The Windreaper

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Table of Contents WINDREAPER 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 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 PART II Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Amber Quill Press, LLC

THE WINDLEGENDS SAGA BOOK V

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

Windreaper 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 http://www.amberquill.com

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2003 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ISBN 1-59279-043-7 Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber Rating: R Layout and Formatting Provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com

Published in the United States of America

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo At Grandma's Knee

BlackWind BloodWind DarkWind In the Heart of the Wind

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

The WindLegend's Saga

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

Dedication

To Stacey Bucholz:

With many thanks and much love. Happy reading, dear one!

Terrible and dreadful is he, From himself derive his law and his majesty. Swifter than leopards are his horses, And keener than wolves at evening. His horses prance, His horsemen come from afar: They fly like the eagle hastening to devour; Each comes for the rapine, Their combined onset is that of a stormwind That heaps up captives like sand. He scoffs at kings, And princes are his laughingstock; He laughs at any fortress, Heaps up a ramp, and conquers it. Then he veers like the wind and is gone— This culprit who makes his own strength His God! —Habakkuk 1: 7-12

PART I Chapter 1

His sons were playing tag along the garden wall, ducking in and out of shrubs and bushes, squealing with childish glee, pretending to shoot one another with invisible bows. They had dark hair like his and Liza's, but they had his bright, sky-blue eyes. "A deadly combination," Gezelle had said, when she told him how the little girls in the village were already beginning to follow the two boys about. They were handsome lads, Legion thought with pride, and getting taller every day, it seemed. Jarad would be five in April; Kells, the youngest, and by far the most precocious, would be four in two days' time. King Legion A'Lex turned his proud gaze to the boy he had taken on as his own. The boy was sitting beside him on the fountain, staring wistfully at his half-brothers as they ran about. The seven-year-old had a heavy frown on his face. "It won't be long now," Legion remarked, patting the boy's knee. Codian McGregor turned melancholy eyes to the man he knew as uncleand father, and grimaced. "It just bores the heck out of me." Legion threw back his head and laughed. "I know." He glanced at the lad's left leg, encased in a heavy cast. "When the cast comes off, you should try safer and more graceful pursuits than falling down stairs." Codian, his shy gaze following Jarad as the child leapt with ease over a low shrub, shrugged. "I think so, too, Papa." "You could try teaching your brothers and sister hownot to break a leg," Legion teased. Codian blushed and ducked his head. He thought back to his laughing commentary as he tried to show his younger siblings how to slide down the curving banister from their sleeping chambers to the main floor. He had failed dismally. And broken his leg in the process. "I don't tink I care to wearn dat," Kells had told him with a smug look on his almost four-year old face as Codian howled with pain. "Must huwt wike hell, huh?" Tall and ungainly for his seven years, Codian—or Cody, as his mother called him—thrived on his role as teacher to the younger children. He had set himself up as their tutor, confidante, and all-around boss. He dreamed of one day becoming a great scholar and felt he had the brain for it. Although Cody knew, should anything happen to his older brother, Corbin, who was interned at the Great Abbey of the Domination high atop Mount Serenia, he, himself, would one day be King, his thoughts were not of ruling. The boy was really painfully shy and nervous; strangers made him uneasy and he preferred a good book to conversation. Unlike his father before him, Cody McGregor did not covet what, by rights, was not his. Instead, the only son of Galen McGregor was thankful for whatever he was given, accepted it with pleasure, and asked for no more. "Cody?"a small voice called. He sighed, looked to the heavens, then turned to Legion. There was rampaging misery on his face. "Papa?" he pleaded. "Might as well answer her, Cody," Legion warned. "She won't give up." Cody nodded sagely, sighed again, and shook his head. "Ain't that the truth?" he asked in a voice beyond his years. He looked about when his name was called in a more plaintive cry. "Over here, Jillian!" Jillian's face was excited as she ran to A'Lex and her half-brother. She held out her hands. "Look what Uncle Marsh gave me!" Legion, uncleand father to the girl, let out a long breath. He was going to kill Marsh Edan yet. "Who's going to care for it, Jillian?" He eyed the little puppy with a mock frown. "Me, Papa!"Jillian exclaimed, cuddling the puppy close to her chest. She planted a loud kiss on the wiggling puppy's head. "His name is Deogie." Cody actually winced. "De-o-gie?" he asked in an exasperated voice. Jillian smirked. "You named your cat that silly name. Why can't I name my puppy just as silly a name?"

Legion's lips twitched and he gazed sideways at Cody. The boy was not only blushing, he looked positively embarrassed. "'Ceatie' isn't a silly name," he defended. "It's an ancient Viragonian name meaning 'jungle hunter.'" He narrowed his gaze. "Itold you that." The little girl, only ten months younger than Cody, lifted her snub nose and turned her pretty little face to Legion. "It spells 'cat,' Papa. Doesn't it?" "I believe so, dearling." Legion felt as though he was looking at Brelan Saur when her dark eyes lit in triumph. She turned them to Cody with condescension. "See?" she snapped. Cody sighed as though he had the troubles of the world on his thin shoulders. He looked away and saw Gezelle's oldest boy, Christos, being bombarded with make-believe arrows. The three-year-old melodramatically clutched his chest and fell down to the giggling glee of his playmates. Cody sighed again and wished he could be playing with them. He liked to assume the role that Jarad was now playing to the hilt. "I am the Dark Overlord of the Wind!" Jarad called as he leapt to a stone bench and clutched his right fist over his heart. "I will set things to rights! I will turn the world with my bare hands!" "You'll turn that bench over if you don't get down, Jarad A'Lex," his mother said quietly from her place under the spreading willow. "Get down." Legion chuckled. Liza was sitting there, knitting in hand, not paying attention to her brood's rampaging of the garden, yet she was perfectly aware of everything going on around her. "Mama!" Jillian shrieked, running to the willow. "Look what Uncle Marsh gave me now!" "Maybe she'll bother Mama for a while," Cody said with a sigh of relief. Legion flinched as the stone bench on which Jarad had been standing toppled over. The boy fell backward into a hydrangeas bush. The look on his face was priceless: mouth open in surprise, eyes going to his mother, face turning a scarlet red. "Are you hurt?" his mother asked, still not looking up. The scarlet red turned darker. "No, Mama." "Put the bench back up." She lifted her head and fixed her son with a stern look. "And don't climb on it again." "Yes, Mama," the boy promised, his face averted. "You're too hard on our children, Liza," Legion called to her. Those lovely green eyes shifted to him. "Someonehas to be, Milord," she said in a prim voice, then lowered her head over her knitting again. Legion A'Lex loved all the children his wife had birthed, but was especially fond of their youngest, Kells—"the three-year old with a mouth," as Cayn had labeled him just the day before. The boy had the intellect of a child four times his age, and was nothing but a bundle of ready-made mischief. His backside stayed black and blue from Legion's palm. "Tow de line, Jawad!" Kells smirked as his older brother tried to right the bench by himself, a task proving a tad too hard for the youngster's strength. "Tow de line, boy!" "Kells," his mother warned. She looked at him, one black brow perfectly arched. "Just setting tings to wights, Mama. Like de Dark Overword would." Liza glanced toward her husband and smiled. How often of late had they heard preposterous tales of the man they called "Darkwind" and his renegade group of freedom fighters? The children had become enamored of the man, yet no

one really knew anything of him except that he seemed to be able to be in five places at once. "I believe the Dark Overlord would help a man in need," Liza told Kells. She glanced pointedly at Codian who had hobbled over and was struggling mightily with the stone bench. "Isn't that right, Legion?" "So I've heard," Legion agreed. Kells frowned. "I suppwose so." He nudged Jarad to one side, and the two of them helped Codian, whose face was red with his efforts to right the bench. Kells dipped his knees and lifted his end of the bench, moving the stonework into place. When he was through, he dusted his small hands and jabbed a finger at his chest. "I will be de Dawkwind foe a while!" None of the boys questioned his statement; they simply fell into play with Kells leading. A'Lex shook his head. The brat was a handful. He glanced at his wife and saw a secret smile on her pretty face. No doubt she thought so, too. "How are you feeling?" he asked her. Her smile widened. "Quite well, Milord." He nodded, his attention going to her protruding belly. It wouldn't be long before the brood of kids had a little sister, he had been informed. When you were married to a Daughter of the Multitude, you didn't need to ask how she knew what sex her babe would be. When Legion heard Kells ordering his brothers about, he grinned, recalling what Kells had said about his mother's latest pregnancy… The child had placed his fists on his hips and stared at her. "Annuder one? Wherevew shall we put dem all?" "Isn't the keep big enough for all of us?" Codian asked in a condescending tone. After all, it was wise to keep younger siblings in their place. It was a dogma by which Codian McGregor lived. Kells turned a frosty stare to his big brother, not at all intimidated with the pique in Codian's voice. "Gezelle has fwree boys and dat girl." His upper lip lifted at Leonore, Gezelle's dark-haired child of four summers, who looked at him with adoring eyes. "Modder alweady has five of us. Dat makes nine. Annuder one would be juss too damned much!" "Kells!" his mother warned softly with her sternest voice. "So?" Jarad asked in a bored tone. "So…" Kells snapped. "We shall be overwun with childwen!" "There's still plenty of room, Kells." Legion laughed. "Your mother and I could have a child a year for the next twenty years and still not fill up the keep." Both Kells and Liza turned horrified eyes to Legion, but Kells' shocked voice spoke for them both. "You awen't planning on actuawydoing dat, are you, Papa?" Legion shrugged. "I hadn't really thought on it." Liza sniffed. "Well, do!" Legion grinned and wagged his thick brows at her, but Liza was not appeased nor amused. She frowned at him, her green eyes dark with reproach. She didn't say more about his outlandish statement until they were preparing for bed that night. "I really thought to have four to six more," he teased. "Then, you'd best think again, Milord!" "Give me one good reason why we can't have at least a dozen brats?" He tried to put his arms around her, but she slipped away.

"I will soon be thirty-one years, Legion. That is not a reasonable age at which to birth children. Nine is quite enough, thank you!" Her face turned dark and Legion knew she was thinking of the three children she had lost long ago—two by her first husband, Conar, and the third, Codian's twin brother, who died at birth. "You're not old," Legion said, wanting to take the pain from his wife's heart. He darted around the bed and grabbed her, rubbing her belly, although she tried to push away his hands. "Stop it!" she hissed. His hands swept over her. "Stop?" he asked, cocking a brow. "At your convenience, of course," she murmured, melting into his arms… Now, Legion grinned, remembering. It had been on nights such as that when this latest A'Lex offspring had been conceived. "Legion?" He turned to find Marsh Edan striding toward him. The man was now Master-at-Arms at Boreas. As Storm Jale's cousin, Marsh had taken in the man's family when Storm was sent to the Labyrinth Penal Colony almost six years earlier. Along with Storm's wife and three children, Sentian Heil's wife, Sherind, and his four children had lived next door. Two years earlier, Storm's and Sentian's families had simply disappeared, and Marsh had been hard to console. "What could have happened to them?" the warrior had asked. "I come home and there's a note saying they were leaving and for me not to worry. They up and go, telling me nothing about even wanting to, and then tell me not to worry?" His fist slammed down on Legion's desk. "Where the hell could they have gone?" Then, Thom Loure's sister-in-law and her family had disappeared on the same day Ward Summerall's wife and daughter did. Three days later, two more families disappeared from Boreas. "Where are they going?" Marsh had asked. Legion had a theory, but when he conveyed it to Edan, the man looked at him with astonishment. "Storm? Why wouldn't he have contacted me?" "If he and Heil and the other men have joined the resistance fighters," Teal du Mer remarked, "they wouldn't want people to know their whereabouts. They sent for their families. Doesn't that make sense?" "You knew they were out, Marsh," Legion reminded the warrior. "Remember, Brelan Saur sent word when he returned from Chrystallus. He got themall out of the Labyrinth." "But where are they, Legion?" Liza had asked when he told her of the missing families that evening. "Why haven't Grice and Chand written? Why haven't they sent word to me? It's been more than six years since I've seen them." He shook his head. "I don't know, dearling. Brelan said they were fine. You know he wouldn't lie to you." "They've been back two years, Legion! Two damned years and notonce have I heard from them. Tell me why!" But at the time, Legion hadn't been able to explain why his wife's brothers, or any of the others Saur had rescued, had not contacted them. Unless, he thought, theyhad joined the man called Darkwind and his resistance fighters, the Wind Force, as they were being called. Legion hoped not. The Wind Force were bound to be captured one day, just as the men who had led the original rebellion, and either killed or shipped to Tyber's Isle. That had been a year ago, Legion thought, and still the Wynth brothers had not returned to Serenia or Oceania. Liza had not seen her brothers for almost seven years. Now, Marsh stood before him, frowning. "Du Mer's waiting for you in the study, Legion. Another family disappeared this morning." Legion stared at him. "How many does that make?"

Marsh's brows drew together and he looked across the garden. "Ward Summerall's family. Maurice Belyeaux left a few weeks ago." He glanced at Legion. "That was Nyle's youngest brother; the only one left in his family, I think." He scratched his head. "The Lanier's have been gone almost a year, and the Herndon's left before that. That's about thirty or so that's come up missing." "All family members of men who were in the Labyrinth," Legion sighed. "I miss them, you know." Legion understood. Marsh, a confirmed bachelor, had welcomed the chaos of Storm Jale's family into his home and had doted on those children as well as Sentian Heil's children next door. Marsh had seemed to thrive on the noise and laughter. "Well, if they are with that man, I hope they keep their heads down," Legion said. He looked back through the library door. "Did Teal find out anything at all about the Raven?" "I got a man who swears he saw him possibly as close as Corinth ten days ago. He saw the Darkwind's handiwork about eight months ago over by where Norus Keep used to stand, and he says he knows it's the same man." "He's good," Legion quipped, wondering about this hero called the Raven. "I'll give him that." "Another shipment of gold destined for the main temple was taken three nights ago near Colsaurus. As always, they found a red-tipped feather at the scene. To date, that makes sixty-four thousand gold pieces taken this year alone. I don't have any figures from late last year, the time the man began plundering Temple coffers." Marsh looked at his King. "That's a lot of gold, though, Legion." "What could he be doing with it all?" "Well, there's been no trace of any of it found. He'll be a wealthy man if this keeps up, and we'll be starving in the streets trying to pay it all back to Tohre." "Maybe the money isn't for him," Liza said softly. Legion turned a baleful eye to Marsh. "My wife and sons see this man as a champion of the people. She keeps telling me what he seems to be doing is for the good of our people. Her romanticism is catching. I've heard other people hinting in just the same way." Liza laid down her knitting and fixed her husband with a steady gaze. "How do you explain the Spiel's being able to keep their farm from the tax man, Legion? They didn't have money one day and the next they come up with five hundred silvers? Or what about the Illion winery in Chale? That family has owned those orchards for more than a hundred years. It was about to be confiscated for overdue tariffs on their wine, then somehow the tariffs got paid." Her chin rose. "Paid, I might add, in the tax office some two hundred miles from Jaiu. And what of the other similar instances in Ionary and Virago? I heard only yester morn that a home for indigents was saved from sale by a mysterious back payment of taxes. That was in my homeland. If you can't find the money this man is stealing, how do you explain the things I just mentioned?" "You think he's giving the money to those who have need of it?" Teal du Mer asked as he strolled through the library door into the garden. He turned a sour expression to Legion. "I got tired of waiting for you!" "Kingly duties, du Mer," Legion quipped. "I'm seeing to my Kingly duties." Teal arched a thick, dark brow, but kept his thoughts to himself. He looked at Liza. "So you believe the Darkwind is behind all these latest re-payments of taxes?" "I think the man's doing everything he can to fight Kaileel Tohre." She shrugged. "And for that, I thank him." Teal laughed at her militant expression. "You may be right, Milady. A while ago, a heavily armed group of guards were set upon near Lilst, where they held a score of young women destined for sacrifice in the Temple. Not one of the Temple Guards remained alive. The women were freed, unharmed, but not before one of them got a good look at the man who led the rescuers. He had the same black outfit, mask and all, as all the other sightings of him. But I also learned he was spotted in Virago, Oceania, and Ionary on the same day." "There could be five men calling themselves the Darkwind," Liza said.

"Even so," Marsh said, "there has to be one man leading it all. If that's the case, that would mean a well-organized resistance." "How do you fight a man like that?" Legion asked. "You don't," Liza said, looking at him. "You help him." "Liza…" Legion began, but she held up her hand. "Think about it, Milord. If this man can do the miraculous things he has been accused of doing, can we not look the other way if his fight is with Tohre? Can't our men be a little slower in getting to a place we think him to be? Can't we hinder the guards when they set traps for him?" She flung her long, black braid over her shoulder and placed tiny fists on her shapely hips. "We haven't been able to do one damned thing to help our people since Tohre took over. Now that someone else is doing it for us, doesn't it shame you into wanting to help him?" Her green eyes came alight with an inner fire. Legion had not seen her look that way in years. Not since Brelan had left for the Labyrinth six years earlier. "We don't know for a certainty heis fighting Tohre," Teal said. "It only appears that way. He could be just another mercenary lining his pockets with Temple gold." Teal shrugged as he made his next point. "He could even be working for Tohre." "Stupid man!" Liza hissed. "Doesn't that alone tell you anything, du Mer? It'sTemple gold he steals, not merchant, not seaman, not artisan. He doesn't take from farmers or builders or winery workers. He doesn't take from anyone who was loyal to the rebellion years ago, but you know damned well he stole a shipment of dress material from that greedy, old Chalean who helped Tohre's men sneak into Tyne Brell's palace! And what happened to that material, I ask you? Would a mercenary have need of dress material?" "No, but the orphans at Ghurn got new uniforms a few months ago," Marsh answered quietly. "Precisely!" Liza snapped. "He takes only from the Tribunal and Temple coffers and from those who collaborated with Tohre and the Domination. Why do you suppose no villager will give you information about him? Could it be he's helping them and they are protecting him?" "She's right," Marsh agreed. "Every time we ask, everyone suddenly turns mute and deaf. The only people who give any news of him are Temple Guards and the like who ran away when they saw him coming." "Or those women who were saved from the sacrificial slabs," Teal added. "They were positively mooning over him. Said he spoke to them, kissed one's hand, and bid them have a safe journey back to their homes." "If he was a mercenary," Liza said, her voice alive with fire, "he might well have taken one of those girls with him, might he not?" Legion shook his head. "I don't know, Liza." "I would have." Teal grinned. "So, you think the people are hiding him from us?" Marsh asked. "Of course. They're hiding their champion," she said, "and they will continue to do so." "That's a dangerous game," Legion warned. "People could lose their lives for protecting him." "I don't think the Darkwind would let anything happen to his people. If it came down to him or them, he'd give himself up." Legion stared at his wife. "You're a dreamer, girl! No man would give his life for this country in this day and age!" "You are wrong, Legion A'Lex!" she shot back. "I believe this man would. If I ever get the chance, I know I will help him!" She called her children, Gezelle's, and the three or four others that were playing in the garden. She scooted them ahead of her into the library, but before following them, she fixed Teal du Mer with an appraising look.

"When you join his forces, and Iknow that's what you've been trying to do, tell him the Queen of Serenia sends him her best wishes."

Chapter 2 Kaileel Tohre slammed the report down on his desk and turned to Robert MacCorkingdale. "How the hell do you lose a wagonload of women?" His ice-blue eyes narrowed with scorn. "And fifteen well-armed guards?" Robert leveled his gaze at the Arch-Prelate. "They were ambushed, Holiness." Tohre stood, placed his hands on the desk, and stared hard into MacCorkingdale's face. "Did you say ambushed?" High Priest MacCorkingdale looked away. It wasn't that he was afraid of Tohre, he just didn't like looking into the old man's wrinkled face. "We did not sense anything was going to happen. We thought we had the wagon train well protected. "You didn't!" Tohre bellowed. He swept his arm across the desktop, scattering the contents to the floor. "Get out of here, you bumbling fool!" Robert's chin came up. By the seed of Raphian, he hated this man! But he kept his face carefully correct, his bow reserved and respectful enough for Tohre not to notice his own livid rage. He turned to go. "I promise you, wewill find him, Holiness!" "If the bastard doesn't find you first, you worthless dog!" Tohre shouted, throwing a paperweight at the retreating High Priest. *** When the door shut firmly behind MacCorkingdale, Tohre spun around, his attention going to the young boy seated across the room. "Come here!" The eight-year-old walked to Tohre's desk. He clasped his hands in front of him. "How may I serve you, Master?" "Pick up this mess," Tohre instructed, flinging a hand to the array of papers and quills on the floor. As the lad knelt to do his bidding, Tohre's vision swept over the bright blond curls covering the boy's head and falling just to his thin shoulders. He looked at the proud profile, the chiseled lips, and the slight cleft forming in the strong-looking chin. His regard moved over thick, tawny brows and high cheekbones, gauged the boy's latest height and weight. "You look more like your father every day," Tohre said wistfully and was rewarded with the boy's immediate attention. The boy's eyes became frightened, anticipation glowing in the sky-blue depths. "You have his same look about you, Corbin." *** Corbin McGregor straightened up. He placed some of the papers on Tohre's desk, his hands trembling violently, then turned to retrieve more, but the Arch-Prelate's chill words stopped him. "Come to me, Corbin." The boy swallowed and turned his gaze back to Tohre's unholy face. What he saw made him groan inwardly with despair.

With heart hammering painfully in his thin chest, he took a step toward the man's chair.

Chapter 3 He didn't like this. He damned well didn't like it at all. Everyone was looking at him as though he was the entree for that night's supper. He turned his head as far as the gag would allow, but winced when the ropes cut into his wrists, which were bound and tied above his head. Hanging like a piece of curing meat! he thought in disgust. Four men entered the stable, all of them bigger than him. They looked rough and dirty beneath the great capes they wore to shut out the harsh chill of Viragonian winter. And, beneath their ragged beards, they looked angry. One, somewhat smaller than the others, came toward him, drawing off his heavy, fur-lined, leather gloves. "Heard you want to meet up with the Darkwind?" A rough, callused hand grabbed the prisoner's chin. "What for?" Through his gag, Teal du Mer could only mumble. Sweat dripped down his sides, and his arms strained out of their sockets as he hung from a crossbeam. These men, filthy and rank-smelling, didn't seem the sort who would play fair in a card game, and they scared the hell out of him. One near the door seemed to be giving him a close scrutiny. "The Darkwind don't want no fools on his payroll," the man gripping Teal's chin scoffed. "Any man of his that would get caught and strung up like you don't live long in the Wind Force! But maybe that's what you was looking for, eh? Got a death wish, gypsy?" Laughter rang out when the man started Teal's body swinging against his bonds. A grimace of pain shot over du Mer's gagged face; tears came into his eyes as the hemp cut into his wrists. "How do you expect the man to answer with that rag in his trap, Thrush?" the man by the door asked. "Don't reckon he needs to talk none, Hawk. We can gut him and be done with it. He's one of the King's men, anyway." Hawk pushed away from the door. The light in the barn was murky at best and he seemed to want a better look at Teal. As he drew near, he pulled off his gloves and swirled the cape from his wide shoulders. He handed the woolen covering to one of the others. "Maybe we should interrogate him before we think of killing him, if he is, indeed, one of A'Lex's men." "Ain't no doubt!" Thrush snarled. "I seen him all cozy-like with the King and his whelps that day I told you A'Lex was fishing over to Ivor. This bastard is as close as they come to the King." "Well, let's question him first," Hawk repeated. Teal sent a grateful look to the man. There was something oddly familiar about his voice, but Teal was too frightened to think. "Ah, hell, Hawk!" Thrush complained. "What can this dimpled darling tell us? He's a gypsy! You know they don't tell no truths!" Teal drew in a harsh breath, knowing well the feelings most mercenaries had for gypsies. He watched as Hawk, obviously the leader of the quartet, came to stand directly before him.

"Take off his gag," he told Thrush in a voice that brooked no argument. Or comment. Thrush mumbled under his breath, but untied the rag covering Teal's mouth. Teal licked his dry lips and swallowed, breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded at Hawk. "My thanks, sir. I am in your debt." The leader squinted. "Whoare you?" "I am du Mer. Iam with the King's personal guard, but I have left him in the hopes of joining the fight against Kaileel Tohre." "He's lying," one of the others scoffed. "I say we kill him!" "Please," Teal begged Hawk. "Will you at least hear me out? What danger am I to you?" "You could have led men to us!" Thrush snapped. Teal looked at the man. "You'd have seen men lurking about if that were the case." He turned back to Hawk. "I came alone. Honest!" Hawk stared at him a long time, the look steady and evaluating. "Cut him down." "What?"Thrush exploded. "He knows our hidey-hole!" "I said to cut him down!" The bark was curt and hard as steel. Reluctantly, Thrush severed the rope. Teal dropped to the ground with a thud, his bound wrists throbbing and his ankles, tied together with rawhide, aching from the tight constriction. A hard gush of air drove from his lungs as his numb legs buckled and he crashed to his knees. He shook his head to clear away the pain, then looked up at the leader. "Again, thank you." "Leave me alone with him," Hawk demanded of his men. "You're joking!" Thrush hissed. "Do Ilook like I'm joking?" "I hope you know what you're doing. If you don't, the Darkwind will have your balls, Hawk!" When the three men left the stable, Teal breathed a sigh of deliverance. "I don't think they like me." "They don't know you well enough to dislike you, du Mer," the leader scoffed. "Give 'em time!" He reached behind his back and drew out a wicked-looking, double-edged dagger. "There's no need for that. I wasn't even armed when I rode in here." Although Hawk likely saw the fear on Teal's face, he ignored it. "That was a singularly stupid thing to do, don't you think? Coming into a heavily armed camp with no weapon?" Teal shrugged. "I've done even more stupid things, I guess." The leader bent over and sliced through the ropes on Teal's wrist with a quick, effective sweep of the lethal-looking blade. Re-sheathing his dagger, he sat on a bale of hay and watched Teal chafing his rope-burned wrists. "I'm no spy," Teal said as he turned his attention to the rawhide around his ankles. "No, I'd say you were sent by Legion A'Lex to infiltrate our force and report back to him what you could learn about the Darkwind. You would be the logical choice for him to send." Teal eyed the man. "You know our King?" "I did once." The man sniffed. "He was a good man. Once. I guess he's done all he could for our people, but it wasn't

enough. He has a lot to lose if he helps too much." "You're Serenian, then?" The man's heavily-bearded face seemed to turn sad. "I have no homeland, anymore, Teal. The Tribunal took that away years ago. I owe my allegiance to the Darkwind." Teal tensed. He hadn't told the man his first name, but he wasn't surprised the man knew it. If they knew about his association with Legion, they knew his name. But the man sitting before him seemed awfully familiar and Teal stared at him a long time. "Do I know you?" A deep chuckle came from Hawk. "You thought you knew me. Look a little closer, Teal. Tell me what you see behind this beard." Teal stood, wincing as the blood returned to his toes. He walked to the man and peered down at his upturned face. Blue eyes gazed up at him with laughter. Lips underneath the beard twitched with either mockery or humor. The dark brown hair was thick and wavy, just enough gray running through it to make the color even more interesting, and the brows, so like his own bushy growths, were cocked in… With a suddenness that made him gasp, Teal knew. He took a step backward. "Roget?" he whispered, his voice incredulous. "In the rather rank flesh, little brother." Hawk chuckled as he stood up, only a few inches from his brother's stunned face. "If you can stand the smell of me, I might give you a hug." For a moment, Teal could only stare at the beloved face he had waited half a lifetime to see again. "Brelan Saur said you were out of the Labyrinth, but when you didn't send word, didn't try to come home, I thought something might have happened." Tears formed in his eyes. "I thought you might be dead." "Brelan is on his way to Boreas Keep tonight. It'll be his first time home in four years. I know there will be a happy reunion this eve." "No happier than the one right here, right now!" Teal fell into his brother's arms. The tears of a little boy who had been torn from his big brother so many years before came rushing up to choke him. "Why haven't you sent news to us?" Teal asked a few minutes later as he and his brother sat in the stable. "The Darkwind would have been compromised. Originally he sent Brelan home to tell Legion everybody was safe and out of that hell-hole." Darkness passed over Roget's face. "Everyone except Hern, of course. He's buried on a farm outside Ciona. But when Brelan got back to Serenia, he couldn't find a way to get to Legion without Tohre learning of it. He was able to get messages through after Hesar's men were in place inside the palace, but he didn't dare show himself at Boreas." "But why? Tohre knew Legion had sent Brelan there as Chief Warden. All he had to do was report back to Legion and let Tohre think his time was up at the Labyrinth." Roget looked away. "There was a good reason why, but I can't tell you. Just let it suffice to say that had Brelan shown up at the palace, Darkwind's identity would have been compromised." "So it's just one man leading you, then?" Roget grinned. "We all have worn the uniform of the Dark Overlord of the Wind. We did that to confuse Tohre's men and throw them into chaos." He chuckled. "It worked, too." "You know there's a stiff bounty on his head, don't you? Kaileel has declared the Darkwind a fugitive of the Tribunal." Roget's face split into a smug grin. "He's a burr under Tohre's saddle, that's for sure!" "But who is he? I mean, the leader." "I can't and I won't tell you. I will, however, tell you he's a nobleman. Someone, like me, who was cast out of his homeland and sent to the Labyrinth on trumped up charges just like the rest of us. He became our leader because he is the strongest. He's a man worth following, worth dying for. There's nothing we wouldn't do for him, Teal."

"Do you think he would allow me to join him? To fight for him?" There was a quick shake of Roget's head. "Not to fightfor him, brat, but maybebeside him." "Will you ask?" Roget got up from the straw bale. "We'll see." He made his way to the back of the stable and entered a dark stall. Teal's brows drew together. "What's back there?" "Come and find out!" Puzzled by his brother's odd behavior, Teal watched him fumble with one of the boards at the back of the stall. A click sounded and the back portion of the stall moved inward. "Secret passages!" Teal breathed, the little boy and the gypsy in him overjoyed with the prospect. He followed Roget through the low doorway. Two men stood just inside the door. In the faint light cast by a single taper on a table, their faces were hard, alert, and deadly. Teal felt them watching him for any sign of betrayal, and he shuddered. He sensed they would have gutted him for sure had he found this passage on his own. Once inside a room set into the mountain behind the stable, Roget took his brother's arm. The room beyond was in total darkness, but, near where they stood, a darker shadow seemed to hover lower. "We're not alone," Roget said. Teal couldn't see through the darkness, but he strained to do so. He became aware of a dim outline just off to one side, and in his heart he knew that darker shape was none other than the man he had been sent to find. "I will vouch for this man, Milord," Roget said. "He's my little brother, Teal." A scratchy, deadly, deep voice rasped from the darkness. "It's been a long time since you've seen him, Hawk. Do you trust him?" Roget's hand tensed on Teal's arm. "With my life." Again the rasping, expressionless voice. "Why have you come looking for me, du Mer?" Teal swallowed. That voice was as cold as the ice on Mount Serenia. "To see if what I have suspected was true." There was a slight pause. "That being?" Teal looked at Roget, saw his brother nod, and took courage from Roget's faith in the man sitting in the dark. "That you have been helping my people, Lord Darkwind. My brother tells me you and the others are fighting the Domination. I will help you any way I can." He would have taken a step closer, but Roget stopped him. Venom filled the rasping voice. "You have your brother back, du Mer. Why should you care about what happens now?" Teal flinched. That voice seemed to hate him, and he wondered why. "I do have my brother back, that's true. But that's not all the Domination took from me, Milord. It took the best part of my life. It stole from me my best friend, a man who meant more to me than anything in this life after Roget. If I can help destroy Kaileel Tohre, I will!" "What man was that?" the voice grated. "Surely Hawk has told you that all your friends were returned from the Labyrinth." "The man I speak of is long gone, Milord. There'll be no bringing him back. He died at the hands of the Tribunal. His death left a gaping wound in our land and his people still mourn him." Teal's chin rose in challenge. "I mourn him." Only a rasping breath through what sounded like thick cloth came across the room. Time stretched out, ticking away, then, the rasping stopped and a chilling gruffness shot forth. "Who was this man of whom you speak?"

Teal felt Roget's fingers tightening on his arm. "Conar McGregor, Milord. The rightful heir to the Serenian throne. I know you've heard of him." A dark laugh came from the blackness. "Aye, I have heard of him." "He would not have allowed his people to suffer the way they have these last nine years. If he had lived, he would be fighting beside you." "You believe this?" "I do!" "And you have remained faithful to this man's memory after all this time?" There was scathing disbelief in the words. "That I have, Lord Darkwind." "Why?" The question was like a snap of lightning. "Because I loved him, sir," came the equally succinct answer. "I failed him once, I let him down, and I am atoning for that. But I will hold his memory sacred for the rest of my life!" Again the silence stretched out. Teal could feel the sweat running down his sides. He heard the scraping of a chair, and as the man stood up, the dark outline along the far wall grew. "You may tell A'Lex his friends from the Labyrinth are safe and well. He won't be able to recognize them or find them unless they wish for him to do so. Tell him if he tries, if he hinders us in any way, he will pay dearly. Tell him to send no more spies; we are doing what he should have been doing these past nine years!" Teal finally heard emotion in that scratchy voice. "He won't try, Milord. As long as he knows you're helping, he'll make sure his men leave you alone. He'll do everything he can to protect you and the others. He wants your success as much as you do." There was a harsh, mocking laugh. "I don't think so, du Mer!" Teal felt anger. "He won't hinder you, Milord." "I have no fear that he will. I'd kill him before I allowed him to get in our way. If even one of my men is compromised because of Legion A'Lex, I'll know where my blade will come calling!" A faint outline of light came as a second doorway opened. Two guards flanked the Darkwind and Teal knew the man was about to leave. He wanted to assure him of his loyalty, but Liza's words came to him instead. "Lord Darkwind!" Teal said. The shape turned and Teal saw two glowing eyes in the darkness. He shuddered, stepped back from the refracted light in those alien eyes. "Well?" "The Queen asked that I give you a message should I meet you." The dark outline stiffened, but the man did not speak. "What did she say?" Roget asked, his voice filled with an odd inflection. "She told me to give the Darkwind her best wishes; to tell him she wished him well." Harsh, contemptible laughter came from the Darkwind, laughter so hard and telling it flashed through Teal's soul. It was frightful to hear and somehow lethal in its intensity. The man was still laughing as the door closed behind him. "One word of warning, little brother," Roget said later as they made their way from the stable to where Teal's horse was hidden. "Don'tever mention Her Highness to him again."

"Why not?" Teal asked, surprised. "If you value your life, just don't!"

Chapter 4 His hands slid through her thick ebony hair and he brought her mouth to his. Her body molded to him, pressed intimately, knowledgeably, to the hard length of his and ground against him. His fingers tightened in her hair and his tongue flicked out with lightning raids at her parted lips, touched her own questing tongue. "Now," she begged, her throaty voice husky with desire. "Take me now." "Not yet," he mumbled against her lips. She was on fire for want of him. His shaft was like steel along her lower belly and she felt her knees going weak as his right hand molded itself over her naked breast. "Please!" Her voice was thick, full of need. She pushed herself against him and groaned when he pulled back, denying her sensitive pubic region access to his hard thigh. "You can wait," he told her. His fingers squeezed her breast, his thumb rubbing insistently across the swollen nipple. Her arms tightened around his neck for a moment before her hand slid upward to thread its fingers through his silky hair. She pressed her mouth against his and thrust her tongue deeply inside, enjoying the low chuckle that erupted from the back of his throat. He pulled his lips free. "Eager little slut, aren't you?" His voice was raspy, tinged with a strange accent she couldn't identify, for it was like none she could ever remember hearing. There was a hardness to his playful tone, an intended insult in his easy words, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to be lying beneath him, to have him thrusting into her eager body as he had done many times in the past. "Don't make me ache like this!" she pleaded, moving against him. "Why do you make me ache like this?" His laugh was almost evil, she thought, as his hands moved to her buttocks. He cupped the high-rounded mounds and lifted her with ease, pulling her up his body until her legs went around his hips. She pressed herself to his naked strength. "You want it?" he mumbled against her mouth. Her throat closed as she felt him prodding at the juncture of her thighs. "Yes!"she breathed, arching against him. " Yes!" He pushed her against the wall, bracing her clinging body so he could put one hand down to his shaft. She felt his fingers scorching her as he guided his steel manhood to her eager lips. When he thrust into her, hard and savagely, she screamed her pleasure and clamped the muscles of her vagina around the velvety invasion of his body. "I love you," she told him as he began to stroke deeply within her. "Sure you do," he answered, never breaking his rhythm. His hips arched upward, his strong legs giving push to the thrusts. "I do, Lord Darkwind," she whispered against his cheek. "I love you."

A snort of laughter came from him. He turned her around with him, walked to the bed, and fell with her, his weight nearly crushing her as he came down hard. He never broke contact with her as he scooted their joined bodies up the bed. He positioned her so he could brace his feet against the footboard and he drove into her hard enough to cause real pain. She screamed, no longer in lust and need. His throbbing shaft truly hurt her, and she knew he meant to hurt her. He enjoyed it. He always did. When would she ever learn not to tell him she loved him, she thought, as she felt her body being pummeled. "You like that?" he snarled against her cheek as he made her whimper. "Is that what you want, whore?" She took his abuse, feeling his steel-like rod jamming as far as it would go inside her. She felt his body tensing, knew he was about to vent his rage inside her, and clasped him to her, pulling his magnificent body as close to her own as she could get it. Although she had never seen his face, she knew his lips would be drawn back over his teeth in a snarl. She somehow knew his eyes, those brilliant, piercing orbs of midnight blue, would be hard and deadly. That had been the only thing she had ever seen of his face—those deadly eyes. Neither had she seen the hard-muscled body that was slamming against her own. She had felt it, the gods knew she had felt it, time and time again, with her fingers, her lips, her own body, but not once in the year-and-a-half he had been coming to her hut had she ever seen the man, himself, nor his muscular body. "If he comes to you," one of his men had told her, "we'll have to blindfold you. If you take off that blindfold, we'll kill you. Do you understand?" She had nodded to the man they called Sparrow. She looked from the wagon where she had been chained with other women on their way to a nunnery in Fealst to the black-hooded man sitting astride the big black destrier. She felt him watching her, tried to smile at him, but found her lips frozen. "He wants you." Sparrow smirked. "You willing or not?" And she had been more than willing to become one of the many playthings of the Dark Overlord of the Wind. Her first night with him had been a lesson in degradation and abuse, but she had found pleasure in the rough treatment and in the way his body controlled hers. The only thing that had marred the night's passage was his obvious contempt for her. "Keep your whoring mouth shut and your dirty hands off me when I'm finished with you," he had snarled when he rolled away from her. "If I want you again, you'll be told!" And he had come to her again, many times over the months. Not nearly as much as she had wanted, or needed, but enough to fulfill the part of her that craved him. And still, not once in all that time had she seen his face. Now, he arched against her, shot hot semen deep within her, and held himself still, tense. From months of experience with her, he knew she'd follow close behind him, and when she did, he withdrew immediately and rolled to the opposite side of the bed. He never left her wanting, although she knew it wouldn't bother him if he did. "Did you do what I told you?" he asked, his voice tight. "Aye, Lord Raven. I made sure there'll be no babe born of our coupling." Her fingers reached up to scratch at the black silk blindfold covering her eyes. "Don't," he warned. "I wasn't taking it off," she hastened to say. "You know I wouldn't do that." "Whores will do anything," he growled. The bed move as he got up. She could hear him slipping back into his midnight clothes. "I am no whore, despite what you think." She gasped as his fingers closed around her throat and pressed her head into the pillow. "Were you a virgin when I first took you?" "No, but—"

"How many men had you lain with before that?" "I don't—" "Aye, you do know, slut!How many?" His fingers tightened. "Four, five! I don't remember!" She could barely breathe. "And how many of them were married?" He shook her. "Two!"she gasped, reaching up to pry his fingers from her throat. He knocked away her hand. "One was your brother-in-law, right?" How he knew that, she had to wonder, but his fingers hurt her so badly, she was afraid he would kill her. "What do you want me to say?" she asked, her voice pressing from her throat. "I want you to tell me you fucked your husband's brother, that's what I want you to tell me, bitch!" She felt rage powering out of him, felt it in the strength of his fingers, and wondered what woman had hurt him so badly. "Tell me!" "Aye," she admitted. "It was my husband's oldest brother." The fingers relaxed, then moved away from her throat. His voice was a low rumble of hate. "Like I said…a whore will do anything!" She lay there after he was gone, crying, hurt, needing him just as much as ever. She knew he'd be back, just as he always came back. There were eight others like herself that she knew about, and there were probably more in Virago, Chale, the other kingdoms. She was not his only whore. They all had three things in common, she thought, as she stared into the darkness and heard the last echo of his horse's thundering hooves dying in the night. Each of the women he visited on a regular basis had shiny, long, black hair. Each had eyes the color of the grass in spring. And each had committed adultery at least once—with their husband's brother.

Chapter 5 Brelan Saur ran a hand through his thick brown hair and cursed. His footsteps, as he walked up the steps to the tavern, were hard and angry. For months he had been trying to get into Boreas Keep, but every time he tried to gain access, he had found extra lookouts—Temple Guards, at that—surrounding the place. He had tried to get messages through to Legion on where to meet him, but spies in Rylan Hesar's network had failed. Finally, one of his men told him that Teal had brought news from the Dark Overlord, himself, that all the men were well and had joined forces to fight Tohre. "Damn it!" Brelan spat as he jerked open the tavern door with a snap. "Damn it to hell and back!"

He should have been in Boreas Keep at that moment, not trying to find Conar to tell him he had failed. Conar wasn't going to like it, and he wasn't going to allow Brelan to give him excuses about his failure. He could feel that scathing tongue lashing him even before he heard it. And hear it he did. What Brelan heard as he entered the Hound and Stag tavern was nothing compared to what he saw. The sight made his blood run cold. Conar stood on a table, a naked blade in his powerful hand, the tip pointed with unsteady aim at the throat of a menacing Temple Guard. Another guard lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood. Brelan groaned with despair. Around him stood Roget du Mer, Shalu Taborn, Sentian Heil and Thom Loure, men who usually stayed close to Conar's side, all dressed in the unkempt disguise of the Wind Force. Conar, however, his bearded face uncovered, his long braided hair swinging behind him, was toying with the man at his blade tip while his own men hovered by uneasily. "Repeat it, you scum!" Conar shouted in a slurred voice that made Brelan flinch. If he hadn't staggered, if he hadn't lost his footing on the ale-slick table, if he hadn't fallen backward into Roget's waiting arms, Conar more than likely would have severed the head of the Temple Guard—a man Brelan had been cultivating for months at Boreas Keep. The guard, who was likely trembling more with annoyance than fear, would no doubt have stood his ground until death, rather than strike out at the Darkwind, but that was beside the point. The next guard might not. Brelan was furious as he looked at Shalu. "How many in this room are ours?" "All, Wren," Shalu swore, using Brelan's cover name. "These guards came in only a moment before you did." Sentian and Thom had swords pointed at the surviving guard. Brelan strode forward to knock away the swords. "He's one ofus, you bumbling idiots! Roget, you promised to protect him! Do you remember that, Hawk? Is this how you go about it?" "He got a little drunk, that's all," Roget said. Brelan gave a disgusted snort and turned to Thom. "Get that dead man buried before the whole Temple Regiment comes down on us!" He pointed a finger at Roget. "And get his ass upstairs and out of sight!" He swung around to fix Shalu with a murderous glare. "This guard's name is Zeb. See that he's sent through the undercurrent to Chrystallus. If I hadn't come in when I did, you bastards would have lost us a valuable man!" Shalu ground his teeth together. "It got out of hand." "Itgot out of hand?" Brelan sneered, "orhe got out of hand?" "We were watching him." "Watching him?" Brelan bellowed. "He drew a sword to the throat of a Temple Guard, Rook! One of Kaileel Tohre's personal guards, at that! You have no way of knowing how important this man is to us. His information will be invaluable! What if Darkwind had been just a bit less sober? Huh? There were two to his one. They could have cut him down. Drunk as he is, it's a wonder he's still alive!" Shalu grunted. He folded his arms over his massive chest and glared back at Brelan. "You know only his own weapons can harm him. And nothing happened to him." "Nothing…" Brelan took a step forward. "Aye, and you're damned lucky, Rook!" "He's a grown man, Wren," Sentian snarled. "He does as he pleases. We have about as much authority over him as we do the wind!" Brelan lurched around and stepped up to Sentian. They had never liked one another and still didn't. "You've got a short memory, Sparrow. Was it not you who said, although he is a man full grown, he has the temper of a little boy? Would you let one of your sons point a naked blade at a Temple Guard and do nothing to stop him? You have as much authority overhim ashe has overyou ! You think he would knowingly letyou do something so damned stupid?"

"Nothing happened," Sentian snapped, but his face turned a lighter shade. "We would have protected him. Don'tever doubt that, Wren!" "I have no doubt you would have tried!" Brelan headed for the stairs, motioning the men of Conar's personal guard to follow him, although, at that moment, he would have liked to run them all through with his sword. He stopped on the steps leading to the bedchambers and fixed Shalu and Sentian with a furious glare. "Maybe I expect too much of you." The Necroman and the Serenian warrior exchanged looks of outrage, but neither spoke. Thom snaked out a hand and took the Temple Guard's forearm, bringing the man with them up the stairs. In the bedroom, Roget du Mer stood up from the mattress where he had removed the Raven's shirt and boots. "I'm sorry, Wren." Brelan let out an angry breath. "It's a little too late for apologies, Hawk." "He has no care for the danger! We do all we can to stop these situations—you know that—but we can't watch him every minute. He has this knack of disappearing on us." "Just like his lady used to," the Temple Guard murmured. The men turned stunned faces to him. The guard's expression turned solemn. "I know who he is. I almost croaked when I recognized him, but he's the reason I am betraying Tohre. Why do you think I joined the Wind Force? I don't give a damn about Serenian independence from the Tribunal. I cared about him! I wanted to do something I thought he would have done if he'd still been with us." He pointed his finger at Conar. "I was one of the men taking his coffin to the ship when Legion A'Lex stopped us. I got my back lashed for showing him homage by wearing a mourning band on my uniform!" Brelan turned an even angrier face to Shalu. "You see? If Zeb recognized him, anyone else could, too! What provoked this tonight, anyway? What did he want repeated?" A guilty look passed over Shalu's face. He looked to Roget for guidance. Obviously seeing no salvation, he shrugged his wide shoulders. "The other guard made a vulgar remark about the Queen." "What kind of remark?" Brelan inquired. Shalu looked away, apparently not wanting to repeat viciousness either, especially to a man he knew loved the woman. Brelan swung his gaze to Loure. "Well, Thommy? What did the bastard say?" Thom cleared his throat and ducked his bald head. "I'd rather not say." "I'd rather you did!" Thom looked up. He seemed to be seeking courage, then blurted it out in a rush of child-like petulance. "The two of them"—Thom pointed at the remaining guard—"came through the door talking about the lady. They were laughing and joking and I don't think the other guard saw Coni until it was too late. He was telling this one that the royal belly was near to bursting with another bastard brat. Conar took exception to the remark. He asked the man how a babe born within wedlock could be considered illegal. That dead man turned and, when he saw us sitting at the table, swaggered up, looked at Conar, and I think he must have known who he was. His eyes got all funny-looking." Zeb shook his head. "He didn't recognize His Grace. I heard him say 'Darkwind' and he thought we were going to arrest the man we'd been told to find at all costs. He fancied himself a great swordsman and he thought to insult Lord Darkwind, then fight him." The Temple Guard glanced at Brelan. "It was a fatal mistake, wouldn't you say?" "That wasn't his only mistake, but it got Conar's attention," Shalu admitted. "The guard said the Darkwind ought not to be fighting for the likes of the royal family. He said the lady wasn't truly married to Legion A'Lex because Legion was bastard-born. He said she was still the property of King Galen and shouldn't have joined with A'Lex." "And he said as much to Conar?" Brelan asked, now understanding how the man had signed his own death warrant with Conar. "Well, that and a bit more," Thom added. "How much more?"

When no one answered, a lengthy silence ground to a stop when Conar's slurred speech shot over the still room. "He said, 'The bitch should have been slain with her first treasonous husband years ago so no brats, legal or otherwise, would have slid from between her whoring thighs!'" Brelan flinched. "I understand now." "Do you?" Conar shouted, coming to his elbows in the bed. He turned a hateful smirk to his brother. "Then how about explaining it to me! Why the hell should I care what is said about that faithless slut? Tell me why I risked my life to defend her so-calledhonor?" "Because you still lov…" Sentian couldn't finish, for he found himself in Conar's hard grasp, pinned to the wall. He hadn't seen the man leap from the bed and reach for him. Drunk or not, power emanated apparently from those muscled arms. "Be careful,very careful, what you say," Conar hissed, shaking Heil as though he were a rag doll. "Leave off, Coni," Brelan warned. "You know why you did what you did. Let it go. It isn't important now. I have news from Boreas Keep." Conar grunted his disinterest, let Sentian go, then stumbled to the bed. He plopped down with enough force to rattle the headboard. "Has something happened?" Roget asked. "I couldn't get in, that's what happened!" Brelan snapped. "They've increased the guard four times over. Something has made them cautious. From what I have learned from Rylan's men, Legion and the rest of his court are under what can only be termed 'house arrest.' I think someone has gotten wind of the fact that he's aiding us." "So?" There was contempt in Conar's voice. Exasperated with his brother, Brelan glared. "So,they could all be in grave danger. Tohre suspects something." "Aye, but he can't prove it," Zeb said. "He doesn't know exactly what His Highness has been doing." "His Highness!" Conar mimicked. His upper lip raised in scorn. "His Royal Highness, King Legion, the Bastard!" Brelan ignored the outburst. "If Tohre thinks Legion and Liza are behind this rebellion, he might—" "It doesn't matter why Kaileel thinks!" Conar snapped. "There's nothing he can do to stop us. He won't harm A'Lex or his whoring wife because he needs them. He knows how the people would feel if their precious monarchy was harmed. They'd revolt. He'll not harm the bastard offspring, either. The slut is in no—" Brelan leapt across the distance between them and slammed his brother against the headboard. "I won't have you speaking of her like that!" He thudded Conar's head against the wall. "If you can't keep a civil tongue in your mouth regarding her, don't say anything at all!" Steel glints came from the dark blue eyes as they narrowed. Conar's smile was lethal. "I forgot she was your whore once, too." One moment Conar was sitting with his back to the wall, the next he was sliding sideways down it, due to the hard, vicious punch Brelan administered. He sat where he landed and glared up at Brelan. "If you ever, ever, open your mouth and call her that in my presence again, brother or not, I'll beat the shit out of you!" As if finally realizing he was drunk and that his recent words were things he would not ordinarily say, Conar kept his mouth shut. Standing up against the wall, he put a hand to his jaw and continued to stare at Brelan. "I'm returning to Boreas," Brelan told Roget. "Maybe if I can get word to Teal, I can find a way into the keep." He looked at Thom. "Take Zeb to Gull's place. Make sure he stays healthy on the way, eh?" Thom nodded and he and the Temple Guard left.

"Have you tried going through the grotto?" Conar asked, his voice quite, subdued. Brelan looked at him, his mouth open in shock. "By the gods, but I'd forgotten about that!" Conar shrugged as he sat on the bed. "Be careful. That's where Galen died and where I lost what life I had." He laid down and turned his back to them. Brelan looked at Shalu. "Keep an eye on this child, Taborn. Keep his ass out of mischief." He strode to the door, jerked it open, and fled before Shalu could answer.

Chapter 6 Torture, nor exile, nor imprisonment had brought Conar McGregor to his knees. For a short time he had risen again and the things that had happened to him, the pain he had suffered, strengthened him into a man fully capable of crushing anyone foolish enough to defy him. The years of abuse had shaped his willpower. It had toned down his arrogance, but the hot streak of sick fury coursing through his veins made him incautious at times, and his friends worried about his recklessness. Yet danger held no concern for him. If anything, it seemed to excite the man he had become and he thrived on the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body when danger confronted him. His vengeance against the Domination had begun in Necroman with the arrival of a group of men trained to war without thought, to assassinate without conscience, to murder with little regard to the outcome. In Necroman, the Shadow Warriors had arrived. Misha Kharchenko had been sent to the Labyrinth at the same time as Sentian Heil, and Grice and Chand Wynth. The Outer Kingdom warrior from the Tzar's palace at St. Steffensberg had been among those who had accompanied Conar to freedom aboard the Boreas Queen. When he brought five men he called "his cousins" to the training camp outside Jhakar that day he had not bothered to introduce them to the Darkwind. "They will guard your back, Milord, but no one will ever see them," the reticent man had told him. "Do not even look for them, for not even you will see them lurking behind you. They will be your Shadow." These men from the Outer Kingdom taught the Darkwind how to kill. They taught him not to brook resistance from his men, not to tolerate excuses, not to accept half-measures, not to allow compromises where commitment was concerned or to give no quarter to those who had been unwise to cross him. And he hadn't seen them, though he had felt their presence many times. They finished what he started, killed men he had left wounded, but he didn't care. Those killed were his enemies and he gloried in their deaths. During times when he met the challenge of the Temple Guards he found in various towns, he shone in his men's eyes. It was then when he killed with abandon, leaving nothing behind for his Shadow Warriors to destroy, that made the people afraid of him. Ignoring his own welfare, though concerned with the lives of those around him, he would slice and stab, laying waste to every life his sword could drain, laughing in the face of death. He was his most cruel during those forays with the men who had been responsible for his torture in the bowels of the Tribunal Inquisition Hall, and he looked into the face of every guard, keeping watch for one in particular. No guard ever struck blades with him and lived to tell the tale. "Do you know Tymothy Kullen?" he would ask them before they died. It was not only his volume of bloodletting on the battlefields that he did to excess. Everything was beyond the normal: drinking, fighting, whoring. It seemed to his men as though he was trying to cram those seven years of hell into the one he was presently living. On occasion, his eyes would go dull, and he would cocoon himself even deeper

in his self-inflicted web of silence, his manner even more forbidding, morose, and he would defy anyone to impugn on his withdrawal under penalty of pain. It was during those times when he would turn toward the distant crenelated walls of his birthplace, to the sand-colored stone of Boreas Keep, and his hands would clench into fists by his rigid body as he stared for hours at the keep. When the mood broke, he would find the nearest female and release his pent-up, frustrated lust on her, often calling out a name that meant nothing to the woman, but that held a world of dark feeling for him. His moods were not always somber and self-destructive. There was still a vestige of chivalry left in him, a holdover from his childish days as an untried youth, but it was as ethereal as a will-'o-the-wisp: coming and going as quickly as a rainbow after a storm. Children could still bring out that side of him, but his gaze would follow them hungrily and be unusually bright. He was gallant, courteous to the common folk, and it was that quality in him they sensed which caused them to write ballads about him. It was the essence of him that fashioned legend, but none of his men ever saw that side of his nature. He viewed it as a weakness. The knights of legend of whom ballads and sonnets and plays were written, who could slay dragons for their damsels in distress, who fed the poor and righted every wrong, were only myths. Darkwind was real. His fury was real. The core of the Brotherhood of the Wind, men like Roget and Shalu and Brelan and Grice Wynth, feared for him. They prayed for him. They carefully watched his back. But none of them could make the pain in his eyes go away. None could quench the fury in his face when a certain name was spoken in his hearing. None could give him back the peace of spirit he had lost. Only one person could do that, and she, like his peace of mind, was lost to him forever. *** "Holy shit!" the man shouted. "It's a ghost!" The man ran as fast as his pigeon-toes could carry him down the alley, his hands in the air, his legs pumping furiously. "You see?" Brelan screamed at Ward Summerall. "See what I've been trying to tell you numbskulls!" Sentian and Thom were supporting Conar's dead weight between them. The Raven had come to long enough to look into the man's face. He smirked. "Hello!" The man's turned white under the light of the torch overhead. "A ghost!" he shrieked, backing away, his hands up to ward off the evil confronting him. "A drunk ghost!" Conar agreed. "Help! Help!"The man nearly slammed face first into a brick building, but swerved at the last moment. "A ghost! A ghost!" "I think they heard you!" Conar shouted after him, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped in his men's hands again. "Go after that fool and silence him!" Brelan snarled at Ward. "Now, Summerall! Now!" *** Storm and Thom smiled at one another as the balladeer sang. Now and again they would blush, look down at the table, or cock a surprised brow. Their feet tapped out the song's rhythm, their fingers beating a tattoo on their table. "Sing it again!" a tavern patron shouted as the balladeer finished. The tall Ionarian songwriter grinned and began to strum his guitar once more, nodding as men filed past his stool and plunked silver coins into the earthen jug at his feet.

Thom nodded in time to the beatas the balladeer began repeat the tale of the Dark Wind. "He'll bust a gut laughing when he hears this!" Storm remarked. Thom grinned. "Think the singer will let me copy down the words?" Storm snorted. "You'd better not!" The singer began his tale in a crisp, heavily-accented Ionarian blend of romance and excitement. —— "On a steed as black as the darkest night, He rides forth like the Wind. His sword will flash and his arrows fly, To death, his enemies he'll send, he'll send; To death, his enemies he'll send. His midnight eyes will pierce your soul, His gaze can stop your heart, With courage strong and honor bold, His aim has never missed its mark, its mark; His aim has never missed its mark. Ride, Darkwind, ride, the Wind Force at your side, Your whereabouts we will hide. Ride on through the night, past the morning light, We'll keep you safe from the bounty hunter's sight. He robs from the rich and he gives to the poor, Gold taken from the local treasury. For those who betray us, he has a cure: His blade will cut out the treachery, the treachery; His blade will cut out the treachery. By the wagon load, the ladies he does save, The orphans he clothes and feeds. He sees to the old and he frees the enslaved, He knows what his countrymen need, what they need, He knows what his countrymen need. Ride, Darkwind, ride, the Wind Force at your side, Your whereabouts, we will hide.

Ride on through the night, past the morning light, We'll keep you safe from the bounty hunter's sight. There are men at his side who guard his back, Men as deadly as Darkwind's blade. Their swords are sharp, their daggers black, And many a corpse have they made, have they made; And many a corpse have they made. So when the night is dark and the wind, it does howl, When the thunder of hooves shakes the ground. You'll know Lord Darkwind's on the prowl, Traitors' souls are being sent hellbound, hellbound; Traitors' souls are being sent hellbound. Ride, Darkwind, ride, the Wind Force at your side, Your whereabouts, we will hide. Ride on through the night, past the morning light, We'll keep you safe from the bounty hunter's sight. We'll keep you safe from the bounty hunter's sight."

Chapter 7 Roget sat back in his chair, one booted ankle crossed over the other, and intently regarded his friend. Only an hour earlier, a messenger had come from Brelan, carrying a rolled parchment to be given directly to the Darkwind and no one else. Now, sitting in the common room of the nearly deserted Hound and Stag tavern, Conar had just finished reading it. There was a heavy frown on his face. "I take it Brelan got into the keep all right," Roget commented. "Is an answer expected?" Conar nodded, but didn't answer. "Do you want me to have the messenger brought?" Again the distracted nod. "Put on your mask." Roget waited until Conar was ready, then got up, opened the tavern door, and called for the outside guards to let the man in. Standing aside as one of Legion's personal men entered, Roget closed the door and placed his back against it.

"When is this to take place?" Conar asked, not bothering to look at the messenger. "At the cresting of the moon, Lord Darkwind." Conar's dark sapphire orbs shot up to impale the messenger. He was sitting by the fireplace, wearing his black tunic, black leather breeches and boots, and the wide gauntlets around his capable-looking wrists, which still revealed the tattoo on the back of his sword hand. But what seemed to intrigue the messenger the most was Conar's black criss-crossed silk mask that hid all but his eyes from view. "I assume Brelan Saur trusts you or you wouldn't have known the password to get by my men or how to find me. Are you one with us?" He held up one hand. "Be careful how you answer. I will know whether you lie." His rasping voice came huskily from behind the mask. "My heart is open for you to see, Milord. I am as loyal as a man can be to you and the cause. You have no reason to doubt me. My cousin is one of your own. Storm Jale. I saw him outside. I would have recognized him even without that ratty beard." The man smiled, but the smile wavered, died as the midnight blue gaze regarded him steadily. He looked away from that keen probe. "I am Marsh Edan, Master-at-Arms at Boreas." "I know who you are," came the grating reply. "Then you know I can be trusted." "It would appear so. If I find you false, Storm will be minus one family member." Conar turned the parchment in his hands and began to re-roll it. "Is there an answer, Milord?" "I will think on it. Stay the night with Storm and get reacquainted. I'll let you know by morning what my answer will be." It was a dismissal and Marsh took it as such, leaving the room with haste. "What's in the note?" Roget asked as he locked the door behind Marsh. "A royal summons." "From Legion?" Roget du Mer was shocked. "Does Brelan really think you'd actually come?" "He knows I will." Getting up from his chair, Conar stood in front of the warm fireplace and unraveled the mask. "You can't go to the keep!" "I have to." He flung the mask to the chair and ran his hands over his face, plowed one hand through the fall of long flaxen waves, then shook back his hair. "I'm not being given a chance to decline, Hawk," he said in a strange voice. "What the hell's so important that Brelan would let you risk your life to return to Boreas?" A sick feeling formed in the pit of Roget's stomach. There was a long moment of silence, then Conar made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. His voice was devoid of life or expression. "There's to be an initiation at the Abbey of the Domination. Her eldest son is to be accepted into the Brotherhood. He undergoes the Rites of Passage at the cresting of the moon." The voice lowered. "Brelan wants it stopped. He says A'Lex wants us to abduct the child from the Abbey and return him to his mother." A hot look of speculation crossed Conar's tired face. "Without the child, Tohre will lose what hold he has on the throne. Once the boy is safe within Boreas Keep, A'Lex can give us all the help we want." "So that's why Legion hasn't been able to do anything before now! He feared for Liza's son!" Roget nodded. "It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" Conar returned to his seat and sat down heavily. His long legs shot out before him and he laid his head along the chair back. He gazed steadily at the blazing logs, his pupils taking on the reflected light from the flames hissing in the hearth. His hard, callused hands lay idle in his lap, but his fingers flexed as though he itched to have something within them to strangle. The only signs of any emotional upheaval was the vein throbbing heavily in the column of his bronzed throat and a faint movement of his lean jaw, obviously silently grinding his teeth. Roget made a temple with his fingers and, with his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, he lowered his chin to the apex of his fingertips. "You're going to go after the boy yourself, aren't you?" he asked in a calm tone he didn't feel.

"Do I have a choice? I couldn't live with myself if I let that evil bastard claim another innocent McGregor male child. Although being a child of Galen's couldn't make the boy all that innocent, especially not after having been with Tohre all this time." "How old is he?" Conar shrugged. "Eight, nine. What does it matter?" "What if you're caught, Coni?" There was a derisive snort. "I can get into and out of that keep better than any man alive. Have no fear." "But what about the Abbey?" Conar shuddered, although Roget could have sworn he didn't realize it. "I've been there, as well. I know the way out, so I know the way in!" "I'm going with you. I'll be at your back." Conar's lips stretched into a thin smile. "You've been there, too, haven't you, Hawk?" Roget nodded. "And Chase. And Jah-Ma-El. And Shalu. How many of us will you need?" "Three. Belvoir knows the way and I'd rather not pull Shalu and Jah-Ma-El away from Fealst right now." He took a deep breath. "I'm not sure Chase could handle going back." Roget understood. "It'll be risky, Hawk." Roget lifted a broad shoulder. "Since when does risk ever matter to us?" "It's not something I truly want to do." His voice was soft, more gentle than Roget had heard in a long time. "Saving the boy from consecration I can handle. It's the rest that troubles me. I'll have to see him, speak to him." Roget du Mer nodded, knowing his friend was speaking of Legion A'Lex. But it wasn't Legion that Conar feared seeing. Roget knew that. And he knew Conar did, too.

Chapter 8 And she had said to him long ago: "Beware the spinner's brew!" She, who weaves the web of mischief and strife. She, who bears the burden of guilt from so long ago. They called her a whore. They called her evil, but the weaver spins a web around him that is meant to protect rather than harm. And her magic was cast upon the still waters of midnight, her web settling gently over his shoulders.

"Ride, Conar, ride," she sang sweetly to the conjuring pool's still waters as she swept his handsome face from her view. Her green eyes tilted upward. "Your lady at your side."

Chapter 9 In the beginning, Conar's purpose was clear. In the beginning, he knew his own soul, his own heart. In the beginning, he could see clearly the path he was destined to take. And in the beginning, he was his own worst enemy. With his sapphire blue eyes hard and unrelenting on the future stretching out before him, his strong right hand gripping the pommel of his deadly sword, he stepped forth into the fight and his aim was true, his belief in himself unshaken. Those who rallied around him were of the same cut of cloth, of the same deadly purpose, and together, he and his men ventured into the realm of Darkness, took up arms against those who had destroyed. His fury in the fight was becoming legend; his generosity to his people and to those he saved, the stuff from which the legends sprang. His thoughts strayed often to the far crenellations of Boreas Keep and those who knew him well, those who listened not at all to his hard words of anger toward the royalty of Boreas Keep. Those who loved him saw the hurt playing along his sensuous mouth, and left him alone. They watched him, protected his back with flashing swords and expertly thrown daggers, but left him to his brooding. It was not until word had come from the keep, from the King of Serenia, that the anger went beyond fury to cold, dangerous hate. The night before Conar left for Boreas Keep, he decided to get rip-roaring drunk at the Green Horned Toad Tavern. He had escaped the watch of his "guard dogs," as he called them, and sat drinking one ale after another until he was in a violent frame of mind. He turned an unforgiving glare to every newcomer to the tavern, warning away their company. It was only by a miracle no one recognized him, for he had come to this smoke-filled tavern without his disguise. Only his bright blond hair was covered, a black kerchief wrapped tightly around the famed flaxen locks and tied just below his right ear. The jagged twin scars on his left cheek showed white through the bush of his thick, dark golden beard. In his left earlobe, a wide silver hoop caught the flare of light from the torch over his table. To those in the room, he appeared a man to be left alone. No one looked twice at him. No one, that is, but a giant of a man who sat deep in his cups not far from the Darkwind's table. It was a shock to the giant. He, at first thought, he'd had that proverbial "one drink too many" and was seeing ghosts, but on closer examination, furtive and intense, he realized his ghost was, indeed, who he'd thought. The legend of the Dark Overlord of the Wind began to make sense to him then. With a nod of his shaggy head, the giant smiled into his tumbler of ale and his heart filled with absolute joy. He watched silently, while what began as a drunken stagger against the Dark Overlord's table, became a living nightmare for the intoxicated man who just happened to stumble. He soon lay on the rush-strewn floor, with a lethal, double-edged dagger at his throat. The drunk had been imbibing someplace else, obviously, but coming to the Green Horned Toad had been the mistake of his life, as the Overlord of the Wind proceeded to tell him. "Your mistake, sir, will be your last!" the bearded man said in a deadly, soft whisper. "You'll make no others this side of hell." A trickle of blood oozing down his drunk's throat. "I meant you no harm, Your Grace!" he screeched in a wounded, terrified voice. "I surely meant no harm!" Maybe it was the fear in the man's tone, or perhaps his obvious contrition, or the way his scrawny Adam's apple

bobbed with abject horror, or maybe even the unconscious title of deference he used, but something stayed the blade at his throat, saved the wretch's life. The bearded man withdrew the dagger. His cold blue eyes narrowed with a sudden flash of white-hot fire, and he returned the blade to the top of his boot. He stood up, then offered the drunk his hand. "Get up." The man reluctantly put up a violently trembling hand. He winced as the strong sword hand closed around his own. Getting clumsily to his feet, he edged away, bowing deeply at the waist, repeating over and over again, "I'm sorry, Milord. Sorry." The Dark lord's lip curled in, what the giant assumed, passed for a smile. The bearded man dismissed the drunk, turning around to swipe up his nearly empty tumbler of ale. He brought the brew to his lips, and over the rim of the vessel, saw a group of four men circling his table. They appeared to be the bullying kind, sneers of challenge on their meaty faces. They seemed genuinely surprised when he turned his back on them and reseated himself. "Afraid to take on real men, eh?" one scoffed, nudging one companion and winking at the other two. These men didn't appear to concern him at all. He viewed the threat they presented as a nuisance and nothing more. With a dispassionate glance at them, he leaned back negligently in his chair and fixed them with a steady stare. Somewhat taken aback by the bearded man's obvious contempt as he folded his arms over his wide chest, at least one of the four thought better of engaging him in combat. The others, apparently less attuned to the room's highly charged atmosphere, continued the insulting remarks, which were met with that same unwavering, dark blue gaze. "What's the matter with you?" one snarled. "You a coward?" "Afraid to talk to us, he is," another piped up. "Maybe the cat's got his tongue," the third quipped. He placed his grimy hands on Conar's table and leaned over. "Maybe he's feeling a mite like a little doggie facing a pit bull. He yipped at that fool drunk, but he seems to be cowering away from us. Maybe all he can do is yip." The bearded man's mouth stretched into a lopsided grin. "You keep pestering me and I'll show you that my bite is much worse than my bark." When a man is challenged, the giant thought, he's like a canine who reacts first and then thinks. It's the nature of the male beast to be the aggressor. The object of their taunts was in a fighting mood, anyway, and nothing less than spilled blood would have satisfied him. It took only a matter of minutes to dispatch the men who had made the fatal mistake of annoying him. He stood eyeing the room, wanting, needing, someone else to tussle with. He had downed three more ales and his gait was now unsteady, his hands shaking, his speech slurred almost beyond understanding, but he onbiously would have taken on anyone foolish enough to venture his way. When the giant rose from the table and made purposeful strides toward him, the Dark Overlord crouched, dagger in hand. "It's time to go home, Milord," the giant said softly. "I will accompany you." The bearded man snarled, his mouth twisting bitterly. He tilted back his head so he could glare up at the man who literally towered above his own six-foot frame. "I'm not going nowhere." "Oh, yes you are." A hard right to the exposed jaw knocked the stars down from his sky. *** Waking up in his room, ten miles from the Green Horned Toad, with a raging headache and blurred vision, sour stomach and a mouth that tasted of waterlogged timber, he used every coarse word and vitriolic curse he could on the men who gazed down at him. He tried to get up, failed, and let out an hiss of fury. Finding his head spinning as fast as a top, he fell back on the bed and drifted into sleep once more. He barely feel the gentle hands undressing him, bathing the drink-sweat from his limp body.

*** "You have our thanks, sir," Roget du Mer told the giant as the big man wiped Conar's brow with a deceptively soft touch for hands that were four times the size of a normal hand. Roget smiled. "He might have gotten himself hurt." The giant ran the rag down Conar's naked neck and chest. "I wouldn't have allowed anything to happen to him, Duke du Mer." The man's voice was heavily accented, foreign, mumbling. Roget was stunned. This man obviously knew who he was, and if that was the case, might he not also know Conar, the man to whom he was administering with such loving, gentle care? He had been surprised when the giant punched Conar; even more surprised when he caught the young man as he crumpled, picking him up in his arms like one would a child, and telling Roget that he would "carry the little lord home." It had been the fierceness in the giant's broad face, beneath the craggy, low-slung brow, that convinced Roget the man meant to do just that. For some reason, a reason Roget as yet did not understand, he trusted this over-grown man. Now, he wondered just how far he could. "You know me." Roget sat on the foot of Conar's bed. He nodded at the sleeping man. "You know him, as well?" The giant nodded and eased Conar onto his stomach. The huge hands trembled as he took in the mass of criss-crossed scar tissue, the legacy of a brutal punishment. There came a low, keening groan from his throat; a groan of deep despair. "It was a long time ago," Roget remarked, moved. "If you know who he is, you know how he came by that." Tenderly, the man bathed the puckered flesh. "He didn't deserve this, Duke du Mer." Roget brought up one booted foot and tugged at the rich brown leather. "No, he didn't." "It was me, you know," the man said, his hands lovingly stroking the deepest of the wavering whip marks. Roget pulled off his boot and looked at the man. "I don't understand." "It was me." The man's voice was softer as he gazed at Conar's mangled flesh. He seemed to mentally shake himself after a moment's reflection. "It was me that scarred him." Roget gawked at the man, full recognition falling into place. He put up a hand and plowed his long, tapered fingers through his hair. He had also once been an unwilling subject of this giant. "You're Bent, the executioner." The answer was not a brag, nor a simple statement of fact. It was a curse on his lips. "Not anymore. Not since this." Roget had reason to hate the man, for he had felt the sting of Bent Fontaine's whip on the day he had been condemned by the Tribunal of Serenia. But he recognized true contrition in the man's ravaged voice, and he knew, too, that it had been his job to torture, flog, and kill men the Tribunal had tried in those days. Roget could never forgive the Tribunal for what they had done to him, but he could forgive this man who lovingly touched the flesh of his friend. "I am sure he forgave you," Roget said. "He wouldn't have blamed you for what was done to him." Bent nodded. "He forgave me before the first lash ever struck him, Duke du Mer. That was his way." He tugged the kerchief from Conar's bright blond hair. A gentle smile touched his huge mouth. He laid down the kerchief, then stroked the gleaming head of hair. His large head cocked to one side. "I never forgave myself, though." "You know he's the Darkwind?" Another smile, this one warm and secret. "Onlyhe could have been. I thought the Dark Overlord might well be one of his brothers, Prince Dyllon, maybe, or Prince Coron. No one knows where they are." He peered intently at Roget. "Are they safe, Milord?" Roget nodded, not sure just how much he could trust this man. Bent seemed to understand. His massive shoulders slumped and he took a deep breath. "I care not who he is now except that he is alive, Duke du Mer. All I care about is him. His secret is safe with me, but if you think I pose a threat, that I can't be trusted, kill me, Milord. I will not be the reason he is harmed again. Through no fault of mine will I ever let that happen!" The man's voice was strong, full of honesty. He shook his lank brown, shoulder-length hair. "No, I will not see him harmed ever again."

Roget regarded Bent for a long time, then an idea struck him. He stood, thinking his slightly shorter than six-foot stature looked child-like beside the eight-foot Bent Fontaine. "How good are you at protecting yourself?" His smile obviously confused Bent. A deep frown appeared on the broad, wrinkled face. "I do well enough." "And do you think you could protect this poggle-headed boy?" Roget asked, thrusting his chin toward a sleeping, snoring Conar. Understanding lit up Bent's hooded eyes. "He needs a bodyguard?" "What do you think? Tonight is not the first time he's done something so patently stupid. With you as his bodyguard, I wouldn't worry about him." He put out his hand. "Do we have a deal?" Bent's giant paw completely covered Roget's hand. "Consider him safe, Duke du Mer." He vigorously pumped Roget's hand. Roget cringed. The man's strength was torture. When he recovered his hand, he flexed it, opening and closing his fingers. "If you're going to be one with us, Bent, you'd better learn to call me by my code name: Hawk. Duke Roget du Mer exists no longer." Bent grinned. "It will be my pleasure, Lord Hawk!" *** "Make that colossus leave me the hell alone, Hawk!" Conar glowered up at the man hovering near him. "He thinks he's my damned twin!" Roget shook his head. Conar's temper was worse than usual this morning, due to the vast amount of ale he had consumed the day before. Twice Conar had tried to leave the room and twice Bent blocked his way. "You're staying until it's time to leave for the keep." Roget didn't even look up when the snort of rage blew from his friend's mouth. "I will not be dictated to!" came the thunderous reply. A tumbler of water sailed across the room, landing with a resounding crash against the hearth. Roget smiled. Conar was like a little boy when thwarted. In a reasonable voice, Roget explained the situation. "In less than an hour we leave for Boreas Keep. You can't go into Boreas with a fogged brain. Bent will see that no liquor makes it way to your empty belly. Not this morning. Not this evening. Not tomorrow. Or the next day. Not until we have accomplished what we go to Boreas to accomplish." "I don't need this ugly bastard guardingmy every move!" Roget shrugged and looked at the book in his lap. He scanned the page, ignoring the angry hiss of warning from Conar. "He'll stand guard over you whether you like it or not. You can't be trusted to look after yourself, so you have acquired a nanny." "A nanny!" The shout made the windowpanes rattle. Another object flew across the room and hit the wood paneling. "I'll not have it, Hawk!" "You have no choice." "I want this over-grown troll gone! Do you hear me, Roget?" Roget glanced up with a frown of warning. It was the first time in a long time that Conar had called him by his given name. To lapse into such a dangerous mistake was a measure of how mad he truly was. "Lower your voice or, so help me, I'll have Bent gag you!" Conar growled, his teeth actually bared. "Don't youeven try something like that!" "Then act reasonably and I won't." Roget closed his book with a snap and stood, facing Conar's anger with calm purpose. "Bent is here to guard your back. It doesn't matter what you want. You are more important to the cause alive than dead, skewered on the end of some Tribunal Guard's sword. Where you go, Bent goes. Live with it!"

Conar slammed his fist against the wall. "Hawk, but I will not be followed about like some irrational child. I can handle myself." He glanced at Bent's benevolent face. "I can take care of myself!" "Bent will see that remains the case. He stays." Conar glared at the giant. Short of skewering the man, he likely saw no way of getting away from him. He spat out vulgarities pertaining to Bent's maternal parentage, then slumped heavily onto the bed. He folded his arms across his chest, crossed his bare ankles over one another, and simply stared with red-hot fury at Bent's pleasant, smiling face. "I'll try to be as unobtrusive as possible, Milord," Bent said sheepishly. A snort of contempt came from Conar. Roget believed, if it had been possible, steam would have shot from Conar's nostrils and ears. "Ignore him, Bent. Sometimes I think he gets on the rag like a female." Roget chuckled at Conar's answering grunt of hated. He glanced at his friend's set face and sobered. "It's for your own good. If we didn't love you, we wouldn't care." *** As dusk settled on the land, Conar led the two men through a winding pathway of forest close to the western foothills of Mount Serenia. He had refused to speak to either of them as they saddled up and kept silent on the journey to Boreas Keep. Finally, while leading them past stunted trees beside the beach and into the overgrown scrub that grew low along the foot of the sheer cliff of mountain behind the palace, he spoke in a voice thick with nerves. "The grotto is through here." He motioned with his hand at a twisted overgrowth of brambles. "Can we get through?" Roget eyed the sharp thorns with obvious alarm. "Of course." Conar dismounted and started easily slipping through the twisted growth. He turned toward them. Roget glanced uneasily at Bent's bulk. "Well?" Bent shook his head. "Where he goes, I go, Milord Hawk." He landed with a thud on the ground as he slid from his massive mount, a Viragon stallion. Bent took a deep breath and followed Conor with no little grace through the sharp thorns, drawing in his breath as his hands and face were scratched. Conar's heart slammed in his chest. The passageway into the deeper part of the underground lake was confining, but it was not the close quarters of the now-unused grotto that caused his hands to itch, his breath to come in thick gasps. It was not his fear of tight, closed-in places that made him want to scream. It was the past causing him pain. He leaned against the rock wall and could feel treacherous sweat running down his face. He wiped angrily at the telltale sign of weakness. This once-beautiful place now held a store of memories that made his heart ache, his throat close with emotion. It had been here that Kaileel's men had taken him. Here where he had lost his freedom, his identity, his every precious possession. Here, men hired by his twin brother, Galen, had nearly beaten him to death. In this place he had been separated from the living. And where he had last held Liza. He tore his mind from the memory and, with a trembling hand, felt along the wall for support. He sucked in his breath as a jagged stone grazed the tender flesh of his palm. More pain in this place. More hurt. He felt as though he would scream. He must not remember. He would not remember. In remembering, he set in motion the agony that threatened to rip him wide apart. "Milord?" Bent called, nearly plowed into Conar. The giant stumbled through the entranceway, ducking his head to clear the low ceiling of rock. "Damn it!" Conar hissed, shoving his shoulder into the giant's midsection. "Get the hell off me, you over-sized gnome!" He forced his emotions deep inside the empty vessel that was now his heart, ignoring Bent's apology. They heard the rush of water beneath them and the lapping of waves from the beach. A whisper of air moaned low

along the iridescent walls, muffling their footsteps. Once in the grotto, the eerily glowing green water gave better illumination. The air smelled of salt and limestone. Moving yellowish light played over the hanging rock formations around them. The white sand surrounding the grotto seemed to sparkle as though sprinkled lavishly with thousands of diamonds and fiery opals. The ceiling appeared to be alive with a green wave of light and a thick fog spread itself over the water. It was a peaceful place, deceptively calm and serene. Motioning the men into a nearly hidden crevice, Conar wedged his body through the crack and made his way to the secret door which he knew opened to the keep's wine cellar. He ran his hand along the rock wall until he found a rusted ring that served as a door handle, then pulled. Obviously someone had oiled it well, for it slid silently open. "Brelan," he whispered to Roget and Bent. He led them into the wine cellar, not surprised when he found no cobwebs spread over the entry. Thanking his brother for his forethought, Conar pulled the door closed behind them. He became aware of meager light in the musty-smelling room. He glanced around until he found the single burning taper. He picked it up and shielded the wavering flame with his free palm. It took less than ten minutes for him to lead them to the secret door that led into the passageway outside the master bedroom suite. It would be there that Brelan, his second oldest brother, would have gathered the King and Queen of Serenia for the meeting. He stopped before a panel, a hidden door into the back of a special armoire, and waited for Bent and Roget to catch up with him. He heard the muffled sound of voices from behind the panel. Roget seemed to sense Conar's hesitation, to feel the uncertainty, probably even hear the wild beat of Conar's heart. "Are you all right?" Conar could only nod. "Then put on your mask." Without thought, he pulled the black silk kerchief from the pocket of his breeches and wound it around his head to hide everything except his eyes. Conar heard a feminine chime of laughter from behind the panel and nearly bolted. He drew in a ragged breath, his lids snapping shut with pain. Roget put a hand on his shoulder. "If you're not ready, we'll go back." Roget's voice was like a ray of hope in a desperate storm of destruction. Conar shook his head. "I can't let my past destroy my future." "And you can't let yourself be destroyed, either." "I would rather be in Labyrinth colony than here, right now." "I know." Roget gently folded Conar into his arms, stroking his tense back. "If I could do this for you, I would." Conar took heart from Roget's warmth and love. He eased himself out of his friend's arms, made certain his mask was in place, then motioned for Roget to open the door before he could change his mind. Also masked, Roget walked through the door. Bent followed, pushed into the room by Conar's impatient grunt. "Bent?" a sweet voice asked in amazement. "We have missed you, old friend!' The light, lilting feminine laughter, rich with beauty and thick with the sultry appeal of womanhood, was like a flash of lightning through the darkened secret passageway. Her voice lit the dark like a million fireflies in summer. "I am so happy to see you again." Though Bent answered in a deep rumble, Conar couldn't hear the words with blood pounding hard in his ears. He took a deep breath, willed his heart to cease its bursting beat, and entered the bedchamber. Squinting against the brightness of the gaily lit room, a room he remembered all too well, he raised his head and it was into her eyes his vision took him. The breath in his lungs stopped, and he stiffened with fear. And pain. And memory. And rage. But it was the other female in the room who took him completely by surprise as she rushed to him with a whimper of greeting.

Chapter 10 "Brownie, no!" Liza gasped as her little dog jumped on the Darkwind, whimpering excitedly as she tried to gain his attention. Legion started forward, as if intent on shooing away the elderly dog, but the masked man had stooped to pet the animal and held up a hand to stay him. "He, ah…loves animals," Brelan said. None of them had even thought of Brown Stuff and her reaction to seeing her beloved master once more. "And without a doubt, they love him," Liza said, laughing. From his position on the floor, the masked man regarded her for a long moment, then after ruffling the little dog's floppy ears, stood and folded his arms across his chest, staring intently at Liza. The dog rolled on to her back and continued to stare at the black-clad man, her tail wagging furiously in an attempt to have him pet her again. "I'll put her outside," Teal said, taking a step toward the animal. "Let her stay," came the rasping demand from behind the mask when the dog laid her head on his boot and seemed content to remain there. As he looked with worry at Conar, terrified the man would reveal his true identity, Brelan was as unsure of himself as he had ever been in his thirty-three years of life. Unaccustomed to fear, not on close terms with nervousness, Brelan felt an anxiety he didn't like, for he felt as though he could not control it. He had to clear his throat twice before he could find his voice. "King Legion, Queen Elizabeth, may I present Lord Darkwind?" He was suddenly sure that Elizabeth would recognize Conar. He glanced nervously at Roget and their gazes held. King Legion A'Lex stepped forward, obviously wary of the masked stranger, but his lips lifted in a welcoming smile. After all, had not Brelan vouched for the man? Had not Brelan told him this man could be trusted? He reluctantly extended his hand. "We are happy you have come." When Conar made no move to accept his hand, Legion let it drop, seemingly embarrassed and a little more than annoyed. "My lady-wife thought you could help us to regain our son." Roget du Mer's brother, Teal, stepped forward, embracing his sibling, patting him heartily on the back. His twin dimples, so like Roget's, indented his face in welcome. He had been warned not to reveal Roget's identity as yet, but his likely relief at seeing Roget had made him forget. "How are you?" Roget sighed, glancing toward Legion. He removed the mask from around his face. "Teal was ever an impatient one, eh, Legion?" Legion A'Lex flinched in surprise. "Roget?" He enveloped the man in a bear hug. "When did you get home? How long have you been here?" "A little while," Roget answered. He smiled at his Queen's laughter. "Perhaps you can keep this gypsy lord in line now that you're home, Duke du Mer," she teased. "Doubtful, Milady." Roget grinned as he took her offered hand, bringing it to his lips. At Conar's snort of anger, Roget released her hand. He swept Conar a quick glance, then moved away. "I can try, though."

Legion turned his happy gaze back to the masked man. "I'd heard rumors that there were many men with you from the Labyrinth." He glanced at his brother, Brelan, then turned his full attention back to the Raven. "Bre tells us my wife's brothers are somewhere nearby. Would it be possible for us to see them?" Conar looked away from Legion's avid blue gaze and stared once more at Liza. He closed his hands, forming tight fists, but he didn't answer A'Lex's question. *** Anya Elizabeth A'Lex could not seem to look away from the man who glaring at her. There was something compelling about him, something that mesmerized her and keep her rooted to the spot. She had wanted to greet him, to thank him for coming to hear them out, but could not force her lips apart. She felt sweat lining her palms and the vein in her right temple pounded for no reason she could fathom. She felt the babe in her womb stir and covered her belly with her hand. The look of pure hatred that shot from the man's eyes made her blush with shame. Annoyed she should dare to feel that way about a babe of Legion's made her capable of tearing her gaze from him. Nervous, she sat in a wingback chair beside the unlit fireplace. Legion put his hands on his hips and cleared his throat. "Brelan has told you why we asked you here. I know it was dangerous for you and we greatly appreciate it. There is no one else we can turn to for help. It is imperative that Prince Corbin be taken from the temple before he can be consecrated to the Domination. I don't know how much you know about them, but…" The Raven's gloved hand move in contemptuous haste. "I know enough!" The rasping, oddly accented voice through the black silk scarf seemed hard, deadly, impatient. Somehow Liza found her voice. "Then you know why we want our son back. Kaileel Tohre has had him for three years, since he was only five." Tears formed, and her lips trembled. She had an uncanny notion the sight of her tears enraged him further. "I must have my son back, Milord." "Why?" came the scratchy voice. Legion looked hard at the man. "What do you mean why?" "Why do you want him back?" "That's a foolish question!" "Not so foolish when you consider how long you have let the boy remain with Tohre." The man's scorn was obvious. "There has been no way to get him back. Don't you think we've tried?" Legion's anger was escalating. "Every man we've sent there has disappeared." The Darkwind swung his impaling stare once more to Liza who sat nervously on the edge of her chair. "I have been told your wife belongs to the Multitude. Why has she done nothing?" Liza felt shock. Only a handful of people knew about her connection with the outlawed society. She glanced at Brelan, who nodded. Obviously, Brelan had told the man. She returned her regard to the Darkwind. "If I could have done something, Milord, I would have. I have little power left to me since…since my first husband died." She lowered her head. "What power the Oracle granted me was channeled only through him." A tear ran down her cheek. His memories still hurt. "When he left," she said softly, her voice breaking, "all my strength went with him." Teal laid a hand on her shoulder. "That is a memory we try to keep her from thinking about. If Prince Conar had lived, he would never have allowed his nephew to be taken from us." He flinched as the man's sharp, cutting words stabbed at him. "If Conar had lived," the Darkwind said in a sharp, cutting tone, "hisnephew would not have been born!" His disgusted snort insulted Liza as his gaze swept contemptuously over her. "Conar would have seem to that!" "If you came here to insult my wife—" Legion shouted. "I came here, King Legion, at your request, at great risk to my life and the lives of my men, to undo a wrong. Give me

reason to, A'Lex, and I will leave just as I came!" There was hot steel in the rasping voice. "Please!" Liza stood, her hands before her in pleading. "We need your help, Milord Darkwind. It matters little how you feel about me or my husband. I will take all the insults you wish to fling at me if you will only help us get back our son!" "Liza!" Legion hissed. She turned toward her husband. "I will do anything, Legion, anything, to get Corbin back! Let him insult us all he wants." She looked toward Conar. "You were obviously loyal to Prince Conar and you believe he was betrayed in some way. Is that not true?" He directed no words to her. Instead, he hunkered by the dog, scratched her behind the ears, mumbled something, then stood. He turned to Legion and sneered. "I will let you know my decision in the morning." He spun on his heel and was about to duck through the secret door when Liza called to him. "Whatever you want from us—gold, men, arms, whatever—we will see you get it if you bring our child back to us." Her voice broke; she buried her face in her hands. It galled her to beg this man for anything, for she could feel his hatred of her. He had made it clear he thought her beneath contempt. If he had been a friend, a supporter of Conar's, he had been no friend of hers, she was sure. "My lady-wife is expecting our fourth child," Legion said through clenched teeth. "This is upsetting to her." He pulled her into his arms. "You have no right to hurt her." A tight laugh, filled with scorn, came from the mask. "I have the right to do whatever I want, A'Lex!" He ducked through the door and was gone before Legion could respond. "Do you still see him as a romantic figure destined to save our people from Tohre?" Legion asked her after the men were gone. Her throat closed with tears, Liza could only shake her head. Although her husband's hands roamed over her back, soothing her, she felt lost, bereft, and try as hard as she might, she could not shake the feeling that a bit of her light had been extinguished when the Darkwind left the room. *** "That was a sorry thing you did," Brelan raged at Conar as they settled down for the night in a hidden room just off the unused dungeon. "You deliberately baited her!" He threw a twig on the brazier and leaned against the wall. "It was uncalled for." "Don't question me." "You hurt her!" "No more than she hurt me," Conar reminded his brother as he flung the mask from his blond hair. "I don't understand you. Let the past go; bury it! You will only do more hurt to yourself and others if you keep letting it control what you do." Brelan looked to Roget for support. "He's right, Conar," Roget added. "You can't go into battle with your mind divided. That's the quickest way to get yourself killed." "I'm dead already." "Butwe have no wish to be," Brelan snapped. Roget sat beside Conar. "There are a lot of people counting on you. Without your help, they have no chance of winning this battle with Tohre. An army without a leader is chaos. Is that what you want for your people?" Conar stood, his hands clenched at his side. Bombarding emotions started to level him. "What is it you all expect of me?" he shouted. "I am only a man! Flesh and blood and muscle. I am no super being who can breathe life into a dying world! I have feelings, the gods help me! Feelings I had prayed, I had begged, to have destroyed." He plowed his strong fingers through his hair. "I have pain like anyone else." He scanned the dark room. "I need a drink."

"You can do without it," Roget told him. Conar turned to glare. "Then get me a woman!" "Why?" Brelan shot back, heedless of how the shout would carry in the stone room. "So you can pretend it's another woman instead of the woman you're riding?" Conar felt hurt, shame, regret before setting his face into a hard, sardonic sneer. He turned his back on them, walked to the darkest portion of the room, and slid down the wall, his back pressed tight against the moist rock. Then, he buried his face in his hands.

Chapter 11 She couldn't sleep. Her restless feet took her downstairs to Legion's study. Opening the door that led into the garden, she wrapped her arms around her and started down the flagstone pathways between the shrubs and trees. She glanced at the fleeting glimmer of moonlight overhead. Dark, boiling clouds were heaving themselves across the heavens. It would rain before morning. She had neglected to put on her slippers and felt dew on her bare feet as she trod over the flagstones. She pulled a strand of ghostly weave from the graceful willow and toyed with it. Coming to the end of the pathway, where the wrought iron sea gate stood sentinel to keep at bay the outside world, she leaned her hot forehead against the coolness of the railing. Something tugged at her gown. She glanced down at the bramble bush standing to the left of the gate. She had snagged her silken night dress on a branch, but she didn't care. Her heart was heavy, her mind numb with pain. Perhaps it was the sixth sense of insight all women possessed that made her turn, or maybe, in her misery, she had detected the pain of another soul piercing her despair. She wasn't surprised to see a tall shadow leaning against the spreading live oak at the edge of the garden. He was still, so still he might have been a statue. She sensed him watching her; the hairs on her arms stirred in warning. The very intensity of that stare, although she could not see his face, served to put her on guard. It unnerved her. She saw his hand raise to his mouth and knew for a certainty he must be drinking something. "You take chances, Milord," she told him. The moonlight flashed for a fraction of a second and she saw the midnight black of his clothing. "Are you so good at what you do, you have no fear of being caught?" His silence made her more nervous. *** The brandy he had consumed in the last hour had given him a terrific headache. The woman Brelan had brought to him, blindfolded the entire time he mated with her, had not satisfied his restlessness. He had taken a bottle of brandy from the study and brought it into the garden, where he blended in with the shadows. His mouth felt encased in wool. His hand trembled as he raised the brandy canister to his lips. Continuing to stare at his Queen, he hoped his silence would make her leave him alone. He wasn't sure he could trust himself not to say something that would give himself away. Being this close to her, alone with her, was an agony that made his insides ache with need. *** Liza opened her mouth to speak to him again, but he turned away, preparing to leave the garden. She pushed away from the sea gate, but found her gown securely trapped in the dead brambles of the bush. With an exasperated hiss, she bent to pull the material from the branch. As she did, she yelped with pain when a thorn dug a furrow into the back

of her hand. She brought her hand to her lips and yanked her leg away from the bush. She felt the material tear, but she was still caught. "Damn it." She was about to reach for the bush again when she felt his breath on her neck. She jumped. The moon no longer shining through the curtain of storm clouds, she could not see his face as he bent beside her, but she knew he was minus the mask he had worn earlier. She squinted, wanting to see his face, but only his profile, indistinguishable in the remaining skyglow, was in view. She felt his hands brush the hem of her gown and knew he was removing the fabric from the brambles. She backed up to give him room. "Stand still!" he barked. There was command in his oddly-inflected, raspy voice; authority in the way he knelt beside her on the flagstones. "I was only trying to help," she said, hurt that he was being so impossible. "I don't need your help." He snatched the gown, obviously wanting to free it, but also, she sensed, wanting to free himself from her nearness. He sucked in his breath and cursed the thorns. "Did you hurt yourself?" she asked with concern. Her hand automatically went to his shoulder. She was a woman of compassion, could not stand to see others hurt. "Get your hands off me!" he hissed, shoving her away. She fell sideways toward the bush. He leapt to his feet and caught her before she fell into the thorns. His arms were like steel around her waist when he lifted her away from the bramble, ripping her gown in the process. He mumbled a vulgarity and let go of her as though her touch burned him. He moved, fading into the shadows, his back to her just as moonlight broke free of the clouds for a fraction of a moment. "Wait, please!" she called, hurrying after him. He stiffened, then turned to face her. "I need to know if you will help us," she said, her voice thick with pleading. She also heard the fear in her tone, fear of what his answer might be. She stopped close enough to him to hear his ragged breathing and wondered why he was out of breath. *** His gaze swept over her with a longing he thought had died. Her voluptuous figure was hidden beneath the billowing fabric of her gown, but he knew how small her waist had once been. He knew how firm the breasts, how silken the flesh along the small of her back. He could smell the lavender perfume wafting toward him on the freshening night breeze and breathed in deeply. It was a scent he associated with this woman alone. "I know you said you would tell us your decision in the morning, but I have to know, Milord. Have you decided yet?" Her voice was lilting with the rich accent of Oceania, her birthplace. It was a soft drawl, a mystery of sound. With a slim hand, she pushed back a floating strand of rich black hair. His fingers flexed. He remembered all too well what the texture of that silken mass felt like. He could almost feel it running through his fingers, cascading over his naked chest, tickling his lips. "Only you can help us, Milord," she whispered, coming closer. "We have no one to turn to. I have faith in your ability to help us." He had always loved the color of her eyes. They had drawn him into her very soul at times. He could see himself reflected there and know his life was worthy of this beautiful woman. Now, he could no longer see the shine of love in those green depths, only wariness and fear, timidity that tore at his soul. There was no worth he could see of himself now. "What you asked can be arranged." He saw her raise her head in hope. "But what you will pay in return for my help?"

*** Her lids fluttered as though she had been slapped. "I have told you to name your price. We will see that you get whatever you desire." She wished she hadn't used that word—desire—for she saw him stiffen as though he had been insulted. He came toward her, his movements as sleek as a jungle cat. She stumbled away from him, her heart thudding in her chest. Her fear seemed to please him. His face might have been in shadow, but she could see the gleam of his white teeth in the darkness and knew he was smirking. He gripped her arm. She tried to pull away, but could not. His callused hand was hard, unrelenting. She cringed as he brought up his other hand and touched her cheek. She felt the warmth on her flesh as his thumb soothed the corner of her mouth. She flinched, unsure of his motive. He cocked his head to one side. "Are you afraid of me, Queen Liza?" "No, Milord." "You should be." She drew in her breath. "Why?" He gripped her chin in his strong fingers and tugged for emphasis. "Because my price may be higher than you will wish to pay." A slight tingle went through her flesh where he touched her. It set off an alarm deep within her that she could not understand. "What, no ready answer?" he taunted. Trembling violently, wishing he'd release her, she answered. "I will give you whatever you want." "Anything?" The voice was low, seductive. "Anything within reason." There was an amused laugh before he dropped his hands from her. "And if my idea of reasonable differs from yours? Whose bidding will be done, then, Queen Liza?" "I don't like playing games!" She started to walk away, but found herself once more in his hard grasp. "You are more stupid that I thought, woman, if you think I am playing a game!" She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting her, although he was likely aware of her pain. She ground her teeth together as she spoke. "Name your price, sir. I have told you I will do anything to have my son returned." "And if what Idesire is you?" "You can't be serious!" She shook violently, her body ice cold. "I am quite serious. If you want your precious brat badly enough, that is the price you will have to pay!" With that, he shoved her away from him and turned to go. He stopped when her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt sleeve. "I can't do that!" she pleaded. He pried her fingers from his arm. "Then the boy stays where he is." "Why would you want such a thing?" She followed after him as he made for the study door. "Please. Please tell me why you want me to degrade myself that way!" The Darkwind grabbed her shoulders and ran his hands down her arms until he had captured her wrists in his hands. He slammed against the fieldstone wall, pinned her with his body pressed against hers as intimately as her condition and fabric would allow. He ground his manhood against her. She quivered with terror, which seemed to exhilarate him.

Jerking up her hands, he held them pinned beside her head. "Why, my Queen?" he taunted, shamelessly moving his lower body against hers. "Because I want you beneath me, Elizabeth McGregor!" He pressed harder against her as she tried to escape, ignored her cry of pain and shame. "Be still, woman!" When she tried again to break free, he drove his right knee between her legs. He seemed to rejoice at her cry of humiliation and pressed himself tight between her open thighs. "Do as you're told!" "Please," she whimpered, her shame as great as any she had ever known. "Please don't call me McGregor. The past hurts too much!" "I want you beneath me," he repeated as though he had not heard her. "I want to see your eyes the moment I impale you upon me. I want to hear you cry out with pain the moment my seed enters your whoring, faithless body. I will know the satisfaction of humiliating you, you worthless bitch!" His knee raised until she was lifted from the ground. Liza couldn't believe what was happening, that he was saying these horrible things. She was more afraid of him than she had ever been of anything in her life. He was insane! Totally insane! What he was asking of her was tantamount to signing her death warrant, and she knew he realized that. Her heart thundered in her ribcage when she felt the stab of his manhood moving along her thigh. "You're hurting me," she sobbed. "No more than you have hurt me, slut!" She was crying openly now. "What have I ever done to you? Why do you hate me so? Do you blame me for what happened to Conar?" He stiffened. His grip loosened. "You do, don't you?" She thought she understood. This man had been her dead husband's friend. "You knew him. Were you one of his men? His Elite?" "He is dead, Queen Liza!" he spat. "Dead and buried along with the past, and there is nothing,nothing, you can do to bring him back. You can't resurrect him. I won't let you!" Liza grew steadily more alarmed. His ranting made no sense. Did he think she could raise Conar from the dead? Did he not know that if she could have, she would have long ago? Her heart skipped a beat. The man was dangerous. "If you were loyal to him, then you know how it was between me and him. He was my husband; my beloved." "He was a fool!" "Conar McGregor was the greatest man this world has ever known!" "He was a stupid, blind fool!" "If you have something against me, I don't care, but don't youdare slander him! I will hear no word against him." He flung her away from him. His words were clipped and hateful as he spoke over his shoulder. "Let me know what your decision is tomorrow, Queen Liza." She watched him go. Her terror faded with each step he took away from her, but the memory of his hands on her remained. *** Legion ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper beard and looked at the dark circles under his wife's green eyes. He glanced at Teal and shook his head. He knew Liza had not slept the night before, had heard her moving about the room. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to soothe her, to chase away her fears, but he knew she would not permit it. He had learned through the years, there were some things she had to do on her own. When the armoire door swung open, Teal and Marsh Eden, Master-at-Arms of Boreas Keep, left the room. Standing guard outside the door, they would assure no one could hear the plans, if plans were to be made, for taking Corbin

from the monastery. Roget and Bent stood to either side of the armoire, waiting for the Darkwind to enter. Just as they had done the evening before, their hands were on their weapons. Although treachery was likely something they did not anticipate here, to guard the man they loved, they took every precaution. When the Darkwind entered, his mask was in place. Only the span of his eyes could be seen within the black scarf. He, too, had his hand on the black dagger strapped to his thigh and he gave off an aura of dispassionate calm, contempt of those gathered. Just as on the previous evening, his stare went unerringly to the Queen. Legion could feel the electricity sizzling, snapping like a sentient life-form between the two of them. Instinctively, like the male animal he was, he reached for his mate, his woman, his wife, and drew her toward him, to his side, proclaiming her, branding her, his. The Darkwind's sapphire pupils hardened, became malevolent pools as he tore his gaze from the King and Queen and settled his anger on Brelan's strained face. "Well?" Legion broke the silence. He was beginning to take a most unhealthy dislike to this man. "Are you going to help us?" "Will my price be met?" It was more a snide remark than a question. With a quiet, tiny voice, Liza spoke. "Your price is acceptable." Her chin raised a fraction. "There is nothing that will not be done for the return of our son." "And is that price alsoacceptable to your husband, my Queen?" "Liza has told me you want free access to the keep as part of your bargain," Legion answered. "If you can accept the danger to yourself, I suppose we can accept the danger to us." He felt a tremor go through Liza and pulled her closer. *** Conar grinned beneath the mask.You've lied to him, haven't you, you worthless whore? He has no idea what price you will be paying. He let his stare roam down her stiff figure as she stood beside her husband. He saw the red-hot blush of shame suffuse her lovely face. He laughed. "Then you will get back your precious offspring, Queen Liza!" Before another word could be said, he left, a trembling, compliant, submissive Liza etched in his memory. He wondered why the victory did not feel as satisfactory as he had anticipated.

Chapter 12 She came to him out of the night. Her hair was the color of the autumn sun: rich with deep bronze highlights that haloed her small face as though she were an angel cast down from the heavens. Her eyes were neither blue nor green, nor were they the color men called "hazel." They were a color that defied description, and they sparkled with the zest of life; clear and honest, direct and lovely to behold. She was tall, willowy, graceful as a swan skimming the surface of Lake Myria. Her smile was filled with compassion and her voice was soft and soothing, a slight drawl that made men stop and listen to her words. She had a way with children and animals, and her gentle nature, compassionate and naive, endeared her to those she met. She had been raised in the wild wind forest of Virago, but her birthplace had been the keep at Epstein; Ivor, it was named. Her mother, a maid at the old keep, had married late in life and had graced the world with only one child: a

beautiful girl-child she named Amber-lea. Moving with her new husband, a sailor with the Viragon fleet, to the town of Heinsfeld in Virago, the woman raised her daughter in a small cottage by the turbulent coast, where mother and daughter kept watch for the vessels that put out to sea. When her father died on the eve of her seventh birthday, Amber-lea and her mother left the windswept dunes of Virago and fled back to the calm of Serenia's shore. Her mother, Leah, took up a job as maid at the keep at Boreas, and Amber-lea was apprenticed to the innkeeper's wife. While she worked and her mother visited late one eve, Leah gasped with sudden shock and fled the common room. Amber-lea found her mother cowering beside the back door of the kitchen, tears streaming down her aged face. "What has caused you such distress, Mama?" She held her trembling mother close to her breast and smoothed the white shock of hair. She was taken aback when the beloved face of the woman who had given her life looked at her with a beatific smile of joy. "He's alive!" she whispered urgently. "Our champion is alive!" It was not until early morn that Amber-lea learned the whole of it and her gentle heart went out to the man her mother had recognized. That next evening, as the tall, brown-haired man came into the Green Horned Toad tavern, Amber-lea looked toward the dark corner where her mother sat. The old woman nodded; this was one of the men they had been waiting for all evening. Amber-lea met him at the door, her smile welcoming, her eyes filled with promise. "May I be of help to you, Milord?" *** Sentian Heil stared at the lovely woman. He had heard how beautiful was the maid at the inn, but no human tongue had described her glory. He blinked, cleared his throat, and tried to smile. His lips felt frozen on his flushed face. "I have been looking for a certain woman, mam'selle," he said, humiliated to be talking about this particular business. "A woman for the evening, Milord?" the girl asked, blushing. Sentian winced. He wished himself as far away from this place as possible. He wanted nothing more than to be in bed with his wife. "Not for me, you understand." She grinned. "For a good friend, perhaps?" She glanced nervously toward a corner where an old woman was intently watching them. "Aye. For a friend." He looked away from the beauty who stood before him. She didn't seem like a lightskirt, but one never knew. The girl took a deep breath. "I am available, Milord. Will I suit?" Sentian shifted from foot to foot. "Ah, I guess so." He felt miserable. Why had Roget senthim to do this dirty work? Come to think of it, why didn't they let Conar get hisown woman? *** "Let me get my shawl, sir, and I will be right with you." Amber-lea could barely walk to her mother's table. Her legs felt weak and boneless. Blood pounded in her ears. "Be good to him, Amber-lea," her mother whispered as the girl reached for the bundled shawl. "The boy needs a good woman, now." "I will do my best, Mama." She stooped to kiss Leah's wrinkled cheek. Before she could think of what she was about to do, she fled the tavern with the brown-haired man. She asked no questions of he walked briskly beside her. She did not even ask him to slow his long stride to accommodate her shorter one. She stumbled along, her eyes blinking rapidly to keep away the nerves gnawing at her innards. From all she had heard, this man, this wonderful man her mother had described, had been a gentle person; a knight of great courage and honor. Amber-lea hoped, and prayed, he was still so.

"We didn't discuss your, ah…price," the man choked out. "I wish no money, Milord." She realized her mistake when he turned to gape at her. "What I meant," she stammered, "was I barter only in merchandise. Clothing and slippers are hard to come by, Milord. I have precious little left from before the hard times began. It is difficult for a woman alone to find decent clothing." "I think we can find you a gown or two." He shrugged and pulled a black silk scarf from his shirt. "I'll have to blindfold you." "Why?" Amber-lea felt a thrust of fear in her belly. "Do you know who you are going to see, mam'selle?" "No, Milord," she lied. "You said he was a good friend." "A good friend to all of us, mam'selle. He is the one who will bring us back from the brink of destruction." Amber-lea whispered, her voice appropriately shocked and excited. "The Dark Overlord of the Wind?" "You can see why we must take precautions. He must not be compromised. No one must know where our camp is located." "I would tell no one, Milord. You may use the scarf." She waited impatiently for him to tie it in place. She felt his strong hands on her waist as he lifted her to a pony. "Have a care, mam'selle. The ride is long and the trail dangerous. Keep your hands on the pommel." She heard the leather of his saddle creak as he mounted his steed, the jingle of her horse's bridle as he took up the reins to lead her mount. She gripped the saddle horn as the little pony started forward. They rode for what she reasoned must have been an hour. But when he lifted her down, she smelled the tang of the sea, heard the crashing waves, and guessed they must be near Boreas Keep. He led her through tangled bushes and a long, cool cavern, then through a door that squeaked a little as it closed behind them. They climbed a short ladder, entered a long, downward-sloping, uneven pathway, and went deep into a musty-smelling and damp place. She heard men's voices and laughter, then complete silence as she and her escort neared what had to be a roaring fire. "Where'd you find her, Falcon?" a deep, heavily-accented voice spoke. "At the Toad." He put his hand in the center of her back and nudged her forward. "I can't remove the blindfold, mam'selle," he said gently, reassuring her. "You must not either." Amber-lea nodded, her keen intelligence picking up the low whispers of admiration from those gathered. She clutched the shawl around her and smiled. "I shall do as you suggest, Milord." "Will you look at that smile, Hawk?" someone whispered. "A beauty if I've ever seen one," another answered. "He'll be pleased." "By the gods, I hope so!" another said in exasperation, "even if her hair ain't black. Take her to him, Falcon." With her heart beating so loudly she was sure the men could hear it, Amber-lea was led down a short hallway. She brushed against the wall and realized with some concern that the surface was wet. She wondered where they could be. "Your guest, Milord," Falcon said. Amber-lea heard a grunt. Her escort put his mouth close to her ear. "He growls, but he don't bite." He patted her on her arm, then moved away. "What's your name?" The voice had come from in front of her, near the floor. "Amber-lea, Lord Darkwind." There was silence, long and nerve-wracking.

"You will have to tell me what you wish, Milord." She clutched her shawl even tighter. "I am new to this." "New to…? How old are you?" he snapped. She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Seventeen, Milord." She turned her head as something skidded across the floor near her, but she didn't jump as he might have intended for her to do. "And just how many men have you known?" he asked, his voice filled with scorn. "None." "What did you say?" His tone was unmistakably confused. She heard him get up from what must have been a cot, for the squeal of rusty springs shrieked through the room. Amber-lea swallowed hard, her heart beating so fast, she thought it would burst. "I am a virgin." "Goddamn it!" He hit or kicked something, then pushed roughly past her, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Hawk!" "Milord, if you will only listen," she pleaded, putting out her hands to feel for his whereabouts. She bumped into something solid and realized, with dismay, it was a set of iron bars. Her heart sank. She was in a cell! "Milord, please!" When he ignored her, she reached for the blindfold. "Hawk! Get your ass in here! Now!" He then mumbled dire consequences to the man stupid enough to bring him a virgin. "Milord!" Amber-lea managed to untie the blindfold. "If you would just listen—" When he felt her hand on his shoulder, he spun around, a growl on his lips. When he saw her uncovered face, he stilled, his mouth dropping open. "I mean you no harm," she said softly. "I had to see you." She tried to smile at him, but the look on his face was disheartening. He was staring at her with a mixture of awe and shock. "I am yours." He blinked, his face hardening with anger. "And what if I don't want you?" She put out her hand, not at all surprised when he backed away. She took a calming breath. "Every time you lie with a new woman, Milord, every strange woman's flesh you touch, you run the risk of becoming ill with some vile disease that could kill you, destroy you. I am clean. I have never been touched by a man. I can be everything you want me to be. I can do everything you want me to do. Show me what pleases you and I will learn. There is nothing I would not do for you." *** Conar was uncertain if it was because the girl was seeing him without his mask, whether it was her magnificent beauty, or just the surprise of having her look at him in the way she was that made him lose his voice and motion. He simply stared, unable to move. Her face was even more beautiful than Liza's, but he was terrified of her. He backed further away from her until his back was against the width of the prison cell's open door. How the hell could he use a virgin, a decent woman, like he used his whores? He couldn't. He wouldn't. "I'm not interested," he spat as he pushed past her, flinging himself onto his cot. "Get out while you're still intact. I can't vouch for my men." As if disbelieving him, she didn't move. He'd slay any man who dared to touch her, and he sensed she knew the truth. She stood in the torchlight. Her hair glowed as though it were on fire. Her shapely body was soft and alluring, and he felt a tightening in his breeches that brought him even more anger. "I said I don't want you, woman. Get lost!" He turned away his face. "Milord?" she whispered, gaining his attention with her throaty, sensual drawl. He snapped his head around, feeling hostile and sullen, then stilled as he saw what she held in her hands.

Amber-lea let her shawl drop to the stone floor. Clutched tightly in her fingers was a lethal-looking rawhide whip. He went livid with loathing. His lip curled with distaste. He was amazed a woman with such beauty could want this vile thing done to her. "You've got the wrong man, Sweeting. If pain is what you want, you'd better find one of the Tribunal guards to play with you." Amber-lea took a step closer. He could smell the faint tang of her perfume—a mixture of wild herbs and lemon. "Look at it, Milord. Tell me what you see." He flicked his gaze over the horrible thing, willing himself not to quiver. "I see metal barbs, glass, and leather! What the hell doyou see?" She let the whip unravel until it lay curled at her feet. "Do you see the dried blood on it, Milord? The pieces of flesh that still cling to its barbs?" He shuddered, unable to keep his hands from shaking. "What kind of woman are you?" he breathed, shocked to the roots of his soul at her depravity. "Look, Your Grace! Do you not seeyour flesh and blood attached to this repulsive instrument?" He stared at her with sheer terror. The woman knew who he was! He pushed his back up against the clammy wall, moving as far from her as he could. He couldn't stand looking at the odious whip. "What the hell do you want from me?" "Nothing, Milord." She reached out to touch his leg, but he jerked away, bringing his legs onto the cot and circling them with his trembling arms. "I did not come here to hurt you, Milord. I came to offer you my help." "What's going on?" Brelan snapped as he entered the cell. "Please, Lord Brelan," she pleaded. "Don't be angry. I was sent here to help His Grace. I—" "Who the hell are you, woman?" he snarled. "Nobody, Lord Brelan. I am no one." Her tears flowed copiously; her mouth trembled. "Let me help him, Lord Brelan. Please!" "Let her go, Brelan," Conar said. "She knows who you are!" "Aye." Conar put his feet on the floor. He pointed to the whip. "Get that damned thing out of here." Brelan looked at the whip, obviously recognizing it, for he blanched as white as a sheet. He shoved past the girl, then stooped, grabbing up the whip in a flash of movement that belied his height and weight. He pivoted on his heel and fixed the girl with a stony, malevolent glare. "Where did this come from?" "Leave us, Brelan," Conar whispered. "You don't know who she is! She could be an enemy! Where could she have come by this whip if not from the Tribunal?" He glowered at her, his mouth set in mulish rage. "It doesn't matter where she came by it, just get it out of here!" "If you so much as touch him," Brelan growled at her, "I'll slit your throat!" Spinning on his heels, he stormed from the cell, mumbling dire curses. *** Amber-lea's heart ached at the sight of Conar's ravaged face. He was warily gazing at her, waiting for her to explain. "I did not come to hurt you, Lord Conar. I did not come to cause you pain. I came only to help." She edged closer to him, praying he would not bolt again. When he remained still, she took heart and crept closer until she could kneel at

his feet. She went to her knees and looked up at him. "Where did you get that thing?" he asked. "From my mother, Lord Conar. She was in the square that day. When Lord Legion threw away the whip, she grabbed it and hid it." "Why?" She hesitantly touched his knee. He stiffened, but didn't move. "Prince Conar McGregor was loved by his people. They mourned his imprisonment. They mourned his punishment. That day will forever live in our minds and hearts as the day our champion bled for us, gave his flesh for us. You were innocent. There was not one of those gathered who did not know it." His eyes shifted back and forth, as if searching for a reason for why she was reminding him of that day. "It is a symbol, Your Grace. It had to be preserved." His mouth turned ugly. "A symbol of what, mam'selle? My pain?" "Your pain and your people's pain. It is a symbol, too, of the injustice of the Tribunal. It is a symbol of the agony a good man suffered for the love of his people. It was as much our fault that you were put to the lash as it was Kaileel Tohre's! Had you not been so loved, do you think the Tribunal would have cared?" "What difference does it make now? That piece of vileness should have been destroyed long ago!" "No, Milord." She flinched as his stormy face filled with malice. "I will have that gods-be-damned thing burned!" "They took you away from us with that whip, Milord. They punished you because we were weak. We allowed you to suffer for us. We need a visible symbol of our cowardice. The whip is that symbol." "So why bring the damned thing to me? Why should I need to see it?" "Take it and keep it, Milord. Keep it until the day you can use it on Kaileel Tohre!" His face, filled with hatred, turned stark white. "Who do you think you are? By what right do you come here and torment me like this?" "I came to offer comfort, but have caused you only greater pain." Amber-lea buried her face in her hands, tears spilling onto her fingers. *** The pain that had eaten at him since his homecoming was now a cold, furious, dark entity intent on destroying him. Hatred, loneliness, anger, hostility, frustration, growing more violent and demanding with every passing day, forbidden desire for the woman who had once been his, the heavy consumption of liquor, had all combined to push him toward an abyss from which he likely would not escape. But in the shimmering tears of this girl, he saw salvation, and could do nothing but reach for it. "How did you know who I was?" He kept his voice soft, and tried to smile as she raised her head. "What other man carries such scars, Milord?" "You have not seen my scars, save for the ones on this ugly face." "No one would dare call you ugly, Milord." Her lips trembled into a gentle smile. "My mother was at the Toad. She heard you speak. She had been a chambermaid at Ivor Keep and, therefore, knew it was you." "I suppose I should be grateful it was your mother who recognized me and not one of the Tribunal guards." "She sent me to you."

He sighed. "For what reason?" "To serve you." Her face turned beet red. "For whatever purpose." He stared. This girl was offering herself, without restraint, without reservations. He dared not accept. "Go home, little one. I am not the man you should be with." "Even if you are the one I am destined to be with? Let me be with you, Milord Conar. Let me be the one to ease your needs. With me, there will be no cause to find other women, ones who could be a true danger to you." For a long time he said nothing, then cupped her cheek in his hand. He let out a sigh of defeat when she turned her face into his palm, her lips kissing his scarred flesh. "Oh, mam'selle." With his other hand, he stroked her silken auburn tresses. "I pray to Alel you know what you're doing." He kissed the top of her head. "For I fear I have no fight left in me to argue with you." She gazed at him with longing. "Teach me to be your woman." "You may regret it, if I do. I am not an easy man, little girl." "So I have heard, Milord," she said just before he reached for her.

Chapter 13 He was determined that her initiation into the realm of womanhood would be done with infinite care and slow manipulation—arts nearly lost to him over the passage of time but reawakened by the beauty lying so trustingly beside him. When he claimed her, he wanted to make sure his hands would be gentle on her delicate flesh, that his kiss be soft and teasing and not the demanding bruising he visited upon those who had come before her. He would take her with tenderness, restraint, and respect. He would give her no reason to regret her decision to give herself to him. Amber-lea stroked his bearded face. "You are afraid you will hurt me." He kissed her palm, then lowered her hand to his naked chest. "Itwill hurt you, Sweeting. I can't help that." "I know," she whispered. "But I will be as gentle as I can." He threaded his fingers through hers and tightly held her hand. She smiled. "I know you will, Milord." He was lying on his side, his head propped on his fist. She was stretched out beside him, her ivory bosom rising and falling faster with each passing minute, and he thought of a sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter. "You make my shaft ache with want of you, Amber-lea. Do you know that?" His words were meant to soothe her, prepare her for his entry. She blushed and lowered her gaze. The hollow at the base of her throat pulsed wildly. "I want nothing more than to please you, Milord." He placed the backs of his fingers against her heated cheek. "So young," he said with a sigh, rubbing her jaw line. "So young and so beautiful." He cupped her chin, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her lightly, at each corner of her lips, in the center, then moved away. "And your mouth tastes of strawberry wine."

She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and bit down, as if to keep from groaning at the sensations rippling through her body. He ran his thumb over her lips. "Don't do that." He pulled her lips apart, grazed the pad of his thumb over her white teeth. She groaned, her body quivering. Her breath came in quick little pants. He smiled, knowing full well what his touch was doing to her, but in no hurry to consummate their agreement. He would not rush this pretty flower nor submit her to the baser side of his nature. "I could lie here all night and look at you," he said, his eyes roaming over her flesh. "You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever known." Amber-lea shivered, his words obviously thrilling her yet making her more nervous. "And one my body is dying to know better," he said huskily. He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, each eye before slanting his mouth firmly across hers. His tongue slipped possessively between her lips. She moaned, her breath coming fast and furious as his tongue probed deeper. She fanned her fingers through his thick hair and gripped him. Her hold was so tight it hurt him. With a grunt of passion, he slid his hard body atop hers. With his knees, he pushed her legs apart until he was settled between them, his shaft pressing along her thigh. When she groaned, he released her mouth and looked into her eyes. His muscles strained, quivered as he denied himself the ultimate release of his passion. His gentle ministrations had worked him to a fever pitch and he was nearly exploding with want of fulfillment. "Are you ready?" he asked. She nodded. "Relax," he whispered, grinding his hips across hers. "Just feel me touching you." Amber-lea looked as if she wanted nothing more than to have him thrust quickly into her and be done with the pain so the pleasuring could begin. Conar grinned. "You are a horny little imp, ain't ya, Milady?" Her face turned bright red. He threw his head back and laughed, the joy of the moment almost as wonderful as the sweetness of her pliant flesh beneath him. "I want you," she managed to say, her lips trembling. "Sweet Merciful Alel, I want you, Milord!" He smiled. "And you shall have me, but not quite yet." Her groan of disappointment was nearly his undoing; it was all he could do not to ram into her and be done with it. His body trembled with need, his shaft thick and throbbing painfully. A fine sheen of sweat had popped out on both their bodies, and where their moist flesh touched, the sensation was delicious. "Please," she begged and clutched eagerly at his shoulders. He shook his head, then took each of her hands in his and placed her arms by her head. "Not quite yet," he repeated and flicked his tongue over the soft fullness of her lower lip—tasting, demanding. She wiggled beneath him, her thighs pressing against his hips. He tightened his grip on her hands, entwining their fingers. He shifted against her, placing the tip of his manhood gently inside her. "Oh!" she gasped, her body stiffening.

"Relax," he cautioned again. "I don't want to hurt you anymore than I have to." "The gods-be-damned hell with that, Conar McGregor! Take me, man, and do it now!" He chuckled, then covered her mouth with his. With a single plunge, he impaled her and thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth. Amber-lea tensed as though she'd been starched, her fingers gripped his, her long nails scoring the backs of his hands. He moaned deep in his throat as he kissed her. Soon, her rigidity slipped away. He moved against her, slowly, expertly, and could feel the blood of her virginity slippery around him. She was tight, holding him to her as though never to let him go, and a sudden overwhelming protectiveness filled him. He released her lips. "Never again will I hurt you, Sweeting." He placed feather-soft kisses on her eyes and nose. "Never will I let anyone hurt you." *** Something was building inside her. She felt a warmth, an itching sensation deep within her, and marveled at it. Was this what the act of love was? She squirmed beneath him, gasped as a little wave of pain shot through her, sensed his immediate stillness and concern. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she was all right, but something odd happened to her. Something rushed up out of the darkness of her soul and spilled forth in a brilliant burst of unforgettable pleasure. Never in her life could she have imagined there could be such delight. Never would she have thought the mere coupling of two bodies could bring about such soul-searing pleasure. She knew an absolute joy she was sure no other man could ever give her and she fell heedlessly, totally, irrevocably in love with this glorious golden warrior. *** He had watched her closely as her passion came full-blown. Her body tightened around him, pulsed, quivered, and she arched her back as her soaring climax gripped her in a feverish pitch of wanton glee. He could not have stopped his own pleasure if he had tried. He felt himself pulled deeply inside her welcoming body and he released his seed with a groan of animalistic pleasure. Long ago he had begged the gods to harden his heart, to take away the last vestiges of love inside him, to make him hollow and immune to passion. That had not happened. He still loved Elizabeth; he still felt tremendous passions lurking inside him; he was not the empty man he had wanted to be. If he could still feel, and he knew now that he could, then perhaps this lovely woman beneath him would replace his love for the woman who had scorned him. He hoped so. With all his heart, he hoped so. *** Brelan woke him early the next morning. The sky was still only a black curtain of mist across the heavens. The air was chill, the stars clear and sparkling, with a hint of snow coming, teasing the riders who mounted their steeds. "Do you want me to pay the girl?" Brelan asked as Conar pulled on his black leather gloves. Conar's dark gaze flickered with annoyance. "She will be staying with us from now on." "That's a mistake, Conar." "It'smy mistake," Conar snapped. The two brothers had been arguing ever since Conar had gently eased the sleeping girl from his arms and followed Brelan from the cell. "A mistake that could get us all killed," Brelan snapped back. He didn't like the girl. For some reason, she made him uneasy. Conar fixed his brother with a hostile stab of displeasure. "Let me worry about her." He crossed his hands over the saddle horn. "Just make sure she's right where I left her when I get back with the brat."

Brelan shivered.Things might well be very different when you return with Elizabeth's son. "Do you hear me, Brelan?" Brelan glanced at his brother. "I hear you." "Good!" Conar tugged on his steed's reins. He dug his heels into the horse's flanks and headed toward Lake Myria. "Take care of him, Hawk," Brelan told Roget du Mer. "I'll guard the fool with my life." Roget laughed, winking. He, too, set his horse on the pathway into the forest, closely followed by Belvoir. Brelan watched them go. He was worried. Conar was heading for the monastery of the Domination, that evil sect of sorcerers who controlled the whole of five kingdoms. Never did he doubt that Conar would return with the boy. Occultus had seen to the Raven's invincibility and powers. But what worried Brelan now was the outcome of the rescue. One look at the boy Prince and Conar would know the truth. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, Brelan turned to go. A glimmer of light shot across the heavens as a falling star plunged earthward. Not a good omen, Brelan thought. Not a good omen at all. *** Elizabeth A'Lex sat in the window seat of her sleeping chambers and saw the star arcing across the firmament. A strong foreboding of evil invaded her soul. She shivered, drawing her shawl closely around her body. Would he be going after Corbin this morn? Would he be able to bring her child back to her after all these years? A sob hitched from her aching throat. Would he keep the boy with him until she had fulfilled her debt to him? She turned and looked at her sleeping husband. Legion lay on his side, his back to her. He was gently snoring, as always, and she smiled. Sometimes his snoring was not so gentle. Sometimes she slept in the room she had once shared with Conar. She angrily shook her head, forcing away the memory. Would she never be free of this terrible ache in her soul whenever she thought of her dead mate? Would she ever know the same love with Legion that she had known with his brother? "No, sweet lady," a voice seemed to say. "There will be only one such love in your lifetime." Elizabeth loved Legion. Her love for him was a sharing love, a common love for each other and the children they had created. She lovingly put her hand on the mound of her belly. Aye, such a love was lasting, for there was a materialization to it that was visible. Having a child gave one a link to a particular man forever. She had such a link to Brelan, as well. Their one passion-filled night long ago during the height of a terrible storm had produced a daughter. But her love for Brelan was one of friendship, deep and abiding. Their common bond had been forged at a time when she had needed the comfort of strong arms around her. At the height of the storm that had precipitated that eventful night, she had run into Brelan's arms, never dreaming of the consequences her actions might bring about. Though she did not regret her liaison with him, it was something she knew she would never willingly allow to happen again. Her love for Lord Saur was not the love of a woman for a man, but a friend for a friend. And then there was the love she still bore the man who would always hold her heart: Conar, her one true love. She had bore children to Conar, too, and that was a link that would be there for as long as time. Two of those precious children had died, but one, Corbin, had lived. Conar had never known she was carrying their child when he was sent to the Tribunal punishment yard that day. To protect that babe, Liza had been forced to wed Conar's twin, Galen. But though she had borne a son to Galen during that short, ill-starred marriage, she had never felt love for him. She had felt compassion, sadness, for he bore the taint of having been the cause of his twin's death on his tortured soul. The link between them had been one of necessity on her part and triumph on his, but had never been one of love. Most people had said Galen McGregor had not been capable of that emotion. But they were wrong. Galen had loved her and he had loved their son.

And Galen McGregor had loved his twin. Liza knew that. He had told her so during a rare moment of personal insight and confession. He had been stricken with a great remorse concerning Conar's death and, with tearful eyes and trembling lips, would often stare into the courtyard where his brother had died, lashed to death at the hands of Kaileel Tohre. Often was the time Galen would sit, head in hands, and beg for forgiveness for what he had done. Liza had never understood his words, though. But they came back to her as she sat in the window seat this chill December morn. "I could have stopped them from carrying him away," he told her as tears slid down his cheeks. "He would be here if I had only pleaded with Tohre." "There was nothing you could have done, Galen," she had soothed him, stroking his golden hair. "He was not meant to die. Kaileel did not intend for the beating to kill him." "He is suffering, Elizabeth. My brother is suffering horribly because of me." He gripped her hand, bringing it to his lips. "I can feel his pain." His voice was filled with a lost and tragic pain of his own. Long into the night, he had slept fitfully, calling out Conar's name, tears of pain flooding his face. She had never understood him, Elizabeth realized. He spoke of Conar as though he were still alive. Perhaps, in his tortured, guilt-ridden soul, he saw his brother that way. What a horrible way to spend your last days on this world, she thought sadly. Galen had died, at the hands of Kaileel Tohre, she knew, thinking his brother alive and in great agony. And what of that evil bastard, Tohre? Elizabeth's lip curled with disgust. He had once told her how much he loved Conar. A vulgar, sickening love that had raped and tortured a young boy; raped and tortured a young man; scarred and killed the heir to the throne of Serenia; the cause of Conar's father, King Gerren's death. A love that had brought about Conar's total destruction. What kind of love was that? One of pure, unadulterated evil, Elizabeth thought. She tore her mind away from the leer of Kaileel's face and gazed at the night sky. Her thoughts went to the tall black-masked man. She knew he was on his way to Corbin. How, she didn't know, but she could feel it in her soul. A part of her rejoiced; a part of her was filled with great consternation and alarm, and she wondered why. She was afraid of Lord Darkwind. There was something about his coldness that set her teeth on edge. He had made it obvious what he thought of her. That, in itself, was odd. Why did he despise her? What could she have done to warrant his enmity? She was sure it had something to do with Conar and his death. But what? The man seemed to hate Conar, too. Had he been in the Elite, perhaps? Could one of the six men hanged that day in the Tribunal Square have been a friend, a loved one, some kin? Or could the Darkwind have just been a commoner who felt cheated at Conar's death? There were many who did. There had even been talk around the Seven Kingdoms that Conar could have saved himself from that horrible death on the whipping post. Even a few, snide rumors that the man was still alive and was being kept imprisoned by Kaileel Tohre. Those rumors had caused Elizabeth great pain. She had seen her husband as he lay in his casket, had viewed the handiwork of Bent and Tohre. Bent had only been doing his job, had even refused to finish the required punishment, but Tohre had taken up the whip and struck Conar with a killing vengeance. No man, sorcerer as Conar was or not, could have survived such a vicious attack. "Liza?" Legion called sleepily from the bed. "Aye, my love?" She went to him, slipping beneath the covers. "Can't you sleep?" He folded her in his arms and tugged the covers tightly around them, snuggling close to her chilly flesh. "He's gone." Legion did not need to ask who. "He'll bring him back. If anyone can." "You have that much faith in a man you so obviously dislike?" "He's good at what he does."

"He's not invincible." Legion kissed her cheek. "No, but he's the next best thing." *** Amber-lea turned in her sleep and put out her hand. She felt only the cool fabric of the pillow and opened her eyes. A light, cast from the torch outside the cell, lit the tiny room, and she sensed someone sitting on the bench near her. She propped herself up on her elbow and stared into the dark corner. "He is well pleased with you," came a gruff, sneering voice. She pushed herself up in the cot and demurely covered her naked breasts. "I am here to help, not hurt." There was a derisive laugh. "And what do you get in return?" "I want nothing in return. I only want to help." The figure came to the cot, placed a hand on the wall above her head, and leaned forward. A face filled with scorn and loathing hovered inches from her own. "If you cause him a moment's pain, little girl, I will see that you regret it every moment you have left in this lifetime." A hateful smirk flowed over the figure's face. "And that time won't be long. I'll take that gods-be-damned whip he wouldn't let me destroy and flay the hide from your lying back." "If I hurt him, you have my permission to do whatever you will." She flinched as strong fingers took her chin in a punishing grip. "I don't need your permission, slut!" The angry voice was filled with promise. "You'll simply cease to exist if he is either compromised or hurt." "You love him, don't you?" Amber-lea asked, snatching her chin from the strong fingers. "Well, so do I!" "He fucked you and now you love him?" "He made love to me. There's a difference." She back threw the covers, heedless of her nakedness, and pointed at the bloodstain on the sheets. "I was pure. I gave myself to him and him alone. There will never be another man for me!" She drew up the covers. "He will have only me from now on." "What conceit! Do you honestly think he'll remain faithful to your body, you little bitch? There is only one woman who would garner that faithfulness." "And she is beyond his reach," Amber-lea said softly and saw him flinch. She laid her fingers on his steely forearm. "Don't fight me, Lord Brelan. Help me to help him. You know in your heart the chances he takes when one of you finds a woman to ease his needs. I can do that. I will never deny him the use of my body." She squeezed his arm. "Never. And never would I do anything to hurt him." *** Brelan away snatched his arm. There was honesty in the girl's voice. An honesty he didn't want to hear. It was obvious Conar trusted her, but Brelan didn't. He didn't want to trust her any more than he wanted to see the truth of what she was saying. He backed away, fully aware of her great beauty. "If I hurt him, ever, Lord Brelan, then you be the one to relieve him of me." A single tear fell down her cheek. "If I ever hurt him, I would want to die." "Damn you to the pit!" He fled the room, his heart thudding painfully. His footsteps took him to the farthest reaches of the cold dungeon. He saw one of the cell doors open and walked inside. The place was cold, dirty, but he didn't care. He slumped down the wall and sat heavily on the floor. Drawing his knees into the protection of his arms, he pressed his fevered cheek to the moist, foul-smelling stone. For as long as he could remember, he had loved Elizabeth. When they were children, he had taken great delight in

watching her antics. Part of the reason he had made friends with her brother, Grice, was so he could be near her. He thought, perhaps, Grice knew that, too. But Elizabeth had been engaged to Conar since birth. Brelan knew his anger toward Conar stemmed from knowing he would never have what he wanted most—Elizabeth's hand and heart. As the years passed and the time of Elizabeth's marriage to Conar drew closer, Brelan felt greater anger. It was more than just knowing Conar would have the sable-haired beauty all to himself. It was a belief that Coni was not worthy of Elizabeth's hand. But Conar had proven Brelan wrong. The man had fallen hopelessly, unrelentingly in love with the girl he had met that day in the stable of the Hound and Stag. Conar had been willing to risk the ire of his father, the king, and the retribution of Kaileel Tohre to keep her at his side. He had loved her so dearly he had given himself willingly into the hands of the Domination to keep her safe. Such love was rare that a man would forfeit his soul for the woman he loved. But now Conar was betraying that love in the arms of a stranger. Brelan pounded his head against the wall, welcoming the pain, for it was minuscule compared to the pain in his heart. "Merciful Alel, Conar!" he said, tears falling down his cheeks. "What are you doing, brother?" Because he understood Conar's needs, Brelan had said little about the wild promiscuity that had become his half-brother's way of life. Though he did not approve, Brelan understood and knew he would behave no differently were the situations reversed. Yet he sensed a change coming in Conar, and that both alarmed and angered him. There should be only one woman for Conar McGregor and the flame-haired beauty in Coni's bed was not her.

Chapter 14 On the crest of Mount Serenia sat a bulwark against the forces of good and right. Its secret entranceway, known only to a few of the initiated, lay within a mist-shrouded atmosphere of intense cold and gloom. Swirling black storm clouds obscured the giant ebony wood gates from view. Steam rose from the stonework as though the edifice itself was alive, breathing evil in the chill air. The smell of decay and burning flesh permeated the air around the fortress of the Brotherhood of the Domination and wrapped its vile stench around all those who neared it. Sometimes a howl of agony arose from the structure, trilling long and high-pitched, carrying on the still and frozen air. Sometimes the sound of thunderous drums and chanting voices could be heard. It was the Premier Gateway, this odious building, to the Abyss, and once having entered its gates, no man ever returned unchanged. Spiraling up from the foothills of the mountain range, a rock-strewn pathway, only a few feet wide in some places, coated now with treacherous snow and ice, led the way to the monastery of the Domination. A whirling mist of gray and white filled in the deep drop beyond the pathway's edge and anyone traversing the path had to be cautious. And not a little frightened. It was nearing the false dawn when Conar, Roget, and Belvoir found the hidden crevice in the rock face, which led into the mountain fortress. They probably would never have found it except for the high-flying black shadow that loomed suddenly out of the white mist, cawing and calling out to the men as they neared the entranceway. Conar recognized his kinsmen, felt the ache in his sword arm as the black scavenger soared overhead. He turned a watchful eye to the bird and watched it descend toward a rippling crack in the side of the mountain. It had been a long time since he had been here, and then he had been heavily drugged. When the bird disappeared through the crack, he grinned.

He motioned his men. "Through there." The tunnel was narrow, tight with slime looming all the way up from floor to ceiling. A ripening smell of rot made the men gag. It was colder inside the tunnel than it had been outside. "What the hell is this stuff?" Roget asked as his hand slid through some of the noxious slime. "I don't know," Conar answered. He touched the slick material and cringed. It felt alive on his fingertips. He wiped his fingers on his heavy cloak. "Try not to touch it." "Don't worry," Belvoir said grimly, avoiding the mess as he squeezed his huge bulk through the crack. "There's a lever here somewhere. This place is big enough to house the horses." Conar ran his hands over the rock face, searching, until he found a loose rock. He pushed and a wide doorway swung open on silent hinges. Taking their mounts through the low archway, the men saw precious little in the dark antechamber. They fumbled around until Belvoir found a bundle of rushes set into the wall. He struck a flint and a glow illuminated the low room. "Where to?" Roget inquired, eyeing several off-shooting tunnels. Belvoir walked to the darkest tunnel. "This one." For Conar, this was living hell, second only to the Labyrinth prison colony. He had to force himself inside the tunnel. Intense fear gripped him. He made his feet move, willed his lungs to breathe. His body trembled with the force of his phobia, and sweat began oozing down his taut backbone. His heart thudded painfully against the suffocating horror, the illusion that he was entombed alive within this constrictive place. He could almost feel the air around him closing in, thinning, his lungs straining to take in life-giving oxygen. A scream was building, clawing at his throat, threatening to erupt. He forced it down with fervent concentration. He felt himself being pushed to the limits of his endurance and steeled himself. He had fought this dragon before and it had always won, had almost killed him three times. It had weakened him, humbled the fighter in him, but he was determined that it would not be so this time. Not today, he cried to his fear. You will not win today! Roget gripped Conar's shoulder. "We're here with you." Conar could do nothing but nod. He didn't know if Roget or Belvoir could see that nod in the dimness, but he knew Roget understood. He only prayed they didn't know how close he was to surrending to his fear. It seemed an eternity before the tunnel began to widen and a faint light lit up the not-too-distant end. Getting into the temple, itself, wasn't nearly as hard as staying in unnoticed. Dispatching two temple guards was easy enough, since the men had expected no treachery within these secret walls. Disguising themselves in the guard's clothing, Roget and Conar, his mask in place beneath the cowl of the uniform, each took a different direction in search of the boy. *** Belvoir stayed in the shadows of the hidden tunnel, peeking out from behind a statue of the god Hyce, the Giver of Illness. Ironically enough, it was he who found their target. Or rather, the boy found the warrior. A reed-thin child of eight shyly ventured toward the statue and gazed at the horrible face on the black marble. He mumbled what must have been prayers or chants to the deity, then in a low voice, he asked, "Are you looking for me, Sir?" Belvoir had flattened his broad back against the wall just inside the partially opened doorway. He had been watching the boy approach, but had not seen the child's face. Craning his head around the opening, he was stunned. The tousled blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and open, honest face were so uncannily like those of Conar McGregor that Corbin could be none other than Coni's son.

"I don't know," Belvoir said in his thick, deep voice. He stooped down inside the doorway. "What's your name, little one?" "I think you already know, sir." The boy cocked his head to gaze into the big man's face. "Tell me who sent you." "What if I told you it was someone very close to you?" Belvoir felt no fear at the boy's obvious knowledge that he was there to find him. "Then I would say we had best hurry, sir. Kaileel Tohre is in meditation and I've been waiting all night for you to come." He looked around. "With my meager skills, I can't delay him for long. There are others with you?" He stepped closer to the statue. "You have magic powers, little one?" "Something I inherited from my mother and father." After giving a fleeting sad smile, he stepped to the statue and put his hand on the marbled surface, inches from Belvoir's hand. "Move back, sir, and I will join you." "The others are still looking for you." "I will call them," was the adamant reply as the boy slipped through the crack and passed Belvoir. The warrior shook his head. How could the child have known they were coming for him? He heard soft whispers and looked at the boy. The lips moved; the tiny hands were clenched into fists at his side. A long moment passed before the boy looked up at Belvoir. "They're coming." Roget was the first to return. He slipped into the tunnel, looked at Corbin, and came to a dead halt. He obviously recognized who had fathered the boy. "He knew we were coming," Belvoir explained. "He has his father's skills," Roget whispered. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Your mother will be happy to see you." "You are my uncle Teal's brother, aren't you?" Corbin inquired. Roget grinned. "Uncle Teal? You claim that gypsy thief as anuncle?" "He is one of my father, Legion's, best friends. He is my uncle!" the boy said with determination. "Then that makes me an uncle, too, doesn't it?" Roget laughed softly. "My mother spoke to me in a dream. She said to be watching for the Darkwind. You aren't him." "How do you know that, little one?" Belvoir asked. "The Dark Overlord will be here, soon," Corbin said, glancing at the hidden doorway. "I feel his anger." A sound from outside, a half-smothered mumble, made the two men and the boy flatten themselves against the wall. A shadow loomed ahead of them, then Conar's low whistle issued from the silent place beside the statue. Roget answered with a low whistle in a different pitch. "Have you found that damned brat?" Conar snarled, coming up short when he saw a boy clutching Roget's hand. "He found us," Roget said. "Are you ready to go? This place is wearing thin." Corbin gazed up into the dark cowl of the uniform. "I can only hold Tohre so long, Milord. He is distracted now, but soon he will think of me." Belvoir watched closely as Conar stared at the boy. But for some reason, it seemed that Conar saw no resemblance to himself in the calm little face. If anything, he saw the image of Galen, for his eyes narrowed with hate and he turned his back on the boy. "Let's get the hell out of here." It also puzzled Belvoir that Conar didn't question how or why the boy had found them. It was as though he had been

expecting it. Still, Belvoir would have wished him more curiosity concerning the lad, since it was plain whose child he truly was. He looked at Roget, who seemed to share his thoughts. *** Corbin fell into step beside Roget, gazing up at the Darkwind's back as he strode ahead of them. He had been expecting the man's anger and animosity. His mother had warned him of it in his dream—"Don't be frightened of him, Corbi. He is a hard man who has led a hard life, I fear. It has made him cold and immune to the feelings of others. Don't anger him and don't speak to him unless he speaks first to you. Answer him with kindness and respect and you might receive a grudging kindness in return, although I have my doubts. But most important of all, my son, remember whose son you are. Make your father proud of you by doing exactly as the men say. They are there to bring you home safely. Don't endanger their lives. Help them to the best of your ability." Now, Corbin felt something he had never felt before: a closeness, a bond that puzzled him. There was so much more to this man than even his beloved mother suspected. Corbin was old enough to comprehend that, as it is with beasts and children who are free of the complexities of an adult world, they see things their elders overlook. They feel things their parents have not the time to feel. They can sense evil in a person—or good. What Corbin sensed in Lord Darkwind was imperfection. He was neither good nor bad. It was a strange concept for a boy who, for the past six years, had been systematically treated to every perversity a human being can witness. He knew evil from Kaileel. He knew goodness from his memories and his dreams of his mother. Lord Darkwind, however, confused him, for he felt the man thought of himself as being evil. Corbin knew better. There was a goodness in him that might be lacking now, but it was there. It wasn't until there was nothing between them and freedom but the silent space of the narrow tunnel that Corbin realized what it was about the Darkwind that made him seem so imperfect. The disguise. If he could but only see the man's face, he knew he would see the goodness blazing there. *** As they entered the tight tunnel, Conar felt his throat constricting once more. He took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and took a step into the darkness. But a sound from behind made him turn back. Roget knelt beside the boy, talking urgently to him, trying to calm him. The child trembled from head to toe and his face was stark white in the glare of Belvoir's torch. His little eyes bulged with fear, and he tried desperately to pull free of Roget's grip. Annoyed at the delay, Conar cursed beneath his breath. Unthinking, he angrily pushed back the cowl and tore the mask from his face. "What the hell's wrong now, Hawk?" "It's the tunnel!" Roget snapped. Conar's snort of anger had sent the boy into fresh spasms of terror. "He's afraid of it. You can understand that, can't you?" Conar ignored the sarcasm and glanced at the boy. The small chest rose and fell with struggling breaths. Sweat shone on the boy's brow before his blond head bowed in fear. Something painful turned inside Conar's chest, stilling the sharp, bitter retort he had been about to make. Instead, he knelt in front of Corbin and, none-too-gently, lifted the boy's chin. "I can't, Milord," Corbin whimpered. "I can't go in there!" Tears squeezed from between his thick, golden lashes. "Aye, you can," Conar tugged on the boy's chin. *** At first, Corbin was confused by the sudden gentleness of this man's tone. Then, with perfect understanding, he knew this man had the same fear. The Darkwind had come through the tunnel earlier, and would have to go through it again. If he could do it, Corbin hoped he could, too. "I'll try." "That's all anyone can ask of you." The Darkwind stood and held out his hand. Corbin followed close behind the tall man. He clung to the strong hand, feeling the reassuring pressure of the long

fingers. Even in his child's mind, he knew the man was receiving as much comfort from his hand as he was from the Darkwind's. The scream that was lurking at the back of his throat didn't come. His breath didn't stop. His demons did not come rushing out of the darkness to impale him with unsheathed claws. For the first time in his life, the suffocating feeling of confinement left him stronger instead of weaker. He was beating back the demons because the man whose hand he held was fighting with him. *** On the other side of the tunnel, in the antechamber where the horses were tethered, Conar let go of the boy's hand. He looked at the upraised, thankful face and felt a stab of remorse. This was his nephew; flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. He should not blame the boy because of who his father was. The child had been with Kaileel Tohre for years. Conar knew all too well what that was like. It could have changed the boy, but Conar understood that it hadn't. He knelt once more before the child. He hesitated, not sure of what he wanted to say. "I need to ask you something, boy." "I will answer truthfully, Lord Darkwind. I tell no falsehoods." There was no guile in the boy's gaze, no duplicity in the thin face. Conar had started this mission hating the child, wishing he had never been born. But now he was having feelings he had not expected. True, Corbin was his nephew, and he couldn't be held accountable for what his father had been, and his mother was. The boy, like himself so many, many years before, was an innocent. Or had been. "Has he touched you, Corbin?" He had to ask. For some reason, it mattered a great deal to him. The little head dropped. It was all the answer Conar needed, for his own childhood reared up in front of him. Without thinking, he drew the child into his arms and held him protectively. "He will never do so again, little one." Corbin raised his head and looked into Conar's face. "Did he do that to you?" Corbin asked, hesitantly putting up a hand to touch the scars. "Aye." "When you were little?" "After I was grown." "After you were grown?" True horror filled the boy's voice. "You have nothing to fear from him again. I will see to Kaileel Tohre." "Is it because of what he did to you that my mother says you're a hard man?" The little face wrinkled with concern. Conar drew in a breath. So the bitch had been communing with her son through the years. He thought as much. Corbin's powers would be small compared to what they would become, and Conar doubted the child could send thoughts over a distance, but he could obviously summon from nearby. He had, after all, heard the boy's call at the monastery. "She told you I was a hard person?" "She told me not to be afraid of you, to show you kindness and respect. She said you didn't care for the feelings of others, but that's not true, is it? You cared about me when I couldn't go through the tunnel." Corbin laid his head on the Darkwind's broad shoulder. "You protected me." He shivered. "Protect me from Kaileel, Milord. Please. I don't want him to scar me, too." Conar clutched the boy. "What he did to me, he willnever do to you. I promise, on my honor. He loved your father; he hated me." Corbin shook his head. "He hated my father. He tells me he loved him, but I know he couldn't have. He had him killed." The boy's voice broke on a silent sob. "You have nothing to worry about." Conar eased the boy out of his arms and stood. "Will you ride with me, Prince Corbin?" Corbin rode behind Conar on the big black steed. His arms clutched Conar's waist, while his face pressed against the wool of his cloak.

He was going home.

Chapter 15 She had cried herself to sleep that night, but for the first time in a long time, it had been happy tears wetting her pillow. Her joy at having her son home was like a bright shaft of sunlight after a long, gray winter filled with dismal rain. His thin arms had wound around her neck and his tears mingled with hers until he fell asleep, exhausted, in her arms. She allowed Teal to pick him up and carry him to the room next to hers—Conar's old room. She thought it proper that the son should sleep in his father's bed. Both Marsh and Teal slept in that room, as well. No chances would be taken at having Corbin kidnapped again. Now, as she lay beside her sleeping husband, something woke her from the sweet dream. She felt the bed dip as Legion rolled over, his heavy arm going around her waist as it almost always did. She smiled and tried to snuggle back into her dream. But there it was again, something that played just beyond her hearing. There was a cool breeze across her palm as it lay on the pillow beside her head, then she felt a light sensation of touch on the tips of her fingers. Her eyelids flew open. Before she could cry out, his hand came down over her mouth, letting her know to be quiet. She stared at the masked man hovering over her, knew who it was, but the knowledge only frightened her more. Her breath drew in against the restriction of his hand and she felt an odd puckering across his palm, wondering what had caused the skin there to be raised. He gently squeezed her mouth, warning her, then began to withdraw his hand. Liza tried to look toward Legion, fearful he would wake and find this man in their sleeping chamber, but the back of Darkwind's hand stopped her face from turning. He didn't push hard along her cheek, but the resistance reminded her he didn't want her to turn away. All too aware of what she had promised him for returning Corbin, she kept still, although her heart nearly burst free of her chest. She stared up into eyes as cold as ice, gazing with a detached calm that made her blood run cold. *** Through the moonlight falling on her from the window, Conar stared at her. He saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts just above the silk sheets. His gaze roamed over her lovely face, seeking things he had missed for so long, looking for the love that had once been there when she looked at him, wondering why she did not know who he was. She trembled; he felt the movement on the back of his hand and somehow it pleased him—to know she was afraid of him, of what he might do while her husband, his brother, lay next to her. His hand slid down her cheek, her neck, turned so his fingers grazed the column of her throat. He spanned that slim throat with his sword hand, marveling at how easy it would be to snap her neck. His thought must have touched her, for she quivered. His thumb stroked the underside of her chin, touched her full lower lip, then went to her shoulder. His fingers moved along her arm, sliding sensuously downward, barely touching her flesh. He circled her wrist with his strong fingers, squeezed just enough to remind her of his strength. His palm slid into hers, spreading her fingers apart with his. He gripped her hand for a moment, then his fingers relaxed, moved back up to her shoulder, caressing, stroking ever so gently. He cupped the smoothness under her arm. She gasped. He wasn't at all surprised to find a light covering of moisture on the hairless flesh. He could almost smell her fear. Legion moved beside her. Conar's hand stilled, tensed. Liza turned to look at her husband, but he was still asleep. Legion moved closer to her, laying his head on her other shoulder.

Conar ground his teeth. He cupped Liza's chin, stared into her face with a warning not to look away again. Then, using the backs of his fingers, he trailed a line down her side to just above the rise of her breast. He ran his palm over the taut silkiness of her upper chest, up the frantically beating column of her neck, then fanned his fingers across her lips and started the caress all over again. *** His fingers smelled of soap and cinnamon, and they were rough against her lips. When his thumb paused at the center of her lower lip, then pulled it down a little, she felt the hard callus along his flesh. His hand moved again, retracing the earlier route, until his palm rested in the center of her breastbone. *** Beneath his fingers, her heart was drumming like that of a captured bird. He could almost count the beats. As he began to edge his palm toward her left breast, he heard her stifled whimper, saw the imperceptible denial in the slight shake of her head. It didn't stop him. Nothing would have. His hand went below the sheet, grazing over the ripe point of her breast before he completely molded her quivering flesh in his palm. He kept his hand there—still, possessive. In the spill of moonlight, he saw the sheen of tears on her cheek. He squeezed her a little, gently, fleetingly, wanting to remind her of her promise. He moved his thumb onto her nipple. He wasn't surprised the nub was hard, aroused. She might not be aware of it, but he was. With his thumb, he circled the erect point, then released her. He straightened up beside her bed, impaling her one last time with his gaze before turning and blending into the shadows. *** One moment he was there, the next he was gone, as though he had been a dream, a nightmare. But Liza knew he had been all too real. She could still feel the heat of his questing, callused fingers on her breast. She jumped as his rasping voice called to her from the darkness. "The grotto." She lay perfectly still, expecting him to return. When he didn't, she held her husband as tightly as she could.

Chapter 16 Kaileel Tohre knew an anger the likes of which he had never felt before in his ancient life. His blood seethed with hate, boiled with his inability to have foreseen the taking of Corbin McGregor. Many priests and guards within the Abbey met a horrible fate for having allowed the boy to vanish from beneath their noses. Getting his rage under a semblance of control, he started making plans to retake the boy, but he was informed that no member of the Temple Guard, or any other loyal to the Tribunal, was still at the Keep. "We can not storm Boreas Keep," Robert MacCorkingdale shouted at the Arch-Prelate. "It's impregnable. Besides, his men would slaughter ours!" "I want him back!" Tohre raged.

MacCorkingdale's lip lifted in scorn. "Your addiction has caused the Brotherhood much grief through the years. The Conclave will not look kindly upon staging an assault on Boreas to feed your habit! We have more important things to worry about!" Kaileel stared at the young man, hating him with every fiber of his being. He turned his face, plotting revenge on Robbie MacCorkingdale—a revenge that would be swift and total. "The entire palace is manned with the Darkwind's troops, now," Robert sneered. "Becauseyou weren't paying attention to your duty. He has replaced even the priests in the Temple with those who were loyal to the McGregor family. The others have mysteriously disappeared." Tohre was stunned to learn the Dark Overlord's men had been systematically replacing his own men, one per day, two per day, over a period of several months. He wasn't surprised to learn, though, that Legion A'Lex knew nothing about what was happening under his own roof. The man was a fool! Tohre looked up with surprise. "What of the Tribunal members?" MacCorkingdale's face turned hard. "They are dead." So hot was the hatred Kaileel felt that he now lay in his bed, a slight stroke making the blood vessels in his head throb. He had nearly died, and that was something he had not anticipated—death was not supposed to happen to him. Damning the Darkwind to the deepest pit in the Abyss, Kaileel lay in his invalid's bed and seethed. How, he asked himself a thousand times, could such a brigand have entered this Abbey and make off with the boy unless he possessed great power? Sitting in bed late into the night, Tohre stared into the darkness and fumed. He had no doubts about who engineered the plan to take Conar's whelp. Tohre scorned himself over and over for letting the bitch live. He should have seen to it that Elizabeth McGregor had died along with Galen. Now, he would have to find a way to kill her. His obsession with Corbin had become all-consuming. The older the child got, the more like his father he became. Even the resistance to the teachings of the Domination was so like his father's that Kaileel relished the day to day instructions that reduced the boy to a cringing, tearful lump, just as they had with his father years earlier. He vowed to succeed with the son where he had failed with the father. Thoughts of Conar did not come as often as they used to. Tohre reasoned that was because he had the son. The old dreams of Conar, now rotting away in the brutal bowels of the Labyrinth, had all but ceased. In a way, that bothered Tohre, for he had spent many a pleasant hour thinking of the pain and suffering Conar must be enduring in that hell-hole. Occasionally, Tohre would still wake from sweat-drenching dreams and know the nightmare had been about Conar. But it no longer mattered. What concerned him now was Corbin, and having him consecrated in his father's place. He gave little thought to the chaos the Darkwind was causing. Although the man was robbing the Temple's coffers as dry as a bone, killing Temple guards left and right, and upsetting rituals like the one that had been planned for May Eve, Tohre did not care. His only interest was in the boy. Tossing in bed, he suddenly realized there was a way to get Corbin back without a drop of blood being spilled. His lips stretched back over teeth too long and too sharp for his mouth. He shook the white-blond hair from his forehead and nodded. His skeletal face with the high cheekbones of his ancestors and the hawk-like nose was as evil as the smile on his bloodless lips. The discolored and loose-hanging flesh under his chin wobbled as the smile became a vile laugh. Yes, he thought, there was a way to get Corbin back from his slut of a mother. All he had to do was bring Conar home and trade him to her. And if the woman refused to give up the boy in exchange for the husband she still loved, then the father would do just as well. Laughing evilly, Tohre thought of what he would see once Conar McGregor returned to Serenia. The man whom he had sent to the Labyrinth would be humbled, broken, malleable, with no fight left in him. Scooting from his bed, the Arch-Prelate ran to the hallway, shouting for his personal valet. He would send a ship this very night to Tyber's Isle. He would bring Conar McGregor home!

Chapter 17 Elizabeth McGregor rose from bed and sat by the window, looking through the trees into the filtered moonlight. Behind her, Legion slept on as though drugged and she wondered idly if perhaps he had not been. His sleep was so sound, so totally ignorant of the masked man's midnight visit, she would not have put it past the Dark Overlord to have engineered some drug into her husband's evening wine. Liza ran a hand over her swollen belly when she felt the babe kick. The child was due any day now. How Lord Darkwind could want her, even suggest they have intercourse, was beyond her understanding. She had no intention of meeting him in the grotto, less intention of letting him touch her until the babe came. Oh, she thought with a grimace of distaste, she would give herself to him, but he would have to wait to claim his payment. It would be at a time and in a place of her choosing. She was afraid of him. Any man who would so brazenly come into another man's bedchamber as he lay sleeping and fondle his wife, had more nerve and bravura than any she had ever known. Save one. Her thoughts flew to Conar, lingered a moment, then fled. It was painful for her to think of him and his beloved face, a face she thought to see forever, in her mind's eye. With her memory, she touched his blond hair, so thick and soft and shiny; she could almost feel the glory of it between her fingers. And she could see the same blue of his eyes—legendary among the women of Seven Kingdoms—in the eyes of their son, Corbin. Those things were all she had left of the man she'd loved more than life itself. She looked at Legion. She loved him, too, but her love for him was tempered with the pain of her loss. And she knew no man this side of the grave could ever replace in her heart the love she still bore for Conar. Sighing, she stood, easing aside the drapes. The moon was so bright, so full, it looked as though it were alive in the heavens. The courtyard was filled with the creamy expanse of pale yellow light. Dark shadows flitted about, and she smiled, thinking of lover's trysts in the garden. That thought made her sad, and she closed the curtain. The room was stifling and she had to get out of it, but she was so afraid she would encounter Lord Darkwind, she stood for a long time before her temper got the best of her. No man, not even the Darkwind, would keep her captive in her own home! She threw caution to the wind, gathered up her bed robe, flung it on, and eased out of the room. After checking on her children—a task that seemed to be taking longer and longer, she thought with a smile—and looking in on Corbin—with both Teal and Marsh springing instantly awake at her entrance—she made her way down the stairs. She was careful to make no sound in case anyone, one in particular, was lurking about. She eased open the door to Legion's dark study and slipped quietly inside. An open window blew the lace panels of the under drapes into the sitting area. She shook her head, wondering who had been so lax as to leave it open. Heading for the window, she jumped when a rasping voice brought her up short. "You're a long way from the grotto, Queen Liza." Liza turned, staring into the darkness. He was sitting behind Legion's desk, his booted feet propped on top. As he raised his hand to his lips, the glimmer of glass shone in the moonlight coming through the fan light behind him. She could not see his face, but saw the pale glow of his flesh when he tilted the glass and drank. "You take a great many liberties in this keep, sir!" she told him stiffly. "I don't think your King would appreciate you consuming his liquor." Her voice turned ugly. "Ormanhandling his wife!" He sat the glass on his knee. "First of all, Madame, he's notmy King. Secondly, do you really think I give a damn what he likes? I never have before; why should I start now?"

His oddly-accented, gruff voice set her teeth on edge. "That's the second time you've made such insinuations regarding this family. You know your way about this keep better than you should. That leads me to think you must have been in our employ at one time." Her spine stiffened when she heard his dry, insulting laugh. "I was never a servant of this family, Madame!" "Then who are you? Were you a member of Conar's Elite? A friend of his?" Her voice turned sharp. "An enemy of his, perhaps?" "He had enough of them." She was growing angrier by the minute at his arrogance. "Whoare you?" He took another long drink. When he set the glass on the desk, he folded his arms across his chest. "You'll learn soon enough. Why didn't you meet me in the grotto?" "That would be the last place I would ever meet you!" "Why? It's convenient, it's private. No one would interrupt us. I assume you want no hint of our liaison to reach your husband's ears." "I don't wantyou in the grotto! Not now; not ever. It is a special place and not for the likes of you!" His voice turned cold. "And what makes it so damned special? Is that where you meet some other lover? Is that your trysting place, Queen Liza?" "Stay out of the grotto. Understand? It was my husband's favorite place. It was the last place we…Conar was…" She pointed a finger at him. "Just stay out of it!" She turned to go, but his steel-tipped voice stopped her. "I haven't told you why I wanted to see you in the grotto. Have you no curiosity?" Breathless from anger, her hands trembled at her sides. A nagging ache in her back made her want to sit, to lie down, but she felt she would be at a disadvantage if she showed him one ounce of weakness. "I will keep my hell-spawned bargain with you," she told him through clenched teeth, "because it was the only way I could get back my child. But I will not endanger my health or the health of my unborn babe so you can satisfy whatever insidious vengeance you crave!" She glared at him through the darkness. "Once the child is born, I will come to you, but it will not be the grotto!" He made a rude sound. "You think I wanted to bed you this night?" "You came into my bedroom—" "To remind you to make good on your part of the bargain." He swung his feet from the desk and sat forward. "Iwill have you, Lady Liza, make no mistake, but it will be without the accompaniment of that brat you waddle around with!" "You need to insult me, don't you? Does taking your petty revenge out on me satisfy whatever imagined slight you think you have experienced?" "Imagined?" he shouted, standing up so fast the chair tumbled and crashed into the floor. " 'Twas noimagined slight, bitch! What you and your husband have done to me is real enough! I have the scars to prove it!" Liza took a step backward from the intense hatred in his voice. "Whatever it was we have done to you could not have been so bad that you would require me to lower myself to fornicate with you!" "That's an adequate description of what it will be, too! Fornication." His voice filled with spite. "But 'fucking' is a much better word for it!" Aching so badly, she held a hand to the small of her back. "You are a crude, uncivilized man. You gave me no choice—it was either agree or never see my son again. What choice was that?" "More choice than I was given!"

"What have I done to you?" She was hurting so much her eyes watered. Her legs were threatening to go out from under her. "I have never met you!" He stepped from behind the desk, but when his hands went to his face and he halted, Liza realized he wore no mask. She wanted to see his face, ascertain if she knew him, but her pain was coming in waves along the small of her back. She realized with horror that she was going into labor. "I wish to the gods you had never met me, you whoring bitch! I wish I had never laid eyes on you!" He picked up the glass and hurled it across the room. It sailed past her and shattered against a bookshelf. Liza jumped. Her belly cramped. She bent over, clutching herself as the pain shot through her. "Wait—please—wait." *** Conar headed for the door that led to the garden. His angry strides took him past the sideboard, where he snatched up a brandy bottle. He slammed the door behind him as he left the room, shutting out Liza's pleas for him to stop. He took the flagstone pathway to the seagate and yanked open the wrought iron doors, heedless of who heard the noise or came to investigate, and tripped down the spiraling staircase to the beach. Nothing mattered now except making his way to the dungeon where Roget and Bent were sleeping. He needed his bed, and he desperately needed the bottle clutched in his shaking hand. He made a vow—he would spend no more nights in the damp rooms of the keep's dungeon. Tomorrow, he would have a room in the keep's sleeping wing, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him!

Chapter 18 "Conar! Damn it! Wake up!" Brelan shook his brother, but got no more than a grumbled curse and a sour belch for his effort. He turned to Roget. "Get me a bucket of cold water. I want this drunken bastard awake!" "Do you need to treat him so badly?" Bent asked in a gentle voice, looking at Conar's huddled form on the pallet and the empty bottle of brandy on the floor. "He got that liquor from our brother's study, I'm guessing. He must have been in there, but I have to know for certain!" Brelan stepped back as Roget brought a pail of water. "Go ahead!" Roget hurled the contents of the pail, soaking Conar and his pallet. It was a spitting, fighting, furious demon that reared up off the wet bedding. Angry red sparks of blazing fire snapped from the dark eyes. He pushed back his sodden hair and glared at Roget. "You'd better have a fucking good reason for doing that, or I swear by the gods, I'll gut you!" "You'll do nothing of the sort!" Brelan shouted, drawing Conar's raging eyes. "It was bymy order he did it. You want to fight me? Fine! Get your ass up like a man and try, or do you need another bottle of bravery before you can?" Brelan kicked Conar's boot. "Get up!" Conar shot from the bed, his hands clenched into fists. He took a step toward his brother. "What's the matter with you?" "Where were you last night?" "What business is it of yours?" Brelan pointed at the empty bottle, barely controlling his rage. "You got that from Legion's study, didn't you? You sure as hell didn't have it when I left last evening and I know you didn't send anyone to get it! Where did you go last

night?" "Where I go and what I do is none of—" Brelan grabbed his brother's wet shirt. "Where the hell were you?" Conar jerked away, twitching his shoulder with contempt. "So I got the damned brandy from the study. What of it?" Brelan's voice went deadly quiet. "Were you alone?" "What difference does that make?" "Were you alone?" Conar's lip curled with disgust. "No, I wasn't alone." "Who was with you?" "Who do you think?" Conar asked, a smug look of triumph on his handsome face. Brelan took a steadying breath. "Was she there when you left?" "What if she was?" Conar snapped, his tone belligerent. "Did you argue with her? Did you tell her who you were? What did you talk about?" "Again, that's none of your business." Conar started around his brother, but Brelan grabbed his upper arm. "I'm making it my business. Did you argue with her last eve?" "What if I did?" Brelan clipped the edge of Conar's chin with his fist, spinning him sideways and up against the wall. Losing his balance, Conar slid down the wall. He looked up at his enraged brother. "I'm going to come straight through you, Saur!" he said through gritted teeth. "Did she cry out to you before you left her? Was she asking for help when you left?" "What the hell difference does it make? Get out of my way!" Conar tried to get up, but Brelan shoved him down. "It makes all the difference in the world, you son of a bitch! Did she ask you to help her?" "The bitch asked me to wait, but—" "But you wouldn't!" Brelan fairly screeched. "She went into labor, you arrogant bastard, and had her babe on the floor in Legion's study! Alone! Because no one could hear her through the damned door!" Brelan knew a fury like the fires of hell as he watched Conar's face pinch with guilt. "She could have died. She could have bled to death! Are you happy now? Are you satisfied now that you've hurt her?" "Brelan," Roget warned. "No! No, Roget! He's the cause of this. He's the one who will have to bear the burden of that guilt!" "I didn't know…" Conar began, but Brelan's icy words halted him. "Would you have given a shit if you had?" Brelan stalked off, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. *** Brelan found his brother, Legion, sitting outside the royal suite. Legion's head was in his hands and his shoulders were slumped with fatigue. "How is she?" Brelan asked as he sat beside Legion.

Legion sat back on the bench. "Cayn is with her. He says she'll be all right." He took a deep breath. "The babe, a girl, didn't survive." Brelan saw terrible grief on his brother's face and he laid his hand over Legion's. "I am sorry." Legion shook his head, as though denying what had happened. "It was the gods' will, I suppose." Brelan ground his teeth. The gods had nothing to do with it, but he couldn't tell Legion that. "You seem to have encountered a problem of your own." Legion nodded at Brelan's bruised knuckles. "An encounter with a brick wall." "One named Darkwind?" Legion guessed. Brelan nodded. "Who is he, Bre? What is he to you?" Brelan knew the knowledge of the babe's death would cause Conar even greater guilt. He was already feeling ashamed for having taken out his hurt on Conar that morning. It hadn't really been Conar's fault that Liza had gone into labor when he left her. Brelan couldn't imagine what they had been arguing about, but he doubted Liza knew the truth of Conar's identity yet. He glanced at Legion. "Just a man with a whole lot of pain. I'm afraid I added to that pain this morning." Legion smiled sadly. "I met a man today I have never seen before. He carried my wife up the stairs. Another man, another stranger, was the one who brought Cayn to her. Everywhere I look there are women scampering about who I could swear have never set foot in this keep before today. I haven't seen half a dozen people I know. Is this his doing?" "He thought it best we replace the staff. Corbin is safer with our own people. So are you and Liza. If it's any consolation, I'm the one who chose the staff. They can be trusted." Legion looked long and hard at Brelan. "What you're telling me is that he has complete control of this keep. Where does that leave me? Has he designs on the throne, Bre? Have I been under Kaileel's heel for so long that I have turned to mush and allowed a man I know nothing about to take over without my knowledge?" Brelan shook his head. "It's not the throne he wants. He's more than content to let you have that honor. He wants the land free of Kaileel. Boreas is a stronghold like none other in the Seven Kingdoms. I doubt it could ever be successfully laid siege to. It was the ideal choice for home base." "What if we had not invited him here to rescue Corbin? Would he have invaded this keep anyway?" There was frost in Legion's eyes. "Obviously he can get in and out of Boreas at will." "He would have eventually come here, aye, but it wasn't in his plans so soon. He wouldn't have attacked—there was no need for him to. He would have gone about it exactly like he did." Legion stood and thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches. "I don't like the man. There's something about him I don't trust—" "Let me tell you about the first time I saw him in the Labyrinth." Legion glanced at his brother. "He was a prisoner? What did he do?" "He had committed no crime. You know that wasn't a prerequisite for being sent there." "He'd made an enemy of someone powerful, eh?" Brelan sighed. "A very powerful man, indeed." "So what happened when you first saw him?" "I had to crucify him, to nail his hands to a wooden board."

"Why?" There was keen interest in Legion's face. "He'd tried to escape. The Commandant wanted him hurt—he didn't care how I did it, he just wanted Darkwind hurt." Leaning forward with his hands clasped together, Brelan continued. "There isn't one inch on his back that isn't covered with scar tissue from the beatings he received over the years in that cesspool. They caged him at night in a poultry pen. They got him up before the others every morning and worked him long after everyone else was in bed. Some nights, if the moon was full, they'd work him all night. He was worked like a dog and treated worse than one." Legion said nothing. Brelan assumed his brother was picturing Conar's back after the Tribunal had finished with him. Legion, as well as anyone, knew what that pain had been like for Conar, so perhaps he could now understand what it would have been like for the Darkwind. "One night he cried, Legion. They'd hurt him so badly he couldn't stand it any more. I took him in my arms and held him. You know what he said?" Legion shook his head. "He said: 'I wish someone knew I was human. I wish someone would care whether I lived or died.'" Brelan looked away, wanting to tell his brother who the Darkwind was, but not daring to. "He's free now, but the agony he suffered in the Labyrinth has made him hard. It's crippled him in a way. You have to make allowances for him, Legion. He isn't the man you think he is." They looked up as the bedroom door opened. Cayn, the Healer, walked out and quietly closed the door. "I gave her something to make her sleep. She'll be fine, but she'll be weak for a long time because she lost so much blood." "May I see her?" Legion asked. "Go in, but be quiet. She's upset and needs to sleep." The Healer looked at Brelan. "Will you walk with me?" After Legion entered the bedroom, Brelan followed the Healer down the corridor. Reaching out his hand, Cayn stopped Brelan before they got to the stairs. "Is the Darkwind who I think he is?" Brelan felt his heart thud painfully in his chest. "What do you mean?" "I've seen him about the keep and I was watching him yestereve as he walked outside. He walks like a man I once knew a long time ago." Brelan tried to smile. "You can't identify a man by his stride, Cayn." "You can if that man has a unique way of walking. You can if he swaggers, and that's exactly what Lord Darkwind does! Swaggers!" Cayn lowered his angry voice. "Just like Conar McGregor! Are you going to tell me that man isn't your brother?" Brelan looked at him a long time before answering. "He doesn't want anyone to know." Cayn flinched, obviously unprepared for a confirmation of his theory. He slowly absorbed the knowledge. "I didn't think he was hurt badly enough to die. But there was no heart beat, no breath that I could discern." He shook his head, his face pinched. "If I had only…" "What was meant to happen, happened. Don't blame yourself." He laid a hand on the Healer's shoulder. "He doesn't blame you." "Where is he now?" "Let me tell him you know. If he wants to see you, he'll find you." *** It was close to supper time before Brelan returned to the dungeon. Earlier, Legion had told him rooms would be made available to the men if they wanted them. "There's no need for du Mer to be sleeping in that damned dungeon! There's plenty of room in the sleeping quarters. If Darkwind is going to take over my keep, he might as well be comfortable!"

When Brelan entered the cells, he noted that Roget had left. Bent sat just inside the doorway leading into one of large common cells. He nodded his head toward Conar. "He hasn't moved since you left this morning." "There have been rooms prepared for us. If you would, pick one out for yourself. I'd like to speak to my brother alone." "I will take the room closest to his." Bent's lips thrust out with defiance. Brelan nodded. Pulling his cape tighter around him in the chill, damp air, he went over to Conar and hunkered down beside him. His brother gazed at him, but said nothing. "She's going to be all right." "And the babe?" was the soft inquiry. Brelan shook his head. Conar looked away. "I'm sorry I hit you. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you. I was just furious she'd had to deliver the babe on her own." "I know." He looked up at the ceiling. "I wind up hurting everything I touch, don't I?" Brelan heard a sound in the doorway. Amber-lea was standing there. He frowned, turned his head away from her. "We're busy, mam'selle." Conar held out his hand to the girl. She sat beside him on the cot. He nestled her hand in his and held it in his lap. Brelan glared at her, annoyed at her interruption, angry at his brother for even touching the little whore while they had been speaking of Liza. "I've got a room upstairs for you," he bit out. "I'll have your things moved into it." He stood and started off. "Does Legion know who I am?" Conar asked. Brelan turned. "No, but Cayn does. He wants to see you. I told him if that was all right with you, you'd look him up." He hesitated. "You weren't the cause of her losing the babe." "It happened because I was arguing with her. I brought it on!" "If it makes you feel better to think so, then do it!" Brelan snarled. He had lost his good intentions the moment Amber-lea appeared. "That's just one more festering hurt for you to nurture. I would think you'd get tired of blaming yourself for all the world's pain. One day you'll buckle beneath the weight of that load!" He reached inside his cape. "I brought this to you. I figured you'd think you needed it." He held out a bottle of brandy. *** Conar looked at the bottle. Unconsciously he wet his lips with his tongue, while his hands itched to take the liquor. The beast inside him reared its ugly head—he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the peace the brandy offered. He reached out his hand, then felt Amber-lea gently squeeze his other one. When his extended hand trembled, he put it down. "No, thank you," he whispered to Brelan. Brelan sat the bottle on the floor. "It's there if you want it." He glared at the girl. "Just like everything's there if you want it, Conar Aleksandro!" Conar stared after his brother. It had been a long time since anyone had called him by his true name. He had heard a challenge in his brother's angry voice. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "I heard about the babe, Milord," Amber-lea told him. "I am sorry."

He squeezed her fingers. "Would you mind going home for the night, Sweeting? I don't think I—" She closed his lips with her fingers. "I understand." She stood and bent over him, placed a soft kiss on the top of his head. "Try to sleep, Milord. You look very tired." Long after she left, Conar stared at the bottle on the floor. The golden color sparkled in the torchlight. It seemed to beckon, to call his name. He picked it up, looked at it, then hurled it across the cell.

Chapter 19 "Where the hell is he, Hawk?" Brelan shouted. "I left him in the dungeon. I told him there would be rooms waiting for him." Roget du Mer spread his hands wide. "I have no idea where he went. I've had men looking for his ass all morning. I sent Bent to the Green Horned Toad, but Amber-lea hasn't seen him, either. So far we haven't found any trace of him. His things are missing, as well." "And his horse?" "Not in the stable," Sentian answered. "Shit!" Brelan ran a hand through his curly hair. "Just fucking great! How the hell are we to protect him if we don't know where he is?" He turned to Thom Loure. "Find Storm. He came in this morning with the last group of raiders. Tell him we may need to send him and his men to Virago and Ionary this afternoon. By the gods, he may have even gone to Necroman!" "What about Oceania?" Roget asked. "Would he have gone there to let Grice know about Liza?" Brelan stared at him. "I doubt it. Anyway, a messenger has already been sent. Hopefully Grice and Chand will find a way to come and see her. She's been anxious about them and now is a good time for them to come." "Now was not the time for Conar to pull one of his disappearing acts," Roget mumbled. "With all the plans we have in motion, if Kaileel's men catch him, everything will be ruined." "It's not like him to take his things and go," Bent said, guilty for not having watched his Overlord as closely as he should have, as closely as du Mer had asked him to. "What are you going to do, Wren?" Sentian asked. Brelan threw his hands in the air. "I don't know, Sparrow. That depends on our missing leader and how long the bastard's gone!" *** He was gone six months. Long into the soft warming of springtime, when trees budded forth and hibernating animals returned to the forests beyond Boreas Keep, a rider, dressed in the black and tan colors of the Raven's forces, arrived at the keep bearing a message from the man known as Eagle—Prince Chase Montyne of Ionary. Upon reading the missive, Brelan stomped out of the guard room in search of Roget. He snapped at everyone in his

path, ignored any greetings aimed his way. Finding his friend in a game of chess with his brother, Teal, Brelan felt his frustrations mounting. "I need to talk to you, alone," he hissed. "Make yourself scarce, little brother," Roget told Teal. Teal eyed Brelan, got up immediately, and left. Once Teal was out of earshot, Roget leaned back in his chair and waited for Brelan to speak. When all Brelan did was stomp from one end of the game room to the other, his fists clenching and unclenching, Roget sighed and broke the silence. "Tell me what's happened." "Do you know how angry I am?" Brelan snorted. "By the way you're wearing a hole in the carpet, I'd venture to say you're a might upset." "Amight upset? I ampissed, du Mer. I amroyally pissed!" Roget smiled. "I gather this has something to do with Conar. Have you found him?" Brelan held up Chase's note. "This note is from Ionary!" Roget nodded sagely. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. "Well?" Brelan bellowed. "Well, what?" "Aren't you going to ask me what's in the damned note?" Roget turned his head to one side in polite inquiry. "Brelan," he stated calmly, "what's in the damned note?" "He is in Ionary! Before that he was in Virago. Before that, Chale! He has been leading attacks in those provinces! Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Brelan flopped down in a chair. "He's been a bad little boy. Is that a correct assumption?" Throwing aside the note, Brelan turned a scowl to Roget. "He's been risking his life to lead those damned attacks. That wasnot what Occultus had in mind. Hell, neither Chase nor Tyne nor Rylan knew he was in their kingdoms!" "So what do you propose we do?" Brelan gave his friend a piercing glare. "I've sent Bent after him!" Roget shook his head. "And you think he's going to drop what he's started and come back with Bent like an errant schoolboy? For the love of Alel, he's doing what he was destined to do. Let him do it." Roget clasped Brelan's arm. "He isnot a little boy. He's a warrior. He sure as hell isn't going to appreciate being sent for and Iknow he won't come back until he's good and ready. If you push him, he might not come back at all!" Brelan lowered his face in his hands. "I could lock the little fool in an armoire and throw away the damned key like Legion did once!" "We've all felt that way about our little brothers. But you've got it luckier than I do in that department." When Brelan looked up, Roget smiled. "Conar can take better care of himself than Tealever will. I worry some irate gambler will slit his gullet one night or some husband will come after his prick with a carving knife. But I tell you what—I don't lose sleep over it. What good will that do? He's a grown man and I'm not his nursemaid." Brelan ventured a fleeting smile and levered himself up from the chair. "I make a terrible nanny, don't I?" He laughed ruefully. "Nanny or not, you have to know when to let go. Conar is a better man than either of us. He won't take any chances with his life."

*** Conar had taken a lot of wild chances that set his men's hair on end. He won their undying loyalty on the first foray he had led into the wind forests of Virago. He had been an unknown quantity, a myth to these men before that day. Rumors and wild speculation added zest to a man's reputation, but actual proof that the Raven existed was not something any of them knew firsthand. Although he had fought with his men in Serenia, he had not ventured onto the soil of the other kingdoms before that time. When the masked man had appeared at Tempest Keep, the palace Rylan Hesar had just reclaimed that month, the men thought little of it. Their own Overlord, Condor—better known as Prince Rylan Hesar—dressed in the same outfit this man wore. These men were not stupid. They had friends and relatives in Ionary and Oceania and Chale. They knew the Darkwind was many men, and the ones who didn't know had rightfully concluded it was the royal Princes of their homelands who led the forces. It was rumored that Serenia's own Darkwind was Lord Brelan Saur. So when the black-caped man strode into the keep, his mask tightly wound around his head so that the remarkable blue-black eyes were the only visible sign of humanity within the disguise, the men eyed him with speculation, but no real astonishment. He had not been the first to come to Virago for a visit with Condor. What did surprise them, however, was the deference their Overlord showed him, and when he announced his guest that night, they turned shocked faces to one another and went to their knees in homage. It was the first real evidence that there was only one man behind the whole force and that he was, in fact, the Dark Overlord of the Wind. Early the next morning, the masked man had insisted on leading a party of ten well-chosen warriors into the wind forest of Judade province, a seven-hour journey from Tempest Keep. They were about a mile from the Cave of the Winds when Conar held up his black-gloved hand for the men to stop. Dismounting, he peered closely at the grass on which they had been about to travel. He looked toward the Cave of the Winds. Squinting, his hands on his hips, he called over his shoulder to his second in command, a man called Egret. "Have your men dismount and secure the horses. No one has been this way. We will circle around and slip into the forest surrounding the Cave. That's where the caravan will camp for the night." Condor had received word that a shipment of goods was being taken across the coastline of his country and along the southern tip of the wind forest. He had planned the trap for Kaileel Tohre's men himself, but Conar had showed up to lead the attack and had completely changed the battle plan. "Are you sure, Lord Darkwind?" Egret questioned, his cap held nervously in his hands. "Condor said we was to…" Dark anger bored into Conar. "Have your men dismount!" "Aye, Milord!" Egret told his men to do as the Darkwind asked. It took the men less than fifteen minutes to wind their way through the thick forest and reach the mouth of the Cave of the Winds. Hiding amid the lush foliage, they waited, crossbows in hand, for Tohre's troop of Temple Guards. They were nervous, even though they were seasoned warriors, but when they looked at the calm, cool stare of the masked man who waited, arms crossed against his wide chest, they felt less anxious about the outcome of the day's fight. It was near sundown when the jingle of harness echoed through the trees. Heads came up and crossbows were nocked with quarrels. The men formed a loose circle around one section of the trail leading to the Cave of the Winds. Their black and tan clothing allowed them to blend in with the dark green foliage. No metal gleamed on their weapons; no sound came from them. They were to be a deadly surprise to the unsuspecting men who cantered into the overgrown clearing. "We'll camp here for tonight!" a rough voice called from the advancing troop. The speaker motioned for his men to dismount, totally unaware of the eyes watching their every move. When they dismounted, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Ten men, their crossbows nocked and aimed, stepped from the forest covering. "Hey!" the leader of the troop barked. "What's the meaning of this? Who are you?" Not a sound came from the intruders with their deadly aimed quarrels. They had completely encircled the troop of twenty-odd men. Each crossbow carried five arrows, each pointed at the men before them. Each archer had been handpicked and trained by Chase Montyne of Ionary, the best archer in all the kingdoms. "I asked who you are?" The leader licked his lips.

"Tell your men to lay down their weapons," Egret told him. "We want your goods, not your lives, but we'll take one with the other, if need be." Before the leader could say a word, his men unsheathed their swords and daggers and tossed them away, backing up against their horses as though for protection. "We want no trouble with you," the leader squawked as he unbuckled his sword and let it drop. "Take whatever you want." One moment the entrance to the Cave was unobstructed, the next a figure emerged into the strong wind of the forest, his black cape billowing behind him. Not even his own men knew how he had come to be inside the Cave. They were as shocked as the troops when the Darkwind strode purposefully into the clearing. From the tips of his black leather boots to the tips of his black-gloved hands, from the black swirling cape to the cowl that rested on the back of his head, the figure who strode forward gave off a menacing aura, holding every man's attention. Even those who rode with him. Conar stopped in front of the leader and stared hard at him. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but there was something in the way he looked at the troop leader that made the men think of a coiled serpent readying himself to strike. "I…I done what you asked, Lord Darkwind," the leader stammered. "Me and my men, we done dropped our weapons. We won't give you no trouble, sir." Inside the lining of his mask, Conar smiled. He could smell the man's terror. "What you looking at, sir?" the man whispered. "I ain't gonna do you no harm. My men and me…we…we'll just keep out of your way." The leader took a step backward, but the Darkwind followed. The man's eyes widened in fear. Conar swung back his cape, displaying the lethal three-foot blade that rested on his left hip. He watched the leader's gaze jerk to the sword, then back to his face. "Egret?" Conar called as he undid the button as his throat. Rushing forward, Egret took the flowing cape from Conar's shoulders. He backed away, folding the material as he stepped. For the first time, the Darkwind's oddly-accented voice was cool, calm, almost cheerful as he directed his question to the leader. "You are called Kullen, am I correct?" The red-haired man, obviously terrified, didn't answer. Conar turned to the man standing beside him. His silent question hung in the air. It brought an immediate response from the man. "Aye, Milord! He's called Kullen. Tymothy Kullen!" Turning back to the leader, Conar impaled the trembling man with the force of his stare. "You were one of Galen McGregor's men." It wasn't a question, but a dire pronouncement. Kullen shook his head in denial. "No, sir! Never!" "You were one of his most trusted men." "I never worked for the man, Lord Darkwind!" Kullen stammered. "I only did one job for him and he didn't pay me for it!" He tried to back away but came up against his horse. Conar folded his arms over his chest. "You were the man who captured Conar McGregor; the one who brought him to the Tribunal's Inquisition Hall." There were mumbles among the men of the Wind Force; they pointed at the Temple Guard, nodded, spat on the ground.

"He was a guard there, Lord Darkwind!" one of the troop chimed in. "He worked for Robert MacCorkingdale!" "Shut your mouth!" Kullen snarled, looking at the man who had spoken. "You worked there, too!" "Aye, but not doing whatyou did, Kullen!" The man stepped forward, ignoring the crossbows aimed at his heart, and went to his knees. "Lord Darkwind, I was one of the men that worked there, at the Inquisition Hall, but I had nothing to do with what happened to the young Prince. I tried to help him when I could." Conar swept the man with sharp regard. "I am aware of that." He returned his attention to Kullen. "This job you did for Galen McGregor? What was it?" Kullen swallowed hard, urine staining his trousers. He moaned. When the Darkwind took a step closer, Kullen put up his hands. "I only did what MacCorkingdale told me to do!" "And what was that?" "It was the Prince who told me where to find his brother, but MacCorkingdale was the one what gave the order." "The order to do—what?" Conar took another step closer. "Please, Milord! Please! I was only doing my job, I was! I was only doing what I was told!" "You were the one who went after Conar McGregor. The one who nearly killed him when you brutally beat him into unconsciousness in the grotto at Boreas Keep." "That was this bastard?" one of the men from the Force bellowed. He moved toward Kullen, pushing aside one of the men of the Temple troop. "Let me kill him, Lord Darkwind! Let me kill the bastard!" Conar held up his hand until the man stilled, then folded it against his chest once more. "I was only doing what I was told!" Kullen shoved away his horse, but he moved only three steps before the circle of the Force closed in. "You enjoyed your work didn't you, Kullen?" Conar's question was deceptively soft. "No!" Kullen bellowed. "No. I only done what I was ordered to do! I didn't enjoy it none!" Conar uncrossed his arms. "You not only enjoyed it, you bragged about it to the jailers when you brought McGregor in." "He did!" one of the Temple Guards confirmed. "I heard him laughing about how one couldn't recognize the Prince when he'd finished with him!" "No, no, Milord! That ain't so!" Kullen was breathing hard. "I never laid a hand on the boy!" "You shouldn't lie, Kullen. Lies can be deadly. Be careful how you answer me. I'll ask you one more time. Did you enjoy beating Conar McGregor into unconsciousness?" Licking his lips, Kullen wiped his dirty hand across his mouth. He looked at his men, at Conar's, obviously seeing no help, then turned back to the masked man. "I am waiting, Kullen." "Please, Lord Darkwind! These men will kill me if I admit something like that! My own men might kill me!" "You got that right," the man kneeling snarled. "You have nothing whatsoever to fear from these men, Kullen. I won't let them hurt you. All I want is the truth from your lips." Kullen whimpered with fear. "Aye." "Aye, what, Kullen?"

More urine trickling down his quivering thighs, Kullen cried out, his voice thick with hysteria. "Aye, Lord Darkwind! I enjoyed it! I enjoyed beating him!" Not a single word was spoken; no one turned away from the two men facing one another. They watched Kullen shiver from head to toe, the Darkwind standing stiff as a rapier blade. "And you would have killed him if you had been given the choice, wouldn't you? As a matter of fact, you begged Galen McGregor to let you finish him off, didn't you?" "Aye, Lord Darkwind," the man sniffled. He wiped his running nose on the back of his filthy sleeve. "I did." "Why?" Kullen stared at Lord Darkwind. "What?" "Why did you want to kill him? What had he ever done to you?" The Raven's voice was hypnotic, his foreign accent almost seductive. Kullen began to cry in earnest, his voice trembling. "He sent me to the Labyrinth, sir! I was only paying him back for sending me to the Labyrinth." Darkwind nodded. "And why would he have sent you to prison? What did you do that warranted his anger?" "I tried to rob him! At the Hound and Stag. I tried to rob him!" The smile came back to Conar's lips. "And kill him, too, I'll warrant. McGregor was only defending himself. Isn't that true? Why try to kill him?" "Prince Galen paid me and my men to rob him and beat him up, then bring him back to Norus. If the little bastard hadn't fought so well, I wouldn't have wanted to kill him! He ought not to have fought me so good, but I made him pay for it in the Grotto! I beat him 'til he was a bloody mess, then let my men have him. We would have killed him if Prince Galen hadn't stopped us." Conar went still as death. "Egret!" he called. "Take these other men inside the cave and keep them there." "Aye, Lord Darkwind!" Egret shouted, motioning his men to herd the others into the cave. He came up short when Conar called out once more. "Take this with you. I won't be needing it." Conar's hands were on the buckle of the baldric that held his lethal-looking blade. "Are you sure, Milord?" "I need no weapon against this motherless bastard." Conar handed his sword and belt to Egret, drew off his black gloves, handing them over as well. "Keep the men inside with you. Keep them well away from the entrance. I want no one to view what goes on here." Kullen whimpered and sank to his knees. *** After Egret left with his men, Tymothy Kullen watched as the black fabric came away from Darkwind's bearded face. His brows drew together. There was something vaguely familiar about that cold, hard face looking down at him. "Take a good look at me, Kullen," the Darkwind ordered. "Take a long, hard look at me." Kullen knew deep in his soul he would never live to tell another human being what this man looked like. There was strength and purpose in the Darkwind that would have stopped any man from going for his sword. "Don't you remember me, Kullen?" At the Dark Overlord's words, spoken so calmly, so matter-of-factly, Kullen knew his death was imminent. "I don't know you, man!" he hissed, anger surfacing from his fatalistic knowledge that he was going to die.

"Then you'd better look closer." Kullen was aware that there was no longer an alien accent to the man's words. He was speaking in a soft, cultivated Serenian drawl. In tones such as the royals used. "Imagine this face without the beard, without the scars. Imagine it eight years younger, eight years less harrowed. See it with the eyes of a man bent on destroying it, then I think you'll remember!" At first Kullen couldn't fathom what the Darkwind was talking about, but as he stared into the hard midnight-blue pupils, the eyes seemed to change color. They became lighter, much lighter; they sparkled a clear, cornflower blue. He peered closely at the long blond hair that had been hidden beneath the mask, imagined it short, could almost feel what that hair would be like in his fist. He looked at the straight nose, saw it twisted, could almost see blood spurting from it. He shook his head to clear away the image and envisioned the cruel, grinning lips split and bleeding. When the tawny brow raised in challenge of what he was being made to see, Kullen knew. "No," he whispered. "No!" Conar's mouth stretched into an evil, knowing grin. "What's wrong, Kullen? Is there too much left of the face you tried to destroy to know for a certainty who I am?" "It can't be," Kullen mumbled, shaking his head. "McGregor is dead. You ain't him!" Conar's cold, deadly smiled faded. He took a step closer. "By the time I am finished with you, you whoring bastard, you will wish to every god that Iwas dead!" He lashed out with his right fist, catching Kullen across the nose, breaking it and sending a gush of red blood out of both nostrils. *** Less than fifteen minutes later, the same amount of time it had taken Kullen to batter Conar McGregor into unconsciousness, Tymothy Kullen lay dead. What was left of his face was a red, pulpy carnage of broken bone and cartilage. With Conar's hands clamped tightly across his lips and nose, he had choked to death on his own blood. Conar donned his mask and joined the others inside the cave just as the moon began to show itself over the crest of the Cave of the Winds. He took the sword Egret silently handed him and buckled it on. He could feel Egret looking at his cracked, bleeding knuckles and knew that was why the man didn't bother handing him his gloves. "Have some men take care of the body. Tell Condor I am on my way to Eagle's aerie. I will be there if he needs me. Take the shipment of goods with you. And as for these prisoners…" He eyed the men sitting along the cave wall, their hands tied to their ankles. He nodded toward the one who had informed him of the leader's identity. "Let him go and do whatever you like with the rest." He turned to go. "Did you avenge him, Milord?" Egret asked. "Who?" Egret smiled sadly. "We loved him well, Lord Darkwind. The young Prince from Serenia, I mean. He was a good man. He might not have been our liege lord, but each of us had met him at one time or another." Behind the mask, Conar smiled. "That was why you were chosen for this particular mission." "We are loyal to him and his. If you made it right for his widow and family, we are obliged," one of the others called. Conar walked toward the cave entrance. Over his shoulder, he spoke softly. "I only did what Conar McGregor never had the chance to do."

Chapter 20

Kaileel Tohre stared at the messenger. "Repeat what you said." "Holiness, please don't be angry at me. I—" "There is no entrance into the Labyrinth?" Kaileel buried his hands in the messenger's tunic and shook him. "There has to be an entrance!" "We spent two days trying to find a way in, Holiness," the man whimpered. "The spot where you had marked on the map was there, but it was sealed shut. We couldn't open it." Spittle drooled from the corner of the messenger's mouth. "Did you find either of the transport ships?" Tohre shouted. "They have vanished, Holiness. But there is that ship—" Kaileel shoved the man away. "Don't tell me tales of that damned ship!" "But, Holiness, itis black. If it isn't theVortex or the—" Tohre struck the messenger's mouth. "I won't hear of it!" "If you will but—" "Get out!" Tohre screamed. The messenger backed out of the room. Tohre stalked to his window and flung open the portal. "Who could have sealed the entrance? Saur?" He leaned out of his window, his attention caught by a shooting star coursing across the heavens. "Has he returned after all? Are the rumors true?" He closed his eyes, sending his thoughts far to the south, to the arid land of Tyber's Isle. He crossed the hot sands, ran his hands along the bluff's hidden entrance, and found nothing. "But why was the entrance sealed?" he repeated, gulping in breaths of cold mountain air. "Why?" He tried again, sending his mind out over the ocean, seeking an image, a voice, a feeling. When nothing came, he realized what must have happened. He clenched his fists so hard that he drove a nail into the palm of his hand. Kaileel Tohre threw back his head and let out an inhuman bellow of rage that echoed over the snow-covered mountains and hung in the air like a death knell. "You're free, aren't you?" Tohre whispered, his heart skipping beats. "Saur found you and has set you free! You're home, aren't you?" He gathered the velvet drapes in his hands and began to rend the material. His teeth ground against themselves; his lips drew back in a vicious snarl. "Damn you! Damn you!" With his full attention on the velvet he was shredding, he didn't hear his captain of the guard enter the chamber. When he became aware of the man's presence, he turned and screamed. "What the hell do you want?" "Perhaps I should come back, Holi—" Tohre leapt over the distance separating them and closed his hands around the captain's neck. "What is it?" His thumbs pressed hard into the man's throat. "Holiness—please!" the man gasped, trying to drag the hands from his throat. "It's about—the Darkwind!" Tohre's breathing stilled. His hands came away from the man's body. Turning his back, he stared sightlessly out the window. "Leave!" The door opened and closed almost within the same moment.

It made sense now. All of it. Corbin's disappearance. The shipments of gold stolen. The sacrifices retaken. Ships lost at sea. That damnable black ship called theRavenwind. At that moment, all of it made perfectly logical sense. Tohre's hands trembled. He brought them up to his face and looked at them. A low moan escaped his parted lips and he sank to the floor. Alone in his chambers, Kaileel Tohre began to cry. For the first time in his long life, he was afraid. Everything he had planned, schemed over the years, was on the point of destruction. And he knew who to thank for that. Aye, he thought in panic—someone had set him free. Conar McGregor was back. And back with a vengeance that had a name— The Dark Overlord of the Wind: The Raven!

Chapter 21 Bent put his feet on the rich, fertile soil of Chale and smiled. He had been riding for three days and was tired, dusty, hungry, and sore. He was looking forward to a night spent in the Nighthawk's aerie before leaving the next morning for the long trip back to Serenia. Hopefully with Conar in tow. He made his way to the temple only to be told that Nighthawk had gone to Oceania with a friend, a masked man in black who had a rather strange accent. His head shaking back and forth with exasperation, Bent wearily remounted his horse and set off for the sea land of Oceania. *** While Bent was urging his horse to a faster canter along the border between Chale and Oceania, four men were sitting down to dinner in the newly reconstructed palace in the capital of Oceania. Wine flowed freely, too freely for one of the men, and the others regarded him with mild alarm. Chand Wynth was doodling on a scrap of paper, but his attention wandered often to the man sitting across the table. He would follow the man's hand from table to goblet to mouth to table. He had followed that hand so often the count soon eluded him. He was sure it was well over forty, since there were four bottles of spent wine on the table before his friend. He looked at what he had been writing and winced. What Kaileel Tohre wouldn't give for a look at this, he thought. He crumpled the paper and tossed it into the nearby fireplace. The paper landed in the flames, and burned with more speed than it should have. Perhaps, he thought with a giddy laugh, the gods, Themselves, didn't want even the flames to read what he had written. It had been a list of the men involved in the Wind Force, the powers behind it, their real names, their code names, the aeries, or keeps, where these men and their troops trained. It wasn't even wise to put on paper such vital information, and Chand shuddered. Tyne Brell, the Nighthawk, slumped in his chair. "What I'm saying, Grice, is that he may have to be terminated. If he

breathes a word of what we are planning, we are all done for." "There has to be another way. He's been a good man until now. I hate to kill a man for one slip of the tongue. We've all made mistakes when we were angry. He meant nothing by it. He just got carried away." Grice's attention was caught by a servant who brought a fresh bottle of wine to the man seated beside him. He frowned, but kept his mouth shut. "Tyne is right," Chand said. "We might get carried away on our shields if Nightingale opens his mouth again." Grice sighed. "I disagree. We'll give him one more chance." He looked to the man beside him. "What do you think, Conar?" There was a burst of arrogant laughter. "I'm in no condition to think anything. He's one of Tyne's men—let him make the decision." Grice looked at Tyne, but spoke to Conar. "You should be the one to decide the man's fate. You are the commander of the Force." Conar laughed again, and his words were slurred, cold and unfeeling. "I can't even command my fucking legs to move. How the hell am I supposed to sit in judgment?" He tried to stand to prove his point and bumped into the table before he crashed back down into his chair. He blinked, then fell forward, unconscious. Grice barely had time to put out an arm to keep him from banging face first onto the tabletop. With a hard edge to his voice, Grice glanced at his brother. "Help me get him upstairs, again." After Conar had been put to bed, the three men sat around the fireplace, the late spring day having turned unseasonably chill. They held their hands toward the flames. "Something is going to have to be done about him," Tyne ventured. "I know," Wynth sighed. "It seems like the only time the man's sober is just before a raid. An hour after that, he's deep in his cups again." "It's as though he can't abide being aware of the things going on around him," Chand said. "Did I show you the note from Chase?" Tyne asked. When the others shook their heads, he told them what had been written. "He found the man he was looking for. What was his name?" "Kullen?" Chand asked. "Chase said his men buried Kullen when Conar was through with him." "I'm almost afraid to ask what he did," Grice said. "He gave tit for tat," Tyne mumbled. "He beat the man to death with his bare hands. There wasn't anything left to recognize when Conar got through with the bastard." "How many men has he killed from that sick list of his?" Grice asked. Chand looked at the ceiling. "At last count, he had four names left. That was before Kullen." He turned his backside to the fire. "We all know who's at the top of that list." "Well, he's added one more," Tyne quipped. "Chase got word from Conar to send an inquiry to Rylan concerning a High Priest named Robbie MacCorkingdale. Any time Conar wants information about a man, he ends up on that list." Grice shot out his long legs to the fire. "We should return him to Boreas. Brelan's had men looking for him. Holm and Paegan are bringing the ship into the harbor at the end of the week. I suggest we put him on board and ship him to Brelan." "You wanted to go see your sister. Now is as good a time as any. Why don't you accompany him?" Tyne asked. "Why don't we all go?" Chand remarked. "We can get word to the others and they can be there when we arrive."

"That's rather dangerous, don't you think?" Tyne asked. "All of us gathered in the same place at the same time?" Chand shrugged. "Not with Occultus' help. We'll send word that Conar is in trouble. Tell Occultus that we need to sit him down and talk with him before he gets his bloody self killed. I think Ching-Ching and Pearl should come, too." "He sure as hell won't like us ganging up on him," Grice reminded his brother. "It's betterwe are the ones ganging up on him than some of Tohre's men!" *** The huge ship that lay at anchor in the harbor of Sea Drift Keep awed Bent. He stared at the soaring masts with their burden of black sail being furled. The ship's sleek hull, black as a starless night, rode the gently lapping water with a majestic insolence that made him sure it was a fighting ship that had no equal. He looked at the red Raven insignia on the topmast and his heart filled with pride. One of Grice's bodyguards hurried over. "Be ye the man they call Bent?" Bent smiled. "I was expected?" "No, but ye be needed!" The guard jerked his head toward the keep. "Best ye hurry, man." As he entered the keep behind the guard, Bent heard shouts and vehement curses. The voice making all the noise became music to Bent's ears. He laughed and followed the sound of breaking glass. He came up short in the doorway leading to what had to be an office. Stunned, his mouth dropped open. If the black ship had put him in awe, what he was now seeing was something akin to a religious experience. Standing on top of a long desk, totally minus his clothing, Conar brandished his sword at the men gathered around him, who were obviously attempting to get him off the desk and the deadly weapon out of his hands. He lunged at Paegan Hesar, and the boy backed off with a grin. "I'll gut you, you little tadpole!" Conar shouted at the youngest Viragonian Prince. Rylan laughed. "If he doesn't fillet himself first." "Get off that desk. I'm not going to tell you again!" Grice Wynth was obviously losing his temper. "I'mnot going!" Conar took a wild swing with the sword and nearly slipped off the polished edge of the desk. "Papa would roll over in his grave if he saw you up there. Get down. Now!" Bent had been through similar scenes with Conar and knew how to handle him. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward, his huge hands raised to show he was unarmed. "Come down, Milord," he said quietly. "Or I'll pull the table out from under you." And he could, too. Conar turned a mean scowl to this new intrusion. "Stay away from me you over-sized troll! I'll take your lopsided head off this time!" "No, you won't, Your Grace." Bent smiled at the immediate fury in Conar's face at the use of his former title, which he absolutely hated. "You'll shout and you'll bluster, but in the end, you'll topple off the desk and into my arms like you've done a dozen times. I'll tuck you in bed real nice-like, and you can go to sleep—" "I won't do it, Bent!" "But you will, Your Grace." Bent spoke to him in a tone usually reserved for little boys who had gotten themselves into mischief. "I'll not be condescended to, Bent. I won't!" "You have no choice, Your Grace." "Stop calling me that!" "There are six of us to your one. You can't take us all on. Put down the little weapon before you get hurt."

Bent knew just the right words to make Conar so angry he forgot about the other men. In his raging fury, he flew off the table and onto the giant, knocking them both to the floor. It was only a matter of seconds before the others had Conar securely wedged between them on the floor. Kicking out with his bare feet, he likely hurt himself more than he did the men, but he struggled anyway. He was caught fast in their strong hands. "Damn your crossed eyes!" "You can damn the man all you want," Grice snapped "but we are taking your ass back to Boreas. You can go clothed or with all your glory hanging out. Which will it be?" Glowering at the men, Conar lowered his head a fraction, but the hot anger continued. "Will you behave now?" someone asked. "Go to hell!" Their answer came in unison: "We've been there!"

Chapter 22 He stood rigid at the rail, glaring at the waters slipping swiftly past the ship's hull. Now and again he would glower at whomever happened to pass by. Their leering smiles only infuriated him more. He would squint at them and turn his back, cursing them all. Conar didn't want to go back to Serenia. Not now. Not yet. He wasn't ready for what was in Serenia. Not now. Maybe not ever. He watched as a dolphin jumped out in the water. They weren't far from land, he thought with a grimace of distaste. Another hour should see them home. Home. He hated the word. He didn't have a home any more. He wasn't really sure he ever had. "We're doing this for your own good, Conar," Holm had told him when they had manhandled him on board the Ravenwind. If the men knew what was good for him, Conar thought with a sinking heart, they wouldn't be taking him back to Boreas Keep. Nevertheless, he was glad someone cared enough about him to take care of him. He couldn't have cared less about himself. He had wanted to know if he could soar with the eagles and had learned he could not only soar with them, he could fly faster and higher. He had nothing left to prove. And everything in the world to lose by going back to Boreas Keep. *** A runner informed Liza that the black ship was sighted nearing the harbor. She had been a mass of nerves all day, waiting for news of its arrival. It had been almost seven years since she had last seen her brothers, Grice and Chand. They had been sending letters for the past three, but letters could not replace actually holding them and knowing they were safe. But as overjoyed as she was about seeing them, she was just that terrified of the Darkwind's arrival.

It had been six months since he had come into her bedroom that ill-fated night. She knew in her heart he had not forgotten her promise to him. It was only a matter of time before he would wish to collect the debt. Brelan had tried to explain why the man had left Boreas. "He felt guilty about the babe, Elizabeth. He blamed himself." She had looked at her friend, the father of her daughter, with astonishment. "Why should he care what happened to my babe?" Brelan looked away from her. "He's lost children of his own. He knows what it feels like, Sweeting." "He has a wife?" she whispered, not having thought of the possibility. That would make her promise to him even harder to keep. "He used to," Brelan said cryptically. "What happened to her?" "He thinks she left him for another man." Liza thought she understood the Darkwind's anger then, his fury toward her. If he had been one of Conar's Elite, which she believed, he must look upon her marriage to Legion as a betrayal of sorts. She said as much to Brelan. "He's been hurt, Elizabeth." Saur's face filled with pain. "And he thinks hurting others will help. We've all tried to show him that's not true, but he won't listen." A shout from the sea wall brought Liza's attention back to the present. She saw the black sails entering the harbor. "Legion! They're here!" Sliding into the harbor, the black ship was a sight to behold. People stopped work and watched as it anchored. Its brass rails caught the sunlight and flashed reflections across the rippling water. The huge anchor dropped into the water with a resounding crash. The big gangplank eased down on well-oiled hinges and connected with the long dock. Sailors scurried about her decks and secured the lines, called to one another with instructions. "I don't see them," Liza said uneasily, peering over Brelan's tall shoulder. "There they are!" Gezelle cried, no doubt searching for Chand Wynth. Grice and Chand came off the gangplank at a run, their arms outstretched. Liza ran to them. They lifted her between them, hugging her close. Words were spoken that they would not likely remember, but the love they would. The love and the devotion of brothers to their sister. Of family. Grice chuckled. "Where are my nephews and niece? I've come three hundred miles to spoil them!" Tyne and Paegan joined the others on the quay, each venturing a shy kiss for Liza, who greeted them. "You're Paegan?" She grinned, looking into his handsome face. "The last time I saw you was at Norus." "That was theonly time you saw me, Milady," he said, blushing. "I wasn't exactly at my best." Liza smiled, thinking of Paegan when he was a young man. He had managed to escape his brother's authority—or so Paegan had thought—by posing as a guard at Norus Keep. It was on the evening she and Conar had traveled to that storm-ridden fortress that she made the acquaintance of the dashing young warrior. "Conar was teasing you unmercifully, as I remember," she said with fond memory. "He still—" Tyne stepped forward and interrupted. "Yes, he would be if he was here, Milady. It's been a long time, Liza. How've you been?" "Very well, Tyne, thank you. Welcome to Boreas."

*** Tyne, heading up the ramp with the Wynth brothers and Paegan, shook hands with Brelan, Legion, Teal, and a panting Roget du Mer, who said he had come at a run when he heard news of the ship's arrival. The men hugged Sentian, Storm, and Thom, and playfully punched a quiet Chase Montyne. "So where is he?" asked an annoyed bass voice. Tyne looked into the black, scowling face of Shalu Taborn, the Necromanian King. "It's nice to see you, too, old friend." Shalu made a contemptuous motion with his hand. "I did not come all this way to see you, Brell!" His words were harsh, but the gleam in his brown eyes gave off unmistakable affection. "Well, now, I never thought you did," Tyne replied smugly and held out his arm. Shalu pursed his lips into a fierce grimace, but he circled Tyne's wrist with his large hand. "Always the politician, eh, Brell?" "We do what we can, Taborn." Tyne jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "We had some trouble with him." "Didn't want to come?" Jah-Ma-El asked as he joined them, taking Tyne's hand in his. "You smell better," Tyne quipped, sniffing. "Are you ill?" Jah-Ma-El's chin lifted. "What kind of trouble did he give you?" "Fought us tooth and nail. He's been drinking too much. It makes him hard to control." Jah-Ma-El looked at Shalu. "I told you, didn't I?" Shalu glared. "You tell me a lot of things!" Rylan joined them. "I tried all I could when he was with me. Chase tried. I would imagine Grice did, too. Bre told me he couldn't get anywhere with him. What else is there to do?" "I can take his ass down a peg or two!" Shalu snapped. "He'll not get by doing that with me! Am I right, Ching-Ching?" "For once in your life," the Chrystallusian said from his place beside the seawall. Holm snorted as he joined the men. "He's giving them just as much trouble about gettingoff the ship as he did getting on !" "Why didn't he want to come home?" Jah-Ma-El asked. "Let him stay on the ship until everyone has left the quay." Shalu's voice was sullen with pique. "He isn't going anywhere. Then, if he doesn't come off of his own accord, I'll get him." *** The object of everyone's discussion took that precise moment to tread heavily down the gangplank, his back ramrod straight, with Bent close on his heels. The masked Darkwind ignored the calls of welcome and totally ignored the black-haired queen and her husband, who both moved well out of his way as he passed. "Morning, Highnesses!" Bent called as he hurried past Legion and Liza, standing with Brelan, Grice, and Chand. "In a foul mood, I take it?" Legion remarked. "What do you think of the ship?" Brelan asked, trying to change the subject. "She's magnificent," Legion replied. "What do you call her?" "TheRavenwind."

Roget headed their way, his face livid with anger. He let out an exasperated breath as he reached Brelan. "He got away from Bent." "What?" Brelan felt like screaming. "Once they got up to the seawall, Bent heard someone call his name. He turned to greet them. When he looked back, our Overlord was nowhere in sight." Brelan sighed. "Have everybody start looking. Make sure the liquor is locked up and guarded." He ground his teeth. "Withtwo guards."

Chapter 23 Liza looked around, but saw no one. Her forehead wrinkled; her brows drew together in question. Though she knew she was alone in the solar, she also knew she was being watched. The hair along her arms and neck stirred, while a tingle in her fingertips told her whomever was watching her was unlikely to be seen. Although, she detected no ill will—her acutely-tuned senses would have warned her otherwise. Nevertheless, whomever was scrutinzing her was getting on her nerves. "Who's there?" she asked, no longer looking around, but frowning down at the book in her hands. A slight sound, just a tiny movement in the air surrounding her, made her glance up. A rather large man slipped quietly from the solar and disappeared into the keep. She sat for a moment, the tales of the Darkwind's bodyguards flitting through her mind, and wondered why they had not found him yet. Marking her place in the book, she laid it in her lap. For five days he had been missing. The men were searching the countryside, relatively sure he hadn't left the immediate vicinity. As far as she knew, every nook and cranny in the keep, every nearby hut and inn and hostel had been gone through, but his men had come up empty-handed. A nagging worry began to form in Liza's mind. There was no trace of the Darkwind. His steed, that hell-spawned black beast, now under heavy guard lest he try to take it, was in the keep's stable. His belongings, transferred from the ship to one of the sleeping chambers, also had a close watch placed over them in case he tried to claim the daggers and sword, now legends throughout the Seven Kingdoms. No one had seen him, and no one had witnessed him leave the seawall that day, although there had been nearly a hundred people milling about the docks. The nagging worry prodded Liza with a cold dread. She stood, put the book in her chair, and walked to the row of wide, tall windows. She studied the garden, but it was not the scenery Liza A'Lex saw, but rather the pattern forming in her agile, fertile mind, and the implications unsettled her. Her first thought was of the way the Darkwind could get in and out of the keep unnoticed. She knew of the secret passages, but their locations were not common knowledge. Though guards continually monitored those entrances, the Darkwind could come and go at will. Her second thought was of the way he could simply disappear with people around. She'd once heard Brelan's angry remarks to Roget du Mer, and knew he had pulled that stunt more times than Brelan thought prudent or safe. And then there was his ability to send shivers down her spine with those alien eyes. Something in them was not in an ordinary man's eyes, no matter the color. They were hard, cold, deadly, with a spark that Liza found chilling. She suspected there was also great cruelty in those midnight orbs, and that they had seen more pain and suffering than a

man should ever know. Last, but not least, was the feeling she got every time she was near him. She would tremble for no apparent reason, afraid, wary of him and his motives. Alarmed at the hate she heard in his strangely-inflected, rasping voice. She turned from the window and stared sightlessly at the hothouse plants surrounding her. Only one breed of man could do what the Darkwind did and not get caught. Only one type of man could blend into his surroundings, like the plants in this room blended one against the other. Only one manner of man could simply disappear without a trace. And Liza knew how he must have done it. A shiver ran down her spine and she wrapped her arms around her. Why hadn't she thought of it before? Why hadn't her senses warned her? It had been a long time since she had been able to perform more than common magic. The greater powers she had held during Conar's lifetime had dwindled, year after year, tear after tear, until she simply refused to try using her gods-given talents. The last time she had used them had been with Tohre, and she had been so sickened by where he had taken her, by his obvious undying lust for her dead husband, she had not ventured again into the realm of the preternatural. Oh, she had sent messages to Corbin in the Abbey. That much was simple enough. But she had not communed with the Great Lady, nor her mother. Nor had she ventured to the Shadowlands since she had gone there to ask for Conar's life many, many years, and many, many tears, before. But even though she had not utilized her gift, she knew as surely as she knew the gently falling rain outside would stop, that the Darkwind was a magic-sayer. The gods help us, she thought. Another shiver ran down her spine. No, her thoughts amended—the gods helpme! *** Ordinarily, Liza would not have listened in on a conversation that did not concern her, had prided herself in her ability not to eavesdrop. But for some unfathomable reason, she chose to remain in the window seat when Sentian and Roget met in the hallway of the upper sleeping chambers. There was something in Sentian's normally calm face that made Liza press herself against the damask drapes, drawing up her knees so she would not be seen. "We've found him," Sentian whispered, relief in his tone. "Is he all right?" Roget answered, worry in his voice. "Hung over, but otherwise fine. It was a long, long night." "Where'd you find him?" "In a tavern in town. Apparently we didn't send the right men to ask the right questions, or else we just overlooked the obvious." "What do you mean, "the right men"?" Sentian lowered his voice, but it carried to Liza just the same. "The landlord was hiding him in an attic." "Hiding him?" An ominous tone crept into Roget's voice. Although Roget's back was to her, blocking Sentian's view of her, Liza peeked around the drapes and clearly saw her Sentinel's face. He blushed. "The man and his wife told me they recognized him as soon as he came in. They said he was as drunk as a sailor. Didn't have on his mask, either." Roget groaned. "The landlord's name is Harry Ruck. He and his wife used to own a little wayside inn near Norus. He said his wife nearly died from fright when she looked up from her bread-making and saw our Overlord in her kitchen."

"What the hell was he doing in her kitchen?" Roget snapped. "How the hell should I know, Hawk? At any rate, Ruck said he was peeling spuds for his wife and dropped the lot of them on the floor. He thought he was seeing a ghost." Liza's forehead crinkled.A ghost?What did that mean? Did Meggie know the Darkwind's indentity? "They know who he is," Sentian sighed. "They recognized him?" Horror filled Roget's voice. "He smiled and called the lady by name." Roget groaned. "Shit!" Meggie, Liza said to herself, you'll be getting a visit from me very soon, old friend! "Anyway," Sentian said, "they managed to take him upstairs and get him to bed." "They could have turned him over to one of Tohre's men!" "They could have, but didn't." "That's not the point!" Roget shouted. Sentian shushed him. Roget's angry voice lowered. "Did anyone else there recognize him?" "Ruck said he'd been looking for Thom Loure to come to the tavern. I told him Loure was searching around Corinth, so that's why his messages never reached Thommy. He knew he could trust Thom, and said the only other two he trusted were Legion and Teal, but he didn't think Darkwind wanted him to send word to them." "He got that right!" Roget shot back. Why not? Liza wondered. Would Legion and Teal, knowing the man's identity, put him in danger? Surely not. Or would their knowing cause the Darkwind problems? "So how did you come to find out where he was?" Roget snapped. "They knew me on sight. I'd gone in to get a bite to eat and the landlord came to my table and asked if I was looking for 'anything in particular.'" A rueful smile touched Sentian's full lips. "Fool that I am, I said I'd heard they had good corned beef and cabbage and thought I'd like to try it." He laughed. "I wondered at the odd look he gave me, but I was so damned hungry it didn't register." "Will you just get on with it?" Roget asked impatiently. "Ruck sent this slutty-looking wench to get my food, then sat at my table. I thought he was just being friendly, until he fixed me with a look that got my attention. He asked if there might not be something else I was looking for. I thought he meant a woman—" "Heil!" "All right!" Sentian snapped. "He gripped my arm and lowered his voice. He said 'I know you have been looking for lost treasure, something lost a long time ago. Something we all cherished.' I knew then they had our lost leader. I also knew Ruck and his wife were loyal." "Then they took you up to him?" "He was sitting at a table swilling down ale like there was no tomorrow. He told me to get the hell out of there." "He's been there all these days?" Liza saw Sentian nod, but her thoughts were on the innkeeper's words. What did he mean by 'lost treasure'? Why

should that make her spine tingle and her palms itch? "I asked Ruck how long he'd had been drunk, and he said ever since he'd stumbled into their kitchen." "And they didn't think to cut him off, I suppose?" Indignation filled Roget's voice. "I don't think they had the heart to deny him." "What happened when he told you to leave?" "You know him. He got loud, pissed, and ugly. I managed to take away the bottle, and I popped him one. Drunk as he was, he went out like a light. The landlady said that was the first time he'd been asleep in three days. I went downstairs to see if any of our men were there to help me bring him back, but I didn't see anyone I knew we could trust. I wasn't worried about leaving him, because I knew the Rucks would guard him with their lives." "So he's still there?" "Snoring like a bull, lying dead to the world. I knew I had to get word to you or Brelan, so I went back downstairs and saw one of our men just coming in. I sent him to find Brelan. I went upstairs to wait and when I walked in the door, Ruck was holding our Overlord while his wife was changing the linens—he'd puked. I asked why they didn't leave him in his damned mess—I was so pissed at him for scaring us—but Ruck said it wouldn't be proper." Liza's heart thudded wildly in her ribcage. Perspiration dampened her upper lip, but it wasn't because she was encased in a closed-in nook, surrounded by heavy damask drapes. "We can't let the Tribunal catch him again," Roget swore. "Next time they really might kill him." Liza clasped her hands over her mouth to keep from crying out. "You should have seen their faces, Hawk, when Ruck and I turned him over so the woman could wash his back. That lady's knees buckled. I had to catch her before she fell. I thought she was gonna start screaming when she saw those whip marks." Liza's world revolved to a grinding, screeching halt. She whimpered against the pain flooding her system. Her heart skipped beats, thudding painfully in her chest. Her palms grew sticky with sweat as they pressed to her mouth so tightly she could taste blood where her teeth gouged into her upper lip. "Yes, the Rucks will protect him, Hawk. When I left, that woman was sitting on the bed, cradling him like he was a four-year old. She kept calling him her 'bonny boy.'" Liza couldn't see her Sentinel's face, for she had pressed herself close to the windowsill, but she could hear the compassion in his voice. "She was crying, Hawk. Crying so hard the bed trembled, but that might have been 'cause the woman weighs close to three hundred pounds. I told her not to worry, that he'd be fine, and she looked at me and said everything would be fine now. Now that her lad was home." "Just so he's kept away from anyone who might remember him." Roget had nothing to worry about, Liza decided. She hadn't remembered him. Legion hadn't remembered him. Dear god, she thought,no one had remembered him. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Brownie, the little dog, had not forgotten her master. Brown Stuff had been overjoyed, yet no one had questioned why. Liza moaned. No wonder she felt so strangely when he was near her.

No wonder his eyes bore into hers with such hatred. No wonder his voice was cold and ugly when he spoke to her. He was home and no one had remembered him. She buried her face in her hands. Conar McGregor was alive and he was home!

Chapter 24 Sentian and Storm carried the unconscious Darkwind down the hall. Both men wore tight smiles on their faces when they spied Liza A'Lex standing at the end of the hall watching them. "How are you, Milady?" Sentian called. "Quite well, thank you, Sentian," she answered softly. Thom eased past them and headed for his Queen, a rather hesitant, unsure smile on his rubbery face. "Can I do something for you, Milady?" Thom asked, putting his broad back between her and the men struggling down the hallway with their load. Liza looked into his worried face and forced a smile of her own. "I thought I might be of help to you. I see you have found your wandering leader." She marveled at how normal her voice sounded. "Oh, we can take care of him." Thom said quickly, then dipped his bald head and his rubbery face turned a bright pink. "We're used to it." She nodded. "I would imagine you are, Thommy." Storm and Sentian had stopped at the closed portal to Darkwind's room. "Let me," Liza offered. She stepped around Thom, feeling air where his hand had tried to snatch her arm. She hurried to the two men and, not even looking at the Darkwind, opened the door. "Thank—thank you, Milady," Storm murmured. She went to touch the unconscious man's sagging head, but her fingers never reached the black mask. "Liza?" She flinched, her head jerking around to see her husband striding toward them. Her breath caught in her throat. She met him halfway between the stairs and Conar's room, and vaguely heard the door close behind Sentian, Storm, and Thom. "Brelan told me they found him. I hope you weren't planning on trying to help." Legion took her hand. Something told her now was not the time to tell Legion what she suspected about the Darkwind. She spared one glance at the closed door and turned back to her husband. "I was just going to see if he needed anything. He rescued our child. We owe him our hospitality." Legion frowned. "The man's a drunk. I don't think all the lavender elixir in the world could cure him. Besides, he has

his men to help him." His hand tightened around her arm and she allowed him to draw her toward the stairs. She could sense his jealousy and knew he didn't understand why he felt that way. She wondered if he would be so blasé with his guest's health if he knew Lord Darkwind's identity. *** Shalu jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I want to talk with him alone." From her chair beside the bed, Amber-lea looked at Conar. When he nodded consent, she laid down her sewing and slipped from the room. Bent followed her. On the big brass bed, Conar lay flat on his back, his hands clasped around the posts of the headboard. He stared at the ceiling, his teeth clenched. He already had a run-in with Roget and a shouting match with Brelan that morning, telling them he didn't appreciate being held prisoner in his own home. His blustering and yelling and throwing things hadn't swayed either man. Brelan had reluctantly, and with a great deal of snarling spite, found Amber-lea at Conar's request, which had calmed him somewhat. The girl seemed to have that effect on him. But Bent had been ordered to stay in the room and two guards stood outside his door. His mood rapidly disintegrated to one of rage. Shalu pulled up the vacant chair and propped his elbows on the mattress. "I can no longer allow you to create havoc with this Force." Conar's attention settled on Shalu, but he kept his mouth closed. "What you are doing to yourself is a sin. It is self-destructive and it will not be allowed to continue." Conar stared at the Necroman. There was no compromise written on that craggy face; there was no leeway in the set of Shalu Taborn's thick lips. There was only a strong man's assurance that what he was saying would be the way it would be. "You have to get on with your life, Conar. You have to put the past behind you." The black man nodded. "You have suffered. We all know that, and there is no one who deserves happiness more than you. But you will not find it in a bottle, my friend. You might find temporary forgetfulness, but when the numbness wears off, the same problems, the same pain, the same solutions will be there just like before. As will the memories." Conar turned his face away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Shalu leaned back in the chair. "You were once defeated, but you rose above it. You were down as far as you could go and you got back up. There has been nothing done to you that you haven't been able to endure." "No?" "No! They beat you and you survived. They tortured you and you survived. They did everything they could to break you, to humble you, to crush your spirit, and they couldn't. So why are you allowing the bottle to do what Kaileel Tohre failed to do?" Conar looked up at the ceiling. "I don't drink any more than anyone else!" His voice was bitter with hurt. "Oh, but you do, my friend. You drink until you pass out. You drink until you have no memory. You don't control what you drink—you let it control you." "That's not true!" "Isn't it? That's the same thing Tohre tried to do to you—to control you. To take away what will you had left. He wanted to make a slave of you. He didn't, but youhave become a slave to that bottle. Liquor makes you do things you would never do when you're sober. You have let it humble you, bring you to your knees, puking up your guts, and it will break you if you don't stop." He took hold of Conar's chin. "If it hasn't already." When Conar tried to jerk his head away, Shalu increased the pressure on his chin. "Drinking doesn't accomplish a damned thing! All it does is magnify your pain. It reminds you of your loss. Andthat, my fine young friend, is what this is all about, isn't it? What you've lost?"

Conar tried to knock away Shalu's hand, but the Necroman lashed out, effectively blocking the hands that came up to impede him. One mighty arm anchored itself across Conar's chest and pinned down his arms. "You are wallowing in self-pity! You're like a little boy who's had his favorite toy stolen, but instead of going home to cry to his mama, you cry to your bottle! Has that comforted you any? Has it given you peace of mind?" "Let go of me," Conar ground out, not willing to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he was being hurt. "Why do you do this to yourself? It certainly doesn't become you! Give me one good reason why you are bent on killing what is left of your pride. Have you so little regard for your own life that you will endanger the lives of others because you have an itch in your cock for a woman you can't have? Your brother's wife?" "I love her!" Conar trembled as the words shot out of him. His eyes filled with moisture, and he looked up at Shalu with pleading. Then, in a quiet whisper, all his torment and heartbreak flowed through his words. "I love her, Shalu. I love her more than my own life." Shalu got up and sat on the bed, taking his friend in his arms. He cradled Conar's head against his massive chest and stroked his hair. "I know you do, and if there was a way I could change what has happened for you, I would. But I can not, and neither can you." He laid a hand on Conar's brow. "You have to let her go here"—he moved his hand to Conar's heart—"before you can let her go here." "I can't, Shalu. I've tried and I can't." "You'll have to try harder, son. She no longer belongs to you." "She was my wife!" "But now she is your brother's legal wife. You have to let her go, or you will end up destroying you and her." Conar pulled out of Shalu's embrace and rolled onto his side. "I've stayed away from her." "I realize that. But what if she were to see you like this?" "She doesn't even know I'm alive. She has looked right at me and not recognized me." "One day she'll find out. What if she were to see you like this? It would hurt her to think—" Shalu frowned. "I see now. That's what youwant, isn't it?" Conar stared at Shalu. "What?" "It is!" Shalu breathed. "You want her to see you like this, don't you? You want her to see what you're doing to yourself so she will feel guilty, feel responsible for being the cause of it." "No." "That's exactly what you're doing. You want her to feel guilty for being happy when you aren't, for having a life when you have none." Shalu pointed toward the door. "You have that young woman—Amber-lea. Jah-Ma-El told me about her. Why don't you marry her—" "She's not the right woman!" "You can't have theright woman. You are a grown man. It's time, past time, you started acting like one. If you insist on behaving like an irresponsible child, you'll be treated like one! If you have to be watched every hour of every day, we will keep you from the bottle!" "You can't watch me all the time!" Conar swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand, but Shalu knocked him to the mattress. "You see if we don't, Conar! Brelan sure as hell isn't going to allow you to hurt Elizabeth A'Lex, andwe sure as hell aren't going to allow you to hurt yourself! Learn to live with her marriage to your brother or else!" "Or else what?"

"It would be best you didn't find out!"

Chapter 25 It came back easily enough, she thought, walking down the hall, her smile in place, her face warm and friendly. Shalu, rumored to be a sorcerer in his own right, had stomped past her, his black face set in a deep scowl, and she just stood there, smiling. She waited until she heard his heavy tread on the stairs, then continued toward Conar's door. The guards watched her approach, answering smiles on their faces. One of them meekly opened the door for her. "Thank you," she whispered. "My pleasure, Highness." Aye, she thought, entering the Raven's chambers, her magic had just been sleeping. Conar was home and the magic had returned with him. *** Conar heard the door lock click and stopped buttoning his breeches. He knew no one should be allowed in the room. He stepped beside the armoire, his breathing stilled to a slow, rhythmic rise and fall, and listened for any sound the intruder might make. His face crinkled. Whoever had entered was being furtive. His sixth sense kicked in, automatically probing the room's atmosphere to identify the intruder. But there was nothing there to probe. As far as his power was concerned, he was alone; but he knew better. He knew it as surely as he stood behind the armoire and waited. Whoever had entered was trying to hide their presence. *** Liza knew he was in the room. He couldn't have left or she would have known. Something told her he was aware of a presence and was hiding. She scanned the large bedroom, looked at the partition leading into the bathing chamber, and was sure he wasn't lurking there. She glanced at the desk, the alcove beyond where a settee and two chairs sat before a smoldering fire. Her vision lingered for a moment on the unkempt bed, then jerked away. She smiled sadly. If this room didn't belong to Conar McGregor, no room ever had. An open bag of clothing sat on the floor; his sword and baldric were draped over the desk chair; one black boot was in the north corner of the room, the other partially lying under the high bed. The armoire door stood open and clothes lay at the bottom, while some had tumbled onto the floor. One black shirt had been kicked into the corner, a pair of black leather breeches hung precariously from one edge of the settee. His cape had been thrown over a tall houseplant, the plant sagging with the weight, and his gloves lay in the middle of the floor. Then she spied the black mask on the bedside table and knew for a certainty he was still here. "I know you are here, Milord," Liza said gently, stepping closer to the armoire. "I need to speak with you." She stopped, feeling a rift in the air. His tumultuous emotions, now running rampant through him, gave away his position. She could almost hear his heart pounding. "Stay where you are," he rasped, his voice lilting with accent more than usual. She held her breath. Her legs trembled. Despite that alien accent, she had no doubt who was speaking. "It's time we

faced one another." "Not now." "If not now, when?" "I have nothing to say to you." Her voice almost broke as she answered. "But I have something to say to you." "I told you, not today!" Liza heard the fear in his voice, his harsh breathing. Her gaze fell to the shadow at the side of the armoire and saw him plowing his fingers through his hair—a habit that had endeared him to her. Her throat closed. Her willpower broke, and her emotions came out in her words. "Will you make me wait another nine years, Milord? Do I have to beg you, Conar?" He stepped out from beside the armoire and his eyes went unerringly to hers. Her legs threatened to buckle. Her pulse beat a wild tattoo. She had known it was him, but having his identity confirmed, seeing him before her, was painful. Her gaze hungrily roamed over his face, his golden hair, his lips and she was completely stunned, barely aware of the tears flowing down her cheeks. At last she found her words, and what she said made her wince with her stupidity. "Are you well, Milord?" His words came out harsh and angry, full of spite. "I'm alive." Liza saw the rigid lines of anger behind the thick beard, and wondered at the color of his eyes. If she did not know in her woman's heart this was the man she had so desperately loved, those eyes would have given lie to his identity. "Where have you been?" Another stupid question that made her sigh. "What difference does it make?" Another answer full of spite. "Aye, it makes a difference, Milord. Why didn't you let me know you were alive?" "Would it have mattered?" He snatched a shirt from the floor, then pulled it over his head in a savage snap that ripped the underarm of one sleeve. With his teeth drawn back in obvious fury, he stalked over to his boots. She swiped the tears on her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown. "Where are you going?" "Away from you." He stormed toward the door. "Why, Conar? Why?" Just as he jerked open the door, she grabbed his arm. He slapped away her hand and looked at her. In one heart-stopping moment, Liza saw emotions he had obviously tried so hard to conceal now revealed in his face—hurt, frustration, regret, jealousy. "Please let me explain," she pleaded, reaching for him again. "I want to hear nothing from you! There is nothing you can say that will make one bit of difference now!" After almost tripping over one of the guards, he slammed the door behind him. *** Though he heard her cries from the bedroom, he had to get away. So angry was he, he didn't notice the man walking toward him until he plowed into him. Cursing, he struck out and sent the man crashing into a wall. The fellow gained his balance and snatched hold of Conar's shirt. Conar looked down into the startled face of Teal du Mer. *** Teal thought he was going insane. Despite the man's heavy beard, Teal knew whose hands were on his chest,

pushing him away. He recognized the fury on those full lips. Stunned as he was, he tried to speak, but the man known as the Raven stopped him cold. "Get the hell out of my way, du Mer!" Conar pushed him away and stomped down the hall. Stumbling against the wall once more, Teal stared at the man, careening around the banister and nearly tripping down the stairs. He shook his head, trying to make sense of what he had seen. Liza, her tear-drenched face pale and wounded, came up to him. "Go after him, Teal. Please go after him!" He flew down the stairs in time to see the big oak door slam shut. As he reached the portal, a hard hand gripped his arm. "Let him go, Teal," Roget ordered. "Liza wanted me to—" "Leave him alone, du Mer," Grice Wynth said. "Brelan has gone after him. He can deal better with Conar." "Conar—not dead. I don't understand any of this! Where has he been? Why hasn't he let anyone know he was alive?" Teal saw a look pass between his brother and Grice and the knowledge sank in like a cold shaft of ice. "They took him to the Labyrinth?" Roget nodded. "Go back to Liza and stay with her." *** Brelan Saur made it to the stable just as Conar unhooked the door to his horse's stall. Shocked grooms and workers had stopped what they were doing and stared, open-mouthed, at Conar. Brelan groaned. There wouldn't be any need for the mask now! Panting from the run, Brelan leaned against the door jamb. "You aren't going anywhere." Conar didn't answer. He entered the stall and swatted his horse on the rump, and got him out of the cubicle. He slipped his bridle from the wall, then swung it over Seachance's head. Brelan pushed himself away from the doorway and walked slowly forward. "Don't bother saddling that brute! I mean it! I'm not letting you leave here!" Conar took hold of the bridle and began leading the horse toward Brelan. He stopped within a few feet of his brother, who was standing with legs spread wide in a defensive posture. "I'll only say this once, Saur. Get out of my way. If you don't, I'll either go over you, under you, or through you, but I'm not going around you!" Shalu, Ching-Ching and Bent entered the stable, blocking the way Conar's fury seemed beyond human. "I'll take on all four of you if that's the way it has to be!" "You won't win, little bird," Ching-Ching scoffed. "Try me!" "We don't want to hurt you," Shalu told him. "You won't!" "Don't be a fool, Conar," Brelan said. "You can't take on all of us!" A soft voice spoke from behind the three men at the door. "Let him go. He's good at hiding from the truth." "Liza," Brelan began, "go back to—" "I never thought he was a coward, but I suppose that's what Kaileel has made of him. Let him run away. Let him hide

in a bottle somewhere. You were always good at that, weren't you, Conar? Don't stay and face the ghosts of your past. They've done well enough without you before now!" After staring for a moment into Conar's enraged face, she turned her back and walked toward the keep. "Come back here, woman!" Conar let go of his horse's bridle and started toward Shalu and Ching-Ching, slowing only a fraction as they let him pass. With grim determination, Brelan and the others followed Conar to the keep. Liza ran up the steps, jerked open the door, and entered. Conar lunged up the steps two at a time, bellowing for her to stop. With Brelan and the others on his heels, Conar slammed through the door, shouting at Liza with the full timbre of his voice. As he crashed into the main hall, she was running up the winding steps to the sleeping chambers. Conar might have plowed his way through Roget and Grice if Legion A'Lex hadn't appeared in the library doorway. Conar and the others came to an abrupt halt. The two brothers faced one another across the foyer. Emotions seemed to swirl through the keep, straining the nerves of those witnessing this reunion. "I should have known," Legion finally whispered, breaking the heated charge of the moment. He took a step forward. "Who else would have known how to sneak men into this keep under my nose?" He took another step. "You knew every room, every passageway, where everything inside the keep was kept, and yet I never questioned how you knew." He shook his head. Conar glared. "Aye, well, it's easier to live with a dead man than it is to live with an enemy." Legion flinched. "Is that how you see me now? An enemy?" "If I have to look at you at all." "But why?" Conar snorted. "Men usually make an enemy when they steal what belongs to another." "What have I stolen? If you want the crown, it's yours. There isn't a man standing in this room who would contest that. I never wanted it! This keep is yours. The lands are yours. I have never thought of them as anything but a stewardship I was keeping for Corbin. I haven't taken them away from you. I haven't taken anything away from you." "What about my woman?" came the deadly reply. "Liza?" Legion asked, his voice stunned. "Liza is my wife." Conar's eyes flared with fury. "She belongs to me! I don't want the damned land, and I don't want the gods-be-damned keep. I want what is mine by divine right!" "Liza is my wife," Legion repeated, his voice going as hard as his brother's. "We are legally wed. You have to know that." Evil laughter burst from Conar's lips. "What I know is that Elizabeth McGregor belongs to me! She always has and she will again!" "Her name is Elizabeth A'Lex!" Legion's angry footsteps brought him almost to where Conar stood. "If that is why you finally decided to return to Boreas—" "Finally decided?" Conar bellowed. "Where do you think I was all those years, A'Lex? I had no way to come back!" "You've been home at least two years! Two years! That's how long the Darkwind has been plundering Temples in Serenia!" Legion's entire body was trembling with emotion. "Why didn't you let us know you were alive? Why didn't you send word?" "Would it have made a difference?" Conar shouted. "Would you have given her back to me two years ago, A'Lex?" Legion clenched his fists. "I wouldn't have given her up then and I won't now. She is mine and mine she will stay! The Tribunal annulled your marriage to her and she is legally mine!"

"Legion…" Brelan began, trying to ward off trouble. He and Shalu moved closer. "The Tribunal had no right to annul our marriage!" Conar snarled. "I hadn't done anything wrong! You know that!" Legion shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She ceased to be yours the day my wedding bracelet encircled her arm!" With a snort of fury, Conar headed for the stairs, ignoring the man who turned to block his way. "Stay away from her, Conar!" Legion screamed. His hand shot out and clutched Conar's arm. "Stay away from her or I will—" "What?" Conar violently jerked his arm free of Legion's hold. "Have me arrested? Thrown in the dungeon?" He came toe to toe with his brother and glared into his face. "How 'bout having me tortured, huh? You want Bent to flog me again?" His voice went low and lethal. "I've had all those things done to me and I still came back for her. Do them to me again, and unless you kill me, I'll keep coming back until she's mine once more!" *** Legion saw nothing but white-hot fury. He wanted to punish the man standing before him, to beat him like he had never done before. He drew back his fist and struck Conar twice, once along the jaw and once in the stomach, and his hands throbbed from the contact. Conar didn't budge, didn't even flinch, gave no indication that he had felt the blows, although Legion had put everything he had into them. Despite the power behind his punch, he could tell the blow had hardly registered on the rock-hard muscles of Conar's belly. And Conar's jaw, although sure to bruise, had not broken as Legion had intended. That angered Legion even more. He hit his brother again, once in the right eye with a wicked left cross, and again in a belly that didn't give in to the hard hit. "Is that the best you can do?" Conar taunted, standing his ground. Legion pulled back his fist and hit Conar squarely in the nose, drawing blood. He wasn't prepared for the all-out assault his brother launched. *** Brelan couldn't believe what he was seeing. All of their lives, Legion had come out on top of every fight he and Conar had been in. The squabbles and petty fighting of childhood had sometimes changed to brawling rage as they grew older, but neither had ever tried to seriously hurt the other. They were too much alike, knowing how the other felt, and their love for one another had always tempered the blows, kept them from killing each other. Now, the love was gone. In its place was jealousy, blinding and all-consuming. No punches would be pulled this time and both men obviously knew it. The two of them were out for blood. Brelan looked away. One of them was going to get hurt, perhaps badly, but there wasn't a man there, Brelan included, who would have tried to stop what was coming. He turned and walked out the door, refusing to watch. *** They circled one another, looking for an opening. Conar was barely aware of the number of men and women who had gathered in the main hall, who were spilling down the stairs. Conar saw the opening he needed. With one quick jolt of his arm, he sent a bruising punch into Legion's face, staggering the man, breaking his nose and splitting his lip. His left fist buried itself in Legion's taut belly, knocking the wind out of him with a loudwhoosh. Two lightning jabs with his right hit Legion in the left eye with enough force to make it start to swell immediately. Pivoting on his left foot, he spun and sent a kick to Legion's head. *** Legion felt himself falling. The foot to his head had made him see stars, hurt like hell. He landed hard on the edge of the stairs and slid down. He brought up a shaking hand to his jaw, trying to keep from wincing, hoping the damned thing wasn't broken. His gut was on fire from the jab Conar had given him; his right eye was already closed shut; his nose was streaming blood. With his tongue, he touched one of his front teeth; it wobbled in the socket.

"Get up." Legion looked at the man standing above him. Seeing the flare of victory, hot and uncompromising, on Conar's face, he was stunned to the roots of his soul. The man straddling him had a rock-solid fist that meant business, and the viciousness to let it loose. The kick had been professional, his blows well-timed, exact, aimed to do the most damage. And they had. Conar dragged Legion to his feet and snared into his face. "I don't want your whore! I only wanted to see how far you were willing to go to keep her." He shook Legion hard. "You can have everything in this fucking keep. As for your wife, I wouldn't take her back if you put her on a silver platter, brought her naked ass to me, and held her down while I fucked her!" He let Legion drop and headed toward the front door. "Do you really hate me that much?" Legion called. Conar never broke stride. "Cross me again, A'Lex, and you'll find out how much!" Legion shook off the hands that reached down to help him. He got painfully to his feet and stood there wavering. "Are you all right?" someone asked. Legion shook his head. No, he thought. He'd never be all right again.

Chapter 26 That night, he sat in his father's study—he would always think of it that way. The books with their musty bindings brought back pleasant childhood memories of his father and Hern, and the many times the two men had sat in their chairs, either reading or arguing over him. They never would again, he thought with pain. He lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank. A rueful grimace stretched over his lips as he thought of how Brelan and Shalu had gone through the keep, hiding the liquor from him. They hadn't, however, counted on the servants' loyalty. "So you beat them, did you, lad?" The old woman had grinned at him as she limped her way into the study. "They thought to bring you down, but you beat them, didn't you?" Conar smiled at the old cook, even hugged her. "I'd have bet a gold sovereign you were in your grave by now, Sadie," he teased. Sadie MacCorkingdale chuckled. "I'm too mean to die, Your Grace." She pulled a dusty bottle of brandy from her long apron. "Look what I got for you!" He smiled, taking the bottle from her. "Where'd you have this hidden?" "It's been around since before you left. One of them special brands you liked so well. Thought you needed it, I did. What's in that bottle will put you right back where you were before you left, son." Now, he snorted, thinking of Sadie's parting shot when she had left.

He wished there was indeed a bottle of brew that could erase the last nine years. He leaned his head on the chair, peered at the shadows on the ceiling cast from the fire. A sound at the door made him raise his head. The door opened and she entered. Her stocking feet padded across the floor as she came to stand before him. "What do you want?" he asked, annoyed his voice was already slurring. "I want to speak with you." He shrugged. "Then. by all means. let's talk!" He took a hard pull on the bottle. "Light a lamp and we'll discuss whatever you want!" He sat the bottle on the floor beside him and watched her light the lamp on the desk. She cupped her hand around the flame until it was well-established, then set it on the table beside his chair. As she straightened, she gasped. "Pretty ugly, huh?" he quipped. He had shaved off his beard, and had shorn his waist-length blond hair to just below his shoulders. "Come now, Queen Liza! Surely I don't lookthat bad!" Liza shook her head. "You look tired, Milord." He threw back his head and laughed, her answer actually amusing him. "Tired? Aye, you could say that." He motioned for her to sit. When she didn't, he shrugged. "What is it you want?" he asked, one brow lifting in query. *** Liza stared at the floor. It was hard looking into that beloved face, seeing the anger, the hurt, the wounded pride. She wanted to put her arms around him, to ease away his pain. When she looked into his eyes, she caught a glimpse of misery in the dark depths before his lids closed. "If you must take your anger out on someone, Milord, I would prefer it be me. I ask that you not blame your brother for my sins." "Did he send you here to run interference for him?" "You know he didn't. He didn't want me to come." "So, why did you?" He scooped up the bottle and took a gulp. She frowned, wishing he wouldn't drink so much. "There are things we need to discuss." He wiped the back of his hand across his wet lips. "I can't imagine anything we have to say to one another. There's only one thing I want from you." Liza blushed. "There are things I need—" "I need you to fulfill your bargain. Whatyou need is of no concern to me." His words became difficult to understand, and the odd accent had crept back into his speech. "If I give you what you want," she shot back, "will you listen to me?" His smile was deadly. "It depends on how well you servemy need." He emptied the bottle and flung it across the room where it landed with a thud against the paneling. Liza jumped. "What is it you want from me?" A smile overspread his face, stretching the scars on his left cheek. He put his hands behind his head and laced the fingers together. As Conar continued to stare at her, she knew he could see the effect his silence was having on her nerves. His tawny brow arched in innocence, but the demonic blue gleam in his dark eyes spoke vengeance. "You mean to humiliate me, is that it?" she asked, her heart hammering. "I mean to do something else to you." The hard, cold, calculating look returned. "You bargained with the wrong man this time, Queen Liza." His voice went as soft as a whisper. "Lock the door."

She couldn't believe she had heard correctly. "What?" "I want no interruptions while you make good on your bargain." "Here?" His harsh chuckle made her blanch. "I remember many times when the water, the ground, or grotto sand would have sufficed. I wasn't aware whores made distinctions in where they fornicated." "I am no whore!" "You will be when I am finished tonight!" Enraged, she turned toward the door, intending to flee. "If you don't fulfill your bargain, here and now, I'll take you under your husband's nose! And I'll make him watch. If you don't think I will, try me!" She spun around and stared at him, trembling with fury. She sensed he would do exactly as he threatened. "Lock it!" he spat. She savagely twisted the lock in its hasp. "Come here, Liza." Straightening her shoulders, she crept back toward his chair. He leaned back his head. One side of his mouth twisted upward. "Strip for me, Queen Liza. Let me see if that beautiful body has changed." For a long time she stood looking at him, watching the speculation glowing in his eyes. His face was carefully blank, his attitude, bored. When she made no move to do as he asked, he smiled. "I'm waiting." Again that wicked slash of golden brow arched. "Or would you rather I strip you myself." With her face burning, she reached behind her and began unbuttoning the pearl clasps that held her gown together, refusing to meet his look. When she finished, she let the gown fall, pooling at her feet. She stood shivering in her chemise. "Go on." His voice was a soft caress. Taking a deep breath, she tugged down the chemise over her hips and kicked it away. Only her garter belt and stockings remained. She felt his cool assessment running over her naked breasts and yearned to cover herself. "Come here." When she hesitated, he started to get up. Liza hurried to him, not knowing what he might do otherwise. She stood before him, staring at the floor. "Put your foot up here." He patted the chair cushion between his legs. When she did as he asked, he unhooked her stocking and rolled it down her leg. At his silent command, she placed her other foot on the cushion, and he removed that stocking as well. As she returned her foot to the floor, he tugged down the garter belt. She strove hard not to feel his callused hands on her flesh. He sat back and stared at her. "You are still beautiful. At first, I remembered every inch of your body. I knew every mole, every freckle, every birthmark." His voice was barely audible. "I knew what pleased it, what didn't." The look on his face was one of misery. "But over the years, I let those memories go. It hurt too much to think of them, knowing I might never touch you, never make love to that body again." She backed away when he stood. He walked around her, taking in every detail of her nudity. He came up behind her, his body barely touching hers.

"After a while," he said, his breath fanning the hair at her nape, "even if I'd had you with me, I couldn't have made love to you." She drew in a harsh breath when his hands cupped her shoulders. He pulled her back against him. She felt the silk of his black shirt, the coolness of the leather breeches against her. He kissed her shoulder. His lips trailed along the column of her neck; his tongue briefly touched her earlobe. Liza moaned deep in her throat. "Conar," she whispered, then flinched when his mocking laughter tickled her ear. His hands tightened on her arms. "Put your clothes on. I have no desire for other men's leavings. I can smell them on you." He let go of her and returned to his chair. Her heart had skipped a beat at his insult, spoken so softly, like a lover's sigh against her ear. She wanted to fling herself at him, rip out his eyes. Instead, she gathered her clothing, dressed, then moved to the door. "I didn't give you permission to leave," he snarled. "I don't need your bloody permission in my home!" Horribly aware he was lunging out of the chair, she clawed at the door, but he slammed it shut just as she opened it. Swinging around, she tried to get past him, but his hard body blocked her way. "I wasn't aware this keep belonged to you, bitch!" He stepped in front of her as she tried to move around him. "I was under the impression this keep and everything in it belonged to the rightful heir to the throne of Serenia. That means every stone, every board, every nail—and every whore!" She drew back her hand to strike him, but he caught it in one steely fist. He brought it down behind her, jerking her violently against him in the process. "If you ever raise a hand to hit me, woman, I'll make you wish you hadn't!" "Bastard," she gasped as he tightened his grip. "Let go of me, Conar!" He released her so suddenly she stumbled. "Call me that name again, and I won't be held accountable for what I do to you." "Why don't you want to be called by your given name?" she shouted, her bravery making her incautious. "Is it because you've defiled it so badly you're ashamed to hear it?" He sprang at her, dragging her against him. "The only shame I have is that I can't get you out of my mind!" he yelled into her face. "Do you know how much it infuriates me to see my wife with another man? How much it makes my blood boil to know that man is one I had trusted? I lost so much, including that damned name you spoke, but I had no idea how much until I came back from that hell-hole and discovered you'd been knocked up with Galen's bastard before I had even left!" "That's not—" Her teeth rattled as he shook her. "I thought I could win it all back, or take it back, buy it back, and much of it I have, although much of it doesn't matter. But the thing I wanted most, the thing that kept me alive all those years when they stripped the hide off my back, starved me, worked me until I dropped, turned out to be something any man could have for the thrust of his cock!" "You don't know what you're—" "You are now one of those things that doesn't matter anymore. Just like that name doesn't matter. That man is gone—he's dead—and you helped kill him! ButI'm alive, and I realized that you were not worth having if you could let any man fuck you for the price of the Serenian throne!" He let go of her, shoving her against the door. "Corbin is not Galen's child!" she yelled, forgetting everything but her desire to hurt him as he had just hurt her. He viciously wiped his palms down the front of his shirt, as though trying to wipe the feel of her from his flesh. He shook his head like a terrier wet from its bath, then snarled. "Whose pond scum is he, then?" She slapped him as hard as she could, jerking his head sideways. Before she knew it, he struck back, knocking her to

the floor. He straddled her prone body and grabbed a handful of her long hair. "Whose?" "Go to hell," she spat, her hair twisted in his grip. The corners of his sensual mouth lifted in hot challenge. She felt the heat rush to her face. She couldn't back down—not now—and realized he knew it. He bent over and locked his gaze to hers, tightened his grip in her hair. "Not Galen's bastard? Tell me who you spread your whoring legs for that time! That boy has too much McGregor in him! Was it Coron? Dyllon? Whose bastard is he?" "Corbin McGregor is no bastard!" "Whose?" "Whose do you think?" she cried, tears of pain spilling down her cheeks. "By all that's holy, bitch, if you tell me you slept with my father, I will slit your throat!" He slapped her across the mouth. She became hysterical with terror. That he could imagine her sleeping with his father tore into her with steel claws. She struggled wildly. "Not your father's child, you fool! Corbin isyour son!" *** Conar released her as though she were a hot rock. Coming to his feet, he could only stare down at her as she sobbed on the floor between his spread legs. Burning with fury, he clenched and unclenched his fists. His gaze pinned her to the floor like a captured butterfly. "You'relying !" he snarled. "I was carrying him when they took you away. He was conceived that night in the grotto." She drew her knees up to her chest as she cried. "And you let Tohre take him?" he whispered, absolutely stunned. She buried her face in the rug. "I married Galen to keep him safe. I wanted Galen to think Corbin was his, that's why I married him so soon after you left. I thought if Tohre believed the babe was Galen's, he'd leave Corbin alone. I knew he'd try to take your child from me." He turned away from the pain in her voice. He looked about, not seeing the furnishings of the study, but the dark and evil appliances in the Crypt of Learning at the Wind Temple at Corinth—things he now knew his child had seen firsthand. Had felt and endured. "I tried to keep him safe, Conar. I would have done anything to keep him safe. He was all I had left of you!" He heard pitiful screams coming from the darker shadows of the room; he could smell blood and urine and vomitous and spent semen. He shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Not my son! Sweet Alel! Not my son! "Galen tried to protect him, Conar. He tried to make everyone think Corbin was his. He doted on the child. He loved him. He was as good a father for our son as you would have wanted!" Conar felt the flames, the scorch of the birch rods, the stinging astringent applied to broken and bleeding flesh. He felt the ungodly pain of the vile things men did to helpless children who couldn't fight back. "But Tohre had known all along. He took Corbin while I was in labor with Galen's twins. He snatched Corbin before I could stop him!" Her keening wail became unearthly. "I'm sorry, Conar. I could not protect your son." He looked down at her. "All I ever wanted was your love. You were all that was left of my life here. I tried to tell myself that I didn't want you, that I didn't need you, that I didn'tlove you. But I did." Tears spilled down his cheeks. "I was even willing to kill my brother to get you back, woman, and now you tell me this?" He lurched away from her. "You

bore my son and you let Kaileel Tohre violate him? Let him do to my child what he did to me? Let him—" His throat contracted. He stumbled to the door, flinging it so wide that it crashed back against its hinges, splintering the wood. Conar ran from the room as though the demons of hell were on his heels.

PART II Chapter 1 Kaileel Tohre stared into the flaming brazier hanging in the center of his private conjuring chamber. Thin lips pursed tightly together as seething rage twisted his face. His long stiletto-sharp nails raked across the exposed throat of the sacrificial victim lying on the altar. Bright crimson blood flowed from the gaping wound. After dipping his fingers in the blood fanning out over the alter, the Arch-Prelate smeared it on his face and neck, down the naked expanse of his chest and belly. The warm blood chilled on his flesh and began to feel sticky and thick. Placing a cup beneath the severed jugular of the newborn girl he had murdered, he gathered the blood as it pulsed from the throat. When the chalice was full, he set it aside and reached for his ceremonial dagger. He sliced through the pitifully thin chest, splayed apart the skin, and tore the tiny heart from the chest cavity. His lips stretched back in a pleased smile. Here was the essence of his longevity—the spilled blood of a newly born girl, torn from her mother's womb by Tohre, himself, untouched by other hands. Invoking the primeval Dark-demons that controlled the Brotherhood of the Domination, he offered his service for another century of sinister duty. Raising the tiny heart toward the ceiling, he picked up the chalice and swore eternal damnation for his own black soul, then partook of the unholy communion of flesh and blood. Energy, dark and primordial, filled Tohre's entire being. Mists of red and green—blending, darkening—flowed over him. Snaps of electricity singed through the room, radiating away from the burning brazier with its sickeningly green glow. Moans of the dead, groans of the dying, piteous screams of the damned, became a cacophony of shrieks and howls that rent the air with their obscene presence. A wind like the fiercest gale force of a North Sea storm whipped through the chamber, rippling Tohre's hair about his face and setting the brazier to swinging on its three golden chains. Throwing back his head in communion with the dark elementals who slithered into the room through cracks in the stone floor, who oozed from the mortared joints of the walls, Kaileel opened his blood-encrusted mouth and howled defiance to the gods and goddesses of the White Path. With his hands still dripping innocent blood, he lifted them toward the heavens and mocked the forces of good with evil rebellion. "Alel, hear me! Vestri, hear me! I defy you, oh Powers of the Right Path. I curse you, oh Sentinels of the White Way. Your names are defiled in this place; Your images desecrated. I consign You both to the outer reaches of the universe where You will dwell amongst the lesser gods I vanquished long ago. I send You through the Maelstrom, I imprison You within the Void from whence no light has ever come nor will ever shine!" Taking the corpse from the altar, he held it over the brazier's flames. "As innocent flesh is consumed by the fires of the Pit, as untainted blood, never mixed with the pollutant's of a woman's fluid, is drank, and the central core of the innocent's body is defiled, I consecrate my powers of magic to the forces of the Domination. I shed innocent blood! I devour innocent flesh with an unquenchable appetite, and in doing

so, I claim the years of this vulgar female child and all the successions of her earthly generating power to produce offspring!" Turning his back to the brazier, he spoke the forbidden names of the Five Obscene Gods of the Domination, invoking each of Them in sequence according to rank. "Hear me, Oh Great Ones, Horned Elementals of Fire and Flood, Death and Destruction and Disease! I ask Your help in defeating an enemy who has threatened the power of our race. I beseech you to help me search him out and to destroy his immortal soul once and for all. I was weak in my dealings with him, lax in my vigilance, and I have no excuse as I humble myself before You to be punished as You see fit for my lack of direction in crushing Your enemy. I will scourge my flesh. I will fast. I will deny myself the pleasures of the body, if You will grant me this blessing. "Help me find him, oh, Demons of the Pit. Help me bring him to his knees to honor You. Give me the way to destroy the one called the Raven—the Dark Overlord of the Wind!" A blinding light sang through the chamber and struck Tohre directly in the center of his heart, driving him to his knees. Pain, the likes of which he had never known in his ageless lifetimes, burst through him like an erupting volcano spewing ash and lava from the vile brimstone caverns of the Fire-pit. He grasped his chest, fearful his heart would explode. He felt his blood boiling, singeing his flesh, coursing through him as though a million ants were devouring his arteries. He doubled over, gasping as the pain intensified, until he felt nothing but the crushing, burning weight of it. He tasted the metallic dryness within his mouth as he sucked in large breaths. As one final squeeze of agony ripped through his chest and spread rapidly down his left arm, he slipped beyond the red and green mists of his conjuring chamber and into the black mist of unconsciousness. *** Sometime near dawn of the following day, the Arch-Prelate woke in his bedchamber, serving men and acolytes hovering above him with worried faces. He gazed about the room and was surprised when only one half of his vision still functioned. He tried to turn his head, and couldn't. He tried to lift his hand, and couldn't. He tried to speak and found his tongue thick inside his mouth, his lips unmoving. His one good eye widened in horror as Robert MacCorkingdale came to stand over him, a tight smile of gloating on his sensual lips. "You have had a massive stroke, Holiness," the young man said with just the right amount of empathy in his silky voice. "The Prelates are in conference even as I speak. Another shall be appointed to lead us until you are well once more." He straightened, looking down at Tohre with an unholy degree of satisfaction. Kaileel's mind reeled with the implications of his illness. He was trapped inside a paralyzed body while his mind still functioned with the ease of a youth. If he could not hold the reins of his office, a power struggle, no doubt led by the ambitious bastard standing over him, would see the Cardinals choose another to carry on in his stead. He knew there were none among these rabble were capable of defeating Conar McGregor. With every ounce of willpower he held, Tohre forced his mangled tongue to work. In garbled words thick with spite, he managed to speak. "I…am…in control. I…need no…movement…to do what must…be…done!" MacCorkingdale smiled with spite. "How will you fight from your bed? The Order needs a strong man, a man capable of leading." "Out." His voice turned hoarse from the mighty effort to speak. "You are through, Tohre. You can not lead from where you lay!" "Out!" Robbie bowed with condescension, and smirked of arrogance. "As you wish, Holiness." Even as his foggy mind battled with the problem of his affliction, Tohre seethed inside his captive body. Now, more

than ever, he would see Conar McGregor defeated. He would have the man brought before him in chains, and he, himself, would flay the flesh from McGregor's bones and let him die in agonized torture. The Five Obscene Gods had never failed him, had never turned a blind eye to his request. He had confidence in Their ultimate evil, and knew They would find a way to bring Conar to his knees before Them. A movement along the perimeter of his vision broke his musing. He willed himself to focus on a blurred face as it came to hover above him. As his sight grew clearer, he felt bile rising in his throat. A woman stood above him, her long blond hair lit by the candlelight on his bed table. Her face was familiar, but he couldn't place where he had seen her. "Who?" he forced his lips to form. She smiled. He felt the power of a kindred spirit, for her smile was pure evil. "Does it matter who I am? What matters is that I am here to help." Her ruby red lips moved into a lewd parody of a seductive grin. "To…do…what?" he slobbered, spittle oozing down his nonfunctional mouth. Now, a predatory grin stretched over pearly white teeth. "To find and defeat and then, ultimately destroy, Conar McGregor!" Then Tohre recognized her—a banished daughter of the outlawed Multitude, an outcast from her own kind. This woman, known among the Brotherhood as the Webspinner, had lent her support to the Dark-demons many times. Even though his lips never moved, Kaileel Tohre smiled.

Chapter 2 Conar kept himself away from the main part of the keep since the night he had spoken with Liza, the night he had learned he was Corbin's father. He had his meals brought to his room, spoke little to anyone, and denied Amber-lea access to his chambers. He wanted no female pawing him. He later took up residency in the dank, dismal confines of the dungeon's punishment cells, sinking once more into brooding silences that raised eyebrows among his men and worry among his friends. Now, snarling at the laces on his shirt that refused to be tied—his clumsiness of late had also become apparent to all who saw him—he threw the offending apparel into the corner of his cell and jerked on a shirt that required no lacing. He was about to pull on his boots when the dungeon's iron door opened. His lips pursed together in an angry sneer. This was one confrontation he had been avoiding like the plague. "May I speak with you, Lord Conar?" the boy asked. Conar took a deep breath and nodded, then pulled on his boots. Corbin stood just inside the cell door. "You would not come to me, so I came to you," he mumbled. His fingers nervously toyed with the end of his tunic. He didn't look up as he continued. "I know you think of me as Galen McGregor's child, but in your heart you know I am yours." Conar's heart stilled. "Aye, your mother has so informed me." "I knew the moment I saw you in the Abbey. The veil of mist that had hidden you from my mother, did not hide you from me, Father." His face paled. "I would have known you anywhere, for my heart felt the pull."

Conar sat rigidly on his cot. The child's lips trembled, but he probed his son's open mind and knew Corbin wasn't afraid of him—he was afraid of being rejected. Conar was ashamed of his own weakness. Ashamed of his inability to take this child of his loins into his arms and claim him as his own. He saw uncertainty playing across Corbin's face, felt the boy's reluctance to come to him and ask for his love, and his shame and guilt drove deeper. "Does your mother know you're here?" he asked gruffly. "No, Milord." "Then I suggest you leave before she finds out. I don't think she'd like knowing you were in this place." Corbin's head came up. "You were forced to live in this place. I am not afraid to stay here with you." "What I was forced to do, boy, and what you do of your own freewill are different things! You have no business being here." Conar stood, all too aware of the trembling in his legs, the ache in his heart, and the emptiness his arms felt. "Why do you turn your back on me?" The little voice was breaking. "I am flesh of your flesh. I know you once loved my mother. Can you not find it in your heart to love me?" The tears crept over his small oval face. Conar needed a drink—something, anything—for he was dying inside. In his soul, he felt it was best that Corbin not grow close to him, for he would not be around to see him grow up. And should he be caught by Tohre's men, he didn't want the boy mourning him. It was easier to forget a father you never really knew than one you loved and who you knew loved you. "I have work to do, boy. Take yourself back up those stairs." Corbin hung his head. "I am all that is left of the great love you and my mother shared. Even though you deny me, refuse to accept me as your son, I still love you, Lord Conar." A hitching sob tore from him. "And I always will." Tears now streamed down Conar's cheek, but Corbin was already on the stairs. He opened his mouth to call the boy back, but the iron door clanked shut with a finality that made Conar sit on his cot and bury his face in his hands. *** Corbin wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic as he came into the garden where Liza was gathering flowers. He smiled at Cody and Christos, tousled Kells hair, and nodded at Jarad. "Children, will you leave your brother and me alone for a little while?" Liza asked, laying down her shears. She pulled off her gloves and laid them beside her basket of flowers as her children left the garden. The moment she had seen Corbin's face, she knew where he had been. There were tear tracks on his face, and the pain of rejection filled his eyes. Sighing heavily, she motioned for him to join her where she knelt. When he did, she slipped her arm around his waist and pulled his head to her shoulder. "How is he?" At that point she didn't much care how Conar was, but a tirade against the boy's father might alienate Corbin. She put a finger under his trembling chin. "Tell me what you think of him, Corbin." The boy shook his head. "He's so lonely, Mama. I can feel his hurt. He is lonely and sad." She stroked his hair. "I know, dearling." "Why does he refuse what I offer him? Is it me? Is it because of what Tohre did—" "No! It is nothing you have done." "Then what is it?" Corbin threw his arms around her neck and sobbed, his body shaking with overwhelming grief. Liza gently stroked his back, furious he had been hurt again, and by a man who should have known better! "Give him time, son. He's had much to accept since returning. He will come around."

"He's my father. I love him, Mama!" Liza looked up as a pair of shadows covered her and her son. Concern filled Teal du Mer's face; pain lined Legion's. "Why won't he love me back, Mama? Why won't he let me be his son?" His mouth set in an angry line, Legion spun around. Liza wanted to call him back, instinctively knowing where he was headed. Teal shook his head. "Let him handle it, Liza. Maybe if Conar knows how much he has hurt this boy—" Corbin tore from Liza's arms and ran into the keep. "Shall I go after him?" du Mer asked. "He, like his father, will have to find a way to deal with this on his own." *** Conar made his way to the stable to collect his horse. So upset by what had happened in the dungeon, he could stand the confinement of the place no longer. He had scheduled a foray into the area around Corinth for later that week, but had moved up his plans and now intended to leave within the hour. His mind was on what he was going to do at the Wind Temple near Corinth when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and startled him. His hand went automatically to the dagger at his thigh, but as he turned, he recognized Legion, and let his hand fall away from the blade. "Don't ever lay a hand on me again, A'Lex, unless you want to draw back a stub!" Legion stood, hands on his hips, and glared with murderous rage. "You can hate me and Liza all you want, but I will not have you venting your vengeance and spite on an innocent child who has already suffered more in his lifetime than any ten children! I'll not have you hurting him. Stay the hell away from him unless you're prepared to be his true father!" Conar clenched his fists by his side, wanting to strike out, but loathe to do so for fear he'd kill the man. "I didn't seek out the brat—he found me! I tried to make him leave, but he wouldn't go until I ignored him." "Bastard! You may be a hero to the people, but you're nothing more than a beast with my brother's face. The man I knew would never have turned his back on a child, his own or anyone else's, when that child was reaching out to him!" He poked Conar in the shoulder. "You hurt Liza when you hurt her son, but I would imagine that's what you intended!" Pushed to the limit of his strength, Conar shot back with vengeance. "You think I care whether that bitch gets hurt?" Legion smiled, but the smile was frosty with anger. "Aye, you care." "Well, it won't be my arms that'll comfort her—" "Not in this lifetime!" "Not unless I decide to take her back." Legion's face turned red. "You so much as touch her, and by the gods, I'll kill you!" Conar laughed. "You try my patience." As Conar moved closer to his brother, a snarl formed on his tight lips. "Unless you wish to cross blades with me, I suggest you curb your wayward tongue else I'll relieve you of it." "You think I'm afraid to fight you?" "If you want to live, you'd better think twice about doing so!" Legion's hand went to the dagger at his hip, but a cry from the keep's battlements made him stop. Both men looked up to see Grice Wynth standing on the crenellated wall.

"Quick!" he shouted. "Teal's been stabbed!"

Chapter 3 When Conar and Legion ran into the garden where Storm Jale pointed them, they heard shouts of anger and horror near the majestic willow tree. Men mingled about, swords drawn, and Roget du Mer shouted orders to Sentian and Thom. The well-tended garden had an air of desperation. Beside the stone fountain, Paegan, Tyne, and Shalu stood clustered over a prone man. Pushing Tyne aside, Conar came up short when he saw his boyhood friend lying on the flagstone, blood gushing from his chest, his head in Liza's lap. She looked up at him as he knelt beside them. Silent tears ran down her pale cheeks. Blood smeared her bodice. Her hands trembled as they caressed Teal's white face, smoothed his wild shock of coal-black hair. Conar searched Liza's ashen face. "Are you all right?" She nodded. He put a hand on Teal's shoulder. "Who did this?" Teal grimaced. "I didn't know him. I think I killed him, but I'm not sure." "Where's the bastard who did this?" "He's dead," Shalu told him. "There was no identification on him." "How'd he get past our sentries?" Legion asked as he knelt beside Liza. When no one answered, Conar's voice carried loud. "Answer my brother! How the hell did that scum get in here?" Sentian stepped forward. "We haven't been able to find out." Conar snarled. "Then I suggest you find out what he was doing here and why he attacked du Mer!" Liza looked at him. "He wasn't after Teal." "Then who was he after?" "Me." "Tell me!" "I was tending the flowers—" "You have servants to do that!" he snapped. Liza's chin rose. "They were your mother's flowers and no one tends them but me and the Head Gardener, and he's ill! Teal was at the door, going inside, when I heard a sound and turned. That man charged at me. I tripped over the rose bush and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed me from behind and cut me." "Where?" Conar yelled. Liza held out her arm.

There was a long, wicked scratch down her right arm, but it had stopped bleeding and looked more angry than painful. Conar's eyes went back to hers. "You could have been killed." "I heard the commotion," Teal mumbled. "When I saw that bastard kneeling over Liza with his knife—" "Teal ran at him and they fought," Liza said. "When I saw Teal go down, I knew the son-of-a-bitch would try to finish him, so I jumped on his back. It gave Teal time to get to his feet and throw his knife. The man fell, but when I turned to thank Teal, I sank into my arms. I screamed for help and—" "You put yourself between two fighting men?" Legion asked, aghast. "That man didn't mean to hurt me. He said he'd been instructed to take me to—" Conar glared up at Roget. "Take this stupid woman inside and have guards posted. I don't want her going anywhere without at least four men surrounding her. And she is not to leave this keep under any circumstances!" "I'll not be kept a prisoner in my own home!" she shouted. Conar turned to her. "Get inside!" When she didn't move, he took her arm in a fierce grip, drawing her up as he stood, ignoring her gasp of pain as his fingers closed around the scratch. He pushed her toward Roget. "Damn it, woman! I said get inside or I'll take my belt to your ass!" "Do as he says, Liza," Legion said quietly. Conar burned with fury when Liza turned toward the library. For him, the bitch wouldn't budge, but one word from Legion and she hastened to do as ordered. "The blade hit nothing vital," Cayn said, looking up at Conar. "He'll be in bed a while, though." Conar nodded absently, watching the dead attacker being lifted from the other side of the fountain. "Wait!" He stalked over to the dead man. Peering into the man's coarse features, he spoke through clenched teeth. "Have that vermin taken outside the keep and impaled on a pole. I want a reminder to every man, woman, and child thatno one can threaten the members of this household and live to tell about it!" He then sent his men an unwavering stare. "I want him." Just those three words, no more; staccato raps piercing the silence of the garden. They were spoken with a dogged determination that brooked no argument. "You think it was Tohre?" Grice asked. "Who else would wish her harm? To get to me, he'll try to go through those I love." He swung his gaze to Roget. "Have extra men brought into this keep, men you can trust. I want every nook and cranny searched for the way that rat got in. If you find he had help, I want that person brought to me. He or she will never again help Tohre!" He shifted his attention to Sentian. "I want bodyguards for every child in this keep. I want men watching Legion, as well. Put double guards on my son and wife and tell them if they so much as let one hair on their heads be harmed, they'll answer to me!" "You have my word on it!" Sentian swore. Sensing Legion's gaze, Conar turned. "Have you nothing better to do than gawk? I would think you'd want to be with your woman—" "Mywife," Legion corrected. "She ismy wife, not yours!" Conar looked at him. He didn't want to fight. He was tired and afraid. "Make her understand what a foolish thing she did, A'Lex. She won't listen to me, but maybe she will to you." "I know how to handle—" Conar held up his hand. "Peace, brother," he said quietly. "Peace." He headed for the sea gate. He had a hunger in his soul, deep to the roots of his foundation, that only liquor could assuage. He knew he was as enslaved to his lack of willpower as he was to his love for a woman he could no longer

claim. But he couldn't stop himself from heading to the Ruck's tavern for the answer to his problem. *** "Go after him," Shalu said with a disgusted snort. "He's heading for the closest bottle!" Two members of the Force nodded and headed after their leader. "Is that all he knows how to do?" Legion snapped. "Crawl inside a bottle of booze?" Grice laid a hand on Legion's shoulder. "What happened today scared him. It's his way of dealing with it." "I know he was afraid for her, but—" Grice squeezed his shoulder. "He would die for her. There wouldn't be any hesitation. Without her, he doesn't seem to feel as though he fits in anywhere. Her being with you is tearing him apart." Wynth shook his head. "He'll love her to the day he dies." "Well, at the rate he's going," Shalu grumbled, "that won't be long!"

Chapter 4 After assuring himself the keep was secured and his family protected, Conar led a well-chosen, deadly force of men to the Wind Temple at Corinth. They rode all afternoon until they came to the copse of trees that hid the Temple from the road. After dismounting, they clamped together their nags' jaws with their sweaty hands, seeking quiet and stealth. "Not one of them is to get out alive, understand?" Conar asked. The men nodded. During the following engagement with Kaileel's men, Conar fought like a demon, battling two, three Temple Guards at once, cutting down each of them. His sword ran red with Domination blood. On the one occasion when his magic was needed, he summoned demons and creatures so vile and so vicious, his enemies were reduced to pulpy ooze. Not a living thing was left alive inside the Wind Temple after the fires set inside the earth-bermed building caught and held. As the building began to go up in flames, Conar stood, arms folded across his chest, and listened to the ghostly tinkle of a hundred little boys' laughter. "Rest easy, children," he said through clenched teeth. "You have been avenged." *** About ten miles to the west of the smoldering Temple sat a small town called Lakeland. The upper part of the town lay along the farthest shore of Lake Myria and was known only for the fine tavern that was set back on a spit of land overlooking the lake. Called Pigeon's Roost, the tavern boasted the finest mutton chops and spoon bread on that side of the Four Zones. With their killing and looting completed, the men of the Raven's troop made their way to Lakeland and the food that would fill their guts. As his men swilled down food and drink, Conar gazed about the dark taproom, spying several professional wench's glancing his way. He smiled at one in particular. She cast a triumphant look to the other women before heading his way. He watched her hips sway in the dark blue skirt, appraised the jiggle of her lush breasts in the nearly transparent white lawn blouse. She put her red-tipped nails on the scratched surface of his table and leaned forward, affording him an unobstructed view of her unbound breasts.

"For you, Lord Darkwind, it's on the house," she said breathlessly. His grinned over the brim of his tumbler of ale. He brought it to his lips, drank, then cocked an eyebrow. "And if I requireall of you, mam'selle?" he asked in a low, throaty voice. She looked over her shoulder toward a dark-faced man in the corner. At his nod, she turned back to Conar. "Not a penny from your pocket, Milord, to have the five of us for as long as you want." Conar dug into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew five brass coins, one for every two tumblers he had consumed. He pitched them on the table, then stood, scraping back his chair. "Where to?" She smiled and sidled close to him, took his arm in her hands, her fingers caressing the hard, bunched muscles. "Upstairs, Milord." "Call me Conar." *** The next morning, with their eating and drinking and whoring done, the men of the Wind Force sat in the tavern's common room and waited for their tardy leader. They grew a bit worried when one of the women who had filed up the stairs with Conar the night before, amidst laughter and ribald comments, told the men their Overlord would be spending the next few days at the Pigeon's Roost. A warrior of some experience, Conar's second in command, climbed the stairs to his leader's room. He knocked politely, then entered. He found Conar in bed with three women, two lying beside him, one atop him. "I wanted to make sure you were all right, sir." "Shut the door, Starling." The warrior nodded and left. *** For days, Conar did not come down from the room. He stayed in a perpetual state of drunkenness, his throbbing headaches and retching becoming a morning ritual. Whatever whore found her way into his bed was ill-used during the night, then passed among his men the next morning while he watched. But even that bizarre entertainment waned and he looked elsewhere for relief to his boredom and pain. On the morning of the fifth day, Conar met the man who governed the girls of the Pigeon's Roost, a procurer named Sern Jamar. Having imbibed all his system could handle and still not numb from his suffering, Conar sat moodily by the tavern window and stared at the rain. He didn't even bother to look up as the man came to his table and bowed. "I am told you are bored, Lord Conar," the man said in a thick accent. "I have means that will relieve your boredom." Conar looked up and frowned. He didn't like what he saw. The man was a nomad, probably from one of the Emirates near the coast. His hair was black and greasy, slicked back from his high forehead and worn long in lank strands to his shoulders. A thick, black beard, as ill-kept and greasy as his hair, covered most of his face. Red and angry-looking pimples dotted a huge, bulbous nose, a sloped forehead, and his cheeks, while his deep brown complexion had been pockmarked from years of little or no care for his skin. A large gold hoop hung from his left earlobe, while his blue and white striped burnoose bore an overpowering smell of curry. "I have a woman from my homeland who will thrill you as no other ever has," he said in an effort to entice. Conar leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "And how much will thisgoddess cost me?" The nomad grinned, showing teeth both too large and too yellow for his face. He raised his hands to shoulder height. "Have I asked you to pay for the delights of my other ladies, Milord?" Conar snorted. "If they had delights, nomad, I certainly didn't see any. But then, I suppose any whore's cunt can delight a drunken man." A light chuckle came from the desert traveler. "Ah, but Shasamie is different, Lord Conar. She has been trained

especially for men such as yourself." One brow cocked with displeasure. "Men such as what?" The nomad dipped his head in tribute. "Men of discriminating tastes who want a lady to pleasure them." He smiled. "Shasamie is such a lady." He put his fingers together and kissed the tips. "She is exquisite, Lord Conar. Long black hair, eyes the color of the most precious of emeralds, a body to—" "I'll take her." *** True to Sern Jamar's word, Shasamie provided him with sexual delights that left him weak and drained the next morning. He drifted through the following day in a state of semi-consciousness, then barked at everyone for the least little thing the day after that. "Did Shasamie please you?" Sern Jamar asked upon entering the tavern, returning from a two-day absence. Conar had been nervous and cranky during those two days, constantly asking when the procurer would return. He had paced the tavern, shaken his head against the offers of ease from the other whores, and found himself eagerly awaiting the sound of Sern's oily voice. "Where is she?" Conar snarled, grabbing the nomad by the front of his burnoose. Sern smiled. "Do you wish her to come to you again?" And the woman did. As the nomad instructed, Conar went to his room, undressed, and stretched out on the lumpy bed. His eyes shifted time and again to the door, anticipating, worrying she wouldn't come. But when the door opened and the tall beauty slipped inside the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Shall I pleasure you, my Dark Lord?" she purred, drifting gracefully to the bed. He trembled, watching her prepare for their night together. She withdrew a small packet of powders from her silken skirts and poured the contents into the chalice of ale beside his bed. "What is that?" he asked. "A panacea for your troubles, my Dark Lord Conar." She took a sip, then handed him the chalice. "Nothing that will harm you. It will increase your pleasure and make you wild with passion." Conar grimaced at the taste, but he swallowed it in one gulp. He held the chalice out to her, barely aware his hand was shaking. She took a vial from another hidden pocket among the silk scarves that made up her skirt. After uncorking it, she poured a small amount of pungent oil into the palm of her hand, then sat the vial on the night table. "Are you ready, my Dark One?" she asked, running her hands together. He could only nod, because what he had drunk coursed through him like liquid lightning. He sucked in his breath when she began to smooth the heated oil upon his rigid manhood. Soon, she climbed atop him. Her gentle ministrations both heightened the power of his sexual need and stimulated him to such a point he was unable to reach the climax he strived to attain. The oil caused his shaft to become so rigid it was painful. "Please," he begged, trying desperately to bring himself to climax. "Just a while longer," she crooned, skillfully tightening the muscles of her vagina around his swollen flesh. He moaned, whimpered with the need to release his seed. "Please!" She held him to her, her tongue darting into his ear, sending chills down his body, awakening his lust. He rolled her over and thrashed on top of her, ground his body against hers, thrusting himself as hard and as deeply

as he could into her willing body. "Please!" he begged, fearing he would remain as he was forever. Sern suddenly appeared beside the bed, a leering grin on his face. "I have something for you, Milord." He held out a golden chalice. Conar didn't bother to ask what was in the brew. It might well have been poison, for all he cared. He took the chalice, drained it, and hurtled it across the room. Almost instantly, he felt his eyes glaze over. "Take her," came the insinuating voice as Sern bent over him. "Take her, Lord Conar. Take the whore!" The drug released his seed with a wild abandon and sharp sensation that left him reeling from the intensity. He screamed,screamed, his release, then collapsed, weak and in agony, his heart thumping wildly, his breath coming in great gulps against the woman's soft breast. *** In the nomad's room the next morning, Conar tried to strangle the pharmacist. But Sern whispered that there were drugs that could lessen sexual desire or take it away altogether. There were drugs to make one forget; drugs that could make one remember; drugs that could do whatever one desired. With his mind on the agony of his troubles, Conar allowed the man to mix him a potion that wiped away—for a time—the pain in his heart. *** Later, Sern Jamar looked at the ceiling and smiled. Skilled in the use of wild plants that grew in his native region, he kept a stock of medicines that could taint the mind with their potency. Hallucinogens, sedatives, sleeping potions, aphrodisiacs, even poisons, lined his pockets with more gold than he would ever be able to spend in his lifetime. The whores were merely a sideline, bringing in a copper here, a gold coin there. Shasamie, however, earned for him in any single evening more than all his other women combined would earn for him in a month. It was her talents, and his potions, that gave him a rich living among the richer men of the Seven Kingdoms. But Sern wanted more. His ambition had always been to make himself indispensable to powerful men, men who could provide luxuries and accommodations he so richly deserved for his talents without having to worry about the law and angry customers who ran him from town to town. Sern didn't want to concern himself with where his next meal would come from, or where his next pillow might lay. Despite the money he had earned through the years, he did not wish to spend it. Such was for his golden years when his eyesight might fail him, or when his mind began to mix potions that did more harm than good. It was the aphrodisiac he administered to a drunken, unsuspecting Conar the night he took five women to his bed that had formulated the plan in Sern's mind. What had begun as a tribute to the Dark Overlord—a gift in appreciation for the man—soon became a means to a future filled with the pleasures of court life and the mind-pleasing position of being a friend to the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms—Conar McGregor. Seeing that neither the vast amounts of liquor his new friend consumed, nor the dubious talents of the whores draping themselves over him, could erase the bored look and pain in the Darkwind's eye, Sern had known a way to bring peace to that hard face. The nomad smiled again. The Dark Overlord of the Wind had fallen susceptible prey to the world of forgetfulness that only his drugs could bring.

Chapter 5 Cold, moist wind blew down from Mount Serenia, howling about the battlements, snapping the pennants flying atop

the crenellated walls, bringing with it the taste and feel of an early frost. It was late fall, the day crisp, the sun, a fading red ball in the western sky. Villagers stood with hands thrust into their coat pockets, huddled together, eyes watching the winding road. Torches had been lit, casting a mellow, welcoming glow along the lowered drawbridge, lighting the way for the stream of horsemen making their way toward Boreas Keep. Riding headlong into the claw-sharpening breeze, the men of the Wind Force shivered in their great capes. Steam billowed from their mounts' nostrils, as well as their own, and many a tired body longed for a roaring fire as the chill north wind spat moisture into their faces. Occasionally, a warrior would raise his chin from the confines of his high fur collar, lift his eyes to the battlements, and breathe a sigh of relief knowing he was finally home. The horses were tired, the men, exhausted, and here and there along the straggling column of riders, a horse sat empty. Here and there, a blanket-wrapped body lay slung across a mount's back. Seven months and fourteen deaths, nine skirmishes with Temple troops, one encounter with bloodthirsty Hasdu nomads, the destruction of two Temples, and the liberation of three Domination-held strongholds, had kept these men from their families and hearth far too long. Making their way home seemed to be the only thing that kept them on their horses. *** "They look battle-scarred," Roget du Mer remarked as he joined his friend and King atop the battlements. He rested a light hand on Legion A'Lex's shoulder. "Thank the gods they're finally home." Legion braced his cold hands on the half-wall and leaned over the battlements, straining to see one particular man amidst the throng of returning warriors. The sun was rapidly setting in the pink chablis sunset and visibility was poor. He scanned the bays and roans, the dappled grays and chestnuts, the pintos and palominos, searching for that one mighty black brute of a steed whose appearance would herald the return of the man for whom Legion waited. "I don't see him." He shuddered, his body trembling with a fear he felt all the way to his soul and beyond. Roget squeezed his shoulder. "If anything had happened to him, you'd have been told." Legion glanced at the tall mountain range behind him and shuddered. He let his gaze fall on Roget. "If there's bad news, ff something's happened to him, I want to be the one to tell her." "I understand." Legion looked back at the returning troops. He shook his head at the column of weary men, taking note of injuries, empty horses, nags whose burdens were the blanket-encased bodies of their dead owners. "Alel, be merciful to them." The portcullis groaned as it began to lift. To Legion, the shriek of grinding chain and creaking timber sounded like the piercing moan of a great dying entity. The first horseman had disappeared under the flaring arch of the gatehouse. A soft, muted cheer shot up from the outer bailey as servants ran to help the warriors dismount. "Have preparations been made for their welcome?" Legion asked. "Teal wasn't the wisest choice in regard to organizing a party." Roget chuckled. "Why not?" Roget shrugged. "He got off on the wrong foot when he went to Liza for help." "What did he do?" Legion asked in a resigned, sighing voice. "He suggested setting up tables for gambling." Legion's eyebrows shot up. "In Liza's keep?" At Roget's nod, the brows drew together in a deep scowl. "Stupid jackass!" he hissed, returning to his vigilant watch of the incoming men. Spying a large black horse lumbering toward the drawbridge, Legion braced his hands on the half-wall and leaned out for a better look. His scowl deepened as the horse and rider proved to be unfamiliar. He let out a long breath. "I don't see him." He ran a hand over his eyes and drew in a long, wavering breath. "Why wasn't he at the head of the column?" "Maybe he stayed at one of the inns in town."

"No, he'd be with his men. Conar would want to make sure his wounded were cared for and his dead laid out decently." He pushed away from the wall and let out a grunt of frustration. "Where the hell can the bastardbe?" "You're getting yourself all worked up for nothing. Knowing Conar, he's probably holed up at a tavern with a bottle and a bawd, and not necessarily in that order!" It was getting harder by the minute to distinguish the colors of the horses. The torchlight had become a feeble, wafting light in the stiffening breeze. "The man's made annoying me his life's work!" Legion pounded the fieldstone half-wall with a hard fist. "Sometimes I could—" "Highness?" Legion's head snapped around, his breath catching in his throat as he eyed a newcomer to the battlements. He knew the man, but could not recall his true name. All he knew was his Force name was Starling, Conar's second in command. "What's wrong?" Legion demanded. Starling doffed his cap and limped forward, ducking his head to his King. "Might I have a word with you, Highness?" Legion looked closely, unable to fathom Starling's expression in the dying light. It might have been simple tiredness on those gaunt features, or a spasm of pain that made the returning warrior seem distressed, but Legion sensed otherwise. "What happened to your foot?" Legion asked, wanting to forestall the bad news he could feel coming. "It'll be fair by morning, I reckon. Just took me a spill from the nag. Nothing serious." Roget snorted. "Youfell off your horse, Lanyon?" With the mention of the name, Legion remembered the man and his family. This was certainly not a man given to plunging from his mount. Starling blushed and, even in the fading light, Legion saw his acute embarrassment. "Well, I had a little help in falling, you see." Roget chuckled. "Who'd you piss off, Lanyon?" "Well, it was like this," Starling answered, addressing Legion. "Somebodyelse was falling and I tried to help him." A'Lex understood. He swung his gaze to du Mer. "Find out how many men need Cayn and how many need a priest or undertaker. Let me know as soon as you get the names of the dead." Roget gave a quick nod and hurried away. "Where is he?" Legion asked Starling. "Is he wounded?" Starling twisted his cap in his hands. "He'll be along shortly, I would think, Highness. He was only a mile or two behind us. And no, Your Grace, he ain't wounded." "Drunk?" "No, Your Grace," Starling answered in a drawn-out sigh. "Not drunk." He threaded blunt fingers through his crop of dark brown curls. "But not sober, either, eh?" Legion turned to stare down at the road, now empty of riders. "He's been acting a bit odd of late, Highness." "In what way?" "Well, it's like he's drunk. but he ain't—you know what I mean, Highness?"

Legion glanced at the man. "No." "It's like he takes a drink, you know, but don't get drunk with it. Then he starts raising hell like you wouldn't believe!" Starling rolled his eyes. "The things he does just boggle the mind, they do!" Legion's firm lips turned hard, the muscles in his cheek grinding. "Either the fool's drunk or he isn't. Which is it?" Starling took a step backward from the heavy impact of Legion's words. "I don't rightly understand it, myself, Highness. I surely don't." "I do," came a voice from behind. Legion turned, recognizing Marsh Edan's broad frame. "You need something?" he snapped at his Master-at-Arms. "If not, I'm busy." Marsh came toward him, his face set in a lowering scowl. He nodded at Starling. "The returning men have been talking—" Legion held up a hand. "There he is." Legion saw the big black steed Seachance galloping up the winding roadway toward the keep. Pale dust billowed up from behind the mighty hooves, and the jingle of harness and thundering horseshoes penetrated the silence on the battlements. The horse sped past the guard house torches. Plank timbers thumped as the devil steed shot across the drawbridge. After being reined in, the horse dug in its back legs, sat back on its haunches, and lifted its flashing front hooves high in the air. As the beast hopped forward a pace or two on its hind legs, a cheer sprang upward from the outer bailey. "Only he would race his horse on a pitch-black pathway!" Legion grumbled with disgust, gripping the battlement half-wall. "The man has no care for his safety. No care at all!" "He thinks he's invincible," Marsh grunted, folding his massive arms across his chest. "But he ain't." As Seachance dropped his hooves to the drawbridge, Conar glanced up at Legion. Even from a distance, and in the darkness, their gazes locked. Blood recognized blood. For a long, silent moment, the men looked at one another—Legion, his grip tight on the wall, Conar, his thighs controlling the steed, now edging in a sideways prance toward the portcullis entrance. Conar leaned forward, patted the horse's sleek neck, never taking his eyes from Legion. With contemptuous slowness, he straightened, turned his mount's head, then clucked as he kicked his heels into Seachance's flanks. The horse leapt forward, and rider and steed disappeared beneath the archway. Filled with pain and remorse, Legion stared off across the valley beyond the keep. When he eventually faced Marsh, he saw understanding and compassion on the man's ordinarily stern features. "You found out something?" "Yes, his men have been talking, and what they tell me hasn't set well. You aren't going to like it." Legion knew he wouldn't.

Chapter 6 "Are you going to the party?" Brelan asked. He sat on the cot next to Conar, who was pulling on a pair of woolen socks. "Nope."

"The men would like it if you did." "They'll get over it." Conar stood, jerking his breeches from the dungeoun floor. A muscle ground in his cheek as he thrust his long legs into the cords. "Don't you want to see—" "I've got other plans." Saur bit his tongue to keep the anger from spilling out. Answering his brother's stubbornness with insult would accomplish nothing. Instead, he tried reasoning. "I thought you wanted to speak with Roget." Conar scooped up a wrinkled black cambric shirt. He yanked it over his head and tucked the tail into his breeches. "It'll keep." Brelan stared at his brother's tall frame. There was a gauntness to Conar's face, a leanness to his body, that hadn't been there when he'd left a half a year before. Also, a slight tremble in Conar's hands worried Brelan. "Have you been sick with the fever again?" "Nope." "You've lost weight—at least ten to fifteen pounds." Conar's eyes flickered with annoyance. "So what?" "You didn't have all that much extra weight to lose, that's what!" A heavy uplift of Conar's shoulders was his only reply. He sat on the cot to draw on his black leather boots, then slipped one lethal-looking dagger into one boot. Its mate he thrust behind him through the sheath of his belt. "Are you going out?" Brelan asked with alarm. Conar frowned, looking about as if trying to remember what he was forgetting. Then, swinging his great cape from where it was wedged between the iron bars, Conar slung it over his shoulders. "What do you think?" "You can't be serious!" Brelan shot up from the cot. "It's raining cats and dogs!" "So, I'll be careful where I step." "There's a gale brewing. You want to go out on a night like this?" "If the rain was going to hurt me, it would have done so on one of the many occasions Appolyon left me chained out in it." "You're determined to have your own way, aren't you? It doesn't matter what anyone says or how they worry about you—" The words came as a quiet warning. "I can take care of myself." "And you're doing a good job of it, aren't you?" "Leave off, Brelan. You aren't my nanny." "You sure as hell need one! Where are you going that's so damned important, anyway?" "Your spies will tell you where I've been," Conar answered, his face unconcerned, almost expressionless, as he walked out of the cell. "You can't face her, can you?" Conar halted in mid-stride. "That's why you won't attend the party! You can't face Elizabeth!"

Although Conar didn't turn, Brelan knew his brother's face had finally formed an expression. The evidence of that was in his tightly controlled voice as he resumed his walk. "Go to hell, Saur." The distant echo of clanking iron told Brelan that Conar had left the dungeon. He heaved a disgusted sigh. He knew Thom and Sentian, or the unseen Shadow-warriors from the Outer Kingdom, would be close on Conar's heels, but such knowledge did not set Saur's mind to rest. *** Liza jumped as lightning flared beyond the windows of the covered wooden walkway. She waited for the heavy rumble of thunder, and felt the floor move as it finally came. Taking a deep breath, she hurried across the walkway toward the kitchens, trying to ignore another lightning bolt weaving its way to land. She was, however, aware of her wildly thumping heart, her sweaty palms, and mentally kicked herself for having gone to the stables to see the Tucker's new brood of strays. The warmth and safety of Sadie MacCorkingdale's haven couldn't come soon enough. The old cook glanced up with obvious annoyance when the door to her private kingdom opened. Seeing Liza in the doorway eased the scowl from her weathered face. "Milady, why in the good gods' names did you go out in that hell-storm! Humping hippo, will you look at you!" Trembling, Liza let the woman escort her to a seat, felt the fingers twisted with arthritis smoothing her hair. She leaned against Sadie, flinching as another burst of fire slashed through the heavens. "I hope them pups was worth it," Sadie mumbled. "Good for nothing but shitting and pissing, if you ask me!" She patted her Queen's shoulder. "But I suppose if you care for such things, it was something to take your mind off your troubles." "Troubles?" "The grand lord's home. If that ain't trouble, I don't know what is!" "I haven't seen him yet." "Well, it's best you don't. Nothing good ever comes from the two of you being anywheres near one another." A sharp pain of loss went through Liza's heart. "I suppose you're right." "You got a good man," Sadie went on as though she hadn't heard. "Legion A'Lex was always a good man." Her face hardened. "Not like some I could mention." Liza was barely listening. She had only meant to be gone from the party a few minutes, but she'd been absent nearly an hour and knew she'd be missed. Heaving a tired sigh, she eased out of Sadie's light hold, stood, and smiled. "You always make me feel so loved." Sadie's age-marked face turned red, and she ducked her head with its fine, straggling mist of white hair. "Yoube loved," she answered vehemently. "I look at you and see my Joanie, sometimes." A shadow crossed over her features. "My Joanie was a good girl." "I'm sure she was, with a mother like you." Stooping, Liza planted a loving kiss on the woman's cheek. "Well, I've played hooky long enough, I suppose. Don't you stay too much longer, Sadie. Go home and go to bed!" With that, she turned and left the room. *** Sadie stood with a crippled hand placed lightly on the spot where her Queen had kissed her. For a long time after her mistress had gone, she could feel that sweet act of love and affection touching her flesh. "You don't deserve the likes of him," she whispered, looking toward the pantry, where all manner of vengeance could be found. "And I'll help to see he don't ever,ever hurt you again!" *** Sentian and Thom trudged through the pelting rain and chilling wind, cursing the man whose footsteps they dogged. The cowl from Conar's great cape was thrown back from his rain-wet blond hair, the edges of the cape billowing out as he hurried through the storm.

Sentian ran the sleeve of his woolen jacket under his dripping nose. "He's going to catch the damned fever out in this muck." Thom flicked an annoyed glance at his companion, but didn't speak. The back of his neck prickled with unease and he snapped his head around to catch sight of the shadows he knew were following their quarry. "They're back there," Sentian told him. "I can feel them, too." Thom hunched down his thick neck into the wet collar. "Justonce, I'd like to see those bastards!" "Don't hold your breath. Besides, I'm not so sure I want to see them." Sentian looked at Thom. "Youdidn't meet Misha!" "Did, too! He might have been big, but I could take him in a fair fight." "Theydon't fight fair!" Ahead of them, Conar darted from one archipelago of dry land to another as he made his way toward the muted glow of yellow tavern lights. "I'll lay you odds he goes to the Green Horned Toad," Thom prophesied, although he truly didn't care where their leader went so long as he hurried up with it. Wet from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, the warrior was fast becoming chilled and more than a little put out. "We could be at the party," Sentian snarled, his hands digging deeper into his coat pockets. "We could be drinking warm ale and eating venison. But noooo. We're traipsing around in a gale, following a man perfectly capable of taking care of himself." "That's a matter of opinion." Thom nodded his head toward Conar. "See! Didn't I tell you? Meggie's Ruck's kitchen." *** When the door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and rain, Meggie Ruck looked up from her baking. The anger lines on her aging face smoothed out once she recognized Conar, and a welcoming grin slipped into place. But she clucked her tongue as she looked him over, head to foot. Aware he was dripping water on her clean floor, a small puddle forming around his mud-encrusted boots, he screwed up his face into a mask of contrition. "Uh, oh," he mumbled and started to sidestep the mess. "Don't move!" she said, wagging a finger at him. "Sit yourself down and take them boots off!" As she spoke, she snatched a towel from a drying rack beside the blazing hearth. Her lips pursed with disgust. "Only a fool would go out on a night like this!" "You've always told me I wasn't too bright." Though it was difficult to remove his water-soaked boots, Conar finally managed to pull them off. Looking around for a place to set them, he glanced at Meggie, standing with her hands on her more-than-ample hips and glaring at him as though he were an addled child. The end of her towel tapped against her thigh. "Over there!" she snapped, pointing to the stone fireplace. "I'll have Dorrie clean them." He padded to the fire and placed his boots on the hearth. "Now get that cape off 'fore you catch your death, boy!" His fingers stiff with cold, wet with rain, he fumbled at the closing of his cape, thrusting the thick brass button through its hole until the sodden clothing swung free of his shoulders. "You're soaked straight through!" Meggie scolded as she grabbed the great cape. "Get that bloody shirt off, too!" Conar heaved a long sigh, but he pulled the shirt from his breeches. Meggie went to the swinging door leading into the common room. Conar winced when her voice carried over the

sounds of clinking mugs and mumbling men. "Harry! Harry!Get me one of your shirts!" "What for?" came the puzzled voice. "Never youmind what for! Just get it." Meggie let the door close, but immediately swung it open again. "And bring me a clean pair of woolen socks!" "Socks?" "You heard me, old man!" Conar's lips twitched as he pulled the damp shirt over his head. He was chilled and wasn't surprised to see goosebumps covering his chest and arms. He started to use the shirt to wipe at the moisture on his face and neck. "Don'tdo that! Use this!" She thrust the towel at him, then grabbed the shirt he had dirtied with muddy fingers. "Don't youever take mind of your clothes?" "I…" She waved an imperious hand. "Sit by the fire until you thaw out!" She pushed him none-too-gently into a straight back chair. "The socks. Take 'em off!" Knowing better than to argue, Conar pulled the sopping wool from his cold feet and laid the socks on the hearth. He looked up at Meggie, feeling like a little boy. Her mouth tightened with annoyance. "Don't be giving me none of them cow-eyed innocent looks," she warned, lifting a flour-speckled finger. "I'm wise to you." The right side of his mouth lifted in a cocky grin; his left brow arched. "Oh, no, you don't! You can grin at me like that until doomsday, lad, and I won't be charmed. Understand?" "Aye, Milady," he answered, his lips twitching. Meggie folded her arms over her abundant bosom and fixed him with an unwavering stare. "What are you up to now?" "Nothing." "Nothing, my Aunt Daisey's hind end. You had nothing better to do than skip about in the storm, I suppose." When he put up a hand to wipe the moisture from his face, she threaded her fingers through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. Grimacing, she snatched the towel from him. "It's a wonder you didn't drown out there!" she mumbled, vigorously appling the towel to his hair. "Well, I really—" "Stupid thing to do! One ofmany stupid things you've done of late. Why aren't you at the party?" "I didn't want to go." "Why the hell not?" He winced as she tugged on his hair. "I had other things that needed doing." "Such as?" He looked up at her when she took away the towel. "Such as eating supper." Meggie eyed him with a bland expression. "There's food up to the keep." He frowned, looking away. "I wanted your cooking."

She snorted. "You wanted to sneak off, you did. Ain't that the truth?" "No, I—" He stopped as the towel was again draped over his wet hair and strenuously applied. The swinging door opened and Meggie's husband of fifty-five years stepped into the kitchen. His angry gaze flicked over the scene. "Who's that?" Harry snapped, jutting his chin at Conar. "Where's the socks and shirt?" Meggie asked. "Who'sthat?" "Where'sthe socks and shirt?" Harry folded his arms over his scrawny chest and glared back at her. "I ain't supplying none of my possessions to nobody!" His eyes and tone suggested it wasn't just the clothing that he wouldn't supply. "Who is he?" Under the canopy of the thick towel, Conar's lips stretched into a wide mischievousness grin. He leaned against Meggie, wrapping one long arm around her hips to draw her closer. In his best Chalean brogue, he raised the timbre of his voice and spoke to his hostess. "Meggie, m'darling. Who is that bellowing jackass that would dare to speak so rudely to my Sweeting?" Harry's face reddened. "Sweeting, did you say?" His arthritic hands curled into fists at his side. "Jackass, you say?" "Send him away, Meg," Conar cooed, holding her fast to his side. "I thought we was to be alone this eve." "Alone?" Harry took giant steps forward and dragged the damp towel from Conar's head. His scowl turned to jaw-dropping horror as the Dark Overlord of the Wind grinned and winked. "Good eve, Harry." "Old fool!" Meggie teased, but there was pride and great love in her face. Her breasts jiggled as she laughed. "Did you think I'd been messing around on you, then?" Harry snapped his mouth shut, glanced at his Overlord, and chuckled. "Shame on you, Milord. You're an imp, you are!" With the long-standing friendship and love between them, he gently squeezed Conar's shoulder. "You had me going there, you did." Conar's grin stretched wider. He hugged Meggie to him. "I know." "Harry," she said, cocking her head. "The shirt and socks? The boy's getting cold." "Oh, aye! Aye!" Harry continued laughing as he left the kitchen. "You are a bad boy," she chided and tousled Conar's damp hair. "Hungry?" He nodded. "What're you making?" "Apple dumplings. Want some?" She walked to her work table where she had rolled out thick globs of buttery dough. "Um, hum." He stretched out his legs, his toes wiggling in the heat from the roaring fire, and watched Meggie's expert hands rolling dough. "Why ain't you at the party?" she asked, glancing at him. "You've already asked that." "I'm still awaiting an answer." "I'd rather be here." His grin slipped to a tight smile. She picked up her dumpling press and began to score circles in the dough. "Hiding, are you?" His smile twitched, then disappeared. "No."

"Don't be giving me them sharp tones of yours, neither." She plopped a generous spoonful of apple filling into a circle of dough, then slapped another circle on top. "I know you, and I know when you're avoiding things." "You do, do you?" "Better than you do yourself, it seems, lad." Having filled a dozen pastries, Meggie placed them on a platter. She walked to a bubbling kettle of mulled apple cider and butter and lowered each dumpling into the cinnamon-smelling concoction. "People don't understand me, Meg." "That is a truth if I ever heard you tell it! You do things that make no sense at times." She pointed a finger at him. "Like running away from that party up to the keep." "I didn't run away from the gods-be-damned party!" "You didn't go, did you?" When he didn't answer, she came to him and nudged his foot with her slippered toe. "Did you?" When he continued to stare at her, refusing to speak, she leaned down to make her point. "You didn't even poke your head in to wish your men a merry evening, did you?" His silence lengthened as he held her look. "Nary a word to them to enjoy themselves after long and weary months of fighting, huh?" "What are you hinting at, Meggie?" She shrugged, lifting one thick shoulder high in the air. "Now, what would an old woman the likes of me be hinting at, Your Grace?" His instant frown at the use of his old title seemed to please her. "You had a duty to see to your men and you turned your back on them—ran away." "I didn't run away!" he snapped, his face blazing with annoyance. "Then what do you call it? You should have gone to the party, if only for a few minutes, just to let your men know you were there." "They don't need me there to enjoy themselves," he mumbled, his gaze shifting away. "Most likely not, considering the foul mood you be in this eve." Turning, she picked up a ladle to stir beef stew simmering in a cast iron pot. Conar watched her for a moment, her silence weighing heavily on his conscience. He could tell she was put out with him by the way her large hands gripped the ladle. He was fairly sure she was wishing it were his neck. "Don't be mad at me," he said, breaking the quiet. "Not you, too." "I ain't," she countered, shaking pepper into her stew. "Disappointed, maybe, but not mad." "Disappointed in what?" "In knowing why you won't go to that party." She added a pinch of salt to the pot. "And what is it you think you know?" Harry entered the kitchen, shirt and socks in hand. His wide, merry grin was in sharp contrast to Conar's scowl. Ruck looked at his wife's unsmiling face and obviously knew to make himself scarce. "They're clean, Milord," he said, handing the objects to Conar. "Keep 'em as long as you want." He spun around sharply, pushing open the door to the common room as fast as he could. There was a long moment of silence as Meggie stirred her dumplings with infinite care. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the steamy kitchen, and the soft bubbling of the pot combined to make the room a warm haven from the howling wind and pelting rain lashing against the window panes. Meggie raised a ladle of thick syrup to her lips and tasted, beaming with pleasure. Cupping her free hand under the

ladle, she carried the rest of the contents toward Conar. "Try it." He drew in his legs and sat forward, carefully putting his lips to the steaming golden-white liquid. He sipped gingerly. "Good?" "Aye." He finished the rest of the spicy apple dumpling broth and licked his lips. With wariness, he looked at Meggie, trying to gauge her feelings. She set the ladle on a counter and wiped her hands on her apron. "You look tired. Have you been taking care of yourself, lad?" "I suppose," he answered, standing and padding away from her. He scrounged about the kitchen tasting some foods, smelling others. He peered into a cupboard, lifted a lid on a cookie jar, and extracted a chocolate brownie. As he stuffed it in his mouth and pulled out a pitcher of milk, Meggie shook her head. "There's rhubarb pie there," she said, pointing to the pie safe. Conar opened the tin-punch door and took out the pie, cut a piece, then bit into it. A glob of thick filling oozed down the side of his hand. Meggie laughed out loud when he licked his palm and fingers before stuffing the remainder of the pie in his mouth. "When was the last time you ate, boy?" she asked. At his shrug, she ordered him to sit at the table. He obeyed, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his long legs while she ladled steaming stew into a bowl. "I need someone to talk to, lady." She nodded. "I thought as much." "Someone I can trust." "That goes without saying." She took the chair opposite him. "Someone who won't scold me like I'm a child." A frown formed on her wide face. "And what is it you've done for which you might need a scolding?" His feelings immediately turned militant, but Meggie's honest, encouraging look softened them. He looked away, not knowing how to begin. "Why aren't you at the party?" she asked again. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his cords, refusing to look at her. "I've got better things to do than attend some useless party." "Like traipsing about in the rain trying to catch your death of cold." He looked up at her. "Don't—" "Don't what?" she snapped back. "I'm not a child, Meggie." She made a rude sound with her lips. "You'd never prove it by me." She lifted her chin. "All children, especially little boys, tend to be selfish, and that's exactly what you're being." "Selfish? Because I didn't want to go to the gods-be-damned party? Because I wanted to be alone?" Her finger jabbed the tabletop, punctuating her words. "Seems to me you like being by yourself afar too much and afar too often for your own good! And where has that being alone got you, eh?"

"By myself!" he mumbled, picking up a spoon beside the stew. "And you like that, do you?" "Aye, I like it!" he shouted, shifting his gaze from her probing stare. "The hell you do!" She reached across the table and cupped his chin, bringing his eyes back to hers. "You look this old woman in the eye and tell her you like the loneliness that goes with being alone!" He tried to move his head, but her grip was surprisingly strong. A muscle jumped in his cheek, his teeth ground together, but he let her keep his face steady. "You know what I think you need?" she asked, unperturbed. "No, but you're going to tell me, aren't you?" "Damn straight!" She let go of his face, pulled her chair around beside his, effectively blocking him from either getting up or ignoring her. "If you hadn't wanted to hear my advice, lad, you wouldn't have trudged through the storm to reach me, now would you?" "I was going out anyway," he said in a voice that sounded childish even to his own ears. "I mistakenly thought you might like to see me." "Why aren't you at the party?" "Stop asking me that!" he shouted. He shoveled a spoonful of hot stew into his mouth, wincing as the vegetables scorched his tongue. Meggie broke off a large section of cornbread from a platter. "Here." He crammed the butter-dotted bread in his mouth and chewed. "Did you know your eyes are turning brown?" she asked, peering closely at him. "No, they're not." Washing down the cornbread with more milk, he looked up at her, wondering at the mean look on her face. "They are, too. Must be because you're so full of shit." He blinked. Meggie ignored his astonishment. "You just can't go to that party, can you?" "I could if I wanted to." "I don't think so." She fused her gaze with his. "You're scared to face that little slip of a girl of yours." "Amber-lea?" "Your lady, lad. Our Queen." "She's not my lady!" came his furious, violent outburst. "Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?" Wounded and hurt, his soul swimming, drowning, dying, moisture sprang from the corners of his eyes. "She doesn't…she won't…" He stopped, pushed away his food, and viciously shook his head. "Don't do this to me, Meggie." "Do what, son?" "Remind me of just how much…" He squeezed his eyelids shut. "How much I've lost!" When he hunched forward, when his head dropped to his hands, she gathered him into her ample arms, cradling him

against her shoulder. "Ah, lad," she whispered as his sobs broke free, shaking the wide shoulder she patted. "What are we to do with you, eh?" He clutched her around the waist, his face pressed to her bosom. He needed her, replaced her with the mother he had lost so long ago. He was once more a little boy, his ache being soothed by the only person in the world who understood his pain. "Now, now," she crooned, stroking his hair. "You tell your Meggie what hurts you, son. You tell Meggie what she can do to help." "Oh, god, Meggie," he sobbed, burrowing his face into the starched fabric of her apron. "I've messed everything up." "And what is it you think you've done now? Seems to me you blame yourself far too much for things out of your control." "Not this time," he said on a hitching breath. "This time I fucked everything up!" "Watch your mouth." She lifted the edge of her apron, pushed back his head, and started to wipe his eyes. He would have turned away his head, but she anchored his chin in her free hand and ran the cotton under his nose. "You don't know what I'm capable of doing," he said in a miserable voice, pleading with her to understand. "To other people. To myself." "Whatever it is, it can be undone," she said emphatically, smoothing away a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He pulled away from her and stood. "Not this time. This time, I've gone beyond help. No one can help me now." Her brows drew together in obvious alarm. "What have you done?" Again, he brought up his hands to cover his face. "I don't want you to know," he told her through the camouflage of his fingers. "I don't want anyone to know how low I've sank." "And especially not the lady, eh?" "No. Especially not Liza." Meggie rose from her chair and took his hands in hers, bringing them away from his face. She placed his palms together and kissed the tips of his fingers. "Do you know I love you, lad?" Surprised, he lowered his head, but was unable to look into the truth of her gaze. "Do me the courtesy of looking at me when I talk to you. Do you, know that I love you, Conar?" The use of his name made him flinch. Again, he tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let him. "Aye," he whispered, "I know that, Meg." She lifted a work-reddened hand to his cheek. "And do you know that I would do anything for you?" His head sank to his chest. "I don't deserve such loyalty." "The hell you say!" Meggie snorted, her voice tight with anger. "Who put that stupid thought in your head?" She gathered him into her arms. "Oh, lad. What is it that hurts you so?" For the first time in a long time, Conar felt safe, wanted, loved for who he was. He knew a moment's respite from the godawful agony that had been a part of his soul for so very long. He clasped her to him like a drowning man and felt the additional tears he'd been trying to hold back slip down his cheeks. "You can't, Meg," he groaned, his arms bringing her closer to his madly beating heart. "No one can help me now." She pushed him back so she could take his cheeks in her pudgy hands. "This is your Meggie you're talking to, son. I'd give my life for you because you are one of my own. If anyone can help, it will be me!" Her expression turned stern. "Now, you tell me what it is that ails you."

He felt unmanned, ashamed of his weakness before this beloved woman, and wanted to hide, but he knew she wouldn't let him. Instead, he bit his lip, letting his own face shut down. "Don't you go stubborn on me, Conar McGregor! Yes, McGregor! Aye, my fine young warrior! You can be whosoever you want to be outside these old kitchen walls, but to me, to your Meggie, you are the same ornery lad who caused my Harry to burn two perfectly good chairs and a table! Who damned near gave my old man the consumption while running about in pouring rain as bad as we got outside tonight!" She cupped the back of his neck. "I've got me a good mind to turn your ornery hind end across my lap and smack that orneriness right out of you!" His lips twitched in a smile, despite the control he tried to exercise over them. "Don't you think I'm a little too big for that?" Her left eyebrow arched. "You're too big for your breeches, you are!" She let go his neck and reseated herself, folding her arms over her large bosom. "Well? I'm waiting." "For what?" Meggie's head cocked dangerously. "Oh," he said, the word dropping like a rock into the silence. He sat down. "You want to know what I've done. Something really stupid." "That's nothing new." "Really stupid this time, Meg. I've gotten myself into a whole mess of trouble that I'm not sure I can get out of." Meggie said nothing. "I'm not even sure I'm strong enough to try." He looked at his clasped hands, searching for the words he wanted to say, needed to convey for her to understand the seriousness of the position into which he had knowingly placed himself. But the words just wouldn't come; the shame was too great. "Have you hurt someone?" she finally asked. "Only myself." Meggie sighed. "When you do that, lad, you hurt more people than you can possibly imagine. Do you think the people who love you want to see you hurt?" "Some do." "None that matter. Conar, Sweeting, don't you know how very much you are loved?" He opened his mouth to deny her statement, but despite the tremble of his lips, words continued to escape him. She laid her hand on his thigh. "Whatever it is you think you've done to harm yourself, it can be corrected. Is it the drink, lad?" He looked up at her in surprise. "You always had far too great a liking for the drink." "That's not the problem…I can handle the liquor." "Every man I ever knew who had a problem with the drinkthought he could handle it, too." "It'snot the liquor," he said, shaking his head in denial. "I wish to the gods it were as simple as that!" He got up, braced his hands on the fireplace mantle, and stared into the lapping flames. "It's the…the drugs." If Meggie Ruck was shocked and dismayed by his confession, she didn't let him know. Nor did she leap up to

confront him, to screech her fury. Instead, she came to her feet, took up her ladle, and dipped it into the dumplings. "Are you still hungry?" "Did you hear what I said?" "They need cream." She ladled three fat dumplings into a crockery bowl and set it on the table, then walked calmly to the tin chest. She took out a pitcher of cream and poured a dollop onto the dumplings. "Meg?" he inquired, fully facing her. "Did you—" "I ain't deaf, lad." She brought the bowl to him and nodded toward his chair. "Sit. You ain't going to eat standing up in my kitchen." Feeling like a schoolboy who had been chastened by his term master, he sat and meekly took the bowl. The smell filled his nostrils and his stomach grumbled, begged to be filled. He took a spoon and dug into the slick, aromatic pastries. He cut one dumpling in half and scooped it up. "Don't burn your mouth again—" He had already shoved the dumpling into his mouth. It was like molten lava. The crinkly feeling on his tongue warned he would pay for his impetuosity. Around puckered lips, he drew a gasping breath. "There you go again—not listening!" He shifted the sizzling pastry to his back teeth for chewing. "Good," he mumbled, scooping up another spoonful. "What kind of drug?" "Opium." The moment the word left his mouth, his spoon-filled hand stilled halfway to his lips. She had asked in such a matter-of-fact voice, catching him entirely off guard, he'd answered before he thought. A dull flush spread over his face. "That was dirty, woman!" She grinned. "I didn't want to spend the entire evening dragging the words out of you one at a time." "So now you can lecture me," he snapped, putting the bowl on the table with more force than he intended. The sharp clink of the crockery to wood made him purse his lips with annoyance. "Well, get on with it!" "You want a lecture?" she asked in a reasonable, accommodating voice. "Hell, no!" "You sure that's not what you came for?" she asked, her face all innocence and surprise. "I know damned well it ain't!" "But you want me to say something or you wouldn't have put the thing on my doorstep." "Damn it—" "You know drugs are bad for you. I know they're bad for you. What else is there to say? Just stop taking 'em. From what I'm hearing in your voice, you don't want 'em, and you sure as hell ain't proud of yourself for having to use 'em. What that tells me is that you want somebody to make you stop." He stood, plowing his fingers through his still-damp hair. "It's not that easy to do." "I would imagine not, but many a man has done so and lived to tell the tale." She put her hands on her hips. "If you need to stay here a while to get yourself off them things, you know you can. Nary a soul will know where you are or why you're here unless you want 'em to." "You don't know what you're offering. I've tried to get off the damned potion and I always wind up buying more." "I'll tell you this much—if you don't stop on your own, someone else will do it for you."

His lips went taut. "Like who?" She shrugged. "That's nothing you can keep hidden from friends forever. When Legion finds out what you've been up to—" "He doesn't give a goddamn about what happens to me! And neither does his Queen!" He plopped down into the chair by the fireplace, then snatched up the woolen socks and shirt Harry had supplied and put them on. "Have I ever given you bad advice, son?" "No!" His angry strides carried him to where his boots sat. "Then you know what I tell you is for your own good, don't you?" "Sometimes," he acknowledged, sitting on the hearth to draw on his mud-encrusted boots. "How do you expect me to help you, lad?" Her voice was gentle, as kind as an angel's. But he didn't want kind words. Looking up, he spoke from between clenched teeth. "Just be there for me." "There are others who would also be there for you, if you asked them." He shot to his feet. "Like myQueen?" "If you wanted her to be." "The bitch hates the sight of me," he thundered, jerking up his cape from the hall tree where Meggie had draped it. "Again, who are you trying to convince of that—me or yourself?" "I need to convince no one!" "She loves you. Don't you know that?" "No! I sure as hell don't! I came here to talk to you, Meg. To get your help. I can't—" "You can do anything you put your mind to," she said, her eyes narrowing in concern as he pulled open the door, letting in the rain. "You can get off them drugs you don't want nor need. They won't help you forget her." "I'm not trying to for—" "Aren't you?" He stood, uncertain, in terrible emotional pain. Rain washed over him, making him blink. The brisk wind ruffled his hair, billowed his cape. "You can do whatever you've a mind to," Meggie assured. "You've just got towant to do it." He searched her face, seeing her emotions emblazoned there. He knew she loved him—he could feel it—and he loved her. He knew her words were meant to heal, to help, to feed the hunger in his ravaged soul, but his pride would not let him accept her judgment of Liza's feelings toward him. "I can't go to her," he said. His shoulders slumped beneath the heavy weight of his wet cape. "I won't go to her. Not again." Despite the incoming storm, Meggie stepped up and put her arms around him, drawing his protesting body close. "Then, you come to me, baby," she whispered. "When it gets bad, come to me. I'll always be here. Always." Tears streamed down her cheek. "You are one of my own."

Chapter 7 Thom stomped his feet on the wet ground, scowled up at the tin roof under which he and Sentian hovered to get out of the rain. "He could be in there all night," he fumed, slapping his arms around him for warmth. "He could be pumping that damned Dorrie!" Sentian frowned, but kept his mouth shut. "Should we ought to see if he's still in the kitchen with Meggie?" Thom asked. When his companion didn't answer, he nudged Heil with his boot. "What?" Sentian snapped, glancing up. "I asked if we should—" He stopped, cocking his head toward the kitchen door of the Green Horned Toad. "Here he comes." Conar stepped out into the pouring rain, pulled the cowl of his great cape over his head, and hunched his shoulders into the onslaught of the chilling wind. As he turned the corner of the building, Sentian and Thom slipped out into the rain after him. Thom was also aware of the three large black shapes that blended into the slanting rain and followed farther behind. *** Conar's boots squished in the mud, making hollow sounds, lonely sounds as he pulled them free of the muck. He turned his face upward, allowing the cowl to fall from his hair, and let the cold liquid wet his fevered face. He liked the feel of it, and it helped to quiet the fierce need that had been building in him in Meggie Ruck's too-warm kitchen. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the sweet coolness of rainwater. His head lowered at the sound of a loud laugh. He narrowed his eyes to see through the driving rain. Ahead stood his final destination. He hunched his shoulders, bent his head into the wind, and made for the dirty yellow light spilling from one of the seedier taverns in Boreas Town. He opened the door to the Spittin' Cat Tavern, smelling frying bacon, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies. He shut the door behind him and swung the cape from his shoulders, then shook his head to rid his sodden hair of rainwater. When he turned around, everyone in the tavern stared at him. All movement, sound, and conversation ceased. "Good eve," he said to the men gathered at the crude plank tables. He swung his gaze about the room, but found no hostile faces. Heads dipped, fingers went to forelocks, and mumbled greetings followed. The men looked at him with recognition, respect, and just a touch of fear. "Bad night, eh?" he asked an old gentleman sitting near the door. "Aye, Lord Conar. That it is." The man's gaze shifted away as though he were afraid his regard would insult the man standing before him. "Here's a table for you, sir!" one of the barmaids said, her voice filled with awe. "A good one, right here." She pointed a trembling finger to a dilapidated plank table in the far corner. "Thank you, mam'selle." Isolated in the deeper shadows of the room, the table looked as lonely as Conar felt. He knew they were offering him a place to himself, but at the moment, he wished they would not ostracize him, even if it was unknowingly done so with high regard. He was about to fling his cape over a chair when the barmaid took it from him. She folded the sopping material close to

her bosom and gazed at him with complete fascination. He was about to admonish her about wetting her clothing, when the door opened behind him. Instinct making him defensive, he reached for the dagger at his back and half-turned. "Uh…good eve," Sentian mumbled as he and Thom looked into their Overlord's annoyed face. Consigning them to the devil, Conar stomped to his table with more anger than he knew was good for him. He rather rudely ordered an ale from the barmaid and plopped into a chair, his back to the room. Just after the barmaid brought his ale and left, another figure appeared at his side, bowing deeply at the waist. Conar glanced up, frowned, then flung a hand toward the chair opposite him. "You stink, Jamar," Conar grumbled. "I apologize, Lord Conar." Sern Jamar seated himself. His loose fitting burnoose was soaked around the hem and the sleeves gave off an odor like that of a wet dog. "This horrible Boreal rain is something I can not quite accustom myself to." Conar studied the man. Jamar's black hair seemed shaggier than usual, his thick beard more unkempt and greasier. His nose was running, a thin stream dripping from the left nostril, and his deep olive complexion seemed far dirtier than Conar could remember. "Do you ever bathe?" The shaggy head bobbed. "On occasion, Milord." He looked around, then leaned forward. "Perhaps we should take our business elsewhere, sir." "You're safe with me, Sern." His eyes darted over Conar's shoulder toward the door. "It's your men I fear. If I give you this—" "They fearme, Sern!" The man nodded. He reached inside the loose sleeve of his burnoose as though striving to relieve a itch along his arm. When he withdrew his hand, he put a packet of powder on the tabletop, using his spread fingers as camouflage. He smiled, leaning forward. "A little pleasure, Milord. Shall I cut it with some of the opium?" Conar's gaze locked on Sern's hand. He knew Sern was waiting for him to answer, to make a sign that he was ready. Conar licked at the right corner of his mouth. Slowly, he looked up and gave a slight nod. Smiling with delight, Sern removed a blade from one of the many pockets sewn into his burnoose. "How much do you wish, Milord?" Conar's right hand was cupped around the candle sitting beside his mug of ale. Absently, he tipped the candle from side to side, melted wax dripping in silent patters to the planking. "All of it." The smile drifted from Sern's face. "Are you sure, Milord? This powder will be powerful." In reply, Conar gave him a deadly expression. Sern's lips twitched in what was likely meant for a smile, but the gesture came across as a nervous pull of the man's mouth. He slipped another packet from his clothing and spread its paper wide. After also opening the initial packet, he used his knife to scoop a blade-edge full of the second powder to mix with the first. When he had combined the powders to his satisfaction, he folded the package containing the mixture and hid it under his palm once more. "Will you desire a woman this night, Milord?" he asked, flicking his tongue over dry, chapped lips. Conar shook his head. "I have a Necromanian lady who has untold delights. She would be dark to your light. As I recall with my precious—" "I told you no! I have no need for a woman!" Sern shrugged and slid the packet across the table. Conar snaked out a hand and laid it across the nomad's, pressing

the fingers to the hard planking. Conar felt Sern quiver in sudden apprehension. "Make up enough to last me the month and leave it where I showed you. Your money will be there." Sern nodded. Conar slid the packet along the table, over the edge, and down into the top of his boot beside the dagger, the entire time keeping his gaze on Sern. He nodded toward the second packet, still on the table. "I'll have some of that now." "I would prefer not to give you anything here, Milord." "And I prefer that you do!" Conar took up the powder, poured the contents into his ale, swirled it, then started drinking. "Milord, be careful! This is powerful. It can have devastating effects on your body." The bitter taste of the opium made Conar shudder as he swallowed. Wiping the back of his hand across his wet lips, he settled his unwavering gaze on the nomad. "Could it kill me?" he asked in an inquisitive tone. "When taken unwisely, aye, it can." "Good." Conar stood, turned, and exited the tavern, not even glancing at his two men sitting at a table watching him. *** Thom Loure frowned deeply. "What was that all about?" Sentian turned his attention from the door closing behind Conar to the nomad at the far end of the room. "If what Marsh suspects is true, that bastardly snake over there may be from where Conar's getting the drugs." He glanced at Thom. "Go follow Conar. I want a talk with our smelly friend." Thom shrugged. "Be careful, Heil. Those desert rats can be dangerous." Sentian stood. "So can I," he answered in a steady, even voice. *** Liza smiled as Sentian wound his way through the crowd toward her. She held out her hand to her Sentinel, drew him forward, and lightly kissed his cheek. "Did you forget us, Milord?" she whispered. "Not at all, Milady." He grinned, letting go of her hand. "Your husband had me out in this lovely weather." Liza's brow rose. "May I ask why?" The smile left Sentian's face. "Thom and I were told to follow someone." She didn't need to ask who. "What was he doing out on a night like this?" At the look on Sentian's face, she held up her hand to forestall the answer. "Never mind. I'm just glad you're here now." "I think we should speak of it, Milady." Sentian looked toward Legion. He smiled at his King, then returned his gaze to his Queen. "Later, though. When we can be alone." Liza knew her husband was watching them. Whatever Sentian might tell her, she felt sure Legion would not want her to hear. But Sentian Heil's first obligation, after his supreme loyalty to Conar McGregor, was to her, not his King. "Can it wait 'til morning?" she asked. Sentian nodded. "Then meet me in the stables at nooning. I will assure our privacy." She smiled as he bent over her hand, placing a

kiss of affection in her palm. "Now, go find Sherind before she begins to suspect our motives!" she warned him playfully. *** Thunder boomed almost as soon as Liza found herself alone in the front hall of the keep. She jumped, her nerves tinkling along her taut spine. She heard the steady onslaught of rain driving against the high windows and glanced up as a flare of lightning caressed the trembling panes. She sucked in a hasty breath, but not because of the storm, but because of the man she spotted when she looked up. Conar was sitting on the wide edge of the gallery balcony, which curved around the top of the hall. His left leg was crooked at the knee, the other stretched out along the length of the railing. His left wrist rested on his bent knee in a gesture that was almost second nature with him when he sat, mindless of both propriety and manners. His right hand lay on his outstretched leg, his long fingers wrapped around a silver goblet. Liza's heart beat erratically, while her breath came in short spasms of anticipation. She hadn't seen him in more than six months, but the hot anger in the depths of those remarkably blue eyes, alien eyes, she knew she would never get used to seeing. She felt chained to the spot where she stood, unable to move, to speak, to acknowledge him, to look away. He lifted the goblet and took a long drink, then his lips stretched into a smile that reminded her of a panther mesmerizing its prey. His black shirt was opened to the waist. A hanging brazier, directly behind him, lit his golden blond hair like a shining beacon and reflected off the sheen of his black leather boots. As he again raised the goblet to his lips, a flash of silver fire arced from the metal and lit his face, a face that had all the predatory scorn and power of a jungle beast etched on its hard planes. When he lowered the goblet, he licked his lips, his eyes still holding hers. Liza felt the power of that gaze flit through her belly like wildfire. By the smug turn of his lips, the knowing smirk on his finely chiseled mouth, the bored look in his expressive eyes, he obviously knew he held her in his power, and seemed to be enjoying her trepidation. Liza felt her knees shaking. It seemed he was draining her, sucking the life from her body, and she put out a hand as though to ward him off. The instant she did, understanding lit up his face. One tawny brow lifted slowly in acknowledgment of her predicament. "Don't," she whispered, beseeching him. Conar gave her a vengeful smile. The blue heat from his arrogant, hateful gaze impaled her, violated her. For a fleeting moment, those blue orbs sparked with a fire that leapt out at her, as though he were reminding her of his previous ownership, his right to her body, his place as her master. "Milady?" Liza jumped, her head snapping around at the soft voice. Storm Jale reached out a hand. "I'm sorry, Milady! Did I frighten you?" It was all Liza could do to shake her head in denial. She wasn't even sure she could find her voice. "Is something wrong? Can I get you something?" "No," she managed to answer, her neck burning from the intense gaze she could feel aimed her way from the balcony. "I…it's just the lightning." Storm let out a long breath. "Your husband is looking for you, Milady." When Liza glanced toward the balcony, she discovered Conar had disappeared.

Chapter 8

Rain battered the keep for three more days. Tempers flared; nerves frayed. The inhabitants of Boreas Keep kept to themselves as much as possible to avoid the clashes such a storm could cause. No one saw Conar except for Bent. He had encased himself in the lower part of the keep, making it plain he did not care for visitors. Now, lying on his cot in the damp dungeon cell with his hands beneath his head, Conar glared fitfully at the midnight ceiling of his chamber. The ebbing effects of the opium had began to wear away the peace in his world. He sat up, frowning at Bent's heavy snoring from the cell across the way. Running a trembling hand through his hair, he tugged at the mass, annoyed he had not been able to sleep through the entire night, to find the drug-induced solace he had tried so hard to force upon himself. The bottle beside him stood empty, the brandy pressing on his bladder with an urgency that he suspected had awakened him. Swinging his legs from the cot, careful not to awaken the sleeping giant whose smacking lips and grunts echoed through the stone corridors, Conar got up and relieved himself. Something skittered across the floor, dove under the bars of the cell, and padded down the hall, sharp nails clattering. "Damned rats," he hissed, fumbling in the dark for his breeches. He stepped into them, buttoned only three of the pearl studs, and padded from the cell. The stone steps leading up to the keep proper were frigid, numbing to his bare feet as he took them two at a time. He felt a draft on his naked chest and shivered, clenching his teeth, cursing himself for not having put on a shirt. He entered the main hall and hastened to the library door, knowing he could pilfer a bottle or two of brandy to finish off his evening. He wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him. Liza was standing by the window, her hands clutching the draperies, staring out at the harsh flashes of lightning. Her long black hair fell almost to her knees, her bare feet peeking out from the hem of her white nightgown. A fringed shawl was draped over her shoulders and back. As the lightning flashed, Conar saw the outline of her body beneath the white silk. Feeling a tightening in his loins, an urgency in his manhood, he wanted nothing more than to flee the room, flee the sight of her. But he held his ground, some perverse imp within him wanting her to turn, willing her to know he was there. When he saw her head lower, her hands fall to the edges of her shawl to pull it close, he knew her sorceress' instincts had warned her she was no longer alone. Slowly, she turned, her face a blur in the unlighted room. "Good eve, lady." *** "Good eve," Liza said softly, her heart skipping beats. Lightning flared, revealing his naked chest, the thick hair nestled at his breast. Her womb tightened and her blood began to pound in her ears. She remembered well the feel of that hard chest and the strong arms that had once held her. She swallowed, feeling sweat oozing over her top lip. His body blocked the doorway. There was no other way out of the room except through the garden with its blistering rain and deadly lightning. She found her legs shaky, her palms sweating, and she knew now was not the time to confront him with what Sentian had told her in the stables a few days before. Hoping with all her being that he would let her pass without incident, she moved toward the door. As she reached him, he put out a hand, bracing his arm across the door, barring her departure. She wouldn't look up at him, but only stared at his arm, her chin raised in defiance. "Why are you always in such a hurry whenever I'm near, Milady?" he crooned, amusement in his voice. Her gaze shifted to his, and she was stunned she could clearly see his sapphire-colored eyes. "I want no fight with you, Conar." At the use of his name, fire leapt in those dark blue eyes. She flinched and looked away, unable to bear the contempt

that had automatically spread over his lips. "Conar McGregor might have let you pass without challenge," he snapped, his voice bitter. "But I won't." "I didn't come looking for you," she said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice, wincing at the tone that hinted that was exactly what she had done. "No?" he asked in a silky voice. "No." She could have clawed out his eyes when his mouth lifted in a cocky grin that said he didn't believe her. His gentle snort made her want to scream. Instead, her words were too brittle, too defensive. "Just what is it you want from me?" "Is there something I want from you, Queen Liza?" The smile left his lips. "Or is it somethingyou want fromme?" "I don't want a damned thing from you!" Liza tried to push away the obstruction of his arm, but feeling the rigid muscles, she withdrew her hands. "No, I don't suppose so! You had the best of me, and what's left isn't worth bothering with." Her lips parted in shocked dismay. "That's not what I meant." His hand released the door, his rage and frustration apparent in the taut lines of his body as he moved toward her. Only inches from her bewildered face, he snarled down. "As long as I keep myself out of your sight, you're fine, aren't you, Queen Liza? 'Out of sight, out of mind'—isn't that what they say?" "It'syou who keeps yourself detached from those who once cared for you. You prefer to be alone than be with your family." "I amnot alone by choice!" he shouted, coming almost nose to nose with her. "I have your husband to thank for that!" "Don't blame Legion for your loneliness, Conar." She backed away from the surge of fury the name brought once more. "Can we help it if you thrive on your own inconstancy?" His voice filled with astonishment. "My inconstancy?" "Aye! One moment you're snarling at everyone, keeping them away, the next you ignore them, barely being civil when they speak to you. Then you disappear for months on end, only to return to cause still more dissension in this keep. No wonder the people within these walls don't want to be near you. You won'tlet them be near you without reminding them who and what you have become!" His jaw clenched. "That being what, Milady Queen?" "A son-of-a-bitch!" Trying to move past him, she gasped when he grabbed her shoulder. He spun her around, pushing her none-too-gently against the doorjamb. "The ex-lover-of-a-bitch, don't you mean? It was not I who was inconstant, Madame! It was not I who flitted from one man's cock to another!" Her hand came up to slap him. She would have, had he not knocked it away. He held both her shoulders in a hard grasp. "You've slapped me one too many times. I ain't letting you do it this time!" "Then don't insult me!" "Brelan! Galen! Legion!" With every name, he shook her hard enough to make her teeth click together. "What do you call it if not inconstancy?" "Is it so inconceivable to you that there was reason? I have told you about Galen—" "Aye, you told me!" he interrupted, his teeth clenched over his words. "And I can even forgive you that, considering

why you say you slept with the bastard." His fingers dug painfully into her arm. "I can even stretch that forgiveness to Brelan—after all, you were a widowagain, weren't you?" His voice went low, deadly thick. "But I can't make that forgiveness bleed over to Legion A'Lex, no matter how hard I try!" "Youknow Kaileel Tohre forced us to marry! Brelan, himself, told you." His lips lifted in contempt. "But it wasn't hard to crawl into his bed." "Would you rather have had Tohre give me to an enemy of yours?" A harsh, evil laugh came from him. He moved away from her, giving her room to leave. "Legion A'Lexis an enemy of mine!" "That's not true. Legion loves you." A hateful snort issued from his tight lips. Turning his back to her, he stared into the shadows. "Go back to you husband, Queen Liza. There is nothing for you here." "Legion loves you," she repeated stubbornly. "This alienation between the two of you is causing him pain. It is breaking his heart." "My heart was broken long ago, lady!" "Sometimes I don't think you everhad a heart! If you did, it was as black as the garments you wear!" "You don't know me—you never did, if you believe that." Liza clenched her fists behind her to keep from pounding him senseless. "I know you're a cruel bastard. Selfish and deceitful. You have no conception of what true love and loving is." "Suchtrue love and loving that you've found with my brother?" "Damn you! I loved you more than anything in this life!" "Past tense," he whispered. Liza's face twisted with grief. "You don't turn love off and on like a tap, Conar." "Stop calling me that!" "Oh, I forget," she sneered. "It's not the man I loved to whom I'm speaking, is it? No, as you keep reminding me, that man is dead." "Dead and buried." "Buried beneath the contemptible, selfish fool who took his place. I've known enough arrogant men to recognize one when I see him. Mayhaps next time I won't confuse you with the man I loved!" He stood over her again, intimidating her with his anger. "And how many gods-be-damned men have you known? Were there others you slept with that no one knows about?" She knew she'd struck a raw nerve in his thick hide and foolishly pressed it once more. "More than I care to remember!" Conar went totally still, intense bitterness flickering across his handsome face. "I ought to beat the hell out of you for saying that." Liza knew she'd gone too far. She backed away. "You won't." A cold smile touched his mouth. "Are you sure?" He came toward her. "Don't!" He raised a taunting eyebrow, while his grin grew wider, more leering. He took another step.

"Keep away from me! I mean it, Conar! Don't fuck with me!" His brows shot up in surprise, while his face wrinkled with amusement. "Who taught you such language, Liza?" he asked, his lips trembling with laughter. "I said keep away!" He laughed, throwing back his head. "What will you do, Milady? Curse at me again? Call me names? If Legion was your teacher, surely he warned you that using such words could get you into all kinds of unwanted trouble." "I'm warning you, Conar! Cursing isn't all he taught me. I can defend myself. I won't let you beat me!" She tried to flee, but he sidestepped in front of her, neatly blocking her retreat. "What else did he teach you, Liza?" "He taught me how to be a woman. He taught me how to take care of myself. He taught me how to—" "Be quiet!" She wanted to hurt him. Every fiber in her being wanted to cause him as much pain as she was feeling in her heart. "I thought you wanted to hear what I'd been taught. Don't you want to know about my many teachers? All the men who have taught me since you left? My legion of lovers, who—" "Stop!" Beyond thinking, beyond hearing. Liza aimed her energy at destroying him. "You might have taken my virginity, but you taught me precious little about being a real woman!" "A real whore, you mean!" Her face burned shame at what he had called her. She drew back her hand, and this time, before he could react, she connected hard with his cheek. "Howdare you?" she whispered, her voice trembling. The vicious blow had snapped Conar's head to the side. He held it there, gritting his teeth in obvious fury. Slowly, he turned back to face her. "What's the matter, little one? Don't you like being recognized for the slut you are?" She brought up her hand again, intent on smacking the sneer of contempt from his rigid face. This time, he grabbed her wrist in a punishing hold, sharply twisted it behind her back, and pulled her toward him. She moaned in pain and tried unsuccessfully to claw at his face with her free hand. He yanked down that hand as well, crossing it behind the other at the small of her back. "Bastard," she groaned, trying to slam her knee into his groin. But he had obviously anticipated her move. He lifted her clear of the floor and bent her backward over the nearest table. He crushed her with his weight as he leaned into her. Liza gasped for breath. "Let…go…" She twisted violently to the right, her move catching him off guard. They rolled off the heavy table and onto the floor. Her breath came out in a rush as his full body weight descended on her. She twisted out from under him, rolling away. When she tried to scramble to her knees, he grabbed a handful of her long hair, sharply pulling her to a stop. "Damn you!" She tried to pry her hair free, but he had wrapped it several times around his fist. "That hurts!" she yelped, treacherous tears sliding down her flushed cheeks. Dragging her to him, Conar brought her face close to his. "I ought to teach you what being a whore really means, Elizabeth McGregor, but I'm afraid I might catch a disease leftover from one of your baseborn lovers!" She spit in his face. Her heart missed a beat as she looked into a shocked visage that promised instant retaliation. He increased the pressure on her hair, making her suddenly very terrified of this man. He was someone she didn't know, and didn't want to. With contemptuous ease, Conar put his free hand to his cheek, wiping away the spittle. He looked at the wetness on

his fingertips and a strange expression crossed his face. "I would have never thought you capable of that." "Conar, I—I—" "Shut up." Hurt, shame, and a terrible sense of loss registered on his face. Breath seemed to be coming heavily from him, as if from the very core of his soul. Liza could feel it fanning the wisps of hair along her temple. When his hand came up, she flinched away, preparing for the blow, thinking he meant to strike back. Instead, he lowered his hand. She whimpered when he wiped his palm on her throat. "Don't, please," she begged, feeling her cold spittle. "Just returning what's yours. Don't let it be said I've kept anything that belongs to Legion A'Lex." His hand settled at the base of her throat. Alarmed that he might strangle her, seeing an alien emotion in the face she now feared beyond description, she gasped. When his hand slid along her right shoulder, made its downward curve to the tender flesh of her heaving breast, she sucked in her breath, expecting pain. "You belonged to me once," he said, his voice hushed. His hand gently caressed her. "Once, so long ago, you were mine." Liza went as still as stone, staring at the expression that said he was in pain, experiencing an unknown agony. She wanted to say something, to ease the suffering she could almost feel flowing from him. "And you loved me, then," he whispered. As if in a state bordering on dreaminess, Conar dipped his fingers beneath the lace at her bodice, pushing aside the fabric. He spanned his fingers over her bare breast. She quivered at his touch. "Look at me," she whispered, wanting him to see that what he was doing was wrong, but also loving the feel of his callused hand on her flesh. He looked up. His fingers tightened around her flesh, his hand gently kneading the tender mound, his thumb moving over the taut nipple. When she gasped, he plucked the hard nub between his thumb and forefinger. "Tell me you don't want me," he told her. Liza had never wanted him more than at that moment. She wanted him with every nerve ending in her body, with every squirming, clutching vibration driving deep in her womanhood. She felt the tumescence of his shaft prodding her thigh, leaping against her with need. Again, she quivered, wanting that intimate part of him deep inside her, wanting to feel the pain of his length pressed against her womb. She had always thrilled to the weight of his body atop hers, his hungry mouth plying hers, and she was shocked to realize she wanted those things again. She had become a woman at the hands of this man, and her body had once belonged entirely to him—as had her heart. She had gained his love, and thought to always possess it. Now, the expectation in his eyes told her that love was still hers. That it would always be hers. "Tell me you don't want me, Liza." "Conar…" Her voice was tiny, wounded. "I…we…" "Tell me you no longer want me," he whispered raggedly, his heart and soul showing. She was vitally aware that he was holding his breath, that his love for her was shining wetly in his eyes. She watched in agony as a silent tear crept down his cheek. She could feel the heat of his fingers, the hardness of him straining toward her. "This…this is wrong." "Is my loving you wrong?" he asked, his hand stilling on her flesh, his voice breaking. "Don't I have the right to love you?" His breath came on a hitching sob. "Didn't I belong toyou once, a long while ago?" She gathered him to her, pulling him down so that his head nestled between her breasts. He settled against her, obviously needing what she could not give. Her pain over having deliberately hurt him drove deep. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Love me, Liza," he begged, lifting his head to look at her. When he focused on her lips, a look of intense pain flashed over his face. "No," she whispered, knowing he had misconstrued the cause of her bleeding. "I…" He pushed himself up and lowered his head. With a gentle touch of his tongue, he licked away the blood, soothed the bite. "Conar…" "Shush." He released her, got up, and held out his hand to her. Liza saw the effort it was taking for him to deny himself what he wanted, what he knew she wanted, despite her ties to his brother. Hesitantly, she settled her hand in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. As soon as she was standing, he walked to the window. "Go, now," he warned. "Go before I wind up hurting you. And me." The dejected slump of his shoulders against a glaring burst of lightning caught at her heart. She wanted to reach out to him, for the pain she had seen in his eyes had hurt her deeply, more deeply than anything his hands could ever do. She had come to fear him, even hate him a little, but now all she wanted was to hold him and make his pain go away. That she was playing with fire, she had no doubt. That she might push him beyond his control, she never questioned. But her instinct for protectiveness swelled up inside her, and she threw caution to the wind and walked to his side. He held up a hand to restrain her. "I told you to go." She moved in front of him. Through another lightning flare, she viewed the misery etched on his face. She caressed his cheek, her fingertips touching the scars. "No!" He gasped, reaching up to pull away her hand, but she would not allow it. She gently pushed his hand aside and returned her fingers to his cheek. She traced the deep indentions, soothing away any hurt or shame the brutal ravages might once have caused him. "These are," she said, "as much my fault as Kaileel Tohre's." "Liza…" Her fingertips moved to his lips. "You and I will always be bound to one another. Our passions will always ignite around one another." "I should not have baited you." "I started it. It was my fault. I pushed you too far. I should have expected you to push back." A sad smile touched her lips. "You always have." His eyes bore into hers. "I could have hurt you. I wanted to." "No," she said, placing her other hand on his face, as well. "I don't believe that." He took her hands. Bringing her palms together, he raised them to his lips and kissed her fingertips, then nestled them against his naked chest. "I swear, by all that is holy, that I will not make your life as miserable as it has been. The only way for me to do that is to leave—" "Leaving here is not the answer." "Then, what is?" he asked, his hands tightening around hers. "Obviously I can't be around you." His voice broke, and he took a deep breath. "You don't belong to me any more, I realize…" "I will always belong to you," she said defiantly. "Not in the way that counts. No, you don't belong to me now—my head tells me that, but my heart says something else. I'm finding it harder every day to accept you as Legion's wife instead of my own." He moved away, putting distance between them. "As long as you are with him, my life is…is worse than the hell I endured in the Labyrinth."

She flinched, knowing she was the cause of his anguish. "Tell me what I can do to help you." She came to him, putting her hand on his rigid arm. "This wall between us must come down once and for all. We have a son. A son who needs to know his father. Corbin thinks he is to blame for this barrier between us." "He's innocent in all this." "We know that, but our son thinks otherwise. He believes it was his birth that caused this thing between us." "Then you have to tell him." "I have tried, but he has gotten it into his head that if he had never been conceived, I would not have been forced to marry his Uncle Galen." She searched his eyes. "That part of itis true, but I knew the exact moment I conceived him that night in the grotto. I would have married Tohre, himself, to keep your son safe! I have told Corbin that, but it doesn't seem to matter to him. He thinks I betrayed you, too, and he sees himself as part of that betrayal and reasons that is whyyou want nothing to do with him." Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. "I didn't know you were alive. Don't you know, heart of my heart, that I would have moved heaven and hell to find you if I had known?" "I believe you would have tried," he said, tears also filling his eyes. "But you would not have succeeded. The gods, Themselves, meant to see us apart." "Why did They do that?" "Because we were happy, we were in love, and the world was envious of that love." "Past tense," she said, reminding him of what he said earlier. "I know you loved me once," he said woodenly. "I reveled in that love." "Once? I've loved you all my life. Why would you think I would stop?" He replied with a careless shrug, one that brought a groan of agony from Liza. "I never stopped!" She fell to the floor, covering her face with her hands as she began to sob. "Inever stopped!" Conar knelt beside her and took her in his arms, his hands stroking her back, her hair. He cradled her against him, letting his body absorb her sobs. He listened as she explained once more about Galen, about her liaison with Brelan, her forced marriage to Legion, her ultimate love of his eldest brother. He rocked her when she spoke of his father's death, of the loss she had felt at his passing. She cried out her loneliness, her heartbreak at having to live without him during the years she thought him dead. Of how she would not allow them to demolish the whipping post, wanting it to remain as a reminder of what had taken him from her. "I never betrayed you," she said, lifting her face. "Not in my heart. I love you now as much as ever. I never once stopped. If I could have gone with you, even in death, I would have, but I knew our son had to come before my grief. When I heard them sentencing you in the Tribunal that day, I would have given my life to spare you the punishment Tolkan Coure decreed. I would gladly have gone to the whipping post in your place." She clutched at him. "Had they not drugged me, I would have been on the Tribunal Square that morning. I would have felt every pass of that vicious whip as it tore at your flesh." "Thanks be to the gods you were not there!" he said, shuddering. "But I was aware of it, my love," she said, her lips trembling, her mind stricken with the memory of that evil day. "I knew what they were doing, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. To lessen the pain you were being forced to endure." Her entire body quivered with emotion. "And when I heard you did not survive, I wanted to close my eyes and cease to exist! The worst day of my life was the day they took your coffin to the ship. The whole courtyard was full of people. They had come to bid their beloved Conar farewell. No one had seen you since the whipping. None of your family had been allowed to prepare your body." "Liza, don't," he begged. "I had them put down the coffin so I could see you one last time. I could not let them take you away without saying goodbye. Without kissing you one last time."

"Brelan should not have allowed that to happen." "Why?" she countered, not understanding. "Because of this," he said, pointing to the scars. "I didn't see the scars. I wasn't looking for them. All I wanted to see was your face and have you know I was there. That your family was with you. I have kept that last vision of you sacred in my heart. I have never allowed it to fade. I have replayed that scene over and over in my dreams. I see you lying so still. I see your eyes closed forever and the pain of it is almost more than I can bear." She clutched him to her. "I want you to know this—if I had not been seeded with your child, I would have taken my life!" "Liza, listen," he said, despair ravaging his eyes. "The only thing that kept me sane in that prison hellhole was my love for you. That love kept me alive, made it possible to withstand all they did to me. I clung to that love, Liza, because it was the only thing worth living for. I held on to it, buried it so deep inside me, so deep they couldn't touch it, couldn't take it away from me like they had everything else. If they had told me you were dead, I would have ceased to be. I'd have lain down and stopped breathing." She clung to him, the imagined sight of him incarcerated in the Labyrinth filling her with terrible agony. "Let the dream go, Liza. Lay it to rest with the man I once was." "No! It is all I have left of you!" "Not all. You have Corbin." "Conar, please," she sobbed. "We…" "It's because of what I endured there that I've changed, beloved. They stripped me of everything I ever was, took away all my humanity and replaced it with the instincts of an animal. An animal bent on survival through whatever means he could find." He lifted her chin in his hand. "It's that animal that returned to Boreas, not the man you once loved." He eased away from her and stood, drawing her up with him. He put his palm on her cheek. "Go back to Legion, now. He's the one you should be with, not me." "He loves you, Conar. Make peace with him. He has been a good husband and a loving father to your child. Please do this for me out of whatever love you still have." "Whatever love?" he asked, his face filled with pain. "My love for you is the same as it has ever been. Don't you know that?" She ached for him, spiritually and physically, and that ache must have shown, for he shook his head. "I would do anything for you, Elizabeth. I would give my life, my soul, for you. But if you stay one moment longer…go while I will still let you." At the door, she looked back, but saw only his silhouette framed in the window. "You asked if I wanted you," she whispered. "As all the gods in the heavens are my witnesses, I always shall." *** Conar waited until she was gone before he opened the doors leading to the garden. Bracing his hands to either side of the double doors, he let the rain wash over his fevered flesh. He knew he'd eventually gather up as many bottles of liquor he could carry. He knew he would eventually step into the garden, leave the keep through the sea gate, and make his way to the grotto where, in a special niche, Sern would have hidden fresh drugs. He knew he would eventually end up in a stupor that would have him dead to the world for most of the next day. But at that moment, he stood in the rain, his bare chest speckled with the chilling water, and shivered. The thought of Liza seeing him in his coffin filled him with such despair, it was hard to breathe. He would have spared her the sight, the ugliness of what they had done to him. It was more than the scars on his face and the brutal condition of his back. What hurt him the most was knowing she believed him dead.

And lost to her forever. Tears gathered in his eyes. What if she had taken her life that day? The mere thought of it drove stark terror through his soul. He could picture her lying lifeless on their bed, a dagger in her hand, scarlet plumes of blood flowing from wrists to soak the coverlet. A vision of her rigid form doubled upon itself, her lips blue from poison she had consumed. He shuddered. "Merciful Alel, thank you," he whispered, tears falling. "Thank you for keeping her safe for me." Safe, but out of his reach. "Alel!" he moaned, his entire being sick with the thought. Despair crashed down on his strong shoulders. He bent his head, his tears falling bitterly down his scarred cheek. The pain in his soul was so intense, he was finding it hard to keep from screaming. She had been in his arms this night. Close to his body. He had held her, felt her arms around him, heard her speak to him tenderly as she had so long ago. For one brief, shining moment, they had dared to admit the forbidden—they still loved one another. For what good it did either of them. She was no longer his. Their marriage had been voided long ago. She belonged to his brother and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing shewould do about it. As much as it hurt him to admit, Liza loved Legion, and her honor would not allow her to leave him. He was the father of her children, her lawful husband, and she would remain at his side. "Liza," he cried, sorrow choking him. She had confessed she had loved him all her life. But what did it matter? If they could not be together, their love was a torment he would have to learn to live with. "I love you," he whispered. He put his hands over his face, weeping uncontrollably. "I love you with all my heart." He sank to his knees, slumping into his pain, giving in to the soul-shattering grief that claimed him as its own.

Chapter 9 Conar looked up as she came down the stairs. For a moment, his heart leapt—he had thought the slender figure was Liza. But when he recognized the lady, he tried to hide his keen disappointment behind a too-fierce scowl. "You shouldn't be down here, Mam'selle." Gezelle stopped at his door. She looked about the cell, taking in the bleak and spartan furnishings. "It isn't a cheerful place." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Dungeons rarely are. I think it is written some place that they be dark and dreary." "I can see the logic in that." His grin widening, he patted the place beside him on the cot. "Why are you here?"

She seated herself and studied him. "I was worried about you." "Why?" "You slept most of the day away yesterday." "Getting lazy in my old age, I guess." "Were you drunk?" she asked, jerking her chin toward a score of empty bottles cluttering the floor. From years of knowing this diminutive woman, from an intimate knowledge of her, Conar was neither shocked nor annoyed at her question. Long ago they had ceased to be master and servant; they had become friends. Her inquiry was consistent with that friendship and nothing more than something one of his men would have asked. If they'd had the nerve. "A good year, it was. Several good years, actually." Gezelle drew in a long breath, then exhaled slowly. "We haven't had a chance to talk since you came home. I haven't thanked you for Adair's baby gift." He made a throwaway motion with his hand. "No need." He smiled. "The babe's lovely. Like her mother." "You went to see her?" "Does that surprise you?" He laughed. "It isn't in keeping with the way I'm told you've been of late," she answered. "I didn't hear her howling, so I suppose it wasyou andnot the Darkwind who went to her nursery." The smile left his face. He turned away. "I have no quarrel with you, 'Zelle." "Nor I with you." "Then, let's not begin one." He swung his legs onto the cot and laid down. "I don't feel like arguing." She frowned. "Have you been rolling around in poison oak?" She pointed to the slight discoloring dotting the undersides of his upper arms and across his chest, dipping down toward the thick pelt of hair at his waist. "Would you do me a favor?" he asked, wanting to take her mind from the rash tickling his skin. "That depends." "On what?" "On what you want." She cocked a fine brow. "I'm a married lady." "I pity the poor fool." He grinned. "Sean, isn't it?" "He was one of your Elite." Conar flinched. Her husband had spent more than a year in a Kansan penal colony for having served in that unit. "He's got me to thank for that." "Why?" she snapped. "Because he was loyal to you and the royal family? Because he believed in freeing our homeland from the Domination just as you did? If he had known you were alive, he and many other Elite would have found a way to the Labyrinth!" "And died there." Conar turned his back to her. She laid a hand on his back. His muscles tightened beneath her touch. "Turn over."

He looked over his shoulder. "You gonna rub my back?" "Wasn't that the favor?" she asked, her lips pursed. A grin formed on his face. "I thought as much," she grumbled. "Well, turn over. I can't do it with you on your side." "We did once." Gezelle blushed to the roots of her hair. He chuckled. "Gotcha." "You're horrible." "As I recall, you said I was—" "Hush!" Her fingers dug into the soft muscles of his shoulders with enough force to make him groan. "You're getting to be a shrew in your old age." She began to expertly massage the tense muscles in his lower back. "Why? Because I'll stand up to you?" "Is that what you call it? I was thinking more along the lines of torture." He grimaced as her fingers found a sore spot. "A chemise?" she asked, obviously noting the neatly folded chemise that lay atop a stack of books in the corner. "Who's this girl you have living with you on occasion?" He grinned, craning his head to look at her. "Jealous?" "Curious." Her gaze roamed over the cell. "Not much of a housekeeper." "It wasn't for her housekeeping abilities that I took her in." "Obviously not," she retorted, frowning at the abandoned clothing littering the floor, draped over the chair, stuffed into any available space. "Her name is Amber-lea. She's really a nice girl." At Gezelle's snort, he fixed her with an unwavering glower. "Sheis, mam'selle." Gezelle apparently refused to get drawn into a discussion of his current woman, since she seemed to refocus all her attention on his back. When studying his back, she shuddered. "I don't even know they're there anymore, 'Zelle," he said, reading her mind regarding his scars. Her hands stilled. He turned over, facing her, but her hands were still on his flesh. She made no attempt to move them as he stared up at her. "Why did you come down here?" Gezelle shrugged. "She sent you, didn't she?" "Milady was worried about you." "Why?" When she started to look away, Conar gently gripped her chin. "She thought you needed…that you might want to…" Her face turned scarlet. "I reminded her about your…I didn't know the girl's name, but…" "But she sent you anyway." A bitter sadness laced his tone.

"I…we thought you would best be served by me rather than a stranger." "Why is that, 'Zelle? Could it have been because you look so much like her that she thought you better than the auburn-haired woman I now have?" Gezelle ducked her head. "You can pretend it is our lady beneath you. Call me by her name and I will answer—I have before. Let me make the hurt go away. Let me…" "You think that is what I need? You think having her will stop what hurts me? Is that what she thinks, as well?" "We know you, Milord. Two eves ago, you—" "Made a mistake. Go back and tell her I thank her for the pity—" "It is not pity!" "What would you call it?" he snapped. "You came here to…to service me. In your own words, you thought I would best be served by you rather than Amber-lea! If that isn't pity, 'Zelle, I don't know what is!" "Mayhaps, love?" "I can not, and I will not, make love to you." "You find me unworthy." "It isI who am unworthy ofyou, precious. You are a good woman, a married woman, not some whore from the gutters. I respect you too much to ever touch you in that way again." "You need a woman to—" "He has a woman," came a quiet voice. Gezelle's face went hostile as she glared at the red-haired beauty. When she swept her disdainful glance down Amber-lea's perfectly formed body, her green gaze narrowed dangerously. She turned to Conar, one black brow cocked as though asking if he had not, for once in his life, made a rather horrible mistake in his choice of feminine companionship. He almost smiled. Almost. Had it not been for the ache in his heart, he would have. "Tell your lady I am well cared for, 'Zelle. There is no need for either of you to worry about me." When Amber-Lea stooped down to gather clothing, Gezelle's chin lifted and she fixed her Overlord, and friend, with a warning look. "I hope you know what you're doing," she whispered. He smiled sadly. Rising from the cot, Gezelle turned up her nose at the girl. As she passed, her voice was bitter and her words like daggers. "Hurt him, even a little, and you'll have this entire keep of women down on your ugly red head!" " 'Zelle," Conar warned, scowling at his long-time friend. Ignoring him, Gezelle tossed her head and marched from the cell, her fists clutched. "She loves you, too," Amber-lea said, her arms full of his discarded shirts and breeches. "Come here," he whispered, his hand out to her. When she dropped the clothing and sat beside him, he twisted his body until his head was in her lap, his arms wrapped around her. He pressed his face into the softness of her belly. "Stay with me." "For as long as you want me, Milord." She threaded her slim fingers through his hair. He sighed. For the moment, that was all he wanted, or needed. "Did you tell her, Milord?" she asked.

"I've told no one." His lips grazed her belly. "They'll know soon enough when you start to show." "Are you still angry?" "I was never angry, Ambie. Just damned unhappy about it." He looked up into her sweet face. "I have no right to ever bring another bastard child into this world. I can't even take care of my legal son." Amber-lea shivered, as if somehow disturbed by his words. Conar shivered, too, because the moment he'd said the words, his soul lurched inside his chest, and a cold shaft of premonition stabbed deep.

Chapter 10 Conar, Shalu, and Sentian dismounted and handed the reins of their mounts to the soldier waiting in the yard of the old Hound and Stag Tavern. Conar pushed open the rotting wooden gate that hung from only one rusted hinge. The sharp squeal of the decaying metal and the snort of the horses cut through the quiet, early morning air. As booted feet scraped across mud-splattered planking to reach the door, a hawk flying overhead shrieked and dipped behind the old stables. Conar frowned. "Not a good sign," Shalu commented, eyeing the two guards at the door as they saluted their commander. Conar stopped at the entranceway, squinting as he tried to see into the tavern's darkness. He lifted one eyebrow at a guard. "They are unarmed, Lord Conar." The guard patted the dagger resting at his thigh. "We reconnoitered the interior and there are no weapons in there." Conar was about to walk through the door when Sentian eased him aside and went in first. "Precaution," Shalu mumbled to Conar, then forged ahead of his commander, as well. They were there to meet intermediaries from Kaileel Tohre, and as the guard had indicated, every precaution had been made to insure Conar's safety. There were men stationed in the nearby forest, on the roofs of the tavern and stables, along the trail, and leaning against the tavern's crossbuck fence. The men who had arrived with a message from Tohre had been stripped and searched. "It smells like rats in here," Sentian remarked as they walked into the taproom. Rushes crinkled beneath his boots and sent up musty smells of dried ale, petrified food, and rodent droppings. He looked around him. "How long's this place been shut down?" "Two years," Conar answered. His eyes went to the table where once he had sat, contemplating three men he was positive were going to try to rob him. Then he remembered the pretty girl who had helped him make sure they hadn't. A grim smile touched his lips. The memories were painful to recall. Shalu and Sentian flanked their commander as he strode forward, deeper into the taproom. Conar scanned the room's depths, probed dark corners, squinted through slivers of sunlight filtering through cracks in the walls and ceiling. His eyes finally came to rest on the men, surrounded by guards, standing at the far end of the bar. "Lord Conar?" one asked, his right hand nervously plucking at a rolled parchment in his left. "Who else would he be?" Shalu growled.

Conar stood in the semi-darkness, alert, confident, his careless stance making it plain to Kaileel's messenger just how much contempt he had for the danger in which he had placed himself. He didn't fear these men; he despised them. "We came in peace, Lord Conar," one of the others said. He took a step backward when Conar's lips stretched into a malevolent grin. "Let's hope you don't go home inpieces," Conar said in a soft, warning voice, noting the man's Temple Guard uniform. The men looked to one another, betraying their fear. "What is it you want?" Conar asked, bored. One intermediary, likely a flunky within the lower echelons of the Temple, took a hesitant step forward. He froze when Shalu eased his sword from the baldric slung over his back. "We mean you no harm!" he wailed, dropping to his knees in the smelly rushes. Lips trembling, he brought up a placating hand. The other men joined him on the floor. "We…we…brought a present to you from His Holiness!" "I want nothing that bastard can offer me, save his beating heart on an iron spike!" "Please, Lord Conar," the man begged, scooting forward on his knees. "You must accept His Holiness' present. If we go back with the child, he'll kill us!" "Whose child?" Conar asked in a low, deadly voice. "His Holiness said you would know him when you saw him." He brought his trembling hands together in an unconscious attitude of prayer. "Please, Lord Conar! Take the boy. We can not return to the Monastery with him. Please!" He dropped his head. There was a long moment of silence as Conar regarded the kneeling men. At last he stared at the closed kitchen door. Shalu swept past Conar and jerked the intermediary to his feet. The man gasped. A dark golden stain spread over the crotch of his breeches. A vile stench rose up from the quaking messenger. Shalu thrust him away, looking with amusement at Conar when the man fell to his knees once more. "This little bastard shit his pants!" Conar truly found nothing amusing in the situation. Nearly all of his children had been slain by the Temple Guards a long time ago. Legion and Liza had managed to hide three or four of the male children, but the boys had eventually been found and slain on the altar for the Dark Ones. Their mothers had also been slain, condemned for having mated with the exiled Prince. Save Prince Corbin, there had been no child of Conar's loins left alive within the realm by the time Legion A'Lex ascended the throne. "What kind of game are you playing?" Sentian hissed, his sword drawn. "Heil," Conar warned, holding up his hand. He hunkered before the man, staring into a face sweating profusely with terror. "Where is the boy?" "I'll get him, Milord," another man babbled. He pushed clumsily to his feet, stumbled to the kitchen door, and reached inside. A small cry came from the kitchen. The Temple Guard whimpered, his hands coming away from whatever he had been holding. He backed across the room. "I didn't mean to hurt him!" he muttered, trembling from head to toe. "Before Alel, I didn't mean to hurt the boy, Lord Conar!" From the kitchen, a small boy of about three years rushed out. He looked wildly around him, as if searching for a way to get out of the room. But when his gaze rested on Conar, he stopped and stared, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Looking into the boy's dark blue eyes, Conar knew. A cold shaft of horror entered his heart. A hard shudder ran down his body. Slowly, he came to his feet, tore his gaze from the boy, and looked at Sentian. "Bring him," he instructed and started toward the door. "The boy could be anyone's," Sentian said. "He's mine." Conar halted in the doorway, sucking in fresh, chill air. At his fierce gaze, guards at the door backed away. A muscle ground in his cheek as he stared across the courtyard. "Every evil thing that has ever happened to me

has happened here," he snarled. His vision swept the crumbling buildings before spearing the guard on his right. "I want every timber, every board, every shingle brought down. I want the stable burned to the ground and the ashes cast as far from this unholy place as they can fly!" The guard nodded. As Conar stalked to his horse, he shrugged aside Shalu's restraining hand. "You can't be certain the boy is—" "The bastard's mine, Taborn!" Conar's mouth twisted with loathing. "He's Raja's spawn. I can smell her on him!" *** "And he brought him here to the keep?" Legion asked, his mind still reeling with the knowledge that, after nearly a six-week absence, Conar had returned with a son. "The boy been given a room in the guard hut," Brelan said. "Ordinarily I would have questioned why Conar sent him there, but once you see the brat, you'll understand." Brelan shook his head. "There's something about this child that scares the hell out of me." Legion frowned. "In what way?" "For one thing, he doesn't lookat you, he looksthrough you. I tried speaking to him and he told me he doesn't deign to speak with hirelings." Legion chuckled. "Hirelings? Is that what you are, Saur?" Brelan's lip lifted. "That's how Tohre sees me, I suppose, so I would imagine that is the way the child views me, as well." "I'll have to remember that," Legion muttered, grinning. "But I don't understand why Tohre sent the boy to Conar," Teal du Mer remarked. "That child hates Conar," Sentian said. "You can see it in the way he looks at Conar. I had to drag his little ass out of the tavern and practically tie him on my horse. The whole time, he's telling me to get my fucking hands off him." "Those were the words he used?" Cayn, the Healer asked, his face set in hard lines of disapproval. "His precise words, sir," Sentian answered. "Here he is, screeching and clawing at me, spouting words that were turning the air blue, when Conar spun Seachance around and galloped back to us. He grabbed the boy's chin and told me to gag him with my kerchief." Legion gasped. "A little boy like that?" Sentian snorted. "Thatlittle boy raked his nails down Conar's hand and drew blood! Then took a good-size bite out of the back of Conar's hand! Conar tore off his belt and tied the boy's hands to the pommel. And it's a good thing he did or the little bastard might have turned those wicked fingers on me." He pointed to his left leg. "As it was, he got in a few good kicks!" "What does he say about the boy?" Legion asked. "What can he say?" Brelan countered. "He knows he's the boy's father. He knows the child hates him." "Has, by all probability, beentaught to hate him," Cayn added. "Aye," Brelan said. "It doesn't seem to bother him all that much, but you rarely know what Conar's really thinking." "Kaileel's up to something," Legion mused. "Considering the horrible things he's done to Conar's children, why would he send this boy here? To hurt Conar?" "Most likely," Brelan answered. "If he has any of his father's powers, he can cause Conar a headache or two."

"It's not just his father's powers you must be concerned with, Bre," Liza remarked from the fireplace where she sat huddled in her shawl. "His mother has her own—powers of the Multitude and the Dark Ones." "Raja?" Legion laughed. "The only power that slut has is in the lower part of her body!" Liza turned to Brelan and Sentian. They were not laughing. They had been with Conar in Chrystallus and had witnessed what Raja was capable of doing. "You think she may play a part in this?" Brelan asked. "I know she will," Liza said. "Even if Raja is involved, what can she do?" Legion asked. "You forget, dearling, Raja was once of the Multitude, as was my mother and Conar's. They were all friends at one time. I had almost forgotten the conversation Conar and I had right after we married. He told me about the woman who had 'taught you all to be men.'" Brelan shrugged. "The bitch didn't teach me." "I remember now that Conar told me her name, and that she was a lady of the court, but 'Raja' is a common enough name." She shook her head. "If I had only asked him about her then, things might have been different." "What things?" Legion asked. "I knew all about Raja DeLyle. My mother told me how, long ago, this woman tried to seduce the King of Serenia." "Our father?" Brelan asked, obviously intrigued. "Surely she didn't succeed." "Not that I know of," Liza said, "but who can say for sure? It was before his marriage to Conar's mother. All I know is that the woman was sent from Boreas and came to Oceania. Since she and my mother were friends, and my mother did not fear her, she was allowed to stay in the palace. But when she tried that same trick on my father, mother went before the Oracle to condemn her. The Oracle called all the Daughters to the Shadowlands and held a trial. The Oracle was angry that Raja had tried to defile another Daughter's consecrated marriage, and ordered her banished from the Multitude, thereby taking away a great deal of her powers." "Then she can't be any real threat to Conar," Cayn put in. Liza glanced at the Healer. "Did you know her?" He frowned. "Unfortunately, I did." "Then you know she was clever. She went before the Dark Demons. The Multitude knew the moment she did, but before they could stop her, she had sold her soul to the forces of evil in return for making her socially acceptable to the great houses again." "But that wasn't all she acquired, was it?" Brelan asked. "I'm afraid not," Liza answered. Pulling her shawl around her, she looked out the library window, seeing sights that haunted her. "No one knew she had been granted anything other than that so-called respectability. She was allowed to return to Serenia because King Gerren felt sorry for her. She never returned to Oceania while my mother was alive, though." She shuddered. "Liza?" Legion asked. "Conar's mother had been friend's with this woman, had trusted her. Raja had sworn never to use her dubious wiles on any of the married men at Boreas." Her lips went tight. "No one, however, knew what she was doing with the young boys of the keep!" Legion smiled, but there was no real warmth in it. "She wasn't all that bad," he quipped, winking at Teal, who blushed and looked away. "Don't you see what she was really doing, Legion? She corrupted you. You and Teal and Conar. She could not have the men, so she took the boys, and in doing so, your innocence! She fed on that innocence and used it to feed the

Dark Ones, who had to have been channeling minor powers into her with every corruption of flesh she encouraged!" Legion blinked. "I never looked at it that way." "You weren't meant to! You boys filled her with the very essence of yourselves, and she took that seed to the Dark Ones for safekeeping." "Against what?" Brelan asked. "Against the time when it could be turned against you!" Again, Liza shuddered, tightly clutching her shawl. "And you would never know why you turned the other way when you could have stopped something from happening; never understand why something went wrong when it should have gone right; why you were powerless to stop Tohre from taking Corbin from me!" She glanced at another man who had been sitting quietly in the room. Chase Montyne's face was pale as he looked back at her. "Or when your homeland was being overrun with Domination forces." Legion let out a long, wavering breath. "It makes sense now, doesn't it?" "If I had only known!" Liza spat. "You can't blame yourself," Brelan said, reaching out to take her hand. Liza stepped away from him. "The bitch knew my mother's weakness—it was her sons! I don't know when Raja slept with them, but as sure as I am standing here I know she did. How else could our palace have been overrun so easily?" "What does this have to do with Conar?" Sentian asked. "I can see how it was easy for her to seduce him in Chrystallus, but—" "She will go after another innocent next." Her teeth clenched. "Conar's son—Corbin. She couldn't make Conar hers, so she'll try to take his legal son. She wants the power of the throne behind her, and it is that same conceit that will be her undoing." "You think she sent the boy here to distract Conar," Cayn ventured. "If he gets involved with that son, he'll be lax about the other." Liza nodded. "Among other reasons, that's why he's been sent here. Tohre wants Corbin, too. You have to remember that. He, too, was denied the father." "What other reasons could there be?" Legion asked. Liza's regard shifted to her husband. "Raja and Tohre have made damned sure the boy hates his father. You know how much Conar has always loved children. The more the boy hates him, the more time Conar will spend with him to overcome that hate. That is his nature." "But he hasn't even seen the boy since we brought him to the keep," Sentian interrupted. "He will," Liza assured him. "I know Conar." "The thing to do is keep a close watch on the boy," Cayn injected. "Onboth the boys. Also, how convenient for that boy to be in the keep with Conar—he might have been sent to help someone else get inside. Someone who means Conar harm." "I'll assign a guard to the brat day and night!" Sentian snarled. "But there is something all of you must never forget," Liza warned. "The boy hates Conar, and if he hates with an unholy passion, even a child can be deadly!"

Chapter 11

He nocked the arrow and took careful aim. Easily he pulled the bowstring taut and lifted the long bow to his right cheek, sighting down the length of the deadly missile. Releasing his second and third fingers, he let the shaft fly. It sang unerringly through the air and landed dead center of the straw target. Smiling grimly, he reached behind for another arrow, and in doing so, spied an intruder lurking behind a nearby tree. He frowned. "What do you want, Prince Corbin?" The boy came from around the tree, his face blazing red beneath the intense scrutiny Conar aimed his way. "May I speak with you, Milord?" "About what?" He turned and nocked the new arrow. Sighting it, he scowled, for the lad had not answered. "Well?" "It's…it's about…" "What?" Conar spat, his nerves jumping in such a way his hand began to tremble. Where had he played this scene before? Looking at the training ground, at the men on the rise training under Thom Rayle, he thought he could hear Hern Arbra's devilish laughter booming at him from the trees. "It's about the new boy," Corbin managed to answer in a small voice. Stunned, Conar impaled his son with a look he hoped would quell the boy. "Stay away from him!" Corbin's chin rose. "Is it true what they are saying? Is he my brother?" "Stay away from him, do you hear me? I—" Conar shouted, catching himself before he could continue. He turned and fired another arrow, which spiraled away from the target, missing it by a good foot. "Do you see what interrupting a warrior can cause, Prince Corbin? If that had been an enemy attacking you, I would not have been able to protect you, now, would I?" Corbin looked at the ground. "If it had been an enemy, Milord, you would have hit your target." Conar's frown deepened, annoyed the boy had so much confidence in him. "We weren't discussing warfare—" "You brought it up," Corbin interrupted, locking his gaze with his father's. He didn't back away when Conar took a warning step forward. Conar snarled, cursing beneath his breath. He spun around with another arrow and fired it with uncanny speed, the arrow impaling the straw target in the very center. "I have a right to know if he's my brother," Corbin said, louder. There was a stubborn set to the small oval face "Come here!" More annoyed than angry, Conar threw down the bow, pointing to ground at his feet. Corbin sat, but didn't look away from Conar's intense gaze. "Prince Corbin," he began, "if you have heard the brat is your brother, then you have heard from where he came. You and I know that anything Kaileel Tohre discards, is not worth having. Do you agree?" "In most cases." Conar's eyes narrowed. "Inall cases. Just because what he threw away is human, doesn't make it worth anything. Aye, it is true the brat is your half-brother." It was the closest he had come to admitting his connection to the boy, now watching him so carefully. "But he is as evil as his mother. He will harm you if given the chance. Never doubt that." "Does he have my powers? The powers I inherited from you?" "He has the combined powers of two sorcerers. The power you wield comes from the Multitude and from the Wind. The powers steeped inside this boy come entirely from the Domination. If you were to battle him—" A shiver went down Conar's spine. He felt cold, vulnerable, but he needed to stress the danger. "You would most likely win, but at a terrible price."

"What is his name?" "Regan," Conar growled, jerking another arrow from his quiver. "Regan, what?" "Just Regan!" Conar answered, more than aware his hands were shaking as he hefted the bow to his face. "He needs no other name. People know who he is." Corbin was silent as he nodded. "You claim him, then? As your son?" Wanting this to be over, Conar snarled at him. "I have said as much! He is my son. I claim the little bastard! What more do you want to hear?" Corbin smiled sadly. "I have heard all I need to, I guess." He got up and turned away, then looked over his shoulder. "You claim him, but will not claim me. Why is that, Milord?" He didn't give Conar a chance to answer, but walked away, his little shoulders held erect. Conar felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. He wanted to cry with the pain of it. Something inside warned him to call out, to acknowledge the boy, but Corbin was already running up the incline to where the men were training. He threw down the bow once more and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. "Stupid fool," he called himself. Putting his hands on his hips, he stared at the men, then trod heavily up the incline. Marsh Edan looked away from the two warriors locked in combat and smiled at his Overlord. "Come to play, did you?" Conar looked about. "Where's Corbi?" Marsh shrugged. "He ran by here a moment ago. He might be going over to the gym." There was concern on his sweaty face. "You don't mind him training with us, do you?" Conar's brow quirked upward. "He trains with you?" "Ever since he came back from the monastery." A scowl settled over Edan's countenance. "He asked if I could teach him to be a…" "Man," Conar whispered, momentarily plunging back through time. Marsh put a hand on Conar's shoulder. "I didn't think you'd mind, since you didn't have time for such things." Conar shuddered, striving to blot out the lingering sight of his own childhood. "But he is my son and I should have made the time." "Aye, but sometimes it's best if it's not the father doing the training, Coni. Did your own father train you? Did you ask him to?" At Conar's denial, Marsh smiled. "Why not?" Conar glanced at the ground. "I didn't think he'd have the time." "See?" "No, Coni came to you because I've never given him reason to come to me." A fearful thought entered his mind. "He stays with you in the compound at night?" "Aye. He's well protected, if that's what concerns you. The Queen gave permission—" Conar waved his hand, cutting off Marsh's defense. "I know you and Thom would guard him with your lives." He bit his lip and searched Marsh's face. "Does he…has he had…nightmares?" As though in deep thought, Marsh looked away from Conar. "I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone." Conar let out a hard breath. "And you haven't."

"He worships you, Conar. He keeps telling me how much he wants to be like you. He's a fast learner, doesn't complain, does what he's told. He's coming along well. You have every right to be proud. He'll make a fine warrior, like his father." Marsh chuckled. "They say the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree." A hard lump formed in Conar's throat, making it hard to breath and swallow. "Just watch over him, Marsh. Don't let him get hurt." "And have his mama on my hide? I'd rather take my chances with an entire battalion of Diabolusian raiders than have Elizabeth A'Lex after me! Any man who hurts her boy will have her to deal with!" Conar tried to smile, but his lips felt frozen. Instead, he walked away, his thoughts on the multitude of mistakes he had made with Corbin. Instead of letting the boy know he was there for him, he had pushed him away. He had erected a wall between them that would not be easy to scale. By acknowledging Regan as his own, Conar knew he had further insulated himself from Corbin. He skirted the path leading to the keep and nearly ran down the spiraling road leading into town. With every inch of ground he covered, he cursed himself for being the insensitive, arrogant bastard he had become.

Chapter 12 Sern opened the door, a wary look on his bearded face. "Lord Conar!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply, sweeping his arm before him as he stepped back. "Come in, Milord! Come in!" The smell of aged rushes mixed with offal and decaying food wafted out of the nomad's hut. Conar's nostrils quivered. "Thank you, but I would prefer not to." He locked his gaze with the desert man's hawk-like stare. "I need something from you." Sern craned his neck out the door, scanning the street. "We are being observed, Milord," Sern whispered. Conar spied Bent Armitage lurking behind a rolling vegetable stall. "Hell." He took a deep breath before entering the hut. Sern closed the door. "You are most welcome to my humble abode, Lord Conar." Conar tried to focus his eyes in the pale, smoky halo of yellowish light, cast by the single oil lamp on a low-slung table, but the horrendous stench distracted him. "By all that's holy, Sern, this place smells like an outhouse!" Sern ducked his head. "I'll clean it, Milord." He indicated a chair. "I don't plan on being here long." "I have prepared something new for you, Milord." Sern rushed to the table. "I think you will be most pleasantly surprised with this new concoction." He picked up a beaker of milky fluid and extended it toward his benefactor. "You will find the effect does not wear away as rapidly as the opium mixture." Conar eyed the mixture with distaste. "What's in this?" Sern shrugged. "A little of this; a little of that." He winked. "It is a mixture of powerful stimulants, Lord Conar. With this elixir, you can forget every trouble you have!" "Or create more," Conar mumbled. A smile spread over Sern's thick lips. "But with this elixir, you can solve the problem quickly!" He put the container in Conar's hand. "You can conceal this in an ordinary brandy bottle and no one will be the wiser."

Conar handed the container back to Sern. "I dare not leave here with that. Bent would break his neck going to Brelan and Roget. Just give me some here and I'll leave." "But Lord Conar—" "You can bring the rest to the Grotto tonight and leave it in the usual place. I'll retrieve it in the morning." "Yes, but—" "I want it now, Sern!" Conar hissed, his lips twitching, his hands trembling. "As you wish, Milord." After pouring a half-ounce of the milky fluid into a goblet, he extended it to Conar. "That's it?" "Only one swallow. No more is needed, it is so powerful. You must be sure no one sees you when you take this. The drug causes different kinds of reactions, depending on what you have consumed within the hour or so before taking it." Conar hardly heard the nomad. He brought the goblet to his lips, prepared for the bitter taste he was used to, but was indeed surprised when a sweet, mellow taste flooded his taste buds. He swallowed, felt no numbing inside his mouth, and licked his lips. Sern watched him carefully. "Did it taste like mangoes?" At Conar's nod, he sighed. "I should have known," he grumbled Known what?Conar wanted to say, but stopped. He hadn't prepared for the immediate effect of this drug. The dim light began to throb with intensity. The room suddenly tilted to the right, causing him to stumble against Sern. He grabbed for the nomad, barely aware his knees had buckled. He dropped to the rush-strewn floor. "Liquor," Sern muttered. He staggered with Conar's dead weight, trying to lift him from the filthy floor. Conar felt warm, too warm. An insane itching started along his arms and chest. It grew so intense he felt he would scream if he did not scratch it. A numbness, almost a dead void, attempted to block his hearing. The room tilted the other way and he closed his eyes to keep from passing out. "It is always liquor with you!" Sern admonished. "If you do not stop drinking liquor with these drugs, they will kill you!" "Sern?" he questioned, his belly cramping and his head spinning. He felt as though he had no control over his body. His legs and arms felt like water. "I am here!" Sern snapped, maneuvering Conar onto the bed. Something cold snapped around his wrist. He craned his neck to see what was happening. At first, the dull band of iron encircling his wrist did not register. "What are you doing?" He tried to scratch at the itch under his left arm, but Sern brought Conar's other arm over his head. Once more, he felt cold metal on his flesh. He was suddenly afraid. Very afraid. "It is for your own protection," the nomad explained, moving to the foot of the bed. Talking to himself, the nomad pulled off Conar's boots, then spread Conar's unresisting legs and manacled his ankles to the bed's thick metal posts. "What are you doing?" Conar asked, trying to pull free. "Unchain me!" "I do not dare, Milord. In a moment, you will know why I did not want you to take the drug here. Now, I will have to—" The itching along Conar's chest and arms spread rapidly over his entire body. He whimpered at its intensity. The warmth flowed over him, prickling like a million ants on his flesh. The room spun crazily for a moment before screeching to a stop with a bright flare of light. Sound returned with such immense clarity, he could hear laughter and tinkling glasses from the tavern halfway down the street. Sight focused so sharply he could make out, in detail, every

nuance of the hut. His body felt light and carefree, young and vibrantly alive. Every nerve ending tingled with energy. "Oh, god!" he cried. "What have you done to me?" "What you will feel will please you," Sern whispered. "This drug I have tested on myself. Do you feel it yet?" Even as the desert dweller spoke, Conar felt the sudden, urgent, almost painful, tightening in his groin. His manhood leapt into an erection so full, so throbbing with blood, he strained against his breeches. An intense, unsettling need drove deep into him. He gasped, feeling as though he had not lain with a woman for years. "Aye, Lord Conar." His black gaze swept to Conar's crotch. His smile widened. "A pleasure unlike any you have yet to experience." Conar shifted on the dirty mattress, squirming among the rumpled, stinking covers. Despite the desire to vomit from the stench, he was more aroused than ever before, near to bursting with the need to plunge his staff into warm, wet flesh. He needed a woman's body, her juices flowing around him, sheathing him, soothing him. His breath came out in tiny pants. He felt as though his entire body strained to erupt. "Get me a woman!" Sern smiled knowingly. "I will be but a moment." "Hurry, Sern!" he begged, his hips grinding into the mattress as he jerked on his chains. "Hurry!" He vaguely heard the hut's door open, close. He was so aroused, most everything else around him had been pushed into the background. His mind worked feverishly, remembering another time when he'd known such intense arousal—in the oubliette at the Monastery. But that ache had been different, a guilty, shameful need he had not wanted to satisfy. This need, this overwhelming sexual anticipation was so excruciating— "Sern!" *** From his place behind the vegetable stall, Bent watched the nomad exit the hut. Frowning, he looked back at the door, but Conar didn't appear. Bent was about to cross the distance between stall and hut when he saw the desert dweller being stopped by a woman in a long red robe. Bent couldn't see her face, but her slim hands closed around the nomad's arm. After a moment of conversation, the nomad gestured toward his hut. "Whoremaster," Bent snarled. His face hardened with distaste as Sern and the woman hurried to the hut. Hunkering down amid the hawkers and their wares, Bent snorted. It appeared Conar had come to the nomad for one of his sluts, not the opium Brelan suspected. *** By the time the door opened and Sern entered, Conar was panting heavily. His wrists were already bruising from the fierce pulls against his chains, his fingers flexing with a mind of their own. When he saw the woman, he snarled, baring his teeth, aching to plunge into her. He sniffed like a stag scenting a doe in heat. His nostrils quivered to her scent; his mouth watered in anticipation. "Let me loose!" he demanded, straining against the chains. "I dare not." Sern motioned the woman forward. "You would hurt her." "Let me loose!" He pulled as hard as he could, needing to put his hands on the soft feminine flesh, aching to drive himself to the hilt within the folds of her womanhood. "She can pleasure you without you being in a position to hurt her." He looked at the woman. "He is strong. He could tear you apart like he is now." The woman nodded as her fingers went to the laces of her cloak. Though her face was hidden within the fold of the cowl, her bright green eyes glowed in the room's dimness. "I need her!" Conar snarled, his body lurching as he fought to free himself. "Sern! I need her!"

"And you shall have me, Lord Conar," the woman answered in a throaty, lightly-accented voice. She dropped the cloak and took a step forward. *** When Sern saw her face, his mouth dropped open. Never had he seen a more beautiful creature. Outside, when she had accosted him on the street, he had not bothered to look at the face beneath the cowl. It had not mattered what she looked like, for it was not her face Conar needed. "How much?" the nomad had snapped. "A favor for a favor, Sern Jamar," she had said in a coaxing voice. "What favor?" "The favor of lying with the Dark Overlord. That is what you are seeking, is it not? A woman to pleasure him?" Knowing that every moment he delayed in providing relief for the man chained to his bed, the more dangerous that man became, Sern had not bothered being as cautious as normal and bade the woman follow him. "His need is great," he mumbled as they hurried to the hut. "I have had to restrain him. Otherwise he would hurt you." He hadn't even questioned the woman's seeming lack of surprise. Watching her now, looking at the porcelain perfection of her creamy complexion, the deep emerald of her brilliant eyes—glowing with a need of their own—the waist-length sweep of heavy coal-black hair, and the lush red ripeness of her full lips, Sern knew this woman was no common trollop. "Who are you?" Sern asked as she began to remove her gown. "I have never seen you before. I would surely have remembered a woman so lovely." Though the woman didn't answer, Sern nodded with approval as she dropped her chemise, revealing twin globes of perfection tipped with large, prominent nipples that tilted slightly upward. His mouth went dry as she rubbed the expanse of her right breast, lifting it. Such beauty will be wasted him this day, Sern thought, casting a quick glance to the man squirming on the bed. "Come to me," Conar begged, his voice deep with need. He lifted his head, flinging the damp hair from his forehead. "Lady, please!" Naked, she stepped forward, her hips swaying seductively. The faint scent of lilac clung to her. In the close, cramped room, a thin veil of perspiration had gathered on her lush breasts, glistening like morning dew. "Hurry, woman!" Sern implored. "He is in pain even now." She glanced at him with disdain. "And who gave him such pain, Jamar?" She bent down toward Conar, allowing the light from the oil lamp to fully reveal to him her small oval face. *** Conar's world crashed to a halt. He stared into eyes that mocked him, terrified him, thrilled him. He didn't know which was greater, his arousal of the woman bending over him or his fear. "Do you remember me, Milord?" she cooed. She dragged a finger down the length of his thigh from hip to knee. "Did I stay in your memory?" At her touch, he sucked in a breath, feeling her fingertip to the marrow of his soul. Where she touched, his skin beneath his cords burned. As the finger moved, he groaned. "Ah, I see you do remember my touch, if not me." She smiled, moving her finger to the underside of his left arm. His grunt of need seemed to please her. "For the love of All who are holy, woman," Sern pleaded, "do not torture him!"

She ignored him. Her finger trailed up Conar's arm to his wrist, where a thin beading of blood had welled up under the manacle. She clucked her tongue. "I have waited so long to have you. It is a pity you can not touch what you ache to touch, is it not?" Conar moaned, shifting under the heat of her hand as it moved to his scarred cheek. Her fingers caressed his flesh, slid down to his neck. Her fingertips pressed against the heavy beating tattoo of his pulse. "You have no idea how sensual it is to watch the vein throbbing in a man's neck when he is aroused. It beats in time to the throbbing of his shaft." A whimper of longing burst from Conar's tightly compressed lips. His breathing came so fast, so heavy, so shallow. A tear of frustration fell down his cheek. "Do you want me?" she whispered, leaning over him so he could look directly into her face. Conar tried to turn his head, but she took his head in her hands and anchored it. "Don't," he begged, speaking through teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. "You don't want me?" Her lips pursed in a tiny pout of dismay. "No." He groaned with concentration as he tried to will away his arousal for her. She eased her thumb over his lips, circled their fullness, parted them, pulled down the lower one and rubbed the moist inner side. He shuddered against her intimate invasion. He knew what she was going to do, had felt her sensual attack once before many years earlier. But when her fingers withdrew from his lips and he saw her slipping her index finger into the ripe redness of her mouth, he didn't try to turn away. The finger, wet with her saliva, moved again to his lower lip and spread warm, moist heat across his flesh. "God!" "You don't want me," she whispered, "but you need me." Her tongue flicked over his ear, making him jump. "Stop taunting him," Sern demanded, moving to the side of the bed. "Can you not see what you are doing to him?" Her teeth drew back in a snarl of pure evil. She turned toward the nomad. "He is mine to do with as I please, Jamar!" she spat, much as a jungle cat might hiss at an intruder. "Get away from me!" Conar opened his mouth to protest, to plead with her to leave him alone, but she leaned over and her mouth fastened itself to his. Her darting tongue slipped between his lips to taste, to plunder, and he squeezed his eyes shut, groaning as her tongue raped his mouth. Even when she moved back, her tongue flicking lightly over his lips, he refused to look at her, wincing as her trilling laughter flowed over him. "Did they tell you that you were mine?" she asked, her hands trailing down his chest. "That you are my mate, now?" Her words made no sense. He tried to shut them out, but his acute senses made him hear even the tiny, sweet breaths she took. "I have come to claim you." Her fingers moved to Conar's belt. She made quick work of the leather strap and the buttons of his cords. She yanked down the cords as far as they would go, pushed up Conar's shirt over his belly, then pulled free the thick expanse of his manhood, caressing it thoroughly, expertly. "You want me to stop, Milord?" she taunted, gazing into his sweating face. Her hands moved over his flesh. "Do you wish me to leave you to your pain?" Her lips closed around the turgid thrust of his flesh. "No!"he bellowed, trying to press his rump into the mattress to avoid her touch. He heaved from one side to another, but her mouth sucked avidly at his flesh, attached without relief to the very root of him, drawing from him that which he strove to keep inside. When her lips left him, he shuddered. "You are at my mercy, sweet warrior. I can do with you as I have wanted for so very long."

"Don't—" The pulsing of his member was so intense, so achingly full with the need for relief, he cried, tears sliding unheeded his cheeks as he strove not to shame himself. "Please, don't." She straddled him, her hand still on his flesh. "How long shall I hold you like this then, my warrior?" she asked, stroking, pulling at his blood-engorged manhood. "A minute? Five? Ten? How long will you deny us both the pleasure?" It took every ounce of self-control to keep his seed from spraying. He grunted with the effort, panted with such arousal, his body grew fevered, slick with sweat. He tensed as she shifted, sat on the taut plain of his belly, rubbed her woman's heat along the pelt of hair at the juncture of his thighs. "Sweet Alel, don't!" he pleaded, smelling her musky scent, feeling the warmth of her against his belly. "I will have you, Milord. I shall ride you as you ride that hellish black steed of yours." She lowered herself until she was poised, his rigid flesh paused at the threshold of her sex. "I will ride you until I have had my fill." She groaned as she slid down his length, burying him deeply within her. He felt her contract around him, felt her moistness oozing around his flesh, and he went hard as stone. "Nooo!Someone help me! Get her off me!" "Come to the bed, nomad!" she ordered, flinging her head toward Sern. "You will not want him to bring the watch down upon our heads!" Sern stared at her, obvious not understanding. But as Conar groaned once more, his cries loud and carrying, the nomad stepped forward and sat on the mattress beside Conar's head. His oily hand, smelling vividly of garlic and something more pungent, clamped down over Conar's mouth. Conar barely noticed, as his attention was centered at the base of his being, at the turgid, ripe, ready-to-burst core of him that was throbbing with an intensity he had never known. The moist velvet surrounding him was drawing from him the very essence of his life. He felt the rhythmic spasms pulling at his flesh, suckling him, caressing him. Vaguely, he heard her cry of release. He moaned against the constriction of his lips as another spasm began along the root of him. She violently pressed herself against him, heaved up and down on his manhood. Her heavy breasts jiggled as she bounced. Her nails dug into his sides as she gripped him, her strong thighs tight around his. As soon as one set of convulsions shook her warmth and ceased, another set in, and saliva formed on her lower lip, dripped down her chin to land on his belly. From somewhere deep inside him, he felt the climax building. It was so powerful, so violent, he began shaking as soon as the ache spread over his groin. He pushed up, clashed with her pummeling body as she came down hard on his belly. He thrust up into her, bellowing behind Sern's hand as the first wave of semen shot from him. He tried to jerk free of Sern's hand, tried biting the filthy flesh, but the man's fingers were strong. The second burst of semen nearly caused him to lose consciousness, and the third elicited such a violent spasm that his body shuddered so hard, the bed trembled. "Fill me!" she ordered, pressing her flesh as hard as she could against him. "Fill me with your seed!" The fourth rush of heat spat from him like shot from a cannon, and, in that instant, he knew what he'd done. Even as the last spurt escaped him, even before she bent over to whisper in his ear, before the words left her lips, he knew. He groaned, his eyes welling with tears. *** "Let him go," she said. Sern eased his fingers from Conar's mouth, not surprised to see the flesh already bruising. He smoothed a sweat-slickened lock of hair from Conar's forehead, amazed that his own hands were trembling. The woman looked him with pure hatred. Shocking Sern to his foundation, she spoke to him fluently in his native tongue. "He won't remember who I was when this drug wears off. He will remember only that he had a woman he ravaged so badly you were forced to send her away before he could pay her. You will tell him no different. And you will say nothing to him, ever, of me being here."

Sern could do no more than nod upon viewing the deadly intent in her dark green eyes. "And you will destroy the remainder of that potion and never again give it to him. Understand?" He nodded and swallowed convulsively. "If you do," she said, her voice low and lethal, "I will make you rue the day you ever slimed from between your whoring mother's thighs!" "He…he will want a drug to take with him, to…" "Give him what you've been giving him! Flavor it with mango juice—he'll not know the difference. He wanted it, let him have it!" Her spiteful face calmed, easing into a seductive smile before she turned to Conar. He was gazing at her with fear, for he obviously could not understand the desert dialect. "He deserves it." "You have a grudge against him?" Sern queried, wanting to understand why this lovely woman would want to torment Conar so brutally. "No," she answered, gaily, switching easily from Sern's mother tongue to Serenian. "I just find that it pleases me to see that he can be humbled." She stroked Conar's cheek, ignoring his flinch, the turning away of his face. "And addiction does humble a man, doesn't it, Milord?" *** "Leave me alone," Conar whispered in a hoarse, grating voice. "You've gotten what you came for." "As did you," she said, smiling into his narrowed eyes. She eased from him, his limp flesh sliding down her thigh. She laughed at his grunt of disgust. "Despite yourself, you enjoyed what I did for you, my Prince." He didn't answer, but instead turned his face "You could not help it, Milord," she teased. Her fingernails raked over the manacles binding his ankles. "You were my captive this time. Just as my daughter was once yours." Her words stung like the jab of a poisoned dart. He swung his head around, his voice thick with hate. "Don't ever mention her to me!" he shouted, straining against the manacles. "Even hearing you speak of her is an evil beyond belief!" "Oh, come now, Milord! It's not as bad as all that. After all, she is of my flesh and blood. Can not a mother share with her daughter such pleasure as you have given me this day?" "Go to hell, Raphaella! Go to hell and stay there where you belong!" Her hand cupped his flaccid flesh. "And shall I take you with me when I go, Conar McGregor?" Her fingers tightened. "I will one day, you know…take you with me!" He screeched with madness, frustrated to the point of lunacy. He thrashed against the chains, cursing Sern, spitting like a cornered cat, until she closed her hand over his mouth. "When you are tired of this world, my sweet Prince of the Wind, when the gods have given you every possible trial and tribulation They can muster, when you are weary of life and aching to know peace, you will come to me." He tried to shake his head, but she held his head steady. "Oh, yes you will come to me, and you will ask to enter World's End. You'll beg to be allowed to live the remainder of your life in solitude. Just you and me and the child you have seeded inside me!" He managed to yank away his head. "Get away from me, Raphaella. I'll fry in hell before I come anywhere near you of my own accord!" Again, she laughed, her voice a tinkling of bells. As she stepped back from the bed, a throbbing glow seemed to hover around her, cover her from head to toe. The air grew thick, chill, an alien wind coming from out of nowhere to whip the rushes and extinguish the oil lamp. "Remember what I tell you," she whispered into the darkness. "You will come to me one day, Conar McGregor. And

you will be mine forever!" A piercing wind howled through the hut, shook the walls. A bright light burst inside the room, and then all was still. In the air lay the heavy scent of lilac. She was gone. *** "Lord Conar?" Sern whispered, fumbling in the dark for the lamp. His fingers brushed velvet, pulled away. Tentatively, he picked up the woman's cloak and thrust it away from him with fear. "Lord Conar?" There was no answer. Sern found the lamp and lit it, his hands shaking violently on the flint. He held up the lamp and looked at the bed. Conar was lying still, his wrists and ankles free of the chains. There was no bruising around his lips where Sern had pressed so feverishly to keep him quiet. There were no marks on his wrists and ankles. "Lord Conar?" Sern whispered, catching the slight, rhythmic cadence of his Overlord's breath. He knew the young man was deeply asleep. Sitting in the hut's only chair, Sern ran a trembling hand over his face. Sweat rubbed away from his oily flesh, and he ran his hand down his burnoose. He focused on the wall, watching shadows flicker. "Do you know what she is, Milord?" he whispered to the sleeping man. World's End, the woman had said. Sern had heard of it. Who hadn't? Once a man entered that keep, he would never return. It was kept by the woman they called The Weaver. She had another name, one not spoken that night, but Sern could not remember what it was nor where he had heard it. "All the Holy Ones help you, Milord. The Holy Ones help you, for that witch has claimed you for her own."

Chapter 13 Conar shifted on the bed, burrowing into the covers, pulling the pillow over his head to blot out the light. He drew up his knees and curled his toes, wishing the beating drum inside his skull would cease. He moaned, turned onto his back, dragging the pillow over his aching face, then took a deep breath to still the nausea. "Shit!" he hissed as the stench of the pillow invaded his nostrils. He threw away the offending thing, gasping with the pain the movement caused. "Lord Conar?" The voice boomed like an explosion in his ear. He clamped his hands over his ears and curled into a fetal position to block out the agony. "I have something that will help." Sern gently touched his Overlord's shoulder. Conar flinched. "For the love of Alel, Sern, don't hit me!" "I wasn't hitting you, Lord Conar. Here, sit up and drink this." "I don't want any more of your brews!" "This will help the headache, Milord. Come now, you must drink this."

"I don't want it." His voice was peevish, childish. Sighing, Sern tightened his grip on Conar's shoulder. "You must or you'll be sick the entire day." "Day?" Conar looked at the nomad. "You were here all night, Milord." Astonishment, self-disgust, and dismay took turns crossing Conar's mind. He tried to scoot up in the bed, but his limbs felt like rubber and the motion brought tears of agony. "What the hell did you give me?" he gasped, feeling as though an entire regiment of soldiers had used him for boxing lessons. "A much too powerful elixir, I fear," Sern answered apologetically. "I shall have to reduce the ingredients if you want it again." "Did I enjoy myself yesterday?" "I would say you rather did not." Conar's groin ached. He felt and, unfortunately, smelled dried semen clinging to his thighs. "Did I have a woman?" Sern nodded. "Where is she?" A shadow fell over Sern's face and he turned away. "You…well, I paid her and sent her home." A suspicion leapt across Conar's fogged brain, a vision of violent lovemaking, of powerful thrusts that had brought screams that had to be stifled. "Did I hurt her?" Sern shrugged. Conar could remember nothing about the woman he had obviously savaged, but somehow his mind remembered hurting her. Not that it mattered; after all, a whore was to be used. That was what he paid them for. He thought he remembered cries of pain as he drove unmercifully into her body, but somehow he didn't think she had minded. Again, he tried to conjure her face, but couldn't. She had simply been a vessel for his seed. "I did hurt her. Did you pay her well?" "I would venture to say she got what she wanted, Milord," Sern answered cryptically. A heavy knock at the door made Conar gasp. He shot up in the bed, his back plastered to the iron headboard. When the knock came again, he covered his ears, the sound driving into his aching brain like iron spikes. Sern hurried to the door and opened it. "Move aside, little man!" Bent thundered, pushing aside the nomad and ducking to enter the room. His shaggy head snapped from side to side until he spied Conar. "Lord Conar, are you all right?" Conar could only stare with agony as the giant stomped to his bedside, his footsteps rattling the windows. He looked into Bent's face, gentled with concern. When he knelt by the bed, Bent lowered his voice, as if sensing Conar was not in the best of health, and that normal tones would cause his Overlord distress. "Has this son-of-a-desert-jackal harmed you?" "I'm fine," Conar managed to mumble. "You smell," Bent stated, his pug nose twitching. "I know." Bent turned to Sern. "Have you nothing for him, you desert scum?"

Sern's lips tightened. He pointed at the glass of brew he had been trying to get Conar to drink. "He won't take it." Bent scowled, picked it up, and sniffed it. He nodded, thrusting the glass toward Conar. "It's like the lady's brew. Drink." There wasn't a question of saying no. Bent put the rim of the glass to Conar's lips and he drank as ordered. The faint, sweet taste was better than the bitter gall in his mouth. He swallowed, expecting immediate relief from the lavender potion. "I will get your horse," Bent said, standing. "I don't think I can ride," Conar answered, but felt his headache dissolving. "I will get a wagon, then." Bent turned, pushed the nomad out of his way, and ducked out of the doorway. "I need something to take with me, Sern. Something less potent, I think." Sern hesitated and looked toward the door. "Before Bent comes back, Sern." The nomad walked to his cabinet, extracted a small bag of powder, and slipped it into Conar's boot. "I shall leave more in the Grotto." Conar rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, amazed at how vibrantly he could feel the texture of his skin. He lowered his hands, looked at them, and frowned. "The sensation will last a few days, as will the rash," Sern told him. "What rash?" Before the nomad could answer, Bent returned. He reached down and tossed the covers from Conar's legs. "What are you…?" Conar stopped as the giant easily hefted him up. "Damn it, Bent! Put me the hell down!" "No!" Bent walked briskly to the door, carrying his burden into the bright morning light. "Sweet Alel!" Conar turned his head into Bent's broad chest, for the glare of the brilliant sunlight sent shafts of pain through his head. He felt himself laid down, smelled an overpowering muskiness of straw, and knew he was inside a wagon. The texture of the straw brought him immense discomfort; it felt like iron spikes. When Bent's bulk dipped the wagon to one side as he climbed into the seat, Conar groaned as the world tilted. The soft cluck of the giant's tongue to start the horses sounded like the pop of lightning, and Conar winced, rolling over to bury his face in the straw. "Stay inside for a few days!" Sern called as the wagon began to lumber away with a mighty squeaking of springs and the clatter of hooves. "You'll feel better by then!" *** After he was helped from the wagon, Conar immediately headed for the baths. He smelled keenly of the hovel and the filthy covers on which he had lain. As he walked up the steps of the Temple, he marveled at the sharp and clear images all around him. He looked at the intricate carvings of frieze along the rooflines; smiled at the intensity of the gilt adorning the columns; stood awed by the elaborate swirls spiraling up the marble. Sound was brought home to him with such clarity he could listen to a conversation several hundred feet away and hear and understand every word. And he couldfeel, he thought, as he rubbed his fingers together, touched things he passed. Even the quiet coolness of the bathing chamber seemed to touch his flesh. Although he stumbled a bit, he thought that a small price to pay for the intensities of sight and sound and touch he now possessed. When being tumbled around in the wagon, he had lost what little contents were in his stomach, but Bent stopped and wiped his face, gave him a cool drink of watered wine to settle his belly. The headache had not entirely dissipated, a niggling rash spotted his arms, chest, and neck, but it didn't overly concern him. It was more nuisance than worry.

Once inside the bathing chamber, he took a robe from the sacristy and carried it to the pool. He knew he'd never again wear the clothes he now wore, for no amount of washing would ever remove the stench clinging to them. Dropping the offending garments on the floor, he stepped gingerly into the steaming waters and sat, sighing with contentment as the lapping waves washed over his chest and shoulders. Closing his mind to the chamber's beauty, the greenery flowing from the ceiling, the copper pots filled with blossoming flowers, the latticework and stone half-walls, he ducked under the water. He came up, smiling with pleasure, and reached for the cake of chamomile soap. His brain reeled with the sharp perceptions he experienced when he soaped his body. The feel of his hands was stimulating, erotic, and he let one hand trail to the juncture of his thighs. He cupped himself, smiled at the sensual pleasure. Though he was sore, he sighed with satisfaction and gently stroked the length of himself, leaning his head along the pool's rim. "If you need a woman, I can find you one," a mocking voice said. Conar felt the color rise to his face when he glared up at Brelan. Like a little boy caught masturbating, he released himself. "I was hoping for privacy," he snapped. "I'd want privacy, too, if I needed to play with myself." He dropped the robe he was wearing and ventured into the water. "I wasn't playing with myself!" "A bit testy this morning? Bent said you had a companion yesterday. I would think you'd be in a better mood. Was she not to your liking?" Conar threw his soap at him. "I am growing overly tired of your spies! Have the courtesy to keep their findings to yourself. I don't need hearing second-hand what I do!" The smile left Brelan's face. "It's for your protection, little brother. You put guards on everyone else. You'll have to live with those placed on you." "I don't need guards!" In a rush of water, Conar stood and left the pool. He flung his robe around him, belted it, then retrieved his clothing. When he caught their rancid smell, he promptly dropped them. "A bit ripe, huh?" Brelan teased, wrinkling his nose. "What have you been in to?" Conar glanced up from scratching his arm. "What the hell are you talking about?" "The rash. I noticed it on your chest and shoulders." "Mangoes." Brelan's brows shot up. "I never knew you to be allergic to—" "There's a hell of a lot you don't know about me!" Conar shouted, then forced himself to calm down when Brelan's shocked expression finally registered. He ground his teeth and spun on his heel, escaping his brother's company. As the day progressed, Conar's temper and mood deteriorated until he snapped and growled at everyone. From the guards outside the keep's main doors, to the servant girl who was ordered to bring him fresh clothing, to Sadie MacCorkingdale. He reviled them with a shrewish bite and sent them scurrying like the demons of hell were on their heels. All except for Sadie, who stood her ground, snapped back in the same vicious tone, and sent him stomping off with a vile curse on his lips. He managed to make himself as unwelcome a visitor in the keep as had ever stepped foot inside Boreas. *** Conar seemed to be looking for mischief, especially when Liza entered the kitchen in search of Gezelle. His eyes glowed devilishly bright, his lip curled, and his hands clenched into fists. At first, recognizing his bad temper, Liza toyed with the notion of not speaking to him. But she also knew he would not let her go unchallenged. She also looked at the cowering servants and a plate of food that had been dumped on the floor. "Have you nothing better to do than intimidate servants and waste good food?" "They aremy servants," Conar said with arrogant disdain.

Liza's spine stiffened. She decided to take him to task, then and there. "I see. And does this mean you have finally decided to be master of this keep?" He frowned, sauntering toward her with contemptuous nonchalance. "If I choose." "Then I would expect you to treat them in a worthy manner as befitting the master of this keep. They are all freemen, not slaves,Your Grace." The servants began to disappear like morning mist, all except Sadie, who stayed where she was. His gaze fused with Liza's. "If you call me that one more time, woman," he said in a soft and menacing voice, "I'll make you wish you hadn't." "And just how will you do that? Will you rant and rave at me as you have the servants? Do you think to make me scurry as they have done? They may be intimidated by your foul temper, but I'm not afraid of you." He came to stand toe to toe with her, his face inches from hers. "You had best fear me, Madame. I am not Legion A'Lex, whom you can bend so easily to your will. It is notmy bed in which you practice your whoring arts." Liza groaned inwardly. So, he was back to calling her names, or close to it. She wanted to lash out, call him the child he was being, to make him turn away from his insane arrogance. But since she didn't know how to go about doing it, she kept quiet, which seemed to make him all the angrier. "What, no ready defense of your honor?" he quipped, one tawny brow raised in challenge. "Shall I take it, then, you are ready to dispense with your disguise and let the world know you for what you are?" She ground her teeth. "And just what disguise would that be?" "The disguise you use when you're in bed with my brother—the disguise of a lady." "In your brother's bed, I am a lady!" "In mine you were something far different." "I'm no longer in your bed. But you don't seem to have trouble finding women who don't mind being there." "Jealous, Queen Liza?" he taunted. "Of what? Being treated like a common—" She stopped, wishing she could bite off her tongue. Conar's lips stretched into a predatory leer. "Tart?" She smelled his warm, male animal scent. She had always liked the way he smelled, never needing colognes and oils most men used. His own essence gave off a heady aroma, a true male scent, and after all this time, she found she was not immune to it. Also, she wondered for the hundredth time how his irises had come to change colors. As though he could read her mind, he laughed. "When the Black Ascendancy entered me, took me for Its own, when I became one with the Dark Wind as I was destined, the soul inside me darkened. No longer did I see things through the pale eyes of an untried youth, but through the knowing eyes of a man who has dwelt among the fires of hell, had his soul singed by the flames, and come back to rectify the wrongs that were done to him. My eyes changed the moment I knew the vulnerable, weak, and powerless part of me had died." He cupped her chin, tugging gently. His breath, smelling sweet like mangoes, fanned her face. "What my eyes see now is the dark side of human nature, and I have found that none of you are what I thought you were." "You see what you want to see," Liza said, jerking her chin from his grasp. "I think you expect everyone to be like you've become—cold-hearted and selfish!" He grinned. "But I see you for the whore you've become." Liza struck out at him, intent on wiping the smirk from his lips. But he pushed her away, bumping her into the table where Sadie had been boning chicken. She reached out a hand to keep from falling, and it slid disgustingly through a

mass of cold, congealing chicken blood. In fury, she turned to face him. "You enjoy using brute force to make your point, you son-of-a-bitch?" "I plan on using something else to make my point with you, lady!" He came toward her, with purpose in his gaze. "Keep away from me." Liza reached for a boning knife. Her fingers closed around the handle, and she drew it toward her chest, blade down. "Be careful of him, Milady," Sadie warned. "He's a tricky one." "Get out of here, Sadie," Conar commanded, glaring at her. "Not on your worthless life," Sadie vowed with malice. With Conar's attention on the cook, Liza tried to sidestep away from the table, but his gaze jerked back to her and swept down to the knife. "Put that down before you hurt yourself, woman. You won't be needing it for what I plan for you." "I'm warning you, Conar," Liza panted, cursing herself for using his given name again. She backed away, bringing up the knife into a fighting position. "I will use it. You know I know how!" Sadie cackled. "You tell him, Milady!" "Shut up, Sadie!" he warned. "It's past time somebody stood up to you," Sadie shot back. "Time somebody put you in your place." Ignoring her barbed remark, he took another step toward Liza. "I mean it!" Liza shouted. "I'll stab you!" "Oh, there'll be a stabbing, Queen Liza," he promised. "But it won't be you who'll be doing the stabbing and it won't be with that silly knife." He reached out for her. Liza slashed at him, but he stepped back, an unholy light of annoyance on his handsome face. He feigned toward her, but she lashed out again. She barely missed his chest. "Cut him, Milady! Rip his heart out!" Sadie barked, her hands beating down on the back of a chair. "Make the little son-of-a-bitch bleed!" Liza lunged with the knife, taking satisfaction that he was forced to retreat. She lunged again. When he took another step back, she grinned. "That was a mistake," Conar said, watching her closely, circling around to her left side, looking for an opening. He rushed at her, twisting to avoid the knife's thrust. The blade ripped his shirt. "God damn it, Liza!" he spat, looking at the rent in the black fabric. "You're going to regret that!" "I bet she regrets the day she ever met your sorry ass!" Sadie hooted. "Shut up!" he bellowed. When he literally threw himself forward, Liza jerked the knife away from her to keep from skewering him. His fingers closed around her wrist. She screeched as he twisted her hand. "Let go!" he snarled. "Drop it!" Liza groaned at the excruciating pressure on her hand, but she kept her possession of the knife. She drove her knee into his groin. His loud gasp was like music to her ears. She thought he'd let go of her hand, but he didn't. Instead, he hit her with his free hand, the back of his knuckles catching her across her chin. Her head snapped sideways. She felt blood, tasted it on her lips. They fell to the floor, Liza crying out with pain as her arm twisted backward. "You sorry little bastard!" Sadie shouted. "How dare you hit my lady!" She yanked up her broom, obviously intent on pounding him.

Enraged that he had struck her, Liza kicked him in the shin. She jerked violently and kicked him again, managing to free her wrist. "Cut him, my lady!" Sadie yelled. "Stick him!" The old woman brought the broom crashing down on Conar's back. His yelp of surprise and pain made her chuckle. "How you like being on the receiving end of the blows, you little snot?" Conar moved away from the blade, eyeing Liza with a look that would have quelled the bravest of men. "Give me that gods-be-damned knife!" he demanded, snarling as Sadie's broom connected hard with his rump. "Get up, Milady!" Sadie shouted. "I'll keep the bastard off you!" She brought her broom down on Conar's hip. "If you don't stop interfering…" Conar yelled, glaring at the old woman. "So help me Alel, I'll—" Before she knew what she was doing, Liza struck. Her fear that Conar would lunge at Sadie made her furious. She shoved at his shoulder with one hand, while the hand holding the boning knife stabbed forward almost of its own accord. Even as she reacted, even as he flung up a hand to stop her from cutting him, the Queen of Serenia knew she had done something horribly wrong. Conar sucked in a breath. The knife had slashed across the fleshy part of his upper left arm from about four inches above his elbow to his shoulder bone. Blood gushed from the long rip in his shirt and spread a deeper ebony over the material, plastering the fabric to his flesh. "Glory be!" Sadie chuckled, pointing. "You did it, Milady! You really did it!" She hopped up and down on one foot. "You done scored the little snot royally!" Conar looked at the hand he had used to deflect the blow. The back swing of the knife had scratched him from elbow to wrist. A thin puckering of blood seeped down the scratch. Slowly, he raised his eyes to stare into Liza's shocked face. Sadie raised her broom and came forward. "Don't hurt her, you little bastard!" Liza scuttled away from Conar, coming to her feet as she stared at the outrage in his eyes. Her hand, now devoid of the knife she had dropped the moment it wounded him, went out in front of her to ward him off. "I'm sorry," she stuttered, flattening herself against the table, her face paling with terror. Sadie hoisted the broom higher. "He don't deserve no apology from you!" Conar looked at the ever-increasing flow of blood dripping down his arm, then turned his head toward Sadie and got to his feet. "If you open your mouth one more time, I'll shut it for you. Permanently!" Liza hadn't meant for it to go this far, had never intended to use the knife on him. The second she had, she knew he would never forgive her. As he came toward her, she couldn't hold back a whimper of fright. As he grasped her upper arms, his upper lip curled in pleasure when she quivered. "Please, Conar…" He tightened his grip. "Come," he said quietly. "Where are you taking her?" Sadie called, following as Conar drew Liza through the kitchen door and into the service hall. Liza felt his hard gaze leave her when he stopped and faced Sadie. She flinched at the unbelievable coldness in his voice as he spoke to the old cook. "Interfere one more time between me and this woman and I swear by all that is sacred, I'll turn you out of this keep!" Liza flinched. "Sadie, don't make him any angrier. Just leave be. I don't want to be the cause of you leaving." "Milady—" "Sadie, please!" Sadie clamped her lips together, but glared at Conar, making it plain she wasn't afraid of his threats. "One of these

days you're gonna be made to pay for all your high-handed ways, Milord." "Sadie!" Liza gasped. His grin was malicious, evil, as he turned from the old woman. Pulling on Liza's arm, he continued down the serving hall. Liza glanced up at his set face. "I'm sorry." Never looking at her, he continued moving. "Not half as sorry as you're gonna be." "Legion won't let you beat me." "I have no intention of beating you. But I have every right to do so." He stopped, jerked her around. "And Legion A'Lex sure as hell couldn't stop me if that was what I wanted to do!" "I told you I was sorry," He yanked her forward, taking her down the corridor leading to the servant's workrooms. "Sorry isn't good enough." Gezelle was coming out of the sewing room as Conar reached the door. She gasped when he gently shoved her back into the room. He whipped Liza against the sewing table. "You will repair the damage you've done!" "I can't!" "You can and you will!" he shouted, jerking her into the chair. "Don't make me do this!" Liza begged. "Please, dearling, I can't!" Ignoring her mistake, he took her chin in his bloody hand. Bending over her, he hissed through clenched teeth. "You will, my Queen. By all that is holy, you will!" Gezelle gasped, staring at the blood on his hand, the darker stain along his arm. "Milord! You're hurt!" "Aye, your lady gave me a love tap!" He let go of Liza's arm, grasped the front of his shirt, and tore it from him, rending it down the middle. He threw it down and glanced at the wicked gash on his arm. When Liza saw the extent of the damage, she felt the blood leave her face. "Oh, Coni, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. I—" "Stop apologizing to me!" he bellowed, raising his hand as if to strike her. "You will sew it!" "Milord, let me," Gezelle offered. "She did it—she'll fix it!" Liza saw her defeat written in his face. She stood, cautious of him, and moved nervously behind the chair. "S…sit down." He swept his unwounded arm over the sewing table, scattering the contents. When he sat in the chair, he slammed down his wounded arm, smearing blood on the tabletop. "G…get me the s…sewing kit, 'Zelle," Liza whispered, staring at the blood running freely down his arm. "Clean it first," he ordered. Gezelle handed her a soft square of muslin. Liza's hands trembled as she tried to gently wipe away the blood. "You can't hurt me anymore than you already have," he spat. "Just clean it!" She wiped away what hadn't congealed. When the dried blood wouldn't budge, she looked at Gezelle. "Would you get me—"

"If you need something, you get it!" he snapped. Liza hurried from the room and fled to the kitchen. Servants stood still, looking at her with shocked, worried faces. Sadie took a step toward her, but Liza put up a hand. "Not now, Sadie! Please!" She snatched up a pitcher of water, grabbed a bottle of astringent from the cupboard where medicines were kept in case of kitchen accidents, and rushed back to the sewing room. Gezelle was standing quietly. There were several strips of muslin laid out on the table. Liza was frankly amazed Conar would have allowed the girl to do even that much. She tried to smile her thanks, but his words froze her lips. "I tore the linen, lady." Liza blanched, but managed to nod. "Thank you." "My pleasure," he snarled. Wetting a wad of muslin, she wiped away the blood, patted the seepage. When she was fairly sure most of the bleeding had stopped, she uncorked the bottle of astringent and saturated a pad of muslin. Conar stared at her, his mouth pursed into a thin, angry line. His jaw clenched to keep from making a sound. Liza could well imagine that the strong astringent felt like liquid fire as she wiped it over the cut. After threading a needle, she laid it on the saturated muslin and poured more astringent over it. Lifting it in shaking fingers, she tentatively brought it to his wound, but stopped, unable to pierce him. "Do it," he commanded. Her chin lifted. She took hold of his arm, pulled a deep breath, and stuck the needle through one side of the thin cut, wincing as she did. Her knees felt like they would buckle, but she eased the needle through the opposite side of the cut and pulled gently to close it. She tried not to falter as she expertly looped the thread under a knot and tugged it tight to secure it. Although the procedure took nearly fifteen minutes, Conar never blinked, never looked away from her, never flinched as the needle pierced his flesh. When she finished, she used a wet cloth to wipe away the remaining blood, applied more astringent, then cut the loose thread with a pair of embroidery scissors. "Wrap it!" He handed her a long strip of linen bandage that seemed to materialize out of thin air. She carefully wrapped it around his arm, then tied it securely, just above the elbow. When her hands came nervously away from him, she steeled herself to look into his furious face. He stared for a long time, no emotion showing. Finally, he stood, tugged at the bandage, then stooped to pick up his ruined shirt. He walked to the door, stopped, and peered over his shoulder. "Thank you," he said hatefully and stalked from the room, never looking back at the two women. Liza dropped into the chair. Her arms wrapped tightly around her sides, she bent forward, tears coursing down her face. "I hurt him, Gezelle! I didn't mean to." Gezelle soothed her, stroking her hair. "Hush. You didn't do it a' purpose." "I've hurt him again! Dear Alel, I've hurt the man again!"

Chapter 14

"Aren't you looking pretty today!" Sadie said, ushering Amber-lea into the warmth of the kitchen. "A ray of sunshine, you are, dearie!" Amber-lea blushed, ducked her head under the affectionate regard of the old cook. "Thank you, Missus MacCorkingdale." Sadie patted Amber-lea's arm. "You can call me Sadie, you know." She put her hand on the girl's lustrous reddish-gold hair. "Such a pretty color, Amber." She peered into Amber-lea's face. "Such a pretty girl!" "I keep telling her that, but she doesn't believe me." Sadie stiffened, turning to look at the speaker. Her face hardened. "You tell that to every skirt you meet so you can get yourselfup that skirt. No wonder the gals don't believe you." Conar sighed. One of these days, he thought with a pang of regret, he was going to have to take the old woman to task for her scathing disrespect. It seemed she had gotten worse while he was away. What he had once passed off as insulting playfulness was fast becoming sheer hatefulness and unrelenting spite. Sadie looked away from him. "You are one of the prettiest little girls in the kingdom." She cocked her head in Conar's direction. "And far too good for the likes of him." "That's enough, Sadie," he warned, frowning. "Just telling it like it is," the old woman snorted. She lifted one shoulder in disdain. "Can't help it if you get insulted by the truth." He took a deep breath. "Have you eaten?" he asked Amber-lea, not really in the mood to joust with Sadie so early in the morning. The girl shook her head. "Can you get us something, Sadie?" "I could," she mumbled. "Or you could dish it out yourself." Conar thought he actually saw dislike in her fading eyes. Wondering what it was he could have done to warrant her ill regard, he looked away. "I'll get it," Amber-lea said, as sensing the undercurrent between Conar and the cook. "Is that oatmeal I smell? I have always loved oatmeal." Sadie sniffed. "His nubs don't like gruel. Used to smear it on my floor when he'd be in one of his moods." She cocked her head toward the stove. "There's bacon and eggs there. Help yourself, dearie." "Are you going somewhere today, Milord?" Amber-lea asked, ladling scrambled eggs and bacon onto a platter. Conar shrugged. "I thought you might like to ride with me to Corinth." Amber-lea stopped in the middle of putting a biscuit on a plate. "On horseback?" "I don't have any ostriches available right now," he teased. "It'll have to be horses, I'm afraid." "I don't have anything to wear for riding." She put the food on the table. Sadie sat at another table, setting a bowl of potatoes in her lap. "Her Grace has clothes she ain't never worn. Reckon she's got some she never will." Conar smiled. "Of course! Liza has riding breeches and skirts that have probably never even been out of her armoire! We'll get—" Amber-lea gasped, holding up her hands to ward off his suggestion. "I couldn't take Her Grace's things!" "He paid for 'em," Sadie interjected, her face beaming with spite. "Some of them things are over eight years old." "That's right, I did," Conar said. "Liza will never miss them." "Milord, no!" Amber-lea protested. "It isn't right."

"Let the boy give you a gift or two, Ambie," Sadie commented dryly. She fixed Conar with a curious stare. "He ought to get some enjoyment from what his money bought and paid for." Yes, there was something evil in the old woman's look, something malicious Conar truly couldn't understand. It seemed she was deliberately baiting him about the clothes. Her next words made it all too plain that she found the situation amusing. "They'll just go to waste up there in that big old chest. Her Grace don't want to be reminded about most of that stuff he bought her. She don't need no reminders of what used to be. Ain't that right, Your Grace?" Hurt, Conar looked away. "Aye, I suppose so." "Then go up and get the little gal something to wear." Sadie stood, a twist of pain momentarily touching her wrinkled face as her arthritic bones protested. She put a hand to her back, stretched, and walked to the sink. "Ain't no use letting good clothes go to waste 'cause of pride." She chuckled. "Besides, the King done bought her a lot of pretty things to wear." Unable to bear one more moment of Sadie's digs, Conar took Amber-lea's hand. "Come on." "Milord—" "Not another word," he told her, drawing her behind him. "I want you to go riding with me and that's what we're going to do." "But Her Grace—" "If I want you to have the clothes, Ambie, then you'll have them!" His fingers tightened around hers. "I think she owes me that much." Amber-lea stumbled along in his wake. She had to practically run up the steps to the bedchambers as his long-legged stride never broke. At the top of the stairs, Conar headed for the Queen's suite of rooms. Not bothering to knock, he wrenched open the door and pulled Amber-lea into the room, kicking the door shut behind them. Amber-lea gaped, obviously missing nothing of the surrounding elegance, the color scheme that blended delicate shades of pale green and beige with a darker blush of rose. The bed coverings were an intricate design of green and rose bordered in beige lace. Thick folds of lace hung at the windows, skirted the bed and draped its tall four posts. The two facing settees to either side of the beige marble fireplace were covered in rose and beige stripes, adorned with pale green pillows. The complex pattern on the rug blended the three colors along with faint swirls of lavender and creamy pink. The furniture was mellow oak; the lamps, crystal and brass. The entire room was airy, feminine, and the most beautiful room in the keep. "It's so lovely," she whispered, her fingers trailing over the marble top of a low table. "She's got taste, if nothing else," Conar quipped. "Most of this stuff she sewed herself before our…" He paused. "She made it before she came to live at Boreas. She picked out the fabric for the furniture…spent hours decorating this place." "A lot of love went into it." "I…suppose…" "Milord? Is something wrong?" Conar mentally shook himself of the sudden memories. "It's just that I haven't been in this room in…" "Let's go, Milord. This wasn't a good idea." He let out a long breath. "We came here for a reason." He headed for the tall, ornate armoire and shuffled through it. Amber-lea sighed. "Milord, please. It takes hours to iron—" "This!" he barked, triumphant. "How about this?"

The velveteen habit he held before her was of a dark emerald green trimmed in a paler green. The long sleeves were cuffed in ivory lace. Tiny pearls buttons ran down the jacket and adorned the pockets. "Here," he said, walking to her. "Try it on." "I don't—" "Come on, Ambie!" he said, annoyance rife in his voice. "Put the damned thing on!" She took the habit and smiled, outwardly marveling at the soft velveteen. "Where can I—?" He rolled his eyes. "Am I supposed to turn my back? It's not as though I've never seen you naked before, mam'selle." Amber-lea blushed to the roots of her fiery red hair. She hugged the habit to her and looked up at him through the fringe of reddish-gold lashes. "All right!" he said, pointing to an inlaid screen. "Get behind that, then." While waiting, he lounged on a damask settee, stretched out his legs, and let his attention wander about the room. Whenever his gaze fell upon a particular object, a memory would taunt him. Tearing his gaze away did little to stop the flood of memories. Even the lingering aroma of lavender invaded his peace of mind. Trying to concentrate on Amber-lea's little sighs of exasperation as she changed did nothing but forcibly bring back other times when he had sat here, waiting for Liza to dress. Something sparkled on Liza's dressing table, where a radiant beam of sunlight filtered through a window. Curious, he got up and strolled to the table. What he saw made him hurry back to the settee. He plopped down with enough force to break a spring in the delicate seat. "Hell!" he hissed, drawing in his legs and sitting up, thrusting his fingers through his hair. "Why did she keep that damned thing?" Again, his vision leapt to the dressing table. A shaft of memory scalded him. He remembered buying the golden locket for her so long ago. Meant as a peace offering, he had brought it all the way from Ciona to Seadrift Keep, then home to Boreas. When at last he'd draped the pretty heart-shaped locket around her neck, on a hillside overlooking Jasmine Cay the day before they set sail for Boreas, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him… "Stop it, Conar!" he snarled. His senses were being bombarded by sights and sounds and smells. Even the feel of the settee's damask had memories, because once he had made love to her on this very spot… "Just stop it!" Getting up, he began to pace. His eyes jerked to the bed where many an afternoon had been spent. He knew the feel of that mattress, knew the peculiar way the bedsprings squeaked when he reached the height of passion. "Shit!" "Milord?" Amber-lea called. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," he mumbled, tearing his gaze from the bed. He walked to the window and looked at the garden. When his hands shook on the thick lace, he buried them in the pockets of his cords. "Could you unhook this last button, please?" Amber-lea asked. He started. "What?" "This last button? I can't seem to reach it." He turned and saw her poking her head from behind the screen. Relieved at having something to take his mind from the torture running roughshod over it, he stalked to the screen. Seeing Amber-lea standing there, the smooth expanse of her creamy back open to his view, the high curving rise of her rump pushing against the gown's fabric, made his mouth water. "Milord?" She craned her head. When she obviously viewed a look on his face she had grown to know intimately well, she shook her head. "Not here, Milord."

"No better place." *** Liza stood with her hand on the door knob. She didn't make a sound, didn't move, didn't blink. She took in the scene unfolding before her as though she were a detached part of the room's scenery. Her breath was even, her heartbeat slow and just as steady. She wasn't sweating; she wasn't cold or hot or feeling faint. What she was feeling was immense, soul-shattering fury. "Are you finished, Conar?" Amber-lea gasped, looking over Conar's shoulder at the Queen standing in the doorway. A whimper of fear escaped her throat. Conar, who had stilled at the soft mention of his name, craned his neck to peer behind him. "You should have knocked." Regardless of his stupid comment, Liza kept her face calm, her words soft and civilized. "I would appreciate it if you vacate these quarters as soon as possible." She raised her chin. "I will give you ample time to do so." Conar pushed away from Amber-lea and covered her with the sheet. He shifted on the bed. As Liza's gaze clawed over his nakedness, he dragged up the coverlet to hide himself. "Are you going to watch?" Liza's mouth tightened. "I would consider it an immense favor if you hurry." She stepped back and gently closed the door behind her. *** For a moment Conar didn't move, just stared at the door like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He felt Amber-lea trembling beneath him and slid off the bed. "It's all right," he said. "Just get dressed." Her body one immense blush, Amber-lea rolled from the mattress, dragging the sheet with her, and hurried to the screen where her clothes draped the mother-of-pearl panels. It was hard to dress with one eye cocked to the door that separated Conar from the irate woman he knew waited on the other side. He heard her pacing, her heels clicking on the parquet. The healing wound on his left arm throbbed and he absently rubbed at it. Amber-lea came from behind the screen, the neatly folded sheet in her arms. Not looking at him, she put the sheet at the foot of the bed and waited for him to tuck his shirt into his breeches. "Ah, you ready?" he asked, casting a nervous glance at the door. Obviously mortified, she nodded. Her hands were tightly clutched together, the fingers threaded. "She won't dare say anything to you," he said, a fervent prayer on his lips that it would be so. He took her arm, pulled her gently to the door. "At least, she'd better not." When he opened the door, Liza stopped pacing. Conar tried to gauge her anger. No emotion showed on her lovely face. He might well have been one of the cleaning boys, for all she appeared to care. But there was a pinpoint fire blazing in the green depths of her eyes that he knew, from close contact with the lady, would soon burst into a roaring conflagration. "I…" he started to say. She cocked her head to one side. "Yes?" He swallowed, feeling both foolish and terribly guilty. "Nothing at all." When Liza entered her room and shut the door behind her, Conar breathed a sigh of relief. There had been no angry confrontation, no screaming recriminations. He loosened his grip on Amber-lea's arm. When no sound came from the

room, save for the bolt being secured, he gently guided Amber-lea to the stairs. *** Elizabeth A'Lex surveyed her bed. A hiss of anger issued from her lips as she took in the crumpled sheets and sagging coverlet. When she detected a faint odor emanating from the sheets, she spat a filthy epithet. Then, with a howl of animalistic rage, she gathered sheets and coverlet, pillows and blanket, and rushed to the blazing fireplace, stuffing them into the yawning maw. "Damn you, Conar McGregor! Damn your unfaithful soul!" With a heavy iron poker, she shoved every inch of fabric into the fire. The coverlet caught, flared, and soon crinkled into ash. The pillows let out a musky odor as the goose-down burned. The satin sheets and wool blanket took longer to burn, but the constant stabbing of the poker, thrusting them further into the flames, soon reduced them to blackened soot. *** Conar wasn't prepared for Amber-lea's outrage, guilt, and shame after he brought her to his dungeon cell. She flung herself at him, pummeling his chest, crying out her humiliation. "You did it on purpose! You wanted her to find us there!" She pushed away from him, the accusation clear in her pale face. "That's not true." He reached for her, but she put up a hand to stop him. "Why did you do it?" she sobbed. "Did you see the hurt on her face?" He stared at her. "Hurt? For all the care she had of finding us, we might as well have been one of her brood of kittens!" Amber-lea shook her head, tears coursing down her cheeks. "You meant to hurt Her Grace and you did! Why else did you want to go up there?" "To get you some damned clothes! How the hell was I to know the bitch would come in on us?" "It was her room!" Amber-lea shouted. "So what?" He tried to calm her, to make her see reason. What he managed to do was make matters worse. She flung herself to his cot. "It wasn't right!" Amber-lea sobbed, burying her face into his pillow. Her small fists beat the mattress. "You knew it wasn't right! How could you?" "A perfectly reasonable question," said another unexpected voice. Conar's head snapped up. "I want no quarrel with you, Elizabeth," he began, vaguely aware of Amber-lea sitting up on the cot, her face as white as snow. "You conceited jackass! I'm not here to see you." She looked at Amber-lea. "I'd like to speak withyou, mam'selle." "The hell you will!" Conar shouted, putting himself between the women. "I'll not have you insult her. She—" "I'm not here to insult her!" Liza spat. "Youwere the one at fault. Leave me with her so I can try to undo what your mindless rutting has caused!" He glared at her, seeing nothing in her face but contempt. "Get out!" Liza shouted, entering the cell like an avenging angel. She grabbed his arm, yanked as hard as she could, and literally shoved him toward the door. "Get out! Now!" Amber-lea pushed herself off the cot and put herself in front of Conar, as if fearful he would hit the Queen. "Milord, please!" she begged, putting her hands on his chest. "I would like the chance to explain to Her Grace—" "You've nothing to explain to this woman, Ambie! I won't have her berating you—"

"He thinks we're going to fight over him!" Liza scoffed, tilting her chin. "Such arrogance. The only fighting that'll be done today is if he doesn't leave us alone." She took a step closer. "Because then I'll scratch his gods-be-damned eyes out!" Conar reached around Amber-lea, intent on grabbing Liza's arm. Amber-lea pushed him back. "Please, leave!" He looked from Amber-lea's angry face to Liza's furious face—what he saw on both made him a little bit crazy. "The demons take you, then!" He roughly pushed past Liza and stomped down the damp corridor. *** Silence reigned until Conar's reverberating footsteps died away and the distant banging of the iron door marked his exit. At last, the women looked at one another. Liza sighed. "If nothing else can be said about him, it will go down in history books that he had a nasty temper." Amber-lea nodded. "I'm afraid so." Liza looked about her. Shirts hung precariously to anything that had speared them in their flight from their owner's body. Breeches lay inside out. Socks were stuffed into the pigeonholes of a desk. Liza shook her head at the mess. "I thought he had changed, but I see his personal habits are just as bad as they ever were." Amber-lea's lips twitched into a shy smile. Spying the chamber pot peeking from beneath the bed, Liza wrinkled her nose. "Does he still miss so big a hole as that?" A nervous giggle broke Amber-lea's shyness. She shrugged her dainty shoulders. "What can I say, Your Grace? The man's aim is not quite as good as he thinks." *** From his sleeping room several doors down the corridor, Bent heard childish giggling coming from Conar's cell. He breathed a sigh of relief. Things were going to be all right after all.

Chapter 15 "You're late," Liza admonished Brelan as he joined them at table. She smiled at his woebegone expression and damp hair. "And you're wet." "I had to go out to help look for him," he said, knowing she knew who he meant. He looked at Legion. "He's disappeared again." Cayn gasped. "He's out in this rain?" He looked behind him where lightning flared at the windows. The late November wind howled at the panes. "He has the manners of a wood louse," Legion quipped, his face hard and set. "He'd much prefer drowning in that godawful gale than to keep company with those in the palace." Brelan glanced at Liza. They both knew it wasn't the entire keep's inhabitants who Conar wanted to avoid. "He does what he pleases."

"He always has," Liza mumbled, flinching as a burst of thunder shook the chandelier. "It's just as well he doesn't take meals with us." Legion grumbled. "His self-absorption gets old after a while." Cayn cleared his throat, gaining Brelan's attention. Turning, Saur glanced at the door and saw Bent Armitage hovering under the archway. He cocked his head and the big man lumbered forward at a clumsy gait. Brelan thought, had the floor not been marble, the man's purposeful steps would have shaken the room's foundations. Brelan sighed. "What's he done now?" "We haven't found him, yet," Bent said. He nodded a good eve to the others at the table. Brelan laid down his knife and fork. "You've tried all the taverns, inns, and brothels?" He cast an apologetic look Liza's way. "He just can't be found," Bent answered. "Meggie Ruck's?" Liza asked. Bent nodded. "That was the first place we went, but they haven't seen him all night." "Didn't anyone follow him when he left the keep?" Legion snapped. "Only those idjits from the Outer Kingdom," Bent replied, his lip raised in scorn. "You saw them?" Brelan asked, shocked. No one had ever seen those men, only sensed their presence. "Didn't have to see them to know they was there. They always are," Bent said as though everyone should know it. He folded his thick arms over his wide chest. "They'll keep his scrawny arse safe, I'm thinking." Brelan pursed his lips to keep from laughing. He'd never heard Bent speak of Conar in words other than worshipful. It was a good indication of just how mad the big man was. Brelan managed to nod sagely. "Well, go get some food. There's nothing more you can do tonight. Hopefully he has sense enough to get in out of this mess." Bent lifted one thick shoulder and fixed Saur with a narrowed gaze. "I don't too much care if he don't!" He bowed to his Queen and King, nodded at Cayn, and clopped off, his thick rawhide boots squishing. "He leads them all a merry chase, doesn't he?" Liza asked. "Just like he always has," Legion answered. He glanced at her. "I hear the two of you had words." "I tried to talk to him about the girl he has living with him." Brelan looked up from his food. "Amber-lea?" "Does he have another of whom I am unaware?" Blushing, Brelan looked down at his food. "No. What did you talk to him about her for?" "I thought he needed to deal more honorably with the lady, that's all. Do you have something against her, Bre?" "He ought not to be messing with her. She's not his type." "Conar doesn't really have atype, Brelan," Legion said. "Anything with breasts will do." "Did he become angry at you?" Cayn asked, as if sensing an awkward moment. Liza sighed. "I spoke to her a few days ago." "You did?" Brelan's mouth dropped open. "Whatever for?"

"I wanted to get to know her. After all, she is living in the keep, taking her meals here. I wanted her to feel at home." The men stared at one another, looks of disbelief on their faces. Liza's smile did nothing to banish Brelan's worry. Liza looked up, her eyebrows lifting at their wary expressions. She put down her fork. "Well, it's not as though I have reason to dislike the girl. I no longer have a claim on his affections." She touched her husband's hand. "I thought she should know that." "And when Conar found out you'd gone to see her, he took exception." Legion stated. "Not quite." Liza picked up her napkin and wiped her lips. "I told him there had been a lot of talk around the keep. Mostly talk about Ambie's relation to him." "Ambie?" the men inquired in unison. Ignoring their stunned looks, she laid her napkin on the table. "I told him he should make an honest woman of her and marry the girl." "You what?" Brelan gasped. "Well, he's living with the woman, Brelan, and she is carrying his child." Brelan nearly choked. "She's…pregnant?" Liza nodded. "He's not married, nor is she, and I thought it would be better for the child to have both father and mother around to see him grow up." "Him?" "Him." "And just what did he say to this?" Liza blushed, looked at her hands folded in her lap. "He took exception to my reasoning." "How so?" Legion asked, leaning forward. Her chin lifted. "He said he couldn't get married." "Why not?" A pained look crossed Liza's face when she answered. "He said he could not marry because he already had a wife." Legion threw his napkin on the table. "He may think he does!" He glared at Brelan. "I suggest you disabuse him of that notion, Saur." "Why me?" "You're his brother!" "And just what the hell are you?" Brelan pointed a finger at him. "You got something to tell him,you tell him." "Whenever I get within shouting distance of him, that's exactly what we do!" Legion's lip raised in scorn. "He sure as hell won't listen to me." "Neither of you have to say anything to him," Liza said, looking at her husband. "You asked what our words were about, now you know." "You reminded him that you were no longer his wife?" Legion asked. She nodded. "What did he say?" Cayn asked in a quiet voice.

She looked at the sorcerer. "Nothing. He walked out the door, slammed it behind him, and apparently no one has seen him since." *** Conar shivered. He stood in the lady's doorway, water puddling at his feet. He ran a trembling hand under his nose, swiped at the rain clinging to his face. He licked his lips. "They've been looking for you," Meggie accused. He glanced at the doorway leading into the common room. "Are they out there now?" She dusted her hands, folded them over her bosom, and fixed him with an unwavering stare. "What are you up to, lad?" "Nothing." It was a little boy's quick answer. "Nothing, my hinnie! This is the second time you've muddied up my kitchen floor." She looked at the wet boots and soaked cuffs of his cords. "I suppose you're going to tell me you were just out taking a constitutional." A violent tremor shook his tall frame. "I wasn't feeling well." "Well, I suppose not! It's colder than a mule's hoof out there and wetter than a pig's snout, and here you are traipsing about in it. Serve you right if you caught a vicious cold, it would!" "I had nowhere else to go, Meggie," he said, sniffing. He shifted on his wet feet. "I really don't feel well. I think I'm sick." Meggie's brows drew together and she uncrossed her arms. "What's ailing you?" She put her hand on his forehead. "Sakes alive, boy! You're burning up with the fever!" "I know." "Harry!" she bellowed, taking Conar's arm. "The floor—" "Can be mopped!" she snapped, drawing him to the fireplace. "Harry Ruck!" She removed his great cape and pushed him into a chair, frowning as he leaned forward, his head in his hands. "Harry!" "What the devil's wrong with you, woman?" her husband asked as he pushed open the door. "We've got cust—" He stopped. "Milord?" Hurrying across the room, he bent down before Conar. "Are you all right, sir?" "Of course he ain't all right!" Meggie said, shoving her husband's shoulder. "Are any of his men out there?" "No!" Conar hissed, gripping Meggie's hand. "I don't want them to know where I am." "Wasn't going to get them. Harry, tell Dorrie to make up the attic room. Take up some hot bricks to warm the bed. Tell that lazy gal to heat some water and to take out that flannel nightshirt of yours and wrap it in a brick, too." "Meggie, I'm—" Conar began. "In no condition to argue." Meggie smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. "I'm gonna start brewing some of my elixir. Harry, as soon as you speak to Dorrie, come back and help him out of them wet clothes. I'll get a robe for him." Harry glanced at Conar. "What if somebody gets suspicious? They've been in at different times looking for him." "Don't tell them I'm here, Harry," Conar pleaded. "Please." "You heard the lad," Meggie hissed. "You don't tell his men nothing!" She watched until her husband was out of the kitchen, then turned to Conar. "How come you're sneaking about, lad?" His head was aching, his nose running, his body beginning to feel as though it were weighted down with hot stones. He leaned back in the chair, shivering. "I was looking for someone and couldn't find him."

"You got men to go out looking for people." Her hands caressed his flushed cheeks. "And I suppose it was all that important you find him on a night like tonight?" "Aye, vitally important," he sighed, a tremor in his hand. "Ma'am?" Meggie turned and nodded at Dorrie, the bondservant, who was the only tap maid in the tavern. "You got everything done?" Dorrie shook her head. "Not the water." "Then get to it! Will you keep this man waiting all eve?" Meggie glared as Dorrie hastened to draw water from the tap, running it into a large kettle to place on the stove. "Is that nightshirt warming?" "I put six bricks in his bed and wrapped the nightshirt up in two others. Squire Ruck lit the fireplace and said to tell you he'd bring down his robe." "Come here and help His Grace out of these clothes. I need to be brewing some broth for him." Meggie sniffed as the girl hurried. "And don't be pestering him with any of them looks of yours, Dorrie." She gripped the girl's shoulder and gave her a hard shake. "And mind where you be putting them bold hands of yours, too!" Dorrie looked into Conar's eyes and smiled. "It's not as like I've never had my hands on him, now is it, Your Grace?" she quipped in a low voice. Conar darted a quick, embarrassed look at Meggie's retreating back. Dorrie winked and bent down to unlace his shirt. "She didn't hear." "The hell she didn't!" Meggie snorted, her back to them. "Just get them clothes off the boy and don't be reminding him of past foolishness on his part!" Conar smiled weakly at Dorrie, and grimaced at her breath when she chuckled. "I always knew you had a hot body, Your Grace," Dorrie quipped, running her hand up his bare chest as she removed his shirt. "But you be burning up right now." He squinted. He didn't remember ever sleeping with Dorrie, but obviously he had, or Meggie wouldn't have known of it. He looked at her cornflower blue eyes and flaxen hair. For some reason, the thought of holding her in his arms bothered him. It wasn't that she was ugly; she was pretty in a coarse, rode-hard-put-up-wet sort of way. But something about her made his flesh crawl, and her touch made him feel unclean. If he had slept with her, he thought with a pang of distaste, he had to have been drunk or stoned, or, more than likely, both. "You're remembering our night together, ain't you, Your Grace?" she asked, her fingers straying to his belt. "I pleasured you real well that night, I did!" Her lashes lowered. "And I'd love to go at it again sometime." Inexplicably ashamed, Conar felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. He was glad when Harry returned, for Dorrie snatched her hands from him. "Let's get them wet pants off," Harry said, moving in front of the girl. "Go make sure His Grace's bed be warm." "I'd like nothing better than to warm his bed." She giggled and leapt back when Harry swatted at her with his big paw. "Get yourself up the stairs, Dorrie!" Meggie called as she dropped some herbs into a boiling pot of broth. "And you'll keep your diseased arse out of His Grace's bed!" She fixed the girl with a level look. "I'll not have a repeat of what you did the last time to my bonny lad!" Dorrie flounced her long wavy yellow curls and swished from the room, casting a parting smile over her shoulder at Conar. "I couldn't have…" Conar murmured as Harry unbuckled his belt and began to unlace his breeches. He looked into Harry's amused face. "I just couldn't have."

Harry chuckled. "Most likely you didn't. Can't see you inviting that little tart to join you in your bed, Milord." He shrugged, glanced at Meggie, and lowered his voice to a mere breath. "But I hear tell she be good with that sassy mouth of hers." Conar's memory came flooding back. He let out a relieved sigh. "It's good to know I haven't been too stupid in my lifetime." "You got him undressed, Harry, or you just gossiping?" Meggie asked. Harry laughed. "Stand up, lad and step outta them breeches." It was a real effort to stand. Conar felt light-headed, achy, but it was the fever that weakened him the most. It had been a long time since the Labyrinthian Fever had come calling, and it was announcing its return visit with bursts of throbbing pain in his temple and a wretched shivering that clicked his teeth together. "Get him up the backstairs and into bed, Harry," Meggie commanded. "I'll be right up with this elixir." "Better the fever than Meg's cure," he hinted as he picked up Conar's breeches from the floor. "It's deadly-tasting." Conar let Harry help him into a warm woolen robe. He was so weak he was glad Harry belted it around him, for he didn't think he would have been able to. "Right now, I'll take anything that'll help me." "Don't be so sure." *** "What the hell was that?" His tongue was on fire, his mouth puckering. "Men are such babies," Meggie scoffed. She handed him a glass of water. "Wash it down, if you must." He gulped the water. Some dribbled down his chin. Meggie clucked as she swiped at the wet with her apron. "Such babies," she repeated. "Lay on down, lad." Conar let her tuck the covers around him, then turned on his side and put his face into the pillow. "I feel like shit," he mumbled into the goose down softness. "You'll live," Meggie assured him, drawing up a rocking chair to sit beside the bed. "It'll get worse." She set the chair to rocking. "This that fever you got at Tyber's Isle?" "Uh, huh. How'd you know?" "Heard tell of how you was one of them that contracted it." Her slippers made little tapping sounds on the rug as her feet touched the floor with each forward rock. "Storm Jale's wife said he got it, too." "Don't leave me," he said, feeling the onset of the bad symptoms. "Had no intention of doing so." The chair squeaked as she rocked. "And don't let them find out where I am." "We'll see," she answered, her look fiercely protective. "You just get on to sleep." "I might cause you and Harry some trouble. They've had to tie me down sometimes when the convulsions set in. If I get too bad, call someone." "Whatever you say." "I don't want to be any trouble." The medicine had began to lull him. "Go to sleep, now, Sweeting."

"Don't call them unless you have to," he whispered, falling into a thickly-wrapped peacefulness. "Meg?" She sighed. "Aye, lad?" "I love you." "I love you, too, lad."

Chapter 16 Brelan knocked at Legion's door, waited for his brother to bid him enter, then went in. "We found him." "Where?" "At the Ruck's." Brelan sat in the chair beside his brother's desk. "Sleeping off a drunk, I guess." Legion smirked. "Well, at least you don't have to worry. That's something he's done enough times in his life to have it down pat." "I guess so." Legion looked up from the papers he was reviewing. "You're worried about him, aren't you?" "Aren't you?" Brelan searched Legion's eyes. "I heard this morning that he's planning a raid on another temple near the Diabolusian border. He's been drunk all week. Do you think he's fit to lead such a raid?" Pushing away the papers, Legion leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and studied Saur. "Do you think you can stop him even if he isn't?" "It's more than the liquor. If what Marsh suspects is true, if he is taking some drug, then he's out of control. Maybe we should try talking to him." "Talking to Conar is like talking to a mule. He might hear you, but he sure as hell isn't listening." Legion shook his head. "Let him go. He's a grown man. If he screws up, there won't be anyone to blame but himself." "And what about the men who'll be going with him into battle? Do we throw their lives away because we can't make our brother see reason?" "You have this notion that youcan reason with him! That hasn't been my observation of late. He sure won't listen to anything I have to say." Brelan stood, raking his fingers through his thick mass of curls. "Would it hurt to try?" "I don't suppose so. But just don't expect him to listen." *** Meggie wiped the sweat from Conar's face. He had come to for only a moment, no longer, but his eyes had focused on her for the first time in two days. "I'm with you, lad," she'd whispered. "Water…" His pupils were dilated. Sweat trickled over his hot flesh. He turned his matted hair into the pillow. "Not too much, now." She lifted his head and let the chilled water dribble past his parched lips. She eased his head to

the pillow and smoothed away an oily lock of hair from his flushed face. "How are you feeling, son?" "Like hell," he answered, turning his face into her palm. Meggie smiled. He hadn't spoken in more than two days. His voice was hoarse, raw-sounding, the effort obviously draining. But at least he was coherent, something he had not been for forty-eight hours. "Do you think you could take some broth?" "I'll try." Meggie stood and looked at Dorrie. "Stay with him until I get back." "Aye, Madame." Dorrie moved toward the bed. "And keep your paws off him!" Meggie snapped. *** Dorrie waited until the old woman left the bedchamber before looking down at her charge. "Can I get you something, Milord?" "Aye," Conar whispered, trying to stay awake. He beckoned her closer, annoyed when she grinned knowingly with satisfaction. As she bent over him, her foul breath fanning his face, he had to look away. "What is it I can do for you?" she purred, her fingers stroking his arm. He looked to the door, then in a rush, his strength waning, grabbed her arm. "Listen to me! Find Sern Jamar, the nomad. Tell him…tell him I'm ill and I need my medication." He watched her eyes, dumb as they were in her pretty face, trying to gauge her understanding. "Do you hear me? Find the nomad and tell him I need him to give you something for me." His voice became gruffer by the moment, his head throbbing, his body so limp he could barely move. "Don't let anyone see you with him and don't tell anyone I sent you to him. Do you hear?" She frowned. "I don't understand—" "Damn it, you don't need to understand!" he hissed, the effort taking more out of him than he would have thought. "Just do what I tell you. I'll see you get paid." Dorrie smiled. "There's only one kind of payment I want, Milord." She eased her hand down his arm, briefly touched his fingers, then slid her hand to the V of his legs. "I just want to taste you again." Conar nodded, swallowing hard, feeling his raw throat burning. "Anything. Just get the medicine." When she made to straighten, he yanked her arm, brought her closer, his voice a whisper. "Don't let anyone on to what you're doing." "Aye, Milord," she whispered back. "I'll do your bidding like you want. But I dare not go 'til the old bitch comes back." "Aye, you can. Just go!" "No, Milord. She'd take a switch to my arse, she would." Unaccustomed to having his orders thwarted, Conar knew an irrational anger that drove deeper than mere human fury. It pierced him with more frustration than the most seething rage. He tried to push himself up, couldn't, and fell back with a vile curse. "Damn it, woman! Do as you're told!" Dorrie held her ground, as if fearing Meggie Ruck more than she feared him. She shook her head with finality. "Can't." He shook, emotions running amok within him. His teeth clenched against the scream that threatened to burst. The moment he awakened, he had felt the itching along his chest, under his arms, and recognized the withdrawal symptoms that reminded him it had been days since he'd last taken Sern's elixir. He gathered the sheet in both hands, jerking on the material. "If you don't do what I say—" The door opened. With pursed lips, Meggie took in the scene. Her suspicious gaze fell to Dorrie, who smiled sweetly. "What have you done?"

"Get her out of here!" Conar growled. "Go!" Meggie literally shoved the girl through the door. Shutting it with force, she hastened to the bed. "What did that slut do to you, lad?" He trembled, the need for Sern's drug so great he wanted to die. "Oh, god, Meggie!" he breathed, his teeth chattering as he scrunched down. "Lad, what is it?" she asked, scanning his face. "Is it starting up again, then?" She sat by him. He laid his head in her lap, put his arms around her, and held her fiercely to him. "Help me, Meggie…" She cooed as she rocked him in her arms. "It'll pass, son." "Stay with me, Meggie." He was ashamed of his weakness, afraid he might be sinking into madness, into the paranoid, hopeless mental degeneration the drugs could cause, but needing them just to take a breath. *** Meggie sensed the inexpressible sadness in this man, a grief so out of control, so overpowering, that it made him seem just a little mad, a touch unbalanced. "I'm here for as long as you need me, son." The tortured light in his eyes dimmed, turning the sapphire orbs almost obsidian. "Promise?" he asked, sounding like a boy needing reassurance. "Aye, I promise, Coni." A twitch of a smile touched his lips. He closed his eyelids, shutting off the power those eyes contained. His arms tightened around her waist and he buried his face in the folds of her ample belly. "You just go back to sleep, lad. Your Meggie will be right here." "Mama." "What?" "You're my mama," he whispered. Meggie's breath caught in her throat; a lump came from nowhere to choke her. She felt a great desire to cry. She looked at him, at the long lashes fanning across his fevered cheeks, and experienced a protective urge greater than any she had ever felt toward her biological offspring. Her arms tightened around him. "Aye, lad, I reckon I am." *** Meggie had gone to use the chamber pot in the room next door when Dorrie managed to sneak back into Conar's room. Quietly padding to his bedside, she gently covered his lips with her fingers, shushing him when his eyes flew wide. "I have your medicine, Your Grace." She put the packet of drugs in his hand. "The nomad said to be careful with it." "You'd better go," he told her, relieved when she faded from the room as quietly as she had entered. With relief, he closed his fingers around the oilskin packet. *** "You think you're up to going home, do you?" Meggie inquired, watching Conar tucking his shirt into the waistband of his black cords. He cast her a quick smile. "The fever's gone." He shrugged into the leather jacket Harry had brought, a jacket he had left at the inn several months earlier. It felt looser than normal. Meggie gave him an irritated frown. Her lips tightened.

"Out with it." "What are you going to be doing about your lady?" "Amber-lea?" he asked, lifting one brow. "Why does everybody want to know my intentions toward her?" Meggie shook her head. "Wasn't talking about that one and you damned well know it!" An instant hardness spread over his features. "We've been through this before—" "And we'll go through it again!" "Elizabeth A'Lex is no longer my concern." "The hell, you say! She is and always will be!" "She doesn't see it that way." With an annoyed hand, Meggie fanned the air in front of her. "If you believe that, you're a fool. She might be wed to your brother, but it'syou she still loves." "Aye, she loves me! I know that! But there's not much I can do about it!" Meggie could see his pain. She sensed the gentle boy hidden just beneath the man's hard exterior, saw the loneliness that appeared as coldness and callousness, felt the caring that was being stamped down behind a facade of nonchalance. Looking at him in the glow of the early morning firelight, she knew his was a burden of sadness, weighing heavier on shoulders already bowed beneath tragedy and fate. "Lad, can't you reason with your brother? Can't you make him see he's not only hurting you by keeping the lady, but her, as well? The two of you need to be together." *** Meggie's words seeped into Conar's brain and echoed like the buttons on a rattler. He felt more alone than ever. "He'll never give her up, Meggie," he said, his voice rife with hopelessness. "I wouldn't." "Can't you use your power to make him?" He flinched, taken aback. He could, he thought—aye, he could. With just a little effort, he could take Liza from Legion. But he knew he wouldn't. "Meg. I didn't ask for the powers I was given. I didn't want them. They scared the hell out of me when I was young and I'd try to push them as far down inside me as they'd go. I was afraid I couldn't handle them, or I'd misuse them. I was scared to death I'd get angry like my ancestor, Syn-Jern, and use that power to hurt people. I didn't know if I could control it, and I didn't want the responsibility of trying." He thrust his fingers through his hair. "Now, that I can control it, I'm damned careful how I use it. If Legion made me mad enough, I might harm him. To take Liza back by magic wouldn't prove anything except that I could do it. She's got to want to come back to me on her own." "And you don't think she will?" "I don't think she ever will."

Chapter 17

"You have failed, Rasheed! One must pay for their failures." In the tent, trembling uncontrollably, the kneeling man with his hands tied behind his back felt sweat running down his face. His voice was a strained whimper of regret as he answered his employer. "I have tried, Master. He is watched closely. The men from the Outer Kingdom. They—" "Ah, yes. The Shadow-warriors. They are, indeed, an obstacle, but they can be killed just as you can." Rasheed Falkar winced. He shrank back from the uncaring, unfeeling look his Master aimed his way. When heard a sound behind him, he turned his head, his eyes going wide with fright. "Rasheed does not understand how important this is to me, Prince Guil," the new arrival said. "Perhaps you should explain it to him." "Please," Rasheed begged, looking from the speaker to his Master. "If you would give me but one more chance, Highness, I will bring Conar McGregor's head to you on a platter!" Prince Guil Ben-Shanar Gehdrin shrugged. "You haven't up until now. Why should we trust you further?" "Master," Rasheed stated, trying to sound reasonable, although his heart thudded painfully in his ribcage, threatening to burst. "He will make a slip. The man is only human." "There are those who don't think so," the other man remarked. "I, for one." "I am inclined to believe that, as well," Prince Guil said. "Our serpent did not kill him. Even the Domination's wrath did not kill him." "He is protected," Rasheed told them. "It is hard to get near him." "What of your tribesman?" the second man spoke, coming to stand beside Prince Guil. "Have you spoken to him?" Rasheed vehemently shook his head. "He would not help. He is one of McGregor's men and feels great guilt about—" Prince Guil cocked a thick black brow, cutting off Rasheed's words. "But you won't know until you ask him, now, would you?" "He let Akbar into the keep that one time—" The second man laughed malevolently. "The fool who wound up stuck on a pole outside Boreas Keep's gates? If he is an example of the men in your employ, Rasheed, you are as good as in your grave!" "Have your kinsman aid you," Prince Guil ordered. "If he can hide a serpent in McGregor's garden, sneak a man into the bastion of that bastard's domain, he can help you get close enough to McGregor to kill him." Rasheed knew better. His kinsman suffered the agonies of the damned over something he had helped do long ago, and now would die before letting McGregor do so. But Rasheed understood his own situation, and arguing with Prince Guil was tantamount to losing his head. "I will try, Highness." Glancing at the other man, he ducked his head. "I will try to gain for you what is rightly yours, Prince—" "Do more than try, Rasheed," the man demanded. "My patience is wearing thin." *** Rasheed Falkar laid on his bedroll and stared at the brilliant stars overhead. His hand throbbed, hurt so badly he could not stay the whimpers. Blood oozed from the pulpy bandage wrapped around his left hand as he cradled it to his chest. He tried to concentrate on the stars, naming the constellations, counting the flickering blue-white dots in the heavens, but the pain was too great and he soon gave up. He turned onto his side and drew his knees up to his chest. He hated Conar McGregor with a fury to equal the hotness of the stars he had been studying. He hated the man more than any other living being he had ever known. His hatred was boundless, irrevocable, and beyond the reach of humanity. It stretched from the road to Rommitrich Point in Serenia all the way to the sands of Basaraba, the capitol of the Southern Sector of Rysalia province.

"I will avenge you, my brother," he vowed, his mind touching briefly on the face of his beloved older sibling, Mohammed. "I will make McGregor rue the day he caused your death." He pictured his enemy—the golden hair, the once-handsome face now engraved with the reminder of another enemy's vengeance. He thought of the tiny piece of Conar McGregor he had once held in his hands, which had been delivered to him by his kinsman at Boreas Keep. "I should not be doing this," his kinsman had said, looking with sorrow at the infant. "This babe is innocent." Rasheed remembered taking the girl-child from his kinsman, assuring the man no harm would befall her. "Prince Guil only wants to hold the babe as ransom for the righting of the great wrong done to his old friend." His kinsman stroked the little girl's sleeping face, then turned to go. "Take her while I will still let you." And Rasheed had, riding out of Boreas with the babe tucked firmly under his arm. He had not stopped until he reached the stable of the tavern where Prince Guil's friend waited. "This is McGregor's daughter?" the man asked, reaching for the bundle. "Yes, Your Grace. Her name is Nadia." Rasheed started to dismount, but Prince Guil's friend held up his hand. "Ride on. The dhau waits for you at the seaport of Ciona." Rasheed looked with worry at the man, not liking the expression on his face. "I promised my kinsman no harm would come to the child." A pair of hell-spawned black eyes locked with Rasheed's. The man holding Conar McGregor's child smiled. It was the most evil smile Rasheed could ever remember seeing on a human countenance. "Ride on, Rasheed Falkar," the man ordered, his face hard. "You have done your job." Now, lying under the stars of his homeland, Rasheed could still hear the strangled cry that had come to him that day as he started away from the Hound and Stag Tavern. He shuddered, remembered seeing the dagger dripping with bright crimson blood, watching the man drop the infant to the ground. Rasheed had known the child was dead, its throat slashed by the friend of Prince Guil. He had looked into the man's face, seen the hatred ruling that handsome visage, and kicked his mount into a fast canter away from the tavern and the revenge that had taken place. "I hate you," Rasheed spoke through his clenched teeth. "But your child did not deserve to be slaughtered for what you did." It had been hard to explain to his kinsman that he'd had no part in the girl's murder. "I should kill you!" his kinsman had bellowed, lunging for Falkar. "Think!" Rasheed cried. "Think who is the cause of this! Does not the blood of the child stain its father's hands? If not for the father's sins, would the child have been punished?" Such words, carefully chosen and holding a far greater meaning to Rasheed's kinsman, had stilled the hands wrapped around his throat. But Rasheed still felt his kinsman's curse down to the very depths of his soul. "I will see you in the Abyss for your part in the babe's death!" Turning over to once more stare at the heavens, Rasheed thought about what Prince Guil's friend had told him only that morning, just before the man had bound him, his left hand splayed on a rock. "I don't want you to forget how vengeful I can be!" Rasheed could still see the flash of the dagger as Prince Guil's boyhood friend had drawn the blade from his burnoose, could still feel the fear running through his blood as the dagger settled on his hand, could still feel the unholy pain as the blade sliced downward, severing two of his fingers. His scream of agony had echoed in the still desert air as he watched his fingers roll off the rock and into the sand.

"Fail again, Rasheed Falkar," the man told him, "and it will be your head that rolls from this rock!" No, Rasheed thought. He would not dare fail again to do what Prince Guil's friend demanded. *** Prince Guil glanced up as his old friend joined him at the fire. He smiled. "Can't sleep?" The man shook his head. "I haven't slept easy since that bastard took what was mine." "I understand." "Do you?" came the harsh reply. The Rysalian Prince regarded his friend with a knowing look. "There is something I want, as well, and can't have. Or have you forgotten that?" "No." There was distaste in the word. "Don't judge." He stretched out on his left side and looked as his companion. "I don't judge you." A hot black stare fused with Prince Guil's gaze. "How many men will we lose before this is over and done with?" "As many as are needed," the Rysalian answered. "Are you concerned with peasant lives?" "You know better." "Then don't be concerned about what we have to do to gain your objective, old friend. McGregor will fall. I promise you." He stood, his back to Guil, and stared through the flap of the luxurious tent. "I want to feel his neck in my hands, Guil. I want to gut him and pull his insides out with my own hands." Guil sighed. They'd been through this before. "I know." "I want to torture him, make him beg for mercy I will not give. I want to succeed where the Domination failed!" "Yes, yes," Guil said, yawning. "And Iwill one day, Guil!" "That goes without saying."

Chapter 18 Raphaella sat back from her conjuring pool and stared into the distance. Her hand was on the slight mound at her belly, and she lovingly stroked the swelling. "So many enemies, little one," she crooned to the child growing within her. "Your father has so many enemies." Getting to her feet, the Weaver walked to a chair and sat, tired and achy from her conjuring. She laid back her head and let her random thoughts touch lightly on the father of her child. "I would help you, Conar," she whispered to his image in her mind, "but you would not appreciate it."

She felt the babe within her leap at her touch, and smiled. "Yes, little one. You will be a great warrior one day. Even more powerful than your father and brothers." She sighed, feeling sleepy. When her lids closed, she drifted gently into a light doze, mumbling to herself as she did— "Four sons, all from the same bold loins, Four warriors, each sent to right a wrong. Windswept, Windflawed, Windless, Windborne, All brave and true and strong. From their swords the blood will run."

Chapter 19 Meggie touched his hand. "Maybe she'll change her mind, son." Conar shook his head. "Not likely, since she practically ordered me to wed Amber-lea." The old woman's mouth sagged open. "When was this?" Conar sat on the bed and let out a heavy breath. "A few weeks ago. She told me I should make an honest woman of the girl." He looked at his hands. "Ambie's carrying my babe. She's a wonderful girl, Meg, but she's not Liza. She knows what we have is temporary. I made no promises to her." "I see," Meggie replied, coming to sit beside him. "And did you tell that to Her Grace?" "I tried, but all she kept saying was that I shouldn't be sleeping with Amber-lea if I didn't intend to do right by her." He sighed. "Ido intend to do right by her, I just don't intend to marry her, or anyone else." His face hardened. "Ever." "Because, as you see it, you're already married?" Meggie took his hand and stroked it. "I took my vows seriously. For me, they were never severed, despite what the Tribunal did." A shaft of anger went through him. "To Liza, they were mere words. It wasn't hard for her to say them to two other men." He withdrew his hand and stood. "And it wasn't hard for her to tell me to marry someone else." "Son, for a woman to tell the man she loves to marry another has got to be the hardest thing in the world." "It wasn't for Liza." He picked up his great cape. Putting his hand in the pocket, he felt the reassuring bulk of what was left of the packet of powder Dorrie had brought to him. He looked at Meggie. "Thank you for taking care of me." "My pleasure," she mumbled, standing. "I wish I could have done more." "You took care of me. What more could you have done?" "I wish I could have put your mind at ease, lad." Conar held her look for a moment before putting his hand on the door handle. He smiled sadly and shrugged one broad shoulder. "No one seems to be able to do that, Meg."

Chapter 20 Two weeks passed and Conar avoided the keep, not wanting to run into Liza, nor wanting to see Amber-lea, either. He studiously avoided being around his men, as well, preferring to take his meals at local taverns in back rooms where he could be alone with his food and the elixir he had obtained from Sern. The evenings found him in the arms of the nearest whore, his brain reeling from the drug, his sexual appetite seemingly unappeasable as he took the woman time and time again. When he wasn't in a stupor from the drug, he took long walks along the sea wall before settling down in the grotto instead of his dungeon room. Expressly forbidding Bent to follow him, he nevertheless felt the presence of the Outer Kingdom warriors near him as he stretched out on the cool white sands of the grotto's floor. Late in November, after a night of roaming the beaches and drinking in the gloomy tavern near the men's barracks, Conar huddled into the warmth of his leather jacket and headed for the grotto. The air was heavy, electric with an approaching gale, as he walked by the spiraling stone steps leading up to the sea gate. Above, the sky flashed white, lit the stone wall beside him with an eerie incandescent glow. Blue-white shadows loomed out of the darkness, then retreated, leaving him alone on his solitary venture into the night. As he passed the wrought iron barrier, he spied a flare of light in the garden and stopped, curious, peering up the steps through the darkness. The light appeared to be cast from the reflection of the lightning upon some object. He watched, his eyes narrowing in the ripe wind, and once more the flash came with the lightning. Puzzled, he took the steps upward, careful not to make a sound when his booted feet crunched over the loose sand sprinkling the stone. The bracken and thick matting of twisted bramble spreading along the steps was slick with an earlier rain and sparkled in the constant flash of lightning. As he approached the gate, he saw the wrought iron barrier standing ajar, just enough so a medium-sized man could slip through without disturbing the squealing hinges. More concerned than curious, he slipped silently through the opening and blended into the deeper shadows of the garden, scanning its depths for anything out of the ordinary. "How long we got to wait?" Conar stilled. The hushed, furtive words, spoken from close to the fountain, drew his immediate attention. He crouched with dagger in hand, seeking the speaker and looking for the one to whom the man had spoken. He saw nothing, no movement, so he gingerly made his way among the dying leaves and branches scattered about from the freshening breeze. Hiding in the ground fog, darting from tree to tree, he drew closer to the muffled sounds. With another flash of lightning, he caught sight of a huddled figure, also holding a dagger, crouched behind the fountain. One moment Conar was hidden among the shrubs, keeping the strange man in sight, the next he was only a few feet away, able to hear the man's heavy, nervous breathing. "Somebody's coming!" came a voice further back in the garden. Conar tensed, thinking they had spied him. But the door to the library opened with muted protest. A grunt of dismay nearly pushed from Conar's lips when Liza walked into the garden. Alone—unguarded. "That's her." His breath caught in his throat. His hand clutched the dagger so tight, he could feel the handle's imprint in his scarred palm. He opened his mouth, wanting to warn Liza of the danger. A quarrel sailed through the air. "It's him!" came the nearly hysterical cry. Conar barely had time to jump back. The missile struck the tree beside his head. He rolled, came up to his knees in a crouch, and flung his dagger in the direction from which the deadly quarrel had flown. Satisfied when he heard a strangled cry bubbling lethally from his target, he dove for cover under a hydrangeas shrub, rolled to the other side,

and came up on his knees, peering over the bush. "I'll slit her throat!" the dead man's accomplice spat. He had Liza in front of him, his blade at her exposed throat. "Are you all right?" Conar asked, his heart hammering. "Conar, be careful—" The man holding Liza jerked her closer to his powerful frame, choking off her words. Conar took a step toward them. "Back off!" the man yelled, dragging Liza toward the sea gate. "I'll kill her!" "Take your hands off her or you'll be dead before you hit the ground." "Don't you be threatening me!" The man backed steadily away. "You don't want to risk this bitch getting hurt." Conar skirted the fountain and blocked the man's escape. "Get out of the way!" the man screeched. "You aren't going anywhere, dead man," Conar whispered, taking another step forward. "Conar, no!" Liza pleaded. "You better listen to her!" the man snarled, sidestepping to the left, trying to circle around Conar. Liza twisted in the man's arms, fell to the left, as if hoping to either pull free or distract him enough that Conar would have a chance to attack. She screamed. A line of blood appeared on her throat. Conar's eyes flared, his gaze going to the blood blossoming on Liza's pale yellow shawl. With a fierce roar of hatred, he snatched his other dagger and threw himself forward, flinging himself between the would-be assassin and Liza. "You'll have to go through me to get to her," Conar growled, "and if you value your life, you will realize I will kill any man who tries!" The man, his face drained of color, was sweating profusely. He backed away, as if seeing his termination stamped on Conar's features. He glanced down at Liza and turned whiter still. "Milady," he whimpered, putting out a hand to her. "I didn't mean to hurt you." He turned back to Conar. "I wasn't supposed to hurt her!" Conar's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?" The man whimpered in fear as he tried to make his getaway. Conar leapt at him, brought him down, and straddled him. He flipped the terrified assailant onto his back. Grabbing his hair, he jerked back the man's head and put his dagger to the exposed throat. "Who sent you?" Conar shouted in fury. "They'll kill me!" "I'm going to kill you, anyway!" Conar dug his blade into the tender column of the man's throat. "The Prince! He sent me for the woman!" "What Prince?" "Jaleel Jaborn!" "The Hasdu chieftain?" Conar spat the words as though they created a bad taste in his mouth. The man blubbered, tears running down his face. "Aye, Milord. He's always wanted her." "Why?"

"To have as a mate—" Conar drew his knife across the man's throat with ease, poise, cleanly severing the jugular, allowing no gurgling, no bubbling, no sound. Blood flooded from the man's throat, saturating the damp loam of the garden. After Conar continued to work his blade, the stranger's head came free of his torso. He held it up the head like an obscene trophy. Liza gagged, turning away from the sight. Conar let go of the hair—the head falling, rolling away in the dark—and slowly stood. A hard feral gleam shot across the distance between him and Liza. She looked at his hand. He, too, looked down at the blade. Blood dripped from his fingertips and dagger, plopping silently to the ground. With casual contempt, he stooped and wiped the blood on the dead man's shirt, then resheathed the dagger in the top of his boot. "Come here," he demanded, filled with murderous rage. "I know I shouldn't have been out here alone," she muttered, backing away from him. "I was looking for…" Conar's gaze impaled her with the savagery of his anger. He took a step toward her. His nerve endings tingled with the exhilaration of the kills he had made, of the superiority of the male animal within him having protected his territory and mate from interlopers. He felt adrenaline pumping through him from his brush with death and his ultimate victory over it. The raw power of the drug he had taken two hours before now engulfed his system as it mixed with the adrenaline, bringing about a renewed, invigorated rush throughout his entire body. It took over the logical part of his brain and made the naturally aggressive male animal housed within him come alive when his nostrils detected the scent of an available, quivering female. *** Liza stepped back, putting the fountain between her and Conar. Gone was the facade of humanity, of civilization. Gone, too, was the centuries of genteel breeding. In their place she viewed the consummate barbarian, the conqueror, the victor for whom the spoils was an enticing female body to satiate the lust glowing in his eyes and straining his breeches. "Conar, no," she whispered, seeing the flame of desire burning bright. She backed further away, circling the fountain, until her back was to the sea gate. He stalked her much as a tawny lion would its intended mate—his teeth bared in a low growl of sexual alertness. His erotic strut, hips suggestively thrust forward, head back, was sensual in effect. Hypnotizing. Confident. "If you won't come to me, I'll come get you!" Something in the way his body tensed told Liza he would no longer be denied, meant to make good on their bargain. She was suddenly terrified of this man who had once been her mate. She pulled her shawl tightly around her, as if by doing so she could protect herself from imminent assault. "Not here," she tried to reason, glancing at the flashing heavens. "Not now." Overhead, lightning snapped in the boiling sky, its light playing over the garden as a soft cascade of rain began to fall. Conar's eyes widened in challenge as Liza tried to gain access to the keep. An evil smile formed on his lips when he neatly blocked her path. He looked up as the rain increased, dividing them by a silver curtain of cold. "Conar, let me go in," she pleaded, her gown becoming soaked. She flinched as thunder cracked, then dodged to the opposite side of the fountain, only to have him step in front of her once more. "Let me pass!" His gaze wandered to the opened library door. "Go ahead. Make a run for it." He lunged at her. As a clap of lightning hit along the beach, Liza screamed in terror. She darted behind the willow and dug her bare feet into the loam as she ran. She heard his mocking laughter as she flew toward the sea gate. Her feet slapped against the wet ground, then plopped with splattering water when she hit the flagstone path. She pulled the gate shut behind her, fumbling with the bolt. Conar's fingers closed over hers. She gasped, snatching away her hand, hardly believing he had reached the gate so quickly. Spinning around, nearly falling, she flew down the spiraling stone terrace toward the beach, skipping every other riser in her headlong rush to evade him. The rusty peal of the sea gate opening hastened her steps.

Another stab of thunder shook the night. Rain became a torrent of pelting ice. Lightning zig-zagged across the firmament, lighting the earth in an eerie blue-white glare that made the trees and shrubs seem to jump out at Liza as she fled. Waves pounded the shore as the sea tumbled about in the whipping wind. The air smelled heavily of ozone and damp sand, and the gusts of sea breeze along the crenellated walls of Boreas Keep howled like the piercing cries of the dead. As Liza's feet squelched in the wet muck of beach sand, she hesitated and turned, looking up the steps. In a bright flash of light, she saw him at the top, outlined against the bubbling gray sky. His legs were braced wide apart, his hands on his lean hips. He stared down at her for a long moment. "You can't hide from me, woman!" he yelled. "There is nowhere safe from me!" He slowly began to descend. Liza's breath caught in her throat. She turned her head wildly about, trying to find an escape. At this hour, she knew the drawbridge would be secured, the weather making it a necessity. The guards would be hovering in the guardhouse, drinking warmed ale and playing cards. In the violent sweep of the howling wind, Conar would catch her before they ever heard her cries. Her only chance was to hide among the outcropping of rocks to the north of the keep. She hoped against hope she could elude him until Legion realized she was missing and sent men to find her. Reaching up a hand to push aside her soaking hair, she ran for the rocks. "You can't escape, you know!" he yelled, his voice flinging away in the stiff wind. "I'll catch you sooner or later!" *** Conar took the steps to the beach at a leisurely stroll, keeping Liza in sight as she ran. He knew there was no where for her to hide that he could not find her. His senses, those finely attuned powers he had developed in Chrystallus, now hummed, zeroing in on her. He also knew exactly where she would hide as surely as he knew every inch of his aroused body, so there was no hurry in his purposeful stride. Lightning zinged overhead and he saw her emblazoned on the night, long enough to pinpoint her with his keen vision. He watched her intently as she made for the rocks, smiled when he saw her glance at him and lose her footing in the sand, falling to the ground. A sinister laugh left him as she struggled to get up. An incoming wave thwarted her attempt. The hungry water lapped over her feet, drenching the hem of her nightgown as she struggled to push herself up. His body growing tired of the game and more than ready for satisfaction, he began to hurry. *** Liza groaned as the greedy wave sucked her feet out from under her a second time. She pushed up and fell again, her bodice splattered by the saltwater. Sucking in her breath, she felt the fringe of her shawl pulling away from her as the wave retreated. Her fingers clawed at the knot tied beneath her breasts. The shawl, now soaked with sea water, weighted her down, and she had to be free of its clutches. She snapped her head around. Her heart nearly stopped when she spotted Conar less than four feet away. Whimpering, she picked furiously at the knot, but one of his hands came down on her shoulder. "No!"she cried, her scream lost in a thick boom of thunder. Scrambling away from his outstretched hand like a crab, she felt the shawl leave her shoulders as he grabbed it. She crawled forward until she could push herself erect. She stumbled, landed on her hands, her breath gushing out in a muffled roar. "Got you!" he shouted, his fingers hooking over her collarbone. Liza twisted away and she managed to get to her feet and run. She glanced back to see him throw away the shawl with a violent burst of anger. She imagined she heard his mumbled curse as his eyes pierced her. "Alel, help me!" she prayed as she ran to the rocks. Her frightened eyes swung from outcropping to outcropping, and her heart sank as she realized there was no where she could hide. *** Frustrated at having her so close only to lose her, Conar snarled beneath his breath. A sharp crack of lightning

drowned out his vulgar hiss. But when he saw her disappear among the rocks, he howled with glee, for he knew she'd have to make her way into the grotto to elude him. "Go on," he cooed, watching her skirt the rocks and head for the leafy overhang. "That's right. Go right on in." Conar grinned. He could almost see her fleeing through the darkened dual archways leading inside the mountain. He could almost see her glance at the murky green water as she fled past the pool and make for the rear of the cavern, and ultimately, the hidden door that led into the wine cellar. "That's it," he whispered, imagining her horror and frustration as she found the doorway locked from the other side, realizing she was trapped. Was that a moan of defeat he heard? With the stealth of a jungle cat, he blended into the overgrown bracken beside the grotto's entrance and stepped easily under the first archway. *** Liza stood shivering and tried to swallow pass the lump in her throat. She had jerked on the wine cellar door, but knew it would never budge. Her mouth was dry, her palms wet, her stomach churning. She flicked out her tongue to moisten her trembling lips and began to cry. With a hitch of terrified breath, she lifted her chin and slowly went back to the crevice leading into the grotto. She was only mildly surprised that he was not standing by the pool. Occasionally, the doorway to the outside would flare with light. She still heard the crackles of lightning, the crash of ocean waves. The steady drumming of battering rain became a distant echo through the tunnel. She didn't know what frightened her more—the storm or the man coming for her. Suddenly, she knew. He stood under the archway. His smile turned hard with vengeance. "There's nowhere else to run," he mocked. "Conar, please. This isn't right. You know it isn't right." "Right or wrong, I have you where I've always wanted you, my Queen." "Let me go home, Conar!" "I don't think so." "You…you're frightening me. Please move out of the way." He continued to stare, the dark sapphire in his eyes glowing with an inner fire. She was acutely aware of the silk plastered to her chest, her nipples hard nubs against the cold, wet material. She crossed them protectively over herself. "That's rather like shutting the barn door after the horses have fled," Conar taunted. He leaned against the rock wall and crossed his own arms over his chest. "You leave nothing to my imagination, Madame." Liza shivered from the cold, her knees knocking together. She felt numbness in her toes as cold wind blowing down the tunnel spread up her nightgown. "What…what do you want?" she stuttered, her teeth clicking together. One thick brow lifted in surprise. "What do you think I want?" His gaze settled on her lips. "And my name is Raven." "Not to me. Never to me! You are Conar McGregor, my—" "Call me what you want." He started toward her. "It won't make any difference to tonight's outcome." "You mustn't do this," she pleaded, one hand going out to stay his advance. "You can't!" "Aye, but I can. You, along with everything else in this keep, belong to me." His hands tore at the lacings of his shirt, rending the wet fabric from his chest. He tossed away the torn cambric, then turned his attention to his wide leather belt. His eyes on hers the entire time, he slowly unbuckled the belt, slipped it from his lean waist, then loosed the buttons on his black cords. "Conar, don't," Liza whispered, her knees going weak. A shudder raced through her when his smile stretched taut and he began to advance. There was no escape. Instinct

told her that if she fought him, he would likely hurt her, for there was a wild, glazed look in his lust-filled eyes. She had a horrible thought that he didn't even know who she was, and it made what he was about to do more terrifying because it was so impersonal. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Because you're mine." And she had yet to make good on her bargain, she thought with panic. Even though she wasn't sure he recognized her, she wouldn't fight him. If by giving in to him she could be free of the promise she had made to the Raven, she would have it over and done. There would be no reason for him to seek her out again. So, she stood still, shivering in the cold air. He came to stand directly in front of her and snatched her hand. She didn't resist as he looped the belt around her left wrist and pulled it tight. She tried not to flinch as he took her other wrist and, crossing it over the first, securely bound them together. His face beamed with victory. "I won't fight you," she whispered. "You'd better not." He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to her knees. Gazing at the top of her wet hair when she bent her head in what he knew was shame, he felt satisfied. Kneeling before her, he cupped her chin, raising her head so she would be forced to look into his eyes. Obviously pleased with what he saw in her gaze, he pushed her backward until she lay beside the water. "Don't hurt me, Conar." She tensed when he looped her bound wrists over a thick stalagmite behind her. *** Conar's gaze went to the fabric of her gown where her breasts thrust upward. He straddled her, grasping her bodice. With a savage jerk, he ripped away the material, exposing her lace camisole. The sheer protection tore easily when he snagged his callused fingers in the silk and ripped it from her. Whether it was her soft gasp of humiliated defeat, the erotic sound of tearing fabric, or the sight of her nakedness that inflamed the drug in his system to the boiling point was of no importance. Whatever it was, it released the savage barbarian in him. His mouth went to the flesh of one quivering breast, his teeth and tongue grazing over the puckered nipple. His hand went to the juncture of his thighs, unleashing the weapon waiting with throbbing intent to punish the soft flesh beneath him. He chuckled hatefully. "My very own rod of discipline." He took her with the brutal violation of a beast—tearing at her, pummeling her with sharp, deep thrusts that made her scream in agony. He hardly noticed her terrified, tearful face burning bright with shame. He barely felt her frantic twisting as she strove to dislodge him. All he knew was the powerful itch centered in his manhood that needed to be scratched by the honeyed walls of her flesh. His blood drummed a hard tattoo in his ears. He saw bright bursts of blinding light behind his tightly shut eyes. Straining against the mounting fury in his loins, he felt the tidal wave of release pouring over him, from him, into her. And when his seed surged deep within her now-limp, now-compliant body, he arched back his head and howled his pleasure. *** Through her blaze of agony and shame, Liza heard his exultant cry, recognizing it for what it was. The triumphant yell of a warlord who had captured and conquered his enemy's woman, who had raped and tamed her with his flesh, marked her as his own, and planted within her a reminder of his passing. One part of her was nauseated, but another part of her reveled in the knowledge that Conar McGregor's seed was deep within her again. Her lips trembled, and she knew this child would be something very special.

"Mine, damn you!" he bellowed to the walls. The words bounced from one end of the grotto to the other. "You are mine!" Liza lay still beneath him when another inhuman yell rocketed through the cavern walls. Torn and bleeding, throbbing in a dozen or more spots, she quivered and she stared at the exposed, strong column of his throat where a heavy vein throbbed to the rhythm of his earlier release. His head was thrown back, his long blond hair cascading over his shoulders, and his chest was damp from both rain and sweat. He looked every inch the conquering warlord when he howled his war cry of lust and defiance to the angry heavens. "She is mine, Alel!" he shouted again."Mine!" When his head lowered and his eyes met hers, she screamed once, unable to accept what she saw. The wild glare of his eyes flared with fulfillment. The slit pupils, so like those of a pit viper, glowed red with evil. The red pulsed, turned milky green, then red again, before returning to the dark midnight blue. Slipping past the painful world of his steely impalement, Liza tumbled into the black void of unconsciousness. *** When he saw her faint, Conar laughed, at first only a soft burst of contemptuous victory, then hard as the victory turned to soul-satisfying glee. "Didn't like what you saw in my eyes, bitch?" He unhooked the belt from the stalagmite and unbound her wrists, smirking as he saw her bruised, leather-burned flesh. Adjusting his manhood inside his breeches, he pushed away from her and rebuttoned the breeches with unhurried, ill-concealed contempt. He lashed the belt once more around his lean waist and buckled it. Taking one last look at the twin perfections of her breasts rising and lowering in slow cadence to her sleep, he walked back through the grotto's entrance, whistling as though nothing of significance had happened. His head buzzed with the cotton-encased peace of the drug, his lust sated, his temper calmed, his spirit soothed. He stopped at a hidden niche near the end of the first twist of tunnel and he withdraw a fresh flask of the drug Sern had provided. When his hand closed around the glass, he smiled with relief and left the grotto, never once looking back at the battered body of the woman he hadn't known. Though there had been something vaguely familiar about her, he didn't care. One whore was as good as the next. What mattered was the full flask and the one in his room that held tonight's dreams and peace. Tomorrow, he thought fleetingly, he had to see Liza. They had unfinished business. He would tell her tomorrow that he was leaving. He nodded. She'd be relieved to know she wouldn't have to make good on the bargain she had made. He'd find Amber-lea and take her with him—together, they would raise their child at Ivor. When Conar made his way through the pouring rain back to the garden, he retrieved the black crystal dagger buried in the chest of a would-be assassin. "I have it, Mother!" he whispered, almost as a little boy, to the heaving elements. He gave only a cursory glance to the assassin's companion, whose throat gaped obscenely in the pelting rain and flaring lightning. He shook the wet hair from his eyes and grasped the dagger closer to his chest. Slipping back through the library door, he made his way to his bed where dreams of his father's death filled him with ecstasy.

Chapter 21

It was nearing dawn when Legion woke to find the place beside him empty, the pillow cold, his wife gone. Thinking she must have gone to see about one of their children, he wondered why she had not taken her robe. He frowned. Not only did his gaze scan over the discarded robe, it picked out the pale peach of her nightgown lying on the settee. He threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. He was just pulling on his tunic over his breeches when shouts came from below. Puzzled and worried, he ran barefoot out of the room, encountering Brelan. "What's happened?" he asked, heading downstairs toward the sounds coming from the library. "Don't know," Brelan answered, pushing past a guard. They hurried outside and came up short at the sight of a headless corpse. Eyes in the severed head stared sightlessly up at them from beside the still fountain. Teal was crouching over the body. "Who is that?" Brelan asked. "There's no identification on him." Teal lifted the man's left arm and pushed back the tunic sleeve. There was a tattoo of Raphian, the Destroyer Deity of the Domination, on the underside of the forearm. "There's another corpse by the willow. He's been skewered. I've sent for Conar." A cold finger of fear raced down Legion's spine. He turned, shouting Liza's name. He raced from one room to another, Brelan close behind, calling over and over again, shouting at those he encountered to find her. *** Roget du Mer tried to wake his friend. "Get up! Do you hear me?" He grabbed Conar's silk shirt and yanked him to a sitting position. "What?" came the sleepy, groggy reply. "There's been trouble," Roget shouted, shaking Conar. "Wake up!" Bent pushed Roget to one side and reached for a glass of water beside the bed. Sighing heavily, the giant emptied the glass directly into Conar's face. Sputtering and mouthing obscenities, Conar glared up at them. "What?" "There's been a double killing in the garden. Kaileel's men, I think." Roget threw him a dry shirt as Conar jerked off the wet one. "Who killed them?" Conar asked. "No ones knows." Conar tucked the shirt into the wrinkled breeches in which he had slept and scooped up his boots, indicating with an impatient hand that Roget should lead the way. His head ached. He felt nauseous. His arms and legs were shaky. Still groggy, he couldn't quite focus on the things Roget was telling him as they climbed the stairs to the keep proper. When he saw Legion's anxious face, something cold went through him. He knew before he asked that Liza was missing. "How long has she been gone?" Legion's face was white with worry. "I don't know. There was a storm last night and I remember hearing it. I reached out for her and she wasn't there, so I assumed she hadn't come to bed yet." "And you didn't think to see where she was?" "She goes to check on the children at all times of the night," Legion snapped. "You've had men posted to her, guarding her."

"Aye, but it's your responsibility to see to her!" Conar turned to Brelan. "You've sent men to look for her beyond the keep?" "Not yet, but—" "See to it, Saur!" Conar stooped to get a closer look at the dead men in the garden. He'd never seen either one. "Does anyone know who they are?" "No one will admit to it if they do," Shalu answered. "We found the door open into the kitchens. They must have come in that way." Conar's head throbbed. He felt confused, unable to form questions he had in his mind. He saw his brothers looking to him for help, but he was beyond that at the moment. He was scared to death about Liza, but couldn't seem to formulate what he should do. He sat on the fountain and ran a shaking hand over his hot brow. "The first thing is to find Liza," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Rylan's men can find out who these two men are." The sea gate's rusty hinges squealed loudly in the early morning silence. Sighs of relief poured from the men when they saw Sentian Heil with Elizabeth A'Lex, wrapped in his woolen cape, walking up the pathway. Sentian's arms supported her as though, should he take them away, she would collapse. Conar stood. Blood drained from his face. Taking in the agonizing way Liza walked, the way her eyes passed all the others to find his, a seed of horrifying suspicion took root in his throbbing head. He lowered his gaze to her muddy bare feet, then took in the bruised flesh on her wrists when she grasped the edges of Sentian's cloak. "No," came the hushed denial from his trembling lips. Liza walked directly toward him, as though the others did not exist. She stopped only a foot away. "Why?" Conar drew in a harsh breath. He couldn't answer. All he could do was stare at the painful-looking bruises. The hurt in her face pierced him to the depths of his being, and he lowered his eyes, unable to look at her. He had been unable to protect her and knew she was demanding to know why he had not. Whatever happened to her had been his fault. He should have been there for her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I trusted you." He flinched with guilt, still unable to meet her direct gaze. Legion looked as if he wanted desperately to take his wife in his arms, to scream his rage to the heavens, to resurrect the dead men and slay them himself. "Who did this to you?" Liza ignored him. "I would have held to the bargain, Conar. There was no need to do what you did." Conar again lowered his gaze to her bruised flesh and somehow knew he had caused her the pain. "Oh, god." "Did he do this to you?" Legion asked in a deadly calm voice. "We had a bargain, he and I." "What kind of bargain?" Brelan snapped. Liza's face turned soft. She reached out to touch Conar's hair, but stopped, her fingers trembling. "He saved my life last eve," she said to no one in particular. "Those men were trying to abduct me. If he had not been there, I might be dead by now…" Legion turned to Conar. "You acted like you didn't know anything about these men. Did you kill them?" "I don't know. I might have." Brelan gaped. "You don't know?"

Conar shook his head. Liza lightly gripped Conar's arm. "I am not angry at you, Milord. I deserved your anger—but your hate, I did not." Conar flinched and looked into her tearful green eyes. He could feel Brelan's furious gaze, Legion's puzzled frown, and opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find his voice. "What did he do to you, Elizabeth?" Brelan demanded. "I disobeyed him, Bre." "He is not your guardian!" Legion snapped. "I am! It is not up to him to give you orders. I will know what he did. How did you come by those bruises?" "He punished me," came the tiny whisper, hitching with shame and hurt. Legion's lip curled in a vicious snarl. "Punished you how?" Conar caught the full impact of his eldest brother's scathing stare. He could feel the hate rolling off Legion like waves to the shore. "Legion—" "Punished youhow?" Legion shouted. "Did he cause those bruises? Did hebeat you?" "No, Milord." A vein throbbed noticeably in Legion's temple. "What the hell did he do?" —— Liza jumped at his shout. Sentian's cape parted as her hands covered her ears. Her torn gown hung limply on her partially exposed torso, revealing the unmistakable angry bruises of a man's hands on her shoulders and at the tops of her breasts. Legion's eyes slowly slid from his wife to Conar. A look of pure agony passed over his face. "What have you done?" he whispered, his voice breaking with pain, his face crinkling with betrayal and shock. "What have you done, Conar?" Conar wanted to explain what had happened, how it happened,why it happened, but he honestly didn't remember anything from the night before. He knew how violent and punishing his lovemaking had been to his recent female companions, and now, from the look on Liza's face, it became obvious to him that he had taken her. He had seen the same kind of bruises, made from his belt, on the wrists of other women, and hadn't given them a second thought. Now, the sight tore at his male pride and brought hot shame to his cheeks. If he had done all the things to Liza that he had done to those other women, he had hurt her badly. She had not deserved such treatment. "Did you force her, Conar?" Legion's voice was harsh, grating, full of deadly hate. Conar looked at Liza, who winced in shame. He faced his brother. "I am sorry, Legion." Legion's brow rose. "What are you sorry for?" Conar felt like a child being confronted by a disappointed father. He was deeply ashamed. "For what I did." "Leave him alone," Liza told Legion as Sentian's protective arm pulled her to him. Legion's full attention was on Conar. "And exactly what was it you did?" He brought himself face-to-face with Conar. "I will have you admit, before these men, what it was you did to my woman!" Brelan laid a hand on Legion's shoulder, as if attempting to soothe things over for the moment. "It's not necessary for him to answer you here. Why don't the two of you—" Legion shook off Brelan's hand. "It is necessary! I want to hear this man admit what he has done! He will admit it to what family he has left! To his friends, if he still has any after this!" He pointed to Liza. "To this woman!" Liza covered her face with her hands. Despite Sentian's hold on her, she sank to the ground at her Sentinel's feet, her shoulders shaking with sobs. "Don't make him say it." She raised her head and looked into her husband's eyes. "Don't

shame him so!" "You aredefending him? You want toprotect him after he has hurt you?" "He didn't know what he was doing, Milord. He truly didn't!" "You aremy wife! You are no longer his to do with as he pleases!" "I belong to you both!" Liza screamed. "Don't you see that? I was his and now I am yours, but he and I are still connected. He came back here to claim me, but he wouldn't, he couldn't, because I am now legally yours. He couldn't take me away from you." Her head swung to Conar. "It was I who came searching for him last night. I knew he would be here. I wanted him, Legion. I wanted him one more time. I wanted him to take me!" Conar wanted to cry. She was taking the blame for what he had done. Under Serenian law, she could be sentenced to death. Adultery was punishable by beheading. Liza was trying to protect him with her own life, but he wouldn't allow it. "She's lying, Legion!" Legion took Liza's arms, lifting her up. He eased her toward Brelan. "Take her inside, Saur." Brelan urged her toward the library door, refusing to allow her to break away, shushing her tearful entreaties to be allowed to remain. "No, Brelan!" she pleaded. "I have to make Legion understand!" "This is between them, now," Saur warned, shushing her again as she protested. Ushering her through the door, he nodded a silent command for Teal to close the door behind them. Legion waited until Liza's pleading could no longer be heard, then impaled Conar with an icy stare. "Say it!" Conar took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "She had no part in what I did. I'm not sure—" "Did you take her?" Conar slowly nodded. "I must have." Something evil passed over Legion's face. His hands doubled into fists. "You son-of-a-bitch," Legion whispered, his voice tight. "I should kill you where you stand. I'd like nothing better than to watch your blood running over these stones. But—the gods help us—the people of Serenia need you!" Conar flinched. "I'm not making excuses for what happened, but I truly don't remember—" "Shut up!" Legion bellowed. "What Ishould do is relieve you of that filthy piece of flesh dangling between your thighs! I don't think any man here would blame me if I did, or try to stop me!" He looked around at the disappointed, shocked faces. "If I wasn't so loathe to put my hands on you, I'd have them hold you down for me to do it!" Conar groaned. Legion knew nothing of the dream that had nearly destroyed Conar in Chrystallus. "Gather your things and get the hell out of this keep! Get the hell away from Boreas! I don't give a damn if you ever come back. I don't even want to know where you can be found. You can go to Eurus or Ivor, it doesn't matter, so long as you never step foot in this keep again!" Conar's hurt deepened. "This is my home, Legion." "Not anymore! If you try to stay, I'll have you thrown out! If you come back, try to see my wife again, I'll have you tossed into that dungeon you like so well and leave you there!" "Let me explain, Legion—" "If you aren't out by sundown, I swear I will find you and have you removed—in chains, if necessary—from my keep!" Legion shoved Shalu and Roget out of his way. He stormed through the library door, slamming open the portals so wide, they crashed against the stone wall. Glass shattered, tinkling to the flagstone with a lost, hopeless sound.

The others turned to Conar. Disappointment, regret, disbelief filled every face. Condemnation was evident in their silent stares. No one spoke. "I'm sorry," Conar mumbled. He wasn't surprised to see Teal du Mer turn his back and walk away. "Do you need help packing?" Sentian asked. There was no warmth, no help in the look he flung at Conar. Neither was there the love and respect that had always been in the young warrior's gaze. He was Conar's friend, but, foremost, Sentian was Liza's sentinel. Conar shook his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. His heart ached when Sentian turned his back, too. He hung his head in shame. "Get those two out of here," Shalu ordered to some of the guards standing over the dead men. "Have Hesar's man look at them before you string them up at the front gate. Maybe they're known to him." For a long time, Conar could feel Shalu looking at him, but when he finally lifted his head, the power of Shalu's anger tore through him. The big Necroman never said a word, but the scorn and censure was evident in the dark face before he, too, turned and walked away. "You'd better leave, Conar," Roget said, quietly. "We don't need trouble right now." With his heart aching, Conar entered the keep. Once inside, whisperings stopped, backs turned. He descended the stairs leading to the bowels of the keep and, for the first time, felt the cold seeping through him as he ventured into the dungeon. Also for the first time, he experienced the closeness of the damp walls, smelled the wet, musty odor invading his senses, which grimly reminded him of a grave. He entered his cell and looked about, totally detached from what he was viewing. He slumped onto his cot, his hands dangling between his spread knees, his head lowered, his hearing closed to the far away drip of water echoing through the tunnels and cells. Sighing heavily, he brushed away the wicked betrayal of moisture easing down his cheek, smearing his tear across his cheekbone with the heel of his hand. The wetness felt hot and telling on his flesh. He caught sight of the flask, Sern's special drug, partially hidden beneath a mound of wrinkled clothing. He looked at it, despising it, needing it, hurting for it. Addiction twisted his gut, reminding him the monster in him needed feeding. In disgust, he reached for the flask, intending to throw it against the wall. But when his trembling fingers closed around the flask, his tongue automatically eased across his lips in anticipation of the sweet taste of mangoes and peace. "No," he said, his tone forceful. But the drug's allure called to him with siren sweetness—Take me,she crooned in her seductive, throaty whisper.Take me and make me a part of you. He uncorked the flask and brought it to his nostrils, breathing in the ripe mango smell. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to the whispers coming from the thick liquid. You need me, Conar,the drug seemed to remind him.Who else do you have, now, but me? His hand trembled. He tried to put the flask on the table, but it would not leave his hand. His fingers tightened on the neck. He brought the flask to his chest and clutched it to him, both hands molding themselves protectively around the promise it held. How weak I am, he thought sadly, his right hand running down the flask's surface, caressing it. I can't even destroy that which is destroying me. You need me,the flask cooed.Have your fill of me, Conar. I am all you have left. He knew Liza would forgive him—she always did. But he knew he would never forgive himself for what he had done. Although he remembered nothing of what had happened, he knew he had used her like one of his whores, and the thought of her suffering as they had, made him sick to his stomach. You hurt her, Conar,the drug admonished.You called her cruel names, took her against her will. You knew she was the same innocent woman she has always been, didn't you? You knew she had not intentionally betrayed you. She did not forsake the great love the two of you once shared. Her willingness to sacrifice her life to keep you from being

shamed before your men proved that. How could you have ever doubted her? He had lost her for all time. He had proven himself unworthy of that great love. He knew she would never belong to him again. Not after this. Your brothers have turned on you, Conar,the flask said.Your men have lost their respect and love for you. You have been ordered from your home, again, and now there is nowhere you can go where the knowledge of what you have done will not be known. A rapist is a rapist—the lowest of the low. Taking a whore who well knows what she is being used for is one thing—violating a decent woman is another. Sitting in the dismal surroundings of his self-imposed imprisonment, he felt guilt crash down on him with lightning speed. His attention lowered to the flask, and his mouth watered. He swallowed. Go ahead, Conar,his relief whispered.There is no one who will care. The voice turned smooth and sultry.Go ahead. What are you waiting for? He didn't hesitate. With sweat clinging to his brow, he tilted back his head and let remorse guide his trembling hand to his lips. He drained the entire contents of the nearly full bottle, gagging as the liquid slid down his throat, threatening to make him vomit. He gulped convulsively to keep the liquid down, now hating the taste of over-ripe mangoes flooding his mouth. He recalled Sern's warning of a few weeks earlier—"Each flask contains a two-week supply if you take it as intended, a week's worth if you absolutely have to have it. Be careful not to take more than two sips at the most within a four-hour period. The drug is deadly, otherwise." Conar lay on the cot, his hands beside his head. There was an instant buzzing in his ears. His body grew warm, tingling, detached, the rash coming alive with a fiery lick of remembrance. The drug invaded his system with its numbing ocean of heat. His head started spinning, reeling, colors dancing brightly and alluring along his vision. He could pinpoint the very spot where the water was dripping, could smell the rust it was causing along a cistern pipe. I am all you will ever need, Conar,the drug whispered as it claimed him.All you will ever, ever need. The rash on his chest and arms was crawling over him, easing down his sides, his hips, his legs, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the buzzing, eerie lap of waves on an alien shore. Darkness began spinning at the corners of his vision, tunneling inward, and his tongue felt thick and dry inside his mouth. Embrace me,the peace told him.Take me as you have your women, sweet Prince. His breathing became deep, slow. I will be your last,the voice crooned. He felt feverish, numb. Again, he heard Sern's words drowning out the lulling whispers of the drug—"Be careful, Milord. Be very careful with this drug. It can be deadly." Deadly? Conar thought. He hoped so. He truly did.

Chapter 22 "What the hell difference does it make if he was drunk or numb with drugs?" Legion growled at Brelan. "He took her, Saur!"

"But he might not have known he was doing it," Brelan argued. Legion nearly hit him. He shook his fist. "Heknew !" "Don't you see what must have happened?" Jah-Ma-El put in. "Did he remember killing those men? Do you remember Rylan telling you about the whore who came to the door begging money because she said he had hurt her so badly she couldn't work?" The aging warlock shook his head. "You even made a joke about it, remember? You said his sword was honed too sharp. Do you remember Roget telling you that Conar couldn't remember where he had been that night, let alone with whom. He was drugged on something that damned nomad had given him. I'd stake my life on it!" "So would I," Roget added. "I was looking at his face when your lady was brought into the garden. He didn't understand any more than you did what had happened to her." "He took her!" Legion repeated at the top of his voice. "What difference does it make whether heremembers doing it? The damage has been done!" "Legion," Brelan sighed, plowing a hand through his dark curls. "He must have taken something last evening. He found those bastards trying to hurt Elizabeth and killed them, Liza told us as much. But he wasn't pretending—he truly didn't know he had killed them." "And he does not remember hurting your lady," Shalu said. "I saw that much on his face." "Then what is it you think I should do? Forgive him?" Legion bellowed with fury. "Tell him I've changed my mind and that he can stay? I willnot ! I want him gone and away from my wife!" "I think we should talk with him," Jah-Ma-El told his brother. "You and Brelan and me. We're his family." "What good will that do?" "He needs help, Legion," Roget said. "If he is taking drugs—" "There's no doubt!" Teal interrupted. "Then that's all the more reason for us to help him," Roget shot back. "He needs our help," Sentian stressed. "We failed him once." His gaze swept over Teal and Marsh Eden and Storm Jale. "We are his family," Brelan cautioned. "We are his brothers, we are blood. He needs us and we can not turn our backs on him. Not this time."

Chapter 23 Brelan and Legion made their way down to the dungeon. The gloomy, damp confines of the stone walls made Legion shiver. It was a singularly depressing place, at best, and had seen many men dead and broken within its walls. A smell in the musty air reminded Legion of a battlefield after a skirmish—the smell of the grave. Legion frowned as something skittered across his foot and squeaked as it disappeared into the shadows. He listened to the distant sound of bats winging away in the farthest reaches of the evil place. He swept his notice over cobwebs and slick, oozing walls, over dust-caked sconces, and discarded debris along the pathway, then wondered for the hundredth time why Conar would chosen such morbid sleeping quarters. There were plenty of rooms in the keep. Legion doubted if his brother even knew the reason he had chosen to live in a dungeon. But Legion knew it was this

self-imposed exile into the hidden world of death and torture where Conar went to escape the reality of everyday life. Here, he could escape the hurt, the loss, the pain he refused to face above the stairs. Such a life had been taken away from him, replaced with the one he had been forced to endure, and it was that dark life he had come to accept as being the norm. Conar had cloaked himself in the dreary, depressing bowels of the keep like some nocturnal animal hiding from the bright of day. But in Conar's case, Legion realized, it wasn't the light of day from which he was hiding—it was the light of companionship and acceptance he shunned. Yes, Legion realized, the dark tomb offered Conar a haven into which he could escape from what had been done to his life, from what had been taken away from him, that which he no longer possessed. Like Elizabeth. Legion swatted a cobweb. "How can he stand this?" "The liquor and drugs lend themselves more to the cold of the dungeon than the warmth of the parlor," Brelan answered. "He doesn't remember what this place did to him." Legion understood, but doubted Conar did. Unknowingly, Conar had put himself back into the hellish clutches of Kaileel Tohre and the bastard who had run the Labyrinth. They had caged his body; now, that imprisonment had also caged his thoughts. Like the criminal they had branded him, he sought out the iron bars as his home, needing the ordered confinement like he needed the liquor. And the drug. "Why would he take something like that?" Legion mumbled more to himself than to his brother. "Stupid!" Brelan stepped over the carcass of a dead mouse. "He probably doesn't even know the answer to that question." "That nomad—what's his name?" "Sern." "If he's been giving Conar drugs, I'll damned sure put a stop to it." "How, Legion?" "I'll cut off the supply!" *** Brelan sighed, wondering how the people were going to react to Elizabeth's violation. That the news would be all over Serenia by week's end was a fair estimate of how fast gossip traveled when it dealt with the royal family. Few, he surmised, would think long or hard of it, though, preferring not to dwell on such matters. When they learned the truth behind Conar's actions, about his drug problem, the pity would filter through even the coldest heart and Conar would be forgiven. He was, however, sure some people would condemn Conar. But most still thought of Elizabeth as Conar's wife, and perhaps would declare it retribution. Either way, the people of Serenia would forgive Conar most anything. After all, he was the true King of their homeland and Elizabeth McGregorhad been his. "He's always tried to take the easy way out, hasn't he?" Legion grumbled as they stopped at the closed iron door leading to the punishment cells. "How do you mean?" Brelan asked, pushing open the door. "You know damned well what I mean! With the liquor when he was younger, with every female he could lay his hands on. If he could use his sword to silence an enemy, he didn't bother discussing the situation. If things got too bad with Papa, he'd just simply disappear on us. He's always shirked responsibility and I think that's why he doesn't want the crown—it's too much responsibility!" Brelan thought Legion might well have hit the nail on the head. Conar hadn't wanted to lead his men, either. "It doesn't matter. He's got to be made to see he can't keep running away from whatever is unpleasant. The liquor was bad enough—the drugs are worse yet."

When they entered the cell, they found Conar sleeping, his right arm hanging off the edge of the cot. Legion glared at his brother. "He must be drugged out of his mind. He knew I meant what I said about him leaving!" He kicked the cot. "Get up!" There wasn't a movement, nor a sound. Brelan pursed his lips with exasperation. "He's out of it." Legion shook Conar. "Wake up!" Conar's head dropped heavily to one side. He mumbled incoherently. "He's really under." Brelan half-turned as Jah-Ma-El entered, a terrified Sern in tow, his thin arm clutched in Marsh Edan's steely grip. Brelan looked at the nomad with distaste. "How long does the stupor last?" "It varies, Lord Saur," Sern stammered as Marsh thrust him into the room. Marsh pushed past Sern, hushing the man's babbling, and knelt beside the cot. He looked at Legion for guidance. "You know as much as we do," Legion said, stepping back. Marsh lifted one of Conar's eyelids. His brows drew together in a dark scowl. He shifted his hand to the other eyelid, then placed a hand over Conar's chest. The scowl vanished. "He's barely breathing!" Jah-Ma-El grabbed Sern as the little nomad was about to flee. "What did you give him?" "Lord Jah-Ma-El, please!" the nomad squealed. "It was only a minor brew. Nothing that would harm him if he took it as directed. It's just a little something to ease his pains." "Does it always do this to him?" Marsh asked, standing. Sern's head bobbed to and fro, snapping like a sheet in a brisk wind. "Yes! Yes! Always! He sleeps deeply, but he can be awakened. Use some water. Sprinkle it on him. He'll come around." Bent Armitage lumbered into the cell, nudging Brelan and Legion aside, making it clear he would be the one to do as the nomad suggested. He picked up a tumbler of tepid water and held it over Conar's face. "Give me that!" Legion grabbed the water, ignoring the giant's hiss of displeasure. Legion emptied the contents into Conar's face. There was a momentary flicker of the closed eyelids, a soft moan, but no other movement. "Is that normal?" Jah-Ma-El shouted, flinging Sern to the edge of the cot. "You're telling us such lack of response is normal?" Legion took Conar's face in his hands. He slapped Conar's cheeks, at first lightly, then with harder, more calculated strokes. "Wake up!" Conar's lids opened, but the dark orbs rolled back in the sockets and the lids slipped shut. "Damn it!" Legion snarled. "What's wrong with him?" Brelan asked. "Conar!" Legion shouted, dragging his brother up, shaking him violently. With his hand, Legion connected hard with Conar's left cheek, snapping the limp head to the right. "Damn it, man, wake up!" Conar's lids opened. He ran his tongue over his lips. A slight groan came shallowly from his chest. "I'm…I'm leaving…Legion," came a thick, slurred whisper. "Won't…be…back…" Legion shook his brother harder, dragging him up. "What have you done?" Spying an empty flask on the floor, Brelan plucked it from the floor, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. His nose wrinkled. "What is this, Sern?"

Sern slid to the floor with hands extended, warding off the men. "I just gave him that last eve! I told him not to…he must have taken it all!" Jah-Ma-El dragged the man from the floor and slammed him against the iron bars. "What did you give him, you bastard?" "He must have spilled it, Lord Jah-Ma-El!" Sern stammered. "He must have spilled the rest of it. Surely he didn't take the entire flask. He knows how deadly the brew can be!" Marsh Edan, his own addiction to a drug that had nearly taken his life when he was younger, seemed to realize what had happened. His voice sounded dull, lifeless. "Get him up. If he sleeps on, he'll never wake." Jah-Ma-El looked to Bent. "Get ready the room he used as a boy. And send someone for Cayn." He turned to Marsh. "Have Gezelle make pots of strong tea. Legion, Brelan—get him to the showers. And you, you despicable little shit," he said, grasping Sern's burnoose, "show me what you gave my brother!" He shoved the nomad into the hallway. No one questioned Jah-Ma-El's instructions. Together, Legion and Brelan lifted Conar, draping his arms over their shoulders. His feet sagged against the floor, while his head bobbed against his chest as they turned to leave. "The water in the showers should be ice cold this time of year," Brelan quipped, shivering despite himself. "I don't fancy getting wet, but it's worth a try." "Then we'll try," Legion answered, grimly. They carried Conar through the dungeon's twisting passageways and into the back rooms of the jailer's barracks. His dead weight was hard to control. When they neared the closed doorway into the showers, they hesitated. "Can you hold him?" Brelan asked. "I—" Legion jerked as a disembodied hand reached past him and took hold of the doorknob. He was tall—seven feet of hulking, menacing muscle as he opened the door and stepped inside the shower room. His bulk blocked the way. "He has to be—" Legion began. The strange man held out his arms. He put one giant hand behind Conar's neck and stooped to put the other under Conar's knees. He shifted the limp weight against him and swung around, heading for the showering chambers. "Who the hell is that?" Brelan whispered. The stranger positioned himself under one of the turned off showerheads. A second man, even larger than the first, slid past Brelan and turned on the flowing jet of ice water over Conar and the man who held him. They spoke to one another in a strange, guttural language, then went silent as three more hulking figures joined them. Brelan's mouth dropped open when he recognized their loose-fitting trousers and tunics. "Outer Kingdom," he said in awe. The three newcomers stepped into the shower and took Conar's limp body. They stood under the water, getting soaked. Outside the showers, men milled about, speaking in low terms to one another, pointing at the Outer Kingdoms warriors, nodding in appreciation of their stamina as they took turns holding Conar beneath the ice-cold water. "Heard tell they ain't human," one man said. Brelan turned a sharp gaze to the man, who ducked his head in embarrassment. To Brelan, the news seemed to have spread like wildfire—Lord Conar had accidentally taken too much elixir the nomad had brewed for him. Brelan knew Conar would have been appalled if he'd known how much his secret doings were common knowledge. Looking at the intense, eager faces, Brelan realized something Conar had not—his men loved him no matter what. There was no animosity in their looks, but only fear for Conar's safety engraved on their hard faces. Brelan had no doubt that a few of the more intelligent had figured out the overdose had been no accident.

Thom Loure and Storm Jale edged past the others. Thom's big face scrunched into a worry line that obliterated his forehead. "How is he?" One of the Outer Kingdom warriors spoke, his accent hard to understand, but one of the others haltingly translated for his fellow countryman. "He…go…around." "Go around where?" Thom repeated. "Come…around?" the man said painfully, stressing each word as though it were being pulled from his lips. *** Conar groaned, shivering against the mighty chill cascading over and around him, saturating his clothing, dripping down his face. He jerked in spasms, his teeth chattering. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids only fluttered. "Keep…under…shorter," a warrior said. "Longer," another corrected. Conar felt darkness reaching out for him with icy fingers. Grating, gruff voices spoke around him in a language he didn't understand. Their voices drifted away, but then he heard words, words spoken from far away… Incantations…mantras chanted in dual voices…begging words, pleading words. The two voices speaking were familiar to Conar's ear. He tried to make out what they were saying, but his mind refused to function. One part of him wanted to wake; the other part wanted the surcease the darkness offered. Then he heard another voice—chanting, enjoining, and he strove harder to hear this voice, for it was as dear to him as the very life he had tried to throw away. He strained to hear, willing his malfunctioning mind to clear itself of its drugged cobwebs. "Be…all…good." The voice above him spoke in that strange, alien tongue, not pleasant on the ears. His eyelids fluttered open once, twice, three times. He tried to see who tortured him with such teeth-clenching words, but his eyes closed again. He heard two more voices—voices he knew well. They added their spells to those already being intoned. The words began to blend instead of overlap. Conar again tried to wake, to see who was speaking. "Open…eyes. Wake…soon…now." Conar heard the chants coming to a close. The voices—two male, three female—reciting their words of protection over his soul, grew weak and tired. His lids swept upward. He looked up into a strange, unsmiling face. *** "By all that's holy! Keep him awake!" Teal yelled as he came running forward. "Cayn's on his way, but says Conar will die if you let him sleep!" "Know…what…doing…Romnie!" one of the Outer Kingdom warriors spat with dislike, glaring at Teal. Teal glared back at the man who had called him the slang forgypsy. "Why you—" Legion's upraised arm stopped him. "They're taking care of him." Just then, Conar's body jerked in the men's arms. "He's going into convulsions," Legion said softly. Conar began to buck in the warrior's arms. "Get him on the floor!" Cayn shouted, shoving his way into the room. "Put him down, now!"

By the time the men laid him on the wet floor, Conar had obviously bitten through his tongue. One warrior stripped a wide leather belt from his tunic and thrust the strap between Conar's teeth to keep him from swallowing his tongue, smearing blood along Conar's chin and cheek. The warriors held him as convulsions bucked his body in spasm after horrible spasm. His limbs jerked and pulled against their hold, but they only seemed to tighten their grip. "It's going to be a long, long night," Marsh sighed and turned his back on the scene. Legion needed no reminder of what lay ahead. Yes, it was vital to keep Conar awake. Shaking his head, he sat on a chair some thoughtful soul had scooted under him. It would be a long night, indeed.

Chapter 24 Separated by hundreds and hundreds of miles, two men sat brooding in their conjuring rooms, contemplating the cowardly thing Conar McGregor, Lord Darkwind, the Dark Overlord, had done. Neither felt the presence of the other in his moody thoughts, but each felt the need to intercede in the destructive path Conar had set his feet upon. Earlier they had put on their robes of magic at the same time, had gone to their respective altars, and had began the ritual that would placate the Deathbringer, the Taker of Life. Although the rituals were similar in content—both had trained under the one great sorcerer of years past, Yhouir—the way they went about the conjuring was entirely different. One followed the Right Hand Path to the Deathbringer, and the other slipped along the Darker Way. They had thrown their hands wide to the heavens at the exact same time, and both Occultus Noire and Kaileel Tohre felt the embodiment of pure evil pass through them. While Occultus let the spirit pass, Kaileel embraced it, reveling in the further taint it spawned in his black heart. Chanting in a dialect unknown but to a select few, the sorcerers had began the lengthy and complex ritual that would stave off the Deathbringer. The conjuring lasted four hours, and at the end, both men were exhausted, weakened to the point of death. But they each had a reason for enduring the ordeal and thought only they could stop what was destined. Occultus needed Conar alive to crush the power and might of the Domination. The young man was the last, and only, hope of the people of the world against the forces of the Abyss. His conjuring was methodic, rational, quiet, with only a hint of the desperation he felt. His words of pleading for his cause were filled with love for Conar, respect for the man's abilities, and he begged the Gray Ones to help him in his intercession with the Deathbringer. Kaileel Tohre needed Conar alive so he could eventually exact the revenge he so craved. The man was the last vestige of obstruction standing between the Domination and the complete enslavement of the world as he knew it. His conjuring was erratic, insane, screeching, but fervent. His words of demanding for Conar's life were filled with hate and anger. He pleaded with the Great God Raphian to whisper His support into the ears of His fellow Destroyer to keep Conar alive long enough to pay the ultimate price for having offended the gods of the Dark Way. Each man had his reason to keep Conar alive, and each strove hard to do so. They started another round of sorcery, and long into the night, both chanted other spells, more complex, using intricate incantations in the language of the Ancients. They made appropriate sacrifices. At times their voices blended; at others, the words overlapped with different names and vowel sounds, but the intent was identical. As their second set of enchantments drew to a close at the same moment, both bowed their heads in tired fear, and prayed to their special deities that the ritual would work. For each, if the Deathbringer turned a deaf ear to their pleas, a young man's untimely, selfish death would mean defeat.

Now, with two rounds of magic done, they sat, waiting. Neither heard the female voices raised in chant. Neither knew other magic-sayers were hard at work to save the life they, themselves, tried to protect. But the Gray Ones had turned away from Their amusement at the expense of the young couple, and a slight crack appeared in the altar stone inside the Wind Temple at Boreas Keep. It made a quiet sound, but audible to the young woman kneeling at the altar to pray. Inquisitive, she got to her feet and ran her hand over the crack, surprised when a tiny piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Bending, she picked it up and was shocked to see Hern Arbra's unmistakable scratching scrawled across the parchment. It was as though a hand had parted the curtain of time and space, reached beyond the grave to deliver a message to the world of the living, and to Gezelle, as superstitious as she was, she realized the importance of something such as this. Hiding the paper within her bodice, she hurried to Liza's room, where her mistress was lying quietly, her great green eyes staring at the ceiling. Gezelle never hesitated at the door. She stepped into the room, calling to Liza. "Milady! You must see this. I found it in the Temple when I went to pray for His Grace!" *** Lying in bed, Liza was tired, sore, and soul-sick at what Conar had tried to do to himself. Her own conjuring had left her exhausted, but something odd was happening inside her, and she didn't understand it. She felt more drained than normal. It was early evening and her lassitude was growing. There was a slight itch in her chest and arms that she could not account for. Her head seemed light, spinning. She felt feverish, her head ached miserably, and she was colder than she could ever remember. It had been a long time, indeed, since she had felt such stirrings and was barely aware she was experiencing Conar's physical discomforts. "Leave me alone, 'Zelle," she muttered, her stomach heaving. "But Milady! It is a note from Hern!" the servant called, taking her mistress by the hand and pulling her up. "You must read this!" It was on Liza's tongue to tell Gezelle to read it to her, but one look at the girl's face told her the words would fall on deaf ears. Sighing, she took the note, glanced at it, and smiled. "His handwriting is worse than Brelan's." "Read it!" Gezelle shouted, shaking Liza's shoulder. "Just read the damned thing!" Liza looked at the note. "I could never read his slanting scrall, 'Zelle. Where's Cayn? He used to interpret Hern's writing for Legion and—" Before Liza could finish, Gezelle ran out of the door. Within minutes, she returned, literally thrusting the aging Healer into the bedchamber. Cayn bumped heavily into the ornate desk beside the armoire. Gezelle grabbed the note out of Liza's hand. "Read it!" Cayn held up the note. His eyes widened. "Where did you get this?" "In the temple, you dolt!" Gezelle screeched. Cayn's mouth snapped shut with a click. He narrowed his eyes at the servant girl just long enough to let her know he hadn't appreciated her tone nor name-calling. He turned up the note, gathering it close to his face. He read it. Then again. Finally, he looked at Liza, tears in his eyes. "What is it?" Liza whispered, standing, walking to him. Her heart thudded, for she felt the import of what he was going to say long before he spoke. "What does the note say?"

"It says…it says he has found Prince Conar McGregor's marriage bracelet and tells where he has hidden it. He says he's not sure, but thinks the essence of the Prince's power is in the bracelet, and bids whoever finds it to guard it well for the Prince's son, Corbin." Liza's hand went to her chest. Feelings washed over her with wave after wave of understanding. She staggered to her bed, gasping for air. Outwardly alarmed, both Cayn and Gezelle went to her, but she motioned them away. Her mind reeled. She looked at Cayn. "Show me!" Obviously with no doubt in his mind what she meant, Cayn escorted her and Gezelle from the room and to the stairs, leading them to the chambers where Liza and Conar had slept as man and wife. He opened the door, ushered the women inside, then held the note to the light. "It says there is a lock on the inside of the—" "Armoire!" Liza hurried to the tall cabinet's oak doors. She opened them, fumbled at the back of the armoire for the hidden lock. Flipping open the hasp, she pushed the false back. "Through here!" With heart hammering, Liza led the way to the trap door leading to the wine cellar. She sighed with relief when she saw a new and shining bolt thrown back on the door, knowing who had placed it there. Cayn pulled open the trapdoor. "Hinges have been freshly oiled." Inhaling the pungent smell of lubricant, Liza knew who had done that also. She followed Cayn into the wine cellar and went straight to the hidden door where she and Conar had once entered the grotto together. "It must be near mine," she whispered, remembering when she'd lovingly removed from her arm her bracelet and hidden it. She had wrapped it in a square of silk, and stuffed both inside an oilskin pouch, then painfully laid to rest, kissed goodbye, a woman who longed desperately for the man who had given it to her. She pointed. Cayn walked into the main section of the grotto. "There! The largest stalagmite! It's beneath there?" Liza still saw the swirling lines her body had made on the sand beside the pool. The tall lime formation to which Cayn hurried was just to one side of the thick stalagmite where Conar had tied her hands. In a daze, she watched the Healer lift the formation clear of the cavern's floor. "He chiseled it away. Do you see?" Cayn set the large cone-shaped formation to the side and reached inside the hole. Bringing up an oilskin pouch, he blew loose sand from the packet. "It's almost alive, isn't it?" Gezelle whispered, as if seeing the emotions flooding Cayn's wrinkled face. "Aye," the old man said reverently. He held up the packet to his Queen. As the pouch settled into her hand, Liza's fingers tingled. She closed her eyes with rapture, feeling the immense power flowing from the pouch to her. "His familiar fled into the metal when it was cut from him," she told them. "Tohre didn't think about that." The sweet scent of lavender filled the air. Untying the drawstring, Liza pulled from the pouch a square of bleached muslin, yellowed with age. After unfolding the square, she let out a moan as his bracelet, the circle sheared in half between the initials of her name, came into view. Bringing it to her lips, she began to cry, her tears sliding down her cheeks. "I never thought to set eyes on this again." "You can save him now, can't you, Milady?" Gezelle asked in a awe. Liza nodded. "With a little help." She walked to a place near the archway leading to the outside, then ran her hand along the wall until it disappeared inside the rock surface. "I hope this is where I hid it." She brought out another oilskin pouch. "Her bracelet," Gezelle said. For the first time in many years, the two lovers had been in the same place at the same time, and the powers within their respective bracelets, heart-mates, glowed and called out to the other. Having lain dormant for so long, their voices were rusty with disuse, but as the climax of lust poured from Conar to Liza, the voices grew stronger. Liza's familiar, untainted by the drug controlling Conar, pulled free of her bracelet and reentered her body. It was her powers

returning that she had been feeling all that day, but so unaccustomed to feeling any more, she had not recognized it for what it was. Now, she did. "I saw him as he really is. I saw his real nature." She looked at Cayn. "I saw the Dark Overlord, Himself, last eve." She shivered. "Conar is no longer Conar." "I don't understand, Milady." "It doesn't matter, Cayn. I know, now, how I am to help him." "How?" Gezelle asked. Liza gazed out over the murky green expanse of the grotto. "I must have these bracelets melted into one, then two talismans must be minted. Our combined power is what the White Path needs to finally destroy Tohre." *** Somewhere in the vast reaches of time, of space, of eternity, an entity stirred from a long slumber. She stretched, yawned, and came slowly awake, wondering who had called Her from Her rest. Stretching Her arms wide across the firmament, She turned Her attention to the earth below and searched for the one who had been calling Her all day long. Seeing the young woman who sat beside the jeweler's worktable, the entity smiled. Soon, She thought, in rapidly vanishing sleepiness. Soon they would be joined once more. She frowned. There were chants coming up to Her from the world. She strained to hear the words, picking them out of millions and millions of other prayers and entreaties and curses. Occultus' words were not particularly pleasant to Her ears. Kaileel's were repugnant. But She grasped the message the two sorcerers extended to another of the deities and decided to lend Her own entreaties to the gods and goddesses who had already been called upon to assist in the saving of Conar's life. The Great Oracle's voice rose to a tinkling pitch, seemed to drown all the others sounds. She had slept a long time within the Shadowland's imprisonment, but now She was free once more, and Her sisters were free along with Her. She looked at familiar faces that began to drift around Her. There was Medea, the girl's adopted mother. Moira, the boy's dame. Standing quietly and respectfully beside Moira was the little Chrystallusian girl, Se Huan, with the big doe eyes and the gentle smile. "Pray with me, sisters," the Great Oracle asked. "Elizabeth's words are growing stronger," Medea remarked. "Aye," the Great Oracle acknowledged. "Do you hear the other voices?" Moira McGregor stepped forward. "I hear the men's voices. Is that Raphaella, as well?" At the Great Oracle's nod, she asked who the other voice belonged to. "The Great Lady," the Oracle answered. "She pleads for the life of her soul-mate, Conar." The Great Oracle turned Her attention to the young man caught in the throes of a horrible convulsion. She joined her prayers with those of her sisters for Conar McGregor's life. *** Alone in her room, the newly-minted talisman in her hand, Liza could see Conar lying unconscious in the shower room. Her powers had returned full force and she clearly heard Occultus' and Kaileel's words. Rummaging through her things, she found the black crystal dagger she had not touched in more than ten years and left her room, heading for the Wind Temple. Going to the room where he lay would have afforded her nothing. Going to the source of his power-sorcery, would.

Alone in the Temple, she began a different set of prayers to a power she knew was now awake, stirring. Occultus and Tohre might fail to gain the attention they sought, but Liza knew she already had the ear of the only One who could intercede with the complete assurance of success. Her pleas flew straight through the static of humming chants and prayers to fall on the ear of She who was already listening.

Chapter 25 All through the night, the men from the Outer Kingdom took turns holding Conar beneath the strong flow of icy water. They rejoiced when he stirred, groaned when he fell back asleep. Three times he had crossed over from the place of no light to the land where light glowed only at the edges. Near dawn, he had awakened sufficiently enough for Cayn, who once more stood vigil with the others, to order him put to bed with a strong command that he was not sleep. "Get that damned tea Jah-Ma-El ordered down his throat!" the Healer snapped. "He might choke on it, but, it doesn't matter! He can't be any closer to death than he is right now!' Conar drifted in and out of a state of semi-awareness. Tea dribbled down his chin and onto his chest. Fresh shirts were pulled over his head, his face washed, and he only mumbled incoherently. The men of the Wind Force stood at Conar's bedside, taking turns caring for him, while The Outer Kingdom Warriors, huddled in thick blankets, mugs of some colorless, odorless liquor in their beefy hands, sat vigil in the corner. *** By midday three days later, Conar was awake enough to know where he was, and was not happy about it. When he realized one of his ankles was chained to the footboard, he was particularly outraged. He was in his room, a room he had never wanted to see again, for it was the room where he and Elizabeth had slept, and made love, as husband and wife. He jerked against the chain and screamed his fury. "You'll live," a dry voice called from the half-open door. "Anyone who can screech like that can't be dying." "What the hell am I doing here?" "It's called recuperating." Roget stepped into the room and turned to Legion, entering behind him. "He's his usual merry self." "Who the hell chained me to this damned bed?" After shutting the door, Legion A'Lex came to stand by the bed. He said nothing, just stared at Conar with an unemotional, detached look on his bearded face. "Did you have me chained to this fucking bed, A'Lex?" Conar snarled. His yelling had tired him out as though he was an old man. Legion didn't say a word. Roget pulled a chair toward the bed and straddled it, leaning his forearms on the chair's back. "He wanted to know what he's doing here." "I suppose he thought he'd be somewhere else by now," Legion remarked dryly. "Somewhere safer than here."

"Fooled him, didn't we?" Roget laughed. "Will one of you tell me what I'm doing here, chained to this fu—" "Another outburst like that and we'll leave," Legion said. Conar tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. He was sick to his stomach. His hands shook so badly when he ran them over his stubbled face that he had to put them to his sides. The rash on his chest and arms burned like a fire out of control, making him squirm with intense agony. He looked into his brother's uncompromising face and clamped his mouth shut on the shout threatening to erupt. "Are you coherent enough for me to talk to you?" Legion asked. "Can you understand what I'm saying?" "I'm not deaf." Roget chuckled. "No, not deaf, just stupid." "And he did a particularly stupid thing that caused a lot of good people trouble," Legion commented. "You shouldn't have stopped me." Conar turned his face away from Roget's scrutiny. "Ungrateful pup, isn't he?" Roget laughed. Legion sat on the edge of the bed and grasped Conar's chin. When Conar tried to jerk away his head, Legion increased the pressure. "Be still!" Again, Conar tried to pull his chin free, but Legion's cruel fingers bit into Conar's flesh. Putting up a trembling hand, he was about to pry away his brother's fingers, but Legion's cold voice stopped him. "Put your hand down!" Ignoring the command, he put his fingers over Legion's hand only to yelp when the pressure on his chin became a crushing grip. "I said put you hand down!" Legion punctuated each word with a sharp jerk on Conar's face. Conar's hand dropped tiredly to the coverlet. Giving Conar's chin one final, vicious tug, Legion released him. "I think you got his attention now," Roget quipped. "He thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants," Legion snapped. "I'm going to prove to him that he can't." "You told me to leave, A'Lex!" Conar snarled. "Why'd you stop me?" "Because I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of doing what you wanted. I made sure you'd live so you'd have to atone for all the grief you caused by that one thoughtless, selfish act!" "No one cared whether I lived or died. Not after what I did." "Not only ungrateful, but overly melodramatic, as well," Roget taunted. "Shall I have violins brought in, Legion?" "It's no laughing matter!" Conar shouted with what waning bit of strength he had left. "Thatyou have right!" Legion hissed. "It was no laughing matter what you did to Liza, nor what you attempted to do to yourself. None of us felt like laughing while we tended you these last three days, cleaned up your puke and piss and shit like you were a babe! We didn't laugh when we had to hold you down when you went into convulsions, or when we poured tea down your ungrateful throat! We sure as hell weren't laughing every time you closed your eyes and wouldn't open them!" Legion put his face close to Conar's. "We never left your side until this morn when Cayn said it was safe to do so. Then you were sleeping normally and not in that self-induced drugged slumber. We prayed and begged and pleaded with every god known to let you live. We did everything in our power to keep you from dying!" "Why bother? I'll try it again, and next time you won't be there to stop me!" ***

Legion itched to grab his estranged brother and shake some sense into him. Instead, he stood and walked toward the window. He was so furious, he didn't trust himself to speak. Roget also stood, swinging his long leg over the chair. "That goes to prove what I've known all along, Conar—you're stupider than I thought if you think Legion, or any of us, will allow you to try that stunt again." "You can't stop me!" A frosty smile of evil humor lit du Mer's face. "We'll just see!" He stormed from the room. Complete silence reigned when du Mer left. Legion turned his back to Conar and gazed over the garden, watched water rushing to shore beyond the bars of the sea gate. Though he was angrier than he had ever been, he didn't want to show that anger, or the despair, eating at his soul. A decision had been made among the brothers—Brelan, Jah-Ma-El, and himself. Even as he stood looking through the window, the plan had been set into motion. Squaring his shoulders, he turned and met Conar's dull, vacant gaze. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for the battle of wills he knew would come. He walked to the bed and put his hand on the headboard. "You've noticed that you're chained." Conar glared at him. "I noticed." "And those chains are iron." When Conar only stared with contempt, Legion nodded toward the manacles. "Iron forged so not even your magic can break it?" Conar didn't answer, just scratched at his chest. "Do you wonder why we've taken such a precaution?" "The thought crossed my mind." "Well, at least you're capable of thought. That's an improvement on the stupidity of a few days ago." "Just unchain me and I'll leave! Thatwas what you ordered me to do!" "You aren't going anywhere—alone." Legion smiled, but the smile was grim, humorless. "First thing Monday morning, Jah-Ma-El, Brelan, Teal, Roget, and I are taking you to Ivor Keep. Shalu and Sentian are already there, and Storm, Marsh, and Thom are on their way." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, Ching-Ching was called back to Chrystallus." "Why are you taking me there?" "I thought that was obvious." "Damn it!" Conar exploded. "Not to me, it isn't!" Legion's smile slipped from his face. "Then let me explain it in simple terms. The garrison I had stationed at Ivor Keep has been sent to Zephyrus and Eurus. There is a skeleton crew of hand-picked servants to do the cooking, cleaning, and wash, but no one who would interfere in what we have planned." "That being what?" Legion ignored the question. "Something else that isnot at Ivor Keep is liquor. No liquor, no drugs. And there will be no one who will either brew, gather, buy, or procure anything for you. In other words—the keep is dry." *** Conar drew in a long breath. They meant to purge the drugs and liquor from his system, and he knew all too well how excruciatingly difficult the withdrawal could be. With his body beginning to burn, he was already beginning to feel the stirrings. "Don't do this, Legion." "I can and I will!" "You have no idea what being without the drug will do to me." Just the thought of it made Conar scratch harder at his prickling flesh.

"Marsh told me what he went through. I know it's not going to be easy, but we will be there. We can—" "You can't do this, Legion!" "Someone has to help you or you'll wind up killing yourself." Conar began to itch so badly, he clawed mindlessly at his chest and arms. "I can do it on my own. A little at a time! I can decrease the dosage. I can go almost an entire day without it now." "Will you listen to yourself?" Legion's brows drew together with concern. "Look at what you're doing to your arms! They're bleeding! Ching-Ching says you've got enough of that poison in your system to last nearly two more days." As he contemplated being made to go totally without the numbness the drug gave him, Conar neared the point of hysteria. He was beyond rational thought; all he cared about was making Legion see reason, making Legion see he could not live without the drug. "I can go almost an entire day," he repeated, digging at his arms, feeling blood gathering under his nails, but not feeling any pain. "If I just take it every other day, then after a few weeks, every two days—" "Almost an entire day? For the love of Alel—you'll go without it for the rest of your life! I'll see to that!" "I can't!" Conar jerked against the leg restraint. "Going totally without it will kill me, don't you see?" "No, you won't die. You might wish you could, but you won't. We'll be there with you. Every step of the way. There's nothing to discuss. The matter's been settled." "Settled by whom?" "Your brothers. Those who love you." "You don't give a rat's ass about me!" Conar screamed. "All you want is my woman and you already have her! Now you want my life?" Legion shook his head. "That's the drug talking, not you. I'm not going to listen to you rant about something that we both know is a closed subject." Conar decided to change his tactics. His mouth stretched into a grim line of hope, meant to resemble a smirk. But his hands shook and his body shuddered while he feverishly dug at the rash over his arms and chest. "I know you hate me, but this is a cruel revenge. Don't make me suffer for being the one she really wants." Legion shook his head. "If you believe nothing else I say, believe this—I don't hate you, and I am not making you suffer because I believe it is you Liza wants. If she wanted you so badly, why isn't she here?" Conar's hope died. His lips drew back in a hateful snarl. "I am doing this because I care what happens to you. If that is cruel, if seeing you completely well is revenge, then so be it." "You're doing it because you're afraid she'll come back to me!" "I don't believe she will." Legion walked toward the door. "You shamed her, treated her like you would a whore." "Sheis my whore!" Conar spat, jerking on the chain. "And always will be! I give her what she needs, A'Lex! I give her what she wants!" Legion fixed Conar with a calm, detached look. "At least I don't have to rape her to have her." He opened the door and left, closing the portal with a gentle click.

Chapter 26 He was watched constantly. Sometimes they left him alone, although there were two guards always outside his door; he had been unhooked from the chain that kept him in bed, but the band around his ankle had been left in place. Legion had told him the iron would block his magic. When he was allowed up, the band effectively seemed to bar him from doing what he most wanted to do—escape. Now, stalking about the room, dreading the trip that would take him to Ivor the next morning, his upper lip lifted in scorn. They had taken away the clothing from his armoire, the drapery cords, belts and socks, bedding and drapes, anything with which he could fashion a knot. Nothing sharp—metal, glass, wood—was left. The room had been stripped of nearly everything, save mattress, brass bed, and chamber pot into which he had not bothered to relieve himself, rather using the floor just to see the anger on Legion's face. "You want to act like an animal, then live like an animal!" Legion had snapped, throwing a plate of food on the floor at Conar's feet. Growling like an animal, Conar stomped barefoot to his window and hissed at the condensation on the glass. He swiped viciously at the moisture, clearing a small circle, and glared into the garden. His furious scrutiny swept over the snow-laden flagstone, leapt over the frozen fountain, and stopped at the lacy, ice-draped willow. He widened the circle of clarity, rubbing briskly at the foggy pane until he had a better view of the tree and what was beneath its spreading branches. He leaned closer to the cold windowpane, pressing his forehead against the glass. Her back was to the keep, but Conar would have recognized the glowing sunset hair, despite the snow falling around her. He knew the slim body only too well, and could see the gleam of gold on her upraised wrist as the trinket—a slender, twisted loop of tri-colored gold he had given her for her birthday—gleamed in a peripatetic ray of fading sunlight. "Amber-Lea," he whispered, his breath fogging the window. He swiped at the glass and saw the man standing with her take her tenderly in his arms and kiss her. Their bodies molded against one another like two halves coming together to make a whole, like the pieces of a puzzle that have joined many times, as though from being placed alongside one another time and time again. "Oh, god!" he sighed. She was to go with him on the morrow. Legion had come to Conar on her behalf, had asked if she could accompany him to Ivor to help care for him. "Why should she want to?" he snarled, remembering his last night with the girl when she had made him feel guilt over indulging himself with whores Sern had provided. "Why do youdo these things, Milord?" she had asked. "Why do youneed other women? Don't I satisfy you?" "I will not do to you what I do to them, Amber-lea," he had yelled. "What is it you do to them you will not do with me?" "Ilike hurting them!" Her stricken face told him more than words what she thought of his dark need. "For some reason, the girl feels an obligation to you," Legion had said. "She says you will need her." Conar shrugged. The pain was going to be bad, but if gentle, tender arms could hold him while the pain was at its worst, maybe, just maybe, he could live through his coming ordeal. He had nodded his acceptance of the girl's request.

Now, he knew why she wanted to go to Ivor. It wasn't to be with him, but to be with Brelan Saur. "When did this happen? Why didn't I see it coming?" He turned away from the window and sat heavily on the bed. He stared at the floor, wishing with all his being that he had some of Sern's magic elixir. Not looking up as the door opened, he told the intruder to go away. "If ye ain't hungry, it ain't no skin off my nose!" He looked at Sadie MacCorkingdale and grimaced. "Put the tray on the bed and leave me alone. I'm in no mood for your damned snide remarks." Sadie's eyes flared with hatred, but she did his bidding, placing the tray with its tall glass of milk on the bed beside him. "Ain't gonna say another word to you! Eat it or not, I don't care!" He didn't look up as she left. He wasn't hungry, didn't want the pork chops and stuffed potatoes she had left. He picked up the frosty glass of milk, took a sip or two, and sent the glass hurtling across the room. As soon as he did, two guards rushed in and hurried to pick up the pieces. "Shouldn't have given him a glass to begin with!" one hissed as he bent to retrieve the shards. "That vile temper ain't no better now than it was three days ago!" the other commented. "It's like Lord Saur said—he's getting worse!' "Don't talk about me as though I wasn't here!" Conar shouted, and was rewarded with, not the shock and despair he had hoped to see, but annoyance. They took the broken glass and left, not bothering to speak to him on their way out. "Bastards!' he spat under his breath and plopped on the bed. When the door opened again, he was ready to do battle with whoever had dared to bother him. He sighed. "Go away." Amber-lea ignored his stiff, staccato burst of rudeness and closed the door behind her. "I am packed, Milord. Is there something I may do for you before we leave tomorrow?" He looked at her lovely, innocent face and felt an anger building in him that would have torn the shingles off a roof if he had been a gust of wind. "What the hell do you want from me?" He stood and faced her. His hands doubled at his sides and he knew his face was tight and ugly. Used to his rudeness, arrogance, and foolish questions, she shrugged her dainty shoulders and smiled. "I thought I was here to help you, Milord. If you do not want me to go with you—" "Idon't !" he snarled, shoving the tray of food from the bed. It landed in a heap on the carpet. Amber-lea looked at the waste of food. "Why must you act like that, Milord? Does it make you feel more in command?" His eyes bore into her. "It makes me feel vindicated, mam'selle!" "Vindicated from what? There are those who would kill just to lap up the food from that carpet. And yet you waste good food with a childish, school-boy tantrum that proves nothing." Having her scold him made matters worse. He turned his back on her before he could lash out with the hand he wanted so desperately to smash across her lovely cheek. "I don't want you with me at Ivor or anywhere else. Get what belongings and don't you ever come back to this keep." He turned and fixed her with a look of fury. "Do you understand, bitch?" "You saw me with your brother, didn't you?" He squinted at her. "He said he had seen you at the window, but when I looked I saw only frosted glass. But you did see us, didn't you?" "It's not the first time I've seen Brelan Saur through a window with one ofmy women in his arms!"

Amber-lea shook her head. "I've never been your woman. You wouldn't let me." "No, but you're his, aren't you?" "Not in the way you mean." "Get out!" he hissed, angry and hurt by her lies. No two people could hold one another like he had seen and not be lovers. "Believe what you want. That is your way. But I have not lain with Lord Brelan. The only man who has known my body is you. Now that I carry your child—" "Get rid of it!" Though he stared at her with fury, he had said the terrible words from pure instinct and anger. The moment he spoke, he regretted it. Her chin came up. "This babe is as much mine as it is yours. If you do not wish to claim it, Milord, you need not. But I will have this child no matter what you say. I am not Gezelle. Iwill fight you for this babe!" He was stunned that the girl knew of his long-ago affair with Gezelle, shocked she knew of the babe he had forced Gezelle to abort. But he didn't let her see the pain the knowledge caused him. Instead, he dismissed. "I have not betrayed you except with a few stolen kisses." Her voice was calm, but sadness filled the tone. "Lord Brelan has denied us both what we truly want so no further hurt would be done to you." He looked over his shoulder. "Then go to him! Go to your lover! You have my blessings to screw him 'til his heart's content!" "Foul language does not make your point any clearer, Milord." "Get out of my gods-be-damned room, woman!" he shouted, each word growing louder and more forceful. She looked at him for a long moment. "I wish you well, Milord. I really do." "Get out!" He picked up an apple from the floor and threw it at her, intentionally missing her. "Goodbye, Milord." She opened the door and left, never looking back. *** She hadn't been gone but a few minutes before Brelan Saur thundered through the door, his face filled with rage. "Why?" he yelled. Conar was sitting on the bed, his knees up, encircled within the perimeter of his arms. He gazed at Brelan. "I have kept you from one woman. I'll not keep you from this one." Brelan had been prepared to shout, scream, hit, if necessary, to make Conar change his mind about Ambie accompanying them to Ivor. As much as he loved the girl, he was willing to give her to Conar so his brother's time in "withdraw hell" would be less severe. Now, he understood all too well what Conar had done. "You knew?" Conar shrugged. "Not until today." "We haven't—" "I know." "Ambie will still gladly go with you, Conar. All you need do is ask." Conar's smile was tired and filled with infinite denial. "What kind of man would I be if I kept the two of you apart?" The smile wavered. "What kind of brother?" "I love her." Conar looked into Brelan's eyes. "Then go to her, stay with her. There's no need for you to go with me to Ivor."

"I will be with my brother." "Your brother doesn't need eight babysitters." Conar tugged on the iron manacle around his ankle. "I don't need to be chained like an animal, either." "It's there so you won't run," Brelan said. "You would, and you know it." Conar's smile filled with threat. "In a heartbeat!" Brelan chuckled. "And so the band stays where it is." He turned to go, wanting desperately to say goodbye to Ambie in a way he knew Conar would expect. He paused at the door, craned his neck over his shoulder, and grinned. "Thank you." Conar snorted. "Save it. You're going to wish me back in the Labyrinth before this is all over." Brelan shook his head in denial. "Never there—ever again." *** Alone in his room, Conar stared at the iron band, wishing himself free of it. A sly, wicked grin touched his lips, but he shrugged away the spite and leaned back against the headboard. It was time he soared with the eagles once more. He needed to find out if he could.

Chapter 27 Teal looked up as Roget slammed through the kitchen door at Ivor Keep, muttering dire predictions, then shouting for a servant boy to fetch him a raw beef steak. Teal smiled, lowered his head, and continued to eat his eggs and bacon. The table shook as Roget sat heavily in a chair beside him. Roget grabbed Teal's tankard of milk and drained it. "You know what he needs?" Teal kept his attention on his plate, afraid if he looked at Roget, he'd laugh. That was the last thing his brother needed and it could well be a potentially lethal mistake. He hid his mouth behind a napkin. "What?" "He needs his ass kicked, that's what!" Roget grabbed the raw steak from the servant boy and slapped it on the purple bruise forming beneath his left eye. He glowered at the boy, whose grin vanished as soon as Roget hissed. But the boy sputtered laughter as he ran from the irate man. "Ill-mannered little piece of dried snot!" Roget bellowed after the retreating boy. It was his favorite epithet for anyone who displeased him. If he hadn't caught Roget's woebegone expression, Teal wouldn't have laughed. As it was, the look on Roget's unsmiling face was so comical, so unlike the self-possessed, stoic Roget du Mer, Teal laughed, spraying eggs and bits of bacon over the table. "I'm so glad you find this amusing, Tealson. I do not!" Roget's palm painfully cuffed the back of Teal's head. "Knock it off!" Teal sputtered, ears ringing, head aching. He scooted out of his chair. The raw steak sailed past his head. "Roget, enough!" A banana flew past his ear. "Enough, I say!" He sobered as an apple hit his shoulder with enough force to bring tears to his eyes. "Damn it, that hurt!"

"Aye, well his left hook hurt, too!" Roget's heavy scowl sent Teal into a fresh spasm of laughter. "You despicable shit!" Roget shouted. Scraping back his chair from the table and sending it crashing to the floor, Roget ran after Teal, who made tracks down the hallway and into the keep proper. *** Shalu Taborn watched Roget sprinting after his brother and grunted in sympathy. He gingerly fingered the lump on his jaw, knowing exactly how Roget felt. Sentian Heil did, too, he thought. That one had a broken nose! "Good morning, Shalu!" Jah-Ma-El called cheerfully from the library door. He carried a huge tome of poetry under his arm. "Have a good night's rest?" The Necroman turned a fierce glare at the warlock. He was not a morning person and Jah-Ma-El's unfailing good cheer annoyed him. He trudged into the kitchen where he shouted at the servant boy to stop the infernal laughter. *** Jah-Ma-El shook his head. Everyone was like a cat with a sore tail in a roomful of foot soldiers with spiked boots. If someone wasn't speaking to someone else, they were shouting. If they weren't shouting, they were glaring. After only three days at Ivor, a killing might well take place any minute. Sighing, the sorcerer lifted the book of poetry closer up his side. Since he didn't have duty until six that evening, he planned to spend his leisure time as far away from everyone else as possible. Opening the door to the drafty solarium, he heard a loud crash overhead. He winced. It was going to be another one of those days. *** Legion stood in the doorway and watched Brelan, Sentian, and Marsh struggle to hoist Conar onto a bare mattress in the center of an equally bare room. Marsh held both of Conar's ankles together while Brelan and Sentian each held a wrist. "Damn you, Conar! Be still!" Brelan bellowed. When he heard Legion's snort, he craned his neck. "You think this is funny?" "Do you see me laughing?" Legion looked at Brelan's soiled clothing and deduced what had happened—Conar had thrown the contents of his chamber pot over Brelan and, more than likely, made a mad dash for the door before Sentian and Marsh caught him. Conar's screaming and cursing had caught Legion's attention and he came to investigate. "Get him down on the gods-be-damned mattress!" Sentian shouted. "I can't hold him all day!" Snarling under his breath, Brelan yanked hard on Conar's right arm as he bucked and twisted. Wearing piss and offal was doing nothing for his humor. "I'll break your damned wrist if you don't stop it, Conar!" Heaving Conar onto the mattress, Sentian and Brelan opened his arms wide and forced them to the corners. The soiled, overly-ripe smelling mattress rested on the floor instead of a frame, and they battled to slip his wrists into manacles nailed into the floorboards. "Let me," Legion spat. As Brelan held Conar's right wrist to the mattress, Legion slipped the manacle in place, locking it. "Son-of-a-whoring bitch!" burst from a spitting-mad Conar. "Takes one to know one," Legion quipped. As Sentian restrained Conar's hand long enough for Legion to lock that manacle, Conar managed to free one of his ankles from Marsh's hold. Conar's foot caught Marsh in the center of his chest and sent him crashing to the floor.

Legion chuckled as Edan came to his feet in a clumsy, painful crouch. Conar up drew his legs and kicked at both Brelan and Sentian. His heel caught Brelan on the shoulder. A gleam of triumph lit the midnight eyes. But his revenge was short-lived. Sentian and Legion lunged, pinning his legs to the mattress, spreading them apart while Marsh rushed forward to manacle them to the floor. "Cowards!" he screamed. "You sniveling, backstabbing turds!" He bucked against the chains, arching his back, and head off the mattress. The flesh on his wrists and ankles was already raw and bleeding from earlier attempts to get loose. He started hurling horrible obscenities at them, at their mothers, parts of their anatomies. He hissed and spat like a fighting feline. "I'll get you for this!" "Not any time soon," Brelan said. "Get out!" he screeched, his voice breaking with the force of the yell. "Get out and leave me the hell alone!" Legion headed out the door, the other men following. Once closing the door behind them, Legion leaned against the wall, listening to the vile curses coming from the room. "The anger will leave sometime tonight or tomorrow," Marsh said. "That is when the real ordeal will begin. Right now, he has his anger and frustration at what he feels is being unjustly done to him—that anger is overriding the withdrawal pains. When the anger dies, his cravings will set in." Edan ran a hand through his hair. He shook his head as a vitriolic curse toward him rang out from the other room. "What do we do when his real pain starts?" Sentian asked. Marsh let out a long breath. "You'll have to be strong. Believe me, it won't be easy. He'll beg. He'll make promises. He'll humiliate himself in order to get you to free him, to give him something for his pain. You'll have to ignore it. Be stronger than you've ever been, because it's not going to be easy to witness, nor easy to deny him." "It's just so hard to see him like this," Sentian said in a hurt voice. "The real horror hasn't even begun."

Chapter 28 He no longer knew if it was day or night. The pain in his gut grew intense, and the position in which he lay made the agony worse. He was twisted to his left side, his knees drawn tightly to his chest. His arms were flung wide, secured to the floorboard, and he was unable to rub the aching, cramping belly. His eyes squeezed shut, and tears escaped from beneath the lids. He was wet with perspiration, oily from it, and smelled terrible. There were times when the pain was so great, he wet himself with his bodily fluids and excrement, and fought the helping hands that came to clean him. He howled his anger, or laughed hysterically as they fought to control him. He flung his body about, making contact with an unsuspecting nose, jaw, shoulder. He kicked out and sent someone grunting to the floor until they could secure his legs. But that had been yesterday, he thought. Or was it the day before? He didn't know.

He didn't care. All there was in his universe was excruciating torment. He didn't recognize any of the men. Their faces were blurred, distorted. He heard them calling to him, speaking to him, commanding and demanding of him, but he couldn't understand their words. Didn't try to. Didn't want to. Had no intention of doing so, either. All he wanted was for them to unshackle him so he could find the flask that would take away the pain. He groaned at the thought of the seeping sweetness flowing down his throat, calming him, soothing him, taking away the godawful agony in his gut, salving the furious rash on his body. He jerked against the iron bands around his wrists, wanted to unlock them with his magic, knew in his mind that he could, but forced himself not to. He flinched as a hand touched his brow, hissed at the man, called him an obscene name and lashed out with his feet. But the man had no doubt anticipated such a move, for he stepped nimbly out of the way. Frustrated, he tried to kick again, only to have his legs grabbed by hands that materialized from out of the darkness of his pain. "Get your filthy hands off me!" "Should we chain him again?" someone asked. The question penetrated Conar's red-hot pain. The thought of being secured spread-eagle while burning agony ate at his exposed stomach terrified him. "No! Don't chain me again!" "It will hurt him the more, but it has to be done," someone else remarked. "No one will be able to get near enough to restrain him in a few hours. The drug is leaving his system faster now and his pain will be worse." "Don't chain me!"Protests did him no good, for the men dragged his legs apart and slipped his ankles into the manacles. He shouted his fury. *** "He doesn't understand what we're doing," Sentian said. "He thinks we're torturing him." Easing his hands from Conar's legs, he sat back on his haunches. "And maybe we are." Marsh shook his head. "You can't look at it that way. If you do, you'll weaken. He needs you to be strong." "I don't know how much more I can take." Legion reached out to caress his brother's face, only to have a string of filth erupt from Conar's mouth. "Ignore it," Brelan sighed, putting a reassuring hand on Legion's shoulder. "You can stand as much as it will take for him to get better." "We all can," Teal agreed. "What we have to endure is nothing to what he's going through." *** Conar struggled against the tight bands around his ankles and wrists, willing them to open. He felt one slip, the lock easing past a jagged tooth of the cog that held it together, and he screamed in rage. He used his waning energy to close the lock again, unintentionally making the restriction around his flesh tighter than it had been, but welcoming the new pain in the hope it would temporarily block out the greater agony. The excruciating torment being forced on his helpless body was soul-shattering. He was utterly lost in a white-hot maze of pain that gripped him with vicious claws. Horrible cramps squeezed at his gut and doubled him over as much as the shackles would allow. His body shook with bone-jarring convulsions that left him weaker, even more defenseless against the ravaging talons tearing at his vitals. His throat was raw from screaming and cursing and begging and shouting, his lips bitten in several places that oozed

blood. Unable to control his bodily functions, the humiliating wetness of his urine and excrement soiling his breeches and the mattress became an agony unto itself. His left wrist jerked free of the manacle. He twisted himself over the griping, lurching pain in his belly. In his agony, he couldn't think rationally, he couldn't remember why he was being hurt as he was. "Why are you doing this to me? What have I done now?" He placed his hand over his mouth to keep the cowardly words from escaping. Pressing tightly against his lips, he willed the hovering scream to sink back down his throat. He was nearly oblivious to the comings and goings around him most of the time. He could barely hear the words of encouragement, of devotion, of coaxing. Could hardly feel the hands that cared for him with soothing caresses and tender strength. He saw only blurred faces of ogres bent on torturing him to his horrible death, felt hands on his wrist, pulling his arm to the mattress, securing it again. "Don't," he begged weakly. "How'd he get that hand free?" a disembodied voice asked from somewhere behind the man bending over him. "It must not have been locked tightly." The rubbery face faded from Conar's line of sight. He jerked his head from side to side, seeking someone to talk to, to beg, to curse, but he was alone again. "Can't you stand to see what you're doing to me?" he called, hoping someone would answer. No one did. Intense, prolonged pain flooded back through his gut. He had to endure it alone, he thought wildly. No one could take away his pain; no one could make it stop. He had to wait it out. But that wasn't easy. He heard his pitiful whimpers, then listened with clinical detachment as he screamed in agony. Someone came in, looked down on him, touched him, but the face looked the same as all the others; one man's voice was identical to another; one man's touch felt exactly the same as all the others before him. "Tough it out, little brother," the man said. "Who are you?" Conar asked, but the man was already leaving. Nothing seemed to penetrate his unbearable loneliness as he twisted and turned. His begging fell on deaf ears, even when he whimpered or screamed out his pain. Nevertheless, Conar hoped this man would listen to reason. The pain wasn't nearly so unbearable when he could draw up his knees to his chest. "Please let me pull up my legs." "It puts more restriction on your chest. Marsh said that wasn't good." "It hurts more when you tie me down!" he croaked, his voice dry and hoarse. "It just seems that way." Conar heard the man speak, but the words had no meaning. The tone of gentleness had registered, though. "Unchain me, please…I'll be good," he whispered, his voice childlike and lost. Another man cleared his throat. "You can't, A'Lex." "Maybe it does hurt him less…" "Edan knows what he's talking about. Just leave him alone. He'll exhaust himself sooner and later and go to sleep." Both men jumped as Conar's coarse, sneering words flooded the room. "I hate you, you fucking bastards! You chicken shit sons-of-bitches! You want to break me, but you won't. Better men

than you have tried and failed!" *** It was sometime later that night that Conar managed to get free. Sentian had come in to sit with him and had Legion's reluctant permission to unshackle Conar's feet and one wrist. "Just be careful, Heil," Legion had cautioned. "He's so tired he's bound to drift off, and when he does, shackle him again." Sitting with Conar was a chore Heil didn't relish. He kept his face averted from the man who sat on the mattress, knees drawn up to his chest. Conar's left arm was wrapped around his upraised knees, while his other was firmly secured to the flooring. He rocked back and forth, mumbling. "Can't you sleep, Milord?" Sentian asked, risking a look at the petulant, sullen face that turned toward him. "Eat shit and die." An hour passed before Conar laid down, his body curled in a fetal position. His soft snores were almost immediate and Sentian breathed a sigh of relief. The next thing he remembered was Brelan shaking him, saying Conar had been caught trying to mount a horse in the stable. "Who caught him?" Sentian asked, his face hot with shame. Brelan ran a hand over his sweaty face. "Me and Bent. Bent and Thom are bringing him back by way of the bath house." *** Crashing came from the stairway. Curses and a string of filth echoed down the hallway as the sound of scuffling feet neared the door. A strangled gasp of pain rose above the general din. Jah-Ma-El's voice rang out in a whimper. "Conar, that really hurt!" Pushing past Legion, Bent and Thom came through the door, dragging a struggling Conar between them. Bent smelled none too good, and Thom had a red mark along his cheekbone. The men forced Conar toward the mattress and pushed him to his knees. Bent took both of Conar's hands while Thom and Marsh motioned for Brelan to help them. They flipped over their prisoner, drove him down to the mattress on his back. Legion stepped forward to help Bent restrain Conar's arms. He bucked violently. Struggling in vain, he screamed. "Please! Please, don't do this to me again! I'm begging you. Don't do this! It hurts worse when you chain me down! Please don't do it!" "It's necessary," Marsh said when Legion hesitated. "Don't listen." Legion pursed his lips and snapped the iron band around his brother's wrist. When he saw the wounded, terror-filled face pleading with him, he stopped, his hand still on Conar's wrist. "I'll do anything you want," Conar said. "I will. I will. I'll do anything." Bent and Thom had moved away from Conar, but Legion remained on the mattress beside him. Marsh knelt on the other side, his gaze steady on Legion's face. "Don't do it. He can see you weakening. Don't listen." Legion was aware of the others staring at him. A wealth of shame riveted him to where he knelt. He reached out a shaking, gentle hand to tenderly stroke back the wet, matted hair from Conar's forehead. "It's for your own good." Conar's expression was pitiful, helpless. He nestled his cheek into Legion's outstretched hand, similar to the way a humbled dog nuzzled the hand of the master who has beaten him. "I'll do anything you want…" "I just want you to get better." Legion placed a light kiss on his brother's brow. "Just get better." He watched

trembling hope come into Conar's face. "I'll let you do anything you want to me. Anything." Legion grimaced in shock. "You can do anything you want to me if you'll just unchain me." "Legion," Marsh warned, touching his shoulder. A'Lex violently shrugged off the restricting hand. "Legion?" Conar asked as though the word had no meaning. "Just tell me what you want me to do." His voice was eager, childlike, subservient. "You can take me if you'd like. I can…" As though the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, Legion lurched forward and gripped the manacle. Fumbling rapidly, he began to unsnap the band. "Get these damn things off my brother! Did you hear me?" Marsh stopped him. "You can't do this. Look at him. He's counting on your guilt to release him." "Get these damned manacles off him!" Legion yelled, shoving Marsh aside. The others reluctantly unsnapped the bands and stood back. Legion picked up Conar and clasped him to his chest. Conar's arms went around Legion's shoulders, hugging him back. Tortured cries of pain and pity came from Legion as he rocked his younger brother against him. "Get out of here," he ordered. "I'll stay with him. And have those damned chains removed in the morning." "Legion, that's unwise…" Marsh began. "You heard me!" Legion shouted. "I'll not see him chained again! I'll not have him degraded before any of you!" Obviously angry, Marsh nodded. He pushed himself up from the mattress and left. *** Outside the room, Marsh met Sentian's gaze. "He was raped, you know." "Kaileel?" Marsh asked, not really caring. "Among others." "The wages of sin, eh?" Marsh mumbled as he thrust his hands into his pockets. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Sentian challenged. "What goes around, comes around."

Chapter 29 "It's going to be all right."

Brelan locked his arms around Conar's body. With Conar's head on his shoulder, Brelan gently rocked him, humming a tune from their childhood, speaking to him now and again, encouraging him. Conar, who had a death-grip on Brelan's arms, likely wasn't listening, had probably heard nothing. He was obviously in too much pain for anything to truly register; certainly, the depth of his misery blotted out everything but his crippling agony. Brelan felt Conar jerk. He had been thinking of when they were boys and at odds with one another over the least thing. Another jerk made Brelan sigh; another made him frown. He pulled back to look at the greasy mop of dirty blond hair on his shoulder. "Is it happening again?" But Brelan knew it was. His brother was about to go into another series of spasms that would leave him exhausted, incapable of controlling his whimpers of fear and frustration. Saur shook his head. He was powerless to do anything to help Conar and knew it. "God!" came the wretched, pathetic groan from Conar's cracked lips. His body writhed against Brelan, and his legs shot out, his heels digging into the mattress. "Oh, God!" "It'll be all right," Brelan said for what he guessed was the hundredth time. He whispered against Conar's hair. "Try to relax. Just ride it out, little brother. Just ride it out." Lost in the horror of his ordeal, Conar jerked hard on Brelan's arms. "Let go." "If I don't hold you, we'll have to tie you down, and you don't want that, do you?" "No!" "Tough it out a while longer. It'll be over in a few minutes and then maybe you can sleep. Just hold on." A great well of pity rose up in Brelan, same as it always did when the pangs of withdrawal gripped Conar. It touched, twisted, hurt some vital spot inside him. He crooned to the struggling man. "I'm here with you." "It hurts!" The words were low, full of force, and all the more wrenching for the agony lacing them. "If there was something I could do, something I could give you to ease the pain, I would. It won't last long." "It's killing me!" "I know it must seem that way, but it isn't." Conar began to cry, his tears coming in great gasps. He drew up his knees to his chest and buried his face in Brelan's arms, tucking down his head. Spittle oozed from his mouth and onto Brelan's bare forearm. "It'll be all right." *** The door opened. One look at the tableau on the mattress and Roget understood. A silent message of support passed from him to Brelan. "How's he doing?" Brelan shrugged. Roget sat on the mattress, laying a hand on Conar's hip. He wasn't surprised when Conar's head jerked up. "Remember me?" he asked as he had a dozen or so times—as everyone had asked repeatedly—hoping to get a reply. "R…Roget?" The word was hesitant, unsure, but there was finally a hint of recognition in the tone. Startled, Du Mer looked at Brelan and smiled. He felt a joy like nothing he had known in a long time. It had been two weeks since Conar had recognized any of them. "Aye, it's me." Roget touched Conar's cheek, cupped the fevered flesh in his palm. "And who's that holding you?"

Conar craned back his head and looked into his brother's face. A tiny frown drew the brows together. "Brelan…Saur. What are you doing here? Why aren't you in Ciona?" Roget winked at Brelan. "How about letting me hold you for a while so your brother can rest?" He held out his arms. Conar went into Roget's waiting arms, settled against him, his arms tight around Roget's waist as though he were a lost child seeking warmth and comfort and security from a father. "We're all here with you. Bre's been with you most of the night." "I hurt, Roget." Roget forced a smile he didn't feel. "I know, but it will get better. You've come a long way. It will only get better—I promise." "Is my brother here?" "Do you want to see Legion?" Brelan asked. Conar nodded, then bit his lip to obviously keep from screaming. A sob came out of his depths and he buried his face in Roget's shoulder. "It's starting again," Roget sighed and stroked Conar's dull hair. *** It took Brelan nearly fifteen minutes to find Legion. When the two men made their way to Conar's room, Thom Loure met them at the door and put a finger to his lips. "He's sleeping." "Thank God," Brelan mumbled. It had been more than thirty hours since Conar had slept. "I'll be there when he wakes up," Legion said. He entered the room and saw Roget standing at the window, looking out. Du Mer motioned him over. Legion cast a quick look at Conar, who was lying on his side, his knees drawn up, his hands tucked under his chin. Legion breathed a sigh of relief. "He's endured a lot in these last few weeks," Roget said. "I thought at one time it would drive him mad, that it would be more than he could bear." He plowed thick fingers through his dark gold hair. "It would have a lesser man. But I don't think he's been crippled by it." "Not in any way we can see," Legion remarked. "He'll always have a problem with liquor and drugs. I only hope he'll understand that." "We just have to make sure he does." "He's going to be madder than hell when he comes to and realizes we've been keeping him here against his will." "It doesn't matter. It was something that had to be done." "Aye, and I'd do it again." *** The lone horseman sat on the hill above Ivor Keep, staring down at the massive rose-stone structure where the Dark Overlord of the Wind was being kept. The horse strained at the bit, anxious to gallop, but the man kept a tight rein on the lively beast. He uttered a few sharp words of reprimand and the beast stilled, although his hooves pawed viciously at the ground in denial of his master's control. The horseman's attention locked on the tower room. In his mind, he could see his weakened, vulnerable enemy sleeping, his body curled tightly into a ball. He could almost smell the sweat and odor of the unwashed body as it lay in its own filth.

A grin stretched over the man's lips when he heard, in some distant part of him, a quiet whimper of pain come from the man on the bare mattress. He nodded with satisfaction. He chuckled. "You brought it on yourself this time, McGregor." The horse nickered, sidestepped, jerked on the hold of his reins. The rider pressed his knees into the heaving steed's ribs, stilling him. Looking at the storm clouds building overhead, the stranger's face filled with anticipation. He returned to his contemplation of Ivor Keep's tower. "We will meet one day, McGregor. I promise, you motherless infidel. And when we do, I will take you down." A vicious smile stretched his face. "Down into the Abyss!" He cast a final look at Ivor Keep and pulled on his horse's reins. They disappeared down the other side of the hill, bronze trappings tinkling in the settling sun as the horse cantered south.

Chapter 30 Liza listened to her oldest son's pleas as they sat together in the garden. He had been speaking for more than an hour, trying to convince her of something she wasn't sure needed to be done. She knew her son, hers and Conar's, spoke from his heart, and she was thankful he was still capable of feeling tenderness, that Kaileel Tohre had not ripped that gentleness from him. It was unusual for a boy his age to understand the things he did, but she knew he had a lot of his father in him, and Conar McGregor had felt things very deeply, too. Once. "Mama, please! It's important to me." Corbin put his hand in hers. She smiled at him. There was the same gentle teasing, the same light of challenge, the same stubborn tilt to the round chin that she knew were permanent legacies Conar had unknowingly bestowed upon him. She shook her head, vividly reminded of the same look in his father's eyes when he had wanted something she wasn't sure should be given. "Your uncles thought it best he remain with the guards, Corbi. He has caused no trouble so far, but that may be because he's watched so carefully." "That's exactly it, Mama! He has caused no trouble. He's as much Conar's son as I am. It isn't right that he not be allowed to be with us. That's cruel." The pout on Corbin's full lips was strikingly like that of his father's. "I'm not sure it would be wise to disobey Conar's edict. Your father had his reasons for keeping the boy apart from us." Liza was as confused as Corbin regarding Conar's attitude toward the boy named Regan. Conar seemed to want no more to do with that son than he did with Corbin. The gentle, womanly part of her soul felt sorry for the child, despite who his mother was and how he had been conceived. "He's so lonely, Mama," Corbin told her. "How do you know?" He winced. "I've spoken to him." Liza knew he had. She inquired after Regan every day, making sure all was done for him that was done for her own children. But she was acutely aware Regan was shunned by nearly everyone in the keep. Corbin seemed to be the only

child who would speak to him. "Papa told me it was because Conar hates Regan's mother that he keeps him away from us," Corbin said, "Papa" referring to Legion, the man he called "father." "But he doesn't hate you, now, does he, Mama?" "I don't know how he truly feels about me, Corbi." Liza stroked his bright gold hair. It was always "Conar" whenever Corbin referred to his true father. The distinction bothered her greatly and her feelings must have shown, for Corbin amended what he had said. "Myfather," he stressed, "claimed Regan, but he has yet to claim me. That hurts, Mama. I know how Regan feels being kept apart from him." Liza sighed. "He has claimed you in his heart, Corbi. Give him time. He will claim you before the entire world. You are his child and heir to the throne of your homeland." "Butwhen, Mama?" Liza had no answer. She took him into her arms, kissing the top of his flaxen hair, something becoming hard to do, since Corbin was growing in leaps and bounds. "Soon, I hope, my son. Soon." *** From his place beside the tangled thorn bush near the sea gate, Regan watched the exchange between mother and son. He hated any show of affection she showed his half-brother, almost as much as he hated Corbin. A curl rose on his lips. He spat into the dirt. His own mother had never coddled him like that. It simply wasn't a thing that was relevant. Others had held him, held him close, but not in the way this woman was holding Corbin. "Bitch!" he whispered. "Faithless bitch!" His own mother had planned an exacting revenge on his sire, and in order to carry out the plan, it was important that Regan play out the part Kaileel Tohre and his mother had written for him. Having this bitch on his side would make things much easier. His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he screwed up his face, made himself cry. Tiny, sinister hiccups of tears came from his throat as he pretended to muffle them. *** Liza heard a sound and turned to look. She scanned the garden until she saw the little boy crouched in the mass of thorns. "Regan?" He lifted his head. "I…know…I…shouldn't…be…here…" "Nonsense." With pity, Liza went to him. Kneeling, she smiled. "This is your home, too." "I…don't…have…a…home…Majesty." A warning went off in Liza's head, but the wretched look on the boy's tearful face struck a responsive chord within her maternal instincts and she took him into her arms. "For as long as you care to make this place your home, it will be." A hitching sob tore from him as he buried himself in the hollow of her shoulder. Liza marveled at how painfully thin and bony his small frame was compared to her children. She felt his shoulder blades sticking out and her fingers closed around spindly ribs along his sides. "My mama gave me away!" Regan wailed, looking up through wet lashes. "She sent you to your father." "He doesn't want me, either!" Liza heard the self-pity, yet felt he was far more complex and worldly than his little-boy words.

"Papa hates me!" Liza cradled the quivering body. "Your papa doesn't hate you. He's just been ill, that's all. He'll see you when he returns." "He never did when he was here!' "But he wasn't well, then. When he comes home, he'll be himself again." Liza wasn't sure that would be the case. "You're going to see him, aren't you?" Regan wailed, lifting his face. "Corbin said so. He's going, too. Why can't I go? If Papa doesn't hate me, why doesn't he want me to go to Ivor Keep?" Liza hesitated. She heard Regan's cries and saw the look of pleading on Corbin's face, but something shadowed in her mind. It was on her tongue to tell Regan he just couldn't go because no one at Ivor knew she was coming. She felt uneasy, torn. A part of her feared the little boy, yet she didn't know why. He had a bit of his father's powers, and probably quite a lot of his mother's, but Liza sincerely doubted he knew how to use them to any effect at this early age. Still, she hesitated. *** Regan could feel her confusion and laughed to himself at her ignorance. Why she could not fathom the depth of his powers, his true nature, astounded him, for he had been told she was good at her craft. Obviously, she had lost most of her faculties. Regan knew himself to be capable of more than anyone, even his mother and Kaileel Tohre knew. Housed within his young body was the essence of an evil so malignant, so rampant, that it was a wonder the entire world did not see it. Letting his tousled head fall back, he gazed up with a piteous smile. "I'll understand if you don't take me, Majesty. You have no reason to love me, either." It had been a phrase designed to catch, and hold, her attention, and it did. With a look of hurt on her beautiful face, she smiled. "I care for you, Regan. You are his son." He had her. "May I go with you, then? I won't be any trouble." Her face crinkled; her eyes narrowed with uncertainty. "Well, I don't—" "Please, Mama?" Corbin begged. "Well, all right. You can go, but you must behave, understand?" Regan hugged her, wondering why her arms felt so nice around him. Why the steady beat of her heart against his cheek felt safe and loving. Why he felt protected and wanted. Why he wanted to cry with real tears instead of the false ones that had set his plan in motion. He shuddered as the unaccustomed feelings stole over his heart. He drew his body close to hers. "Please, just hold me, Lady." "You're safe here, Regan," she told him. "You're safe with us."

Chapter 31 "Good morning." Legion was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his chin resting on a forearm. He was looking at Conar, who struggled out of a restless sleep.

Legion's cheerful smile allied any fears Conar had concerning how his brother was going to act toward him. "Morning." "Hungry? Think you could keep something down?" Conar nodded. "Teal?" Legion called. He unwound his massive body and stretched his arms over his head. When Teal opened the door, Legion turned. "Have the cook scramble some eggs for our friend." Teal grinned. "He's hungry?" When Legion nodded, Teal swung his gaze to Conar. "How are you feeling?" Conar shrugged, his head aching as he tried to move. For a moment, the room spun crazily away from him and he had to close his eyes. "A bit woozie still," Teal observed, then left. Conar eased himself up along the wall into a sitting position, taking a deep breath to still his vertigo. He brought up his hands, scrubbed at his face, and grimaced as the bristly beard scraped his palms. "Do I look as bad as I feel?" "You're not feeling any better at all?" Legion inquired, frowning. "I hurt." Legion nodded. "Marsh says that will pass. You want a bath? And someone to help you shave?" Conar looked at his trembling hands. "I would appreciate it." He clasped his shaking hands together, attempting to still them. Legion's brows knit together in concern. "It will be all right." "Will it?" "The worst has passed, Conar. It's all downhill from here." "Like a snowball into hell." "After you eat, would you like to take a little walk outside in the fresh air? It'd be good for you." "Whatever you want." Teal arrived with a plate of scrambled eggs, buttered biscuits, and a tankard of strong tea. The gypsy babbled a mile a minute about inconsequential things that bordered on lunacy, but at least he held Conar's attention. "Stay with him, du Mer," Legion said. "I won't be gone long. I'll have Sentian and Marsh get a bath ready for him." "We'll be just fine, won't we?" Teal said cheerfully, then continued feeding Conar his breakfast. *** Legion wasn't the least bit surprised that everyone in the keep knew Conar was on the mend at last. Everywhere he looked, he saw smiles and heard laughter that hadn't been in Ivor Keep since their arrival. In the library, he sat beside Brelan on the long bench before the fire. "He seems to be well enough, but—" "Give him time, Legion. He's been through hell these last few weeks. Is it a wonder he's a bit distracted? He'll come around." "I don't like the look in his eyes, Bre. It scares me." "You think he might try something again?" "He might. He's awfully quiet."

"Then we don't leave him alone until we're sure." Brelan draped his arm around Legion's shoulder. "We take care of our brother." *** The walk, like the food and bath, helped make the color rise in Conar's sunken cheeks, or so the others commented to him. His breeches were so loose they had buckled a belt around them to keep them from falling, and his shirt sagged across his shoulders, but the stroll through the crisp winter afternoon refreshed him. He was unsteady on his feet, but had plenty of help as he ventured outside. Everyone had found a reason to be nearby, it seemed. If they thought they were fooling him with their game, they were wrong. Though he appreciated what they were doing, it meant little to him. He viewed it as one more reason to be in their debt, and that was something he didn't like. He bore no ill toward his men—they had saved his life, such as it was—but he didn't care one way or the other. Once back inside, he sat on his mattress, easing the ache in his shaking legs. He hung his head with exhaustion; the short stroll had both winded and tired him. He didn't look up as Roget asked if he was sleepy. He merely nodded. But he did look up when Roget asked for his belt and held out his hand. "Why?" "Just give me the belt. You don't need it while you sleep." Roget's voice had taken on a stern note. Sudden understanding hit him. "You think I'll use it to hang myself?" "Give me the belt," Roget repeated. Looking Roget in the eye, he unbuckled and drew the belt from around his waist, then held it out. He didn't say a word, only stretched out on the mattress. When he heard the rattle of iron, he looked up. Behind Roget stood Thom Loure, holding a length of manacle chain. "You're going to chain me, again?" "No one can watch you right now and we—" "You don't trust me." Roget nodded. "You can't be trusted yet. You have to earn our trust all over again." Conar's eyes shifted to the chain as Thom hunkered down to attach it to the iron band still around his left ankle. He shook his head, then turned over, his back to the men. When he heard the door close, he ground his teeth. Once their foofalls dissipated, he was at the window, glaring down into the frozen courtyard, grimacing in anger. "Son-of-a-bitch." He pulled on the window bars that had been installed to keep him from escaping. He was about to stalk back to the mattress when one of the heavy brocade draperies caught his attention. A humorless smile slid into place as his gaze went up the long drapery sashes. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door and his grin grew wider. With all his waning strength, he grasped one of the long sashes and yanked until it came free. Staggering back to his mattress, he sat down and began to work with the sash. All the while, the same humorless, vindictive smile played over his mouth. *** A few hours later, Roget came in to check on Conar. The first thing he saw was something dangling from a ceiling beam. His shocked look went from the dangling apparition to the man sitting against the wall, staring calmly back at him. Roget snarled and yelled over his shoulder. "Legion!" Conar grinned devilishly. Du Mer glared at Conar, taking in the casual way his legs were crossed at the ankles, at the way his arms were folded nonchalantly over his chest, the way his head was cocked to one side. He fumed with rage."Legion!"

Legion burst through the door and stopped, his attention going to the thing swinging from the ceiling. A look of horror passed over his face. "Where the hell did that come from?" "Him!" Roget jabbed a finger at Conar. "Roget took away my belt," Conar said. "He was afraid I'd hang myself. He didn't think about the drapery sashes, though. They make rather nice nooses, don't they?" There was a lilt to his weak voice. "That's not funny!" Legion yelled, the color draining from his face. Conar chuckled. "I didn't think so, either." Legion turned on Roget. "Get that damned thing down from there!" Striding to the mattress, he glowered down at Conar. "If you ever do that again—" "Then don't treat me like a child. I'm not going to do away with myself. I have other plans for my life. Ending it is not one of them." "And we're supposed to believe that?" Legion shouted, his body shaking. "Believe what you will. I was weak, I was stupid, I made a mistake. If it weren't for you and the others, I'd be dead now. I didn't realize how much my life meant to all of you. Not until Roget insisted on taking my belt. He said I had to earn your trust again. I realized that was important to me. You cared for me, in more ways than one. It's up to me now to finish what I started. To do what is expected of me." "When you are well enough, we'll talk about you—" "Let me show you something, Legion." Conar nodded toward the iron band around his ankle. He squinted and the band popped loose, falling to the mattress. His eyes lifted slowly to Legion's. "I could have done that at any time. As a matter of fact, I have done it many times." His gaze shifted to the window where, after a steady stare, the iron bars fell one at a time, crashing to the ground. "Or I could have done this." One moment Legion and Roget were glaring at him, the next he was no longer in the room. "What the…" Roget whispered. When a slight gust of wind flowed through the room, Conar materialized before their eyes and grinned. "See how easily I could have left you?" Legion's mouth dropped open. Roget let out a pained groan. "There is no power on earth that is capable of holding me here, Legion. I stayed because I wanted to, not because you made it so I couldn't leave." Legion snapped his mouth shut. "I like proving you wrong, little boy. There is one power you can't control and manipulate, and it was that power that kept you prisoner." "I stayed because it wasmy choice." "You stayed because the power of love kept you here!" "Your love, not mine. I had no love for myself or anyone else." Roget looked at Legion. "He thinks we love him, A'Lex!" Legion snorted. "What he doesn't know can't hurt him, I suppose." "There is something else, Legion." Conar turned serious. "What?" Legion growled, obviously still stunned by Conar's ability to disappear. "It's about Liza." Legion's tone turned cold. "What about her?"

"She has her powers back. I don't know how, but she does. I am going to need her to do what must be done. It was our combined power that fought Kaileel once before and won. This time, we can finish him." Legion stiffened. "Liza is—" "Your wife. I know. But she is still my helpmeet, Legion. I'm not up to traveling yet, but send Bre after her. He can protect her." "That won't be necessary," Shalu called from the opened door. "The lady is here—and she has your youngest sons with her!"

Chapter 32 A frosty hint of anger iced Legion A'Lex's hard words as he spoke to his wife. "What are you doing here?" "It's been a long journey and I know the children are hungry. When I have fed—" "The servants will feed them." After turning his cold glare to Teal du Mer, he asked the gypsy to take the two boys into the kitchen. "It's been a long time since I've been at Ivor," Liza said, as if trying to forestall the scene she knew would be played out between them. Legion folded his arms across his chest. "Answer me. What are you doing here?" He didn't know if he was angrier at her for coming—although he had never denied her doing so—or at his brother's calm command to have her brought there. "Is he better?" "Answer me!" Legion shouted. "You'll get no reply until you do!" She looked at him. "I am here to help. He needs me, Legion." The insane part of Legion that feared Liza's old love for Conar plunged an ice-cold blade into his belly and struck the center of his soul. He clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth to still the urge to bellow his fury. "He has all the help he needs. There's no reason for you to have come. We have been perfectly capable of caring for his needs." "That's not what I meant, and you know it. I'm not here to see to his physical needs." She blushed, her lovely face turning away from Legion's instant flare of rage. "His powers and mine are needed to defeat Tohre," she rushed on. "Conar knows it, and I know it. When my powers returned, I felt him calling to me." "He did what? By all that's holy—" "No!" she snapped. "He didn't call to me in the way you think. That part of him which is still connected to me, to our souls, called out. There will always be that connection, Legion. You can't change what was destined." "And what if I don't let you see him?" he spat, clutching his fists. "What if I send you back, now, this minute?" She shook her head. "You can't. There are forces at work here, stronger than any of us, that will see Conar and I together again. Not as husband and wife, for I am truly yours, in that respect, Milord. But as sorcerer and consort. He needs the combined strength of our powers to do what he knowsmust be done. It is time." "You expect me to believe that? After everything between the two of you, you can be with him and he with you, and

not give in to the passion Iknow still exists?" "Legion," she sighed, speaking to him as she would a child, "I am your wife, your woman. I will never betray you." His angry shout made the chandelier rattle. "You were willing to face a death sentence to protect him when I discovered he had taken you! He is my brother, but I will gut him if he ever touches you again!" She put her hand on his arm. "Would you not have protected him? Do you now hate him so much that you would see him hurt for something in which he had no control?" Tears misted her lower lashes. "His life is far more important than mine." "Not to me!" Legion stepped closer to her and leaned into her face, his lips drawn back in rage. "Heed me well, Madame…there will be no intercourse, magic or otherwise, between the two of you! I will see to that!" "Legion—" "Rest a while. Then you return to Boreas." "I can not!" "So help me youwill, if I have to tie you to the pommel!" He stomped from the room, a vein throbbing in his temple, his stomach rolling with fear and jealousy and fury. *** Liza stood in the center of the room for a long moment. Never once in their married life had she disobeyed Legion, but she knew in her heart, this time she would. There was something far more important than her husband's ego at stake. Something far more important than her wifely vows. "Oh, Legion…why don't you understand?" Sitting on a delicate chair, she covered her face with her hands. "Why won't you understand?" Tears spilled over the rim of her fingers. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Her love for Legion was as bright as ever, but there was now a darkness between them—a Conar-colored darkness—threatening to destroy the love they had worked so hard to keep fresh and alive. It pained her to know she would have to hurt Legion in order to meet the obligations higher powers had already decreed. She knew in her heart the moment he came into the room—even before he touched her shoulder, she felt him. Lifting her head, she looked into his tired, melancholy eyes. Seeing the dark circles beneath the deep blue orbs made her heart ache. He was so thin, pale, she thought with dismay. His hair was limp, lusterless, unkempt as though he had recently raked his fingers through the golden mass to make himself presentable. But to her, he was the most handsome man who had ever lived, and his worried face was as dear to her as the air she breathed. "You heard?" she asked, her voice soft and whispery. He nodded and hunkered beside her. His nearness made her heart thud painfully. "He doesn't understand how it has to be between us, Milord." Taking her hands in his, he raised them to his lips, kissing her fingers. "He's angry right now, Liza. He'll listen to reason when the time comes." Liza was shocked at how weak and hoarse voice. She felt the tremors in his hands. Withdrawing one of her own from his light grip, she laid it on his cheek, caressing the scarred flesh. "You are well, Milord?" "I'm well enough." His reaction to her touch hurt her. She could see the effort it was costing him not to respond to that touch. His need was there for anyone to see and yet she knew he would do nothing to satisfy it. A quivering smile formed on her lips. "I was worried about you." He brought up his hand and covered hers as it rested on his cheek. He turned his lips into her palm, kissing the flesh. "There was no need, Milady."

"The Conar I knew would have never done such a thing." He looked down. "The Conar you knew is long gone." "I don't believe that." Her hand tightened on his cheek. "He may be hiding beneath the darkness in his eyes, but he is still there." He looked up. "What is left of him still loves you, Milady." Liza's eyes misted and she removed her hand from him. She twined her fingers together and laid her hands in her lap, then looked away from the naked hunger ravaging his handsome face. "Liza, I am sorry. I should not have said that." She shook her head. "It will always be so with us, Conar. You know that." Her voice broke. "Legion knows that." "I never intended to hurt you. That night—" "What was done, was done by a stranger, a man controlled by a drug. I knew when you took me you had no idea whose body it was you touched." He flinched. "It was not the first time I have abused you so." Liza refrained from touching him again, although her palms itched to feel his flesh. Her heart ached to take him in her arms and wipe away the misery lurking in his face. "Is that why you did what you did?" "My lust could not be controlled, Liza. When I was taking—" "That isn't what I meant. I was speaking of what you did afterward." She watched his head lower with what she knew was intense shame. She automatically reached out to lay her palm on his bent head, but stopped, knowing if she did, she would unleash emotions in the both of them that would be hard to quell. Instead, angry that she could not touch this man with anything bordering on friendship, her words were harsher than she intended. "Nothing is so bad that you have to die for it." "I have much to apologize to you for, Elizabeth." "Conar…" He shook his head. "All these many months, the terrible things I have said to you, the petty cruelties—I can make no excuse for them." He looked across the room. "I can not ask you to forgive me, but I can ask you to try to understand." His voice broke and he got up, striding as far away from her as the room would allow. Liza bowed her head, wanting desperately to go to him. Wanting to take him in her arms, to kiss him, to feel the touch of his body against hers. She ached with the need of wanting him, loving him still, desiring the lover in him, missing the friend. She knew it was a madness in her soul she would always feel for this man, a god-given desire that would never be sated. She looked up at him as he stood beside the blazing hearth. His back was to her, but she would always know how he felt, how his face looked when he was upset, as he was now. "I have understood, Conar. There is nothing to forgive you for. In the sight of the gods, we are still husband and wife." "Little good it does us." His voice was hard, full of regret and anguish. She got up and walked to him, wanting nothing more than to put her hand on his shoulder, to comfort him, to comfort herself. But she dared not. "I have something for you." He staggered a bit as he turned to face her. When he saw her concern, he held up his hand. "I'm all right." "Are you sure? You look so pale." He smiled, the gentle, teasing smile she knew all too well, which had always been intended to reassure her. "Been out of the sunshine for a while." Her eyes held his, assessing, measuring, assuring herself that he was, if not well, at least mending. She could tell nothing from his bland expression.

"I am fine, Liza," he repeated. "And would not tell me otherwise if you weren't." His smile turned boyish. "What is it you have?" "You were always good at changing the subject, Conar!" She pulled a long, intricately looped gold chain from within the folds of her bodice. What had appeared to be intertwining loops, was instead two separate chains. Each held a tapered, teardrop pendant. "I had this minted the day you left Boreas." She held one of the chains out to him. *** Conar looked at the pendant, then lifted his gaze to hers, searching, trying to understand. He reached out to take the chain, and as his hand touched her fingers and the chain slipped into his fist, a shock went through his entire body, stunning him. He blinked rapidly and stared at the pool of gold in his palm. "Do you know what it is you hold, Milord?" she asked. He felt the warmth of her body still on the pendant, but he felt something more, something tangible, powerful, all-consuming. His body throbbed with the feeling flooding through him. His nerve-endings sang, pulsed, sent a quiver of immense strength through him. He closed his hand around the pendant, gripped it hard, felt the precious metal cutting into his scarred palm. The pressure soared up his arm and settled in his heart. "My marriage bracelet," he whispered in awe. "Aye." She let out a breath. "I knew the moment you touched it you would know what it had been." He drew his brows together. "But how? Where?" A sad smile crossed her face. "Hern found it somewhere and hid it." A little laugh, small and touching, came from her trembling mouth. "He had hidden it only a few feet from where I had hidden mine." Sudden overwhelming knowledge penetrated the sadness of remembering his old friend. "In the grotto, wasn't it?" She nodded. "I felt it that night. The power returning, only I didn't know what it was." He scowled. "That night, you saw me the way I truly am, didn't you?" "Aye. I saw you as the Dark Overlord." He cringed away from that knowledge, knowing what terror the sight of his red-glistening, viper-like eyes must have caused her. "It doesn't matter," she hastened to say. "I don't fear you because of it." "I never meant to hurt you, Liza," he said, his voice filled with guilt and shame. "I know." She smiled at him through her tears. Conar looked away from her lovely face. "I can feel tremendous power in this necklace." "I had my bracelet and yours melted down, then formed into these two pendants. Your familiar resides now alongside mine, they have mated at last, their dual natures blending. That is the source of the power you are feeling. Now that those powers are combined, there is nothing we can not do." He opened his fist and stared at the pendant. The chain slipped over his palm and dangled against his wrist. "Put it on, Conar." When he slipped the chain over his head, when the teardrop-shaped amulet settled over his heart, his entire body throbbed with the talisman's immense force. He smiled at her. "We are one again, Lady." ***

Liza felt as though she would burst into wracking sobs that would destroy her. The hope in his voice had been there, although she knew he had not heard it. She had to stop that hope from blossoming. "I tried to make Legion understand about the force of our powers. He would not." He turned away. "He sees this with the eyes of a jealous husband, sees me with the eyes of a rival. There is nothing he can do to stop what will happen, Milady. He knows that, and he is afraid." He shook his head. "If you and I are ever destined to reunite, Legion will lose you, and he's not going to do so without a fight." Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. "Do you think the gods would do such a thing?" He looked over his shoulder at her. "Give you back to me?" She nodded. "They might. I doubt it, but they might." She stared at his dear face and wanted to scream at the hopelessness of their situation. Even with the ravaged flesh of his left cheek toward her, she thought him the most good-looking man ever to stride upon the earth and she knew she would always love him, would always want to be with him, consequences be damned. Here was the man she had loved and lost. Here was the husband who had given her children and pleasure and laughter and more exasperation than any other living being. Here was the lover who had made her a woman, his woman, who had made her whole, who had fought an entire kingdom to keep her at his side. Here was the one man among millions who, with a smile, could turn her knees to water, her body to one giant blush of desire, and with his scathing tongue, transform her into a mindless virago intent on scratching the smirk from his handsome face. Here was a man women fought for, men died for, enemies plotted to destroy, and yet, looking at him as she was now, she could still see the same grinning boy who had taken on a trio of robbers with a careless charm that boggled the mind. He had been her all. Now, he was no longer hers. "Don't," he warned, as if sensing her pain, perhaps feeling it himself. "You were my beloved. Heart of my heart, soul of my soul. Even though we may never be together in the way we both want, neither will we ever be apart." *** Conar's resolve shattered. He reached out for her, wanting her, needing her, craving her. But she backed away, turning to flee both the room and the temptation lurking there. "No," she sobbed as she left. "We can't!" Conar wanted to run after her, to claim her as his own again, and damn the entire world, his brother, and anyone else who dared to come between them. He had seen her great love for him. He had felt her sorrow as he felt his own, and he was torn. One part of him longed for her despite all the obstacles in their way, while the other part of him remembered the man who had held him as he cried in pain. Had sang in his godawful voice songs of their childhood. Who had cleaned his body and soothed his ache. He owed that man every loyalty there was. He turned toward the window and smashed his doubled fist into the paneled wall. He didn't feel the pain in his hand. The pain was in his heart.

Chapter 33 The evening meal in the great hall of Ivor Keep was missing one diner. Legion, as was his right as owner of the keep, sat at the head of the table with Liza by his side. Jah-Ma-El sat across from her, Brelan to Jah-Ma-El's left. The others—Teal, Roget, Shalu, Sentian, Marsh, Bent, Storm, and Thom—were ranged down the table's sides with Corbin and Regan at the far end, Corbin facing his surrogate father, Legion A'Lex. Conar had stayed in his room, telling Legion he was not yet ready to sit through the rather elaborate meal the cook and her helpers had prepared. He hadn't fooled Legion with his excuse any more than he had fooled the others. It was obvious to even the slowest among them that Conar would have felt uncomfortable dining with his brother and Liza. Brelan held up his wineglass. "To the downfall of Kaileel Tohre!" The others chimed in, their glasses raised. "Conar asked me to get in touch with the rest of the force," Roget said as he put down his glass. "He wanted them all here." "Why?" Legion asked, his attention on his wife. He was furious at her for not returning to Boreas when he had demanded it. Now, he was determined she left at first light. "I believe he needs us all together so we may begin the final plans," Brelan answered. "And he wants Elizabeth to hear what he has planned, to meet the men who will be carrying out his orders." Legion took a quick gulp of wine, then glowered at Brelan. "I see no need for Liza to get involved." "We're going to need her, Legion," Jah-Ma-El said. "That was always understood." "Not by me!" Legion snapped, taking another drink of wine. *** As she listened to the men talking about the coming confrontation, Liza sat quietly, playing with the stem of her wineglass. Her mind was on the man she knew was thinking of her while he ate his meal upstairs. She could feel his thoughts as she knew he could feel hers. It was like a gentle caress across her soul, encouraging, reassuring. When she sighed, Legion's head snapped her way. Guiltily she looked at him. Viewing the anger in his eyes, she realized with a pang that he had guessed where her thoughts resided. "You look tired, lady," he bit out, his hot stare raking her flushed face. "Perhaps we should go to bed." A hint of challenge threaded his words. Liza had avoided him all day, not ready to do battle over his brother. She had bided her time, hoping he had cooled off, hoping he had seen a glimmer of reason. But from the look he gave her now, she knew he had not. "The boys—" she began, but his hard tone overrode her. "Can be seen to by the servants." Her gaze swung to Brelan, took in his worried look, then returned to her husband. She was tired, but she knew he would afford her no rest this night. He wanted to talk, to argue; she could see it in his face. "Perhaps I should stay a while longer with you gentlemen. I would—" Legion gripped the table edge. "Perhaps you should go to our room, Madame!" Liza realized the others knew what was happening between her and her husband. She could feel their sympathy, but she also knew she would get no help, not even from Brelan. Rising, she motioned the men to remain seated. "I bid you gentlemen a good eve."

Legion pushed back his chair. "I believe I, too, will say good night." *** Once upstairs, Legion locked the door. Anger beat a hard tattoo in his neck, and his teeth were clenched so tightly, his jaw began to ache. He had not missed the sidelong glance Liza had given the stairs leading up to the tower where Conar slept. Nor did he now miss the slight tremor in her hands as she clutched them in front of her. "Is it really bed you are seeking, husband?" she asked. "You know what I want." "Aye. You want to argue and I do not. You have had your say and I have had mine. Nothing has changed. What is to be, will be." She sat on a cushioned bench and took off her slippers. "I meant what I said. You are to stay away from him! There is no two ways about it!" Her tired sigh infuriated him, and he glowered at her. "I have no intention of allowing you to betray me with my brother!" He viciously tugged his shirt from his breeches. "You're going back to Boreas first thing in the morning!" Liza stood and began taking the pins from her hair, laying them on the dressing table. Her hands noticeably trembled. "I have told you why I must stay." She pulled up her skirts and unhooked her silk stockings from the garters. Putting her foot on the dressing table bench, she unrolled the silk stockings and laid them on the table. "Why are you being so unreasonable?" With a savage snap, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, ignoring her cluck of annoyance. He put up a hand and rubbed the heavy furring on his chest, glaring at her. She let her skirts drop and turned her back to him so he could undo the buttons of her gown. "It isn't my unreasonableness that's at question!" He put his hands on the tiny pearl buttons, undoing them with little care. "I am your husband and you will obey me!" *** Liza sighed again, hating her husband's arrogant, proprietary tone, biting her bottom lip to keep her anger from erupting. She let the gown fall in a graceful heap at her bare feet. She stepped out of it and stooped to pick it up. As she did, Legion grabbed her upper arms and dragged her to him, crushing the gown between them. "Did you hear me?" he shouted. "You will do as I say, woman!" His hard fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms, bruising her. "You are hurting me." "I'll do more than hold you roughly if you don't do as I say! I will not have you going near him!" His mouth came down over hers with a brutal, searing assault that took her breath away. He molded her slim body to his and ground his hips into her. She felt the hard erection that was blinding him to everything else around him. He lifted her from the floor by her upper arms and took the few steps that led to the bed in which Conar McGregor had been conceived. He pushed her down on the soft fur coverlet and lay on top of her, pinning her beneath him, writhing against her as his hands went to the silk and lace of her chemise. "Legion, don't!" she protested as he rent the fragile material and dragged it away from her. "You aremine ! Nothis !" Liza pushed ineffectually at his broad shoulders, trying to dislodge him. His hands fumbled with the closure of his breeches. She gasped as he freed himself and the hard rigidity of his manhood pressed against her quivering thighs. "You belong to me! Tome, damn you! He'llnever touch you again as long as I draw breath!" He guided himself to her, stabbing at her shrinking flesh with the steel of his penis. He found the opening of her vagina and began to push himself into the tight, dry opening. "Legion, please, don't!" She gripped his hair, her fingers tangling in the thick mane of salt and pepper, pulling with all

her might to get his attention, but he was obviously beyond sight or sound or denial. Legion drove deeply into her with an insanity likely born of jealous rage and a life-long belief that he was not as good a man as his brother, that he would never be equal to the man no matter how hard he tried nor how much he accomplished. He rode Liza like a madman, pummeling her with his flesh, slapping against her with quick, pulsing jabs. "Legion," she begged, "you are hurting me!" When he climaxed, he jammed his hands beneath her buttocks and raised her up so his penetration could go deeper, painfully so. He laughed at her cry of pain as he pressed himself to the hilt. "Feel me! Feelme, Liza!" She felt the almost immediate shrinking of his member as he pulled free of her flesh. The wet essence of him dripped down her thigh when he turned to lie on his back, one arm thrown over his face. "Did you lie so passively beneath him?" came his bitter intrusion into the silence. She had no answer. They were so much alike, these two brothers. What they did, they did passionately; whom they loved, they loved with a single-minded pursuit; what they hated, they hated with the same intensity. "Aye, Legion," she finally said. "When he raped me, I laid just as still." His head turned. He stared at her for a long moment, then a single, muffled cry came from him. He turned his face into her shoulder, putting his arm around her waist to hold her. "Oh, God, see what you've done to me?" he sobbed. "What loving you has made of me?" Bringing up her arms, she enclosed him within their protective embrace and cushioned his racking sobs with her body. Crooning softly, she tried to hush his crying, telling him it was of little matter. "I am no better than he was!" "And no worse." She felt her husband's tears falling down her side. "Have you no faith in me, Legion?" When he looked up at her, his face was pinched in pain. "It isn't you I mistrust." "You think he would betray you after all you have done for him? Do you think I would let him?" He searched her face. "Can you tell me that you do not love him still?" When she remained silent, her eyes drifting away from the sharp intensity of his own, he nodded. "I thought as much. You are still in love with him." Liza let him move out of her embrace and watched as he stood, readjusting his manhood into his breeches. She said nothing until he pulled his discarded shirt over his head. "Where are you going?" "Does it matter?" he asked, one dark brow raised. "Aye, Legion, it does." "No," he said, shaking his head in denial. "Hematters to you, Liza. He always has and he always will." There was a hopeless, helpless look on his bearded face. "I was merely a substitute for him." "Legion!" she gasped, coming to her knees on the bed. "That's not true!" "You may not think so, but I know better. I mattered until Conar McGregor came home. Now that he is back, you want to be with him." "Not in the way you mean!" she said angrily. "It isyou who is pushing me into his arms, Legion A'Lex!" "Liza, if you truly believe you can be with him and not let him touch you, nor you touch him, you are deluding yourself, love. I can't compete with him. I've never been able to. What he has wanted, he has always gotten, and he wants you as much as you want him." "And I tell you he will never be the one to betray you!" "No, I would imagine not." He smiled at her. "It will beyou who does the betraying."

*** Regan looked out the door of the room he and Corbin shared. He didn't see his half-brother anywhere, and was pleased. Interference of any kind was exactly what he didn't need. He eased the door shut and bolted it. Making his way to the bag of clothing on his bed, he rummaged through the contents until his fist closed around the thing he was looking for. He pulled out the black crystal dagger. He held it to the light, marveling at the shine of its black blade, feeling the power coursing through the deadly edge. Unconsciously, he licked his lips. Here was the tool to his father's final and ultimate destruction as Kaileel had sworn so long ago—a weapon that could sever the life thread connecting Conar McGregor to this world, sending him plummeting into the Abyss. He looked at the blade from every angle before he was satisfied. Pulling up his tunic, he stuck the dagger into the waistband of his breeches. "Soon…very, very soon." *** Conar looked up as the door opened. He had expected Legion, who now stood in the dim light from the corridor. A deafening silence filled the room as they faced one another, the air heavy and expectant. Time dragged on like a widow's weeds. Legion finally spoke. "I wish to the gods you had never returned." "I know." "Why did you?" Conar carefully watched his brother. "It wasn't necessary for me to have come back to Boreas Keep. I could have carried on my business with Kaileel from here or Eurus or a dozen other places. It was you who sent for me." "And you know why, too!" "I also know you might never have sent for the Darkwind had you known who it was." He got up from the mattress and leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his bare chest. A light sheen of sweat glistened on the fine hair between his breastbone, despite the chill. "You didn't ever want to see me again." "That isn't true! I would have gladly welcomed Conar McGregor home. If you had to come back to us when you were released from the Labyrinth, you would have been—" "I would have been welcomed with loving, brotherly arms if I had come back the broken man I was then," Conar interrupted in a bitter voice. "We would have cared for you! You could have come to us and we would have seen to you because—" "Because I would have been so pitiful and so docile that I could have been led around like a cripple?" He nodded. "And then you could have cosseted me like a pet dog, patted my obedient head, draped your supportive arms around me to help me walk, feed me, clothe me, cleaned up my shit." Conar pushed away from the wall. "Aye, you would have done that while you shook your head at how submissive I had become. Aye, you would have welcomed me had I come home like that because I would have posed no threat. No woman would have wanted me like that." "You came back for her! My sending for you played right into your hands, didn't it?" Conar vigorously shook his head. "No. I didn't want to come back here." "Then why did you?" "Corbin." "You thought he was Galen's son. Don't tell me you felt some pull toward Corbin. I won't believe it!' "I felt no pull, but I wasn't about to let another McGregor male suffer the torture and abusethis McGregor male did at

Kaileel Tohre's hands!" "But even after you rescued the boy, you stayed at Boreas! Why?" Legion's face was livid. "I think you know." "You won't have her!" A'Lex's furious bellow rattled the windows. "I won't let you take her away from me!" "Have I tried?" "Aye, you have!" Conar locked his own angry gaze with Legion's. The demon inside him thrust words from his lips he had never intended to say. "If I had, do you believe she would still be with you?" Legion's lip curled. "You have that much faith in your ability to take her away from me?" "She belongs tome." A deadly quiet sank over the room, like sod over an open grave. The air turned colder, and wind moaned at the windows. At last, Legion spoke, his voice hard and hateful. "Brelan reminded me this morning that he and I owe you a debt." "You owe me nothing." "You're right." Legion glared at him. "That debt was paid in full when we saved your life. We failed to save you from Tohre, but we did save you from yourself!" "I never blamed either of you for what was done to me back then." "You never had the chance." "Only a fool would have blamed you or Brelan." "But we blamed ourselves!" "There was no need." "Don't tell me there was no need! We watched you being flogged like a common criminal and did nothing to stop it! We watched the flesh being stripped from your back and didn't raise a hand to stay the whip! We watched you being carried out to sea in that damnable coffin and didn't have the courage to take it away from Tohre and bury you somewhere safe!" A wry smile touched Conar's lips. "It was a good thing you didn't." "Don't joke about this! We thought you were dead!" "And in a way, I was. Are you blaming me because I didn't die?" Legion took a step forward, obviously enraged. "I loved you!" Conar began to feel weak. Perspiration coated him like a second skin. "But you no longer do." "What of Liza?" The sudden change of thought put Conar off guard. "What of her?" "What are your intentions toward her? I will know, here and now, what you plan!" Suddenly the room lurched, bright glares of light bursting from the far corners of the room, spiraling out to wash over Conar, stagger him. Vomit surged up his throat. He tried to swallow, only to find his throat closing against the hot metallic taste of it.

He thought he was over the withdrawal, but he fleetingly remembered Marsh warning him about flashbacks, adrenaline surges that could flood his system with the last vestiges of the drug. The fight with his brother, the emotional upheaval it caused his system, was spreading dregs of the high-powered narcotic throughout his entire body. "Again?" Legion asked, concern washing over his face. Conar nodded as he bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping air in an effort to quell the nausea. Legion leapt forward in time to catch Conar when he pitched to his knees. Conar crumbled in his arms. The pain wasn't as bad as before. Now, it felt more like a burning bellyache than the godawful cramps. He felt himself being laid on his mattress, covered with a thin blanket. Putting his clasped hands between his raised knees, he bent his head toward his chest, closing his lids to the pain, shivering with uncontrollable spasms of teeth-chattering cold. Legion sat beside him. "Is it bad?" "N—not too b—bad." *** Now, as Legion watched his brother tremble, words came into his memory from all directions. Conar's pleading during the worst moments of his withdrawal; Marsh's warnings about being too lenient on the man; Sern's hateful scorn soon after Conar had lapsed into the coma that almost killed him. "Think you Imade him take the drugs?" Sern had screamed at Legion. "Did I provide him with the liquor before we met?" Legion had grabbed the nomad by the throat, fully intending to rid the world of a worthless desert-dweller. "Ask yourself," Sern hissed, his face red. "Ask yourself why he needs to drug his mind so he can sleep! Ask yourself why he needs a drug to ease the aching in his heart and soul! Ask yourself why he craves a drug to still the heat in his loins so he can take a woman he cares nothing about! Then ask yourself why he has done what he has done this night! Was it because he had no more desire to live? Or was it because he knew he could never be with the woman he was destined to be with? The woman he loves?" Brelan tore Legion's hands from Sern's neck, but the nomad's last words clung to Legion's flesh. "Finally, my fine Serenian warrior—ask yourself why he cannot be with the woman he loves!" The nomad's ugly, dark face twisted into a grimace of retaliation as he rubbed his throat. "It was not I who took his woman away from him!" Legion hit him. And hit him again and again until Brelan and Jah-Ma-El dragged him away, kicking and screaming, his anger hot and spewing. Now, watching Conar battling the demons wracking his body, Legion A'Lex finally understood why Conar had done all the things he had since coming back to Serenia. "Sweet Alel," Conar moaned, gritting his teeth. "Hang on," Legion said from habit. "Maybe it won't be long." "Legion?" He looked into Conar's sweating face. "I did this to you." Conar shook his head. "I did it to myself." "I was the cause!" "You were the excuse." Legion felt his guilt for the very first time, and it staggered him. Though it had been there all along, he had refused to see it because he had not wanted to. He was the reason, the only reason, the only obstacle, standing in the way of Conar and Liza being together. Something twisted deep in his soul. He wanted to deny the truth, but couldn't. Liza

would love Conar McGregor for as long as she drew breath, and Conar would go to his grave loving her. They had been destined to be together and, if not for him, they would be. The truth was ugly, and he could not handle it. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Conar asked, his teeth chattering. "She is mine," Legion said, a muscle working in his jaw. "I know." "You will not take her from me." "I'm not trying to. If I did, she would never forgive me, and she wouldn't leave you anyway. She'll honor your marriage contract." Those last five words stung more than a nest of angry wasps. It was not a matter of Liza loving him. Legion knew she did. But it was not the same all-encompassing, eternal love she had for Conar. It was a debt she owed him, a legal obligation, and he felt the weight of it like a crushing boulder to his ego. Absolute fury engulfed Legion A'Lex. He shot up from the mattress as though red-hot liquid had been poured over him. "Stay away from her, Conar!" he shouted, running for the door. "I mean it!" "Legion, wait!" came the panting plea. "Just stay the hell away from my wife!" He yanked open the door and fled down the hall, his boot heels rumbling over the floorboards. *** Tears squeezed from Conar's tightly shut eyes. He clutched his arms around himself and buried his face into the mattress. He had read his brother's thoughts, and though he pitied Legion, there was nothing he could do to help him. "I can't," he whispered to the empty room. "By the gods, Legion, I can't stay away from her—and I won't."

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

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