamount to having himself declared an outcast, disowned by his kin if anyone found out he had allowed himself to be touched by the Domination. What he had wanted to do was have them order Kaileel Tohre to stay away from him, and even in that he had been thwarted by Tolkan’s arrival at the hearing. Tolkan’s leering eyes had impaled Conar with a warning. He smiled at the seven-member panel. "Kaileel Tohre is under my supervision, Your Worships. I would know if he bore any animosity toward our young prince. If anything, Sirs, Tohre loves the boy dearly." Conar jerked as though he had been slapped. The warning was clear…Say one more word and the Tribunal will know how well Tohre loves you! "I asked if there were specific charges against Cardinal Tohre," the Tribunalist said. To keep from screaming his anger, Conar had to clench his teeth. "No, Your Worship, I have no specific charges." "Then why are you bothering us with this?" one of the other Tribunalists asked. "If you have a personal grievance with Cardinal Tohre, take it up with him. We do not get involved in personality clashes, Prince Conar." Conar looked at the little man and saw his defeat in the hard expression. Tolkan’s friends, he thought with fury. If they weren’t brethren of the Domination, they should have been. He bowed his head in impotent rage, his fists clenched at his sides. "My apologies to you, Your Worships," he mumbled. "I will handle it as you suggest." "May I also suggest you not come to the Tribunal again unless there is something worthy of these gentlemen’s attention, Conar," Tolkan told him with reprimand. Conar stared at the old man. "I won’t," he whispered and could feel the sweat dripping down his sides and breastbone. He couldn’t get out of the Tribunal Hall fast enough to suit him. Once outside, he took a steadying breath and wondered again why the place terrified him so. "What were you doing in there?" his father asked from the walkway leading to the Temple.

Conar jumped, his heart slamming painfully in his chest with fear that his father might suspect something. "Nothing." King Gerren raised one thick brow in disbelief. "Nothing? To my knowledge, you have never stepped foot inside those doors and yet you tell me you now went inside fornothing ?" He fixed his son with a hard stare. "No man goes to the Tribunal fornothing . I ask you again—what were you doing in there? Were you trying to undermine my authority by asking leniency for Galen’s perfidy? His punishment has already been decided!" "Galen is being punished far more than you know." "Surely you did not ask for further punishment for him." He flung out a negating hand. "Having his stewardship of the Southern Zone revoked and banishment from this court for two years is sufficient, I would think, for what he did. He is still second in line to the throne, although that was not my wish, but the Tribunal’s. I would have disowned the treacherous little snot, but the Tribunal merely wanted him reprimanded." Conar ground his teeth. "I believe that is a fitting judgment, Your Grace. I would not have presumed to interfere with their authority." He looked at his father. "Or yours." "Then why the hell were you in there?" If he could have stopped himself, held his tongue, kept down the boiling temper inside him, he would have. But he spoke before he thought, before he knew he had done so, and he caught a glimpse of his father’s astonishment. "It’s none of your gods-be-damned business why I was in there!" Gerren’s mouth dropped open. Never had his son spoken to him in such a way; and to make matters worse, the ill-mannered ass simply trounced away, turning his back on his father, hisking , as though Gerren was of no consequence. Adding insult to the injury, when the King called after him, the little bastard ignored him. "Conar! Come back here! This instant!" His face turned beet-red as Conar continued on. Gerren spun around, caught the arm of a passing servant. "Fetch that fool back here to me!" It didn’t take long for the servant to come back with word that Conar would not come. "I’ll geld him!" Gerren bellowed and stormed after his son, but search though he did, Gerren could not find Conar anywhere in the keep. Grabbing the first Elite he saw, the King ordered him to find Legion. "He’s outside, Highness," Storm Jale said. "I want him to talk with that shitty brother of his!" Gerren shouted before storming off. Storm didn’t need to ask which brother. "About what, Highness?" Storm called after him. "Everything! Anything!" Gerren screamed, banging shut the library door behind him. *** From his place on the steps of the Temple, Kaileel watched Conar and his eldest brother, Legion, arguing. As soon as his father had gone in the main doors to the palace, Conar had come out a side door and headed for the medical wing. His brother had stopped him and they had immediately begun arguing.

Conar laughed as A’Lex threw his hands into the air, stomped across the courtyard, and stormed his way to the stables. Kaileel kept his eyes on the young prince until he knew Conar had noticed him. He lowered his head in greeting and grinned as Conar hurried to the medical wing and slammed the door to the infirmary behind him. "Not in a very good mood, is he, Your Eminence?" asked Tohre’s young postulant-valet, Robert MacCorkingdale. "I would say not." Kaileel patted the boy’s shoulder. "I would imagine he is going to see the Healer for something to calm his nerves, wouldn’t you?" "It would appear so, Eminence." "Too bad," Kaileel sighed, tugging on the sleeve of his long robe. "Healer Cayn’s potions are not good for him. Perhaps I should give him something to make him feel better, eh?" "I would be most happy to see he receives any medications you wish him to take, Eminence." Tohre put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. "You’re a good boy. A good boy, indeed." *** "What’s in it, Robbie?" his grandmother asked as the young boy poured Kaileel’s potion into a cup of mead that was to be taken to Prince Conar. "Ain’t nothing to harm him, is it?" "Not at all, Granny." Robert smiled, patting her cheek. He handed the old woman the vial of tyrian fluid Kaileel had concocted. "Just see he gets a teaspoon of it in everything he drinks, except milk. The Master says he’s not to ever have this mixed in milk." The old woman’s eyes grew hard with speculation. "Would that kill him, Robbie?" The boy shrugged. "That’s just what the Master said." "So long as it don’t kill him," she sniffed and dropped the vial of liquid into her vast apron pocket. "He ain’t to die just yet." "Why don’t you like him, Granny?" Sadie studied him for a long time. "Maybe it’s time I told you. I think you’re old enough." *** Kaileel stood up from his workbench and replaced the ingredients he had used to brew the tenerse. He picked up a dark amber vial, uncorked the purple-colored drug, and sniffed. It smelled of wild cherries, but was not detectable when mixed in a strong beverage such as ale or mead or brandy. When mixed with water, it turned a milky-green and could cure the mightiest of hangovers. If mixed with wine, the cherry flavor deadened the tongue, and caused a buzzing, ringing sensation in the ears that brought about confusion and mind-numbing obedience. It was most effective when mixed with plum brandy, and that was the young prince’s favorite libation.

A strong soporific when given entirely by itself, as he had given it to Conar at the Abbey, tenerse was the drug of choice for most of what magic Kaileel had used against Conar through the years. Secretly, the High Priest had administered the drug, or had one of his henchmen add the potion, to Conar’s wine and brandy on many occasions. The brandy-tenerse mixture instigated anger and stubbornness. Never before had he given the drug to the young man on a daily basis and he was most anxious to see the results as Conar’s system absorbed the drug over a long period of time. He had cautioned Robert to tell his grandmother that the drug was never to be given in milk. Should that dangerous mixture enter the prince’s system, it could cause serious complications. In the Brotherhood’s pharmacopoeia, tenerse was most often used as a philter, a powerful love potion, that, when mixed with the secretions of any female animal’s mammary glands, could cause instant and violent sexual arousal. The Hasdu had used it for centuries before attacking neighboring camps; the brutal rape of the womenfolk of the captured encampments was the result. Recorking the vial, Kaileel put it on the shelf and smiled. With each increased dosage, with each residual-building intake, Conar McGregor’s behavior would start to alter drastically from the normal. The boy would think himself going mad, for he would not be able to overcome and control the powerful anger that would begin ripping through his system, an anger caused primarily by the effect of the tenerse. As the drug permeated his body, that anger would build to furious proportions until Conar would no longer be able to keep in check the evil side of his nature. Power or no power, Conar McGregorcould be controlled!

Chapter 17 "I don’t give a damn what you used to do!" Conar yelled at Thom Loure."I don’t want it done that way now !" He turned a frosty stare to Marsh Edan and Storm Jale. "Get the hell back to the barracks and stay there!I don’t need bodyguards in my own home !" He started to walk away and then spun around to point a finger at the three men. "And stay the hell out of my fucking way!" Thom stared at his Overlord’s retreating back. A huge scowl was on his usually cheerful face as he watched Conar shout at Lin Dixon, another Elite Guard. He’d already been chewed out by Legion earlier; he didn’t need both brothers shouting at him. "What the hell did I do?" Thom asked. Marsh shook his head. "I don’t know what’s got into him lately, but no one seems immune from his foul temper. I heard him and Teal going at it earlier. Du Mer moved out, bag and baggage. Went back to Downsgate." "He works us like we’re dogs," Storm snapped. He looked at the ugly bruise on his left forearm where Conar had slammed a pike across the flesh. "And he’s going out of his way to hurt the recruits whenever he goes to workout with Hern. He broke Patrick’s nose yesterday."

"Hern told me this morning he was going to have a talk with him." Thom nodded to the Master-at-Arms, who had fallen in behind the prince as Conar stalked toward the guard stables. "He tried to send Heil to his farm, but the lady wouldn’t hear of it," Storm mumbled. "She had Sentian’s missus move into the servants quarters with him. Now,that was a brawl when Conar heard about his lady countermanding one of his orders. You should have heard the shouting!" Marsh rolled his eyes. "I heard her tell him to take a flying leap." "I heard him tell her not to interfere in royal business, too," Storm reported. "Aye, but the lady gave as good as she got. I thought he’d blow his top when she stamped her foot and told him to grow up." Marsh hooted with laughter. "It’s not funny," Thom grunted. "He’s worse than he was when she used to disappear." "Used to be just us he’d yell at. Now it’s her, too." Storm shook his head. "And the lady don’t like it one bit." Thom watched Hern follow the prince inside the stable. He was glad he wasn’t going to be on the receiving end of that vicious scowl covering the old warrior’s face. *** Conar took hold of the ladder’s sides and jerked himself into the hayloft. He sat down hard on the planks and stared morosely at the tack stored along the far wall. He shivered from head to toe, his heart raced, and he felt as though he would, indeed, explode. His head throbbed with blinding pain and sweat drenched him although it was deep into December and there was at least eight inches of snow on the ground, the wind-chill lowering the temperature to well below freezing. He held his hand up to his face and marveled at its unsteadiness. He stared at the trembling fingers and snarled. Wrapping his arms around himself, he tried to still the shivering, to calm his fraying nerves. "What’s wrong with you?" he mumbled. He had never felt this way before. He felt alien. He felt unnatural. His outbursts over the months since coming home from the Abbey had grown increasingly more destructive. He fought with everyone who came in contact with him. "Are you going mad?" he asked. He had stopped thinking of himself in the first person. He no longer recognized the haunted man staring back at him from the mirror. Who was that stranger with the wild eyes? The bitter mouth? The tight, rigid spine? Where had the real Conar gone? Better still—how did he go about finding that other Conar? Was he lost forever? So engrossed with himself, he ignored the creak of the ladder as someone began to climb to the loft. He knew who it was, knew the man had been following, but it didn’t matter. "What the hell do you want?" he snarled as Hern’s face peered over the last rung.

Hern didn’t answer. He swung a long leg over the ladder top and came to hunker before Conar. He took in the pallor, the dilated pupils, the tremor, the sweat-drenched shirt, and the hostile tension in the young man’s body. "Are you taking drugs?" "What kind of stupid ass question is that?" "A reasonable one, considering how you’ve been behaving. Are you?" "No!" Hern knew the boy was telling the truth. "Has Healer Cayn been treating you?" Conar looked away. "He gave me something to calm me down." Hern watched his young protégée hunch his shoulders in defense. "It hasn’t worked, has it?" Conar ground his teeth. "Not yet." "Then maybe you should stop taking it." "Maybe I should." "Why do you need something to calm you down, anyway?" Conar shrugged. "Talk to me, son," Hern ordered, softly. "Tell me what’s wrong." "Nothing’s wrong," Conar said, too quickly. "I know better. You may be able to hide it from the others, brat, but you don’t hide it from me." He dropped his knees to the floor and took Conar’s face between his wide, flat palms. "Tell me, son. Tell me what’s happening." Conar wanted to scream. He wanted to fight. He wanted to send his fist crashing into the concerned face staring at him. He wanted to tell the fool to leave him alone. He wanted to do anything but talk about what was going on inside him, for he truly didn’t know himself. "Look at me and tell me what’s wrong." Hern commanded, not allowing Conar to pull away. The young man’s mouth puckered into a vicious, hard line and he ground his teeth together. There is such venom in those wild eyes, Hern thought with dismay. Such hostility. The boy’s body was fairly quivering with unleashed fury. He could almost see the rising tide of rage coming to the surface. He had to stop it from erupting. "Don’t say something you’ll regret." Perhaps it was the soft words, or the love showing in the older man’s face that stopped him; maybe it was the worry lines that Conar, himself, had helped put there over the years. It might even have been the gentle look on the otherwise harsh face that hushed the angry snarl trying to push its way from between Conar’s clenched teeth. Whatever it was, it brought uncertainty. His mouth softened, his jaw unclenched. "I don’t know, Hern," he answered, his voice breaking in a cracked whisper of pain. "I truly don’t know

what’s wrong with me." Hern gathered his prince into his arms and rocked him, sighing at the improbability of a sixty-year-old warrior, a cold-hearted curmudgeon such as himself, mollycoddling a man a third his age. He could feel Conar’s tremors and he thought back to a few days after the prince had been conceived when he had held the man’s mother in much the same way. He tore his mind from the past, his crusty voice deep with well-remembered pain. "Tell me how you feel inside." He was asking the same words, he thought helplessly, he had asked Moira, Conar’s mother. "I hurt," the mother and son both said. "I hurt inside." Hern took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He eased Conar away. "In what way, son?" "In a hundred ways. I ache in every fiber of my being." He bowed his head. Hern watched the young man, saw tears oozing from the corners of his eyes. He put a hand behind Conar’s neck and pulled the blond head to his wide shoulder. "Let go of it, brat. Tell me all." "I have such anger inside me," Conar said on a hitching breath, his tears wetting Hern’s tunic. "There’s such violence inside me and I don’t know where it’s coming from." "Anger like when you fought the demon that day?" Conar nodded. "Only now…now it’s like it’s controlling me instead of me controlling it." He raised his face, pleaded for understanding. "I think I’m going mad, Hern." "No, you aren’t." "Then what’s happening to me? I hurt people when I don’t mean to, and I enjoy it. I say things I know I shouldn’t. I do things I’ve…I’ve never dreamed of doing." He was crying openly, his voice breaking, his throat closing, his breath ragged. "I don’t know why I’m doing the things I’m doing and I can’t seem to keep from doing them! I must be going mad." "Don’t say that!" Hern shouted. He had held the only woman he had ever loved and shushed away her worries just as he must now soothe the pain of her son. "You are as sane as the next man. Don’t be saying such foolishness." Like a wounded, lost child, Conar threw his arms around the older man’s neck and plastered himself tightly to the thick body. "Help me, Hern. Please, help me! I can’t live like this!" *** He felt a great need to kill something, to maim something. A bird, an animal. Something. There was a bloodlust in his eyes as he sat brooding at the cook’s table. It was flowing through his veins; it itched to have free rein at him. With a snarl of rage, he brought the mug of brandy up to his lips and drained it. "You want more?" Sadie asked, eyeing him from her cook pot. "Did I ask for more?" Conar snapped, sneering at her.

Sadie shrugged her fat shoulders and ladled some soup into his bowl, his scowls lost on her. She sat the bowl before him and walked away. She didn’t even flinch as his arm swept the bowl from the table and the contents splattered her clean floor. She looked at the mess and then back at him. "What the fuck are you looking at?" he shouted. Sadie primly folded her hands at her waist, drew back her head, and looked down her nose at him. "You want anything else, Your Grace?" He glowered. "Wine." The old woman didn’t bat an eye. She took the key to the wine cellar from her pocket and opened the door. Sadie was gone only three minutes before she brought back four bottles, all she could carry in her pudgy fingers, and gently set them on the table before her prince. Conar reached for the bottles, two in each hand. "Anything else, Your Grace?" He flung back his chair and stomped from the kitchen, banging the door behind him. "He’s getting harder and harder on the lintels, he is," she sniffed as she heard the wood crack. *** Late the next morning, he stumbled into the keep, raging at everyone in his path. His vulgar curses bounced off the walls, shocking everyone within earshot. No one spoke to him. No one dared. He took himself to the kitchen, kicked off his mud-caked boots, hooked a leg over the chair at the table, and sat. "I’m hungry," he spat. He looked past Sadie to the far corner of the kitchen where her grandson sat eating. "What the hell are you doing in here, you little bastard?" Robert MacCorkingdale smiled. "I often come to see my grandmother." "Robbie be my daughter Joannie’s bantling, Your Grace," Sadie answered. "I know!" Conar shouted. "Get out of here, you sniveling piece of shit. Don’t let me catch you in my keep again!" Robert flinched, hurt deeply by the ugly tone and insult. His smile faded; his pale eyes glazed. From that moment, the respect he had held for the prince was thrust aside. In its place a smoldering anger began to form. He stood, shook his head at his grandmother and bowed with seemingly deep respect to his prince. He touched his grandmother’s cheek and lowered his voice. "Perhaps His Highness would appreciate some of that fresh chilled milk you gave me, Granny." Sadie stared at him with confusion, but she saw his slight nod. Her toothless smile filled with understanding. "I’ll do just that, Robbie. Thank you, son."

Conar ate a large meal. Bacon, eggs, crisp fried bread, poached pears and figs, a ham steak and two large dollops of cinnamon-flavored gruel. With his meal he drank four tall tumblers of milk and in each tumbler was not one teaspoon of tenerse, but two! "It’ll either kill him or drive him mad!" Sadie mumbled behind Conar’s back as she spooned more tenerse into his glass. At that point, she didn’t care what happened to him. After breaking his fast, Conar stomped barefoot up the stairs in search of his wife. When he smashed the door to their room wide open, splintering the lintel and snapping the upper hinge off the portal, Liza let out a small scream of surprise. She jerked around from her vanity, watching him take a step into the room, then use his foot to close the door. She could only gape as he spun around and shot the bolt home. As he turned to face her, the pure rage in his eyes stunned her. "Where were you last night?" she asked, her heart beginning to pound at her temple. "None of your business." Liza laid down her hairbrush. "Has something happened?" He didn’t answer. Didn’t seem to have heard her at all. She slowly stood. "Milord?" Something dark moved in the blue depths of her husband’s eyes. Leapt. Stirred. Some spark that turned his handsome face hateful with a sneer. "What is it?" she asked, edging away from the coiled tension she could feel in his body. She could actually smell his anger as he glared at her. He took a step forward, his hands itching to hit her, to bloody the lovely face. He wanted to hurt her, to hear her scream with pain. "Why are you looking at me like that?" She slid from behind the vanity bench. She felt perspiration on her upper lip and flicked out her tongue to lick away the telltale sign of fear. He had been about to leap on her, to begin her discipline for daring to question him, when he saw her small pink tongue move sensuously across her full upper lip. He stilled, his head slightly turning to one side and then a surge of such intensity, a wave of such primitive sexual arousal, shot through his loins that he grunted with the ache of it. "Conar?" She was no longer concerned for him. She was afraid of him. The look on his face wasn’t quite sane. "You are mine," he whispered with a fierce growl of possession. "Aye. Yours and no one else’s." Had someone hinted otherwise to him? His lips pulled back and his nose twitched. He could smell her odor. He could almost taste it on his tongue. His manhood leapt, and he started forward. "You are frightening me, Conar." His hands were on his belt, unbuckling, jerking it free of his breeches. Then his fingers were on his unlaced shirt, pulling it from his cords. He yanked the shirt over his head, threw it away, and slid his

hands down to the buttons of his breeches. As he ripped loose the pearl studs, Liza was sure of his purpose. "No," she said, backing as far away as possible, putting the vanity table between him and herself. "This is not the time." He froze, cocking his head, looking at her as though he couldn’t believe she had denied him. "What?" he asked softly, menacingly. "What did you say to me?" Liza’s heart hammered. Her breathing came fast and shallow. She swallowed, suddenly no longer just frightened, but struck numb with sheer terror. She shook her head. "I said no, Conar." "What are you saying no to?" "I won’t make love with you when you’re like this." A smile so wicked and so evil spread over his lips that his face changed before her eyes. "Don’t tellme , no, woman," he said conversationally, advancing on her. "You don’tdare tell me, no. When I want you, Itake you." Suddenly he shot forward. He rounded the table and was almost to her. She feigned to her right. He lunged, only to find her fleeing on the left side of the vanity. She scrambled onto and across the bed and almost made it across the wide expanse before he caught her ankle in a savage grip and jerked hard enough to abrade the skin. She kicked with her slippered foot and caught him squarely in the throat, sending him stumbling back. He coughed and gasped, trying to breathe, his hands at his aching throat. Liza scurried off the bed and ran for the door. As she fumbled with the bolt, he kicked free of his breeches and catapulted toward her. Liza turned as he lunged. She tried to sidestep away, but he snaked out his hand, managing to get a handful of her tresses. She put up her hands to pry his from her hair, but his fingers twisted in the long strands and she came up short. A fiery band of agony ripped across her scalp as he pulled her toward him, wrapping her hair around and around his wrist as he drew her forward. "Conar, you’re hurting me!" "You haven’t begun to see hurt yet, woman," he whispered, bringing her face to his. He spread his fingers across her scalp and anchored her head. "I’ll teach you to say no to me." He dragged her to the floor, his hand still clutched in her hair. She fell backward, his looming weight hovering over hers. She dug her nails into his forearms, raked them along his chest, his shoulders, down his side. She struck at his face with her fists, pummeled his chest, but he didn’t seem to notice or care that she was trying her best to maul him. Her strength was no match for his inexplicable fury. She wondered what she had done to deserve such treatment. His free hand tore at her gown, knocked her resisting hands away, and ripped open her bodice. He thrust his hard fingers inside the gaping tear to squeeze painfully at her breasts. "Conar, don’t!" she pleaded, the pain of his hand an agony in her heart. She tried to buck out from beneath him, but in one violent move, he flipped her onto her belly and straddled her, dragging her skirt up about her waist.

"Let me show you what disobeying will bring you!" Liza grunted as his knees insinuated themselves between her thighs. He shoved her legs as far apart as they could go. She opened her mouth to cry out, but her breath caught, her body was rigid as he hoisted the lower part of her body off the floor. The dry shaft of his manhood sunk into her with a tearing, burning, restricting probe of pure agony. She tried to scream, but he brought up his hand from guiding the intrusion of his shaft into her and covered her mouth, effectively silencing her cry for help and release. There was no gentleness in his touch. No passion. No emotion. Only the cold, impaling thrust of rage and revenge. With every jab of pain, she heard him grunt in satisfaction and felt sick to her stomach. He withdrew, then jammed himself as hard as he could inside her once more and she felt him shudder. Felt his seed spurt within her, heard his last animalistic grunt of satisfaction. She gasped as he pulled out, rolling away as though he had done nothing out of the ordinary. He stood and picked up his discarded shirt. He wiped himself with the silk and tossed it into the roaring fire. Liza drew up her knees, clutched her skirt over her naked, trembling legs, and stared at him as he walked calmly to the armoire and withdrew a pair of breeches and shirt, a pair of boots. He stepped into the breeches, drew on the shirt, calmly laced it, and then sat on the edge of the bed to put on his footwear. Never once did he glance her way. Nor did he speak. "Why?" she asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper. He acted as though he hadn’t heard her. He pulled on his left boot. "Why, Conar?" she repeated. He totally ignored her as she got painfully to her feet and crept toward their bed. He pulled on the other boot and then brought his thumb up to his mouth, wet it, and then rubbed the toe of his boot to remove a smudge. He didn’t appear to even feel the dip of the bed as she sat beside him. "Tell me, why?" When she put a shaking hand on his shoulder, he sprang off the bed and spun to face her. "Never," he told her in a soft, deadly voice, "never put your filthy hands on me again." "What have I done?" Her voice broke with tears. "Tell me what I’ve done." He lunged at her, his hard knee dipping the bed as he came up close to her. Gripping her chin in a fierce, hurting grasp, he put his face nose to nose with hers. "I want you gone from this keep before the week is out. Do you hear me, bitch? I never want to see your ugly face again!" He snatched away his hand and ran it down his breeches as though her touch had contaminated him. The look in his eyes said it had. "Why?" she repeated, pitiful tears streaming down her ashen cheeks. "He fucked you! He put his seed in you. Didn’t he? You conceived his brat!" She gaped. "Galen?" "Galen! Or has there been more than one man whose prick has been inside your filthy cunt?" He had never used such words to her, had never treated her this way. And never since she had been

brought back from Norus had he ever spoken of what his twin had done. Did he blame her for her own kidnapping? Her rape? The pregnancy that had resulted from Galen’s perfidy? "I want no leavings of Galen McGregor in my bed! Get yourself gone from here, slut, before I take your adulterous ass before the Tribunal and charge you with seducing my brother!" "What?" She could only whisper, for she was deeply shocked. "I said to get out, whore! Don’t make me have to tell you again!" He stalked to the door, ripped back the bolt, and slammed out. He pulled the door closed so hard behind him, the top portion came away from the casing and leaned crazily into the room. Once in the hall, he stumbled, his body lurching, as the effect of the milk and tenerse subsided. He clutched at the wall opposite his door and slid against it. The madness began to evaporate. "Oh, god," he breathed as he slumped down the wall. What he had just done came rolling back to him in waves of despair. He replayed it in his mind as though it was still happening. He shook his head in denial. "What did you do, McGregor?" He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but knew he had. He hadn’t meant to mention Galen, but he could hear himself accusing her all over again. He had only wanted to make love to her, but he had gotten carried away. "You’re quite mad, Conar," an inner voice told him. "And one day you’re going to kill her with that madness. Send her away before you do her further harm." He hung his head. If he didn’t make Liza leave, that voice might prove to be right.

Chapter 18 Later that evening, Legion found his brother sitting in the darkened study. No one had seen either the Conar or his lady since late morning. Neither had come down to the noon meal nor the evening one. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" "It suits me." Conar was stretched out in his father’s chair, his booted feet crossed at the ankles, a tankard of mead in his hand. He took a long draft on the brew he had drawn himself, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as he ignored Legion. "Can you stand some company?" "Come in or leave. It makes no difference to me." "Is it just me or are you mad at the entire world, Coni?" Legion asked, crossing his arms and leaning

against the open door. "What the hell do you want, A’Lex?" Conar drained the tankard and set it on the floor. "Actually, Conar, the gods put me on this earth with the express purpose of annoying the hell out of you. They commissioned me with the primary objective of finding ways to drive you crazy." "You do your job admirably well." "Why, thank you," Legion said happily, entering the room. He hooked a low stool with his boot and dragged it toward him. He sat beside his brother, resting his chin in his hands. Conar stared at him for a full ten minutes, neither man looking away, neither speaking. Finally, Legion broke the silence. "Why is Liza leaving for Oceania on Friday?" Conar flinched, but covered his reaction by shifting in his chair. "Who told you she was?" "Gezelle. She’s packing for Liza right now." He searched his brother’s eyes. "Did you two have a lover’s quarrel?" Here was the question Conar had been pondering. Here was being offered him the perfect reason for Liza leaving Boreas. Legion didn’t have a clue as to what had happened that morning, and Conar knew Liza would never tell anyone what went on between them in the privacy of their bedchamber. He was more afraid of Legion finding out about what the Domination had done to him than even his father finding out about it. "Is that it?" Legion asked. "Did you two fight?" Conar tried to put a look of misery on his face. "Things have been strained between us lately. We decided it best that we be apart for a while. So much has happened, we need time to think." "You’re talking about Galen, aren’t you?" Legion put his hand on Conar’s knee. "Do you blame her for what Galen did?" "No!" Conar snapped. "Are you sure?" Legion watched him closely. "Of course! This has nothing to do with Galen’s treachery." He averted his face. "How long will she be gone?" "Until we have come to terms with what is troubling us." With what is troublingme , he thought dismally. Legion sighed. "You two know what’s best for you, but I wouldn’t let her go if I were you." "You’re not me." "I know, and we do things differently, don’t we?"

Conar felt as though he were being chastised. His smoldering anger, never too far from the surface, leapt up in his gut. "Aye, that we do." Legion stood. "Don’t sit here too long, okay?" He held out his hand. "Still friends?" Conar would have preferred to knock away the proffered hand, but he stilled the urge, gritted his teeth, and gripped Legion’s wrist. "We’re still brothers. Nothing has changed between us." "Good," Legion quipped, not sure about the hostility he sensed in Conar. He released the prince’s wrist and turned to go. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Conar staring sullenly at him. "He’d take her away from me if he could," Conar thought aloud as he watched Legion disappear up the stairway across from the study door. A shiver of alarm ran through him. What difference did it make? He had lost her. He knew he could never touch her again. Not after the rape. Not after the horrible things he had said, the terrible accusations. He was unclean, unworthy of her. Tainted with more than just the evil of the Domination’s magic. He stared into the gathering darkness as the moon eased across the sky and sent patterns through the lace sheers at the window. A morose expression settled on his features. Slowly he covered his face with his hands, his shoulders finally sagging with the weight of his guilt. Even half-drunk, he could feel the enormous strength of his power flowing through him. If he strained his ears, he could hear conversations throughout the keep. He could even picture—or was itsee ?—what others were doing. He found he could read other’s thoughts as easily as reading a book. He could sense their unspoken feelings, their worries, their fears. Could tell moments before something happened that it would. Could will certain things to happen simply by wishing it. He was looking at the world with a new understanding, and he realized not even Liza nor Tohre knew how immense were the forces working within him. The violence within him, the power straining to get free, was becoming harder to control by the hour. It was an evil force that ached to destroy. To hurt. To maim and kill. The awesome energy that had shot through him this morning hadn’t lasted long. He knew that, if it had, he would have lost what little mind he had left. What if you had seriously hurt her, Conar? his conscience pricked him.What if you had killed her? He groaned. That could well have happened. After this morning, he was terrified he would either maim or kill her in one of his violent outbursts. To protect her, he knew he had to send her away. His words to her had been vicious insults, taunting jibes. He hadn’t thought he’d meant them. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If she was as far away from him as she could get, maybe she would be safe from his insatiable need to hurt those around him. At least until he had figured out a way to leash the growing fury. That he could, he had no doubt. It was only a matter of how and when. Such overwhelming power had to be utilized wisely or it would end up destroying the man who possessed it. He could see the potential for using it for good instead of the evil that tried to break free. He had to find a safe way to channel it. A way to use it instead of it using him. So far, he had not been able to, and he feared for Liza’s safety during those times. With her far away, she would be free of the

evil with which he had been smeared, the evil which soiled his very soul. He could still see her wounded, tearful eyes when he had left her. He could still hear her hurt question. He could no longer claim her as his wife knowing what he had done, how he had hurt her. It might even be best if the marriage was dissolved. A flash of intense longing and need went through him. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury. Tears were for men who had a soul, a conscience. He wasn’t so he possessed either one—anymore. *** Conar let out a long breath and stood. It was nearly five in the morning. He had again sat through the entire night in the darkness of the study. In the darkness as black and bleak as his being. Soon, the keep would be up and stirring. The kitchens would prepare the daily meals. The chambermaids would scurry about with fresh linens. The servants would be about their labors. The outriders of his Elite would be saddling up to patrol the town of Boreas where word had reached the keep that Galen McGregor had been spotted. The inhabitants of Boreas Keep and the Great Palace of the Winds would yawn and stretch and rise, bathe themselves, dress and come to their meals. They would eat and drink, and then be about their businesses. His father would be in his office early; Legion and Hern would be on the training fields overseeing the troop that would be leaving on maneuvers in three days’ time. Sentian, who Conar had appointed personal attendant, valet, would be riding out to look over the lands that belonged solely to Conar as firstborn heir. Gezelle would be mending a few of his shirts that had endured his wrath. And Liza— Would be preparing to leave him. He went to the window and stared at the first faint glow marking the false dawn. His fingers gripped the velvet curtains, crushing them. His heart broke at the same time his anger roiled with the need the lash out at something. Someone. Anyone. There was nothing he could do. There was no way he could say goodbye to her. His foul temper was even now grinding a muscle in his jaw. He let go of the drape. He would make himself scare. He would make himself stay away from the only thing that had ever truly mattered in his life. Make himself let her go before he wound up killing her. *** Somewhere a cock crowed, a cow mooed, a dog barked, and another answered. The creak of chains, as the drawbridge lowered, squealed in protest at being awakened on such a cold morn. An shout of encouragement from a serving girl to her soldier-lover brought loud chuckles from the troop as they crossed the planking, just behind the raising of the portcullis with its iron scream of annoyance. Horses blew steam from their nostrils and shook their heads to wake. Sleepy-eyed servants and visitors to the keep nodded dreamily to one another in passing. Guards in the barbicans leaned over the crenellations and whistled to the dairymaids as they trekked to the barn.

All the sounds of everything going on as usual at Boreas Keep. He hunched into the small comfort of his leather jacket and crossed the battlements to the eastern side of the keep. Beyond the waist-high guardrail that afforded sightseers a view of the quays below, a thick fog slowly parted as the day advanced, the sky turned brighter in the heavens. He could smell the threat of snow and he looked into the clouds and scowled. It would be a day as gray and bleak as the ache in his heart. He blinked against the sudden gust of frigid wind blowing his way and sniffed. He could feel the cold all the way to the bottom of his lungs. "Careful there, you stupid fool!" came a shout from the docks. He took a deep breath and walked to the guardrail. Below, riding anchor some fifty yards out to sea, was the clipper Northwind. Her teakwood masts rose high into the scud of low clouds galloping swiftly above the docks. On her deck, sailors scampered about, uncoiling lines, carrying goods into her hull. Her two forward ratlines were dotted with men as the sailors climbed about the rigging to check and secure. Her sheets were a soft tan in the mist, the mizzenmast sails almost a dirty brown color as the aft part of the ship disappeared in the fog. Above the skysail hung the pennant of the McGregor family, its dark sapphire triangle barely visible in the fast-moving clouds. The Northwind’s shrouds were new, the deck gleaming with loving care, the brass polished, the portholes shining in the glow of lanterns behind them. She stood ready and eager to tack into the freshening wind that would take her south to the warmer seas that lapped at the shores of Oceania. Conar’s blond hair whipped about his head and fell into his face as he leaned against the railing. Too-bright blue eyes lowered to the gangplank and he saw Teal du Mer, talking to the captain of the Northwind. Although Conar’s collar was turned up to ward off the chilly air blowing around him, he felt the damp sea breeze easing around his neck and down his back. He shivered, scrunching down into his jacket, his hands thrust deep inside the pockets. He stamped his booted feet on the stone gallery and blew a stream of air from his nostrils. It was the waiting that made his heart ache so painfully; but he wasn’t sure it was the cold seeping through his clothing that made him so numb. As cold as he was, as sick at heart, as hurt, he would not go below until the sails of the Northwind were no longer visible. A strong wind gust hit him and he tucked down his chin to avoid the blast of chill air. His hair was already damp, tousled wildly in the stiff breeze. The clothes on his back were no match for the arctic wind. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have a cold by the time the week was out. Not that it mattered. He would have been here, on this lookout point, at this time, on this day, if he’d had to come buck-naked. The bright wash of emerald green flashed to the rear of the quay. He leaned over the rail to look down. A piercing stab of pain went through his soul when he saw his wife climbing the steps up to the long quay from the main dock. Her hand rested on Legion A’Lex’s forearm and her head was bowed beneath the words he was speaking to her. Conar couldn’t see her face in the deep recesses of her wool hood, but he could see Legion’s. The man’s face was filled with anger. He seemed to be trying to reason with her, but she shook her head, and, even from the distance at which Conar stood, gazing at his brother’s face, the prince saw the exact moment Legion gave up his fight. Conar watched them take the long walk to the gangplank. He tensed as Legion stopped at its foot and took Liza into his arms. He could no longer see their faces, but he didn’t have to. He knew Legion’s face would be bleak with despair, hard to look upon, love shining in his eyes. It cut Conar to the quick to know Legion would be the one to bid Liza goodbye and not him. Thom and Sentian stood a few feet away; Storm and Marsh waited their turns to say farewell. Wyn was

there and, from what Conar could see on the now-bustling docks, all his children. A goodly portion of the upstairs staff milled about the base of the keep. Hern and Cayn stood side by side at the top of the gangplank, for the Healer had been helping to provision the ship’s medical supplies from his own vast store. Sadie sat huddled in a billowing greatcape, her gnarled hands wrapped around a large picnic basket no doubt filled with all Liza’s favorite foods. They were all there to bid her goodbye. Everyone she loved. All, but one. He saw her shake her head at something Legion said. Then she buried her face into the soft wool of his greatcape. When Legion turned his cheek to place it on the top of Liza’s hood and pulled her closer, Conar snarled. He gripped the ledge before him in a white-knuckled clutch. It mattered little to his rising animal fury when his wife pushed away from Legion, ran up the gangplank, putting distance between them. He ground his teeth as Legion took a step up the gangplank, but he heard his wife as clearly as though she stood beside him when she denied Legion access to the ship. "Nay, Milord! Stay!" "This isn’t right, Liza!" he shouted over the keening wind. "This is your home." Her small hand went up. "Not any longer, my sweet lord." His spine stiffened as Teal du Mer put a comforting arm around Legion’s shoulders. "Will you console me like that, Teal?" Conar whispered, "if I should need it?" He already knew the answer. In the last four days, no one had spoken to him. Whenever he appeared in a room, it cleared. Whenever he sought someone out, they answered his questions in monotones, never meeting his gaze. When he appeared on the training ground, Hern stopped practice. Little by little, he had come to realize no one wanted to be near him. Not even his family. He knew why. It had all come to a head two days after the violent rape. Liza had come down to table that morning, her head low, her voice a mere whisper. There had been dark bruises on her arms and neck. Every eye in the room turned to Conar. The King glared at his son. "Is this why Liza has decided to return to Oceania?" Gerren bellowed. "You dared lay a hand to her?" Conar had had no sleep for those two days. He’d had no food since the large morning meal on the day of the rape. But he’d consumed three bottles of brandy and numerous tankards of mead and ale. When he replied, every heart in the room turned against him. "What I do with my wife when she disobeys is my business." "You beat her?" Legion gasped. "Nay, Milord," Liza was quick to answer. "He did not. He would not." "Then what happened?" Gerren demanded. He walked to her and gently put a finger on one purple bruise. "If the man didn’t beat you, what did he do?" He turned a furious look at his son. Conar threw his napkin to the table and stood so quickly his chair crashed to the floor. "I punished her!"

he shouted. "That is my right!" "Punished her how?" Gerren asked in a soft, deadly voice. "Please, Father," she begged. "This is between Conar and myself. Don’t make it any harder for me." Legion had stood as well. His angry face turned toward Conar, although he spoke to Liza. "Has he warned you not to tell us what he did?" Liza shook her head. "He asked me to leave, and I will do as my husband wishes." "Why?" Gerren shouted. "Because I don’t want the bitch here, that’s why!" Conar shouted back and stomped off before anyone could stop him. Whatever Liza had said after he left the dining chamber must have satisfied both his father and Legion that she did not want them to interfere. No one came looking for an explanation. They simply chose to ignore him, and in doing so, let him know their displeasure. At first he didn’t care. He spent the next two days drinking himself into a blinding drunk. He consumed so much liquor, even the tenerse had little effect on him. When he finally sobered, he began to realize just what a mess he’d made of his life. Shouts came from the ship and the squeal of anchor chain being hoisted shot over the docks and screamed to Conar, bringing him back to the present. He pushed away from the guardrail and walked further up the barrier wall, striving to see the aft portion of the ship where a flash of green had appeared in the shifting fog. He gripped the stone ledge and was oblivious to the rough mortar cutting into his palms. The wind caught the sheets, billowing out the canvas, and he sucked in a nervous breath. It wouldn’t be long. Leaning further off the battlement, the stone ledge pressing painfully into his belly, he looked to the taffrail where he had spotted the swath of green. He squinted to see to the stern and leaned out even further into the rushing wind now laden with snowflakes. His cheeks stung with the cold; his chin was numb. He could no longer feel the small stream of moisture as it welled up under his left nostril. He squeezed his eyes shut against the piercing blast of howling wind, and the tears he refused to allow himself to shed. The Northwind’s sheeting filled, went taut, and the long ship thrust with a jerk into the waves. She tacked slightly leeward as she began to come about. The bowline still kept the sail as flat as possible while she was being close-hauled to the wind for fear the waves would make her list too far over. Soon the ship would be positioned so that her sails would fill to capacity and the blasting wind would set her on a steady, rapid course to Oceania. For a moment, fog drifted over the stern. He straightened, leaning back from the precipice upon which he had been straining so he could see Liza. The ship moving out to sea, he was a long distance from her, but he knew his wife’s eyes were on him. His lips parted and a low, hurt moan came from the depths of his being. He saw her hand go up in a hesitant, unsure sign of farewell.

He lifted his hand from the stone ledge, then stopped. "No, Conar," he cautioned himself, his hand itching to return her greeting. "Don’t give her reason to hope." When he failed to return her gesture, her slender arm lowered and she turned away, her back to him as she took hold of the rigging that held the spanker. He didn’t have to be standing beside her to know what she was doing. He knew she was crying. For him. For what once was. For what might never be again. As the snow began to fall in earnest, he had a hard time keeping the ship in sight. "You’ve lost her," he said. His voice ended in a rush of despair. He couldn’t stop the hitching sob from bursting from his throat. Tears streamed down his face, freezing to his flesh, and his whole body quivered with the effort to keep himself from screaming his anguish. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and ran the back of it up and over his left cheek to swipe at the tears. He blinked as larger clumps of snow clung to his lashes. He angrily tossed his head to rid himself of the crying. The Northwind moved into the deeper waters of the North Boreal Sea and the blinding snow seemed to swallow her bow. He could no longer see Liza. A part of him wondered if she was still at the rail, straining to catch a last glimpse of him, but he prayed she had gone below, safe from the freezing weather. He watched the ship sailing out beyond the entrance to the reefs that stood to either side of the sea channel leading into the harbor of Boreas Keep. His face distorted with his emotions, and he whimpered incoherently, his moans pitiful to his ears. When the ship was but a dot on the horizon, when her sails and masts slipped into the curve of the sea, when his body was numb with cold and his lashes laden with snow, tears frozen on his cheeks, Conar turned. He headed for the stairs that would take him down into the keep. He took one step and doubled over, grunting with pain, his arms wrapped tightly around his gut as his body strained with grief. He went to one knee, his head bent, and he sobbed like he had not sobbed since he had lost her the first time. He didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps on the snow. He didn’t look up as a sneering voice spoke. The words washed over him like the knelling of a death bell. "Are you ready now to fulfill your obligation to us, Conar?" "Get away from me," he breathed, his fear of the man turning into red-hot hate. "I will give you one more chance to discharge your duty to the Brotherhood. I will not ask you again. If you do not pay your debt to us, you will live to regret it." Conar slowly lifted his head to Tolkan Coure’s face. "How the hell did you get in my keep?" "I go where I wish to go, young one. I have powers you will never match. What is your answer? Do you come with us or do you stay and reap the consequences?" In a voice thick with murder, Conar whispered into the chilling wind. "I told you to leave me alone. I kept all the bargain I am ever going to keep, you son-of-a-bitch." His mouth turned ugly with rage. He came to his feet. "You and that bastard Tohre keep the hell away from me." Tolkan smiled. "People will one day know you for what you are. They will see what we have made of

you." Conar turned, his heart pounding with sudden fear. He headed for the opening of the outside staircase spiraling down a corner turret. "Your people will hate you when they find out, McGregor!" Tolkan screamed. "They will cast you away!" Once inside the staircase, Conar leaned against the cold stone wall. Tolkan’s mocking laughter drifted down to him on a frigid blast of air. He brought his hands to his ears to shut out the ugly sound. "You are Ours, Conar McGregor!" the wind seemed to warn. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the flask of warm milk and brandy Sadie had left for him on her kitchen table. His fingers trembled as he uncorked the flask and brought the biting liquor to his lips. Tilting back his head, he drained it, and the flash of instant arousal surged through him like molten lava. *** Gezelle looked up as her door burst open. She smiled sadly as she saw the prince standing framed in the doorway. "Has she gone, Milord?" He stepped into her room and closed the door. He came toward her, his face expressionless. "Milord?" she questioned, suddenly wary of the rigid posture and loosely held hands whose fingers twitched with each step he took toward her. He stared intently at her. She backed away from what she saw on his hard face. "What is it, Milord?" Her voice trembled with sudden understanding. He cupped her neck, drew her toward him. His gaze was intent on hers. "No, Milord," she whimpered, her head turning to one side as he pulled her face closer. "You can’t. You promised." A slow, malicious smile spread over his full lips. "I can do whatever pleases me, Mam’selle." She put her hands on his chest and pushed, but the rock-solid wall was unmoving as he dipped his head and brought her lips to his, covering her mouth with his own, holding her face to his as she tried to pull away. She managed to tear her mouth free of the deepening kiss. "Her Grace, Milord, she will—" "Never know. Not that it makes any difference to me if she does." He locked her in his arms. Gezelle shook her head. "No, Milord. I will not do this." "I want you, woman, and I intend to have you." "I will not let you…" she began on a wavering breath, but he cut her off. "I’m not asking, bitch! I’m telling you!"

She tried to get out of his embrace, squirming against the hard bulge in his breeches. "You promised. You promised you wouldn’t take me against my will. You can’t do this!" "I will take you any gods-be-damned way I please!" he bellowed, pulling her to the floor. He was over her in one lithe movement. "No!" she whimpered. "Fight me," he whispered as he dragged up her skirts. "Go ahead and fight me, Gezelle," he ordered as his fingers found their way inside her shriveling flesh. His other hand anchored her head. "Claw me. Bite me. Spit at me. Scar me for all I care. It’ll do no good. You are as much mine as she is." He thrust his fingers so deeply inside her, she moaned with pain. "If I can’t have her, I’ll take you!" His hard mouth descended upon hers and her whimpers were lost in the hard creases of his lips.

PART II: Chapter 1 Conar didn’t glance up when Legion came to stand beside him in the garden. As Legion continued to stand and stare, a muscle jumped in the Serenian prince’s lean jaw, but he would be damned before he opened the conversation with A’Lex. After all, he hadn’t sought out the man. Blowing a disgusted breath from his nostrils, Legion put his hands on his hips and snarled in contempt. "Papa wants you in the study." There was dispassionate expression in the cold blue of Conar’s narrowed eyes. "So?" Legion looked down his nose at his younger brother. "You’d better not keep him waiting. He’s not too happy with you right now." The wide shoulders lifted in an unconcerned shrug. "I couldn’t care less." The Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces didn’t think before he moved. One moment he was staring down at his brother, the next instant Conar was nose to nose with him, Legion’s strong fingers tangled in the front of the man’s jacket. "I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into you lately, and I don’t particularly care! I do know that you’d better not think of starting something with me, boy. You’ve got enough problems without having me on your ass! Papa wants to see you—see how fast you can get your ass in there to him!" He shook his brother for good measure.

Conar jerked away, shoving Legion as hard as he could. "Touch me like that again, A’Lex, and I promise, I’ll make you sorry you did!" Legion brought his arms under Conar and locking his hands together behind his neck so that the prince’s head was bent forward. "I’ll beat the crap out of you if you say one more word!" "Get your hands off me, A’Lex!" came the stony reply through clenched teeth. "Let him go, Legion," King Gerren called from the library door. When Legion hesitated, pushing Conar’s neck forward even more, Gerren repeated his command. Conar took a swing as soon as Legion’s hands were off him, but the bigger man stepped back and lashed out with the open palm of his right hand, smacking Conar smartly on the cheek. "Son-of-a-bitch!" Conar shouted, his cheek red and stinging. "I ought to…" Gerren sighed, his watery blue eyes going to the heavens. "Come on," Legion taunted, risking a side-glance at the king. Encouraged when he saw no anger lurking on their father’s bland face, he jutted his chin forward and crooked his second and third fingers in invitation. "Just try it!" Conar lunged, skidded on the icy walkway, and went down on his belly, sliding forward until he came up against the fountain’s rim. He let out a string of vulgarities that turned the air blue; he used words neither his brother nor father had heard him use before. They stared in amazement as he came to his feet and turned to glare at them. There was a long bloody scrape under his chin where a dead twig had gouged his flesh. He wiped at the trickle of blood and then looked at the bright splash of color on his gloved fingers. "Are you satisfied now?" he whispered to Legion. "Now that you’ve hurt me?" "You caused that yourself," his father reminded. Conar nodded with spite. "Everything that happens to me is my own fault." "Fools deserve what they get," Legion prophesied. Conar dusted the snow off his breeches and plopped down on the fountain ledge. He lowered his head so his father would not see the murderous intent aimed A’Lex’s way. "You wanted me, Majesty." His teeth were grinding as he spoke. "What’s happening to you, Conar?" his father demanded. "You act like you’re angry at the entire world. You show me no respect whatsoever." The King’s mouth turned bitter. "Stand up when I’m talking to you!" Conar fixed his father with a look that said more than any words could express. With studied indifference, he stood, folded his arms across his chest. His body was as rigid as steel. Gerren was shocked that his son stared at him with an expression filled with unadulterated hatred—no warmth, no honor, no respect, not even a semblance of love. Only mocking attention.

The King saw the same confusion registering on Legion’s face. "Leave us, Legion. I will speak to your brother alone. "Aye, Majesty," Legion growled. When the library door closed behind Legion, the King walked calmly toward his firstborn legal heir and glared. Blue eyes clashed with blue, and the two men made no move to speak. If the King had thought to intimidate this son by his continued silence, it wasn’t working. Conar glared back with as much concern as if he were looking at the man’s portrait. Red-hot anger shot through Gerren. He leaned forward, his face in Conar’s. "You are treading on thin ice. Very thin ice, indeed." The sensual mouth stretched into a firm, unconcerned line. "Meaning what?" "Meaning if you don’t start behaving in a manner more suited to the heir of the throne, I will have to seriously consider abrogating your succession in favor of your brother, Dyllon." The King was pleased at the flare of uncertainty that came over his son’s face. "You wouldn’t dare." Gerren’s lip curled. "This isn’t one of your brothers you’re talking to. I would, and I will." "You won’t." "Try me!" For a long moment Conar stared at the angry face and realized, with a pang, the man would do as he threatened. Fury raced through Conar as surely as the ache of betrayal ran through his heart. He couldn’t stand seeing himself mirrored in his father’s eyes and started to walk way. But he felt his arm caught in a steely grip that made him flinch. He was jerked around to face towering rage on the aged face of, not his father, but his sovereign King. "Youever do that again, and I will have you clapped in irons so fast you’ll wonder what the hell you did to piss me off!" "Why don’t you people just leave me the hell alone?" Conar shouted. He struggled to control his temper, for he had a great, burgeoning desire to hit his father. "Haven’t you hurt me enough?" Gerren’s mouth dropped open. "Hurt you? What are you talking about?" "I want to be left alone!" Conar screamed, trying to jerk free. "What is wrong with you?" Gerren growled, tightening his grip on his son’s forearm. "You have responsibilities, boy! Duties you’ve ignored ever since you came back to the keep from wherever the hell you were those six weeks. Left alone? You have obligations!" His face was as red as blood. "Left alone, indeed! I will not have this foolishness from you, Conar Aleksandro. If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times—" "If I didn’t listen the first time, what makes you think I’ll listen to your stupid shit now?"

His father’s hand caught him full across the mouth. The blow staggered him. He stumbled and crashed into the trunk of a tall redbud and had to clutch a low-hanging branch to keep from falling. He put a trembling hand to his injured lip. "You had to do it, too, didn’t you?" the prince asked in a strained voice. "You had to hurt me, too." He raised his chin. "Do it again, Majesty. I didn’t bleed that time." "You want bloodshed, Conar?" The king raised his hand again, but Conar stood his ground, never looking away from the fury, never trying to stop the blow. When it came, he barely flinched, even though his lower lip gushed crimson. It had now gone far beyond the quarrel of father and son. Beyond the chastisement of parent to child. Conar’s sneer of contempt for Gerren’s authority had put it on a level between King and subject. Neither man would dare lose face by walking away. Male egos wouldn’t permit it. "Do you want to spend the night in the dungeon?" Gerren asked in a matter-of-fact tone. When Conar didn’t answer, Gerren nodded. "I didn’t think so." The King folded his arms and regarded his silent son. "I have business that needs to be taken care of in Ciona. You will leave at the end of the month and act as my representative. Until then, I neither want to see your face, nor hear your vulgar voice. Pack your things and go to Ivor. Stay there until I send word that the time has come for you to go to Ciona." "Do I get down on my knees to thank you for dismissing me from my home, or do I just smile and act like a servant?" Conar replied tartly. The King’s hands clenched into fists as he glowered at the smug face. He knew he should hit the young man again. The look on Conar’s face was bringing the boy one step closer to spending a few cold nights in the filthiest cell Boreas Dungeon had to offer; but something painful lurked in the prince’s eyes as well. A spark of loneliness that shined brighter than the disrespect and sarcasm. Gerren thought he knew what had caused it. "Your brothers and I have discussed this thing between you and Liza." Conar turned away. He didn’t want to talk about Liza with anyone. Especially now. The effects of the tenerse-laced ale he had consumed at supper were wearing off and he was beginning to feel the same doubt, uncertainty, and bewilderment that flooded him every night. The anger was being replaced with acute shame. Gerren could almost feel the boy’s self-confidence collapsing. Conar’s shoulders sagged; some of the rigidity left his spine. "I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but it has affected you in a way that is not acceptable. How you live your life directly influences the state of this monarchy. You can not be allowed to behave as though you can do whatever you want. As heir to this throne, you are liable to me for what you do. You are answerable to your people in much the same way. Your behavior of late is appalling. You have built walls around you; shut yourself off from everyone. Tell me what is hurting you. Let me know how to help. How do I break down those walls?"

Conar felt something snap inside his head. He blinked, tossed the blond hair from his forehead. It was as though he had come up out of a dark pool and could again see clearly. He focused on his father’s face, wondered what they had been talking about, and was stunned that they were standing in the middle of the garden in lightly falling snow. He gazed at the anguish on his father’s face, the tension in the still-powerful body, and wondered what he had done. "Why are you looking at me like that, Papa?" It was as though someone had slapped the king with a slab of cold meat. Gerren’s mouth dropped open. By the gods, Conar thought with shock. He had done something terrible. He was afraid to ask what. He didn’t think he wanted to know what other awful deeds he was capable of doing. There was a noose tightening around his neck, squeezing the life out of him, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop it. He could feel an emotional dam building inside him, and in a detached way, he wondered when and where the first crack would appear; when the flooding waters would pour out of his shattered soul to drown him in the maddening surge. One moment he was blind to what had been happening, the next, every word, every action, every shameful event rushed back at him, flooding his mind with the stench of evil. He viewed the past half-hour as though it was happening again. "Sweet Merciful Alel," he groaned, "I didn’t!" He buried his face in his hands. "Conar?" his father asked, touching his son’s rigid arm. "What is it, son?" He felt as though he were coming apart at the seams. "I’m sorry." His voice was filled with humiliation. "Papa, I am sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me." His son’s sudden vague, perplexed look did more to frighten the King than the vile temper of only a few moments earlier. "Go inside where it’s warm." He stroked the boy’s arm. "Go to your room and I’ll send Cayn to you." Conar met his father’s look. "There’s nothing physically wrong, Papa." "There well might be," his father contradicted. "It’ll do no harm for Cayn to look at you." *** "Did Cayn examine him?" "Aye," Gerren sighed as he sat in his favorite chair before the library’s roaring fire. Legion laid down the book he had been reading. "And?" "He can find nothing ailing the boy. No tumors. Nothing. Cayn assures me there are no signs of him taking drugs, but damn me if he doesn’t act like he’s in another world most of the time!" "The intensity of his anger is certainly unjustifiable," Legion stated. "One more outburst like last evening and I’m going to beat the hell out of him and be done with it." "I’m not sure that would help." Gerren chuckled. "Although it might makeyou feel better." "Something’s not right, Papa. He gets worse every day."

"Could it be because of what happened to Liza with Galen?" Legion shook his head. "I asked him and he said no." "But you aren’t sure?" "I don’t think he blames her, but I don’t think he can let it go either. It’s as though he keeps replaying it in his mind and all that rage begins to surface. I don’t think he knows how to handle what he’s feeling. He just lashes out at anyone or anything that upsets him. What else can it be?" Gerren sighed. "It takes a strong man to deal with his woman’s rape. Especially when it has been by his own kin. I never thought any of my sons capable of such evil." He shook his head. "Jah-Ma-El, Galen—their treachery was bad enough. Now Conar’s behaving as though he has lost his senses. What am I to think of how I have raised my children?" "You aren’t to blame, Papa. What we do with your teachings as we age is what sets us apart from one another. It is what individualizes us. If our morals are tarnished, you are not to blame." Gerren laid his head on the back of the chair. "Perhaps a week or two in Ciona will help him sort out whatever is bothering him." Legion plowed a thick hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He wasn’t so sure. He lowered his hand and scratched at his full beard. "I heard Brelan was in Ciona." His father shrugged. "The chances of them running into one another are slim." "It won’t help Conar if he sees him." A snort of annoyance came from Gerren’s tired lips. "It’s high time those two boys settled their differences." Legion agreed; he just wasn’t sure now was that time. *** Conar sat playing with his food. He didn’t want it, didn’t need it, and sure as hell didn’t find it palatable. He spooned the oatmeal up and down, letting it plop down with a slurping sound, letting it splatter on the table, drip down the side of the earthenware bowl. He swirled it around, made tunnels through it. Finally, he spooned up a huge mound and shot it across the room where it landed in a sticky gob over Sadie’s head. "Either eat it or leave it, Highness!" she snapped as she came to stand over him, her fat, meaty hands on her ample hips. "If you want something else, say so, else get out of my kitchen!" He responded with almost immediate violence. With a swish of his hand, he swept the bowl off the table. Oatmeal scattered in gray lumps on the freshly scrubbed planking and the earthen bowl shattered into fragments. He snorted, his face tight with snotty smugness. "Oh, that was just fine, it was!" she snarled, eyeing the blotches of sticky gobs. "It takes intelligence to do that!" She folded her arms across her heavy bosom. "If you were a decade or so younger, I’d have you on the floor cleaning it up!"

Conar stood, towering over the squat woman. He wiped his hands on the napkin in front of him, put his hands on the table, and then leaned over, his eyes boring into hers, not surprised when the old lady didn’t back away from his towering menace. "You’d do what?" he whispered, his head tilted as he smiled a lethal challenge. Sadie sniffed, her pug nose jammed up in the air as though she had caught wind of a not-so-pleasant smell. "You heard me. I ain’t afraid of you. You might be able to make the others go to trembling in their shoes, but you don’t scare me." She wagged a finger in his face. "You take your bullying tactics somewhere else." A smile full of deadly promise touched his full lips. "I’d be careful if I were you, old woman. Things happen around here sometimes." He winked. "Stairs get slippery. Fires start in the kitchen all the time. Wasn’t it just last week one of your scullery maids broke her leg?" Her beady eyes narrowed with cunning. "Them things go for all the keep folk, now don’t they, Your Grace?" Sadie turned her back on him. She picked up a tankard of milk she had been preparing and started to bring it to her lips. "Why don’t you be a good little boy and play outside. Drown a kitten or two. You’ll feel better." Her smile was full of retaliation. "You ain’t getting nothing more from me this day." He snatched the tankard from her hand, draining it in one swift draft. Wiping the sleeve of his tunic across his mouth, he threw the tankard as far across the room as he could. Sadie shrugged her fat shoulders. "Don’t make no nevermind to me, Your Grace. ’Tis your utensils you destroy." "Aye, and it might be one fat old bitch the next time!" he spat and stormed out of the kitchen. Sadie MacCorkingdale smiled with spite. She spoke to the person who had been hiding inside the pantry. "I don’t know what it is you’re giving him, but it sure ain’t setting well." Her grandson picked up a freshly baked muffin and bit into the blueberry-filled bread. "Just see he gets his medicine at every meal, Granny." The old woman walked to him and tousled the bright blond hair. "Oh, I will, Robbie, don’t you worry." The fat face filled with hate. "He’ll pay for what he done to your mama. We’ll see to that!" *** Sexual hunger ached inside him. He fidgeted in the chair, his blue gaze hot on Gezelle as she arranged flowers in a vase on his desk. He studied her delicate shoulders, evaluated the curve of her back, enjoyed the tight sweep of her rump. A black tendril of hair had escaped her snood and floated beside the gentle turn of her cheek. A tiny smudge of dust dotted the soft olive flesh and he wanted nothing more than to lick it away. As she bent forward over the desk to rub at a stain, her breasts swayed in her pale blue gown. His loins surged with need. "How much longer are you going to be?" he asked and met her inquiring look as she turned. "I’m finished, Milord," she answered, tearing her gaze from his. She knew that look all too well of late.

"Come here." His soft voice made her heart thud. She hurried toward the door. "I have things I must do, Milord." "Gezelle." Her hand was on the knob when he called again. Once more the soft, insinuating call, "Gezelle." She glanced back at him, unsure, timid. He was lounging in his chair, one leg over the arm, bare foot dangling; the other leg was stretched out in front of him. He was leaning on his elbow, chin in hand, his head cocked at an angle as he stared. His naked chest gleamed in the candlelight. Her gaze darted to his waistband where the top three buttons were undone. "I have things to see to, Milord." She jerked open his door, her heart beating too fast. "Gezelle!" It was no longer a request. She dropped her head. "Milord, please. Now is not the time to—" "Close the door, Mam’selle." Without a word, she pushed shut the heavy oak panel. "Bolt it." She shot the bolt. "Come here." She couldn’t move. She knew what he wanted. She knew, too, what he would get. She held her breath when she heard his chair squeak and knew he was coming for her. Conar padded softly to her and withdrew her snood. He removed the pins and spread the black tresses over her shoulders. Then he took her shoulders, turning her to face him. He backed her against the wall. "Why do you always make me come to you?" he asked quietly. He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek. "Why is that, Mam’selle?" "Milord, please. Not again this morning," she pleaded. It had been bad enough after the morning meal when he had sought her out in her room as she dressed for the day. He had ravaged her and she was still sore from his thrusts. "You will not deny me, Mam’selle," he whispered as he ran his tongue along her earlobe, smiling as he heard her quick intake of breath. He took the tender lobe between his teeth and worked it back and forth. Gezelle felt her resolve weakening, as it always did, at the touch of his wicked mouth on her neck, as he kissed the soft indention beneath her ear.

"Someone will miss me, Milord." She put up her hands to push him away, but he took them and brought her fingers to his mouth. "I have missed you," he told her, licking her fingertips with his tongue. "Please, don’t," she begged, feeling the heat of passion building in her lower body. As he moved against her, his thigh brushing the heat of her lust, she felt her knees threatening to buckle. "You want me," he whispered against her mouth. "I know you do." "This is wrong, Milord. You know it is wrong." "I know what I want." "Milord, please, don’t!" she moaned, gasping as her belly filled with a hot stab of desire. "Don’t tell me what to do, Gezelle," he warned. He drew the tip of her index finger into his mouth, nibbled it with his teeth. "Oh, god!" she moaned, her knees growing weak. He let go of her hands and drew her to him, his hands molding themselves to her trim derrière. She wiggled against him, trying to break free, and he brought her into hard contact with his lower body, his manhood pressing against her belly. "Shush!" he warned in a seductive whisper. His lips returned to her neck. "Milord, someone will suspect us. I would be—" "Nothing would happen to you, Mam’selle. I wouldn’t let it." He brought his head up. "I would call it rape." Gezelle shuddered. "No…" He shrugged, stilling her. "They’d take a few inches of flesh off my back, but it would have been worth it." "Don’t say such a thing, Milord!" "I know you want me. You know you do. You always have. Why fight me so?" "If your father was to find out—" "Hush!" he snapped. His eyes turned hard. He clutched at her skirt and lifted the muslin. "Milord!" He fumbled with the remaining buttons on his breeches as he held her against the door. "I told you to hush!" He freed his manhood, then used both hands to lift her, positioning her on himself in one lithe thrust.

Gezelle groaned deep in her throat, her hands burying themselves in the bright gold of his hair. Her lips found his. She gave herself to him with the wild abandon that had become a way of life for both of them in the four months since Liza had been gone. She rode him, gripped him, let him take her without protest, and when it was finished and they stood drenched in sweat, she held him to her. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell him. She kissed the sweet softness of his blond hair and wondered what his reaction would be.

Chapter 2 "You will leave by noon today! I don’t give a damn what you have to do!" Conar glared at his father. "No, I don’t suppose you do!" "Watch your tone, boy! I let Hern talk me out of sending you to Ivor because he thought you needed to be among family, but I will not suffer your arrogant mouth. Instead of Ivor Keep, it will be Boreas Dungeon where you’ll be spending your free time if you can’t curb your backtalk!" "Ask me if I give a damn!" Conar was furious beyond belief. The last thing he wanted to do was leave for Ciona in the middle of a spring rainstorm. "Get out of this keep!" Gerren bellowed. "If I have to look at you one more minute, I am going to physically wipe that smile of condescension off your face!" "I’ll go when I’m good and damn ready to leave and not a minute before!" Conar exploded. He pitched the chair in which he had been sitting across the room. The fragile antique piece hit the wall and broke apart. "You insufferable ass!" Gerren screamed at the top of his lungs. He took a step toward his son only to have Hern appear as if out of thin air and position himself in front of his King. Gerren tried to shove the burly Master-at-Arms out of his way, but the bigger, thicker man refused to budge. "Move, Arbra!" "I came to tell you that Legion and du Mer have been sighted. You’ll want to handle their report personally, won’t you, Highness?" Hern stared at his King—and friend—a strange look of warning in his dark eyes. The King faltered. "They’re here, now?" Hern cast a glance in Conar’s direction where the prince stood glowering. "They’ll want to report to you right off, I would think."

Gerren looked at his son, at the hateful sneer on the full lips, the sullen pout. "They’ll be tired from such a long trip, Highness," Hern said, his hands tight on Gerren’s forearms. "All right!" the King snapped. With one more look of anger at his firstborn, he headed for his council chambers. Hern folded his arms over his massive chest. "Learn to curb that vile temper, brat. If you don’t, you’re going to find yourself on the receiving end of a lesson you won’t soon forget." "A painful lesson, no doubt!" "Boy, I’ll give it to you anyway you want it." He stared Conar down, then cocked his head toward the door. "Better get going before nightfall. Ciona’s a good way off." Conar nodded, unable to speak. Torment filled his expression. "Would you really hurt me?" "No." Conar smiled, his first real smile in over four and a half months. He walked into the older man’s arms and embraced him, not at all surprised when the burly Master-at-Arms returned the hug. "May the wind be at your back, lad," Hern whispered. "And the sun on your face," Conar answered the age-old blessing. Hern’s lips twitched. "Not today, brat." Conar heard the distant roll of thunder. "Aye, not today." *** Legion A’Lex and Teal du Mer rode wearily into the inner circle of corrals and waited for Thom Loure and Storm Jale to come through the outer bailey to join them. They were drenched and cold, sore from a long, boring ride, hungry, thirsty, and more than a little put out with the prisoner they had in tow. There was a mulish look of resentment on Teal’s gypsy-dark face, and the grim look on Legion’s made the stableboys approach the two men with caution. Rain blew in gusts as they swung down from their saddles, handing the reins to the stableboys. Legion kept the other rein he had held for most of the journey. His fingers were numb with cold and his graying hair was plastered tightly to his head, rain dripping through his beard. He sent a baleful look at his prisoner, then growled when the man met his stare with contempt. The four men had been away for over two months to the keep at Zephyrus where Prince Dyllon McGregor, the youngest of the McGregor brothers, was having more than his usual trouble with the moody King of neighboring Necroman, a large jungle country to the southwest of Serenia. The raiding which had been only a minor nuisance at the time of Conar’s wedding three years earlier, had since blown into a full-fledged border war. King Shalu Taborn, the Necromanian King, had trespassed one time too many into the lush hills of Zephyrus’ lands. King Gerren had sent Legion A’Lex, Vice-Commander of the Serenian Forces, to deal with the problem since he could no longer trust Conar to handle anything of importance. Legion, in turn, had taken along Thom Loure, Captain of the Elite, and

Storm Jale, second in command, because the two warriors had wanted to get away from Conar, leaving Marsh Edan in charge of the prince’s prestigious fighting unit. At the last minute, du Mer had begged to go when Conar had thrown a caltrop at his head. "The idjut tried to kill me!" Teal had complained to Hern. "Then you shouldn’t have annoyed him!" the old warrior snorted. "Get you gone, gypsy, before I take a caltrop to you, myself!" Now the four warriors, each as put out as the other, were back with a sullen, silent Necromanian King in tow. Taborn had not been an easy prisoner to take. All four men had lumps and bruises to prove it. King Gerren had wondered if it had been wise to send his son’s Elite to handle a delicate situation. Their presence had only served to further infuriate the Necromanian King, who thought a diplomat should have been sent before members of the Prince Regent’s personal bodyguard, putting it on a more personal level. King Shalu had taken such action a direct insult to his position. Because there was a treaty between the two countries, the Serenian Tribunal had declared sanctions against King Shalu for crossing the border to raid on Serenian soil. They chose to overlook the fact that Dyllon McGregor, not known for playing by anyone’s set of rules but his own, had made similar trips into Necroman. King Shalu had taken exception to the Tribunal’s edicts that he return to Serenia to give account for his actions. He had not wanted to come, believing he had done nothing wrong in retaliating for Prince Dyllon’s marauding. After all, the youngest Serenian prince had started the whole thing years earlier by making sorties into Necroman to take back more-than-willing daughters from the many tribes along the border, and farm animals that wandered just a little too close to Serenian lariats. When he was found and taken, his wife and children held in Zephyrus Keep to insure his good behavior, Taborn had fought hard to escape. His big fists had lashed out with enough power to stun his opponents and make them literally see stars. It wasn’t until he was threatened with his family’s permanent incarceration at Zephyrus that he subsided, giving in only to the memory of how badly his family hated being kept inside stone buildings. Riding into the keep’s corral—his hands bound before him with heavy hemp, not only looped around his pommel, but crossed under his steed’s belly—his ankles tied together to keep him from attempting to dismount, the Necroman sat proudly. He disdainfully ignored the looks sent his way by servant, soldier, and merchant alike. His head never turned to look at the small crowd gathering in the pouring, lashing rain. There were few in the keep who had actually seen a Necroman up close, and their curiosity made it possible for them to ignore the flashes of lightning and chilly rain. With his yellow-brown coloring and snow-white hair gleaming in long waves around his wide face, he was an awesome spectacle of savage, brute strength. His massive shoulders and hulking body were straight in the saddle; his sherry-colored brown eyes reviewed the keep with an air of insolence. Large lips puckered with distaste as he glanced at the stables where Legion and Teal’s horses were being led. He made a rude snort of contempt for the condition of the corral beyond. "Is that supposed to mean our corrals aren’t as good as yours?" Thom caught Legion’s sharp look and stopped, his rubbery mouth pursing into a hard line. Shalu swept his eyes over the tall Captain of the Elite, flicked down the lumbering body with its huge hands and big feet, lifted to the enraged face with its small black eyes and large lips, its bald head shadowed with black stubble, and smirked.

Conar came angrily out of the keep, his feet skipping down the score of steps. He glanced at the men, unconcerned with their return, and then away, pulling on his glove as he stomped across the covered walkway to the stables. But then his head snapped up almost immediately and he came to a halt, turning to stare at the big man who sat tied to his huge roan. The Necroman swiveled his head toward the keep, saw the young man staring, and growled. Conar knew the darkman was assessing him, finding him lacking. For some reason he couldn’t explain, the Necroman’s disdain deeply hurt him. He pulled on his other glove and began to walk toward the man, leaving the protection of the covered walkway and venturing into the rain. He was oblivious to the pouring onslaught which had him soaked in seconds, his blond hair drooping over his high forehead, the wet strands dripping into his eyes. Although he had never met the man, nor seen him, he knew by the royal bearing and proudly erect head that the black man atop the prancing destrier had to be none other than the rebellious King Of Necroman. He walked to the man’s mount and looked up at him with keen interest. Shalu raised his chin and glared at the man who had the ill-manners to gawk boorishly. Were these barbarians taught no manners? Had they no mothers to see to their training? Or did they spring from the bellies of jackals, as he had often heard tell? This one seemed to be a bit addled. The only thing remarkable about this white man was the strange look on his face. "Shalu," the boy whispered. Something tugged at Shalu’s sixth sense. He realized just who this blond man must be. His gaze held Conar’s with an intensity that went beyond curiosity. A charge of energy seemed to be flowing, passing between the two men. It was as though something in the air snapped between them and they had, in that moment, a perfect, automatic understanding of each another. Conar looked at the darkman’s hands resting on the pommel. An intense look of pain crossed his face, and with an angry curse, he withdrew his dagger from behind his back and severed the hemp. Even as the dagger was unsheathed and jabbed toward him, Shalu didn’t bat an eye. Watching the prince resheathe the wicked-looking serrated weapon, the Necromanian King turned to Legion with an ill-concealed look of contempt before regarding Conar once more. No word of thanks came from the thick lips—this man had never used such drivel in his entire life—but his head was no longer quite so erect, the sullen lips not quite so tight. "Why was that necessary?" Conar snarled at Teal. "I suppose you would have asked him to come along and he would have?" Legion snapped. Conar’s attention stayed on Shalu. "I wouldn’t have treated him like this. No man should be treated so." A slight inclination of the darkman’s head let Conar know he agreed. Conar glanced at Legion. "I’m leaving for Ciona." Legion shrugged indifferently. "Do you think I care?" Shalu listened to the interchange and wondered what caused the animosity. They were kinsmen, that much he knew, but to watch them glaring at one another, one would have thought them the fiercest of enemies.

"Aye, I think I can handle things for Papa while you’re gone. Probably better than you could anyway!" "Get bent." Conar stalked off, not looking back. Legion snapped out orders to Thom and Storm, then stomped away. Shalu swung his head from one brother to the other, then snorted with disgust. Neither was happy and both seemed to be one step away from a physical confrontation. Barbarians, he thought, who settled differences with their fists! A disgrace! Once inside the keep, Legion took a fleece towel from one of the serving girls and dried his hair and beard. He smiled at the coquettish look she gave him as she looked over his wet shirt where thick muscles made the damp material cling to his hairy chest. "Miss me?" "Lord Legion!" Hern called, beckoning the younger man with a crooked finger and stern visage. "Later," Legion whispered to the girl and swatted her plump rear as she giggled. Hern glanced at the purple knot on Legion’s jaw. "Give you a hard time, did he?" Legion ignored the chuckle Hern sent his way. "Has Conar been in a better mood since I’ve been gone?" "I’d change the subject, too, if I had let some Necroman get the best of me." Hern winked. The Master-At-Arms had been training royal sons and bastards since before Legion was born. He knew exactly where to jab to hit nerve. Legion glared. "He didn’t get the best of me, Arbra! I have him, don’t I?" "Not before he got you first?" Hern laughed. Legion ground his teeth. "Why is Conar going to Ciona on a day like today?" Hern shrugged. "Your Papa wanted the brat out of the keep. The way he’s been acting, it’ll be nice to have him from under foot." "Has he been that bad?" "Bad enough." *** In the stable, Conar changed into dry clothes after sending a stableboy to obtain them. He swung into his saddle, adjusting the protection of his oilcloth slicker, and glanced at the Tribunal Hall. He shivered, not so much from the cold and damp, but from old fears that always bothered him when he looked at the double black doors. He wondered what tax levy the Judiciary Committee would impose upon Necroman. It would have to be stiff. At least the man had plenty of gold with which to pay; Necroman was a wealthy monarchy, since their currency was diamond gems. "We are ready when you are, Milord," Patrick, one of Conar’s Elite, told him. Conar looked at the men who would accompany him and wondered why Marsh wasn’t one of them. He

asked Lin Dixon, Marsh’s best friend. "I don’t know, Commander," Dixon replied. "Do you want me to find him?" "Let the bastard stay here if that’s his desire." As he pulled on Seayearner’s reins and galloped out of the stables, he saw Kaileel Tohre on the top step of the Temple. "Ride safely, my prince!" Kaileel called. "Hurry home to us!" Conar put spurs to his mount’s flanks. Getting out of the sight of the High Priest was more important than getting soaked. The rain would stop; Kaileel wouldn’t. At least not this side of hell. *** It took Conar three days of miserable riding to reach Ciona, the rain with him every inch of the way. His four guards were just as miserable as they stopped each night to get in out of the damp. The inns were clean and habitable for the most part, although in the southeast section of the country, lodgings tended to be as damp as the coastal towns they served. The bedding was invariably moist and cold, the drinking water flavored with the tang of salt and sulfur, and murky-looking. Conar had long since consumed the two water bags of ale Sadie had insisted on him taking to ward off the dampness. The man Tohre had wanted to ride with the prince, one of Conar’s most trusted of the Elite, had not been able to go with him due to a severe bout of stomach pain. The first night of the journey had been the worst for the prince, for he had drained one water bag within the first ten miles. His foul temper and snapping eyes had turned his men sullen and mulish as they bit their lips to keep from throttling their Overlord. Thinking him much the worse for the ale he had swigged, they tried to ignore his burning barbs of spiteful malice. Mutiny had been in their eyes the next day when he awoke no better. His constant swilling on the ale made them look at one another with ill-disguised pique. The third day saw him without any of the ale and he was generally silent, though still sullen and foul-tempered. Arriving in Ciona late on the third day, Conar had been exhausted, drenched despite his oilcloth cloak. He had nodded absently to the innkeeper, declined his offer of a hot brandy sampler to ward off the chills, and gone straight to bed, sneezing the entire way up the stairs. Morning brought him groggily awake with a blazing cold that had turned his nose red, his throat raw. It was more than obvious to his men he was in no condition to handle the affairs of state for which he had come to Ciona, and they sent word to the Trade Commissioner of Oceania that their Overlord was a bit under the weather. Fortunately for Conar, that piece of information brought the Cionan Ambassador of State at a headlong rush to Conar’s room. After assuring himself the future King of Serenia was in no danger of succumbing to his illness, the Ambassador left with the promise of postponing the meeting until the young man was feeling better. Five days passed while Conar recuperated from a cold that made it virtually impossible for anyone to understand what he said. Between coughing and sneezing, he developed extended bouts of laryngitis that upset the chambermaid who had to pick up the discarded notes he tossed about the floor. It tickled his

guards, for they were enjoying their Overlord’s inability to rant and rave. On the morning of the sixth day, he lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, tracing the webbed tunnels that widened around the hole in the center, wondering how the hole came to be. He had a slight headache, but no more than a scratchy throat, thanks to the tavern owner’s home remedy of honey and cloves. What bothered him most was his constantly running nose and watering eyes that couldn’t be helped, and the occasional bout of sneezing that exasperated him, for his gut and chest were sore from coughing. He sighed. Tomorrow he would have to be at the town hall early, get his business done, and be on his way. He felt well enough. He thought about that for a moment. His eyes narrowed. As a matter of fact, he felt very well, despite his cold. He sat up in bed. He tested his condition much as one would an aching tooth. He worried it, probed it, bit down on it, and a sudden light of understanding lit his face. He felt fine! A wide smile formed. It was gone! The dark storm inside him was gone! He felt renewed. He felt free. The dam had burst and he had not been drowned in the onslaught of water. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wavered for a moment then examined himself further. "Aye!" He laughed, not feeling any anger, darkness, or evil madness inside him. "I am fine!" He drew on his breeches, smiling the entire time. He padded barefoot to his door, opened it and called for Roy Matheny, one of his Elite, to find him a scribe. Long into the day, after his men had turned surprised faces to the happy, smiling Overlord who had been their hell for the last several months, he paced about the room, dictating orders to a town scribe. "I’ll see the Ambassador tomorrow and then I’ll leave for Oceania. Book me passage on the fastest ship. Send a letter to the palace in Oceania and tell them I’ll be arriving to take my wife home!" His face lit up and he thought he would cry with the happiness flooding his heart. "Send a missive to my father and tell him I won’t be home for a while. Tell him Liza and I are going to stay with Meggie and Harry Ruck at the Briar’s Hold." He rubbed his hands together and then sneezed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Then send another note to my brother Legion and tell him to get Ivor Keep provisioned for me and his sister-in-law. We’re going to make it our home if he has no objection. Tell him not to send Gezelle, but that Aurora will do fine as lady’s maid for Liza." He grabbed the scribe’s arm. "Is there a jeweler in town who can cast gold charms?" "I believe so, Your Grace," the man mumbled as he scribbled furiously. "Then send for him." "You’re feeling better, Highness?" the tavern owner asked as he brought in Conar’s noon meal. "I have never felt better in my life!" He laughed and startled the man by enveloping him in a bear hug. "And don’t call me ‘Highness.’" *** The new morn brought him wide-awake and eager to finish his business in Ciona. It would take him all

day, he knew, but he was chomping at the bit to be on his way to his wife. A brigantine was leaving for Oceania on the next afternoon’s tide and he could barely contain his excitement. Late that evening, after a sumptuous meal that had made him lethargic and content, he went to his room and stretched out on his bed, fingering the locket he’d had made for Liza. The heart-shaped medallion inscribed with their initials entwined amidst grape vines and leaves—the national symbols of Oceania—was warm to his touch and he kissed it. "You have always had my heart in your hand, lady," he whispered as he placed the locket on a fine gold serpentine chain and hung it around his own neck. He had given orders to his men that they would be leaving after the final meeting the next day. It wouldn’t take long. He had accomplished what he had been sent to do; all that was left was the actual signing of the new trade agreement. He clasped his hands behind his head and smiled. He had handled everything quite well, and he knew his father would be pleased. He had been excited at the meetings, confident in his abilities, polite to and respectful of the Trade Commissioner. He had seen the man’s admiration and had been encouraged even more by the shift of feelings inside him. He was the old Conar, the lovable Conar, the Conar who was trusted and admired. But now he was bored. And he would be even more bored until he was on his way to Liza. Nervous, fidgety, he swung his legs off the bed and padded barefoot to the window. The courtyard below was awash with bright, streaming moonlight and the soft, yellow glow cast the stables and corral beyond into a pleasant, rural setting, almost like a painting he had once seen. A horse nickered in the corral; another answered. A nightingale sang in a branch near his window. A dog barked. It was peaceful, calming, and it wore at his nerves like sandpaper. If he listened hard, he could hear the ocean, for the beach was only a mile away. What he wouldn’t give to be walking in the moonlight, on that beach, Liza’s hand in his. He was about to turn from the window when his eyes caught a furtive movement to the left of the stable. He watched the shadow of a man flit around the low building and stand, his back to the tavern, as though he waited for someone to join him from the direction of the oyster-shelled roadway behind the stables. Curious, Conar propped against the ledge and eased the curtain further apart with the backs of his fingers. He heard an approaching horse nicker, and then heard the soft jingle of a harness wafting over the breeze. A big gray mare pranced into view, her rider obviously female. He watched the man move forward, saw him glance toward the inn as though unwilling to be seen, and then wave to the approaching rider. Conar nodded, smiling. "Waiting for your lady, eh, fellow?" His grin widened as the man moved to the big gray and glanced once more to the tavern. He chuckled. "Or someone else’s." Even from the distance, Conar couldn’t help but admire the way the lady sat her mount. Her back was straight, her hands light on the reins. He couldn’t see her face, but she was a bit plump for his taste. Obviously not to the man who had been waiting. The fellow lifted her down, the lady’s white dress flowing out as he whirled her around, then held her above him for a moment before he set her down. Conar’s smile turned dreamy. A secret meeting, no doubt an assignation, he thought as he saw both of them glance toward the tavern. He watched as the man bent his dark head and planted a tender kiss on the lady’s waiting lips. It was a sweet moment that shouldn’t be spied upon, he thought, and meant to turn from the window to give them their privacy. It was when he heard the woman laugh that the smile slowly left his face.

His hand trembled on the curtain as the man draped an arm around his ladylove and led her into the darkness of the stable. A soft glow shone from the window facing the inn, signaling a lantern had been lit. Once more the lady’s laughter came unerringly to him. Conar shivered. "No," he breathed, letting go of the curtain. "It can’t be." The gray mare nickered, gaining Conar’s reluctant attention. Beneath the stray flash of an errant moonbeam, he got a good look at the mount and his blood ran cold. "Windkeeper," he whispered, not willing to believe his eyes, but the sturdy mare nickered again as though she had heard him call her name and began to bob her head, jingling her harness. He tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly as dry as cotton and just as raw as the freshly picked boll. He backed away from the window, stumbling onto the bed as the backs of his knees made contact with the mattress. He sat down heavily, blinking rapidly. For a long moment his mind whirling with denials. He ran a hand over his bare chest and felt the heavy thudding of his heart. "It isn’t her," he whispered, gazing at the window. "It isn’t." His head began to throb. "It can’t be her." Once more, like a dangerous goad to his manhood, sweet feminine laughter rang out from the stable, answered by a throaty male chuckle. Conar stood, unsure of what to do. He could call one of his men, have him discreetly investigate. If it wasn’t who he thought it was, nothing would come of it. No harm done. But if it was her, all hell would break loose. He couldn’t risk that. Picking up his shirt, he looked at it as though he couldn’t quite figure out what it was or how he came to be holding it. Then, with a snarl of rage, he yanked it over his shoulders, ripping a long rent in the left armpit. Not even bothering to pull on his boots, he stormed out of the room, intent on laying to rest the suspicions churning in his mind. He would see for himself that his fears were groundless. There were many women who laughed like her. Gezelle laughed like her. Hell, Aurora even laughed like her! He paid no heed to the innkeeper’s wife who looked up from her reading as he came tripping none-too-quietly down the stairs. He ignored an Elite’s question and told the man to stay where he was. He jerked open the door, walked into the warmth of the night and flew across the courtyard, not bothering to mute the sound of his approach. He went directly to the partially opened window. The woman’s back was to him, but he would have known that beloved body anywhere, no matter how it was dressed or how swollen her belly had become. The long black hair cascaded down over the still-shapely hips. Soft, slim arms—arms that once held him—were clasped about the neck of the man whose face was to Conar. A face he recognized, with a terrible lurch in his gut. His breath came to an immediate halt as his heart ceased to beat. She spoke gently to her lover; he swooped her into his arms and held her as though she were a babe in swaddling. His lips descended, claimed hers in a heady kiss that left nothing to the imagination concerning how the man felt about her. A low groan of agony came from Conar. He shook his head, as though in doing so he could erase what he witnessed. He was about to run as fast as he could to the safety of the inn, when the man’s eyes lifted and stared directly into his. A slow, triumphant smile spread over the man’s dark face and, with his gaze on Conar, he returned his lips to the woman, tightening his arms around her.

"Bastard," Conar whispered, his breathing rapid, shallow. He backed away from the window and stumbled, almost fell before righting himself. A throaty chuckle of challenge came from the stable, the man’s taunting barb of victory, and Conar hurried away, weaving his way back to the tavern like a drunkard. He took the stairs two at a time, slammed the door to his room and tore the shirt from him, shredding it in his anger, his teeth pulled back in a feral snarl of animal rage. "I’ll kill him!" When nothing more than a few shreds were left of his shirt, he dropped it, stomped on it, then slammed his body face onto the bed, drawing up his knees and clasping his pillow beneath his chest. He buried his face into the down-filled softness. He tried to block out what he had seen, but the vision remained. Tears built, and he moaned. Flipping onto his back, he flung away the pillow and crossed an arm over his eyes. "What have you done?" he whispered. "What in the gods’ name have you done, Liza?" Outside, he heard the soft clip-clop of horse’s hooves and knew the lovers were leaving. He wanted to get up, to stop them, to run his broadsword through the son-of-a-bitch’s belly. But he did none of those things. He listened until the sound of hooves could no longer be heard, and then he cried. *** Morning found him haggard and moody. Surly when asked questions, rude when he answered. He sat with men he considered one-step above moronic. He declined their polite invitation to a hardy breakfast with the town’s officials with a brusque snobbishness and hateful sneer that stunned them. "I’ve no time for such stupid shit!" he snarled. He returned to the inn and snapped at his men to make ready for the return trip to Boreas. "Aren’t we going to Seaflower, Your Grace?" one man asked, referring to the summer estate where it was rumored the royal family of Oceania was spending the hot days. "Hell, no!" Conar screamed. "Get my gods-be-damned nag saddled and shut your stupid mouth, Matheny!" "Do you want one of us to go after your lady, then?" one of the others had asked. Conar pinned the man with a look as hot as the fires of hell. "If anyone goes after the bitch, it will be me, Dixon!" With a suddenness that had the men on their feet in terror, he jumped up, slamming his chair against the wall and fled the room amidst shouts of his name and rank. He was in the stables long before his men could follow. He didn’t bother to saddle his mount. He simply grabbed a handful of the stallion’s black mane and swung himself onto the broad back. He sent the steed flying over a fence just as one guard called out in confusion. "That’s the way to Oceania, Highness!"

"Pregnant," he hissed beneath as Seayearner tore up the road with pounding hooves. His jaw tightened. He had gotten her pregnant before she left Boreas and none of her kin had bothered to let him know.

Chapter 3 A curtain parted at one of the inn’s windows. The soft beige lace trembled then grew taut as a slim pale hand touched the glass that separated it from the rider racing across the pastures. "He saw us," the man said as he came up behind her and gathered her long black hair into a loose queue behind her neck. "I know," came the listless reply. "It shouldn’t take him long to reach Seaflower from here. It’s not more than a day’s ride." "If he goes there at all." Turning her around, the man pulled her quivering body against his firm chest. "He took the bait, Elizabeth." He felt her sobs. "Shush, little one. The Domination fights dirty and it will take every bit of your power and courage to fight them." "I don’t like deceiving him." She lifted her tear-drenched face to his concerned one. "He thinks we were…" He put a hand on her lips. "He saw what we wanted him to see. Nothing more. The conclusion he reached was his own doing. Let him deal with his demons, Elizabeth." He let her move out of his arms and watched as she sat on his bed, a bed she had not shared with him the night before, or at any other time. "He will think me a whore." She bowed her head. "He already believes that." "No, he doesn’t." "He called me—" "He’s hard-headed, Sweeting. He always has been. He knows perfectly well you had nothing to do with Galen’s scheme. More than likely he sent you away because he couldn’t deal with what had happened to him at the Abbey." "I tried to understand that."

"Understanding Conar is difficult at best," he quipped. Liza looked into his twinkling brown eyes and couldn’t help but smile. He was the kind of man who had that effect on every woman with whom he came into contact. In that regard he was a lot like Teal du Mer. "Do you understand him?" He shrugged. "I don’t try. His actions are often incomprehensible to intelligent beings." She had known this man all her life it seemed. He was her brother Grice’s best friend. The two men were so close she had often envied their male bonding. It was hard to tell where one of their personalities left off and the other began. "Is that why you don’t tell people you are his brother?" she asked. "Because you don’t understand the things he does?" She saw his smile, easy and carefree. "Mostly because I don’t want them to pity me for being kin to the fool." He frowned, but she could tell it was pretend. "Conar and I don’t get along. Never have." Brelan Saur had wandered into and out of the Oceanian palace at Seadrift, and into and out of her life, many times during her engagement to Conar. Never once in all that time did either her parents or Grice tell her he was Conar’s half-brother. "He’s a snooty little bastard," Brelan had explained when she found out. "Who would claim such a bore?" She had turned her head to one side and finally saw the slight resemblance between the two men. It was in the way they frowned. "Why don’t you two get along?" "He hates me even more than he hates Galen," Brelan assured her with a wicked gleam. "And why does he dislike you?" She couldn’t imagine anyone not liking Brelan Saur. With his long, thick, wavy brown hair and warm brown eyes, his somewhat rough voice and gentle smile, his personality could melt even the coldest of female hearts. With his keen wit and superb intelligence, his skill with sword, bow, and horse, his dogged determination to be anyone’s friend, he could gain the respect and admiration of any male. His roguish features were definitely McGregor. Deeply cleft chin, dimples, heavy brows, and full, sensual lips. He was the same height and weight of his younger brother, Conar, and they had the same athletic build. Unfortunately for him, as Brelan would often lament, he developed a mass of dark hair on his broad chest whereas Conar had a light patch in the center of his. "I didn’t say the man disliked me, Elizabeth," he had finally answered her. "I said the man hated me!" Brelan tweaked her nose and then flung himself beside her on the beach. "He envies my looks." The two men had an identical ego, too, she thought with despair at the time. She tried to make her face stern but his little boy grin made her giggle. "All right, then," she admonished, "why does hehate you?" "Who knows?" Brelan shook his head. "We never hit it off as boys. I played a few dirty tricks on him. He’d run and tell Papa. I’d get my ass whipped; he’d gloat. He’s good at that, have you noticed? And

then I’d do something else rotten to the little bastard and he’d again snitch on me; I’d get whipped. I’d usually find a way to get even with him, get my backside burned still again." He chuckled. "Once I hung him from his ankles from a tree deep in the forest. He couldn’t scream because I’d gagged him. When Hern went looking for him and brought him back, he told Papa I tried to kill him. I’ve often thought the man has no sense of humor." Brelan frowned mightily and then gazed at her from under his thick lashes. Liza laughed. "He has the same wicked sense of humor you do, Brelan Saur!" she accused. "You think so?" He feigned surprise. "I’ve found him to be a stick-in-the-mud. Maybe you’ve seen a different side to him." His smile drifted away. "Maybe youbring out a different side to him." Now, looking at him as he sat beside her on the bed, Liza couldn’t help but admire Brelan Saur. Grice had often said his friend was an enigma to many a seasoned lass. He couldn’t be understood unless he was willing to be. "Don’t worry, Elizabeth," he told her as he held her against the cool of his muslin shirt. "I’ll see to it you and that idiot brother of mine get together again." *** "Then where the hell is she?" Conar snapped at his brother-in-law, Prince Grice Wynth. Wynth folded his arms over his chest and glared at Conar. "Anya Elizabeth is a grown woman. She’s with a family friend in Ciona." Hearing the man admit that Liza was in Ciona came as a shock. Although Grice didn’t say who she was with, the implication was clear. Conar turned sharply on his heel and stomped away. Bringing up that bastard’s name would not be wise. There were spies about the keep at Seaflower; his father’s, as well as the Tribunal’s. Causing a scene was sure to be reported. Accusing his wife of adultery would have been tantamount to having a death proclamation posted for her; in order to keep the bloodlines pure, the laws of the Serenian Tribunal were explicit where royal dalliances were concerned. Grice Wynth knew that, and he wouldn’t chance giving Conar the name of thefamily friend Liza was with. Galloping across the dunes with their thick growth of sea oats, Conar cursed the entire Wynth family. He cursed that foul-looking brother of his, too. A grim smile touched Conar’s lips. There were ways of dealing with Brelan Saur without Liza having to suffer alongside him. *** Captain Holm Van de Lar waved at the tall blond youth as the boy galloped at breakneck speed along the harbor road. He smiled, laughing at the dust swirling behind the hooves of the big black gelding. "I bet His Grace looked like that when he was Lord Wyn’s age!" he told his first mate. "Sits his pony quite well, he does." The first mate turned a jaundiced eye to the youth who raced by on the warhorse-in-the-making. "Shit, Cap’n! That ain’t no pony. That be a mighty beastie if ever I seen one." He coiled a length of hemp around his bulging forearm and spat a dark brown stream of tobacco juice over the ship’s rail. He nodded at the even bigger stallion that followed the gelding. "His Grace’s mount be as big as the longboat

on this here ship. You call him a pony, too?" "I call him a magnificent steed, Mister Tarnes," the captain answered, waving at the Crown prince as the man called a greeting in passing. "Care to come on board, Highness?" Holm yelled across the quay, not sure if Prince Conar could hear him from where he sat his black horse. Conar shook his head. "Not today, Holm. Got business with the King!" he yelled, putting his heels to Seayearner’s flanks and urging the horse after the blond youth who was calling back to him in challenge. "They be a pair, they do." Mister Tarnes laughed. "He be the prince’s oldest, eh?" "Myra Luz’s boy, aye." Holm nodded. "One of many the bonny prince has. Mostly boys, I hear tell. His Grace is much a man when it comes to breeding fine, strapping lads." He pulled his cap from his head and ran it over the sweat on his beefy face, and then over the sparsely covered high forehead. "I heard from a shipper in Oceania that the little princess be carrying one for him." Tarnes glanced up at his captain. "Hope she be coming home from that place soon enough." He followed the dash of streaking black horseflesh disappearing up the curved road leading to the keep. "I hear he’s been in a rare mood since she left him." The captain chuckled. "So I’ve heard tell, Mister Tarnes." He heard a noise and turned. "You drop that cargo, boy, and I’ll keelhaul your skinny ass from one side of the Boreal Sea to the other! Look lively there!" As he drew rein before galloping across the drawbridge into the keep, Conar could hear Holm’s bellow. He snorted. Holm Van de Lar was a man to be reckoned with when he was mad. His gruff voice and hulking build made many a man hesitate before taking him on. Those who had, very much regretted it; Holm gave no quarter. Glancing back at the tall ship sitting anchor in the moon-shaped crescent of harbor beyond the keep, Conar felt at peace, despite the bad news he had to give his father concerning Liza and Brelan Saur. On the sea voyage back from Seaflower Keep on board the Serenian Star, he had worked out what he was going to do to the bastard who didn’t even bother to acknowledge his kinship to Conar. He had brooded long and hard on his other problem, but as he had walked Seayearner off the boat at Boreas Harbor, it had come suddenly to him exactly how he was going to get Liza back, as well. At the moment, he was right with the world, and it with him. He watched the sheets of the Boreal Queen billowing out in the sharp, southwesterly wind as her crew unfurled the sails. He loved the sea and the tall ships that sailed upon her. He could smell the tang of salt and hear the creaking of the ship’s timbers as she strained at her anchor, and a calm and peacefulness settled over him every time. He would have loved to have gone aboard the ship to visit with Holm, but as he had told the captain, he had business with his father that couldn’t wait. When the ship put back into port again in six weeks, he’d have that visit. He had spent many a pleasant hour with Legion, Rayle, and Roget du Mer when they were in their late teens, sailing and diving off the big ships, learning the ways of the seamen who risked their lives to master the ocean. It had been a younger Holm who had taken him on his first cruise, who had taught him to read a sextant, how to sail the big ship. He could well remember the first time he had been out in heavy seas. It had been with Holm. He had become deathly sick and Van de Lar had chuckled, administering a foul-smelling, awful-tasting brew that squelched the seasickness, but made him drunk as a skunk. He couldn’t wait to get back to shore to give some of the elixir to Teal du Mer, who got seasick even on dry

land. Unfortunately for du Mer, the elixir hadn’t worked on him; instead, it had turned du Mer’s skin an odd shade of red and brought up tiny blisters that drained and ran and itched and taught the gypsy lad words he never knew he could say. Now as he looked at the massive ship bobbing on the green water, Conar felt the sweep of that same joy he had felt as a carefree lad of fifteen go through him. He looked to his son, pleased that he had encountered Wyn by the redoubt. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn Wyn had been lying in wait, eager to show off his riding skills. The boy was proving to be quite a horseman and that made Conar proud. The prince cantered over the planking between the two conical-roofed guardhouses and nodded at the men standing watch. He urged ’Yearner onto the cobblestone pathway beyond the guardhouses and under the high archway of the barbican. Slowing his mount to a walk, he crossed the second, smaller drawbridge and glanced at one of the turrets where Thom sat with one of the guards. He waved. "Good to have you home, Milord!" Thom called. He waved his huge fingers in greeting. "My men already here?" he asked, sheepishly. He felt a touch of remorse at having left them behind in Ciona. It was a wonder they hadn’t followed him, but he doubted they’d had enough money between them to book passage. "Came in just last eve." Conar took the left-hand path to the stables, smiling as he saw Wyn and Storm Jale waiting. "Wyn is getting to be almost as good as you, Coni!" Storm quipped as he took Conar’s reins. Throwing a leg over his horse’s neck, Conar slid to the ground. "He will be if he remembers not to let the animal stand about with sweat running down its side." He tousled his son’s mop of flaxen curls. The boy smiled. "He’s as good as rubbed down, Papa." "Then see to it, Lord Wyndon," Storm cautioned. Wyn grinned. No one but Storm called him by that name. He looked at his father. "You heard him, Milord, be about it!" Conar scolded and turned for the steps leading to the covered passageway to the palace. "Papa?" the boy called in a hurt voice. Conar glanced over his shoulder and raised a tawny brow. Wyn lost some of the joy in his face. He had waited everyday for hours on end on the redoubt waiting to catch sight of his father’s arrival. He’d sat for nearly two hours that morning in a parching, blistering sun that scorched the earth around the stonework, hoping for a glimpse of his father’s personal standard atop the mast of every ship that came into the harbor. When he’d spied the Serenian Star and his father’s coat of arms hoisted to signal the prince’s arrival, the young boy had whooped with delight. "Welcome home, Papa," Wyn mumbled. "I’ve missed you." He dug the toe of his boot into the sand.

Conar felt his heart lurch. He walked back into the stables and threw his arms wide to his son. "Come here, bratling. You didn’t give me a hug." A smile so bright it rivaled the sparkle of crown jewels flashed over Wyn’s face. He bounded into his father’s arms, almost sending them both to the ground in a heap. "I love you, Papa," he whispered against the pale yellow cambric of Conar’s shirt. Conar hugged the boy. "And I love you, son." Storm cleared his throat. "Come on, brat. I’ll help you rub down your papa’s steed." If there was anything Wyn loved more than his own horse, it was his father’s. He looked at Conar for permission. "Go on!" Conar said, sighing, releasing his son. "I know where your loyalties lie." "His mama raised him well," a voice called from behind Conar. Turning, Conar saw the tall form of one of his Elite standing at the door leading into the medical wing. "Aye, she did." "She would be proud of him," the man said in a soft voice. "That she would, Morgan." Conar looked away. "Say a prayer for her for me, will you?" Morgan Luz’s face creased with pain. "I will, Your Grace." Conar slowly climbed the steps. He couldn’t even remember the woman’s name, the woman who had been Wyn’s mother. He had trouble even bringing her small face clearly to mind. She had been a slight woman, an Ionarian, with flaming red-gold hair. She had died from a lung infection, and he had not gone to her funeral. He should have. But it had been at a time when such things didn’t matter to him. He vowed to make a point of visiting her grave, for she had, indeed, given the boy a good sense of self-worth. She had been a prostitute in one of the huts along the beach when he gave her to Morgan Luz. From the looks of it, it had been a match well made. "Welcome home, Highness," Sadie told him as he came through the main doors of the receiving hall. If Conar wondered why she was there, he didn’t ask. She held out a chilled tumbler of spiced ale. His face lit up. "How’d you know this was what I was needing, Sadie?" he asked, smiling. Sadie sniffed. "Oh, I be knowing just what you need, Highness." She grinned as he drained the tall tumbler. He wiped his mouth and bent forward, surprising the old woman by kissing her weathered cheek. "Thank you, Sadie." Her old eyes followed him as he climbed the stairs. "Oh, you be most welcome." At first he thought he had climbed one flight too many and had gone to his father’s chambers, for there sat the King as Conar opened what he thought was the door to his room. He backed out, looked down the hall, and realized he was where he was supposed to be. He had wanted to refresh himself before

seeking out his father to brief him on what had happened in Ciona; he wasn’t prepared to find the man seated on a settee in his room. "Come in and close the door, Conar," his father said, his face lined with fatigue. He felt he should be sleeping instead of dealing with Conar. "What’s wrong?" Conar went to stand before his father. "I came to ask you the same thing." Waving a hand to the chair flanking the settee, he motioned Conar to sit. "I like not having to crane my neck to look up at you." Conar flung himself into the chair. stretching his long legs, an act that annoyed his father and offended his King. "Please have the good manners that we have attempted to instill in you, Conar, by sitting in that chair as though you were an adult!" His father was wearing what Conar called his "disciplinarian face." Conar sighed. Drawing in his legs, he rested his left ankle on his right knee and folded his hands in his lap. "What have I done now, Papa?" he asked with a resigned voice. King Gerren stared at his son for a long time. This was not the same boy who had stormed out of the keep nearly three weeks ago. This boy was calm. This boy’s eyes were clear and direct. This was the son he knew and loved. He decided to change tactics. His face relaxed; his voice became warmer. "You’ve been gone longer than the week needed to take care of the problems in Ciona. Where have you been the rest of the time?" Conar knew his father had been apprised of his conduct in Ciona just as he knew perfectly well his father was aware of where he’d gone afterward. He stared at the frieze along the tall ceiling, wondering how many hours it had taken the craftsman to sculpt the intertwined leaves and vines, wondering how to tell his father what he had to tell him…stalling. When Conar didn’t answer, the King cleared his throat. Still failing to gain his son’s attention, Gerren nudged Conar with his foot. Coming out of his reverie, Conar massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You know I went to Oceania, Papa." "So I was told. They are well there?" the king asked, trying not to smile. "Well enough," Conar remarked and laid his head on the back of the chair. He was tired, bone tired, and his head was beginning to ache over his right temple. He put up a hand to massage the dull throbbing. He didn’t need one of his infamous migraines right now. "Things went well, then, in Ciona, I take it. No problems?" Gerren already knew what had transpired at the trade meeting. He also knew of his son’s rudeness when he had left. That had been the major part of the talk he had planned to have with his errant son as soon as Conar came home. Having been told that Conar had ordered a ship to Oceania, and was planning on going there himself to bring his wife home, the King had been elated. Now that Conar had come home, alone, Gerren rightly surmised something was amiss.

"No problems," came the offhanded reply. "Everything went as planned." "Everything?" "Aye." "Then we can begin shipping next week." "I suppose so." Gerren looked closely at his son and realized Conar wasn’t paying attention. A slow, mischievous grin settled on his face. No doubt the young couple had fought again and Conar was mulling over his latest idiocy. "You didn’t do something in Ciona that you shouldn’t have, did you?" Gerren inquired in a normal tone of voice. "Everything’s fine, Papa." "You didn’t offend anyone?" "Everything went as planned." "I see." Gerren laid his right arm along the back of the settee. "Ambassador Andelson and his lady-wife are well?" "Aye. They send their regards." "And their three daughters?" Conar sighed. "Getting taller, I guess." The king hoped not, since all three were full-grown as it was. "I thought to send a new representative to Oceania to handle our interests there…Teal du Mer. I know how he loves to sail. He will be the best choice to head up our commission on sea trade and run interference on all the ships since he can live right on board a specially provisioned ship. Don’t you agree?" "Aye, Papa. Du Mer," Conar mumbled. "Good choice." "And I have appointed Sadie as our Ambassador to Rysalia. You know how diplomatic she is and we do need someone who can be polite and respectful in that Inner Kingdom Emirate." "Very astute, Sir. A wise choice." Conar stared at the carpet. "And what do you think of those flying cats that Legion is entering in the horse race this weekend? I think Conar’s-A-Nitwit will take the cup, though. What do you think?" He could not control his laugh as Conar looked at him in bewilderment. "What?" Conar asked, offended that he was being laughed at.

"Have you been listening to me?" "I heard every word, Papa." Conar raised his chin. "You know more about these things than I. I bend to your choices of commissioner and…and…whatever." "So glad you approve," Gerren said with a smile. "Is there anything else we need to discuss?" Conar’s head was beginning to pound. He rubbed a tight little circle over his eye. "Why haven’t you asked about Liza?" "Liza who?" his father politely inquired. Making a rude sound with his tongue, Conar’s mouth puckered with heat. "Liza McGregor! Who else? Your daughter-in-law; my lady-wife!" "Ah, so you’ve decided you have a wife, have you?" his father shot back with equal warmth. "Whatever the problems between me and Liza—" "As I see it, Conar, you’re the one with the problem! The one who has done the evil here." Conar’s voice was merely a whisper as fear shot through his gut. "What does that mean?" Gerren waved a hand in anger and stood. "You blamed her for what Galen did!" Seeing his son’s emphatically shaken denial to the contrary, the King went on. "Oh, aye, you do! She is the innocent and yet you put the blame at her doorstep. Don’t you think for one moment I don’t know you accused her of it? I thought you more a man than to let this happen. You can deal with her abduction like a man or wallow in self-pity like a child—it’s up to you. But I will tell you, it is evil what you’ve done to her. Evil!" Conar stood slowly, overcome with relief that his father hadn’t meant the evil visited upon him by Tohre and his followers. "I might have blamed her in a moment of anger, but I know where the guilt lies, Papa. The guilt is with Galen." "Yet you punish Liza for something she could not control. You sent her away because you could not deal with her rape!" Conar flinched. If only his father knew it was Conar’s rape of his wife that had made him send her away. "See!" Gerren shouted, taking Conar’s reaction as the truth to his statement. "You do blame her. It takes a real man to get past the rape of his wife and see that the woman does. She needs you now more than ever and you send her away. How do you think that makes her feel?" Gerren followed his son as Conar walked to the bedside table and poured a tumbler of brandy. He angrily shook his head when Conar turned to offer him some. "And you don’t need it, either!" Draining a tumbler of the plum-flavored liquor, Conar’s face turned hard as he poured another and then returned to sit in front of his father. "If what you say is true, if she really needs me, then why does she meet her baseborn lover and our

marriage contract not even voided, as yet?" Nothing could have shocked the King more. He sat heavily on the settee. "So that has been what you were about." There was disbelief in his voice. "You sent her to Oceania to void the contract? But why?" According to Tribunal Law, if one or the other of the marriage partners in a royal joining find fault with their relationship, the couple could choose not to remain married. If they find they are not compatible, can not live with one another without coming to physical blows. If the man is incapable of planting seed or the wife accepting it, if for whatever reason—outside of adultery—then a six month separation, agreed upon by both parties, would result in an annulment. As long as neither party spoke to or saw the other in that six month period. In Serenia, Liza would not have been allowed to marry again; in Oceania, she could. Conar, however, would never be permitted to marry again unless no issue had come from his marriage. "Did you hear nothing I said?" Conar yelled. His head began to pound so badly his vision blurred. "She has a lover. And not just any lover. Brelan Saur, and you know what he is to her brother! On my gods-be-damned Joining day, one of her maids told me he had been courting her before she and I married." "Brelan?" "Aye, Brelan!" Conar struck the table beside his father with the flat of his hand. "Your bastard son!" His father let out a ragged sigh. He had been afraid the two men would run into one another in Ciona, for that was where Brelan resided most of the time. "How do you know this?" "Because I saw them together!" Conar bellowed, clenching his fists. He turned away, draining his brandy; his face mixed with shame and hurt and fury. "Put down that tumbler and don’t fill it again!" his father warned as Conar took a step toward his table. "Where did you see them?" "In the stables at Ciona, like a pair of rutting serfs. Pumping away in the damn hay like dogs in heat!" he shouted. He stomped to his nightstand and poured another tumbler. The King’s face turned white. He was so shocked by his son’s words, he didn’t think to order Conar not to have more liquor. If this was true, he could well understand Conar’s desire to blot it out with drink. "You saw them mating?" "I didn’t stay long enough to see him thrusting into her, if that’s what you mean." He brought the tumbler to his lips, stopped, and turned raging eyes at his father."And her pregnant with my child !" Conar screamed at the top of his voice, further shocking his father, as he threw the tumbler as hard as he could against the hearth. "Anya Elizabeth is with child?" "My child!" Gerren was dismayed at the glazed look in his son’s blue eyes. Too much ale, too fast, he thought miserably. Conar flung out an angry hand. "I couldn’t stand there and watch what was happening."

"What did you do? Did you call him out?" He walked to his son and put a hand on Conar’s shoulder, finding the muscles tense as coiled springs. "I didn’t dare for fear the wrong ears would hear of it. Instead, I went to Oceania and waited for her return. I waited two days before Grice would see me. He told me she was still in Ciona with a ‘family friend.’" His lip twisted. "Brelan knew I would come looking for her. The coward didn’t want trouble with me so he left and took Liza with him." "Then you didn’t confront them?" When Conar shook his head, Galen stroked his son’s gleaming blond hair. "They didn’t see you, did they?" A shudder of hatred went through his son. "Saur did." "But you didn’t speak to him?" "No." One word, bitter and hard, filled with regret. "Why didn’t you? Maybe you misinterpreted what you saw." "Not with her so tightly held in his arms you couldn’t see where she began and he left off! Not with his mouth all over hers!" Gerren winced. "This is serious. Very serious. Adultery is a capital crime for a royal wife." Conar’s shoulders sagged. "Now you know why I didn’t want to confront him in Ciona, on Serenian soil! If anyone had seen them together, there would be little I could do to protect her from the Tribunal." "No one must know of this. No one." "He was waiting there for her. She ran into his arms as though I had never existed." His fury mounted along with his pain. "With my child in her belly she plays whore to my brother!" Gerren felt like smashing something and actually looked around Conar’s room for something to demolish. In searching for an immediate outlet for his own anger, he failed to see the sullen, hardened look enter his son’s face. "I’ll not tell anyone what she’s done. But when I get my hands on Saur, I’ll pull his prick out by the roots!" "She must—she will be brought back here!" "She didn’t see me and so the six-month time still stands. Let the bitch be free of me. If I bring her back, I’ll kill them both!" Gerren ignored the male boasting. "That’s not the answer. No one must know this has happened. If she’s brought back here, we can avert the danger to her and the babe." A knock sounded at the door. Gerren jumped, his nerves already raw with Conar’s revelations.

"Come!" Conar shouted. "The Boreal Queen is ready to weigh anchor, Majesty," Hern told Gerren as he ducked his head in the door. "I’ll be right there," the King sighed. "Legion is in the hall wanting to see you, too," Hern replied. "I said I’d be right there!" Gerren snarled. He looked at Conar. "We will speak of this later. I’ll send Legion to take care of the matter." In the hall, the King barely broke his angry stride as Legion fell into step beside him. Putting up a forestalling, furious hand, Gerren ground his teeth over his words. "I don’t have time for stupid-ass questions or comments, Legion! Find that bastard brother of yours, Brelan Saur. The last we know, he was in Ciona. He may be in Oceania by now, though. Bring his ass back here!" He glared at Legion’s confused face. "At once! I want that son-of-a-bitch brought back in chains, if need be! And if she is with him, drag her back, as well!" He stomped down the spiral staircase. "But be careful of her condition!" "Ifwho is with him?" Legion called after his father. "Elizabeth McGregor, fool!" his father whispered back. "Eliza…?" Legion’s mouth dropped open. He caught Teal du Mer’s wide-eyed stare as the King rudely shoved aside the gypsy. "What’s going on?" Teal mumbled, staring after Gerren. "Why would Liza be with Saur?" "Hush!" Gerren shouted, hearing du Mer’s innocuous question. "Do as I’ve said, Legion! This is a matter of secrecy. And you know why!" "What matter of secrecy?" Teal asked. "The hell if I know!" Legion mumbled. *** He pulled the tapestry on the bell and then took what was left of his ale, drinking straight from the bottle. "How may I be of service, Your Grace?" the old man inquired, his rheumy eyes on the bottle in his prince’s hand. Conar thrust the bottle forward. "Two more of these and send Gezelle to me." The servant backed out of the room, too afraid of the wild look in his Overlord’s eye to tell him that Gezelle wasn’t feeling well. She finally came to him as evening shadows began to dim the light. She could see by his mood he was furious. Her head came up a little as he stalked toward her.

"Where have you been?" he growled, grabbing her upper arm. "I’ve had people searching for you all day!" "I am here now." She winced only a little as his grip tightened. "When I call, Mam’selle," he snarled, dragging her unresisting to him, "you come!" He swooped down to claim her lips in a fiery punishment of passion. *** Sir Hern Arbra threw open the door with a bang and hurried to the prince’s bed. He gathered the crying young man to him and stroked the damp face. "It’s all right, brat. Hern’s here." Conar clutched at the Master-at-Arms. He buried his face in the soft nightshirt stretched across the man’s broad chest and wept as though his heart would break. "Easy, now, brat, easy. ’Tis just the old dream again." Conar moaned. "No, it isn’t." "Aye, was just the old dream." Hern lifted the prince’s face and the bleak look shocked him. "Have you forgotten that dream? You haven’t had it since you married your lady." Conar shook his head. "It wasn’t a dream, Hern. I wish to the gods it was a dream." The warrior understood. "Was it about your lady, then?" The King had told him about Conar’s suspicions concerning the princess and Lord Brelan Saur. "I’ve lost her, Hern," he cried, his voice hitching. "I pushed her away from me." Hern gripped Conar’s chin. "You let her go because you were afraid you’d hurt her, isn’t that true? This godawful temper you’ve developed wouldn’t allow you to let her stay at Boreas because you thought you might turn that temper on her, isn’t that the way of it?" Conar could only nod. "And you thought once you had that temper under control, you could go after her?" Again the nod. "And you must have thought you had it under control when you sent messengers to tell us you were going after her." Conar had forgotten all about sending the messages to his father and brother. "But you found you didn’t have it under control after all, when you found your brother and your lady together. Is that the way it happened?" "It wasn’t the same kind of anger, Hern," he said miserably, sobs catching in his throat. "I was furious with Brelan—"

"That’s nothing new." "But once I got back, things changed. I changed when I stepped foot inside this keep. If she had been here, I would have beaten her to a pulp. And I’d have slit Saur’s damned throat!" "And that’s why you left your lady in Oceania." "I love her, Hern. I love her so much! I can’t have her here. I can’t be around her." He buried his face in his hands. "What’s wrong with me, Hern?" "You wouldn’t have really hurt her, brat. You might have felt like it, but you wouldn’t have." Conar moaned, his heart aching, for he could not tell this man he had already done so. "I want to die. I deserve to die!" Hern shook him. "Don’t say that!Don’t you dare ever say that again !" "It’s true! I am evil, Hern Arbra. I am corrupt inside. I don’t—" "Stop it this instant!" Hern held him down in the bed by his shoulders. "You are as good as they come, Conar McGregor. There is nothing evil inside you!" "I know what I am." "And what you are is a good man who’s having a rough time of it. It can all be accounted for by what you went through in that gods-be-damned abbey. Are you forgetting I was there when you had that run-in with the demon? I saw your strength, Conar. An evil man could not have fought, and won, against a demon from the pit. Did you forget that?" Conar shook his head. "They let me win. Now, they have me where they want me." "They have nothing of the sort!" Conar grabbed Hern’s shirt. "If I tell you something, will you not be telling it to another living soul?" Hern snarled. "When have I ever told your secrets?" "She’s going to have my son, Hern." Hern knew the princess was with child; his King had told him so. "I want you to promise me something." Hern’s face narrowed. "And that promise being…?" Conar took a deep breath. "If anything should happen to me—" "Don’t even think of saying such a thing. Nothing’s going to happen to you!" Conar continued as though he had not been interrupted. "If anything happens to me, I want you to go after my son and bring him back. I wantyou to raise him as you raised me."

Hern’s eyes misted with instant tears. He could not swallow past the lump in his throat. "Promise, Hern. Promise me you will raise my son as you raised me." "Consider it done, brat." He drew Conar into his arms. "Consider it done."

Chapter 4 Along one beautiful stretch of beach bordering the keep of Oceania’s capital, Seadrift, sunlight filtered through a soft, swirling mass of darkened clouds high overhead. It was late summer and a rainstorm to the far west was brewing off the coast of Diabolusia. Gulls careened down to take their late-afternoon meal before rain washed them to dryer places. Their shrieks and calls echoed across the black sand and over the moving, heaving waves. Efflorescent foam flowed over the sand as seaweed gathered in clumps along the breakwater. A lone crab scuttled into the retreating wave, its forelegs waving as though in farewell to the lone inhabitant of the beach. Liza McGregor didn’t hear the gulls flying, nor was her mind on the tide as it swept gently toward her bare toes. She did not see the crab as it made its way past her and into the water. Her thoughts were on Boreas. On the man who had abandoned her. The man to whom, soon, she would no longer be attached. She had never felt such an overwhelming loneliness or uncertainty. It had now been five and a half months since he had sent her away. Another two weeks and the marriage would be set aside. She lovingly placed a hand on the protrusion of her swollen belly. A gentle, weak smile flitted over her lips and she took a nervous breath. The babe would come in the fall and already she knew it was a boy-child. Sometime near what should have been her fourth wedding anniversary, he would come into this world. Her main fear was of Conar coming to take her son away. He might not want the mother, but he would want the child. The Tribunal would insist he come to claim his heir. Her eyes hardened. There was no way she would allow that. He would not get her son without taking her. No other woman would raise her child. The thought of Conar with another woman put a chill in her heart. She had tried, unsuccessfully, many times to probe his mind, but he had blocked her at every turn. She had tried to use her scrying mirror to see him; but again he had easily clouded her vision. Once, she had thought to make the trek to Serenia, but had been counseled against such a dangerous maneuver. The Oracle, Herself, had forbidden it. Her small hand wiped away a tear. Would she never see him again? Would she spend the rest of her life without him? She looked out over the ocean and squinted with the old fear. No one knew of it, not even her beloved Conar. Her face screwed up with pain and she forced away the terror. It would happen, just as surely as she stood on this beach, no way to alter what was to be. She had to live with that fear. And die with it. A morbid fear of the water was something a woman of the Daughterhood of the Multitude

could ill afford. She was One with the Sea. But, as she well knew, the Sea always claimed Its own. One day, It would claim her. *** "How is she?" Grice asked the man who stood watching Liza from the high dunes. He laid a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder and smiled as Brelan Saur looked up. "I haven’t spoken to her today." Brelan ran a tired hand over his face, grimacing at the stubble he had forgotten to shave this morning. He must look like a serf, he thought sourly. He had ridden most of the night and had only arrived an hour or so before dawn. "How was Chrystallus?" Grice sat on the sand and toyed with a sea oat. "As beautiful as ever." He didn’t take his eyes from Liza. "And your aunt, the Empress?" Grice leaned back and put the sea oat stem in his mouth, working it with his teeth. He crossed his ankles and his weight dug his elbows into the loose sand. Brelan shrugged. "She’s fine. She sends her love to your mother." "Does she think we’re doing the right thing?" "Oddly enough, she does. I thought she’d balk, but she didn’t. She says it just might work." "Did you have any trouble eluding Legion’s patrols?" Brelan snorted; Grice grinned. He punched Brelan’s shoulder. "Heard they were all over Ciona and Seaflower looking for your scrawny ass." "Did Conar send his men here?" A frown crossed Grice’s handsome face. "Not a one. They were scouring the countryside near here, but no one came knocking at the keep’s door to inquire about you or Elizabeth." He threw away the sea oat with a hard snap. "He means to let the annulment go through. I can not for the life of me understand why he’s doing this. By all that’s holy, Brelan, the woman is carrying his child! His heir! Does he mean to deny the child? To question the paternity?" "From his point of view, it may not be." "Are you defending him, now?" Grice was aghast. His black brows drew together in a fierce scowl; his face turned nasty. Brelan shook his head. "I’m just saying that may be what he’s thinking. It makes as much sense as anything else the fool has done of late." "You heard about the war games in Century, then?" Grice hissed. "War games?" Brelan chuckled. "More like torture games for Conar’s ego. When I came through Dundenon, I heard eight of his men were sent to the medical hut on the very first day. He broke the arms of three and several ribs on the others." He narrowed his eyes. "I don’t know why Hern allowed him to

go along, anyway." "To keep his ass out of Boreas Keep, if the rumors I hear of him are true." "That may well be the case. If Papa can’t handle him, Hern can." "It doesn’t seem that way, from what I’ve been hearing. Why the hell do you think he’s turned so vicious of late? He’s always been hot-tempered, but he’s never hurt anyone just for the hell of it." Brelan nodded. "But he is beyond understanding at times. Who knows why he does what he does? Maybe he’s out to prove something." "Like what?" Brelan shook his head. "Maybe he feels inadequate for having let Galen get near enough to Elizabeth to kidnap her. Who knows?" Grice got hurriedly to his feet, his anger snapping like fire in a grate. "When this marriage is voided, will you be taking Elizabeth to wife?" Brelan’s head snapped up and he stared at Grice. "What?" Wynth made an ugly snort. "You heard me! I know full well how you feel about my sister. My parents know, too. Even that silly twit of a brother of mine knows." He scowled at Brelan’s astonished face. "Even Elizabeth knows how you feel, man!" "He won’t let the marriage be voided. Conar will come after her; mark my words." An angry growl came from the eldest Oceanian prince. "It’ll never happen! Do you think that even if he did this late in the game our people would allow their beloved princess to be treated as an afterthought? Do you think I would allow it?" He bent over Brelan. "My parents can give her hand to whomever they please and it pleases them to give her to you." "But I am not—" "Royalty!" Grice spat. "It makes no difference. You’ll take her from here anyway. Her child needs a father and I know you will be a good one." He crossed his bare arms over his chest. "Conar McGregor will never take her child away from her." "Is that what she fears?" Brelan asked, worried. "That is what she knows he will try to do. But he won’t be allowed to take one without the other." "It could mean war, Grice." Prince Grice Wynth stared hard at his friend. "We would have the might of Oceania and Diabolusia behind us if it comes to that. Rysalia, too." Brelan whistled. "You’ve formed an alliance with them?" "Aye, and they are no friends of Serenia’s."

"Does Elizabeth know about what you and your parents are offering me?" When Grice nodded, he looked back at the woman standing in the softly breaking waves. "How does she feel about it?" His heart suddenly pounded, for the answer meant more than he could possibly say. "She said she would abide by their decision. All we ask is that you protect her as she should have been protected." "You know I will." "And love her child as you love her." "I swear it by the gods." "Then you will accept her to wife?" There was no hesitation. "Gladly." *** "Are you an honorable man, Milord?" Gezelle asked. His head rested on her left shoulder as he lay on top of her sweaty body. "What?" he mumbled. "I asked if you consider yourself honorable?" "Aye." He pushed himself up to look into her face. "Do you dare to question if I am or not?" Gezelle shook her head. "I asked only because I heard it said that you keep your promises and that you never go back on your word." She let her gaze drift down his chin and then back to his absorbing eyes. "I have heard that you never betray your code of honor." His voice was soft and deadly. "Meaning what, exactly?" "I have heard that you make it a point to never bed again any woman you get with child." Conar went perfectly still, his breath caught in his throat. Nothing could have hurt, or angered him more, than what the little bitch just said. He braced himself on arms quivering with fury. "Are you pregnant?" Gezelle’s lids fluttered, but she held his gaze. She could see his mounting rage and felt his body trembling with violence. "Aye, Milord. You have me with child." He stared at her, hating her with every fiber of his being. His first thought was to beat her, to slam his fists into her belly until she bled the babe from her womb. But some inner reasoning took hold and he silenced the fury aching to burst forth, to destroy the lovely face gazing back at him with supreme confidence that he would not harm her. "You let yourself get with child." "I tried hard not to, but there were times you did not give warning, and I was not prepared…"

His furious outburst stopped her. "You thought if you got pregnant, you could be rid of me, is that it?" His snarl was vicious. "That isn’t true." "Aye, it is!" He tangled his hand in her hair and fiercely gripped the ebony strands, ignoring her yelp. "Nay, Milord." Her eyes watered with agony. His hand twisted harder on her scalp and she couldn’t stop the groan. "I did not plan it!" "Planned or not, it will not keep you from me!" He released her hair and took her face between his palms. With a calm, steady glare, he growled down at her. "You will not abandon me, Mam’selle. I’ll not allow it." "Milord, please—" "Get rid of it." Gezelle gasped. "I will not!" She tried to jerk her face free of his hold. His hands tightened on her cheeks. "Either get rid of it yourself or I will have it taken!" "You can’t ask me to do such a thing! It’s murder, Milord. An innocent babe—" "You should have thought of that! Either do as I say or I will beat the babe out of you!" She fought him, scratching, pummeling, biting, tearing at his flesh, but in the end he won, as he always did, and she lay beneath his towering strength and fury, submissive to his wants and needs. Agonizing tears dripped down her cheeks as she, at last, nodded dumbly to his demands. Two days later, her son was thrown down the cistern of an old woman’s privy. A week later, she was in his bed once more. *** He forgot why he had come into the room. She was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, in profile to him. Her long, wet hair cascaded over one creamy shoulder as she brushed the tangles from it. The firelight gave her an unreal quality as it shimmered behind her, setting red highlights in the long black tresses, shining around her head like a halo. She leaned back, her neck arching to let her hair hang behind her. Her beauty took his breath away. She was so unlike any other woman he had ever known, and he sensed he would never know another to equal her. She was everything his fevered, erotic dreams conjured for him at night as he lay in his lonely bed. Her movements mesmerized him. Her grace and beauty numbed his mind to everything else. His thoughts were ones he had never before entertained—wife, family, total commitment. She had changed him, his thoughts, his way of both looking at, and dealing with, things in his life. Never had he let a woman invade his every waking thought, his serenity and security. Never had one instilled jealousy in him, but Elizabeth McGregor did.

His eyes softened as she looked back at him and smiled. "Come." She motioned to a chair. "Sit with me a while, Milord Brelan." Seating himself, he was content to keep the silence between them. She moved closer to his chair and leaned her head against his knee, her right hand closing around the tight muscle of his calf. He wanted to pull her onto his lap, put his hands on her, hold her, pour out his newfound feelings. The intensity of those feelings, the urges toward his brother’s wife, alarmed him. He mentally chastised himself. She was acutely vulnerable and he wouldn’t take advantage. She was being offered to him, but as yet, she, herself, had said nothing concerning her parents’ wishes. He took the brush from her and began to slowly draw it through the silk of her midnight hair. He marveled at its texture, and thought, This is right. This is where she belongs. Here with you. Not with Conar. He let out a long breath. The physical want of her was more than he could handle. He knew he had no right to claim her, knew her heart was taken, but his own wayward heart had already laid claim to her. In seven days, the marriage would be annulled and he would dare to seek her hand. When she began to sob, he lifted her onto his lap, his strong arms trembling as they closed around her. He drew her close and absorbed the wracking sobs with his own body. When her mother had asked his help in trying to salvage her daughter’s marriage, he had readily agreed; eager to needle his brother and cause the man problems. But now, it was more than obvious Conar had relinquished all claims her and that puzzled Brelan, yet he certainly didn’t think overlong on his brother’s stupidity. As far as Brelan was concerned, Conar wasn’t too bright at the best of times. Giving up such a woman had to be the stupidest thing any man could do, and now, Brelan faced a dilemma both enticing and just a tad more than frightening. He had made the decision that she was his to protect, and he would as long as there was breath in his body and she allowed his love to claim her. The hounds had been sent after him following Ciona, just as he knew they would be, but soon even that token attempt at revenge had been laid to rest. He was at a loss to explain why Conar and the King had given up this woman. He was sure he, himself, never could. And another thing came to him with astonishing certainty—it would be wicked vengeance to have Conar’s woman as his own. To make her totally his and pleasure her in ways Conar had never dreamed. To spoil Conar for her for the rest of their lives. To take her away from his brother. "Brelan?" she asked softly. "Aye, love?" He lifted her chin and looked into her face. As though the very earth had stopped moving, he felt the breath catch in his throat. It pained him to the very core of his existence to see her hurting. Her voice was that of a wounded, lost child seeking reassurance. "I will belong to you one day, Milord." His willpower dissolved in the face of her hurt. It was almost like a length of chain falling away from his treacherous heart. "Is that what you want, Sweeting?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. If she told him she wanted his brother, he would move heaven and earth to bring Conar to her and keep him with her. "It is what the gods have decreed."

"But is it what you want?" "Do you love me, Milord?" He gave himself up to the ache. Slowly, his lips descended, and he gently put his mouth on the sweetness of hers. With infinite care, his lips played against the velvet smoothness—asking, answering, begging, and demanding. He pulled away at last and locked his gaze on hers. "With all my heart and soul and being, Elizabeth, and I always shall." She laid her head against his shoulder. "I would be honored to be yours, Milord," she whispered into his shirt. He was aware that she hadn’t answered his question, but her words had set him free. He was free! Freed by her words and her soft, willing mouth. He let go of his self-control and his arms tightened around her. He shut out the silent sobs still torturing them both. "I will care for you, Elizabeth. I will protect you with my dying breath and provide for you." "And my babe?" she asked, raising her head. "Will you take my babe as your own?" He stroked her belly. "As the gods are my witnesses, Elizabeth: I wish to Them that the babe was mine. I will guard it with my life as I will guard its mother; and I will love it as freely and with as much strength as I love the mother who carries it!" He kissed the top of her head. "You will never, ever want for anything." A salty tear fell against her lips; she flicked out her tongue to taste it. Bitter. As bitter as the pain in her heart. The only thing she wanted in life, Brelan couldn’t give. No one could.

Chapter 5 It took only one look for King Gerren to turn scarlet red with rage. His hushed, angry order made Legion jump to do his bidding. The door was quickly, silently closed to block any unwanted eyes from viewing the scene that made King Gerren unfit for human companionship. "Get the hell out of that bed!" he bellowed. His fingers clenched so hard that half-moon indentions where his nails had dug scored the confines of his palms. Legion backed away from his father, awed at the way the man’s body seemed to grow bigger. His ears rang mightily, for his father’s unexpected bellow had been loud enough to shake the very timbers of the keep’s foundations.

"Stay where you are, mam’selle!" the King ordered. Conar slowly got up. He was all too aware of his nakedness, for the King’s gaze swept down him with insulting distaste. He ached to cover himself, but he knew that would only make matters worse. So he stood still, aware Legion was looking back at him with shock and disappointment. Gerren ground his teeth. He tried to curb the wild panic flooding him with enough adrenaline to move a mountain. His breathing came shallow and fast; his heart raced inside his ribcage. He had not counted on any of this. He had simply come to speak with his lazy, sullen son and, finding the door unlocked, had barged in—in a fine state of pique—for Conar had not been seen about the keep in three days. What the King had encountered had nearly given him a heart attack. His angry shout had brought Legion running out of his room and sent him colliding into his father’s broad back. "Papa, I can explain…" Conar began. "Shut up!" Gerren took a step closer to the bed, turning to the crying woman who hovered under the protection of the silken coverlet drawn up to her chin. Gezelle’s shoulders shook with fear. Her hair was tumbled wildly about her shoulders in a froth of black foam; her lips were swollen and bruised from Conar’s kisses; and her eyes, locked on Conar, were round in her white face. But it was her pitiful whimpers that brought the King’s rage under control. Gerren took a calming, steadying breath, and used every ounce of his skill to speak in a voice that resembled normalcy. "Mam’selle? You will look at me, Mam’selle." She brought her head around to her King. She thought she saw death in those stern globes and moaned in abject terror. "You have nothing to fear from me," the King said softly. "Not if you tell the truth." "She’s scared to death, Papa. Let me…" Conar felt his father’s fury wash over him like a drowning wave of ice water. "You, sir, have done more than enough already!" He took a step toward Conar, stopped, and let out a harsh breath. "More than enough!" "Papa," Legion said. "She thinks she’ll be put to death." Gerren looked at the girl. "You are not at fault here, so nothing is going to happen to you. Tell me the truth." Gezelle nodded in understanding. Her heart went out to the young prince, forced to stand stiffly beside the bed, his face filled with shame. "Look at me, Gezelle!" the King commanded. "Did this man force you to his bed?" "Papa…" Conar reeled as the back of his father’s hand caught him fully across the mouth. He stumbled into the nightstand and scattered lamp and water pitcher to the floor. "I was not speaking to you, sir!" He turned back to Gezelle. "Do not lie to me, Mam’selle. Do not

think to protect him. Answer me truthfully and no harm will come to you. Did he force you to his bed?" Gezelle was torn between her sense of duty to her King, her promise to her grandmother never to lie, and her desire to protect the only man she had ever loved. Her eyes darted to Conar as he wiped a smear of blood from his torn lip. She burst into tears. What could she say that would not hurt him? As though he had read her mind, the King made the decision for her. "You will not protect him, Mam’selle. He will be punished either way; but I will know the truth of your involvement. Did this man force you against your will?" "Tell him, Gezelle," Conar said. King Gerren turned to glare at his son, but kept his hands to himself. His angry look flitted down his son as though he found him loathsome to behold. "I love him, Majesty!" she wailed. "I would do anything he asked of me!" Conar closed his eyes to the pain in her voice. He had known all along how she felt. He had used that love, had made it dirty with his insatiable appetite. He could hear his father’s long inhalation of disbelief and his longer exhalation of shame. What Legion was thinking he could only guess, for he was too ashamed to glance at his big brother. "You have not answered my question," the King warned. "I will know the truth of it." She brought up her hand, unaware that the cover had slipped from her bosom so that all three men were rewarded with the glorious sight of her naked breasts. "Majesty, please. I came to him willingly enough," she said, trying to protect him. "He did not force me." She pulled the coverlet across her breasts. "But he seduced you and not the other way around, is that not so?" "I made her come to my bed," Conar said in a dull voice, knowing she would never admit it. "Your Grace, do not!" "I gave her no choice in the matter." Gerren faced his son. "Are you that anxious to have the Tribunal flay the flesh from your worthless hide?" "I’ll stand whatever punishment you wish to mete out, Highness, but I would appreciate it if you would send her back to her room. She should not be held accountable for my actions." He raised his chin. "Only I am responsible for those." Gerren looked back at the girl. "Knowing you as I do, Mam’selle, I am sure you will not mention this episode to anyone. You may go back to your room and everything will be as it was. I hold no anger at you, Dearling." "Majesty, he—" "There is nothing you can say that will alter my low opinion of this man. Be quiet now. That is my order."

He turned his back on her to pierce his son with a steely-eyed glint. "Go to your brother’s room and wait there for me." Conar started to pick up his breeches, but his father’s angry growl stopped him. "You seem to enjoy taking off your clothing. Leave it off!" He glanced up at his father, a red flush of shame covering his already stricken face. But he straightened up, dropping the breeches, and with his spine straight, walked to the door. Legion opened it, and Conar stepped down the hall to Legion’s room with all the dignity he could muster. A’Lex couldn’t trust himself to speak. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. He was horrified for Conar, embarrassed for Gezelle. He could only surmise what his angry father would do to Conar; but in all fairness to the King, Conar well-deserved whatever it was going to be. He was sure it wouldn’t be anywhere near the severity of the Tribunal’s wrath if they got wind of today’s happenings. He ushered his brother into his room, standing silently with him until their father joined them. "Stand at the head of the stairs, Legion," the King told him. "Perhaps I should stay, Papa." "And perhaps you should not! This is between your brother and me!" He pointed to the door. "Make sure no one,no one , comes up those stairs until I am finished!" Legion took a last look at his younger brother and left, his head filled with the look of utter hopelessness on Conar’s face. Gerren began to unbuckle his wide leather belt. He saw stark incredulity on Conar’s face. "You mean to whip me?" Gerren lifted a finger to point at Legion’s writing desk. "Bend over it." "Papa, you can’t mean to…" Gerren took three steps and came nose to nose with his son, impaling him. "Do as you are told, sir! Don’t make me tell you again, or so help me, Conar, Iwill turn you over to the Tribunal!" "Papa—" His father slapped him. Conar’s head snapped to the side, his already torn lip splitting further. He turned hurt eyes back to Gerren. "I am not a child to be whipped, Highness." "And you will not be whipped like one, either!" The King spun him around and forced him across the desk. He put one heavy hand in the center of his son’s back and drew the belt over his shoulder. "Don’t open your mouth until I give you permission to do so. Is that clear?" Conar resigned himself to the whipping. He gripped the far edge of the writing desk. His nod was all the King needed before the punishment began. His father had never spanked him. The royal sons were never punished, never whipped. Someone else was whipped in their stead. Among the royal sons, Conar was the only one to have ever experienced a whipping, and he thought he knew what to expect, but what his father doled out was not what Conar remembered from his childhood at the Abbey.

When the belt came down on his bare flanks, a stinging agony ripped across his flesh. He gasped, shocked at the heaviness of his father’s hand. As stroke after stroke landed on his rear, Conar ground his teeth to keep from crying out. His father had been right, he wasn’t being whipped like a child. No child could withstand this pain. His flesh was soon on fire. He felt something drip down his thighs and knew it was blood. One final hit made him grunt and the belt was stilled. "Turn and look at me!" Gerren trembled from head to toe, amazed he had it in him to hit Conar so hard. The young man’s buttocks were criss-crossed with fiery red lines, some bleeding. There was now an accusing expression on Conar’s face. Just looking at the closed, set face nearly drove Gerren to the brink of murder. "Wipe that look off your face or I’ll turn your ass over that desk again!" Conar turned his head away from his father’s intense glare. Again, he was acutely aware of his nakedness, even more aware of the shame flooding over his flesh, of the pain on his rump and the trickle of blood on his legs. "Look at me, Conar Aleksandro!Don’t you dare take your eyes off me!If you do, I’ll beat you until you drop!" He grabbed his son’s chin, forcing up his head so their eyes were locked. "When I speak, you will afford me the simple courtesy of at least pretending you are listening!" "I hear you, Highness," Conar said, his voice thick with emotion. Gerren back brought his hand as though he was going to slap his son. The boy never blinked. The King lowered his hand. "Shut your mouth!" Conar’s jaw clenched tightly, a muscle jumping furiously in his right cheek, but he didn’t speak. He knew he had better not. He thought perhaps his father would strangle him if he attempted to do so. He had never seen the man in such a state, and he knew he never wanted to again. "I am appalled! Appalled! I mistakenly thought you to be an adult, with the reasoning power of an adult and the good sense of one. But this latest debacle is more than I can bear. I didn’t think Cayn dropped you on your head when he delivered you, but he must have. I have grave doubts as to your mental capacities!" He shoved his son toward an overstuffed chair and told him to sit. When Conar hesitated, mainly to save Legion’s fabric from becoming bloodstained, Gerren pushed the young man as hard as he could and Conar landed with a groan of pain. The chair tipped backward, but the King grabbed the arms and brought the legs down. The hard thump elicited another groan. "Brelan is back in Oceania." The King watched the fury leap instantly in his son’s face. "I have it on good authority King Shaz will offer Liza’s hand to Brelan once the annulment has gone through." Again there was a leap of barely restrained fury. "At your request, and at the advice of your brother and Hern, I let the matter drop concerning Brelan, since I felt it would make the Tribunal suspicious if I had him brought here to answer to me. I didn’t send for your wife for the same reason, but I told you then and I will tell you now—that was a singularly stupid thing to do. A dangerous mistake." He gripped the arms of the chair, leaning into his son’s face. "She should have been brought back by you. I wondered why you didn’t go." He straightened up. "Now, I know why!" Conar held his father’s stare. "May I speak?" "No! How long this has been going on I can only guess. I knew you were screwing her before your marriage." He was rewarded with a look of sheer surprise. "Oh, I know things you and your brother

would prefer I didn’t. You two aren’t nearly as clever as you think!" He crossed his arms over his chest. "I would imagine this is your way of getting back at Liza for her supposed unfaithfulness. I refuse to believe the girl has done anything wrong." "Believe what you will." King Gerren moved with a lithe grace that belied his years. Once more his hands went to the arms of Conar’s chair, his nose almost touching his son’s. His voice was a soft, quiet whisper. "Open your mouth one more time when I am speaking and I will shut it for you in such a way you will not be able to do more than sip your meals through a hollow reed!" He knew when his father meant business and he knew he was on the verge of having his teeth knocked out. He let his gaze drop from his father’s in defeat. It had been three days since he had had a drink, and he desperately needed one now. "Good," Gerren said, satisfied with the submission he had finally exacted. "You are to leave for Oceania this afternoon. The Boreas Wind is in port and can take you there in less than five days. And when you reach Oceania, you will collect your wife and bring her home. There will be no excuses, no more delays. You will escort her here as her loving and devoted husband, and you will remain at her side, faithful and attentive. Do you understand?" He saw his son nod. "You have no need to pack. Everything will be sent to the ship. The faster you get to Seadrift, the faster you can bring my daughter and grandchild back to me." He pushed away from the chair and stared at Conar’s bent head. "Is all that clear to you? Or do I need repeat it?" "No, Highness. I will do as you say." "Then get yourself out of my sight!" Conar stood and walked to the door, although he wanted to run. He managed to square his shoulders and raise his chin, but he felt far from proud. Something about the arrogant stiffness of his son’s shoulders brought out the worst in the King. He yelled for his son to stop. Having Conar turn what he saw as hostile, unforgiving eyes to him only made matters worse. "I had long wondered why Gezelle spent so much time with you in your chambers. Stupid fool that I was, I never once considered you could be about the evil that you were. I trusted you. I believed in you. And you have destroyed both my trust and respect for you." He fixed his son with a red-hot stare of disgust. "I would not have thought you capable of such great evil like your brother Galen, but it seems you are cast from the same mold. I am inclined to believe you have developed as great a love for the bottle as he has. So, I will see to it that not one drop of liquor will be on board the Boreas Wind. None. You will have to find your courage elsewhere." His father’s remark stung Conar. "May I go now?" Gerren waved an imperious hand, but his next words were spoken with deadly promise. "If you ever again try to fuck a woman other than your wife, I will geld you. Understand?" "Perfectly." Conar’s bare feet made slapping sounds as he made his way back to his room. His face burned with his

rage at being chastened like a small boy. He was blind to everything around him and his vision was blurred with a hazy red fog of humiliation. He didn’t see Kaileel Tohre until the man’s hard grip fastened around his upper arm. He didn’t question how Tohre came to be in his room, how he had gotten past Legion. All he knew was the bastard was there. "You could be brought before the Tribunal for what you have done. They would do more than bloody your backside. They’d lay open your back with barbed whips." Conar jerked on the hold, but Tohre’s hand tightened. "Let go, Kaileel." "I shall not tell them what you have done." Tohre’s hawk-like gaze swept over Conar’s nakedness. He licked his lips. "Come to me and I will protect you." With a snarl of rage, Conar brought up his free hand and pried Kaileel’s fingers from him. "Tell them, you bastard, and be done with it! I’d rather be strapped to the whipping post than be at your mercy!" "You would like that, wouldn’t you? You think then you’d be free of me?" Kaileel stepped closer. "You will never be free of me! When will you ever learn that, Conar?" "I am going after my wife. She and I will send you to the hell you deserve!" Kaileel’s lips tightened. "Shall I go to your father and tell him how many hands have been on you, my prince?" The voice was a croon of vengeance, sweeping over Conar like crawling maggots. He twisted the dagger deeper. "Shall I recount to him how many times your thighs were spread for those of your own kind?" White-hot fury flashed across Conar’s face. His fist lashed out, catching Tohre squarely on the pointy chin. He beamed with satisfaction as the High Priest crashed against the wall and slid down it. With fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, he hoped Tohre would come at him, but the man remained on the floor, glowering. Tohre’s face darkened with a nameless evil that snapped through the air like fire. "I have tried with you, boy." Kaileel pushed himself. "I have done everything I could to show you I loved you." Conar laughed, a laugh filled with sinister intent. "You are insane." "If you go after that slut, if you bring her back, I promise you more pain than you will be able to endure!" He fingered the bruise forming on his chin. "I will cease my protection of you." "Do what you will. I have the power to take you on now." One tawny brow rose in challenge. "You gave me the power. Remember?" "And it can be taken away!" Kaileel shouted. "Will you have everyone know how you came by such power?" Tohre was not prepared for the wrath that lunged at him, gripping his neck with enough force to snap it. Conar slammed him against the wall and held him there. Tohre had only a moment’s satisfaction that, even though the young prince had consumed no tenerse in three days, there was still enough residual

amounts in his system to cause the violent anger. "Don’t threaten me, Tohre! One more word out of you and I swear I’ll find a way to silence your filthy mouth forever!" He grabbed the High Priest’s arm and yanked open his door, thrust the stumbling man into the hall, and slammed the door in his face. "You will regret this!" Kaileel shouted. "As Raphian is my Lord and Master, and yours, I will see you regret this!" *** With the grace of the Wind, it would take them almost three days to reach Oceania, with rough seas, four. Conar glanced at the limp sheeting and ground his teeth. With no wind, it would be five long days to Seadrift Keep, the Oceanian capital. Anything over five days would see the marriage dissolved and Liza’s hand in Brelan Saur’s. With a curse, he kicked at the ship’s hull and lowered his head. "She’ll be happy to see you," Sentian said as he put his hand on the prince’s shoulder. Conar shook his head, his voice bitter. "About as happy as my father was to see me leave?" A hardy boom rang out of Sentian Heil. "This is where you need to be." "Do I?" "You need to be with her and she needs to be with you." He looked into the affectionate dark orbs, searched the Elite’s warm gaze, and then made a decision that might cost him dearly. "I need someone to talk to, Sentian." "I am here." "Someone who will listen with an open mind. Who won’t judge me. Who will understand and not hate me for the things I have done." Sentian smiled. "I could never hate you." "It’s about what happened to me at the Abbey. If even one of my enemies came by this information…" Sentian looked about them. "Who is there here, but you and I? What you say to me, stays with me." Conar’s face crinkled with pain. "I need to talk to someone so badly." "Talk to me."

Chapter 6 Brelan held Liza’s hand as they walked along the beach. It was only a matter of fifteen minutes or so before sunset. The time at which her marriage would cease to be. She was silent, her head lowered against the blazing sun that washed over them at eye level. Its fiery splendor as it sank into the ocean was like a beacon calling out to her to watch. She couldn’t. Walks along this beach, reading late into the night by the fireplace, picnics next to the high waterfall near Fealst, the capital city of Oceania, had occupied the last week of Liza’s married life. She and Brelan were comfortable in one another’s presence, and their relationship had grown daily. Her confidence and trust in him was evident in the way she leaned against his arm as they walked. Little or nothing was ever said about Conar or the situation in which Liza found herself. Talk was mostly of the scenery, the people they encountered, the food they ate, the books they read to one another. It was an innocuous time; it was a desperate time. They had just climbed the largest dune near Creel Point when Liza shaded her eyes and spied the figure of a man above them on the next dune. Recognizing her brother Grice, she waved, letting go of Brelan’s hand. She started to descend the dune to meet Grice at the trough were the two dunes met. He gathered her in his outstretched arms, holding her gently, for the mound of her belly prohibited him from holding her as he would have liked. "When did you get back from Chale?" she asked, laughing. "I thought you would be another two weeks or so." Brelan smiled as he joined them at the base of the larger dune. "She’s been chomping at the bit waiting for you to return. You’d think the little Sweeting has missed you." Grice tweaked her nose and kissed her forehead. "I got back just over an hour ago. The talks went well and we start shipping our material to Tyne on the first of October." He rubbed the protrusion of her stomach. "Just in time for his arrival, I should think." Grice smiled as he hugged her again, looking over her head at Brelan. Something in that look made Brelan furrow his brow. "Your trip was uneventful, then?" Brelan asked, plumbing the charged atmosphere that was making the hair on his arms stand up. "You didn’t encounter any hostiles along the way?" "Not on the way to Chale, no." "Does that mean you did elsewhere?" Grice ignored his friend and cupped his sister under her chin. "We have guests and Mother asked me to find you." "Guests?" Her face lit up with pleasure. "Who?" Just as quickly her expression turned dull. The look on

her brother’s face meant it was no one he was particularly happy to see. Once more Grice looked at Brelan, who felt his spine growing taut. A muscle jumped in his cheek as Grice nodded in affirmation to his friend’s unvoiced question. He turned so Liza nor Grice could see his disappointment. "Guests who shouldn’t be kept waiting!" Grice teased. "You go ahead. I need to speak with Bre." He swatted her ample backside as she left them. Liza had disappeared down the other side of the smaller dune before Brelan could find his voice. "When did he arrive?" Wynth let out a wavering gust of breath. "Half an hour ago. The bastard has eight members of his damned Elite with him. He took the Boreas Wind, but apparently he tried to prolong his arrival, for he had the ship dock below Fealst and then rode here." There was thick resentment in Grice’s voice as he pointed to the lowering sun. "Cutting it short, eh?" "Then he’s here to take her back?" Brelan felt cold despite the day’s heat. Grice snorted. "That appears to be his intent. He says his father sent him to get Liza." "Does he know I’m here?" When Grice nodded, Brelan sighed. "Has he mentioned me?" He hunkered down and gathered a handful of sand, letting it slip through his fingers as surely as Liza was doing. "Only to say that he wants no trouble with you, but if you bring it to him, he’ll take you on. Father asked me to see if you would mind not coming to the main hall while he’s here." Flinging a handful of sand, Brelan looked at Grice. "I’ll be careful. I won’t cause your parents any trouble. But you tell them for me that, if he causes Elizabeth any hurt, I’ll kill him." "You have to get to him first. The Elite are sticking to him like pine tar on a board. Especially the one I told you about. His name is Sentian. You’d best keep an eye out for him. I think the bastard fears retaliation from us." Grice sat on the sand and drew up his knees into the circle of his arms. "Would he come after you if Conar ordered it?" "I don’t know the man, but Conar’s men have always been loyal to him. They’ll kill for him and they’ll die for him, if need be. Good men shouldn’t die for a man like Conar." Grice came to his feet in a bound and glared at the sea. "Anya Elizabeth is legally his until that damned sun sets. Obviously he timed his journey to the last few minutes to continue his assault on her morale." He seemed to want to say more, but he spat out a hiss of pure venom, jerked around, and walked briskly over the dune. Brelan watched him go, but his mind heard voices that brought tears to his eyes. It had only been a few days earlier when he and Liza had been together in her father’s library and he had held her to him as she had cried out her grief. "He’s not coming, is he, Brelan?" she had sobbed. "It doesn’t look like it, Dearling."

Her body trembled. "I thought he would." "What can I do, Elizabeth? Go to Boreas and drag the idiot back here?" "If he doesn’t want to come, I don’t want him to be made to." "Then what can I do to help?" Without looking at him, she answered. "There is nothing left for anyone to do, Bre. Can you make him love me again? Can you make him come for me on his own before it’s too late? Can you make him forgive me for whatever he thinks I have done?" He sat there for what seemed like hours. He stared into the leaping flames, her hand clutched tightly in his. "No, love. I can’t do any of those things," he admitted in defeat, something totally alien to Brelan Saur. Her lips trembled and she tried to smile through her tears. "But you would if you could, wouldn’t you, dear friend?" He held her gaze, tears easing down his flushed cheeks. "I would do anything in this world for you, Elizabeth. Even die," he swore as if his life, indeed, was needed. Now, he groaned in misery and the voices faded, sinking into the sea as his hope was sinking. But not the pain in his heart. He knew that would be there with him for the rest of his life. *** Liza stopped short as she entered the main hall of her parental home. Gezelle was standing by a portrait of Liza as a child, and two men, their backs to Liza, were laughing over something the servant girl had said. The heart within her breast ceased its beat. She knew those men. Her hand went to her throat. "Storm?" she called quietly. "Thom?" The two Elite turned at once, wide smiles of greeting on their faces. Thom stalked to his mistress and grabbed her in a loose bear hug, unmindful of either her rank or her ripening condition. "My lady!" he thundered, his huge mouth wide with joy. "Put her down, you oaf!" Storm hissed, yanking on Thom’s huge arm. "Don’t manhandle Her Grace in that manner!" He elbowed his Captain out of the way and then brought Liza’s fingers to his lips as he knelt before her. "We are most happy to see you, Your Grace." Gezelle hurried forward, her face hesitant, her smile a little forced. She searched her mistress’ face for knowledge of what had gone on between her and Conar and blanched when she saw understanding looking back at her. She went to her knees. "Milady, I am most—" "Happy to see me?" Liza stopped her. She helped the girl to her feet. "I do not hold you accountable, Mam’selle," she whispered, "and we will not ever speak of it again." She eased the girl away from her and then smiled at the trio. "I am so happy to see all of you!" "And what of your husband, Madame? Are you happy to see him, as well?"

She turned, not really having hoped that he had come. She smiled at Marsh Eden and Sentian Heil who flanked him and then looked at the window beyond. The sun hung for only a fraction of a second on the horizon and then faded from sight. Liza slowly closed her eyes, said a prayer of thanksgiving to the goddess Alluvia, then lifted her lids to look at her beloved husband. "I am most happy to see him, Milord." He had been a week without any liquor, a week without Kaileel Tohre’s drug. His mind was as clear as the blue of his eyes. His face was filled with a light that made the others nudge one another. He smiled shyly at his wife, a genuine smile that made his face even more breathtaking to behold. "Good," he said, walking toward her. "Then you wouldn’t mind returning home with me." There was just a trace of stiffness in his voice, a hesitancy in his words, a reserve, but his eyes spoke more than words to the men who had traveled with him. The cobalt gaze swept quickly over his wife, lighting and lingering on the beautiful face as though he were a starving man placed before a full banquet of his most favorite foods. Sentian smiled, winking at Thom. Throughout the journey, their Overlord had paced the deck, anxious to reach Oceania. He had asked the captain and crew endless questions as to why the gods-be-damned ship couldn’t go any faster. At one point when the wind had died and the sails drooped, the ship coming to a standstill, he had screamed out his displeasure as though by doing so the winds would take heed. Once again underway, he had alternated between annoying the captain with queries and glaring at the sails. It had not been uncommon to see him with lips pursed as though about to actually blow air upward through the sheeting. But once they had reached the capital at Fealst, he had become as nervous as a greenhorn. He became silent, moody, unsure of himself. His nerves had been drawn so tight that he had demanded the captain to put in below Fealst, a town only a few miles from the keep. He took his time in procuring horses, his attention constantly on the horizon. He had dawdled on the trail and his men were convinced he would have a massive creak in his neck, for he had spent the entire time craning his head to look at the lowering sun. Everyone knew why but him. Conar McGregor was unsure of his welcome in Oceania. "I have been waiting for you to come for me, Milord," was Liza’s reply. His gaze lingered at the mound of her belly beneath the loosely fitting gown. He hated himself for the way in which their child had been conceived, but his expression was filled with wonder. "Our babe is fine, Milord." His eyes met hers. "That pleases me well, Milady." "Your father, he is in good health? And my wonderful Hern? How is he?" "Everyone sends you their love." He took a deep breath. "We need to talk, Liza." "We can use the study." She glanced at Sentian as though to ask for his company. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?" Her husband inquired, his tone soft with shame. She carefully watched his face. "Would you hurt me, Milord?"

His gaze darted away from the uncertainty in hers. "No," he said so softly he wasn’t sure she had heard him. Liza walked to the study door, aware of the warm scent of cinnamon that clung to him. She breathed in the scent and felt her stomach lurch for want of his arms around her. Instead, she walked deeper into the room and stood by the window, staring at the night-darkening garden. After taking a hesitant step toward her, Conar saw her stiffen at his approach. He halted. He wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to take her into his arms, to kiss her, but there seemed to be an invisible wall between them and he had no idea how to breech it. "Will you look at me, Milady?" Liza turned slowly. Twin tracks of tears ran down her pale face. She had seen Brelan sitting in the courtyard below, his head in his hands, and it had struck her heart like a dagger. Conar blinked several times, hurt deeply by her tears. He held out his hand, silently pleading with her to come to him. Liza shook her head. "It was not I who wanted to leave, Milord. You sent me away. You can not now just put out a hand to me, like you would a child, and expect me to come." Her crying tore through him like a steel blade. One part of him wanted to go to her, hold her, comfort her. The other part wanted to flee, for he knew he had caused her great sadness and the knowledge of that was shameful. His indecision kept him riveted in place, giving her an erroneous impression. Misunderstanding his reluctance, she wept bitterly. "If you really didn’t want me back, Conar, why did you bother to come? You could have waited until the sun set." "I came, Liza." "Why? You could have sent for the child as soon as it was born." "Why would I have done that?" Her lovely face screwed up into a hard line of unforgiving rebuke. "This is your babe. You have legal right to it." He took a step toward her. "I would never have sought to take our child from you, Liza. That is not my way and you know it." "It seems I never knew you at all, Conar. What you are telling me is that you have no more need for the babe than you do its mother!" "That isn’t what I said at all." She lifted her chin, her heart aching so badly she thought she would die. "Then why are you here?" He took another step closer. "Papa sent me here to bring you back before it was too late." He saw her nod in fearful acceptance. He angrily shook his head. "You have it wrong, lady. No one, including my father and King, could have made me come if I hadn’t wanted to. You also know that!"

"You came because of your honor and pride, your sense of ownership. Not because you felt you should. Not because of any love you still bear for me." Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her words. "You came because, as you once told me, what is yours, will always be yours!" Conar let out a ragged sigh. He stepped up to her, taking her upper arms in his firm grip. "Look at me, Liza." When she would not, he gently shook her. "Look at me, please." Her eyes came up to his and he searched them, willing her to hear the truth. "I know there are problems we need to work out. I know I am the cause of those problems, and I think you know some of my reasons. Once we are home, we will settle them there, away from any outside influences." "Of what outside influences do you speak? Kaileel Tohre? The Domination? What they did to you at the Abbey all those months ago?" She saw him cringe. "I told you then that it mattered not in our relationship. I told you I would help you deal with whatever it was they forced you to do. But you wouldn’t let me. You shoved me out of your life, sending me here. You had no intention of coming for me until you were made to!" "I did come for you weeks ago! I waited here for you for three days. Where were you, Liza?" There was deep hurt in his words. "You know where I was." "And you would admit it?" His tone was incredulous. When she simply gazed back at him, he shook his head. "Damn you, woman, have you no shame?" "What shame do I bear, Milord? You saw me in Ciona. You saw Brelan with his arms around me. What else did you see?" He grimaced. "More than I wanted to." "What did you see?" "I saw him kissing you." "And?" "And?" he shouted. "By the gods, woman, what more did youwant me to see?" "Nothing more happened. What you saw, you were meant to see!" His head snapped up; he frowned. "For what purpose?" "What difference does it make? You did nothing about it. You sent men after Brelan but I think that was more about your stupid feud with him than it was about me." "I didn’t send men after that cur! Papa had Legion’s men put after him. I wanted the matter to drop." She wanted to slap the look of defiance off his face. "You see me in the arms of another man, a man you profess to hate, and you wanted the matter to drop?" She shook her head in wonder. "That tells me all I need to know about our marriage, Conar."

"Our marriage?" he thundered. "You play whore to my bastard brother while carrying my child in your belly and you dare to call this farce a marriage? I could have you beheaded as soon as the babe is born for all the transgression you have made against this marriage, Madame!" A look of horror passed over her face. "Is that what you have planned, Milord? Is that why you have come to take me back? To stand me before your Tribunal and accuse me of adultery?" Conar flung out an angry hand. "That is why I wanted the matter to drop. Do you think I want the shame of your betrayal gossiped about in every tavern and hut in my homeland? If you have no more pride than that, woman, I do!" he snarled, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her as he would a rag doll. "I wouldn’t let them hurt you even if you are without honor and pride!" She tore away from his grip. "I have as much pride in myself as you do!" His gaze went rock-hard in his set face. "It takes little pride in being a whore!" Her right hand connected with his cheek. The stinging slap staggered him. His head snapped around and he could feel the solid imprint of each one of her slim fingers on his flesh. Such strength for such a little woman, he thought fleetingly. He touched his lip, already split from his encounter several days earlier with his father’s hard hand. He looked at a tiny smudge of red on his fingertips and then slowly looked up at her. "I am no whore, Conar McGregor. The only man I have ever willingly slept with is you. If you think differently, that I can not help." She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and brushed by him, leaving him standing at the window. "Elizabeth," he called, surprised when she stopped. "I believe you. I am sorry for what I said." She turned. "I am sorry, too, Conar." She opened the door and walked out. He sat on the bench beneath the window and put his head in his hand. It had all been a charade, a charade to make him angry and jealous and come for her. Oddly enough, he could understand it. But it had been a dangerous charade that could have cost her, and Brelan, their lives. Brelan. It would have to be Brelan. Conar wondered just how involved Saur was in this. The conniving sot liked nothing more than to torment him. But if what the servant girl who had accompanied Liza to her wedding had said was true, Brelan had actively sought Liza’s hand at one point. And if that was true, then Brelan wanted Liza. Conar smiled and the smile was like a frosty winter day. "Well," he said in a gruff voice, "Brelan isn’t going to get her!"

Chapter 7

"Where is he?" Brelan asked Liza as he walked into the solarium and found her sitting alone in the twilight shadows. Her head rested along the back of a tall, white wicker chair. Her face pinched with hurt. She took the hand he offered as he hunkered beside her. "In with Papa, Grice and Chand. I heard them speaking as I passed the Law Library." Her fingers jerked in his hand. "They will be giving him the papers that our Tribunal has drawn up." Brelan searched her face in the shadows and worried that her eyes were so dull and lifeless. "What did he say to you, Elizabeth?" "It was what he didn’t say, Bre." She hung her head. "I think he truly wants me to go back with him, but I fear it isn’t over with the Domination. They still have a hold over him." A flash of remembered pain spread over Brelan’s face. He looked out at the swaying palms lit by the fading light. "It is never over with them, Sweeting." He flinched as her head came up. "Don’t get me wrong. You can win against them, but they will try to hang on to him." "How much do you know about them?" "I’ve never had dealings with them, myself; they rarely take to boys born on the wrong side of the sheets. But I knew a boy who had his life ruined by them. He got away in the end, but it wasn’t easy. It still isn’t easy for him." Liza sat forward. "But he did escape their hold?" "He was sent to Chrystallus. There is a man there who was once high up in the Domination. His name is Occultus Noire." "He was defrocked by the priesthood, wasn’t he?" "The WindWarriors declared him an outcast. The Priesthood excommunicated him when they found out he had been the Arch-Prelate of the Domination." Brelan shrugged. "He is now to good what he was then to evil. A mighty sorcerer. Chase stayed with him for over a year until the sway of evil the Brotherhood held over him was removed. Occultus removed the curse from him." "Chase Montyne? The Prince Regent of Ionary? I never knew." "Even his father didn’t know. Coni knew, of course, for he and Chase were at the Abbey at the same time. I knew because Chase told me. The only other people who know are Hern and Roget du Mer, Teal’s big brother." Liza frowned. "How did Hern find out?" Brelan looked away. "I told him and wish I hadn’t." "And Roget?" "Chase and Roget were very close friends back then. Years later when Roget was tried for treason, du Mer blamed Chase for his capture by the Tribunal forces." A miserable look entered Brelan’s eyes.

"Chase was tortured by the Tribunal, Elizabeth. He gave away Roget’s hiding place. Ashamed of what he had done, he tried to help Roget by going to Tolkan. The old bastard told him if he’d come to the Abbey for a few weeks, he’d see that Roget was sent to one of the lesser prison farms. Chase knew from personal experience what was going to happen. But once Chase was at the Abbey…" Brelan’s face turned ugly. "Well, you can imagine what was done. Despite his sacrifice, Roget was sent to the Labyrinth, the worst penal colony there is." "Was he consecrated to them, then?" She had feared Conar had been, but there was still good left in him. She knew, if he had been given totally to the evil of the Domination, there would have been nothing left of the man she loved. "He was helped to escape on the night before they were to initiate him." "Who helped him?" "I did." "You?" "That’s how Hern found out. I had to have help in getting Montyne to Chrystallus." He bit his lip. "Unfortunately, Hern developed a strong dislike of Chase because he found out Montyne went willingly to Tolkan’s bed. I believe he thinks Chase and Roget were lovers, although I’ve told him time and again they weren’t." "But how did you get into the Abbey to get him out?" she asked, stunned by his revelation. Brelan smiled. "Don’t ask me how I got there or who sent me." His smile widened at her look of confusion. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Elizabeth." *** Conar sat with his father-in-law and brothers-in-law in the massive library that housed the legal tomes of the Oceanian Judiciary Tribunal. His gaze was intent on the document in his hands and he didn’t see the look of dislike and mistrust that passed between father and eldest son. He could sense their animosity, could feel it with the newfound awareness in his soul, but warring emotions plagued his mind, bombarding him from every angle in this keep. It was as though a dozen or so voices spoke to him at once. He could hear them, distinguish one voice from another, but could not make out the actual words and thoughts behind the whispers. So he sat with the document, immune to the rudeness of his hosts, and tried to concentrate on the writing. The respect and love these men had once borne him was now a thing of the past. He realized he had no one but himself to blame for the present state of their feelings. His spine tingled as he felt their hostility, but he managed to shift his gaze over the document still another time. Not looking for loopholes or ways out or hidden clauses that gave these people more power than they should have, but rather it was stalling, a ploy to gather his own disorganized thoughts into one coherent line of reasoning. He had to be sure they understood him, trusted him, and respected him again. Without looking up, he spoke in a soft, quiet voice. "There is nothing but truth in these charges you have made against me. I admit this estrangement was my own doing." Glancing up, he caught Grice glaring at him and he winced.

King Shaz nodded. "Then you admit Anya Elizabeth was not at fault. It must be made clear that this prolonged exile you forced upon her was not due to something she had done at Boreas." "Or any other place," Grice snapped. "There must be no doubt she is innocent of any wrongdoing," Shaz added. Conar glanced at the paper. "All those points are covered. If you have a quill, I will sign." "You are positive?" the King probed. He again scanned the words. In essence, it was a testimony to his own guilt. Guilt at having been an insensitive and boorish brute, a reckless fool, and a man who had lost a goodly portion of his honor. He took a quill Chand Wynth, Liza’s younger brother, signed the parchment with a flourish and handed the document to Shaz. "Will this satisfy your Tribunal?" Chand asked in a low voice. "It had better!" Grice growled. "If his Tribunal thinks to charge her with infidelity…" Conar’s head snapped toward Grice. "She hasn’t been accused of such a thing!" A harsh laugh erupted from Grice’s tight mouth. "You accused her!" Conar stared hard at his brother-in-law. "What I say to my wife doesn’t concern anyone but the two of us." "It concerns us when her life might be forfeit because of your ridiculous jealousy!" "And who was to blame for that?" Conar shouted. "You should never have doubted her, Conar," Chand pointed out. "No matter how it looked. You should have confronted them in the stable and you would have known." Conar flinched. "You’re right, but if I had, I would have done my best to kill Brelan Saur." "If he hadn’t killed you first!" Grice replied. "The fight you want to see between me and him will come one day, Wynth. I hope you’ll be satisfied with the winner." "Liza wanted no part of this scheme, Conar," Chand told him. "Neither did Brelan. He warned our mother that it could backfire." Conar wasn’t concerned with Chand. He knew the boy was loyal to him, for Chand had as much as told him so earlier that evening. His main concern lay with Grice. "Will I be allowed to take my wife back without a problem from you?" "What problem do you anticipate?" Grice asked in a syrupy voice. "I am told you question my intent; that you fear Liza will not be safe with me, in Serenia."

"And whose fault is that?" Conar ground his teeth. "If I had no intention of caring for her, I wouldn’t have come for her, and I wouldn’t be here groveling like a dog at your feet, Wynth!" "Aye, your actions speak eloquently for your damned intent!" Grice snarled. "You cared so little for getting here, the sun was almost set! You cared so little for her that you sent her off on a long journey during a dangerous time in her pregnancy. She could have lost the babe for all the care you gave her!" The eldest Oceanian prince came to his feet, his fists clenched. "I was suffocating on that gods-be-damned ship, Wynth," Conar defended. "And there were problems you know nothing about concerning why I didn’t come before now. Things that went on between Liza and me at Boreas have nothing to do with why I am here now. You don’t know all there is to know about our affairs. And I had no way of knowing she was pregnant when she left!" "We know how you got her with child!" The King’s voice cut like steel through the air. A look of pure agony flashed across Conar’s suddenly pale face. "Were you just angry, Conar?" Chand asked, his voice friendly and forgiving. "Were you drunk? Maybe she just mistook it for…for…" "Rape!" Grice supplied. "The term isrape , Chandling!" Conar glanced up. "It was an act of violence. If she says that was what it was, I will not dispute it, for that is the way she conceived it to be." He was as aware as the others that he had admitted nothing, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit the despicable thing he had done, not even to himself. Grice took a long stride forward, and stood directly in front of Conar. He shoved Conar’s shoulder. "And you think just because she is bound to you legally you can abuse her? Mistreat her in any way?" A vein stood out in Grice’s temple and his face had suffused to a light red. "Rape is rape! It makes no difference if the rapist is the woman’s husband!" "Grice…" his father warned and was stunned as his son turned to him. "My sister stood in this very room and cried in my arms, Papa! He took her by force with no regard to her struggles or her feeling of shame or the bruises and pain he caused her. That makes it rape!" "He said it was an act of violence," Chand reminded. "I don’t know that a husband can be charged with raping his own wife." Grice spun around. "You have been on this bastard’s side all along! Naturally you wouldn’t call it a crime!" "Would it make you feel better if I admitted I raped her, Grice?" Conar asked. The Oceanian prince Regent shoved Conar. "Did raping her make you feel like a man?" He shoved again, trying to provoke him, but Conar stood there, intent on Grice’s rapidly darkening face. "If that’s what you want to believe, I can’t help it."

"I believe you’re a coward! If you think you can hurt my sister and not pay for it, you had best think again! I won’t stand idly by while you treat her as common chattel. If it were left up to me—and you’d better be damned thankful that it isn’t—I’d take a bullwhip to your hide!" "Grice!" the King shouted. But the eldest prince of Oceania was beyond hearing anything but the blood roaring in his temples. He shoved Conar again, staggering him. He shoved again, slamming Conar into the wall. "If I had my way, I’d turn you over to that virulent disease they call the Domination! I hear they rape their initiates. Maybe a taste of your own medicine would serve you well!" "That is enough!" King Shaz yelled. Grice tried to speak again, actually took a step closer to Conar so their bodies were almost touching, but the King grabbed his son’s arm, yanking him around. "The matter is over for now, Grice. You have other matters to see to, do you not?" Grice glared at his father, jerking his arm out of the steely grip. "Nothing is more important than my sister’s welfare!" "Nevertheless, there are things I wish you to attend to." He held up his hand to silence another angry retort. "Now, Griceland!" Grice clamped his mouth shut. He blazed daggers of hate at Conar, but slammed out of the room, his boot heels making angry clicks on the marble floor. Conar heard the King mumble something to Chand and then the door opened and closed. Slowly Conar raised his head to meet King Shaz’s look. Shaz started when he saw twin tracks of silent tears flowing down Conar’s stricken face. Embarrassed him to see such stark misery, Shaz looked away to keep from doing so. *** As the moon rode in the soft, balmy sky, King Shaz lay in bed beside his wife. "He must love her very much to have allowed such evil to be done to him." The King shuddered. "I have heard tales of what is done to the men who are consecrated to that filth. That Conar was—" "They don’t have all of him," Medea insisted. "There is much good left in that boy. If he had been consecrated, his heart would be as black as sin." "That’s why Anya didn’t want us to go after him." The Queen sighed. "It was the only way she could protect him. What he did at Boreas, he must have done under their influence and she realized that." "But is it over with them? If we allow her to return, will those bastards go after them again?"

Medea’s mouth stretched into a grimace of revenge. "The Great Lady will protect Her own, and Conar McGregor is one of Hers!" She pulled her husband’s head to her shoulder. "There are over forty of us left, Shaz," she said, referring to the active members of the Daughterhood of the Multitude, "and between us, we will help keep Conar and Anya safe!" *** He lay awake in the room allotted him, wondering where in this massive keep Liza slept. If he knew, he would go to her, but no one had informed him and he was fairly certain she was nowhere near. He closed his eyes and tried, again, to find her with the senses that were fresh and ever-building within him. He couldn’t understand why he was having such difficulty locating her. Then, it came to him in a flash of agonizing pain. She didn’t want him to find her! She was blocking him out, preventing him from knowing. He turned onto his side and hugged the pillow. Was that a sign that she would not be going home with him? He had to admit that she might not, a thought that was nearly unbearable. *** "Have any of you heard if the princess will be returning with us?" Storm pushed back his plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin, nodding at the Oceanian cook with pleasure. "That was excellent fare, Sheila." Sentian shrugged. "I’ve heard nothing." He glanced up at Gezelle. She shook her head. "She’s said nothing to me. She went with Lord Saur earlier this morn down to the orphanage in Fealst. I asked if His Grace would be going and she said she thought it best he not be told she was going with Lord Saur." Thom whistled beneath his breath. "A wise decision. They never did get along." An uneasy look passed over Sentian’s face. "Does Conar know where she went?" "Does he know who she went with, Gezelle?" Storm countered. "Prince Chand told me he saw His Grace at the window when the lady and Lord Saur rode out. He wasn’t pleased, but Prince Chand persuaded him not to cause trouble. Prince Chand stayed with him to make sure." Gezelle’s eyes turned dreamy. "He’s a very considerate man." "Ho!" Marsh Edan laughed, elbowing Storm. "Are we getting sweet on young Prince Wynth, Gezelle?" He winked at Thom, who grinned broadly at the girl’s flaming face. Gezelle stared directly at Marsh. "I don’t know, Marsh Edan. Are you getting sweet on the young Prince Wynth?" She smiled as Marsh’s face turned as red as her own had been. Sentian raised an eyebrow in unconscious imitation of his Overlord. "It seems that Prince Chand finds it necessary to speak quite often to you, Gezelle. Why do you think that is?" She glared up at him. "Leave off, Heil!" Sentian grinned. "Now, where’d you learn that?"

"I’ve never known any man who could turn away when a pretty girl smiles at him the way you smile at Prince Chand," Thom added. "I believe I’m jealous." Gezelle impaled him with a hot glare. "That’s because no woman looks at you that way, Thompson Loure!" She stomped out of the room. Thom’s big rubbery face split into a mischievous grin. "Think I pissed off the little darling?" Sentian nodded. "If you want her, Thommy, why the hell don’t you speak up?" Thom sobered, the lopsided grin faded. "She wouldn’t have me." "You’ll never know unless you ask," Marsh warned. Thom sighed. "I know who she wants and it ain’t me."

Chapter 8 The first thing he saw as they entered the drawing room was his wife’s hand held possessively and lovingly within Brelan Saur’s. His blue eyes narrowed to angry slits; a muscle bunched in his cheek. His long tapered fingers gripped the chair arms with enough force to pull open the seams. One forefinger tapped out a silent rhythm on the chair arm and his face had taken on a look that made the fires of hell look cool. Brelan’s cloak was thrown about Liza’s shoulders, protecting her from the wet afternoon that had overtaken them as they had ridden back from Fealst. His arm was draped intimately around her neck to keep the cloak in place. She was looking at Brelan, while his head was lowered to catch the soft, laughing retort she had just made to him. There was a merry tinkle of laughter as he answered, and a sweetness to her face as he pulled her against him in teasing play. Neither noticed the man who sat silently in the late-afternoon shadows. Nor did they see his furious gleam. Brelan removed the cloak, tossing it over a chair to dry, and then joined Liza in front of the blazing fireplace. Holding his hands in front of him, he briskly rubbed them together, turned his head to smile at her. Liza ran her hands over her arms and shuddered, feeling the chill seeping through the cotton sleeves of her day gown. "Cold?" he asked.

At her nod, he moved behind her and put his arms around her, drew her against his tall frame. Not hearing the quiet snort of fury behind him, his strong arms encircled her, one arm at her waist, the other over her chest as his right hand cupped her cold shoulder. They didn’t speak. He just held her loosely, lending her the warmth of his body. His chin rested on the top of her head and he slowly rocked them back and forth, a deep humming in his throat as he crooned softly. Conar’s hands turned into claws on the chair arms. His lips were compressed so tightly, there was a white line around them. Wide nostrils flared with every long breath; his face burned with rage. Suddenly, Brelan jerked, his arms falling away from Liza. He stepped away from her. A look of total surprise crossed his handsome face. "What’s wrong?" Liza asked. Brelan was staring at the mound of her belly. "Liza, it…it…moved!" Liza laughed, a tinkling chime of pleasure. She touched his cheek. "Of course it did! Babes do that, Brelan Saur! Have you never felt a babe moving in his mother’s womb?" "No!" he managed to gasp. He was once again staring at her stomach with a look of pure fascination. "What made it do that?" Liza laughed. "Perhaps he felt you touching his mother, Milord." Brelan shook his head. "Did I hurt it?" "Of course not!" He cocked his head to one side. "Are you sure?" "Would you like to feel it move again?" she asked shyly. She felt in some deep woman’s part of her soul that he would like nothing better. They didn’t hear the low, menacing growl from the shadows. Brelan had been careful to sire no babes on the women he took, but he loved children more than most men. Their trip to the orphanage had delighted him and the children there had been just as excited with Brelan Saur and his clowning. "May I?" he whispered, wanting to with all his heart. When she smiled her answer, he reached out a tentative, shaking hand, and placed it with infinite care on her stomach. Almost immediately the babe leapt within her, bunching up, turning, and a look of wonder replaced the fascination on Brelan’s handsome face. His grin stretched his full lips as the movement intensified, shifting and knotting inside her as though the babe was now aware it had an avid audience. Liza laughed. "He’s showing off."

A look of concern erased the wonder on Saur’s face when the babe kicked once very hard against his palm. "Does it hurt you when he does that?" "No. It feels strange, though." "Well I know it’s a boy for sure now," he told her with all the arrogance of manhood. "A girl couldn’t kick like that!" "As long as the babe is healthy, I care not what it is. They tell me all McGregor babes are healthy. Conar’s children are as robust as they come." A shadow flitted across Brelan’s face. Suddenly, he dragged her into his arms, his hold tight and fierce, protective. He buried one hand in the sleek gloss of her midnight hair, holding her head to his thundering chest. "I wish to the gods that this babe was mine, Elizabeth!" he said with heartfelt passion. Across the room in the darkness, Conar slowly, menacingly eased himself from the chair. A feral snarl replaced the tightly compressed lips on his furious face. He moved as stealthily as a lion after its prey. "I would give anything if this babe were mine!" Brelan swore. He cupped her chin and lowered his head to kiss her. "Nothing would make me happier than to give you a child!" "There’ll never be any babes of yours ever sired if you don’t take your gods-be-damned hands off my woman, Saur!" Brelan jumped, turning his head at the sound of the fierce voice. He stiffened as he recognized Conar. But he made no move to let go of the woman in his arms. He regarded Conar with ill-disguised insult as the man stepped into a pool of firelight. "Well if it isn’t the Crown Prince of Serenia," Brelan drawled, his lip twisted with a sneer. "Out slumming are you, Your Grace?" "Brelan!" Liza groaned, trying to push away from him. "Tired of living are you, Saur?" Conar crooned, his fists clenching. "Tired of whoring are you, McGregor?" "Please!" Liza groaned. Conar’s face went livid when his brother didn’t move away from Liza. A vein throbbed in the column of his throat and all he could see was a red haze surrounding the two people who stared back at him. "I said to let go of my wife!" Despite Liza’s efforts to ease herself from Brelan’s hold, he gathered her closer still. "Brelan, please! I want no trouble between the two of you." She pushed against him, looking over her shoulder at her husband’s catlike, stalking approach. "Brelan, please! Let go." "You heard her, Saur. Take your hands off her!" "Brelan, please. Let me go."

"I’ll let you go when I’m damned well ready to, Elizabeth. Not when this pompous ass tells me to!" Brelan snarled, his eyes on Conar. Saur had just enough time to step away from Liza before Conar sprang at him, moving in a blur, teeth drawn back over lips set in a growl of deep-seated fury. The prince leapt forward and caught his brother around the waist, knocking him backward and onto a small table beside the settee. Coming down hard on top of Brelan as the two of them fell, Conar grinned at the loud grunt of pain that came from his brother. Instinctively, Brelan brought up his knee to force Conar off of him. The knee drove hard into Conar’s groin, sending him twisting to the side, off the table, as burning agony invaded his loins. "Damn you!" Conar gagged, pulled at Brelan’s leg so that the table toppled and Saur rolled to the floor. Brelan managed to get to his feet before his brother. He watched with satisfaction as Conar wobbled to his own feet, agony stamped on his red face. "Get out of here, Elizabeth," Brelan warned, easing around his brother. "Go, now!" Liza moved, but not toward the doorway. She gripped Brelan’s arm. "Don’t do this." "Do as he says, Liza," Conar snapped. "Leave!" Shaking off Liza’s hold, Brelan lunged at his brother. The two men collided with an audible thud. Conar staggered backward into the heavy tapestry hanging to the left of the fireplace. The rod and fabric came crashing down behind him, a corner of the tapestry landing in the roaring flames. "No!" Liza groaned. She raced to the tapestry and pulled it off the hearth, moaning as she caught sight of the smoldering material. She stamped out the encroaching burn, glanced at the two men, and groaned again. There was such savagery in their faces, such warring emotions crossing the twisted features of each as they strove for a better grip on their opponent. Fists and feet flew; curses spilled like venom from lips pulled back over clenched teeth. Physically alike in strength and muscle, neither doubted that he would be the victor in the clash of wills, now becoming an all-out battle. Conar’s hands went around Brelan’s throat; Brelan pulled against the tightening hold. Both men jockeyed to bring the other down, hooking legs around the other, moving hips to toss or flip. They hissed like spitting cats. "Stop it!" she shouted, but they ignored her. She ran to the door. "Papa!Grice !" King Shaz and his eldest son came at a run. "What the hell?" Shaz bellowed. "Brelan!Conar !" Grice yelled. "Stop this!" He reached out to grip Brelan’s arm, but the man moved away. "Stop this, now!" Shaz ordered. "I’ll have no fighting in my keep!" The men seemed unaware of anyone other than themselves. "I said to stop!" Shaz shouted, spinning Brelan away from his brother and stepping between them. "Take this outside if you two want to murder one another!"

Brelan strained to get his fury under control. His lips were bleeding and he had a ringing in his ears where one of Conar’s fists had clipped him. "I’ll whip his ass here and now!" he bellowed. Shaz grabbed Conar. It was all he could do to keep the struggling Prince from breaking free and leaping on Saur. "Be still!" the King hissed. "Let him go, Highness!" Brelan taunted. "I’ll beat his ass and then Elizabeth and I will leave!" "The hell you will!" Conar shouted, struggling even harder against his father-in-law’s hold. "She’ll be mine andyou will be carted back to Boreas with your tail between your legs!" "I’ll rip out your throat!" "You’ll do nothing of the sort!" the Oceanian King growled. "I’ll throttle you myself if you don’t stand still!" "Let them have at it, Papa," Grice chuckled evilly. "I’ll buy Mama all new furniture." "Shut your mouth!" Shaz bellowed at his eldest son. "Conar! I told you to be still!" He jerked so hard on his son-in-law’s arm, Conar yelped. Brelan threw back his head and laughed. "You have no friends in this keep, McGregor. There’ll be no one who’ll mourn your loss of Elizabeth when I take her onour honeymoon!" Conar didn’t hear his wife’s gasp of shock, nor see the stunned looks on the faces of King Shaz, Grice, and Chand as that young man came to a skidding halt inside the doorway. What he did hear was Brelan’s smirking laughter and what he saw was a murderous red fog spreading white-hot over his vision. With a snarl of pure animal fury, he bucked under the King’s tight hold, violently twisting himself free, sending the King staggering back from his sheer raging power. Conar leapt across the distance and once more circled his hands around his brother’s throat, intent on strangling the laughter, and the life, out of him. Brelan’s laughter was gone. So was his breath. His face was beginning to turn red beneath the ungodly pressure crushing his larynx. He tried working his arms through Conar’s but the effort to break his brother’s hold only increased the pressure. He was seeing stars along his peripheral vision and he seriously considered his own mortality. He felt hands around his waist trying to pull him free of Conar’s hold and wished he could tell whoever it was that it wasnot helping. As a matter of fact, he was losing consciousness even faster. He gagged, his lungs crying out for air. "Conar!Let go of him !" Liza pulled on Conar’s arms, begging. Her father pushed her out of the way, screaming at Chand to keep her out of the way. Chand didn’t hear. He was too intent on trying to pull Brelan away from Conar. Seeing that was no good, he stepped around Saur and brought his tightly closed fist down on the crook of Conar’s left arm, striking with enough force to break the hold. Grice yanked Conar’s other arm and Brelan staggered free, clutching his bruised throat as he gasped. Pushing Conar with all his might, the eldest Oceanian Prince sent his brother-in-law crashing onto the

settee, where he landed on his back with a grunt of surprise. Being a man who had trained hard all of his life, King Shaz Wynth had no difficulty in straddling Conar, turning him before the young man could rise, and dragging up his arms behind his back, yanking hard as Conar tried to whip from side to side. "Be still, I told you!" the King bellowed. "I’ll break your damned arms if you don’t!" He jerked Conar to his feet and shook him. "I said stop it!" He grunted as Conar stomped hard on his instep in an effort to get loose. "Son-of-a-bitch!" "Throw his ass in the dungeon, Papa!" Grice yelled. "I just might do that!" Trying to buck away from the King’s hold once more, Conar glared at his captor. "You’d like that wouldn’t you? That would serve your purpose. Then you could give her to whatever bastard you like!" "Brelan Saur will be the one we give her to!" Grice shouted back. "Then you’d better have me locked up, for that is theonly way you willever give her to that bastard!" "Stop it!All of you !" Liza screamed, covering her ears with her hands. "I can’t take any more!" She ran past them, her tears falling like the rain that swept against the windowpanes. Grice tried to stop her, but she pushed him away. He turned glowering eyes to his father. "Send him back, Papa. Send the son-of-a-bitch backnow ! In chains, if necessary. You see what harm he has caused?" "You’ll have to kill me first, Wynth!" Conar screamed. "Unless you do or unless you lock me away, I’ll come back for her with the entire might of Serenia behind me!" King Shaz let go of Conar and threw up his hands in disgust. His handsome face twisted with fury. "I have never known two more pigheaded, addlebrained little snots!" He glared first at Conar and then turned his fury on Grice. "Shut up, the both of you!" "He’s shown what kind of man he is…" Brelan began. "He tried to kill Brelan, Papa. We can’t let her go with him!" Grice badgered. "She is my wife!" Conar yelled. "She belongs with me!" Shaz was on the verge of pitching son-in-law, eldest son, and his eldest son’s best friend in the farthest reaches of his dungeon and leaving them there. Brelan took a step forward, ignoring the warning hiss Chand sent his way. "She deserves better than what she’s gotten from you, McGregor!" "And you thinkyou can take better care of her?" Conar snapped. "A helluva sight better than you, you despicable little shit!"

"You can’t even take care of your own self, you turd dropping!" "At least I wouldn’t have to rape her to get her with child!" Conar tried to get to his brother, but Chand stepped between them and grabbed Conar’s arm. King Shaz took hold of Conar’s other arm, pulling him back as Grice had the good sense to step in front of Brelan’s advance. "I’ll not have any more of this!" the Oceanian King snarled. "Shaz!" a voice shouted, the high-pitched shrill gaining their immediate attention. The Queen stood in the opened doorway, her face as white as the lace at her throat. She was trembling from head to toe. "It’s Anya. She’s in labor!"

Chapter 9 He could hear her cries. He could feel the cold invading his soul with each groan and scream that filtered down to him. He was locked inside the very room he’d fought with Brelan a few hours earlier. Two guards had been posted outside, and when he had tried to climb out of the window, another guard met him, a sword thrust at his belly, making it plain that he would as soon run him through as not. His own guards were under house arrest, their whereabouts unknown. That had been four hours earlier. After his unceremonious reentry into the library, he had paced. Tried the doorknob a hundred times. Screamed his anger to the men guarding him. Slammed his fists against the portal. But no one answered, no one came to tell him what was happening in the bedchamber above. The sounds of scurrying feet stilled overhead and he turned his eyes to the ceiling. He thought he heard a loud wail raised in alarm, sobbing, and then all was quiet. With held breath, he leaned against the door, straining, yearning to hear anything that might make some sense. For a long while, no sound came from the upstairs room and he was too afraid to reel out his senses, to probe the room, to listen in to what was going on. Knowledge that he could fathom the events did little to calm him. If anything, it added to his nerves. Sometimes it was bestnot to know, not to beable to know. He slumped down the wall, buried his face in his hands. Time dragged on and on. It tore at him, gouging deep furrows in his heart. When the prolonged, agony-filled scream split the night, his face blanched as white as a freshly covered field of snow.

He knew she had delivered the babe. He felt cold despite the flames in the hearth. He felt cold despite the adrenaline racing through his system. He felt a coldness inside his very soul. He was so chilled by it, he was numb. He knew his child was dead. Knew it as surely as though he was in the room with his wife. A child conceived through his violence had now died because of his violence. He hung his head and wept. And he waited. Waited for the door to open. Waited for them to tell him his child had not survived the premature birth. Waited for them to tell him that he would be traveling back to Serenia alone. When at last he heard the key in the lock, he felt only a mild curiosity at what words they would use to bring about the total destruction of his world. He didn’t bother to stand when the Queen entered. He didn’t think he could have anyway. He was still numb, his eyes red from crying silent tears that had dried on his cheeks. "I am sorry, Conar." Her lovely face twisted with grief. "I killed him," Conar stated in a flat voice. "Because of me our child died." Medea was tired and the muscles in her shoulders were on fire with tension. She rubbed her neck. "You can not blame yourself." "There is no one else to blame but me." "What of Brelan? Do you not think he played a part in this?" He shrugged. "If it wasn’t for my jealousy, this wouldn’t have happened. If I had left her alone, if I had stayed in Serenia, the babe would still be alive and I would not have his blood on my hands." For a long time he stared silently at his palms, seeing the crimson stains spreading across his flesh. He felt the weight of his guilt pressing against his palms as he imagined the body of his child filling them. He whined, the weight growing cold in his hands until there was only a rigid pressure pulling at his arms. "Oh, sweet Merciful Alel! I killed my own child!" His cry became a torrent of unbearable grief. Her son-in-law’s sobbing unnerved Medea. As she watched his shoulders shaking, she knew she should go to him, comfort him, but she was too numb with her own sorrow. She could think of nothing to say to quiet him or to lessen his sorrow.

"Liza," he groaned. "Oh, Liza!" "Liza is weak, but she will live." He raised his head and stared at her. His voice, when he spoke, was dead, as dull as his eyes. "I destroy everything I touch and if you allow me to stay with Liza, I’ll destroy her, too." "That’s not true," she said, again wanting to ease his pain, but she was so very tired, and wanted nothing more than to hide in her chambers. "It was the gods’ will that the babe pass on." "They took his life as a punishment to me." Medea flinched. "That’s not true, Conar. No one is punishing you." "I…I…" His voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Conar," she said, tears she thought had dried beginning to ease down her face, "she will need you now more than ever. You must be there for her." "To do what?" he sobbed, swiping angrily at his tears. "Cause her more heartache? Hurt her? I’m damned good at hurting her. I’ve done nothing but cause her pain for the last year! Why in Alel’s name would you want me anywhere near her?" "To love her, Conar," she answered, her lips trembling. "To love her as she loves you." "Oh, Alel," Conar whimpered, burying his face in his hands. "She should curse the day she ever laid eyes on me!You should curse the day you ever agreed to betroth her to me!" "Stop that! Your mother and I knew you were the best man for her. You know it, too!" She took a step toward him. "Do you doubt the gods’ wisdom, Conar McGregor? They put the two of you together!" His head twisted to the side. "I hurt her." "She does not blame you, Conar," she said with exasperation. "Neither do I! Neither does my husband or sons. It was an accident." "Brelan blames me," he said, knowing that truth. "He also blames himself." "He loves her." "Aye and probably always will." He hung his head, his shoulders quaking beneath the burden of the guilt and the terrible pain in his heart. "I love her," he sobbed. "With all my being, I love her, and look what I have caused with that love! You should give her to Brelan and be done with it!" "It isn’t Brelan she wants, Conar."

"And it isn’t me she should have!" Her heart broke for the man whose life had been filled with one agony after another. She knew there was nothing she could say that would make things better. He would have to come to terms with his grief in his own way. She put an encouraging hand on his shoulder then left, her own pain scarring the planes of her beautiful face. Conar dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, pushing until the pain made him whimper. He dropped his hands into his lap and sat staring at the floor. Kaileel’s words rang in his memory: "I’ll give you more pain than you can endure if you defy me!" He buried his face in his arms. *** Brelan knelt beside her bed and brought her cold fingers to his lips. "Milady?" he whispered, smiling as her lids fluttered open and she turned her head on the pillow. He pressed her hand against his unshaven cheek. "How are you, Sweeting?" Liza was tired, so very, very tired, and her heart was dead. She felt hollowed out, a part of her missing, never to be replaced. There was a lightness to her being, her head feeling weightless. She felt drained, depleted, never to be filled again. "Oh, Liza," Brelan said, lowering his head. His forehead went to the mattress where he buried his face, and his tears, in the silken softness. "I am so sorry." "Has anyone seen to Conar?" she asked, weakly. "Has he been told?" Brelan lifted his head. "Don’t worry about him." "I have to. He is my husband." Her trembling hand caressed his cheek. There was deep, bitter resentment in Brelan Saur’s voice. "He’s been told about the babe." "About his son," Liza corrected. She searched her friend’s sad face. "How did he take it?" "I’m told he blames the right person for what happened. But we all know where the blame lies and it isn’t just with him." Liza turned away and withdrew her hand. "I’m tired." He bent over her, his left hand on the headboard. "Is there anything I can do, Dearling?" Liza shook her head. "Elizabeth, I—" "I’m tired," she repeated, closing her eyes. Brelan ached for her loss. If it were within his power, he would move heaven and hell to set things to

rights. Her pain was his pain and he felt it keenly. He rubbed his hand down his thigh, feeling again the miracle of her lost babe throbbing against his palm when he had earlier touched her belly. A soft whimper escaped his closing throat, for the memory of her child—alive and vibrant, reaching out from the womb to greet him—was a forceful reminder of how quickly happiness can be snatched away. How easily life can be snuffed out and how terrible the consequences of anger. "I take responsibility, too, Elizabeth," he whispered. "It was my…" "Go away, Brelan," she said on a long whimper. "Please, just go!" For the rest of his life, he knew he would blame himself for the loss. It was his jealousy, his pride that had started the fight between him and Conar. Though Conar bore a portion of the guilt, Brelan felt the greater part, for he had been with a woman he had no business coveting. It was his sinful lusting that had caused the babe’s death. "Brelan, go!" Liza cried and lifted her head to give him a look that would have quelled the staunchest warrior. Her face was devoid of any semblance of feeling for him and twisted with such grief it was almost ugly. He wanted to beg her forgiveness, to accept the burden of her censure, but she turned her back to him, and pulled the covers over her head. "I love you," he whispered and turned to go. He paused at the door and looked back, took in the way she just lay there, her frail body so vulnerable, so weak. He ached to lie beside her and take her in his arms, hold her, stroke her, ease her hurt, but he knew he did not have the right. And he knew he never would as long as Conar McGregor lived. *** The rich smell of lemon oil filled the room. The aroma from the bayberry candles burning beside the casket brought back memories of winter festivals and snow that had turned Boreas Keep into a wonderland in his childhood. Now, he would always associate the smells with terrible pain and darkness. And retribution. On a satin bed of deep lavender hue, the little body lay as though the boy child was in slumber. Conar had to strain hard to dispel the notion that the small chest rose and fell beneath the burial gown. The ecru sleeves and dress covered much of the tiny body, but the hands, so perfectly formed with their tiny oval nails, and the sweet round face with its rosebud lips, broke Conar’s heart as he gazed into the casket at his son—Liza’s firstborn. Their firstborn. Little wisps of yellow fuzz peeked out from under the lace cap. Although the delicate eyelids were closed, Conar knew beyond a doubt that those eyes were as green as his mother’s. He wondered what heavenly sights his son was seeing at that moment. "Take care of him, Mama," he prayed. "Show him the love you always gave me."

Going to his knees beside the casket, the Serenian Prince laid the backs of his fingers along the cold, still face. A tender smile, sad and fleeting, played over his lips. He turned his head to one side and felt the unbearable pain welling up inside him. "I am so sorry, little one. I am so very, very sorry." Letting his head fall to the satin-covered casket rim, he felt the great agony of his son’s loss leap up at him, filling his soul and bursting forth like the postulation of a festering wound. No one came to comfort him. No one came to take him away from this material source of his guilt. Not one person came to offer a kind word or an understanding shoulder on which to ease his sorrow. Accusations shot through his mind like molten lava. He flinched, understanding exactly what it was he had done, what he had caused, what he had set into motion by his arrogance and greed. He had killed not only this child, but Gezelle’s. The overwhelming guilt might well destroy him. "Alel, forgive me," he whispered, tears flooding his cheeks, "for I will never forgive myself." He slumped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his chest. A low keening broke the room’s stillness as he hunkered beside the casket, rocking back and forth on his heels. He wondered who was crying, then realized the sounds were coming from his own throat. The keening became a wavering moan, then a hitching sob that turned into staccato bursts. As his heart broke, the sounds became a prolonged whimper of utter grief, and he dropped to the stone floor and curled into a ball as hot tears scalded him. His entire body shook with the force of his sorrow. He dug clasped hands between his knees, tucked his chin against his chest, and wished with all his heart that he could die. *** Gezelle found him in the crypt the next day, his hand stroking the stone marker with his son’s name carved into the black marble. He looked terrible. Sleeplessness had made his eyes dark with shadow, his mouth hard with hurt. His blond hair was tousled, his shirt unlaced and hanging free from his breeches, splotched with dark stains she realized must be blood. There was a three-day growth of stubble on his lean jaw, his upper cheeks streaked with tear tracks and dirt. No one had seen him at the funereal earlier that morning. Looking at him now, Gezelle couldn’t help but wonder where he had spent the night. His men had looked for him, as had the Oceanian Prince Chand. He had not been found. The horse he had ridden into Seadrift was still in the stables and no other horses were missing. Wherever Conar had passed his time between the morning before and now, it had been in lonely solitude. Sensing her presence, he gazed blankly at her. His voice was tired with fatigue, grating with hoarseness, devoid of emotion. "How is she?"

"Asking for you, Milord." She stood beside him, aching to touch the sagging shoulders beneath the rumpled and smudged shirt, aching to stroke the bowed head. "She needs you." He raked a hand through his hair. "Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t go to her just now. The sight of me might upset her." "She doesn’t blame you for what happened. It could have happened at any time." Gezelle placed a light hand on his arm. She almost withdrew her fingers, for he had tensed at her touch, but he didn’t give her time. He reached up to cover them with his own. His heart lurched at the first real contact he’d had with gentleness since it all began. He ached inside to feel a touch of friendship, but his guilt prodded him with the feeling of unworthiness. "The gods have punished me, Mam’selle." He hung his head. "Punished me for what I made you do. It was wrong what I did, you know that." Watching the blond head bowed beneath the weight of pain and guilt, Gezelle knew nothing she could say would alter his feelings. A part of her felt heart-breaking pity for him, but another part—a rebellious, unkind, renegade and greedy part of her—rejoiced that he now knew just how painful the loss of a baby could be. He now had some measure of understanding of her own pain when he had forced her to abort their child. A child she could have cherished as being a part of the man she loved so dearly, so utterly. Not that he had experienced such pain at the loss of the son he had sown within her body. Her son had not mattered to him. The child he had given her had been a nuisance, an unwanted by-product of his insatiable lust. But not for her—no, not for her—or her heart. She wanted their babe more than anything else in the world. Conar looked at her. She had not denied his guilt over the murder of their child. He had not expected her to, but he had expected some words of comfort, some act of forgiveness from her. Looking into her green gaze, he knew she would never forgive him. And he understood. He couldn’t look at her anymore. "I am sorry, Gezelle." She had the power within her to ease his torment, to grant him absolution for the great crime he had committed against her, but she couldn’t. Not in this lifetime. Despite the love she bore him, such forgiveness would have to come from Those higher than herself. "Go to your lady, Milord. She needs what only you can give her." He shook his head. "I think not." "For once in your life, think of someone other than yourself!" He caught the brief glint of dislike. She stared at him, her face unkind, her patience gone. "Can you not put aside your own pain and ego to go to her?" Gezelle snapped. "The lady needs you. Only you. Do you not know she blames herself, too?"

Conar angrily shook his head. "It was the fight between me and Brelan." "Aye, but she knows she was the cause of it." "Brelan and I have…" he began, but she didn’t allow him to finish. "Get your ass in the keep, Milord! Else His Highness will have you dragged there!" He looked at her, a sad smile twitching at his lips. "His Highness will or you will, ’Zelle?" She lifted her nose. "Will you go?" "Against my better judgment. Aye, I will." He moved to leave, but stopped and fixed her with a contrite look. "I am sorry for having made you—" "I don’t want to talk about it no more. It is done and over with." "No, Mam’selle. I’m afraid it is just beginning." *** Brelan Saur and the eldest Oceanian Prince, Grice Wynth, stood together near the stables and watched Conar walk from the crypts to the side entrance of Seadrift Keep. There was anger on both their faces and murder in both their hearts as they watched him ascend the steps. Grinding his teeth, Grice spat on the ground, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "If it were up to me, I’d send him back to Serenia in a coffin!" A hard rumble of thunder shook the ground. Both men glanced toward the west. Dark clouds boiled against the horizon. Lightning zigzagged toward the far dunes. "I can’t believe your parents are going to allow her to go back with him," Brelan mumbled, shaking his head. "My parents are old-fashioned. They think she should be with him. That’s her place, they say. She loves him, they say. She needs him, they say. She wants to be with him, they say!" He pounded his fist against the stable wall. "Well, I say I’d rather see him dead before letting him live out the rest of his worthless life with my sister!" Once more the heavy crack of lightning ripped across the countryside and a blast of chilly wind swept over the men. Already the air was ripe with moisture. "I wish the skies would open up and suck him out of her life forever," Grice growled. "Conar is like a bad penny. He’d keep turning up no matter how you tried to get rid of him." Grice thrust his hands into his pockets and glared at the lowering sky. "I’ve thought of hiring mercenaries to cart him to the nether regions of Diabolusia and keep him there!" "There is another way," Brelan said, gaining Grice’s immediate attention.

"How?" "Let me take her with me. There’s a place I know where he can’t follow. A place I found by accident. The mistress there wouldn’t permit me to enter the keep unless I was willing never to leave, but she promised me that one day I would come there to live with her." His eyes took on a faraway look. "With the woman I loved at my side." "If it is left up to me, you can take her wherever you like." Grice frowned. "But where is this place? You make it sound as though it were some sort of prison." "It is a place where, once you enter its gates, you may never exit. The keep becomes your entire world." Grice stared at him, shocked by his words. "You’re talking about World’s End, aren’t you?" Brelan nodded. "The keep owned by Raphaella Chastayne? The sorceress they call the Windweaver?" "I happened upon her outside the keep. A sorcerer intent on taking the keep away from her had lured her out. Even if I hadn’t severed the top of him from the bottom of him, he wouldn’t have been able to utilize World’s End without her." Grice shuddered. "I have heard tales that she has slaughtered men who have tried to take that keep from her." "She has," Brelan acknowledged. "She has not one soldier, not one guard, not one weapon in her possession, and yet she has held that keep from all intruders through her magic and the magic that is cast within the walls of World’s End." "I’ve heard it said that whoever rules the keep, rules the Seven Kingdoms." Brelan smiled. "I suppose that’s true, in a way. The lady can cause great mischief when she sets her mind to it." Grice looked uneasy. "My mother was a friend of hers once. Something happened between them and now they are no longer on speaking terms." A strange look crossed Brelan’s face. "I thought…" He shrugged. "Never mind. It isn’t important." "I take it this woman trusts you." "As much as she will allow herself to trust any man." "Are you lovers?" Brelan’s look hardened. "Not anymore." "But you were once?" A fleeting look of pain passed over Saur’s handsome face. "Once we were even more than that."

"Who broke it off? You or her?" "Me." "And you think she would let you come there with another woman?" He sighed. "She said I would one day come with the one woman I loved above all others. That woman is Elizabeth Wynth." "McGregor," Grice corrected. Brelan snorted, dismissing the name. "And the Windweaver?" Grice asked. "She would grant safety to the woman you take there?" "I have no doubts concerning Raphaella’s loyalty and her word." Grice shook his head. "Anya Elizabeth might be safe with you there, but World’s End is not the place my mother would allow her to go." "Only Raphaella, the Mistress of World’s End, can keep Conar from finding us, Grice. He has spies everywhere and if what I suspect is true, he might well have certain powers of his own he can utilize." Grice’s upper lip curled in scorn. "The only power he wields is over my sister’s heart!" Brelan put his hand on his friend’s arm. "It is the only way, our only hope of getting her away from him." The Oceania Crown Prince turned away. "Anya Elizabeth would be lost to us if I allowed you to take her there. Is there nowhere else?" Brelan laughed, a deep, hopeless chuckle. "Nowhere that he couldn’t follow. Only the Windweaver, herself, will be able to hide us. It’s either Raphaella or allow him to take her back with him to Boreas." Grice at him. "You shall have her one day, Brelan Saur. As sure as I know that storm is heading toward us!" He glanced at the rolling darkness fast approaching. "As sure as that storm is breaking, she shall turn to you for what she needs!"

Chapter 10 Both Oceanian monarchs were surprised when their son-in-law asked permission to speak to them in private before going to his wife. They had not expected the young man to go to his knees before them and say what he had: "I have decided to leave Liza here. She is safer with you than she will ever be with

me." The King and Queen looked at each another with wonder. "Is that what you really want?" Shaz demanded, angered. Conar raised his head. "It is not, Majesty. I want her with me, but I deserve no such good fortune. It is my fault she has lost her child—" "Your child, as well, Conar," Medea corrected. The young man flinched. "A child I forced upon her; a child I tore from her." Shaz leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. "If you are seeking pity, young sir, you have come to the wrong man and woman! We feel no such pity for the guilt you are feeling!" "Shaz," the Queen warned sternly, "sit yourself down." A heavy red blush swept over the King’s face, but he sat, his lower lip thrust out in a dangerous pout. "I detest men who go around feeling sorry for themselves!" "I know, dear." "He isn’t to blame!" "No, dear." "And he ought not to be doing it!" "You are, as always, correct." Shaz snapped his mouth shut. The woman wouldn’t argue with him. Ever. It was a burden he had to live with. "Anya will be returning with you to Serenia, Conar," the Queen informed her son-in-law. "Wherever you go, she goes. That is her wish, and the wish we have for her." "But Grice—" "Has no say in what our daughter does or does not do," Medea replied. "But there are other reasons why I should not be allowed to have her with me!" he protested. "Such as?" The Queen’s tone was reasonable, sweet, encouraging. "Are you looking for excuses not to take her back with you?" Shaz bellowed. "Shaz." His wife’s tone held just a touch of chastisement. Conar shook his head. "I only want you to know what I have done to bring about such destruction in your daughter’s life. I want there to be honesty between us. I don’t want there to be any doubt in your

minds. If you know the truth of it—" "Then tell us the truth of it, Conar," Medea said. He told her about Gezelle. About the girl’s pregnancy. Medea did not tell him that she already knew. She sensed his need to make amends. To unburden his heart. She gave him the forgiveness Gezelle could not. "Anya will understand, Conar," Medea whispered. "Are you sure you trust me with her?" he asked. His eyes were haunted, filled with shame. The Queen cupped his cheeks. "As sure as I am of the great love you bear her, my son." Tears eased down his cheeks. "I killed our babe." "You did not." "How can you say that? If it had not been for my quarrel with Brelan…" Medea shook her head. "Then he is as much to blame for her miscarriage as you are." "How can you forgive me so easily? I don’t deserve to be let off so easily." "And you won’t be," the King said from his place beside his wife. "You will blame yourself, punish yourself, far worse than we ever could, Conar." Medea gathered Conar to her, held him, feeling his body shake with sobs he was trying to stop. "Let it go, son," she whispered. "Let it go." His arms went around her with stunning force and he began to let the tears flow. A heavy, encouraging, comforting hand fell on his shoulder. "A love such as you have for our daughter can rise above anything, Conar," Shaz told him. *** Long after their son-in-law left, Shaz turned to his wife, a somber, worried look on his face. "What he confessed to us was dangerous, Medea." "Adultery is punished by flogging in Serenia. It matters not if the man is of royal lineage." Shaz sighed. "Why did he tell us such a thing? Why give us such power over him?" "Because as he said—he wants truth between us. He trusts us." King Shaz Wynth gathered his wife to him. "I pray to the gods no one else hears of it. I would hate to see him punished." ***

A pair of flint-hard eyes gleamed in the darkness as the Elite smiled. From his place on the other side of the door where the Oceanian monarchs stood, he had heard their entire conversation. Such knowledge would be useful one day. He reached inside his tunic and put his fingers on the vial of tenerse in his breast pocket. Three measures of the liquid in Conar’s morning ale should accomplish what would be needed. The man’s mouth stretched into an evil leer. Come morning, Conar McGregor would be back to being the way Kaileel wanted him to be! *** She watched as Conar lifted a hesitant hand to the door. She could almost feel his reluctance, smell his hesitancy. The look on his face was one of rejection before he even placed knuckle to board. The rap was tentative, unsure. She heard his wife’s soft voice bidding him enter, and she smiled as she watched him draw back his shoulders, reach for the knob and open the door. His face was filled with love as he gazed at his wife, sitting propped up in bed. She heard his soft words as though he were beside her. "Are you well, Milady?" He had not taken one step into the room as yet. "Aye, Milord." Liza opened her arms to him. "I will be exceptionally well as soon as my husband embraces me." She ran her hand over the still waters of the conjuring pool and swept away the scene of Conar and Liza McGregor as they embraced. A frown marred the exquisite loveliness of her ivory complexion and her eyes were dark green orbs of misery. "Be careful, Anya Elizabeth," she warned. "Be careful of my prophecy, Daughter." Coming slowly to her feet, Raphaella wrapped her arms around her and stared into the darkness of her ancient keep. The Storm was coming. It was brewing in the far reaches of the galaxy. It would sweep the world as they knew it into chaos. Nothing would ever be the same again. The Windweaver lowered her head and wept. She could do nothing to prevent it from happening, could not forestall the terrors ahead. The flesh would tear; the blood would spill.

Epilogue "The lady and her warrior were reunited that day in Oceania," the Talespinner sighed. "Such love has always been hard to kill."

"But it didn’t last," one of the older boys reminded them all gravely. Wiping away a wistful tear from his fading cinnamon eyes, the Talespinner shook his head. "No, it didn’t last, Nicky. The die had been cast from Tohre’s evil hand and all hell was about to break loose." "Tell us about it, Grandfather," a little girl pleaded. "Finish the tale." The old gypsy stood, swept the night darkness with a hopeless gaze, and drew in a long breath. "Are you sure you want to hear the bad part, my children?" "Those who forget their history," the eldest boy said, "are doomed to repeat it." A hard shudder of revulsion and fear went through the old man. "Never again," he whispered. "Pray to the gods, it never happens again." "The warrior, Grandfather?" the little girl insisted. "Tell us what happened to the warrior and his lady!" Teal du Mer stretched his aching bones and sat down again. He looked about at the children, marveled at their innocent faces. Such innocence should never be corrupted again, he thought. "All right," he sighed heavily. "This is the way of it—"

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Charlotte Boyett-Compo is the author of more than two dozen novels, the first ten of which are the WindLegends 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.

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